CherryWrites

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex spends them watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He installed those three weeks ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex almost died today.

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

He thought of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cock was painfully hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything you do, you do it alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet. Not tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about it.”

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

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

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

Dex inhaled a breath. “What territory?” 

“Being human, I think.”

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

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

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

Except maybe each other. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s not shy. He’s fuckin weird.”

“You’re weird.” 

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

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

“That you know of.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He came early. 

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

Dex looks normal, he thinks. Almost human.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

None of that happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I drive you home?” 

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

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

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

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

“I’d like that, thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did too. You are beautiful.” 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” his voice comes out rough. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

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

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

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

But you do. You click the link.

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

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

Oh, fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another message.

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

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

You (12:22 AM): Here. 

The response comes almost instantly. 

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

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

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

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

You never told Tony where you lived.

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

Stupid girl, where is your mind now?

Dex watched it happen in real time. 

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

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

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

And now you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’ll know.”

He halted in his steps. Listening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good bye, white knight.”

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

You had a knife in your hand, it seemed. 

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

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

You turn suddenly, and you see him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your fake name.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Dex has his purpose now. You. 

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

Perhaps, that’s why you cling to the idea of Karen Page. She’s between your legs more than she’s beside you, and you have long stopped apologizing for it. Her tongue finds the rhythm you need before you can ask, swirling around your clit. Karen’s fingers pressing and curling inside you until you’re gasping—begging for a release that feels less like pleasure and more like permission to stop feeling at all.

Karen knows you don’t love her like that, though she knows you only do this because you needed to. She’s a warm body and she’s here, you give her that. It’s the cruelest thing you do and she simply lets you.

She’s told you one night, you go somewhere else when she’s fucking you deep. She had asked where but the silence from you was the only answer Karen could ever get. The truth was, you don’t know either. Somewhere Julie isn’t. Somewhere Julie is everywhere. Same thing, really.

“Can you pass me the cigarettes?” you murmured, swollen lips barely forming the words. You could see a bead of red still pooling there, when you bit her too hard at the peak of your orgasm.

Karen’s fingers leave you slowly, her nude in view as she reaches over to the nightstand, finds your pack of cigarettes, then shakes one loose. She moves closer, placing it between your lips without being asked. The lighter flicks, and the tip catches. Your gaze glances at her briefly before inhaling, you could feel the smoke filling your lungs, and it burns in your throat—the good kind of burn.

“Something on your mind?” she breathes, fingers brushing against your bare shoulder.

You take another drag and watch the smoke curl toward the ceiling, grey against grey, disappearing into the water stain you’ve been meaning to call maintenance about for eight months.

“No, no. I’m good.” you lie smoothly, turning away from her gentle touch. “I think you should go, it’s kinda late.” 

Karen exhales through her nose. “Call me if you need me then.” 

You listen to her dress; buttoning her jeans, fingers moving by memory, you could hear her find her bra, hear the clasps connect, the soft weight of her breasts settling into the cups. Karen always adjusts the straps. Two small tugs on each side, the hushed creak of elastic settling against her shoulder. You know everything about her body and nothing about her heart as much as Karen does with yours. 

But she lost someone, too. Foggy. 

Karen never says his name around you, just as you never say Julie’s around her. The loss exists anyway, swelling silently beneath the surface of everything between you. Maybe that’s why this works at all—because neither of you speak of the dead. This is how both of you survive, you think, through each other’s skin. 

Her lips pressed against your forehead then, a benediction you know you don’t deserve, and climbs off the bed. In your peripheral, you could see her silhouette hesitant, paused at the door, staring at you. 

“You ever going to tell me who she was?”

Your throat closes. “Goodnight, Karen.”

The door finally closes, and you have finished the cigarette. Completely alone, the smoke burns your insides the way nothing else does anymore. You can still feel Karen between your legs—an ache, this sole reminder that your body exists even when your mind doesn’t want it to. You press your thighs together and the sensation flares and fades, like everything else.

Julie is sitting in the corner.

“You can’t keep doing this.” Julie speaks, and her voice seems distorted, unable to remember what it sounded like anymore.

But you don’t turn around, couldn’t bear yourself to. You wouldn’t know anymore, everything blurs within you—everything except the weight of Julie’s gaze on the side of your face. Curtain blinds are half closed, they’ve been like that since she died, because you can’t stand the morning light and you can’t stand the dark either. You can’t stand the compromise but you made it anyway.

You have become a woman fashioned entirely out of concessions, all your sharpest edges sanded down by sufferance. A series of compromises stitched together. That’s who you are now, you suppose. Seeking absolution in the bodies of others, hoping it’ll wash away the agony through meaningless sex. A woman who hears her dead best friend’s voice and pretends it’s real, clinging on to anything so as to not fall apart.

“Shut up, Julie.” you say instead, only softly. 

Trepidation lodges inside your throat like secrets, all the things you should have said when she was alive and sitting in that same chair, with a smile that made you believe you were worth something. The shame is in the rehearsal, in the hundred times you’ve imagined this conversation and the zero times you have actually had it. 

“You’re being cruel to yourself,” it’s the love in Julie’s voice that breaks you, thin as a spider’s web, spreading outward from the spot where your name lands along with the words.

So are you, you want to argue back to a ghost. What did being good ever give her—a grave, dirt filling her body? A few dozen people who cried at her funeral and then went back to their lives? 

She poured herself out for everyone—for you, especially for you. 

That’s the real tragedy, perhaps. Julie was good and it didn’t matter, you're angry and it doesn’t change anything. She’s still dead. You’re still here. You, with your disdain for the world and your cold heart. You’re the one who gets to keep going, the one who gets to make mistakes and be cruel, still waking up the next morning and doing it all over again.

But you are the keeper of Julie Barnes’ memory, letting it go feels like another kind of murder. If you let go, who else will hold it? There is no urge in you to kill her again—once was enough.

You had so much love for her. Julie was gone, so it couldn’t change, it couldn’t turn into indifference. You were stuck with all that love, and it overflows. Floods the empty rooms of your chest and keeps rising. 

Where is this love supposed to go now?

Dex has spent a lot of time thinking about monsters during his imprisonment at Rikers Island. What makes them. What unmakes them. Whether a monster can choose to be something else, or whether the monster is all there is, has always been, will always be. 

The situation was extraordinary—how someone like Benjamin Poindexter could have wrought such a change in himself; the most worldly of men was difficult to understand. However, Dex had learned that the mysteries of reparation could not always be explained through logic. 

If man had his way, the plan of redemption would be an endless and bloody conflict. In reality, salvation was bought not by Jesus’ fist, but by His nail pierced hands. Because here was the truth Dex kept turning over; one good deed does not erase a thousand bad ones. But neither does a thousand bad ones erase the possibility of one good deed.

The world surrounding him was quick to lash out and assign blame, and yet mankind also drew from deep reservoirs of forgiveness. It won’t absolve him from anything, Dex already knows that. 

Perhaps, he’ll do this for himself instead—this one good deed. Besides, he’s not Jesus Christ anyway, not even close, though presumably the principle of it was the same.

Leveling the scales. Making amends. The blood of violence and the blood of sacrifice. Apropos of the way Jesus bled so that others could be saved, Dex has bled others so that he could survive and regain control over his life once more. 

Get his mind back. 

This also must be the reason why he tried to find where they had Julie Barnes buried, Dex regretted involving her unknowingly to Fisk’s labyrinth of lies and calculated manipulation, killing her in the process of it all. 

The way Dex dragged her frozen dead body into his car seat, driving to crash Fisk’s wedding all those years ago, but his mind tries to repress the lucidity of what happened afterwards—learning of her death. He knew he was a goner himself.

Julie was the closest thing Dex could have had in gaining some structure in his psyche, after Dr. Mercer’s death—life seemed a series of black and white in a world that’s somehow grey. Remembering the times where he’d listen to Mercer’s recording of their sessions, all of it a distant memory now, fossilized somewhere in the back of his mind. 

He never wanted to be with Julie, he wanted to be her. 

She made it look easy, being a kind person, and watching her had been different from listening to recorded tapes. Dex thought that if he studied her hard enough, some of her goodness might spill on to him. The living proof that people like Julie existed, that being dignified wasn’t just a concept nor a lie people told themselves to feel better about the things they have done.

Clearly, he was naive back then—begging society that would never hesitate to eat him alive if they learn what he really was. And then they did. They broke him. For this, Dex learned his most valuable lesson. He doesn’t need anyone for structure, he’ll be a good person by himself. 

Now he’s standing at her grave, the wind cold against his face, it was eerily quiet at night, there’s no one around. 

JULIE BARNES. BELOVED DAUGHTER, DEAREST FRIEND.

Dex was finally here, and yet he didn’t know what to say. Instead, he remained silent. Then, his gaze lowered down at the grave. The dirt has settled now, years later, grass beginning to grow over the wound. Soon, no one will be able to tell that anyone was buried here as the earth will heal. The grass will cover the scar, and Julie Barnes will become another name on another headstone, forgotten by everyone except the people who loved her.

He sensed the sound of footsteps until they’re almost upon him. Yet, Dex didn’t move from his position. 

You brought her flowers this time around. 

Julie would have hated anything ostentatious. Just put me in the ground, she said at your dining table, laughing, back when death was a joke and not a before-and-after in your life. Plant something pretty over me. 

But you never planted anything, you couldn’t bring yourself to do so. Instead, you bought magnolias from the old woman outside the subway station, drawn to them only because it looked like something Julie would stop for. She collected wounded things so naturally it almost seemed instinctive. Stray cats. Broken people. You.

The flower stems perspire against your palm, clammy and cold. By the time you pass through the cemetery gates, your sweater feels too heavy across your shoulders, your body taut with the effort of continuing forward.

You nearly turned back twice already—once beneath the jaundiced lights of the subway station, and again at the sight of the rusted iron archway looming ahead, when your lungs suddenly forgets how to draw a full breath.

You don’t come here often as much as you used to. 

There is always going to be some part of you that doesn’t want to feel the finality of her life, seeing where they’d put her. 

For months after the funeral, you kept imagining her underground. Flashes of images consumed the inside of your head; dirt settled into the concave of her collarbones, maggots eating around her rotting flesh, soil filled her mouth with her hollowed eye sockets wide open, screaming. This obscene impartiality of death, stripping Julie Barnes to something nature could digest. 

You would wake up sick over it, your fingernails raking against your own neck as though you’ve been buried alive alongside her.

Eventually, your mind learned a new trick for survival.

If you didn’t visit the grave, then some part of Julie could remain untouched, suspended somewhere outside of reality. Not alive exactly, but not fully gone either. A childish thing to believe, but grief made children out of everyone.

Even in the midst of your tribulations, you wanted to see her. Perhaps it was selfish, the way you nurtured your grief for years, indulging in your own misery while the rest of the world kept moving forward without her, and you were the only one who hasn’t.

A shadow appeared almost spectral from where you were walking, his outline blurred by distance and possibly your deteriorating eyesight. Cursing under your breath, blaming the hours you doom scroll on your bed so now you can’t see for shit. 

There was a man, this tall imposing figure, standing solemnly at the grave of your other half. For a second, you were nearly convinced your mind has flooded you with these cluster fuck of hallucinations—was he Death then?

Has he come to take you, too? 

But your feet kept moving despite every sensible thought urging you to retreat. The Zoloft in your system is doing wonders; muting every survival instinct and softening terror until it becomes bearable. 

“Hi—sorry,” you hear yourself say, voice hoarse. “Who the fuck are you?”

When he turned around, there was a fleeting moment before he spoke. You could feel the way his eyes seemed to assess you whole, coldly methodical rather than openly curious. Slotting every observable detail into place before determining whether you posed any real danger to him. Who did he think you were anyway? 

You wish you could beat him up with magnolias, it’s a stupid impulse. The flowers are soft, fragile, and most likely to disintegrate on impact. This stranger’s presence feels like an intrusion—a violation of the invisible bubble you’ve constructed around Julie’s grave. Who in their right mind visits a grave at two in the morning? You were the only one who was supposed to be here. 

This was your time to ugly cry. You know it’s not healthy, but it’s yours anyway, now you couldn’t even do that anymore. Couldn’t see his features clearly as the streetlights are dim low, some flickering; barely enough to navigate by, certainly not enough to make out details. You briefly wondered if he was one of those creeps who has these weird and fucked up fetishes, getting off on other people’s graves.

“—Dex.” 

You blinked hard, startled back to reality by the husky cadence of his voice. “What?”

“I said my name is Dex,” he repeated, his eyes lingering on you knowingly. “You zoned out for a bit.”

“I wasn’t exactly… zoning out,” you were quick to defend yourself, clutching the magnolias tighter. “I was just thinking.”

You held his gaze, and Dex held yours in return. The moment stretched awkwardly, saturated with tension neither of you seemed interested in breaking. You hated being caught off guard like this, his expression stayed frustratingly unreadable despite yourself, and uncertainty gnawed at you—was he amused by you, or merely indifferent?

“You knew her,” you started again, though it wasn’t a question. “How? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” 

“Something like that, yeah.” Dex says, drawing back his gaze towards the headstone instead. “I worked with her briefly at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.”

“You were a hotline operator?” you couldn’t hide the skepticism in your voice. Dex didn’t look like the type. 

“For about a year,” he replies. “Julie was there longer. Three years, I think.”

“Three and a half,” you corrected mindlessly. “I still remember she started in February.”

His eyes flickered back to you. “I’m guessing you knew her very well, huh?”

This time, it was your turn to tear away from Dex’s gaze, there was a plethora of things you don’t talk about anymore. The words used to come easy, back when everything was, when you had someone who understood you deeply. Now it felt like extracting bloodied teeth—pulling truths out of yourself that had calcified in place. 

All the strings inside you broke somewhere along the way, you’re not certain exactly when, but you’ve been held together by her for so long that you’ve forgotten how to stand on your own, at the back of your throat; your voice choked by disquietude. 

“I didn’t come here to upset you,” Dex spoke, like he’d read your mind.

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Pay my respects, same as you.”

You don’t buy a word of it, and judging by the look on Dex’s face, neither does he expect you to. Who is she to you? You wanted to ask, but then again, you don’t care about this stranger enough to call him out. Dex’s truth would feel like another burden you’d have to carry, and your limbs are already tired. 

“She never told me about you… or mentioned anything about a Dex,” you admit, or maybe you’ve long forgotten. 

“Does that bother you?”

“I don’t know, really—should it?”

Dex gave out a shrug. “Julie must’ve had her reasons then.”

“What kind of reasons exactly?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

You could feel your chest ache, but it’s light and something tender, then a laugh of grief breathing out through your nose. “Oh, fuck you man.”

“Are you always this friendly?” 

“Only when strange men show up at my best friend’s grave in the middle of the night.”

He nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth forming into a half smile. “Sounds fair to me.”

The flowers shift precariously in your hands, damp stems slipping against your fingers. You should put them down, that’s why you came. But the presence of a stranger, Dex changes something fundamental. Suddenly, the gesture feels exposed, theatrical—something you’re doing for an audience rather than for Julie.

“You can put those down,” Dex says, nodding toward the headstone. “I’m not going to watch.”

“Feels like you’re watching either way.”

Dex says nothing in response. He shifts his weight onto one leg instead, shoulders loosening as if trying to appear less imposing beneath the cemetery shadows. He neither advances nor retreats, giving you space without truly leaving it.

Your knees crack painfully as you crouch, the sound startlingly loud against the surroundings of the grave. You grimace instinctively, embarrassed by the evidence of your own exhaustion. You wonder if Dex can hear how worn down you are—not emotionally, though there is plenty of that, too. Rather physically. Your body has carried pain for years like an extra organ.

You place the magnolias carefully beside the stone, their pale petals almost luminous against the surface, and briefly convince yourself that these small acts of remembrance might still matter. You run your fingers over the carved letters, tracing the curve of the J, then the slope of L. 

As it turns out, the depth of love a person inspires has very little to do with the amount of time you have known them. Because time means nothing against closeness.

“I’m gonna be here for a while,” you declare, pushing yourself upright, dusting off your palms, turning to face him.

Dex’s blank expression doesn’t falter. “If you want me to leave, I can do that.” 

“No,” you’re holding his gaze a bit more intensely. “I want you to tell me how you really knew her.” 

“Hm,” he contemplates, nodding slowly. “All right, I’ll tell you.”

And so, Dex tells his story, or at least, partially. Fabricated. A few truths survive intact among the lies, enough to anchor the whole thing in plausibility. What you don’t know, he reasons in his mind, can’t hurt you. 

Dex doesn’t follow you home, though it takes more restraint than he cares to admit.

He wants to, there’s an urge, very insistent in his mind. It would have been effortless, really; hang back fifty yards, match your pace, and easily disappear into the shadows when you glance over your shoulder. You wouldn’t even know. 

But Dex has already lived through the consequences of attachment once before. Look where it got his North Star, dead. Both Julie and Mercer fucking dead. Their graves stand as evidence to the contrary, and everyone he places on a pedestal eventually ends up beneath one.

Whatever strange gravity exists between you, he refuses to feed it. And yet, he can’t ignore what he noticed—that you are nothing like Julie Barnes. You were damaged, too, much like him. Dex recognizes pieces of himself reflected back in the deep sense of lassitude etched across your face. 

It occurs to Dex then that you are perhaps the worst kind of person for him to meet—you who mirrors him too closely. That isn’t good, you’re not someone that’s going to be good for him. There is no softness left in you to idealize, only survivability. Only like him, he supposed. 

You could never become the kind of person Dex needed—someone steady enough to build himself around, someone foolish enough to believe he could still be salvaged. You don’t carry that kind of faith inside you, it seemed. There was no warmth in your grief nor blind compassion that would look at him, and mistake him for a man deserving redemption. 

What unsettles him instead was the certainty that you would simply understand him.

And what’s more terrifying than the ordeal of being perceived? Understanding is far more dangerous than adoration—and simple adoration, he can manage, as it fits neatly into the framework of his fixations, it creates structure, and keeps relationships uneven, safely contained within roles Dex understands intimately.

Yet the former implies a two way street. It forces two people to stand equally exposed before one another, stripped of its dim illusion.

The mission in his head is what matters, Dex tells himself. Killing Fisk is what matters. One good deed, the only thing that might balance the scales, the closest he’ll ever get. You were a distraction he hadn’t accounted for, Dex went to Julie’s grave for his own atonement, that’s all. 

Although, when you gave him your name, Dex finds himself holding onto it carefully despite every instinct telling him not to, rolling each letter across his tongue in the privacy of his own mind.

He suppose old habits die hard. Fuck.

The bell above the door jingles, this tiny sound you’ve learned to drown out months ago. 

Sandy was the only old woman who could tolerate your aloof nature, who maybe even had a soft spot for someone as young as you. Besides, Bel Aire Diner is also the only place you’ve managed to stay.

There were jobs before this, different uniforms and break rooms, sets of coworkers who watched you with growing concern and some with contempt. Managers who eventually pulled you aside with careful voices, and practiced sympathy to ask whether things were okay at home. 

You stopped showing up to them, one day your name existed on the schedule, and the next it didn’t.

So when you showed up at the diner seven months ago, she simply handed you an apron and pointed to the coffee machine. You at least know how to make coffee, right? she said to you, and Sandy never asked anything personal. 

You’ve been here ever since.

It’s nice to have some sort of routine and not constantly be on your bed, caged from the world. You’d spend hours serving different people, making milkshakes, cooking eggs, and filling coffee—but the repetitive aspect of it didn’t bore you. 

Maybe it’s the invisibility it gives you. The way customers look through you like you’re part of the furniture, no one that matters, merely a hand that delivers their food and refills their coffee for them, disappearing back into the kitchen. No one expects you to be anything at all. 

You appreciate the noise, too. Clatter of plates, cars and trucks passing by outside, the soft chattering of people that never rises above a certain volume. It fills the spaces where your thoughts would otherwise live, keeping your sanity at bay. 

The golden sun seeps through the windows, harshly bright, and you squint against it, turning your face away. You have always preferred the night shift, but Sandy needed you to cover a double, and you don’t say no to Sandy. 

The griddle hisses from the kitchen, and somewhere in the back, you can hear Sandy shouting at the dishwasher about the difference between clean and sanitized. Despite yourself, amusement flickers briefly across your face as you polished the mixer clean.

You don’t turn around but you could feel the weight of presence taking a seat on your counter. 

“I’ll be right with you,” your tone slightly higher to seem friendly, dipping the sponge into the tub filled with fresh warm water. 

“Take your time.” 

Your hand freezes over the tub, the sponge drips soapy water back into the bucket, and only then, you can feel your heart start pounding. 

Motherfucker. You recognize that voice from weeks ago, one that couldn’t escape every corner of your mind. It’s him, there’s no doubt. The man from the cemetery—

“Oh,” you rasped out, eyes widened slightly. “It’s you.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” he beams, along with your name accompanied by a grin that shows too many teeth. “You’ve been doing well?”

“Yup, fucking fantastic. You?”

“Never been better,” Dex folds his hands on the marbled counter, fingers interlocking, thumbs pressed together as he lifts his gaze to stare at you. “What are you famous for?”

“… Milkshakes, I guess.” you blurt out, uncertain.

“Excellent. Thank you. I’ll have…”

You observed as his attention drifted over the menu while you studied him openly for the first time. Daylight altered Dex somehow. The dim flickering lights from the cemetery no longer obscured the planes of his face, and the scars tracing visibly across skin that was unexpectedly striking—these imperfections only seemed to emphasize the severity of Dex’s features. 

It irked you to realize how handsome he actually is. 

A long scar cuts cleanly across his right cheek, pale against the rest of his skin, while another slices right above the line of his left eyebrow. There are probably more hidden underneath his clothes, mapped across his body in places you cannot see.

Each one feels heavy with history, little remnants of violence preserved permanently on one’s flesh. You wonder briefly about the stories attached to them, but why would you care about something so trivial? That, and the way Dex also seemed different from the first time you have met him. Keeping your mouth shut, you wait for him to order instead.

“One banana milkshake, please.” 

You nodded, then asked, “Uh… you also want whip?” 

“Doesn’t everybody?” 

Did he know you were working at the Bel Aire Diner? No, he definitely did not. The diner appealed to him for practical reasons, of course; wide sightlines unobstructed by decor, multiple exits within easy reach, predictable flow of civilian traffic at this hour, and scattered across nearly every table sat utensils capable of becoming weapons if required.

And also, The task force would never move recklessly inside a diner full of witnesses, not unless they were desperate enough to risk collateral damage. You being there was coincidence. Pure coincidence. Ironic how Dex believes in coincidence now, after spending most of his life convinced the world operated only through cause and consequence.

The plan is set in motion, he made his call when you were busy making his milkshake. Dex knows the agents are already en route, and if he walks away now, abandoning the mission because of you, with your sad miserable eyes and magnolias in your hands, then he’s worse than a monster. 

A weak man, that’s what he’ll become. He can’t comprehend how someone like you—someone Dex barely fucking knows and for good reasons, makes him feel so weak. You are dangerous to him, and wanting someone dangerous is the first step toward destruction. 

Twelve minutes dissolves like cream in his milkshake, each second spilling into the next until all that is left was the countdown in Dex’s mind. Six minutes. Five. Four. And the sirens wailing in the distance, strobes of red and blue begin to flash against the diner’s interior. The AVTF is here. Dex can feel them approaching, the vibration of their vehicle—the reality of what comes next. 

Dex can bury these thoughts of you if he tries hard enough. Compartmentalize them accordingly amongst all the other dangerous impulses he has learned to suppress. Perhaps warning you would be the kinder thing to do—a small act of mercy before inevitability takes shape. 

Yet, some part of him wants you to witness him fully. Wants to feel your eyes fixed on him as he sheds the fragile disguise of normalcy and becomes precisely what he was built to become, and he wonders what you would do then.

Would you look away like everyone eventually does? Or would you continue watching despite yourself, unable to drag your gaze away from the destruction unfolding in front of you? 

People have always stared longest at the things capable of ruining them. Are you that kind of person? Dex needed to know, or this doesn’t work at all.

“Yo, you! Milkshake.” An AVTF agent points out to him. 

A red straw sits between his lips casually while both his hands rise into the air. Inside the straw, hidden from sight, rests the toothpick he slipped away earlier. Dex turns slowly toward the agent, movements deceptively unthreatening.

Then he blows into the straw.

The toothpick shoots forward with precision, disappearing straight into the agent’s eye before anyone fully understands what happened. A choking sound follows seconds later as the man collapses backward, crumpling instantly while chaos detonates through the diner around him. 

A second agent was reaching for him, but Dex was quick to throw his empty milkshake glass towards the wall, shattering pieces splashed across the agent’s face. But he did not kill him, no. Dex grabs the man’s wrist, twisting hard he could feel the bones grind against each other as the gun clatters to the floor. 

Dex kicks the gun away, using the agent’s body as a shield against the other one’s opening salvo. Bullets punch through the agent’s vest, letting out a pained scream. He lets them drop, and throws one of his knives—and the third agent goes down with a blade pierced into his nasal bridge. 

Bullets whistle past his ear, chipping the edge of the formica, sending shards of ceramic flying from the coffee machine behind him. Then, Dex throws himself toward the counter, hitting the floor hard, shoulder first, rolling into the narrow space behind the counter. 

His back pressed against the cabinets, knees up, hands already searching for another set of knives, and Dex’s fingers close around three. The way his body knows what to do, each following throws with a trajectory only he can see. The first blade stabs itself in an agent’s larynx, silencing a scream before it can form. Then comes the second; soft gap between helmet and vest, piercing into the clavicle. The third knife punches through an eye socket, and three agents drop without a sound, instantly killing them. 

And then Dex sees you, crouched against the wall, your knees drawn to your chest with your arms wrapped around your head. He could see your whole body violently shaking through your shoulders trailing to your fingers. You were trying to make yourself small and invisible enough that the violence might pass you by.

Yet, it finds you, always.

“Oh, don’t worry,” his voice came out raspy with your name attached to his lips, muffled by the Bullseye mask, thickened by exertion. “I’m not going to kill you.” 

The reassurance lands awkwardly between you, utterly lacking the social instincts that tell most people how to comfort someone in distress. Then again, Dex has never seemed particularly interested in assuming what others need from him, it simply is not in his nature. He stands before you bloodied and armed, but somehow expects trust to emerge from that.

You raise your head, it caught him off guard. Through the mask, your gaze finds him immediately—those horrific, soulless eyes of his. But instead, something gentler passes briefly over your features, was it altruism? Entirely at odds with the rigid line of your shoulders and the fear still visible elsewhere. What did you see? Dex wanted to ask, but his mind only knows your contradiction lingered unpleasantly in his thoughts.

So, he tries again. “I’m one of the good guys now.”

You don’t call Karen. 

The thought surfaces somewhere between the third and sixth drink—a flicker of instinct, old habit of reaching for warm hands and warmer bodies when everything feels fucked up. Karen would come, you imagined, she’d sit beside you on the barstool, order her own drink, and wait for you to speak first. Karen’s good at waiting, she’s had practice. Still, you don’t call her, and you don’t go home either. 

And you know how the saying goes—if home is where the heart is, then you’re all just fucked. Home is where everything reminds you of her, scent her perfume on a shirt you haven’t washed since she died, old things that she used to give you. Everything in your home was everywhere of her. 

Julie had looked at you then, and called it Weltschmerz, but it wasn’t pitying sadness. It was a larger one that seemed to encompass all the people, the billions you didn’t know, all living their lives, a sorrow that mingled with a wonder and awe at how hard humans everywhere tried to live, even when their days were so very difficult, even when their circumstances were so wretched. 

Life is so heartbreaking, you would say with your head on her lap. It’s so fucking depressing. Julie would smile softly, her fingers running through the strands of your hair. And yet we all do it, she’d say. 

You’ve decided to go to a bar instead, it’s not the one near the diner—that one is probably still cordoned off with yellow tape, crawling with investigators, the kind of place you’ll never be able to look at the same way again. They let you go pretty quickly after giving a statement to the police with what happened hours ago, though you didn’t say much. Your mind elsewhere. 

Drinking yourself into a stupor, by the time then, the shaking had stopped. The bar fills and empties around you. People come and go, laughing, arguing, living their ordinary lives. None of them know what happened this morning, that a man killed a dozen agents. Though none of them know that you watched, you couldn’t stop yourself from seeing. 

There was something vile and compelling about Dex in those moments; the eloquence of his movements, the terrible grace of his brutality. And then knowing that you would have done the same if you had his skills. You wanted him to slice his knife into your skin, your insides unused. Empty and pristine. You pictured your pelvis split open, to reveal a tidy hollow, like the nest of a vanished animal, unappealing to someone so violent in his nature. 

You hate yourself for it. Feel your limbs disconnecting, floating nearby like driftwood on an oily lake—a dead bloated body. With nothing to lash out on, you drain your glass and signal for another, trying not to think about the way his eyes found yours through the mask.

In your lowest moments, you see her. Julie’s looking at you with an expression you know too well. Guilt. It’s painted into every line of her face, the soft curve of her mouth, the furrow between her brows. She looks like she’s trying to apologize for something—for dying, maybe. For leaving. For making your life a perpetual loop of trying to recover from something after something, someone after someone.

No words came out from her mouth this time, and the bar became overwhelming with its crowd. The noise, the lights, the press of bodies; all of it feels like a trap, and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t fucking do anything except reach for your wallet and throw cash on the counter and stumble toward the door.

You don’t know where you’re going, yet your body makes the choice for you, carrying you through intersections and half-empty streets with the mindless certainty of habit. Walking through Hell’s Kitchen like you're following a red string of thread only you can see. It’s not until you see the archway that you finally understand.

Of course. Where else would you go?

Your knees hit the dirt when you come nearer, a hard impact that sends pain shooting through your joints. But you don’t care anymore. You crawl the last few feet, fingers digging into the soil, the cold seeping through the fabric of your sweatpants, unbothered by the way you appear. 

The magnolias are still there. Their petals have curled inward on themselves, brittle and withered, surrendering slowly to time. You stare at the headstone above them, the engraved letters swim briefly out of focus. You blink hard. When your vision clears, they blur again. “You knew him and you didn’t tell me.” you press your hands flat against the headstone, feel the cold granite bite into your palms. “Did you know he kills people? Did you know he’s—that he’s—,” your voice choked out by an ugly sob.

“I watched him put a toothpick through a man’s fucking eye... I watched him throw knives like they were extensions of his own hands. How can you know someone like that and not tell me?”

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against the stone. It’s cold. It’s so cold. You wonder if this is what she feels like now—not Julie, perhaps, but what remains of her. Always cold, buried deep within the dirt and the grass and the slow turning of seasons with everything left unsaid.

“Did you send him to me?” you whisper, words slurring. “Is this some kind of—of punishment? It must be, right? You—you hate me.”

If Dex’s barbarism can somehow serve as penance for your failure, then perhaps you can absolve yourself from the guilt you’ve been carrying for years. See? Isn’t this enough? Can’t you forgive me now? But the truth is simpler and far worse; there is no answer, only your self punishment. There is simply a world out there that doesn’t care whether you suffer or thrive, because what you really want isn’t punishment either—it’s her. And nothing will bring her back.

“Julie,” your voice empty, quietly strained in tone. “I don’t want to live anymore.” 

“Do you mean it?” 

A voice cuts through the silence behind you, you could feel your heart slamming painfully against your bones the moment you recognize who it was. 

You stumble clumsily, your knees scraping harshly against the ground. Fresh pain blooms through what was already aching from kneeling too long, dirtied hand slides through wet grass, sending a streak of mud across your skin, your back against the headstone. For a moment you remain frozen there, before finally looking up.

Dex’s presence was looming over you, maybe a few feet away, yet you could see the Bullseye mask is long gone—you see his face first; bruises darken the line of his jaw, ugly shades of purple spreading across his scarred skin, dried blood tracks from his temple in crimson red, disappearing into the collar of his suit, and his lower lip is split, swollen around the wound. There is so much blood on him that your gaze struggles to settle anywhere else.

He’s still in the suit. There's a gash on his forearm, with his hands hanging at his sides, fists clenched, and you notice they were shaking.

“Dex,” you manage, his name catching roughly in your throat. 

His eyes narrow slightly. “You haven’t answered my question,” his voice thick, slowly he begins moving closer, the distance shrinking inch by inch then he stops. “Do you mean it?”

“Why?” you dare to ask, lifting your chin despite yourself. “Are you going to kill me here?”

Maybe Dex could. You’ll be his one good deed. Isn’t that what it was all about? Ending one's suffering. The math had seemed so simple when he was sitting in his cell, counting down the days until he could put a bullet in Fisk’s skull. One life for another. Balance. Justice. And people have a hard time letting go of their suffering, out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.

Your throat is laid open to him, vulnerable in a way you don’t seem to realize. The pulse quivers inside your skin like a trapped bird, a wingless bird that wants to be free. Dex could wrap his hands around it—could imagine the feel of life draining out of you, watching the tension leave your body; your wholeness, your regrets, and your grief finally releasing its hold.

If he couldn’t do it to himself, perhaps he’ll do it to you.

But Dex offers no response, and instead, sinks himself to the ground, one knee first then the other. The fabric of his suit darkens further where it meets the soil, drinking in moisture without complaint as he crawls his way to you. He looks enormous from this angle, predatory in its movement. 

You try to scramble backward but your spine meets the edge of Julie’s headstone, realizing with a terror that there’s nowhere left to go, so you shut your eyes instead.

His breath warms against your face, fanning across your skin in uneven breaths. Dex’s arms come up on either side of you, caging you loosely, his palms flat on the dirt, and he can feel the heat of your body so close to his. Your breath comes in shallow gasps that mingle with his in the small space between you.

“Open your eyes,” he says, but you shake your head. “Open your eyes. I want you to see me.”

“You need t—” 

“Please.”

And you do, it makes him happy somehow. Your eyes flutter open to find him impossibly close, Dex’s face hovering just beyond your own. He was wrapped around in red. Blood red stains his skin, and the moon above silvering it in ways that should have been grotesque but aren’t. You don’t know what it means, you don’t know what any of this means.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. “What do you want?” 

Dex wants to tell you something he doesn’t know himself—for it has always been a foreign language, a set of sounds he could mimic but never truly understand. There are no words in his lexicon for this vague desire he feels, drifting from one thing to another. Dex wants to kill you. Dex wants you alive. Trying to find reasons, only winding up with nothing. He didn’t know what he wanted, but the ache for it was palpable.

“Can you kiss me?” 

These words come out from his lips instead. Perhaps, he’ll learn what your mouth feels like against his. He finds himself wondering whether you carry the traces of whiskey on your lips, or something far more elusive—something he could spend a lifetime trying to define and still fail to capture.

What Dex didn't expect was your fist. 

Your knuckles connect with his cheek, it was clumsy, half grievance. Yet, the impact snaps through his face regardless, a shock traveling up through bone and into his skull. His head turns slightly with it, just enough to acknowledge force, but not enough to suggest defeat. It’s nothing compared to what he’s felt before. Your attempt at punching him felt more emotional rather than its usual physicality, perhaps, a release of everything you've been holding back.

“Fuck!” 

You hissed immediately, pulling your hand back, and Dex watches you cradle it against your chest, tears in the corner of your eyes. Your knuckles are already starting to swell, of course you’d hurt yourself, Dex was a lot stronger than you. Stupid impulse. There’s blood on his teeth, yours or his, no one’s certain, but it doesn’t matter. 

“Not exactly what I was asking for,” he remarked, and his smile is crooked, real. “But I’ll take it.”

Your expression falters, your anger is still there burning behind your gaze the way you look at him now. But something else is rising beneath it, hotter and more desperate, something that terrifies you almost as much as he does. 

Your hands grab the front of his suit, fisting in the fabric, pulling him toward you, then in a quick movement, your mouth crashes against his.

More teeth than tenderness, it seemed, as the heat between you is like a living entity, clawing its way under your clothes and searing every inch of skin it touches. You can taste the blood, the metallic red of it spreading across your tongue, but neither of you care. You clamp down harder on Dex’s lower lip and feel the tremor run through him, then a low guttural noise vibrates against your lips, more blood spilling down.

You want him to hurt, Dex thinks in between, because you kiss him like you’re trying to crawl inside him—that you’re trying to escape your own skin and find your way home in his. Yet, he relished the desperation in your touch, he didn’t care about the sanctity of the ground nor the eyes of the heavens. Jesus Christ can forgive him later for that. 

Dex shifted his weight, forcing your legs to splay open to accommodate the hard bulk of him. He broke the kiss only to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your throat. You felt the stinging prick of his teeth not quite a bite, but a warning before his hand slid down from your wrist, traveling the curve of your waist to the hem of your shirt. 

“Don't look away,” he pleads with your name. “Look at me. Only me.”

But before you could even think of reclaiming your space, his hands were back, cupping your cheek with a sudden tenderness that didn’t quite fit him well. Dex’s thumbs swiped over your cheekbones, catching the stray tears you didn’t realize were falling. Even as he was here, letting you do whatever you want to him, your mind still lingers back to her. It was fucking unfair. 

Out of spite, Dex pulled away and settled on your waist, sliding up the underside of your chest, his calloused palm squeezing hard the size of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. A small, involuntary sound escaped you as his thumb found the peak of your tits. Even through the cloth, the sensation was electric and painful, you couldn’t deny. 

Dex began to roll the sensitive nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and tugging them harshly as he watched your face with an unblinking, intense gaze, assessing every contortion of your expression and every whine in your breathing, feeding off the way your body arched instinctively toward his touch.

Your skin gave way beneath him, pliant and fever warm. But you also felt different, you were giving in, peering over the edge of what you should have been repulsed by, yet you kept encouraging Dex with the sound of your voice. Some sort of structure forming in his psyche. Guidance. Annihilation of a singular self.

He felt the nipple stiffen under his thumb, then the resistance as he rolled it and twisted your nipples around, and much to his delight, you convulsed; half lidded eyes glazed, lips wet and parted, releasing lewd sounds that were driving him insane.

He stopped momentarily, and you took that chance to let yourself breathe, staring at the night sky. You felt nothing and everything at the same time, and you must have believed yourself to be so cruelly wretched, you’d allow yourself to let him see your fragility in the form of perversion, that you would let Dex hold you stripped away of your tones and textures of your skin the same way one would to a dead body. 

What the fuck were you doing? You think to yourself, as contrition slither its way into your mind, almost consuming. But you hadn’t had the time to dwell longer as you felt a cold sharp metal pointed at your throat, your gaze glancing back to Dex with widened eyes, anticipation gnawing at your heart. 

Dex had his customized knife directly at your throat, he wanted to see the look on your face if you even had briefly thought that he was going to slit them open. Part of him was convinced that you would let him if he asked nicely. But alas, Dex didn’t. He aimed for the barrier of the fabric of your shirt instead, the steel of the blade catching glint as he brought it toward the center of your chest. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, soft. “I won’t hurt you unless you tell me to.”

With a single tug, the blade sliced through the material. The sound of the cloth rending was loud in the dead air, a violent rip that sends pure adrenaline through your veins. Dex didn’t stop at a single slit; he worked the knife with efficiency, carving a wide opening from the neckline down to your midriff. The chill of the night breeze brushes against your naked skin, sending a shiver through your exposed breasts.

He hummed, as his eyes traveled slowly, over the pale swell of your tits, the way they heaved with your frantic breaths and woeful cries. This sight of you vulnerable, and bared in the middle of a graveyard seemed to stoke the ambivalence of his nameless desire, flowing endlessly in his chest.

It’s you, Dex realizes. Fuck the divine being, it’s you for him.

You pull your upper body up, Dex watches in awe as you remove your bottom clothes except for the underwear. Then in reverence, you had clasped your hands around his, the one holding the knife, and gently trailed him toward the heat between your legs. Dex swallowed thickly, uncertain as to what you were trying to do but he gets the gist of it quickly, your mind synchronizes with his. The flat steel of his knife directly pressed against your clothed folds. 

You sank back into the earth, your body relaxing into the soil as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted, he understood—Dex understood the desperate yet beautiful madness of your entirety. Of what Julie could never witness even if she still was alive, because it was solely for him to see. Not Karen Page, not anyone. 

“You can put pressure on it, if you’d like.”

The words were an invitation that seemed to strip him even more naked than the knife had stripped you. He leaned over you, his frame casting a shadow that swallowed you whole, and to please, he began to move, you could feel the friction of it rubbing against your wet cunt. You can feel it at last, head full of desolation, this rage that has been going on for a long time, melting away. 

Dex moved with an agonizing slowness, as he gripped the hilt of the knife. He was focused entirely on the sensation of the cool metal dragging against the heat of your soaked fabric. The friction was a rhythmic grind, a heavy pressure that seemed to reach deep into your folds, stirring the very core of your being. 

“Let it all go for me.” he says, yet you both know what it had meant, feeling the way your hips jerked upward to meet the blade’s weight. 

The pressure builds, each drag of the knife against your clothed cunt sending sparks of pleasure through your mind. The blade is cold but the fabric of your panties grows slick and warm beneath it, soaking through as your arousal spreads. Dex watches the process with an almost fascination, his eyes observing the way the steel glistens with your moisture when he lifts it slightly, then presses down again.

“You’re making a mess of it,” he murmurs, but there’s no reproach in his voice. “You made it beautiful.”

He shifts his weight, adjusting the angle, and the blade drags differently now—the edge catching the seam of your panties, threatening to slice through. The danger of it sends a fresh wave of wetness flooding your cunt. 

You should be terrified, yet you had never felt more aroused and so open. A razor sharp blade is pressed against the most vulnerable part of you, one wrong move and you’ll be cut, but you do not fear it. You’re alive in a way you haven’t felt in months, years. It feels like being born again. 

Your hands find his wrist to guide him more intently. Your fingers wrap around his, feeling the corded tendons beneath his skin, the bones of his hand as they grip the knife’s handle. You press his hand down harder, forcing the blade deeper into the wet heat of your inner lips. 

A broken sound elicits from your throat, half moan, half sob. “God, fuck—Dex—!”

“That’s it,” Dex breathes out your name, his pupils blown wide, admiring you. “Take what you need. Use me.”

You can use him all you want for selfish reasons, but Dex will ensure he won’t be just another warm body for you. The knife moves in a slow grinding circle, the tip catching your clit through the wet fabric with each revolution. Your hips buck unwittingly, chasing the sensation that soon will fade, and the blade shifts and slides, the flat pressing directly against your swollen clit, rubbing over and over against it. 

You can feel the orgasm building, coiling low in your belly, as your breath comes in ragged gasps, your vision blurring at the edges. The surroundings spins around you, headstones looming like silent witnesses, the moon a pale spectator to your unbecoming. A depraved young woman with so much love nowhere to go. 

Dex leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Come for me,” he whispers. “Please, I need it.”

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up. The orgasm tears through you, violent and all over the place, your back arching off the cold ground as a cry rips from your throat. Your cunt clenches around nothing, flooding your panties with a hot gush of release that soaks through to the blade. The knife, slick and gleaming, continues its relentless pursuit as Dex works you through every wave of pleasure, not slowing until your trembling subsides into aftershocks.

When you finally collapse, gasping, with the chill air cold against your sweat slicked skin, Dex pulls the knife away. He holds it up, then ever so slowly, he brings the blade to his lips and drags his tongue along the metal, tasting the essence of you. 

He tossed the knife aside into the dirt, unconcerned with the weapon now that he had achieved his goal, and lowered himself over you. Large hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing your jawline.

“Was that enough?” he asks, and the question carries weight. “Did I do good—do you need more?”

“Yes, you did so good.” his cock twitched at your praise. “But I want to feel you inside me now, Dex.”

Dex’s breath catches at your words, at the fervent need through your voice. His hand slides from your cheek down your throat, fingers wrapping around them. For a long moment, he stares at you, all that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that empty part of your chest. He wants to tell you to pour them to him instead, he’ll take it. If not, he’ll force you to. 

His hand leaves your throat, reaching to the side where he tossed the knife. His fingers close around the handle, and he brings it back into view, still slick with your arousal, it was gleaming wetly. Dex sits back on his heels, positioning himself between your spread thighs. With the tip of the knife, he hooks the waistband of your panties and slices through the fabric on one side, then the other, and the material falls away from you.

“Hurt me.”

He stopped in his movement. “What?” 

“I want you to hurt me, Dex. Make me bleed for you.”

Dex hesitates for a second but gives in because he would give you anything you wanted. Begging him to hurt you while looking like this in front of him—how can he deny you, or worse, how does he look away now that he has seen you? The coolness hits your dripping folds, making you shiver. A groan elicits from his lips as he takes in the sight of your bare cunt—slick, swollen, the lips parted and it was beautiful, truly. 

He reaches down with his free hand, two fingers gathering your wetness, spreading it over your clit in a circling motion. Your hips buck into his touch, but he pulls his hand away, bringing those same fingers to his own mouth. Dex sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then shifting forward, the knife is still in his grip. His other hand unzips his gear pants, freeing his cock. It’s hard and throbbing, the head already wet with precum. 

“This will sting,” he says. “But you’ll take it. You’ll take it because you want to feel something real, don’t you?”

The tip of the knife presses against the tender skin of your inner thigh, just where it meets your hip. He applies pressure, enough to break the flesh. A deep line of blood wells up, bright red against your skin and the pain is immediate, a flare that makes you gasp, cunt clenching reflexively. You feel whole, you think. Dex makes your head go quiet for you, it seemed.

Dex observes the blood bead and trickles down your thigh, a single rivulet tracing a path toward your soaking wet folds. He follows it with his eyes, mesmerized. Then he leans down and laps at the cut, his tongue hot against the wound, and the taste of copper fills his mouth, mingling with the salt and dirt of your skin, and the lingering sweetness of your come.

He adjusts his position, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, dragging the tip through your wetness, coating himself in your arousal, mixing it with the blood that still seeps from the cut. The sensation is euphoric; the warmth of your cunt against the steel of the knife he still holds, the sting of the fresh wound, the anticipation of being filled.

“Eyes up here, please.” he calls out your name, and you do.

Your eyes meet his, and in that moment there was no guilt nor the past coming to take the both of you. There was only ever this, and you wondered briefly if Bedouins believed their heaven to be a lush paradise of trees and running water; yours was no different, though yours was bleeding together with Dex. 

He thrusts into you in one smooth, brutal motion. His cock stretching your insides felt overwhelming, you haven’t felt anything this big in a while. Your cunt clenches around him, still sensitive from your orgasm, but he’s so huge, filling you completely. A sob escapes from your lips, the sheer intensity of being fucked so hard it almost made you think he was God.

Dex holds himself still for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. Then, he starts to move, pulling out slowly, then slamming back in. Each thrust drives deeper and harder, the sound of his hips meeting your flesh echoing in the quiet cemetery. The knife shifts with the motion, the flat of the blade pressing against your stomach, a reminder of the danger and the trust held loosely between you.

Your blood still trickles from the cut on your thigh, and as Dex pounds into you, some of it smears across his skin, across your hips. He reaches down with his left hand, dragging his fingers through the blood, then bringing them to your mouth. You open without hesitation, swirling your tongue around his fingers, tasting yourself.

“Fuck, that’s perfect—you’re perfect.” he whines, and the praise drives you in a state of exaltation.

His pace increases, becoming desperate as Dex hits the right spot with accuracy every time. He was no longer controlled, this inhumane fucking, driven by something primal in the way every animals do. The knife clatters to the ground as he needs both hands now to grip your hips, angling you exactly how he wants, driving himself deeper and deeper into the wetness of your pussy.

You’re climbing toward another peak, the coil tightening in your belly despite the soreness, and all the blood. Your nails dig into his back, raking lines across his gear, and then you attempt to bite his shoulder hard and it rattles your teeth.

“I’m—I’m close,” he pants, his forehead pressed to yours. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart, fuck—she could never make you feel this good.”

His rhythm stutters, his body tensing above you. The first hot pulse of his release triggers your own, and you cry out together, a chorus of broken sounds swallowed by the night. His cum fills you, along with your own juices, with the blood that still weeps from the cut on your thigh. Dex collapses onto you, his weight a comforting pressure, his breath warm against your neck. 

For a long time there is only the sound of your combined panting, the frenzied beating of two hearts slowly calming. You stare at the constellations forming in the sky and try to remember how to breathe, you could feel your whole body ache from the violence of your own wanting, you should feel ashamed. You’re lying in a cemetery, your back pressed against the dirt that covers your other half’s body, and you let a killer put his hands on you. 

You wanted him to, and you had asked for it in the only way you knew how. You wait for it to arrive, yet the shame doesn’t come. Neither does the guilt. 

He moves, pulling out of you slowly, and the sensation of his release leaking from your spent cunt is almost too much, but Dex doesn’t let you dwell on it. He gathers you into his arms, lifting you from the ground, cradling you against his chest instead, you allow yourself to drift off.

Misery loves company, or so they say. You have never understood that phrase until now, and all you could feel is a strange kind of fucked up kinship.

The next morning when you wake up, you don’t recognize the walls around you. 

It’s plain looking and relatively small compared to yours, the lack of decoration made you think you were being held captive somewhere in an abandoned house. The walls are bare; no photographs, not even old erotica posters from the 90s, there was no evidence that anyone actually lives here. 

You’re on a bed, and there’s a single blanket draped over you. The mattress felt too firm, seemingly military in their lack of give. You wore a different shirt, bigger than your size and an underwear you’re not certain if it was ever yours but oddly enough fits you, then comes the soreness of your cunt and the fresh wound on your thigh. 

Then you remember. 

“Oh my fucking god.” you cursed under your breath, certain flashes of memories washes over you. All the choices you’ve made are coming back to bite you in the ass. Now, you’re two steps from the water and it’s so clear that you do this to yourself. You can feel the weight of desire, staring at things breathing—at all the things are living, because some part inside you wants to, and you could feel it. You could hardly describe this newfound sentiment.

Dex brought you here, whatever here is. You sit up too fast and your head spins around as you try to stand up, navigating around the room. It was easy enough to find him, opening the door leads to the whole place surprisingly. 

There he was, standing by the stove, cooking what you would have thought eggs and bacon were. A simple man indeed, one that is revolting and brutal yet in this light—you could pretend the slightest touch of normalcy in his gesture. He was also wearing a different outfit, a wife beater and grey sweatpants. Gone was the blood on his face, but the bruises remain, cleaned and washed. 

“You’re awake.”

You’re startled by his voice and the unsettling ability to notice you when you were so sure you had been quiet in your footsteps. Dex seemed in a good mood when he greeted you, but you couldn’t bear yourself to look at him. You didn’t know how to, after what transpired between you last night. 

“Where are we?” you ask instead, gaze wandering around. 

“My place.” 

“Are you sure? This place looks like something you’d see in horror movies.” 

“What does that even mean?” 

“It’s literally a textbook serial killer lair.” 

He turns then, spatula in hand, and looks at you. “Well, I kind of am, aren’t I?” 

You press your palms against your eyes, stifling a genuine laugh because you cannot simply argue with that. The absurdity of it messes with your head a little, makes you dizzy. When you lower your hands, Dex is still watching you, eggs sizzling in the pan, then your stomach growls loudly, embarrassing you at your lowest. 

Dex’s mouth twitches. “Hungry?” 

“A little.” 

He turns back to the stove, divides the eggs onto the plate, one in the pan, adding toast from somewhere you didn’t notice. Dex carries them to the table, sets the only plate he has in front of the empty chair, then looks at you.

“I’ll eat in the pan,” he says. “I don’t really have guests over like this.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Can’t see the reason why that is.”

You slide into the chair, the wood creaking upon your weight, and the cut on your thigh stings when you move but you don’t show it. Instead, your gaze drifts over at the plate in front of you. Eggs, golden and fluffy, toast buttered at its edges, a small pile of bacon that makes your stomach clench with hunger you didn’t know you had. 

The sunny weather outside doesn’t help the nostalgia you feel sick in the stomach for; this falsehood that the world has briefly forgiven itself—reminds you too much of another time. A better time, or was it perhaps a happier lie? Everything about this feels lighter and wrong, and you want to vomit all up. 

Dex leans against the counter, eating directly from the pan, his fork scraping against the metal, you can feel the heaviness of his gaze, watching and observing every move you make. 

“Why am I here, Dex?”

He chews, then swallows, takes his time answering. “Because you asked me to.”

Huh. “I don’t remember that.”

“But you did—even asked you if I should take you home,” he pauses. “You didn’t want to, you said I should take you to mine instead.”

Heat floods your cheeks, stabbing a piece of egg with more force than necessary. “You do realize I was drunk last night, right? Out of my mind?” 

“Were you? Your actions seemed clear to me.” 

Naturally, Dex lied. He didn’t really ask—you were too far gone, slumped against his chest, your breath warm against his collarbone. Your head had lolled against his shoulder, your fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his suit, and you’d mumbled something incomprehensible, he didn’t catch on. He made the choice for you, quickly decided that you were coming with him, that he wasn’t ready to let you go after what you just gave him. 

You exist in a state of perpetual contradiction, how your mind and words don’t align with themselves, yet all the more reasons you fascinate him. You say one thing, but your body says another. You push him away, but you don’t leave either, you’re even eating his damn eggs. You claim you don’t remember, but you remember enough to be embarrassed. 

Dex doesn’t know what to make of you, that’s the truth. You were the first person in years who doesn’t fit aptly into his understanding of the world. Unpredictable, it seemed, was the perfect word for you. He’ll make do with that. Dex will lie about other things, too. Whatever it takes to keep you within his grasp.

“Do you want to talk about last night?” he carefully pushes when you remain silent after the last one, noticing the gears turning inside your head. How miserable it must be being inside your head all the time. 

“I don’t wanna talk about last night,” your fork clinks against the plate as you set it down, suddenly not hungry anymore. Dex could anticipate what you were going to say next. “Look, Dex, I… what I made you do, or the awful thing we did, I’m not… I mean, I—”

Dex abruptly cuts you off. “I’m leaving New York.”

It must have landed, judging by the way you blinked at him, visibly thrown by his words. Your brows knit together, confusion overtaking whatever admission had been waiting behind your tongue. He’s giving you something else to distract your mind with, something bigger than your remorse. And it works.

“Okay…” you sound unsure, slow with your words. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I want you to come with me.” 

You make a sound, a humorless laugh. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

But Dex doesn’t laugh along with you, his expression remains unchanged, there is no flicker of amusement in his gaze as it pierces right through you. 

“Shit,” you say, your voice suddenly smaller. “You are serious.” 

And it surprises you how intense his face was, it feels raw, the impersonation of a tortured soul. It was something that came out of you from nowhere, something you didn’t know you had inside, and you can’t tear your gaze away from him. Adamant that he won’t simply let you forget what happened between you, outwardly asking you to come with him—this killer you’ve come to entangle your body with. 

“That’s not how it works, Dex,” you try to explain. “I can’t just go with you. I have friends—I have a job, my apartment, I have—” 

“You have nothing left for you here,” he says, but it wasn’t cruel, it’s just the truth he thinks it is. “No one, not even Karen Page can save you from your grief, but I can. I did it last night, I’ll do it a hundred times more if you ask.” 

Your whole body went rigid. “How the fuck do you know Karen?”

Dex doesn’t answer. The pan settles onto the table with a metallic clank, but the sound barely registers over the ringing that suddenly fills your ears. He wipes his hands on a dish towel once, then he moves toward you. Planting one hand on the back of your chair and leans down, boxing you in without ever touching you. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, like you couldn’t breathe with him occupying every space you have left. His expression doesn’t change—if anything, it smooths out completely, every trace of amusement draining from his face until there’s nothing left to read.

“Dex.” your voice strained harder, edged with something that might be fear or anger. “How do you know about Karen?”

His hand lifts slowly, and his knuckles brush your cheek first; a featherlight touch that makes your breath hitch and your entire body weak, because you don’t know what he plans to do next. Then his thumb settles on your lower lip, tracing the curve with such intimacy it almost fooled you. Dex’s gaze fixated on the movement of your lips, watching the way your mouth trembles beneath his fingertips. You swallowed hard.

“I’m the closest thing you’ll ever get to being with Julie.” he whispers against your skin. 

Then his mouth captures yours in a harsh kiss, he forces his tongue inside to slide past your lips before you can even resist and none of it feels tender. Sweeping across the roof of your mouth, your hands come up to push against his chest, but your palms land flat on the hard plane of muscle and they don’t push, they simply press, fingers curling into the fabric of his tank top. 

Dex’s hand moves from your cheek to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair and pulling, making you tilt your head back to give him better access. The stretch in your throat makes you gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, deepening the kiss until it’s almost brutal. One and the same with his nature. 

You taste yourself on him, or maybe Dex tastes like himself, and you’re simply drowning so fast you can’t tell the difference anymore. 

He pulls back, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. “That’s why you’ll come with me, because I’m the only one who can give you what you need.”

Dex leans away, stands fully in front of you, looking down at your dazed expression, the confusion settling into your features. Your eyes are glassy, unfocused, and your lips have been slightly swollen, still wet from his mouth. You look like someone who’s been caught in a current, swept out to sea, too disoriented to swim back to shore. 

And it’s exactly how he wanted you to be, what needs to be done, what this requires.

His hand slipped into the pocket of his sweatpants, and felt the cloth there; folded and damp. He had it prepared this morning, before you woke up. A last resort, Dex thinks. Something he wouldn’t use unless he had to. But truly, he had known. Even then, as he cracked the eggs and buttered the toast, pretending any of this was a normal morning, he simply knew.

You were never going to say yes.

But not all love is gentle, he supposed. Sometimes you have to do things for the betterment of your significant other, it can be gritty and dirty, sometimes it’s not supposed to be careful at all. But you have to take it upon yourself to make the harder actions, carrying the burden of decisions they weren’t strong enough to make themselves. That’s what this is—what he’s doing for you. Making hard decisions for the both of you. 

You’ll never heal as long as you’re still stuck in this place, chained down to Julie Barnes. She held onto you long enough, Dex will change that. He doesn’t have to compete with the dead.

He presses the cloth filled with chloroform over your nose and mouth, clamping down firmly, and you thrash immediately; muffled screaming noises, your hands flying up to claw at his wrists, your legs kicking against the chair, your body jerking with the instinct to escape.

But Dex’s entire arm holds you steady, feeling your nails scrape against his skin, leaving red marks that will fade by morning, though you might as well be pushing against a wall. 

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, I truly am. Just breathe. It’ll be over soon.” 

Your eyes are wide in panic, filled with tears. He watches the betrayal flood your expression, and it hurts him most yet Dex was not sorry for what he’s trying to do. It must have felt an eternity before your thrashing weakened, your eyes struggling to stay open, trying to focus on his face, watching your body go slack, head lolling back with your eyes finally closing. 

Your chest rises and falls once, twice, and then your breathing becomes stable, slow and deep. Dex holds the cloth in place for another thirty seconds, to be certain. Then he pulls it away, folding them carefully as he places it on the table instead. 

Kneeling beside the chair, his fingers brushes a strand of hair from your face, your skin felt warm beneath his fingers, alive. But what can be done, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves. You became his north star, the fixed point round which Dex’s world turned. For as long as his heart beat, he believed you would always share the same fate, because he is as much a part of you as you are a part of him now.

Dex could only hope you’re not dreaming of Julie. He hopes you’re dreaming of nothing but him at all.

There was cash inside, and not a cute little emergency envelope. Not “oh, I have some spare money in case someone hacks into my bank account.” It was some serious running money in bundled notes, probably half your life savings if he remembered correctly. It was enough to disappear for a while if you needed to. 

And because Dex’s brain was not a calm place, because Dex’s brain was basically a locked room full of alarms and broken glass and every person who had ever left him whispering see? see? see?, he did not think: oh, that’s a lot of cash. I'm gonna ask her later what it’s for.

He thought: She has an exit plan. She’s going to leave me.

He tried to shake the thought off his head, because it could be anything, right? 

Nope, didn’t work. 

Of course. Of course. Of course she was going to leave. Look at you. Look at what you are. Did you really think she would stay?

Fuck. 

He stood up and left the duffel bag there. He didn’t tear it apart. In fact, it stayed mostly intact, sitting open on the floor like a confession. He was careful with it, because some awful part of him needed the evidence preserved. Needed to look at it and hate himself.

But he destroyed the room though.

He didn’t do it violently, but instead he did it frantically. Drawers were yanked open. Your nightstand emptied. His hands were under the mattress before flipping it, shoved them into the insides pillowcases, behind books, between folded clothes. He was looking for more proof. Looking for the backup bag, a hidden note, a passport he knew had to exist, something to confirm that he wasn’t going insane and you were actually going to leave him. 

But the more he searched, the worse it got.

Every drawer he opened made another mess. Every shirt he threw aside landed in a place clothes shouldn’t be. The lamp was crooked. The blanket was hung by the door. The floor was covered. His breathing got too loud. The room started closing in around him, cluttered and wrong and bad, bad, bad!

And then that became his next spiral.

Great.

Fucking great, he thought as he looked around. 

Now the outside matched the inside of his head.

A ruined room for a ruined man. A mess for a mess.

Dex stood in the middle of it, shaking, staring at all of it like he had done it from outside his own body. 

This!!!! This is why she’s going to leave you!!!!!

He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eye, breathing through his teeth, but it was too late. The mess was everywhere. The thought of you leaving was everywhere. He couldn’t put it back from wherever the hell it came from. He couldn’t make the bed right. He couldn’t get the image of you walking out of his life with that stupid fucking bag to stop replaying behind his eyes.

By the time you came home, he was a shell of himself.

Your keys were still in your hand when you stepped in and stopped cold.

The room was destroyed, but not smashed walls and broken glass and violence for the sake of violence. It was searched, gutted, turned inside out. 

And in the middle of it was Dex, on the floor, his back against the bed.

The duffel was halfway open near his knee, untouched compared to the rest of the room… and he had a gun. 

He had a gun in his hand, pointed at himself, on the underside of his head.

And he hated that too. He hated the neediness. He hated that even now, even like this, some starving part of him hoped you would come home and stop him. Which was pathetic. Which was manipulative. Which was exactly the kind of thing someone should leave him for.

Your blood went cold.

“Dex,” you said, trying to sound harmless; it almost sounded like a coo.

His eyes snapped to you, and it was red and wet with tears. 

It was difficult to imagine him as Bullseye like this, because Dex had always been frightening to most people who knew. You had seen him after bad nights, after adrenaline. 

But you had never seen this before.  That was different.

Dex didn’t wreck rooms. Dex didn’t leave chaos behind him like some sloppy, careless animal. Even at his worst, he was controlled. So seeing your bedroom torn apart was not just frightening.

It just meant something was very, very wrong.

“You’re home,” he said, and his voice sounded scraped raw, like he had been arguing with invisible people for hours.

You didn’t move too fast even though you wanted to. Your heart was throwing itself against your ribs so hard it hurt. But you looked at him, at the arguably most dangerous man in New York sitting in the wreckage of your bedroom with a weapon turned inward, and all you could think was:

Sweetheart

Your sweetheart of a murderous boyfriend, terrified out of his mind.

“I’m home,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to the duffel, then back to you, and whatever fragile little thread had been holding him together snapped. “You were going to leave.”

The words came out so broken they barely sounded like an accusation.

Your gaze dropped to the bag and saw the cash peeking out.

Oh.

Oh, Benjamin.

“Dex—”

“You were going to leave me,” he said again, louder this time, but it cracked halfway through. “You had money. You had a bag. You had—” He sucked in a breath that sounded like it hurt. “You had a life under there.”

You took one slow step forward. He flinched.

“You weren’t supposed to find it like this,” you said softly.

His face fell. “So it’s true.”

“No.”

“You just said—”

“No, baby.” Your voice shook, but you kept it gentle. “No. Not like that.”

He gave this horrible little laugh.

“Don’t. Please don’t.” His hand tightened around the gun, not threatening you, but himself. “You can’t make it sound sweet. Please don’t stand there and make it sound sweet when you’re planning to run.”

“I wasn’t planning to run from you.”

“You had a plan.”

“Yes.”

His eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck.”

“Yes,” you said again, stepping closer, careful, so fucking careful. “I had a plan. But not that one.”

He shook his head hard, like your words had reached a convinced resistance in his brain.

You looked around the room again, really looked this time, and understood.

He hadn’t destroyed it because he was angry. He had looked for evidence until the room became evidence of him.

It was a ruin made wrong by his own hands. An excuse to hate himself because the alternative was hating you. And Dex could never stomach that. 

Dex followed your gaze and his face collapsed into shame.

“I fucked it up,” he said, barely audible. “I fucked everything up. It’s everywhere. It’s all wrong. I can’t—” His breathing hitched. “I can’t fix it. I made it worse. I always make it worse.”

“Oh, Dex.”

“Don’t,” he snapped, then immediately looked wrecked by his own voice. “You were going to leave me.”

The gun shook.

“I wasn’t.”

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You had a plan.”

“Yes,” you said, frustrated now because he didn’t leave you space to get your point across. “I had a plan. So for once in your life, sweetheart, please listen to me!”

And that shut him up.

Horrible choice of words? Maybe. But you needed him to listen.

You lowered yourself slowly to the floor, not too close yet, keeping your hands visible.

“Dex,” you said. “Have you even looked in the bag?”

“I did.”

“No,” you whispered. “Really.”

He didn’t move.

So you reached for the duffel yourself and pulled out the first burner phone.

“One,” you said. Then the second. “Two.”

What? 

You pulled out your fake passport. “Mine.” Then… a second one. “Yours.”

Dex’s face changed in stages.

Confusion first. Then disbelief.

Then a feeling of devastation made him want to crawl across the floor and cover you with his whole body.

You kept going, because he needed facts. He needed as much proof as you can give.

“Two sets of clothes. Two toothbrushes. Cash for both of us. Medical kit.” Your voice went small, almost sheepish. “I… fuck, Dex, forgot to tell you. You know how I am when I get distracted.”

He blinked. He knew— he knew more than more people what you were like when one too many things were in your mind. Sometimes the details just slipped, and he would never use it against you.

“I made it a week ago when you were out,” you explained. “I made it because one day you might come home and say you have to run. And I know myself, Dex. I wouldn't ask questions while you bleed on the carpet. I’m grabbing the bag and going wherever you need to go.”

He stared at the ID that you opened. It had his face on it.

You looked up at him from the floor, surrounded by all the proof he had misunderstood.

“I wasn’t planning to run from you, Dex.” You reassured. “I was planning to run with you.”

Dex stared at you. And his whole body just… gave up, like whatever rage had been keeping him upright finally dissolved and left nothing underneath but panic and shame and love so whole it made him sick.

The gun dipped, his wrist going slack like all the strength had drained out of him at once.

You put your open palm gently on his lap. “Let me have it, baby.”

Dex stared at your hand. You were asking for his gun as if it wasn’t a weapon turned inward, as if it wasn’t the shape every horrible thought currently chewing through his skull made real.

His fingers tightened once, and not because he wanted to keep it. It was because letting go meant trusting you with the part of him that was still trying to punish himself.

You kept your voice soft.

“Please, baby,” you whispered. “I’m going to put it on the table. That’s all.”

His eyes flicked to yours then, wet and ruined.“ You shouldn’t come closer.”

“I know.”

“I’m not—” His lips trembled. “I’m not right.”

“I know.”

Fuck. 

You weren’t arguing. You weren’t denying that this behaviour wasn’t normal. You knew he was dangerous. And still, your hand stayed open.

“Give it to me, Dex.”

His breath hitched.

The room was still a mess around you. Dex’s eyes kept catching on it, dragging over every displaced object like each one was proof of his failure to be a good boyfriend. 

You saw the thought move through him and softened your voice even more.

“Don’t look at the room right now,” you murmured. “Look at me.”

He tried. Eventually, his gaze dragged back to you like it physically hurt.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good. That’s good.”

Dex made a sound so small it almost disappeared in his throat.

You put your hand closer, not snatching, not treating him like a threat, even though your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

“Let me put it down,” you said. “Then we can sit. Okay?”

He stared at you for another breath. Then, finally, his fingers loosened.

You took the gun from his hand with the gentlest touch you had ever used on anything in your life. You turned and placed it on the table behind you.

It was far enough away now

Then you came straight back to him.

The second your hands were empty again, Dex collapsed forward like the weapon had been the last thing holding his body upright.

You caught his face in both hands. “Oh, baby.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I know.”

“I thought so little of you.”

His voice barely sounded like his own anymore. It was scraped thin and torn open. 

“Baby,” you whispered. “Breathe.”

“But I did.” His hands caught you frantically, gripping your waist, your hips, the fabric of your shirt like if he let go, you would disappear right there in front of him. “I did. I saw it and I thought… I thought you were like everyone else. I thought you were going to get tired of me. I thought you finally realised.”

Your throat tightened. “Realised what?”

His eyes “What’s wrong with me.”

Oh, fuck.

You took his face in your hands, like you could hold the thought inside him still enough to kill it. “Nothing is wrong with you that makes me want to leave.”

Dex flinched. 

His eyes squeezed shut, and the first real sob shook out of him, helpless and so human it made your heart ache. Because Dex could handle cruelty. Dex could handle being hated. Dex could handle people looking at him like he was a monster.

But this, he never knew how to handle. 

“I love you,” he said, breathless now, panicked by his own need. “I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Please don’t leave me. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” you whispered, and it came out a little mean because you were crying too now. Because how dare he? How dare he look at you like leaving him was something you could physically do? “Please don’t say things like that.”

You kissed his forehead first.

“I’d never leave you.”

Then his temple.

“Never.”

His cheek, still wet with tears.

“Never, Dex.”

You gave more fluttery kisses to the bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. His other cheek, peppering small kisses one after another, until his breathing caught and his face tipped helplessly into your hands. Even now, even wrecked and ashamed and shaking, some part of him still wanted more.

He needed more.

So when you kissed the damp track beneath his eye, he grabbed you.

His hands caught your waist and dragged you closer, desperate and clumsy with it, and then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t a pretty kiss. It was too broken. Dex kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside you. Like your mouth was the only thing keeping him from slipping back into the horrible void his mind had made for him. His breath stuttered against your lips, his hands gripping your shirt, your side, your hip, anything he could touch.

And you let him.

You kissed him back with both hands in his hair, holding him there while he made that ruined little sound into your mouth. 

His hand tightened at your waist.

“Ow, Dex,” you breathed, but it came out with a tiny chuckle against his mouth. Of course this man was having one of the worst breakdowns of his life and still holding you like a claw machine. 

He froze for half a second, lips still parted against yours.

“Sorry,” he whispered immediately, voice rough.

But he did not pull away. He just loosened his grip, palm spreading wide and careful over the spot instead, like he could smooth the hurt away.

“Too hard?” he asked.

“A little.”

His forehead dropped against yours. He breathed out shakily, almost laughing, still crying.

“There,” you murmured, kissing him again. “Gentler.”

He tried. Fuck, he tried so hard it almost broke your heart. His palm opened against your side, broad and shaking, still possessive and needy, still Dex, but careful now.

Then he folded into you.

He put his face against your chest like he was trying to disappear there. As if he pressed close enough, he wouldn’t have to see the room behind you. Wouldn’t have to see the drawers, the clothes, the crooked bed, the evidence of everything he had done while his head was eating itself alive.

Fuck.

This man could kill half the city if you asked him sweetly enough. He could put a fork through a random person on the street if you only pointed. He could turn anything into a weapon. 

But with you, he was on the floor, hiding his face in your chest because he couldn’t look at the mess he made.

Because you were so, so special to him, that the idea of losing you had gutted him thoroughly.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered into your shirt.

You stroked his hair. “Baby.”

“I’ll fix it.” His voice caught. “I’ll put it back. I’ll clean it. I’ll do it right. I’ll fix it.”

“I know you will.” You kissed the top of his head. “But not tonight.”

He went tense immediately, panic sparking under your hands.

“I can. I can do it.”

You shook your head gently before he could spiral again.

“Listen to me. We’re going to get a hotel tonight, yeah?”

Dex blinked at you, breath hitching like the idea of stepping out of the ruined room had not occurred to him.

“And tomorrow,” you continued, keeping your hands on his face, “I’ll get a cleaner in here.”

His eyes flicked past you to the room, panic flashing. “No—”

“Baby,” you said softly. “Listen. I’ll get a cleaner in here tomorrow. They’ll do the big stuff.”

His throat worked.

“And then,” you said, kissing his cheek again, “after they’re gone, you can make a second pass at everything.”

Dex went still.

You saw the compromise land in his brain.

“You can put things back how you like them,” you whispered. “You can check the drawers. You can fix the bed. You can make it feel right again. But tonight, we have to leave the room alone.”

That… was a good idea.

“Okay,” Dex said finally.

It came out muffled against your chest, hoarse and exhausted. He nodded once, like he was trying to make his body accept it too.

You stroked his hair back from his damp forehead.

“There he is,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered shut.

His arms tightened around your waist, but only for half a second before he remembered himself and loosened his grip. He looked up at you, eyes red, cheeks wet, mouth swollen from kissing you. Still wrecked. Still ashamed. But quieter now. Softer around the panic.

“You’ll be with me in the hotel?” he asked.

You cupped his cheek. “Of course.”

His breath left him shakily. “Okay.”

You kissed his forehead one more time. “Come on.”

You helped him stand, reaching out. The room was still messy around you, but he didn’t look at it this time. He kept his eyes on you at the door, his hand hovered near yours.

“Is this okay?” he asked, poking at your fingers while the duffel bag sat on his shoulder. Tonight was gonna barely make a dent on your stash, so there’s no reason to worry about anything, really.

You smiled and opened your hand. “Of course.”

He slid his fingers through yours carefully, like he was afraid of holding too tight again. Then he lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.

Then he followed you out without looking back.

— end.

buy me a ko-fi here!

The first days were a shapeless blur, the kind memory refuses to organize in sequence. A blur of not eating, not sleeping, not getting out of bed. Time lost its meaning. The kitchen clock kept ticking the seconds, but you no longer heard its voice. You called him 47 times. You stored each one of those calls in a dark corner of your memory, like stones weighing down your pocket that you refuse to throw away. Every call went straight to voicemail, straight to that auditory limbo where words go to die unanswered. His voice, recorded at some random moment when he was still there, said with cruel naturalness: "you know what to do." You always waited for the beep. The beep always came. And you spoke, even knowing—deep down, very deep down, you knew—that no one on the other end was listening.

"Come back. Please. Come back. I won't ask anything. Just come back."

You left messages that got shorter and shorter, more and more desperate, the words tripping over each other, your voice faltering at the ends of sentences. Until the 23rd day, you stopped. And it wasn't because you had given up on him. It was because your voice no longer came out. Because you had cried so much, so deeply and for so long, that your vocal cords simply… refused to continue. As if your body had finally said enough before your soul had.

It was your neighbor from 301 who found you. Dona. A bulky woman with faded purple hair and a heart so large it seemed not to fit inside her chest—it overflowed through her small eyes and the deep voice that echoed in the hallway. She broke down the door when you didn't answer for three days. Three days in which the milk in the fridge soured, the plants on the windowsill wilted, and silence became the only living thing in the apartment. She found you curled up in his gray t-shirt—the one you wore to sleep, the one that no longer smelled of him except through a stubbornness of the sense of smell, a barely-there scent you rubbed against your face trying to resurrect a perfume already dead for weeks. Your eyes were open, and in place of your gaze there were two holes, fixed on the white wall that seemed to grow more distant by the second.

"Girl," she said. She sat beside you on the bed without asking permission, without ceremony, the way someone who has seen it all in this life and still chose to keep having compassion. She held your face with thick, calloused hands—hands that had cleaned other people's houses her whole life, that had raised a child alone, that had learned early that the world doesn't go easy on anyone. "Girl, what did he do to you?"

You didn't answer.

Not because you didn't want to. The desire was there, somewhere behind your breastbone, wanting to escape. But you no longer knew how to separate. You could no longer distinguish where his love ended and the destruction began. The two things had become so tangled inside you that they seemed like a single organism—a beautiful plant whose roots, deep down, were poisonous. You looked at Dona with dry, burning eyes, your mouth slightly open, and for the first time in 23 days there were no tears left to fall. Only emptiness. And silence. And the gray t-shirt you pressed against your chest as if he could still fit inside it.

The news came three weeks later.

Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of a ghostly routine where you learned to exist mechanically—get up, lie down, stare at the ceiling, forget to eat until hunger became a distant pang. You were on the sofa at that moment. The same sofa where he held you while you watched movies that neither of you paid attention to, because he was too busy kissing your neck, leaving a warm trail down your spine, murmuring things in your ear that you would never repeat out loud. The same sunken foam in the center, from the weight of two bodies that insisted on occupying the same space. The same smell of good mold and spilled coffee in the upholstery. Everything there. Everything the same. Except he wasn't.

The newscast said his name.

Benjamin Poindexter. The name you learned to say in the morning, still with a sleepy voice, brushing your lips against his nape. The name you wrote on bar napkins, on the edges of books, on the fogged-up glass of the shower stall. The name you whispered in cheap hotels and on stormy nights, when fear came knocking at your door and he said "relax, I'm here." The name that now came from the mouth of a news anchor with the same intonation as any other headline. As if it weren't the center of your entire world.

"Former FBI agent Benjamin Poindexter was sentenced today to life imprisonment on multiple counts of homicide…"

The rest was static.

Not literally—the television kept buzzing, the anchor kept talking, the colorful graphics kept rising and falling on the screen. But the sound of the entire world went silent in that second. As if someone had pulled the plug on reality. You could only see his face on the screen. Those pale blue eyes—the eyes that looked at you with such absolute devotion that sometimes it hurt to hold his gaze, as if he were, at every moment, apologizing for being too human. Now they weren't looking at you. Now they were fixed somewhere behind the camera, still, empty, two spheres of ice that no longer reflected anything. As if he had already given up on everything. As if the only thing that mattered—and you knew, with a cold tightness in your chest, that this thing was you—was no longer there, no longer available to be the reason he kept breathing.

The images changed. They showed him being led away by two police officers in black, long rhythmic strides, handcuffs tightening around the wrists that once held you with so much force and so much delicacy that they seemed to harbor an impossible contradiction. Head down. The white shirt open at the chest—and you saw it.

Oh, God. You saw it.

The marks. The scars. Every line of irregular tissue, every patch of skin that hadn't regenerated properly. The intimate map of his suffering, which you had learned by heart at your fingertips. You kissed each one before sleeping. It was a silent, almost religious ritual—your lips tracing those paths of pain to say, without words, I see. I know. I stay. And that place near his shoulder, where you rested your forehead when you could no longer look into his eyes. When it was too much. When love was so great that it overflowed and became a kind of agony. You rested your forehead there, and he knew. He always knew. His hand would go up to your hair and he wouldn't say anything. He would just wait. Because he knew that silence, sometimes, was the only language you could speak.

Everything there. Everything the same. Only now he was no longer yours. He would never be again. He was property of the state. A number. A file. A 3x4 photo with a little placard on his chest. The man who taught you what it meant to be loved to the marrow was now a convict, and you watched this sitting on the two-seater sofa, in the living room that still had his towel hanging on the line, his shaving cream in the shower, his last toothbrush in the cup next to yours.

You don't remember screaming.

But Dona said you did. Said you made a sound so loud and so shrill that she dropped the pan on the fire and ran up the stairs, thinking someone was dying. Said it was the kind of scream that doesn't come from the throat of a whole person. Only from someone who has already been shattered on the floor for weeks and finally found a voice for the fall.

And maybe someone was dying, yes. Maybe you died a little that day. A little there, on the two-seater sofa, watching the face of the man you loved disappear behind a steel door that would never open for you again. Or maybe you didn't die just a little. Maybe death came in slices, and that one was the biggest—a cut so deep that you would never look at a pair of blue eyes again without feeling a chill in your stomach. You were never able to decide. You preferred not to decide. You preferred to leave the question open, like a window that never fully closes, no matter how much wind and dust get in.

They didn't let you visit.

That was the first rule. The first boundary that no one needed to explain with many words. His lawyer—a woman named Agnes, thin as a hanger and cold as the glass eye she wore in place of her right one—received you in her office downtown. The office smelled of old documents and disinfectant. There was a dead plant in the corner and a 2003 calendar still hanging on the wall. The kind of place where hope comes in to rot. Agnes didn't offer coffee. Didn't ask you to sit. She opened the blue file on the table, adjusted her glasses on the tip of her nose, and said, with the same intonation as someone reading a grocery list:

"He doesn't want to see you."

You blinked. Thought you had misheard. That the words, somehow, had gotten scrambled on the way from her mouth to your ears. But Agnes repeated, slowly, as if speaking to a slow child or someone who had just suffered a concussion:

"He said, and I quote: 'Tell her I died. It's easier that way.'"

The office seemed to shrink. The walls came closer. The ceiling dropped a few inches. You stood still in the middle of the stained carpet, feeling the entire world spin around an invisible axis—and that axis was that sentence. Tell her I died. As if dying were a simple thing. As if you could receive news of someone's death with the same lightness as receiving a telegram. As if the love you had built together—in that bed, on that sofa, in that tiny kitchen where he taught you to make tomato sauce from scratch and you burned your hand and he kissed each finger—could be undone with a sentence spoken by a glass-eyed woman in an office that smelled of mold.

"Easier for whom?" you asked.

Your voice came out strange. Thin. Distant. As if it weren't yours. As if someone had taken control of your body and asked for you, because you, deep down, no longer had the strength to form words.

Agnes raised an eyebrow. The only one that worked. The one on the side of her good eye. The glass eye kept staring at you—motionless, shiny, accusatory. As if it saw things you were trying to hide. As if it knew about all the nights you lied to yourself, all the times you looked away and pretended not to see the dark stains on his soul.

"For both of you," she replied.

And that was it.

There was no crying in that office. No outburst, no plea for reconsideration, no knees on the floor begging for a second chance. You just looked at Agnes for a few more seconds—long enough to memorize the merciless gleam of that glass eye, to understand that there was no heart to be moved in there—and then you turned. Opened the door. Left.

The hallway was long and poorly lit. Your footsteps echoed on the linoleum. You clutched your purse against your chest as if it could protect you from something, but it couldn't. Nothing could. You went down the stairs because the elevator was broken (of course it was) and reached the street on a cloudy autumn day, with dry leaves piling up on the sidewalks and a cold wind cutting across your face.

And you never asked again.

Never called Agnes again. Never sent letters. Never tried to contact any lawyer, any prison official, any remote contact of someone who might reach him. You simply… stopped. Like a heart that gave up beating. Like a clock that decided it was too late to keep marking the hours.

Because deep down, in the darkest and most honest place in your chest, you knew he was right. Not about having died—because he hadn't died, he was alive, somewhere behind concrete walls and steel bars, sleeping on a thin mattress, eating bland food, counting the days of a sentence that would never end. But about the rest. About the "easier." About the "never again." About the impossibility of the two of you existing in the same world without destroying each other.

You never asked again, but you also never loved anyone the same way. The years passed—and they passed, because time is cruel and doesn't stop for anyone, not even for those who are grieving—and you met other people. Other mouths. Other hands. Other gazes. But none of them had that terrible devotion, that way he had of looking at you as if you were the last water in the desert. And no goodbye hurt as much as that non-goodbye. The one that had no last kiss. The one that had no last fight. The one that had no coffin, no flowers, no body present. The one that had only a three-word note, a glass eye, and the phrase "tell her I died," repeating in your head like a song no one asked to hear, but that never, never, never stopped playing.

The following months were an exercise in survival that didn't look like survival. It didn't have that shine of overcoming stories, didn't have the inspirational soundtrack of weekend movies. It looked like punishment. A punishment with no declared crime, no judge, no sentence read aloud—just the relentless routine of continuing to exist when everything inside you begged to stop.

You started seeing a psychologist because Dona threatened to institutionalize you. Literally. She showed up at your door on a rainy Tuesday with a folder in her hand and the most serious eyes you had ever seen in your life. "Either you go willingly, girl, or I'll drag you there; don't make me do it, because I raised three children alone and I still have the arm strength." You went. Out of fear. Out of exhaustion. Because, deep down, a tiny, still-alive part of you knew she was right.

Dr. Elaine wore tortoiseshell glasses—thick ones, sort of vintage—and had a way of tilting her head to the side when you spoke, as if each of your words was a piece of a puzzle she was trying to assemble with infinite care. Her office smelled of chamomile and had a deep armchair that felt like a hug disguised as furniture. She would look at you over her glasses sometimes, and that look alone made you want to tell her everything. Everything, really. The things you had never said out loud. The things you barely admitted to yourself when you were alone in the dark, with the hum of the refrigerator as your only company.

And you told her. Almost everything.

You told her about the note. About the silence. About the 47 calls and his voice on the voicemail. About the neighbor, about the newscast, about the blue eyes on the television screen. About the glass-eyed lawyer and the cruel phrase that had pierced you like a blank bullet—one that hurts because it seems fake, but isn't. About the nights you woke up sweating, his name on your lips, and the empty side of the bed seemed larger than the whole world.

But some things you didn't tell.

You didn't tell about the patterns he drew on your wrist while you watched TV. Concentric circles. Very slow. Very methodical. As if he were tracing escape maps on your skin. You never asked what that meant. You were afraid of the answer. You still are.

You didn't tell about the whispers in the dark. The things he said after you had already pretended to be asleep. Scattered sentences, almost inaudible, that he probably thought you couldn't hear. "I can't lose you. I wouldn't survive." "You're the only certain thing in my life." "If I ever do something bad, promise you won't hate me?" You never answered any of those whispers. You pretended to sleep. You stored each word in a little locked box at the back of your memory and hoped time would undo them. Time undid nothing.

You didn't tell how he held you. It wasn't a normal hug. It was more as if he were trying to fuse you into his own body. As if you were the only thing keeping him from shattering into a thousand irrecoverable pieces. His arms would encircle you with a force bordering on desperation, and sometimes you would feel his face buried in your hair, his breath trembling, and you knew—knew without needing words—that he was crying. He never cried in front of you. But behind you, while hugging you from behind, he allowed himself to. And you pretended not to notice, because you knew that for him shame was worse than sadness.

Some things, you decided, are too sacred to be spoken aloud. Even to a professional. Even in a room that smells of chamomile and has an armchair that feels like a hug. Some things belong only to silence. To the silence and to the pillow that still holds the shape of his head.

"He's in prison forever," Dr. Elaine said one session, jotting something down in her notebook. The pen scratched against the paper with a dry, definitive sound. "And you're trapped too. Trapped in a version of him that only exists in your head now. But he's no longer that person. He'll never be. People change, especially in extreme situations. The man you loved… he doesn't exist anymore, if he ever really existed that way. You need to accept that what you had… it's over."

Over. The word echoed through the office, bounced off the beige walls, hit the ceiling and came back. Over. As if it were that simple. As if extinguishing a love were the same as turning off a light. Flipping a switch and done, all dark, move on.

You nodded. Made the mechanical motion of yes, yes, of course, you understand, you're processing, you'll work on it. You paid for the session. Took your card out of your wallet with fingers that didn't tremble—because you had learned not to tremble; Dr. Elaine called it "functional dissociation," you called it survival. You crossed the waiting room, went down the elevator, walked out to the parking lot. Your car started. The radio played a song the two of you used to listen to together. You changed the station. Then changed it again. Then turned it off.

You went home.

Opened the door. Put away your purse. Took off your shoes. Washed your face. Brushed your teeth. Did everything a functional person does before sleeping. And that night—like every night since he left, like every night that would come after, like every night you would spend for the rest of your life without him—you slept hugging his pillow.

The pillow no longer smelled of him. That had been lost months ago, in some distracted wash, on some day when you were so dazed with pain that you didn't even realize you were erasing the last traces. The pillow now smelled of you. Of cheap soap. Of drugstore shampoo. Of poorly slept nights and dried tears. But the shape was still there. The indentation his head had sculpted into the filling. The exact depression, the precise curve that matched the back of his neck, the way he turned his face to kiss you before turning off the light.

You would hug the pillow and close your eyes. Breathe deeply. And for a moment—a brief, stolen moment, a small offense against reality—you would pretend his arm was still there. Pressed against your waist. Heavy and warm and present. You would pretend his breath was stirring your hair at the nape. That he was going to pull you a little closer, groan softly against your shoulder and murmur "I love you" in that dragging voice of someone already almost asleep.

You pretended. Because it was all that was left. And what was left was so little that you needed to protect every crumb, every fragment of illusion, as if they were the last embers of a fire that had once warmed the whole house.

The pillow didn't hug back. But you had already forgotten what it was like to be truly hugged. And maybe, deep down, you preferred it that way. Because if you remembered—if you remembered exactly how it was—then you really wouldn't be able to go on.

The psychologist insisted on a meeting.

It wasn't a request. It was a calculated move, the kind professionals use when they think a patient is stuck in a well too deep to climb out of alone. Dr. Elaine pushed a yellow piece of paper toward you—from one of those sticky note pads she used for quick reminders, always with a faded flower in the corner—and leaned back in her chair with an air of someone who had already decided the answer before you even opened your mouth.

"He's a friend of my nephew's," she said, as if talking about the weather or the exchange rate. "Very polite. Works in credit analysis. Normal. Safe. Nothing special." She paused, adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses, and added with a gentleness that hurt: "Just coffee. So you can see there are still other people in the world. People who won't destroy you."

People who won't destroy you. The phrase floated in the air of the room, accusatory. As if she knew—and she did know, you had told her almost everything—that destruction was your last love's native language. As if she were offering you an instruction manual for a life without craters.

You almost said no. The word was on the tip of your tongue, heavy and familiar, an old friend who had slept on your couch for months and refused to pack its bags. No was comfortable. No was safe. No was known territory where you knew exactly where the floor gave way and where you could step firmly. But something—maybe the exhaustion, maybe the way Dr. Elaine tilted her head with that infinite patience of someone who has seen worse cases, maybe a leftover of stupid hope that refused to die no matter how hard you tried to strangle it—made you reach out.

The yellow paper had small, careful handwriting. The name was Lucas. 34 years old. Likes hiking and specialty coffee. Has a dog named Toby. It looked like a pet adoption form. You almost smiled. Almost.

You went.

And you went for him. Not for Lucas. For Ben. Because a part of you—the part that still woke up in the middle of the night with your heart racing, thinking you felt the weight of his arm on your waist, thinking you heard his breath in the dark—wanted to prove to yourself that you could do it. That you weren't permanently broken. That he hadn't managed to destroy you completely, despite all evidence to the contrary. That you still existed outside his universe, outside the gravitational orbit of that blue-eyed, scar-shouldered man.

The café was a fancy place you would never have chosen on your own. Designer lamps hanging from the ceiling like cold jewels. Low music, the kind no one pays attention to but misses when it stops. You ordered a latte and spent five minutes adjusting the handle of the cup, spinning the saucer, fidgeting with the napkin—because you didn't know what to do with your hands. The hands he used to hold. The hands he kissed, one finger at a time, while you waited for the movie to start.

Lucas arrived late. Nine minutes. You counted because you counted everything now; time was something that needed to be measured in small, controllable portions, otherwise it slipped through the cracks. His excuse came with a tight smile: "Traffic, you know how it is." He was shorter than you imagined. Not much, but enough for you to notice. Perfectly combed brown hair, not a strand out of place. A close, almost surgical shave. The friendly, generic smile of someone who fits into any life insurance ad. He didn't have Ben's crooked smile. The one that went up a little more on one side, as if he knew a secret you hadn't discovered yet.

He asked about your job. You answered with rehearsed phrases, the same ones you used in interviews and family gatherings. He told a story about Toby burying a bone in the yard and unearthing a head of lettuce. You laughed at the right moment, at the right volume, for the right length of time. It was an impeccable performance. It deserved applause.

He asked for the check—and asked for it before you had finished your latte, which you mentally noted as a point against him—and asked if you wanted to do this again. You said yes because that's what you do. Because Dr. Elaine would be proud. Because maybe, if you pretended enough, that strange feeling of wearing someone else's clothes would eventually go away. Because maybe, if you repeated the motion enough times, eventually the gesture would become natural.

But throughout the meeting—one hour and forty-three minutes, you counted, noted on your phone, memorized—your eyes wandered three times to the café door. It wasn't intentional. It happened like a nervous tic, a conditioned reflex. You looked at the door expecting… what? Expecting whom? He wasn't going to walk in. He couldn't walk in. He was behind concrete walls, steel bars, miles away and a lifetime apart.

Twice you looked out the window, through the glass fogged by humidity. Once you looked at a man in a dark jacket sitting in the back, in the farthest corner, near the bathroom. He had his back to you, his face hidden by a dark cap, and something about the inclination of his shoulders—the way he held his cup with both hands, as if trying to extract heat from a liquid that must have been cold for a long time—made your heart stop for a second.

When you looked again, he was gone. The empty table. The chair slightly displaced. An almost full cup abandoned, as if whoever had been there had left in a hurry. As if he had been seen.

You didn't tell Lucas this. He paid the check—nine minutes late and still insisted on paying, textbook chivalry—and walked you to the door. He lightly touched your shoulder when saying goodbye. A dry, secure, absolutely normal touch. You felt the same as you would if a stranger brushed against you on the subway: nothing.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine in the next session. She asked how it had gone, and you said "fine," and she tilted her head in that way that meant she wasn't believing you but wasn't going to push. She jotted something down. You paid. Left.

You didn't tell her that on the way back to your car, crossing the empty mall parking lot, you felt a chill on the back of your neck. It wasn't cold. It was that old, familiar shiver, coated in nostalgia and fear. The same one you felt when Ben was watching you from the bedroom door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, while you put on mascara in front of the mirror. He would stand there in silence, just looking. And when you asked "what?" he would give that crooked smile and say "nothing, just looking." But it wasn't nothing. It was never nothing.

You turned around. The parking lot was dark, the garage lights flickering with the frequency of something that had needed maintenance for years. No one. Just the empty street and the headlights of a car parked too far away for you to see the driver. A black sedan. Tinted windows. The engine running, a thin cloud of exhaust rising in the cold air. You stood there staring for too long. The car didn't move. Neither did you.

Eventually, you got into your car, locked the doors—a habit you only acquired after he left, after the world became a place where any shadow could be a threat—and drove home.

You didn't tell her that when you entered your apartment that night, the first thing you noticed was the smell. Not an identifiable smell, not perfume or cologne or soap. It was the absence of smell. A vacuum. Something that had been there and then wasn't. You put your purse on the counter, turned on the kitchen light, hung up your coat. Did everything mechanically, on autopilot, while a silent alarm sounded somewhere deep in your consciousness.

Then you went into the bedroom.

Your pillowcase had been changed.

You froze. Not immediately—first you thought you had changed it and forgotten, that the pain and exhaustion and sleeping pills had erased the memory. But you didn't have pillowcases like that one. This one was Egyptian cotton, a white so pure it seemed bluish, with a tiny lace detail in the corner. Just like the one that had disappeared three months ago. The one he used. The one he had taken with him in that worn-out backpack, on that last morning, along with his toothbrush and phone charger. The pillowcase you had bought on a work trip, very expensive, and he liked it so much you said "take it, it's yours." He took it. It disappeared. You thought you would never see it again.

It was there. On your pillow. Perfectly stretched, the creases from the packaging still visible, smelling of baby fabric softener. Someone had entered your apartment. Someone had entered your bedroom. Someone had changed your pillowcase while you were having coffee with a credit analyst who had a dog named Toby.

You started to shake.

It wasn't a light tremor, the kind that passes with a sip of water. It was a deep shaking, coming from your bones, shaking your whole body in successive waves as if you were having a silent seizure. Your legs buckled without warning. You sat down on the bedroom floor—you didn't choose to sit, you simply fell—and stayed there, curled up against the foot of the bed, your arms wrapped around your knees, staring at the strange-familiar pillowcase on your strange-familiar pillow as if it were a snake about to strike.

Twenty minutes. You sat on the cold bedroom floor for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes trying to convince yourself that you hadn't seen what you saw. That it was a different pillowcase, that you were confused, that your memory was playing tricks. Twenty minutes trying to quiet the sound of your heartbeat—because it was so loud it seemed to fill the entire apartment, each beat a question: was he here? was he here? was he here?

You didn't tell anyone.

You didn't tell Lucas. You didn't tell Dr. Elaine. In the next session, you talked about other things, smaller things, things that fit in the office. You didn't tell Dona. Who would get desperate and probably call the police, and what would you tell the police? Someone changed my pillowcase?

You didn't tell because you didn't want to hear what any sensible person would say: you're paranoid. you're making things up. you need more medication. you're projecting onto him something he couldn't have done because he's in prison, he's in PRISON, you saw it on TV, you saw the handcuffs, you saw the cell, how could he get into your apartment?

You didn't tell because, deep down, in the deepest and darkest and most honest place, you knew the answer. You didn't know how. You didn't know when. You didn't know by what impossible, miraculous, terrifying means he had done it. But you knew it was him. You knew it as surely as you knew your own name. As surely as you knew the sky is blue and fire burns and hearts break.

And you didn't tell because, if you told, you would have to admit something else. Something you could barely face alone, in the dark, hugging the pillowcase he had returned:

You didn't want him to stop.

The signs only got worse.

The following week, a pair of black underwear disappeared from your drawer. You didn't notice the same day—it took forty-eight hours to register, because you had already given up looking for meaning in small losses, in objects that vanished without explanation, in the empty spaces that opened in your routine like tiny black holes. But the black underwear was different. You knew which one it was as soon as you noticed the empty space between the blue fabric and the red. It was that one. The one he liked. The one he always took off you with his teeth, laughing against your skin, his lips brushing your stomach as he said, in an accusatory yet loving tone, that you wore it just to provoke him.

And he was right. You did.

You searched the entire apartment three times. Opened drawers, looked under the bed, emptied the laundry basket, checked the washing machine, the dryer, the clothesline. Nothing. The black underwear was nowhere to be found. As if the floor had swallowed it. As if someone had taken it.

The following Tuesday, it appeared on top of your dresser.

Folded. Perfectly folded, the corners aligned, the fabric stretched with a care that hurt from familiarity. You knew that fold. He had that habit—he who didn't know how to fold a shirt properly, but learned to fold your underwear with the precision of a goldsmith, because he said each piece of yours was too precious to be wrinkled. In the middle of the underwear, a crease. A deep indentation, as if someone had pressed the fabric against their face while sleeping. As if they had breathed deeply there, trying to extract your scent from fabric that no longer smelled of you after so many washes.

You leaned your hand against the wall to keep from falling. The kitchen spun. The world spun. You stood there for a long minute, your forehead cold against the plaster, eyes closed, trying to convince yourself there was a rational explanation. There wasn't. You knew there wasn't.

You bought a camera. Went to an electronics store downtown, paid in cash to leave no trace on your card—as if you were doing something wrong, as if the victim were the criminal. A small, discreet camera, the kind that connects to your phone. You hid it on the living room shelf, pointed at the bed, adjusting the angle three, four, five times until you were sure it captured the bedroom door and the window and the whole bed. Then you turned it on, tested it, confirmed it was recording, and went to sleep.

The next morning, the memory card was blank.

Not erased—blank. As if it had been formatted. As if someone had taken the original card, recorded over it, and returned a blank card in its place. The same card. The same brand. But not a single frame recorded. You spent an hour trying to recover the files with internet programs, your eyes burning with exhaustion and frustration, your hands trembling on the mouse. Nothing. Zero. As if those hours of recording had never existed.

And that's when the fear changed its nature. Because it wasn't just someone entering. It was someone intelligent. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who didn't just enter your apartment—someone who entered and had time, had calm, had the coldness to mess with your devices, erase your evidence, reorganize your things. Someone who didn't get caught by surprise. Someone who already expected the camera. Someone who, somehow, knew you were going to put it there before you even knew.

You changed the lock. The first was a common locksmith, the kind from the hardware store. Three days later, the black underwear appeared on your nightstand. Not on the dresser. On the nightstand. On your side. As if someone had placed it there for you to find as soon as you woke up. This time you didn't even feel fear. You felt coldness. An iciness that traveled down your spine and settled in your stomach. You picked up the phone, called a 24-hour locksmith, and had them change the lock again.

The next day, the locksmith came. A bald man with a gray mustache and calloused hands. He examined the old lock, the two you had just installed, and said: "Miss, this is the most expensive one there is. Five-bolt lock, European cylinder, no one opens this without the key. No one." He knocked on the door with his knuckles, as if presenting a quality product. "You can rest easy. This is invasion-proof."

You paid. Thanked him. Locked the door behind him. Unlocked it. Locked it again. Unlocked it. Locked it. Stood there leaning against the door for a minute, listening to the silence, the beating of your own heart, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

The next morning, all your sleep shirts were in place. Drawer open, drawer closed, everything seemingly normal. But you were no longer the same person who woke up without examining every inch of the bedroom. You looked at everything now. Every detail. Every object out of place. Every shadow that shouldn't be there. And that's how you saw it.

One of them—the gray one, the old one, the one you wore when he was still here—was wet on the pillow. Not with water. No. The texture was different. The almost imperceptible viscosity. The smell. Oh, God, the smell. It was tears. And sweat. And something else, something you refused to name, something for which your brain created euphemisms while your heart already knew the truth. Someone had lain on your pillow. Someone had pressed your shirt against their face. Someone had cried there. In your bed. In your place. Perhaps for hours.

You sat on the bedroom floor again. You weren't shaking anymore. You weren't crying. You just sat, leaning against the wall, the damp shirt in your lap, your fingers lightly running over the wet fabric. And stayed there. For a long time.

You told Dr. Elaine. You needed to. You couldn't carry that feeling of going crazy alone anymore. You arrived at her office that afternoon with deep dark circles, unwashed hair, the sweatpants you had worn for four days straight. You sat in the deep armchair, wrapped your hands in your lap, and told her. The underwear. The camera. The lock. The wet shirt. You told it all out loud, the words coming out jumbled, rushed, as if you needed to vomit them up before they suffocated you.

Dr. Elaine listened in silence. Jotted something in her notebook—the pen moving quickly, surely, as if she already knew the diagnosis before you finished speaking. She grimaced when you mentioned the wet shirt. Not from shock. From clinical concern. The kind of concern you see in doctors when they examine a test that came back wrong.

"Listen," she said, after a pause that lasted too long. "I know it feels real. I know it feels as real as you and me here right now. But we need to consider the possibility that this is happening inside you, not outside." She tilted her head, her tortoiseshell glasses slipping slightly down her nose. "Dissociative episodes are common in severe post-traumatic stress. Small memory lapses, objects that disappear and reappear, the feeling of being watched… the brain plays these tricks when it can't process the pain."

She increased your medication dosage. One and a half pills now, instead of one. "It will help with the nights," she said. "Continuous sleep reduces these episodes." You took the prescription. Stuck it in your purse. Bought the medication at the corner pharmacy. Took it that night, the next, the one after. The extra pill left you dizzy, heavy, as if you were walking through a vat of honey. But the noises continued.

The footsteps in the hallway in the middle of the night. Always in the middle of the night. Always around 3:17 AM—you started looking at the clock, noting the times in a notebook, trying to find a pattern. 3:17. 3:22. 3:09. Slow, measured footsteps, as if someone were walking barefoot on the living room parquet, stopping near your bedroom door, waiting, breathing, and then continuing. You never heard the door open. Never heard anyone enter. Just the footsteps. And the silence that followed.

The feeling of being watched at the grocery store. You choosing bananas, feeling a weight on the back of your neck, turning around too quickly—and no one. Just the girl restocking tomato cans, just the security guard yawning at the door, just the security cameras in the corners, blinking red lights like mechanical eyes. Once you thought you saw a silhouette behind the cereal shelf. When you went around, there was no one. But the floor was wet. A small puddle, as if someone had spilled water and run away.

The hairs on your arm standing up when you walked past dark alleys. The electric sensation on your skin, the hair on your neck bristling, your heart racing for no apparent reason. You avoided alleys now. Avoided poorly lit streets. Avoided going out after eight in the evening. Your life had shrunk to fit within a five-hundred-meter perimeter around your apartment—the grocery store, the pharmacy, the bus stop. And even there, inside that tiny circle, the feeling of not being alone never completely left.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine that one night, you woke up to the weight of a body on the bed. Not a whole body—if it had been, you would have screamed, jumped up, called the police. It was just the weight. The depression in the mattress beside you, on his side, the side you hadn't occupied since he left. The mattress sinking slowly and silently, as if someone had lain down with absolute care, the care of someone who didn't want to wake you. And the heat. The heat of someone who had been there and left before you opened your eyes. A residual heat, like embers after the fire is gone.

You opened your eyes suddenly, your heart in your throat, your body already tensed in a defensive position you didn't even know you had learned. No one. The empty room. The curtain swaying gently—but the window was closed. You had checked before sleeping, and checked again, and checked once more, until the whole neighborhood must have known you had a thing about windows. The curtain had no reason to sway. But it swayed.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine that that night, lying in the dark, your heart still racing and your body still waiting for a touch that didn't come, you whispered into the silence of the room:

"Ben?"

Just that. A name. Three letters you hadn't spoken aloud in months—not since that last call to his voicemail, not since your voice stopped working and you learned to keep his name locked in a cabinet inside you.

And you heard it.

For a second—just one second, so fast you could swear it was your imagination—someone held their breath. That unmistakable sound of someone who had been holding the air and failed for an instant. A startle. A surprise. As if he hadn't expected you to speak. As if he hadn't expected you to know.

Then silence. A silence so complete you could hear your own heartbeat, the blood circulating in your temples, the little hum that always exists at the bottom of your hearing and that you only notice when everything else stops. You lay there, eyes open in the dark, waiting. One minute. Five. Fifteen. Your heart gradually slowed, like an engine shutting down after a long journey.

No one held their breath again. No one spoke. No one appeared.

But you knew. Just as you knew your father's name and your birth date and how to ride a bike, you knew you weren't alone in that room. Or you hadn't been. Or you still weren't, somewhere beyond your ability to see. The weight on the side of the mattress had already disappeared, the heat had already cooled, the curtain had stopped swaying. But the air was different. Denser. Heavier. Like before a storm.

You didn't sleep the rest of the night. You sat up in bed, your back against the headboard, your eyes fixed on the bedroom door, waiting. You didn't know if you were waiting for him to appear. You didn't know if you were waiting for him to leave. You didn't know if you were waiting for someone—the police, a burglar, God, death. You just waited. And the silence waited with you. Complicit. Patient. Watching.

From outside. Or from inside. You no longer knew the difference.

The night of the second date started like any other. The routine had become a survival mechanism: wake up, take your meds, work, eat the bare minimum, wait for night, sleep poorly, repeat. But that night was different, and you knew it even before you opened the closet.

You put on the blue dress. The one he bought for your birthday, two years ago. You remembered the exact moment: a gift box wrapped in silver paper, a red bow so perfect it seemed fake, and his crooked smile as you opened it. "Try it on," he had said, and you went to the bathroom and put it on, and when you came back he was there, standing in the middle of the room, his pale blue eyes so transparent you could see to the bottom of his soul. He didn't say anything. He just looked. Two years later, that look still burned in your memory like a sunburn.

You hadn't worn the dress since he was arrested. It stayed at the back of the closet, behind the winter clothes you no longer wore, like an artifact from another life. But something about that night—maybe Dr. Elaine's voice in your head, repeating the words "you need to move on" like a secular mantra; maybe the sudden desperate desire to feel beautiful, to inhabit your own body without feeling the weight of an absence; maybe a secret, almost obscene way of provoking the ghost you swore was following you—made you put it on.

The dress still fit. Snug as a glove, the cold fabric against your skin, the blue so dark it bordered on black in the dim light of the bedroom. You looked at yourself in the closet mirror and, for a second, didn't recognize yourself. Or recognized yourself too much. It was the same woman from two years ago. The same eyes, the same mouth, the same hair. Only more tired. Deeper. As if life had dug holes inside you and forgotten to mention.

Lucas arrived on time. By then, his punctuality had become predictable—a boring virtue, the kind you didn't know whether to thank or resent. He picked you up at your building door, got out of the car to open the door for you, and when you approached, he stopped.

"You look beautiful," he said.

And it was polite. Normal. Safe. The right words in the right tone, the friendly smile, the gaze that didn't linger too long anywhere. It wasn't the first time someone had called you beautiful, but it hurt the same way—because it wasn't the right voice. It wasn't the right way. It wasn't Ben's hoarse whisper, the way he had of saying "beautiful" as if it were a discovery, as if he looked at you and saw something no one else saw, something he himself couldn't name but that made him smile that crooked smile and pull you close, his face buried in your hair, his warm breath against the back of your neck. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen a lot of beautiful things, shit."

You got in the car. Buckled your seatbelt. Smiled. The automatic smile, the one you kept in your purse like an extra lipstick, for social emergencies.

The restaurant was fancy. Cloth napkins, waiters in vests, real candles on the tables. You ordered shrimp risotto and ate without tasting it—the shrimp could have been rubbery, the rice could have been too salty, the cheese could have been burnt, you wouldn't have known. The food went down like sand, washed down by gulp after gulp of red wine that you also didn't taste. Beside you, Lucas talked about his work, about the exchange rate, about Toby who had eaten a new shoe. You laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right times, asked follow-up questions that demonstrated interest. It was an impeccable performance. No one in that restaurant would guess that, inside, you were empty.

And all the while, all the while, you felt it.

It wasn't a thought. It wasn't a memory. It was a physical sensation, settled just below the skin, a constant tingling at the back of your neck and on your arms. A presence. A shadow. A weight in the air that made the hairs on your arm stand on end, bristled like those of an animal scenting a predator before seeing it. You felt eyes where there was no face. You felt intention where there was no gesture. You felt someone—and you knew who—watching you from somewhere beyond the light, beyond the movement, beyond the solid reality that everyone in there seemed to inhabit without question.

You looked at the restaurant door three times. The first, an elderly couple saying goodbye; the second, a waitress balancing a tray; the third, no one, just the dark glass and the street. You looked at the street twice. The first, a taxi passing too fast; the second, a woman crossing hurriedly, her coat open to the wind. You looked at the man alone at the bar counter once. He had his back to you, a dark jacket, broad shoulders, short hair. Your heart leaped into your throat. Your whole body tensed, alert, ready for flight or encounter—you didn't know which. When you looked again, he was gone. The empty chair. A half-finished glass of wine. A crumpled napkin. As if he had left in a hurry. As if he had been seen.

"Everything okay?" Lucas asked.

His hand touched yours for a second. The touch was light, dry, careful. Polite. Normal. Safe. His hand didn't have the calluses you expected. Didn't have the scars you ran your fingers over while he slept, learning the maps of another person's pain. Didn't have the contained strength you felt when Ben held your hand under the table, fingers intertwined, his thumb drawing slow circles on your palm. It was just a hand. Polite. Normal. Safe. And you wanted it to be another.

"Fine," you lied. The lie came out smooth, rehearsed, like all the others. "Just a little tired."

Lucas accepted the answer. Of course he did. He wasn't the type to push, to notice the gaps between the lines, to tilt his head and say "lie, tell me" in that thick accent that made you feel like the only person in the world. Lucas was polite. Normal. Safe. And completely incapable of seeing that you were falling apart inside.

He asked for the check. Paid without looking at the amounts. Offered to take you home, and you accepted because his car was warm and the leather seats were soft and you didn't want to wait for the bus at that dark stop where the lights kept flickering. On the way, the car smelled of fabric softener and cold coffee—a smell so different from what you were used to, Ben's smell that was cheap soap and gunpowder, sweat and something indefinable you had never been able to name and that was probably just him, just the unique chemical composition of his body soaked into his clothes, the sheets, your skin.

The radio was playing some random song. One of those generic romantic songs you didn't pay attention to, but Lucas's fingers drummed on the steering wheel in rhythm, and you noticed he had clean, well-trimmed nails, and that irritated you more than it should have. Ben never had clean nails. He had dirt under some, dried blood on others, small cuts he didn't even notice. You would spend hours caring for his hands, filing, moisturizing, kissing each knuckle like a small shoreline of a foreign country.

You ran your fingers over your own wrist, drawing circles without realizing it. Automatic. Mechanical. Patterns that weren't yours. Concentric circles, slow and methodical, exactly the way he did it. You stopped when you realized. Your arm was marked with red, the friction of your own skin creating a familiar heat.

"You're shaking," Lucas noticed. The car had stopped at a red light, and in the red light streaming through the windshield, he looked at you with genuine concern. Polite. Normal. Safe. How annoying.

"It's cold," you said.

It wasn't. The car's heater was on, and you were sweating beneath the blue dress. But Lucas accepted the answer as he accepted everything: without questioning, without digging, without trying to understand what was really happening behind your eyes. He turned the warm air up a little more, a kind and completely useless gesture, and you felt a sudden urge to laugh. Not from happiness. That bitter laugh that rises in the throat when things are so absurd that no other reaction remains.

The car stopped in front of your building. Lucas turned off the engine. The silence that settled was heavy, full of expectations you didn't have.

"Can I come up?" he asked.

The question came in a careful tone, without pressure, the door open for a polite no. He was a good boy. Handsome. Stable. Liked dogs and specialty coffee and probably returned his shopping cart at the supermarket. His mother must have been proud. Dr. Elaine must have been radiant.

You looked at him. The perfectly combed hair. The close shave. The brown eyes with no mystery, no abyss, no scar on his soul that needed to be kissed before sleeping. He wasn't Ben. Would never be Ben. But maybe—and this "maybe" hurt like a broken bone—maybe that was a good thing.

"No," you said.

The word came out faster than you expected, and there was an immediate relief in your chest, as if your whole body had exhaled after holding its breath for hours. Lucas blinked, processed, and then smiled the understanding smile of someone used to hearing no. Polite. Normal. Safe even in rejection.

"No problem," he said. "Another time."

You knew there wouldn't be another time. He probably knew too, from the tone of your voice, from the way you opened the car door before he even finished his sentence. You got out, thanked him, closed the door. The car stayed there for a moment—Lucas waiting for you to enter the building, like a gentleman—and then drove away, its headlights disappearing around the curve, taking with them the smell of fabric softener and cold coffee.

You stood on the sidewalk for a while you didn't measure. The cold night wind bit your bare arms, the blue dress protected nothing, but you didn't feel cold. You felt something else. An electricity in the air. A tingling at the base of your spine. The absolute, irrational, non-negotiable certainty that you were not alone on that street.

There was no one in sight. The building lights were on on the lower floors, off on the upper ones. The iron gate creaked as you pushed it. The stairwell was dark—the hallway bulb had burned out weeks ago, and the superintendent never changed it. You climbed the steps in the dark, your left hand sliding along the railing, your right hand gripping your purse strap as if it were a weapon.

Somewhere upstairs, a door closed. Not yours. Someone else's. But it was late for visitors, and Dona must have been snoring for hours, and the other neighbors you didn't even know. You stopped on the landing, breathless not from exertion, and listened. Silence. The silence of the night, the silence you had learned to recognize in all its variations—the silence of an empty apartment, the silence of a lurking predator, the silence of someone holding their breath.

You climbed the rest of the stairs at a faster pace. Fumbled the key into the lock with trembling hands—the expensive lock that no one opened without the key—and entered. Locked it. Locked it again. Put on the chain. Rested your forehead against the cold wooden door and closed your eyes.

The apartment was empty. The furniture in place. The curtains drawn. The domestic silence of an ordinary Wednesday. You dropped your purse on the floor, kicked off your shoes in the foyer, and walked to the bedroom.

You put on his gray t-shirt. The one that had been wet last time. The one you had washed four times in a row, and still the smell hadn't come out—or maybe you just wanted to believe it hadn't. Lay down on the bed. Pulled up the blanket. Closed your eyes.

Outside, on the street, a car with its engine running waited for hours. You didn't hear it. Or pretended you didn't. By that point, you had given up distinguishing one thing from the other.

The traffic light broke.

It was the first thing wrong that night—but you would only realize that later, when the pieces fit together into a mosaic of terror you didn't yet know you were assembling. You stood at the intersection for five minutes. Five full minutes, your feet cold inside your shoes, your purse heavy on your shoulder, the blue dress—the same one, the cursed one, the one you swore you would never wear again—sticking to your skin beneath your coat. The light was stuck on red, flickering irregularly in a way that wasn't normal, as if someone had opened the fuse box of the world and jumbled the wires just for fun.

In the distance, a siren. Closer, a dog barking—the caramel-colored stray from the corner, who barked at everything and nothing, but that night the bark had a different tone. A warning. An alert. Animals know before we do. They always have.

And the silence. That heavy, sticky silence that wasn't the normal silence of the city. It was the silence of a city holding its breath. A city that knew, in some instinctive and collective way, that something was waiting for you at home. Or someone.

"Weird," Lucas murmured at the wheel, his fingers tapping nervously—a tic you hadn't noticed before. "I've never seen that light like that. Must have been a lightning strike at the control center or something."

You didn't answer. Not because you were being rude—you had already been rude enough to Lucas that night, politely refusing each of his attempts to get closer, each outstretched hand, each "want to talk about it?" You didn't answer because you couldn't. Your mouth was dry. The words had locked themselves inside your throat, little prisoners behind a fence of fear. Because you already knew. You didn't know what—there was no way to know—but you knew something was terribly wrong. Your whole body knew. Muscles tense, ready for a flight you didn't know where to. Breathing short, wheezy, as if you had run a marathon without moving from the spot. Cold hands, tingling fingers, your heart beating somewhere deep in your throat.

It was the same feeling you had before a storm. That weight in the air. That smell of ozone and wet earth. That sense that the world was about to change, and that you had no control over the direction of the change.

Lucas stopped the car in front of your building. Turned off the engine and turned to you with that lost puppy expression he wore every time you said no—which was every time, because you had never said yes. "Want me to come up?" he asked, with polite hope in his brown eyes. The hope of someone who still hasn't learned that certain doors don't open for everyone. "Just to make sure you got in okay. It's very dark, the doorman isn't there… and you seem…" He hesitated, choosing his words with the care of someone who didn't want to scare you. "You seem tense. I don't want you to be alone like this."

"Not necessary," you said. Too fast. So fast that the two words merged into one—notnecessary—and the tone was drier than you intended. You saw his face wilt a little and felt a pang of guilt, but guilt was a luxury you couldn't afford at that moment. "Thank you. It was… it was good."

The lie came easily. So easily that it almost scared you. It was good. It hadn't been good. It hadn't been anything. It had been a two-hour performance where you played a normal woman going out with a normal man, and in the end you had received a note left by a ghost and discovered that the dress you were wearing had been folded on your bed while you ate shrimp risotto without tasting it. But Lucas didn't know that. Lucas didn't know anything. Lucas was a polite, normal, safe man who deserved someone whole and not the shards you called a heart.

You got out of the car. The door closed with a dull thud. You walked to the building's entrance, each step a Herculean effort, as if the ground were turning into quicksand beneath your feet. Felt Lucas's eyes on your back until you went in—polite, normal, safe, watching only to make sure you were okay, not with the devouring hunger of someone who watches because they need to see you to continue existing.

The building door closed with a click. The silence of the lobby wrapped around you like a heavy, damp blanket. The lobby was empty. The fluorescent lights flickered with the same irregular frequency as the traffic light outside, as if the whole city were having an epileptic fit. You clutched your purse against your chest and walked to the elevator. Pressed the button. Nothing. Pressed it again. Nothing. Of course it was broken. Of course. Because nothing that night was going to be easy.

You took the stairs.

Four floors. Counted each step as you climbed, an old habit, a way to keep your mind occupied so you wouldn't think about the noise behind you. One, two, three, four. Because there was noise. Light footsteps, almost inaudible, on the edge of your perception. Someone climbing behind you, keeping the same distance, the same pace. When you sped up, the footsteps sped up. When you slowed down, the footsteps slowed down. You didn't look back. Didn't look because you were afraid of what you'd see. Didn't look because you were afraid of seeing nothing. Didn't look because, deep down, a part of you already knew who it was and was tired of pretending it didn't.

You reached the apartment door. Your heart hammering so hard you felt your temples pulsing. Took three deep breaths. The three breaths Dr. Elaine had taught for moments of anxiety—inhale through the nose, hold, exhale through the mouth. It never worked. It never would. Anxiety wasn't air. Anxiety was a living thing that lived inside your chest and fed on your fear.

You put the key in the lock.

The door opened before you turned the key.

It was unlocked.

The world stopped. Not metaphorically—the world actually stopped. The sound of the street disappeared. The hum of the fluorescent lights ceased. The dog's bark downstairs fell silent. Everything hung suspended in an absolute vacuum, as if the universe had pressed pause just to see what you would do.

You never forgot to lock the door. Never. Even on bad days, on days you could barely get out of bed, on days you went without eating, without showering, without answering messages—you locked the door. Twice. It was a ritual. A prayer. A silent promise you made to yourself every night: you are still here. you are still trying. you haven't given up protecting yourself yet. The key always turned twice. Always.

The door was open.

And you went in.

The apartment was destroyed.

It took you a second to process. Maybe two. Maybe an entire eternity compressed into a blink. The human brain wasn't made to understand chaos all at once—it needs time, needs layers, needs permission to believe what it's seeing. The door creaked behind you as you stood in the doorway, your fingers still gripping the handle, your purse slipping from your shoulder and falling to the floor with a dull thud. You didn't move to pick it up. Didn't move for anything.

It wasn't mess. It wasn't the kind of disarray of someone rummaging through your drawers looking for money or jewelry. There was no method there. No search. There was violence. Pure, raw violence, from someone who wasn't looking for anything except a place to drain what no longer fit inside their chest. Anger. Real anger. The anger of someone who had waited too long. Who had counted every day, every hour, every minute. Who had dreamed every night of this moment—not the moment of destroying the apartment, but the moment of coming back to it, of finding you in it—and now, finally, after 847 nights, after concrete walls, steel bars, orange uniforms, and meals served on plastic trays, now that the moment had arrived, the anger no longer fit inside the body. It had to get out. Overflow. Break something.

The sofa—the same sofa where he held you while you watched movies neither of you paid attention to—was torn. Not just torn. Shredded. The fabric ripped into strips, the foam torn out in chunks, the springs exposed like the ribs of an animal that had died long ago. The stuffing was scattered across the floor like dirty snow, like the entrails of something that had once been soft and warm and was now unrecognizable, irreparable, dead. You looked at the sofa and felt a pang in your chest—not for the sofa, it was never about the sofa, but for everything that happened on that sofa. The cold nights when he wrapped you in a blanket and said "stay here, don't let me sleep alone." The silly arguments about what movie to watch, which always ended the same way—him giving in, laughing, pulling you onto his lap. The last night. The last time he sat there before writing the note and disappearing. The sofa had witnessed everything. Now it was on the floor, shattered, as if he were trying to kill the memories too.

The pictures had been ripped from the walls. The shattered glass covered the floor like a dangerous frost, reflecting the flickering streetlight in a thousand small sharp pieces. Your photos—the ones on your shelf, the ones he never liked because they had other people in them—all had broken glass, all had the faces of other people scratched out. Coworkers. Cousins. That college friend who hugged you too tight. All scratched out with meticulous fury, as if he had used the tip of a knife to scribble over their eyes, their mouths, their smiles that weren't his. Only your face remained intact. Only yours. As if he had separated each photo, broken the glass with a dry blow, scratched out the others with surgical care, and then—only then—returned the frame to the floor. A curation of hatred. A declaration of ownership written in broken glass.

The kitchen table was overturned. The chairs were broken—not tipped over, broken, legs ripped off, backs split in half. The plates covered the floor in colorful fragments, the silverware scattered as if someone had been looking for a specific knife. And found it. You saw the knife later—a serrated one, a bread knife, embedded in the kitchen wall up to the handle. As if he had thrown it and hit the target on the first try. As if throwing knives was just one more thing he knew how to do and you had never discovered.

The curtains had been torn from the window. The metal rod was bent, hanging to one side like a broken arm. The window glass was cracked—not broken, cracked. A perfect spiderweb in the lower right corner, right in the middle of a smaller, round hole, as if someone had punched it and the glass had held up better than the wall.

Because the wall didn't hold up.

There was a hole in the wall. Not just any hole. A hole the size of a fist—his right fist, you knew, because you knew every bone, every knuckle, every scar on that hand. The plaster wall was blown inward, the crumbled coating on the floor, and inside the hole, mixed with the white dust, there were red marks. Blood. His blood, probably. Or not. You didn't want to think about the "or not."

A lot of blood. On the wall. On the floor. In a trail from the living room door to the back, near the cracked window, where the blood formed a larger puddle. A dark puddle, almost black in the dim light, reflecting the streetlight like a dirty mirror. And inside the puddle, no—beside the puddle, because he was too careful, too meticulous, too crazy to sit in his own blood—he was there.

Ben. Dex. The man who taught you to make tomato sauce and to feel fear in the dark. The man who killed with the same hand that caressed your hair. The man who should have been behind bars, behind steel doors, behind a life sentence that meant forever, that meant never again, that meant you were free.

He was sitting on the floor. Leaning against the cracked wall—the same wall he himself had punched, the bloody fist hole a few centimeters above his head, like an inverted halo. His legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. His hands resting on his knees, palms down, his long pale fingers resting in a stillness that bordered on supernatural. Calm. Strangely calm. As if he were waiting for the bus. Or waiting for death. Or waiting for you—and maybe, to him, all three were the same.

He was thinner. Much thinner. The white shirt—the same one from the newscast, you noticed with a knot in your stomach, the same one from the conviction, the one that appeared in the photos that circulated around the world, his face plastered on every news portal as if he were a monster, and maybe he was, maybe he always had been—that shirt hung on his body like a tent, his once-broad shoulders now looked sharp, his collarbones jutted out from beneath the thin fabric like the wings of a broken bird. The face you kissed every night, that you knew better than your own, was now too angular, too sharp, as if the bones were trying to escape the skin. The cheekbones you used to kiss playfully, saying he looked like a Scandinavian model, now cast dramatic shadows over his hollow cheeks. His under-eye circles were so dark they looked like bruises—purple, purplish-black, almost invisible in the dim light. His unshaven beard was thick, unkempt, grown without care for weeks, maybe months, and barely hid the new scars. Small cuts on his chin. A red line on his jaw. A scratch on his right cheekbone, recent enough to still be scabbed over. His hair was longer. Much longer. Fell over his forehead in a way that almost hid his eyes—but you saw his eyes. You always saw his eyes.

Those pale blue eyes. The eyes that looked at you as if you were the only real thing in the universe. The eyes you saw on television, empty, fixed somewhere behind the camera, as if he had already given up on everything. Now they were different. Deeper. Hollowed out from within, like two caves where light entered but found no exit. More tired—not the tiredness of a bad night's sleep, but the tiredness of years, the tiredness of someone who had carried the weight of an entire life on their back and discovered that the weight doesn't lessen, you just get used to it. And hungrier. A hunger you recognized because it was the same as yours. The hunger of someone who had gone too long without touching, without being touched, without feeling another person's skin against theirs. He was looking at you like a man in the desert looks at water. As if you were the only thing that could quench his thirst. And the light was blinding him—you could see in his eyes that it hurt, that looking at you after so long in the dark was like looking directly into the sun. But he didn't look away. He never looked away.

His shirt was open at the chest. You didn't know if he had opened it or if it had been torn—the lower buttons were still there, but the top ones… gone. The fabric opened in a cleft from his neck to the middle of his chest, exposing the marks you knew so well. The old scars, the ones you kissed before sleeping, the ones you traced with your fingertips while he slept. That place near his shoulder where you rested your forehead when you could no longer look into his eyes. The scar on his chest, close to his sternum, that he said was from "surgery" and you never asked if it was true. All still there. All waiting for you.

But there were new ones too.

Small recent cuts, some still with stitches—makeshift stitches, poorly done, that he must have given himself, sitting in some cold cell, with a smuggled needle and a hand trembling with anxiety. A dirty bandage on his left arm, the tape already peeling at the edges, stained with a yellow that could be antiseptic or could be pus. A dark mark on his ribcage—under his arm, where the skin is thinner and more vulnerable—that could be dried blood or could be a new tattoo, something done hastily, with improvised ink and a pain he probably no longer felt. You couldn't distinguish. Couldn't distinguish anything, because the whole world had been reduced to that man sitting on the floor of your destroyed apartment, covered in blood that wasn't only his, looking at you as if you were salvation itself.

And his face. Oh, his face.

It was dirty with blood. Not his blood—you knew that instantly, with a chill down your spine that started at the top of your head and descended slowly, vertebra by vertebra, like ice water dripping down your spine. His blood was different. You knew his blood—had seen it on various occasions, in small domestic accidents, in the slipped knife while chopping onions, in the scraped knee from a silly fall. His blood was bright red, almost shiny, like stamp ink. That blood on his cheek, his chin, his temple—that blood was darker. Thicker. From somewhere else. From someone else.

And the way he didn't do anything to clean it. The way he let the blood dry on his face like a mask, like a crown, like a trophy he wasn't willing to let go of. That told you everything you needed to know. The meeting. The coffee. Lucas with his perfectly combed hair and his life-insurance-ad smile. His car parked on the street, engine running, the polite hand that touched yours for a second at the restaurant table. You didn't know. There was no way to know. No way to know that while you laughed at Lucas's unfunny jokes, while you cut your shrimp risotto into microscopic pieces to avoid eating, while you wore the blue dress that Ben had bought and that wasn't for him, none of those gestures had gone unnoticed. None.

The blood on his face was a silent confession. A declaration of love written on someone whose last name you didn't even remember. You felt a tremor start in your hands and spread, like an underground earthquake, like the ground slowly splitting open. It wasn't fear. Or it was. Or it was something so mixed together you no longer knew how to separate. Love and fear had become the same substance inside you, like two rivers that meet and never part again.

His eyes met yours.

And something in his face changed.

The rigidity. The artificial calm. The posture of someone sitting on the floor of a destroyed apartment as if it were a throne. All fell away for a second. Just one second. The length of a breath. The time it takes to blink. And beneath, deep down, you saw it.

Saw the despair. Saw the fear. Not the fear of being caught—he had already been caught, already been convicted, already been through everything a man could go through. It was an older, more primal fear. The fear that you would look at him and feel disgust. The fear that you would call the police. The fear that you would say that word he couldn't stand to hear, the word that could kill him more than any bullet, more than any sentence, more than any cell: "Leave."

You saw the man who spent 847 nights locked in a concrete cell, counting the days with nail scratches on the wall, repeating your name like a prayer that went unanswered, drawing invisible patterns on his own wrist because yours wasn't there for him to draw on. Saw the man who broke a window with his own fist—the same fist that made the hole in your wall—to escape. Who crossed states by hitchhiking, on foot, inside trucks that smelled of diesel and sweat, hidden in compartments not made for human bodies. Who killed—you didn't want to think about how many, not now, maybe never—just to get here. Just to see you. Just to come home.

And beneath all the despair, behind all the fear, buried under layers and layers of blood and guilt and madness, you saw something else. Something more frightening than the hole in the wall. More frightening than the shredded sofa. More frightening than another person's blood on the face of the man you loved.

Relief.

He was relieved. Because you were there. Because you had come back. Because you hadn't run when you saw the open door, when you saw the chaos, when you saw him sitting on the floor like a deposed king waiting for the verdict. Because you were wearing the blue dress he bought. That dress. The birthday dress. The dress he had carefully chosen, imagined you in night after night before buying it, could barely wrap because his hands trembled so much. You were wearing it. And that meant something. That meant you hadn't forgotten. That meant part of you, no matter how buried, was still his.

His breath—which you hadn't realized was held, hadn't realized was waiting, which you only now noticed his chest hadn't been moving for an eternity—came out in a slow, trembling sigh, almost a stifled sob. His shoulders, tight as piano strings about to snap, dropped a centimeter. His jaw, which had been so clenched you could see the muscles jumping, loosened slightly. A millimeter. Enough.

He raised one hand.

The right hand. The one he used to draw patterns on your wrist on nights when neither of you could sleep. The one he used to hold yours when you crossed the street, as if you were a child and he the only guardian capable of protecting you from traffic. The same hand that, you knew, had squeezed triggers. Squeezed necks. Opened doors that shouldn't be opened. His fingers were clean, you noticed. Strangely clean. As if he had washed them before waiting for you. Scrubbed with soap, removed every trace of blood from under his nails, rinsed until the skin was red and raw. As if the blood on his face didn't matter—that was an accessory, a declaration, a signature. But his hands—the hands that were going to touch you, the hands that were going to find your face, the hands that were going to ask, in the language only the two of you understood, that you stay—those needed to be clean. Pure. Worthy of you.

His fingers moved. A small gesture. Almost shy. A wave. The same wave he made when he came home late at night and you were on the sofa, awake waiting, and he would come on tiptoe and wave as if afraid to scare you. As if he wasn't sure he could still approach. As if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in prison—lying on the hard bed, the thin blanket warming nothing, eyes fixed on the cracked concrete ceiling—and now that the moment had come, now that you were really there, in front of him, wearing the blue dress he bought, all the words he had rehearsed had disappeared. Evaporated. Left only that small, almost pathetic gesture, a wave from someone who no longer knew what to do with his own hands.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His voice, when it came out, was different. Deeper. Hoarser. As if he hadn't used his voice in a long time—or as if he had used it too much. Screamed too much. Called for you too much. Waited too much. There was a tremor in it, a fragility he hated, that he tried to hide by swallowing hard, but you heard it. You always heard it. You heard the holes in his voice, the fractures, the places where pain escaped the edges like water through a dam about to break.

"Darling..."

The word came out soft. Almost a whisper. Almost a question. As if he wasn't sure he could still call you that. As if he was afraid you would say "no, this is over, you lost the right, you lost me, go away, disappear, leave me alone." And beneath the word, you heard the echo of all the nights he must have said your name in the dark of the cell. To the walls. To the thin mattress. To the other inmates who must have thought he was crazy. And maybe he was. Maybe he always had been. But he was your crazy. The only one who loved you in a way that hurt.

His eyes glistened. Not with tears—Benjamin Poindexter didn't cry, he had told you once, on a night you woke up with him trembling beside you, his arms so tight you could barely breathe, and when you asked what had happened, he said: "People like us don't have that luxury." You never asked what he meant by "people like us." You were afraid of the answer. Still are. But his eyes glistened with something else, something that hurt just the same, that squeezed your chest the same way, that pulled the air from your lungs as if someone had opened a window at the bottom of the ocean.

His hand moved again. This time slower. More careful. As if every millimeter of air between you was a minefield. His fingers found your chin—the touch, when it happened, was so light you almost didn't feel it. A butterfly landing. A feather descending. The contrast with the violence around was so absurd, so insane, that you felt a laugh rise in your throat and held it in with force. Different from before. Before, he held you with force, with desperation, as if you were going to slip through his fingers at any moment, as if he needed to apply constant pressure to be sure you were still there. Now he touched you as if you were made of glass. As if you were the most precious and fragile thing in the universe. As if he was afraid of breaking you with a rougher movement, afraid you would shatter into a thousand pieces and he would spend the rest of his life trying to put you back together, cutting his fingers on each shard.

His thumb traced a circle on your jaw.

Automatic. Instinctive. Like breathing. The same circle. The same pattern. The same gesture he made every night before sleeping, when you had already closed your eyes and he thought you weren't watching. The same drawing he made on your wrist, your palm, the back of your neck. Concentric circles. You never asked what they meant. You were afraid the answer would be something you didn't want to hear. Or maybe you knew. Maybe you'd known from the beginning that those circles were him trying to map you, possess you, turn you into sacred territory that no one else could occupy.

Your body responded before your mind.

A betrayal. A truth. A piece of you that no longer obeyed your brain, that acted on pure animal instinct, on muscle memory, on the habit of so many nights of love and fear mixed together. Your eyes closed for a second. Your head tilted against his hand, heavy, surrendered. His skin was warm—warmer than it should be, fever-warm, the warmth of a whole life burning from within. And a sound escaped your throat. A small, painful moan, not entirely human. A sound that was both relief and despair.

He heard it.

And something in his face broke.

The control. The facade. The posture of a man who had just destroyed an apartment and sat among the rubble like a king. All fell. Not for a second this time. It truly fell. Like a house of cards finally finding the right breath. For a moment—a single, brief, luminous moment—he wasn't the elite sharpshooter. Wasn't the convicted murderer. Wasn't the fugitive who had just crossed the country with blood on his hands. He was just Ben. The Ben who pulled you closer in the middle of the night, when you were already asleep, as if even unconscious he needed to be sure you hadn't left. The Ben who whispered things in your hair, things you never repeated to anyone, things he probably didn't even remember saying because they came out of him like confessions from a sleepwalker. The Ben who was afraid to fall asleep first because he needed to be sure you wouldn't run away while he was vulnerable.

His hand trembled against your face.

His thumb stopped mid-circle. The other fingers, the ones resting on your jaw, vibrated like violin strings after snapping. The tremor traveled up his arm, through his shoulder, shaking his thin body for a second. He held his breath—you saw his chest stop—and then let it all out in one jet, as if he had held the whole world inside his lungs and could finally let go.

His blue eyes wandered over your face, slowly, as if he were re‑memorizing every detail. As if afraid of forgetting. His nose—you noticed his nose was now slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and hadn't healed right. The line of his lips—chapped, dry, the lower lip split in the middle. The new scar on his eyebrow. All the marks that prison time had left on him, all the stories he wouldn't tell, all the pieces of him that had been broken and hastily mended, without anesthesia, without care.

His thumb resumed the movement. One circle. Another. Another. A rhythm. A prayer. A thread connecting this moment to all the past nights, to all the promises tattooed on skin and in silence.

His mouth almost touched yours. Close enough for you to feel the promise of a kiss, the ghost of a kiss, the warmth of a kiss that didn't happen but vibrated in the space between your mouths like a stretched string.

His eyes met yours. And he smiled.

The smile was small. Crooked. Disturbingly familiar. The same smile he used before kissing you, before pulling you into the dark, before doing all the things you kept in your memory like a photo album you would never open again but also never throw away. But there was something different now. Something broken and lit at the same time. Like an exposed wire, sparking, smoking, but still conducting electricity. Like a house on fire but still habitable, walls in flames and the sofa still soft, windows bursting and the bed still warm. Like someone who had gone to the bottom of the well and come back, but brought the bottom of the well with him—stuck to his shoes, under his nails, at the back of his throat.

The smile widened. Showed teeth. His eye gleamed—not the wet gleam from before, but a dry, electric gleam, a little bit crazy. There was joy there. A dark, dangerous joy that you hadn't seen since before the prison, since before the note, since before the end of the world. The joy of someone who survived something they shouldn't have. Who escaped a cell that was meant to be permanent. Who came back from hell in jeans and a white shirt open at the chest, dirty with blood, thin as a thread, but alive. Alive.

His free hand—the left, the one resting on his knee—rose slowly. His fingers found your hair. Buried themselves in it. Pulled a little, not hard, like an owner. With the familiarity of someone who had done this a thousand times. With the certainty of someone who knows that hair, that smell, that temperature still belong to him. It was a possessive gesture, but it was also a request. Let me stay. Let me touch. Let me be yours again, the same way you've always been mine.

His thumb stopped mid-circle. The fingers in your hair tightened a little more. The blue eyes, those eyes that looked at you with devotion and despair and hunger and love and madness, fixed on yours like two nails. The smile was a crack in his face, an open wound, a wide-open door to a place you knew well because you had lived there for a long time.

"Guess who's back from jail?"

The voice was deep, resonant, and hit you right in the center of your chest. You didn't need to turn to know who it was. Valarr's father. Baelor Targaryen.

He stood a few feet away, holding a large black umbrella that seemed to create its own zone of absolute calm amidst the storm. He was dressed for a board meeting — a dark, three-piece suit that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly — but his tie was loosened, and his top button was undone. He looked less like the formidable public figure the city knew and more like a man weary from the weight of his own shadow.

"Baelor", you breathed, finally turning to face him. "I think the lock is frozen. Or it hates me".

He stepped closer, invading your personal space with the scent of rain, cedarwood, and something warm and masculine. He reached out, his large, calloused hand covering yours on the key. The heat of his skin was a shock against your frozen knuckles. With a deft, practiced flick of his wrist, the bolt clicked open.

"There", he murmured, but he didn't pull his hand away immediately. His thumb grazed your wrist for a second too long, a ghost of a touch that sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"You're shivering", he noted, his brow furrowing with that characteristic protective instinct. He looked down at your soaked t-shirt, which had become a second skin, clinging to your curves in a way that suddenly felt very loud in the quiet hallway.

Baelor cleared his throat, his gaze snapping back to your eyes, though his pupils were slightly blown. "Valarr's heating is off while he's away. You'll catch your death in there. Come to my place. I'll put a kettle on, and I have a fire going".

"I don't want to intrude, Baelor. I know you're busy—".

"You are never an intrusion", he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a quiet command.

He led you to his door, just a few paces down the hall. His apartment was the antithesis of Valarr's cluttered, youthful mess. It was a sanctuary of dark wood, leather-bound books, and low, amber lighting. The air was thick with the scent of his cologne and the crackle of a dying fire in the hearth.

"Go to the bathroom and get out of those wet clothes", Baelor said, heading toward a hallway closet. He emerged a moment later with a folded stack of charcoal-gray fabric. "Put these on. I'll have a drink waiting for you".

He handed you a pair of his own lounge pants and a heavy silk-cotton shirt. As your fingers brushed during the exchange, the air in the room seemed to vanish. You saw his jaw tighten, the muscle leaping under his skin as he fought to maintain his legendary composure.

"Thank you", you whispered, and he smile slightly.

Hurry, he thought to himself. Before I forget my manners entirely.

The transition from the cold, sterile hallway to the warmth of Baelor's living room felt like stepping into a different world.

The silk-cotton shirt was massive on you, the shoulder seams hanging halfway down your triceps and the hem grazing the tops of your thighs. It smelled overwhelmingly of him — crisp, expensive, and devastatingly masculine. You had rolled the sleeves up several times just to find your hands, and as you stepped back into the main room, the firelight caught the amber liquid in the two glasses on the low mahogany table.

Baelor was standing by the fireplace, his jacket discarded and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He looked up as you approached, and the breath hitched in his throat.

The sight of you — drowning in his clothes, your damp hair curling against the dark fabric of his collar — shattered the last of his professional composure. He didn't move, but his eyes tracked the way the silk clung to your hips.

"The shirt...suits you", he said, his voice reaching a register so low it was almost a vibration. "Better than it ever suited me".

"It's comfortable", you replied, your voice trembling. You took a step toward him, the distance between you feeling like a live wire. "Thank you, Baelor. For...everything".

"There's no need to thank me", he murmured.

He reached out, his hand hovering near your face before his fingers finally setted against your jaw. His skin was burning hot against your cool flesh. "I've spent years being the 'honorable' one. Three years watching you come and go with Valarr, pretending I didn't notice the way you laugh or the way you look in the sunlight".

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"I am his father", he groaned, more to himself than to you. "I should tell you to go. I should be the man everyone thinks I am".

"Maybe I don't want that man right now", you whispered, reaching up to grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. "Maybe I want the man who's been looking at me like he wants to devour me for the last ten minutes".

That was the breaking point.

Baelor didn't hesitate anymore. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his finger tangling in your damp hair as he crushed his lips against yours. It wasn't the tentative kiss of a first date; it was a collision. It was years of repressed hunger and silent observation exploding into a desperate, messy claim.

He tasted of bourbon and heat, his tongue sweeping against yours with a dominance that made your knees buckle. He caught you before you could fall, his other arm wrapping around your waist and hauling you flush against him. You could feel every hard line of his body — the broad chest, the solid thighs, and the undeniable proof of how much he wanted you.

He groaned into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender, as he backed you toward the heavy leather sofa.

Baelor's restraint didn't just snap; it disintegrated. The man known for his iron will and unwaring stoicism was gone, replaced by someone driven by a raw, primal necessity. As he backed you against the arm of the leather sofa, his hands were everywhere — mapping your skin through the thin fabric of his own shirt as if he were trying to memorize you through touch alone.

He pulled back just an inch, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your blood sing. "I have imagined this...", he rasped, his voice a gravelly confession against your lips. "Every time you smiled at me, every time you walked through that door...I imagined exactly how you would taste".

He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth dropped to the sensitive curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp before his tongue soothed the spot. His hands slid down, catching the hem of the shirt and bunching the fabric upward. The cool air of the room hit your skin for a split second before the heat of his palm replaced it, sliding over your hips with a possessive grip.

Baelor sank to his knees on the plush rug, his movements fluid and purposeful. He didn't look up, but his fingers were busy, deft and urgent as they worked away the lounge pants he had lent you. When they pooled at you ankles, you stood before him in nothing but his shirt, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows over your trembling thighs.

He started with your inner thighs, his lips pressing soft, searing kisses against the tender skin, moving higher with agonizing slowness. You tangled your fingers in his dark hair, arching your back as the heat of his breath centered on the junction of your legs. When he finally nudged the fabric of your underwear aside, the first touch of his tongue was electric — a sharp, wet constrast to the friction of his stubble.

Baelor was a thorough in his pleasure as he was in his politics. He didn't rush. He used his thumbs to part you, exposing you to the amber glow of the fire and his own hooded gaze. He drank you in, his tongue sweeping over you in long, firm strokes that made your toes curl into the rug. He found your center with devastating precision, flicking against it until you were sobbing his name, your hips jolting instinctively against his mouth.

"Please, Baelor...please", you whimpered, your hands tightening in his hair.

He looked up then, his face flushed, a silver thread of your desire glistening on his lower lip. The sight was undoing.

"Not yet", he murmured, his voice a command. He returned to you with renewed intensity, his fingers sliding inside you to find the rhythm of his tongue. He watched you as he did it, watched the way your eyes rolled back and your chest heaved, taking a dark, visibile pride in the way he was shattering your composure.

When the climax finally hit, it was violent and all-consuming. You cried out, your body racking with tremors as Baelor held you firm, refusing to let you pull away, his mouth catching every drop of your surrender.

He didn't give you a moment to recover. He stood up, his height looming over you once more, and in one swift motion, he lifted you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms locked around his neck, feeling the frantic thrum of his pulse against your own. He carried you toward the bedroom, his stride heavy and determined. Honor had been left at the door; tonight, there was only the weight of the man and the girl who had finally broke him.

Before he could take the lead, you shifted, your hands sliding up his chest to push him back against the pillows. Baelor let out a low, suprised huff of breath, but he didn't resist. He went down like a falling oak, his mismatched eyes fixed on you with a mixture of shock and dawning heat.

You straddled him, the friction of your skin against his thighs sending a fresh jolt of electricity through your core. Baelor's hands immediately found your waist, his large fingers digging into your flesh as if to anchor himself.

"You want to be in control?", he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel under a heavy boot. "Show me then. Show me exactly what you want".

You took him in your hand, guiding his heat to your entrance. He was impossibly thick, a daunting weight that made you catch your breath as you slowly lowered yourself down. You watched his face — the way his jaw locked, the way his eyes squeezed shut as you took him, inch by agonizing inch. The sensation was overwhelming; he felt like a pillar of salt and fire, stretching you open until you were completely consumed by him.

When you were fully seated, buried to the root, Baelor let out a long, shuddering exhale. His hands slid from your waist to your hips, his thumbs tracing the bones with a possessive intensity.

"Gods...", he choked out, his eyes opening to find yours. "You feel...incredible".

You began to move, tentatively at first, lifting and dropping in a slow, grinding rhythm. The friction was exquisite. Every time you sank back down, his depth hit your center with a blunt force that made your head swim. You leaned forward, your hair falling around the two of you like a curtain, and Baelor reached up to catch your lips in a searing, desperate kiss.

As the pace quickened, you arched your back, your hand resting on his broad chest for balance. You could feel the frantic thud of his heart beneath your palms. Baelor began to help you, his hips bucking upward to meet every one of your descents, his grip on your thighs tightening until his knuckles were white.

"Faster", he groaned, his voice breaking. "Don't stop".

You obeyed, your movements becoming more frantic, more primal. The sound of your bodies colliding — the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin — filled the room, drowned out only by your ragged gasps and his low, guttural encouragement. You were riding him into the ground, and Baelor looked like a man being broken on the rack, his head tossing back, his cords of neck muscle standing out in sharp relief.

The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter until it was a screaming wire. You saw the moment he hit his limit; his eyes blew wide, his hands moved from your hips to your back, puling you down hard against him so he could bury his face in the crook of your neck.

"Everything...", he hissed, a final command. "Take everything".

With a violent surge of his hips, he drove deep as you collapsed into a shattering, white-hot climax. The world narrowed down to the feeling of him pulsing inside you, a relentless rhythm that didn't stop until you were both gasping for air, slick with sweat, and hopelessly entwined in the quiet aftermath of the storm.

The silence that followed was heavy, but no longer tense. It was the thick, languid quiet of a room where the air had finally been cleared by a storm.

Baelor didn't let you move. His arms, thick and heavy with exhaustion, remained locked around you, pulling you down until your head rested on his shoulder and your bodies were a tangle of cooling skin and damp sheets. He reached for the discarded duvet at the foot of the bed, dragging it over both of you with a slow, protective sweep of his arm.

For several minutes, the only sound was the synchronized rhythm of your breathing and the rain still drumming against the windowpane. Baelor's hand, usually so firm and commanding, moved with surprising tenderness as he traced the line of your spine. His fingers were light, almost hesitant, as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your skin in the dark. He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a long, quiet moment.

"Are you alright?", he whispered, his voice still rough from the exertion, but softened by a vulnerability you had never heard before.

"Yes", you breathed, tracing the contours of his chest with your fingertips. "More than alright".

He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to vibrate through both your chests. He shifted slightly, pulling you closer until there wasn't a sliver of air between you. The honorable man facade was gone; in the dim light, he just looked like a man who had finally laid down a burden he'd been carrying for far too long.

But then, the stillness changed. You felt the subtle shift in him — the way his hand stilled on your back and his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his brow furrowing in the way it did when he was weighing a difficult political move.

"What is it?", you asked softly.

Baelor stayed silent for a moment, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "I was just thinking...", he began, his voice low and heavy with realization. "About Valarr. About the fact that he's likely tucked into a sleeping bag ten miles from a cell tower, completely unaware that the world has shifted on its axis while he was gone".

He turned his head to look at you, his mismatched eyes searching yours.

"I've spent my entire life being the man people could rely on", he murmured, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. "The steady hand. The honorable father. And yet, here I am...unable to regret a single second of this".

He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek. "It's a strange thing, isnt't it? To realize that the one thing that could truly break my reputation is the only thing that's made me feel alive in years. I should be thinking about how to explain this — how to fix it — but all I can think about is how much I don't want you to leave this bed".

benjamin poindexter, former fbi agent, veteran, and scarily-expert sniper, was in prison, said the TV. your heart stuttered in your chest when his picture filled the screen. blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a chiseled, scarred face. your hand snaked up to your neck, where the bruises had long faded from his strong fingers keeping you pinned against your bedroom floor. he had pressed a pistol gently to the side of your head, snugly in the spot just below your ear that dex refused to admit he wanted to mouth at. you could nearly feel the cool metal on your skin through his empty gaze in the mugshot.

you smirked at the sight of one particular scar on his neck, where you'd gotten him good. the TV switched to video of his arrest and your smirk got wider. you hadn't pressed charges against him after the incident, but this was satisfying enough.

you owed your life to matt murdock. you knew that. he jumped in at the last second, after having tracked dex across the city that night, and got the gun away from dex, away from you, and away from harm.

yet for some reason, when you really thought back to that moment, you couldn't shake the feeling that you weren't in any mortal danger in dex's hold.

you had put up a good fight — you really had — but he took you down in seconds. despite his hand gripping your throat hard enough to bruise, and the obvious threat of the firearm, there was something akin to curiosity in his eyes when you batted your pretty eyelashes up at him. rays of moonlight peeked through the blinds, casting harsh diagonal lines across his ruggedly handsome face. a face you'd seen a few times on the street or the subway, watching from afar, now that you thought about it. when the initial surprise wore off, you willed your wild heartbeat to slow, but it rejected this request at the starved twinkle in his stunning eyes.

"it's you," you gasped.

you...recognized him? dex short-circuited. his mind spun like a top.

your breath caught as his hold tightened on you. you remember the fear that shocked you at the question of whether he had a finger on the trigger. why even bother asking? the answer was yes, of course.

what you didn't know was that benjamin poindexter was doing his absolute best impression of a person holding it together. you, with your minty breath fanning over him, coming from between your soft, parted lips, with your favorite lip balm on them. he was there to kill you after stalking you for weeks, and now you were there, in his arms, pressed against him and the carpet. he should be pulling the trigger. but here he was, wondering what the lip balm tasted like on your sweet lips. dex let out a measured breath. and was that...desire? just there, in the flecks of green in his eyes?

"'s me," he spoke. you thought his voice would be confident, but it rasped, grating the way a gravel driveway might. desperate.

your fear seeped through you. it only emphasized your intoxicating scent: the salt from the sweat beading on your forehead; the layered notes of your perfume; the pheromones stirring beneath your soft skin. the fear mixed slowly with shame as you found your eyes flickering down to his lips.

dex inhaled sharply, tracking your movements. he should just do it. it's simple. pull the fucking trigger and be done with the mission, dex.

you made the situation oh-so-much worse when you drew one of your full lips between your teeth. he took a ragged breath and tried not to calculate the exact distance between your bodies: mere millimeters, if that. everything about you was warm and intoxicating. when was the last time dex was warm? he got lightheaded at the thought.

"what's your name?" you ask, voice shaking, not at all expecting an answer.

a beat passed as he considered you the way a predator would. a dangerous gleam reflected in his his haunting gaze.

"dex."

"you've been watching me," you realized.

"i have," dex answered steadily, carefully, like he was walking on eggshells, terrified of saying the wrong thing. as if this entire ordeal wasn't way past "the wrong thing" at this point.

"you're here to kill me."

"i am," he answered with that same guilty calm. he wouldn't meet your eye, but studied your face.

your stomach churned. you knew your work would get you in this type of trouble someday. you pissed off wilson fisk? this is what you got.

the clock on your night stand ticked the seconds away. otherwise, the charged silence and dex's clean, musky scent in the room suffocated everything else. this stranger was here to kill you and yet, his brows were pulled together, forming a crease on his forehead, like he was reconsidering. you were floored by the overwhelming urge to kiss him on the wrinkled, slightly damp skin...god, you were sick for that, right?

dex warily watched you swallow. he was nearly vibrating with the need to let out a single one of the tormenting emotions he was feeling, especially with how things were now that julie had left. the buzzing in his brain was building. he felt like a dog about to whine, begging to be pet.

without making any sudden movements, you engaged your core and lifted your hips just so, to grind with him gently. his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull, cheeks turning pink when he couldn't stifle the erotic moan that you pulled from him. the barrel of the gun had nodded off, no longer pressed directly to your skull. you grinned wickedly.

"already, baby?" you teased, of course, referring to the quivering erection dex was sporting.

for the life of him, he didn't know what to do. dex was so mortified, he wanted to crawl inside himself and never show his face ever again. the tips of his ears were a shade of deep maroon. equally shameful was how fucking turned on he was by the whole endeavor, down to simply finding you beautiful in the early days, now to this. it took every ounce of self control in his body to wrestle back his appetites before they slipped free from his grasp.

"fuck you," he spat. anything to cool the burn of your rejection. you brushed it off with a chuckle and it only infuriated him more. the corners of your mouth curved upward in a knowing smirk.

"yeah?" you mocked, tilting your head to the side. "you wanna?"

"knock it off, you fucking brat." dex thrust his hips forward, pinning you both to the floor beneath. he stole the wind from your lungs and tore a moan from deep within your chest. humiliation flared instantly.

and then the motherfucker had the audacity to laugh. your nostrils flared in irritation. "sorry, sweetheart. you make fun of me for getting desperate but i get you down here and its..." he took a grounding breath. "well, it's the pot calling the kettle black, here, angel, isn't it?"

"shut the fuck up," you sighed, digging your fingernails deeper into the jumpsuit fabric covering his bicep as punishment. dex sighed too, trying his damnedest to mirror your movements as to not spook you away. he invited the pain from your nails — found it familiar — as something to tie himself to.

he bound himself to your degrading words. he bound himself to the gasp you let out when he rolled into you again; to the feeling of your warm body against him; to the view of you beneath him. dex felt himself becoming obsessed in real-time. it was intoxicating.

you were dizzy for a similar reason, but you'd never admit it, quite literally with a gun pointed at your head. shame cooked low and slow in your core. you had only intended to tease him, to knock him off his game. never did you think you'd like it. heaven forbid. nor did you think he'd be so responsive and...big against you.

you got the distinct impression that if you were to ask, dex would gladly manhandle you in this position onto the bed. to even consider it was horrible...right? to want it was...

"are you gonna kill me tonight, dex?" your voice was barely above a whisper.

dex groaned like he was in pain, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek. "'m still thinking about it, honey, mkay? it's complicated. just...just let me think a second, hold on."

you nodded fervently. he was weighing his options. at this time, you had to weigh yours, too. was it clinical? to want to fuck your stalker? had to be. he's threatening your life, you fucking idiot.

dex's breath came in hot pants against you, his strong nose pressing into the soft skin of your face. yes, this was reckless. dumb, perhaps. if you didn't have so much damning evidence that he wanted you, maybe you could have just acted like a normal person and cried and begged for your life.

by the time matt — a dear friend — had swooped in and saved the day, you were certain that dex wouldn't kill you. he'd thrown something haphazardly after you once matt got him a safe distance away, but you couldn't tell anyone that, least of all matt. by god, how could you begin to explain?

"no, matt, he wasn't going to kill me. what was he doing here? he was here to kill me. but don't worry! he changed his mind!" is that what your line was?

as for exactly how dex changed his mind, you'd blame it all on the lack of oxygen getting to your brain from being choked.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

years went by and benjamin poindexter wondered if you were the same. he wondered if your smile lines had deepened; if you had changed your hairstyle; if you still smelled like an autumn evening. his leg bounced up and down in anticipation. the bus was nearly there.

calm and collected, dex got off the bus and went into the nearest thrift store he could find. after ditching the prison guard outfit in the nearest garbage bin, dex popped the tags off his new hoodie and sweatpants. thank you, goodwill.

in no time, he was off with a spring in his step, headed uptown to the cafe you spent most of your saturdays in. sometimes when he had a particularly awful saturday, he daydreamt of sitting beside you here.

despite being the most wanted person in new york city, dex passed through midtown without issue, with his head down, weaving in and out of people, like any other annoyed, overstimulated new yorker. because of course it was raining. he'd memorized the map to this cafe so many times that his feet took him there without much thought, even after all this time. the thought brought a rusty smile to his lips.

the cafe sign came into view and dex's steps slowed. he clenched his fists repeatedly, trying to keep his breathing steady. he could do this. he could talk to you.

he spotted you instantly: in the back corner as always, nose deep in a book, leg swung over the side of an armchair like a cat. you cradled a mug against your chest, cuddling against its warmth. you looked so cozy. dex let some very specific memories wash over him as he stood there, pretending to read the menu.

"fuck it," he said to himself. dex took a breath and steeled his reinforced spine, eyeing the armchair next to yours. he sat himself in it and grinned wildly at you.

"oh, um, hi," you greeted without looking, a smile on your eternally-pretty face, nose still in your book.

this stranger said your name in a voice that haunted your dreams and you froze. your blood ran cold. your eyes peeked over the edge of your book while your heartbeat was a stereo in your ear, and you met a set of fierce hazel eyes that you'd remembered all too well.

"hear me out," dex begged your name. it was quite the pleasant sound, you had to admit. he must have seen the horror on your face. "jus' wanted to let you know that i'm gonna be coming by tonight at eleven. want to apologize…for what i've done. gonna knock three times on the window, mkay?"

your stomach dropped, and your mug almost did as well.

"w-what?"

"'m home now." ben's cheek scars flexed as he smirked devilishly. "thought i'd come pay you a visit."

"you've already paid me enough visits," you spat with disdain.

"ouch, sweetheart, that hurts," dex softly mocked as he fake-cradled his arm. he leaned in low, lips right next to your ear. "i know you remember what happened last time."

you sat up abruptly, closing your book with a thump. dex caught your drink before it spilled, setting it down on the table beside you gently. you didn't have time to be grateful, instead doing your best not to look panicked to everyone else.

"really not tryna hurt you," he murmured. "i swear."

and with that, dex stood up and strolled to the door, exiting left and disappearing into the manhattan crowd outside.

by the time eleven o'clock had rolled around, your stomach was in anxious knots. you picked at the skin by your fingernails as you tried anything and everything to distract you: your favorite TV show, that book from earlier, etc. none of it could keep your mind from racing.

could you trust his word? probably not.

but something about the earnestness in his eyes was haunting. and he had chosen to spare your life before.

you were not entirely surprised when the tri-knock came at exactly 11:00:00 PM. it was your bedroom window, as you knew it would be. the same one he used to break into your home the night he tried to kill you all those years ago. the knock sent a thrill down your spine. you were frozen in place by it and its implications.

only after you took a shaky breath, and dex knocked thrice again, you scurried over to the window to unlock it. dex stepped into your bedroom and exhaled, smiling. he caught your watchful eye and clamped down his slight display of emotion. but he had to admit that it was nice to be back here again, surrounded by you.

shutting the window and blinds, you sat on your bed criss-cross applesauce, and so dex did the same beside you. your posture was razor-straight, rigid. he liked that about you. among many other things, now that he let his gaze drift over you.

he met your glare. "i'm so sorry…for trying to kill you. fisk made me."

your jaw dropped. "that's it?"

dex straightened, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. your hand landed on his knee. "w-what are you doing?"

you chuckled, inching closer to him with your hand resting softly on his thigh now. "i think i deserve a better apology than that, benjamin."

"you want me to beg?" dex asked lowly, pressing his nose to your neck, inhaling your perfume. part of you ached at the thought. "i'll beg for you, baby. i'll do anything for you."

your fingers gripped his thigh with authority, or maybe it was desperation. "tell me how sorry you are."

"fuck," dex panted. "'m so sorry, sweetheart, i never really wanted to hurt you. you're so good. too good for me."

"you purposely missed at the end — when you threw those pens — didn't you?"

a smirk slid across his pink lips. "i plead the fifth."

you laughed. you actually belly-laughed, and knowing he'd been the source, seeing the twinkle in your eye, ben poindexter could die a happy man.

"just wish i could make it up to you," he whispered, eyes pleading, like a sad retriever.

"dex—" you inhaled sharply when his lips gently attached to the delicate spot of your neck and began suckling. on instinct, your hand on his thigh began to move higher and desire began to pool in your core. dex swatted your hand away and moved to lay between your legs.

your mind was spinning with the wrongness of it all. never mind if he hadn't wanted to hurt you, what about all of the other things he'd done? what about—

dex's quest began with taking off your fuzzy socks and sensually kissing up the insides of your calves. you could think of nothing else with his lips on your skin, leaving trails of fire in his wake. he relished in the taste of the scented lotions and oils that were part of your nighttime routine — they hadn't changed. he reached your pajama shorts and hesitated, looking up at you.

permission? you could have laughed at the absurdity, but you found yourself nodding with anticipation instead.

dex made quick work of your bottoms, exposing your lower half to the cool air of your room and his greedy gaze. with no time to waste, dex's lips teased your inner thighs and vulva for an unbearably long time before he pressed a sloppy kiss to your leaking pussy. the whine that ripped out of your chest was pornographic in nature, and dex giggled like a kid at christmas.

"yeah, you like that, pretty girl?" he teased, tongue swiping your juices off his lips like it was sacred.

"dex, please," you begged. for friction, for some kind of release, for anything at this point. shame tinted your cheeks a shade darker.

he groaned into your pussy, tongue working on your lips, until he finally paid some mind to your aching clit. you weren't shocked that he found it so easily: he was bullseye after all. but the pleasure from his lips wrapping around it was euphoric. your back arched away from the bed, so dex's arm slid beneath you. a smile touched your lips when you realized this was his attempt at closeness.

"so fucking wet…just for me," dex muttered to himself, possession taking root.

his tongue prodded your clit with perfect precision. oh yes, he noted each and every one of your honeyed sighs and rolling shudders. dex learned your body language so well he had you coming undone on his tongue in seconds. your legs shook as you rode your way through it, moaning and mewling.

dex thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

your fingernails scratched his scalp just right when you ran your fingers through his hair like that. he purred like a cat beneath your touch.

dex left open-mouthed kisses along your sensitive cunt, lazily lapping up your cum. "pussy tastes so good, baby. i knew it would."

you whined at the praise. "yeah? you think about me?"

a wicked grin appeared on his frustratingly handsome features. a thick finger pressed at your entrance. he gazed up at you, light-headed, waiting for your permission again. but you wanted an answer first.

dex whimpered, avoidant. "think about you every fucking day, alright?"

a beat of silence passed between you two.

"you're the only good thing i have."

your heart broke at his admission. there weren't any sort of words to convey what you were feeling. you reached down for him, your kind hand cupping his trembling jaw. you beckoned dex to settle between your legs at eye-level, and you laid a soothing kiss on his horizontal cheek scar.

next, you kissed his swollen lips. they were just as soft as you thought they'd be. he tasted of mint and you. your tongue dipped into his damned mouth and dex moaned as you explored him, grinding his clothed erection into your pussy. you kissed him hungrily, pulling at his hoodie, anything to get him closer.

dex nearly ripped his sweatshirt off, and you decided to take your top off too. he choked on air at the sight of you, eyebrows raised. you tugged his pants down so you were both naked and he could have died on the spot.

"please," he croaked.

"i know, baby," you cooed, cradling his cheek. you brushed your lips over his and he sighed in contentment, gripping your waist for stability. dex sat down, hand held out to you in invitation to join in his lap, and you accepted.

he kissed you like a man starved, with feverish, hungry lips and too much teeth. you didn't mind. he reached down between your bodies once again in question, fingers just barely dancing over your dripping cunt, before you were nodding and dex was slipping them in. the stretch of his calloused digits was delicious. dex's head fell like a dead weight against your neck and laid kisses there.

"f-fuck, dex, just like that, please," you insisted, voice high and sharp.

he had two fingers pumping in you while his ruthless thumb worked your clit, already nearing you to orgasm once more. his fingers curled toward him, reaching that spongy part of your insides. your breath hitched as you clenched tighter on him.

"mm, right there, honey?" he teased, gaining confidence now that your moans had become considerably louder. dex increased the pressure on your clit, drawing flawless circles.

"yes, please!" you were putty in his hands and you both knew it.

he chuckled erotically beneath your earlobe, occasionally biting it. "want me to make you cum again, pretty girl?"

you nodded, embarrassed, chewing your lower lip.

dex tsk-ed in disapproval. "words, baby."

"please make me cum again, dex," you sobbed.

the words made dex pause, bathing in the feeling of being needed, his eyelids fluttering shut in pleasure. he grinned like a maniac against your smooth skin.

"don't worry, doll, i will." he peppered tender kisses to your throat as he resumed fingering you. the relief almost made your knees go out and you subconsciously leaned further into his large frame.

"feels so good," you whispered. "don't stop. please don't stop, oh god."

dex grunted, nodding slightly. he kept his pace, pushing his long fingers in and out as you made a mess all over his hand. it was a mess benjamin poindexter sincerely didn't mind.

"'m gonna…" the muscles in your core pulled taut as orgasm washed over you once again. you collapsed against dex, who caught and cradled you as your legs continued to ruthlessly shake.

"that's it, good girl," he grumbled, planting a kiss on top of your head as you lay on his chest.

it took you a few moments to recover from the aftershocks before you lifted your head enough to catch his eye. your saccharine smile made dex melt on the spot. you traced his jaw absentmindedly, admiring his handsome, scarred face.

"thank you," you said bashfully, smothering your shame by capturing dex's lips in a lingering kiss.

"you are very fucking welcome," dex replied with a laugh, kissing you passionately. his fingers slipped out of you and you took an interrupting sharp breath, wincing slightly. "i know, baby, 'm sorry."

"'s okay," you reassured, readjusting your position on his lap. his erection brushed your soaked core and you both sighed.

dex smirked like the devil, bringing his juicy fingers up to your pouty, puffy lips. you opened wide for him, sucking his digits with hollowed cheeks. you tasted your syrupy coating on him and moaned, looking dex square in the eye as you did so. his mouth fell open as you licked his fingers clean, big eyes staring up at him, straight out of one of his fantasies.

when you were finished, you released him with an exaggerated pop! of your sinful lips. but your mercy ended there as you started to kiss along the side of his neck. dex was lightheaded.

you reached between you and gathered some slick from your pussy onto your fingers, then wrapped them around dex's girthy, veiny cock. he threw his head back and let out a choked moan of your name. he throbbed in your hand, length growing as you stroked him with each flick of your pretty wrist.

but as much fun as it would have been to tease him all night, that wasn't what you wanted right now.

you released your grip, positioning him against your cunt instead. dex couldn't breathe.

"not gonna last long, honey," dex confessed honestly, eyes flickering over you in hunger and insecurity. you nodded in understanding. he was in prison for nearly a decade.

you leaned forward and kissed dex slow and sweet, as you gradually sank onto his length, inch-by-inch. his leaky cock stretched you open to perfection as you swallowed each others' moans.

"hng, fuck, s-sweetheart, so fucking wet 'n tight for me."

you nodded with fervor, whines slipping from your beautiful lips, desperate to please him. "just for you."

dex shuddered, cock throbbing inside you. he wanted to scream that you couldn't just say things like that to someone like him, but he lost the willpower when he bottomed out inside you. your gorgeous eyes rolled back as his tip kissed your cervix. you steadied a warm hand on dex's left cheek and he nuzzled into your touch, as you began to build a fixed rhythm of your hips. his hazel eyes bore into yours with intensity and he rocked his hips against yours in tandem. he truly never wanted to leave this moment.

the only sounds that filled the room were the obscene schlucks of your pussy as you rode dex and the feral moans that the two of you coaxed from each other. your unoccupied hand ended up intertwined with dex's much larger one, fingers interlaced.

he took one of your nipples into his mouth, biting and suckling. the pain-pleasure mix sent a fresh wave of heat down to your core and you moaned uncontrollably with your bottom lip sucked between your teeth. the noise encouraged dex, who was a mess of his own, to continue mouthing at your tits and fucking up into you. his breathing was ragged now, as he snaked his precise fingers down to your clit once more.

"yes!" you whined. "fuck me, baby, please. just like that."

dex grunted. "yeah, you like that, beautiful? like having me deep inside you like that?"

"mhm!"

"mm, 's what i thought. look so pretty taking me nice 'n fucking slutty."

you gasped, preening at his explicit praise. he smiled up at you like you were the sun in the sky, sweat beading on his temple.

the familiar knot of tension in your abdomen was building. you could feel yourself getting wetter, the glide of his cock having so little resistance it should have been blasphemy. dex's cheeks were flushed, his intertwined fingers sweaty, his legs trembling.

you maintained your steady pace, licking a stripe of sweat from the base of his throat to just below his ear. dex whimpered and it's the sexiest sound you'd ever heard.

"f-fuck, baby, 'm close," he warned, trying to compose himself. "pussy just feels t-too fucking good. so fucking good."

"it's okay, dex," you said, laying another sweet kiss to his lips. "it's okay."

and something about your tone of voice, coating the "it's okay"s like honey, told him he was safe in your arms, and sent dex straight over the edge in hysterics. he crashed his lips into yours like a desperate teenager. you found it oddly charming, smiling against him. he moaned pathetically into your mouth, murmuring nonsense praise, while his cum spilled deep into you. his cock pulsed as your overstimulated pussy milked him dry.

your climax hit you violently at the sight of dex's red-rimmed, teary eyes. you wondered just how long his body had been deprived of that. you clung to him, trembling, as you rode out your high, leaving a juicy white ring around his cock that dripped onto his balls below. you were still holding hands — the grip suffocating.

you turned dex's gaze to yours and languidly licked up his tears. it almost made dex cry more — your kindness — but he methodically slowed his breathing with every bit of will power he had. and then you were kissing him and his cock was twitching inside you and he was dizzy all over again, but he was exactly where he wanted to be. his mind was dead silent.

you would figure out the mechanics of this tomorrow. for now, you were falling asleep with dex buried balls-deep inside you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

a/n: hello again from the ether!! my goodness this was fun to write. sry it took so long to my lovely requester, since i wanted to give it my all, i took my time! i would suck this man dry à la capri sun. like mouth is actively watering. ugh. every day i wake up and thank god for wilson bethel.

i've decided to make this an ethel cain series because i think that fits dex horrifically well sometimes lolll

as always, pls lmk your thoughts! and as always, asks and requests r opennnnn!

xoxo, b

You think about that money as you wheel yourself to the meeting point: Red’s All-Night Diner. A quiet, public area. It’s also close enough to your apartment where you don’t feel like you’d need an armed escort back at night in Manhattan.

You’re not afraid of Tony— that’s all you know him as. Tony. You figure it’s short for Anthony or Antonio, with his last name being the same level of “CLASSIFIED” that the nuclear launch codes are to civilians. You could find out if there weren’t a mutual understanding between the two of you to keep your respective cats curious, not by lack of skill on either end.

For example, you’re pretty sure that Tony could find out where you live based on the diner’s proximity to certain apartment complexes, the fact that you’re almost never late, or whatever else he may notice because he’s a very professional, very paranoid vigilante. He could find you if he really wanted to, just like how you could track his burner anywhere on the planet like a Watch_Dogs character.

The wheelchair button at Red’s entryway is busted (again), so you knock on the glass door and wave lamely until a waiter spots you. He holds the door open wide enough for you to wheel in. The scent of grease, sugar, and coffee waft out with the sound of Yacht Rock Hits.

“Sorry,” the waiter says. “I could’ve sworn it was working this morning.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, the kind that comes automatically when you don’t quite know what to say. It makes you look awkward. Out of depth in an average conversation. You need to start speaking to more people.

“S’okay,” your voice is a little scratchy from lack of use and hydration. “It’s a good thing you saw me so quickly, though. Thank you.”

The waiter smiles. A little fake, and a lot tired. “Can I get anything for you?”

“A vanilla shake? Thanks.”

The waiter nods. You wheel yourself to your usual booth— the only one that has a chunk of seating carved out for a wheelchair. You keep your eyes on the door for Tony, your fingers tapping along to Chaka Khan on the sticky table.

The waiter gives you the shake. It’s borderline saccharine, but you drink half of it in one long sip through the straw. You check the time on your phone. Christopher Cross plays overhead.

It’s 12:14 AM. Tony’s running a little late. Or he’s intentionally tardy to make meeting this look more casual to outside observers. Who knows. You’ve been turning paranoid enough to think of things like this. You drink half of the remaining shake, and the door chimes.

Tony enters with nearly perfect posture either without trying or he’s spent a long time doing this with the intent to look effortless so now it’s muscle memory. His brownish-blond hair is maintained with its usual set sweep. He wears his usual dark wash denim jacket.

Tony sits across from you in a way that exudes no emotion, the way a random person may sit by you on the bus. There’s no accidentally mistaking that the two of you being on an odd midnight date here. The chemistry (read: lack thereof) between you two reads as “acquaintances” or “strangers forced to share a table.”

You put the envelope on the table right in front of you. Tony’s right index finger twitches in silent request, but he doesn’t encroach on your personal space. 

You slide it to him. You watch him open it. Read it. It starts to drizzle outside. You sigh through your nose at the thought of going home in the rain. 

“Two weeks,” he says finally, when he looks satisfied with the information you’ve stolen for him. The set of his eyes in his skull looks lethargic and sunken, but his gaze is razor-sharp. He tucks the file between his plain black shirt and jacket.

You nod. Two weeks until you receive full payment. The money will trickle slowly into your account.

“Do you need anything else?” You ask. 

Tony looks behind you, at the clattering of utensils a waiter is disposing. “I’ll give you a call if I do.”

You nod. That’s his usual answer.

Tony swallows. “Actually… I need something else. Not immediate information.”

You look back up at him. That’s new.

You’re about to ask what he means, but Tony waves over the waiter before you open your mouth. He orders a small black coffee for himself to blend in and talks to the waiter like he’s rehearsing lines as an extra in a TV show. You finish your shake and leave a ten dollar bill on the counter for it. 

“I’ll cover it.” Tony says, a little less like he’s following that script of his and more like an awkward shot at trying to be decent.

“Then let this be the tip,” you reply. It’s still enough to cover the shake.

“Let me—” his jaw flexes. Not angry, but something else you can’t quite pinpoint because you don’t know him well enough. “Please. Let me.”

You slide the ten off the counter and replace it with a five. 

“My tip,” you tell Tony. “It’s late. It would be rude leaving a restaurant without a tip.”

He nods at you, just one jerk of his chin going downward. Nothing more. 

You wheel yourself out of the diner. The rain is still light as it falls, only making your clothes damp. It’s a cool night in autumnal New York, and it’s looking to be a cooler day tomorrow.

The program you've dubbed Saberfind is your baby. Handcrafted and run on various desktops in your at-home office, it's the messiest form of information retrieval you've made.

It’s also precisely why you liked it so much. It was like watching a kindergartener’s rendition of a sports car win a Formula 1 championship. Amateur, but an undeniable elegance about it if it can win a race. A Lego tower that keeps getting new floors and rechecked for structural issues.

You’re running a retrieval on a businessman with dirty hands when you hear the rickety window of your living room slide open.

Your ice crystalizes in your veins and arteries, your stomach dropping down to your feet. 

Your hands fumble for the gun that you keep in the small compartment under your desk, and you make sure it’s loaded. You keep the safety on, though, just to make sure you don’t shoot yourself before wheeling out.

The gun rests on your lap as you move. The floorboards creak under your wheels as you move, obviously. It’s a design flaw of most apartments you’ve been in, but you didn’t really care much about it until now.

There’s a single heavy footstep in the living room, like whoever’s broken in is wearing sturdy boots. They don’t walk around with urgency, or in a way that seems to examine your belongings and furniture.

Shit. You think. Because if this person isn’t here to rob you, they’re here to kill you.

You go through a list of dissatisfied customers. It’s small, but all of them are deadly. 

Another step. Your heart leaps up to beat a rhythm in the hollow of your throat. You stop your wheelchair in the doorway of your office and slowly click the safety off. Unfortunately, your lack of speed doesn’t help silence the action. 

“It’s me,” a voice says casually after the safety’s sound breaks the tense silence.

“Tony,” you wait in the doorway. “Is this the something else you needed?” Is your first question. You don’t care how he found you, really. You always knew he could: stalking, a hand in his FBI database, a tracker on your wheelchair you can’t detect or see. “Breaking into my house?”

“Yeah,” a pause. Then, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Relief like a bucket of ice cold water tips down over your head, shoulders, and the rest of your body. You’re still breaking out in cold sweat—Tony is objectively a dangerous guy. 

But alas. 

You wheel yourself out.

Tony is wearing clothes similar to the ones he was the day before, the only change being a plain white shirt instead of a black one under his denim jacket. He looks at you, then the framed photo of MoistCr1TiKaL Photoshopped like Jesus, a gift you got in university. His demeanor relaxes as he exhales slowly, a balloon deflating. You almost want to make a really lame joke—can Internet Jesus ease your woes?

You don’t make it. The moment passes, and Tony’s shoulders settle back into their usual rigid line.

“What do you need?" you ask, keeping the gun visible on your lap. Not pointed at him, but not hidden either.

Tony’s eyes flick down to it, then back to your face. Something almost like approval crosses his features before they go blank again. “I need you to find someone for me.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and you tense, but he pulls out a folded piece of paper, setting it on your coffee table like he's placing an offering. “But this one’s... different. I thought I could wait until tomorrow, but I just want to get it over with..”

You nod, sliding the paper off the table. You keep it folded and pin it under the gun. “Okay. Follow me.”

Tony’s footsteps are less heavy as you wheel to your office. He lingers in the doorway of the office like an uninvited vampire as you position yourself behind the U-shaped desk.

“I have a couch in here for a reason,” you say. You don’t tell him that it was the cheapest loveseat you could find on Facebook Marketplace. Or that you bought it for the illusion of a homier vibe in your office, not for guests. “Come in.”

Tony’s strides are long and he settles onto the loveseat like he’s been here before. It’s not quite as if he were a friend treating your home like his own, but he looks uncannily at ease. Like if you told him to walk around the apartment blindfolded, he’d do it without bumping into any of the furniture.

“Who do you need info on?”

“It’s on the paper.”

You nod. You rub your nose a little— it feels icy cold in this weather, and you don’t keep the heating up very high. Frugal with the bills, though you know you can pay for it and then some. You’re a dragon, hoarding digital gold like it’s your only purpose. You slide your keyboard closer to you, make sure it’s plugged into one of your PCs not already running Saberfind, and unfold the paper.

Neat all-capital handwriting spells: Benjamin Leonard Poindexter, born March 2, 1984. Blond hair, brown eyes. 6’0”. Likely hits in law enforcement, FBI and municipal level specifically. Heavy on municipal.

“Who is this?”

“Me.” Tony—Benjamin, whoever—says flatly. “I need to know if anyone’s looking into that name. Running checks, pulling records, making inquiries. Anything."

You look at the paper, then at him. The rain picks up outside, drumming against your windows in uneven heartbeats. “You want me to monitor your security. Continuously.”

He nods. 

“Why?”

Tony-Benjamin’s jaw works. For a moment he looks almost human—tired, frayed at the edges, like someone running on fumes and bad decisions. Then the mask slides back into place. He’s back to being impartial and cool.

“Because someone else might be, and I need to know before they find me.”

You think about the file you gave him last night. The two week payment timeline. The way his eyes are completely hollow, but sharp all at once. Whatever he's planning, whatever information you’ve been feeding him for months—he’s getting closer to the bottom of the iceberg.

“This isn’t the kind of work I usually do,” you say slowly. “Monitoring for threats against someone specifically? That’s closer to security work. Personal protection, private security. Well, digitally.”

Tony’s mouth twitches. For a moment, you’re afraid he’ll threaten you. Instead, he exhales slowly through his nose and cracks a small smile like you’re Marcello Hernández. “You’re just a hacker. Not a bodyguard.”

“I’m an information broker,” you correct automatically. The difference sounds nicer. “What you’re asking… this means I have to watch local law enforcement channels, P.I forums here, the F.B.I, maybe even Interpol if whoever’s looking has reach. That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“I’ll pay.”

“I know.” You tap your fingers against the armrest of your chair, realizing you have a song by The Turtles looping in the background of your mind— Eleanor, gee, I think you’re s-well, and you really do me well! Ambient noise. It always comes around after sitting in Red’s. You push The Turtles out and think about how to phrase your next point to Tony. “I need to know why you need this. Not the whole story, obviously. I’m not stupid enough to ask for that. But give me enough to understand where to look? Is this an alias?”

Tony stares at you for a long moment. The rain fills the silence between you, pattering against glass and brick. A car alarm goes off somewhere down the street, then cuts out.

“A while ago,” Tony says finally, each word measured so tersely you can practically see the cogs of his brain. “I did something that made some powerful people very angry. They thought I was dead, but now they know I’m alive. That… name is my real name. My friends called me Dex.”

Even while you ignore the past tense, the pieces click together in ways you don’t quite like. The late-night meetings, the information you’ve pulled, the way he moves through the world like a ghost wearing a human suit. It’s not just paranoia that comes with the usual underground job.

“If they’re that powerful,” you say, “and they think you’re dead, why would they be looking into your name? Aren’t you, uh, Tony now? Not Dex?” 

You wonder what made him pick the name Tony. Maybe he was a fan of The Sopranos. Dex made you think of the serial killer, which fit. If this were a book, you’d call the author a little heavy-handed.

Dex’s eyes go distant. “Just look into it.”

You want to ask more, but you don’t. You’ve learned enough about Dex to know that questions like that don't get answers—they get pointedly ignored until he decides to leave the room.

“Fine. I’ll run the program, see if anyone's poking around. If I find anything, I’ll text you.”

Dex nods. “So, your rate for this?”

“Double.”

His mouth twitches again. “Double?”

“You're asking me to live in a federal database for hits. That’s riskier than pulling people’s addresses and corporate dirt like I usually do.” You meet his gaze steadily. It takes more than you wish it did. “Double.”

A long pause. Then Dex reaches into his pocket again, and pulls out an actual checkbook. He scribbles something onto it and sets it on the coffee table next to an empty mug. “First installment.”

Your eyes skirt over the fake company name and you look at the amount and feel your eyebrows climb toward your hairline. It’s more than double. It’s triple what he usually pays.

“Consider it a retainer,” Dex says. “If I need you again—and I mean really need you—you drop everyone else you’ve got on your plate.”

You don’t tell him that for this money all at once, you’d send a mail bomb to his enemies’ houses and take the fall for him. For this money, you’d do something horrific, like volunteering at the old folk’s home where his grandparents live if he had any. You fold the check and tuck it into a drawer. “I’ll start now.”

“Then I’m done here.”

You follow Dex out of your office. He goes to the window with his heavy, steel-toed boots thunking on the hardwood. Your downstairs neighbor is probably cursing you out. Dex turns back, and for a moment he looks almost like he wants to say something else. His hand twitches at his side—that same index finger movement you’ve noticed before.

“Use the door next time,” you say. “I hate closing that window. The lock’s a pain in the ass.”

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile, but adjacent to one. 

“The door,” he repeats.

You feign nonchalance. “Yeah. I’ll even give you the entry code for the buzzer. Saves us both the hassle.”

Dex considers this. "You trust me that much?"

“I trust that you need me alive for the most part,” you tap your armrest. The Turtles are re-entering the building. “And that I’m not important enough for you to kill. Close that window behind you?”

Dex nods, that single jerk of his chin, and the window’s shut before you even register his shadow climbing down the fire escape.

You don’t hear him leave, but when you turn around minutes later, the window is shut and the room is empty except for the paper still sitting on your coffee table.

Benjamin Leonard Poindexter. You run the name through your mind as you wheel back to your desk. It feels strange to have it now. Like registering someone commenting a stupid thing on YouTube is a person, not a bot. Benjamin Poindexter. Forty-three years old. You can find his blood type, his old addresses, his family. 

You open your Saberfind program and start building new parameters. Live search, consistent monitoring, hits on Ben Poindexter, Benjamin Poindexter, Leo Poindexter, Leonard Poindexter, Anthony Poindexter, Tony Poindexter…

You fall asleep thinking of him.

You open your messages on autopilot, more muscle memory than intention.

The last exchange stares back at you. His words. Yours. The photos. The confessions. The way you told him you weren't sure if you'd feel anything if you saw him in person.

You throw your phone across the room. It hits the leg of your dining table before sliding lamely to the right. You press the heels of your palms to your eyes. 

You want to go back in time to the first video and delete it, block him, run to the FBI, do anything other than what you did—which was everything. Saving fucked up videos and responding to the nicer texts, then all texts, and leaving your lights on outdoors.

You type before you can stop yourself.

you live here?

The response comes in four seconds.

Took you long enough.

Your stomach turns inside out.

so you knew i’d find out someday Of course. You’re a journalist. You investigate. why didn’t you just tell me Where’s the fun in that?

You stare at the screen. Your vision blurs at the edges. You’re not sure if you’re going to cry or laugh or vomit. None of those feel like the right option. Something colder settles in your chest instead, waiting to thaw out.

you were in the stairwell and you??? let me walk past you? You looked like you needed to get to your apartment. You did a good job hiding your fear. Your breathing was a little fast, but your hands were steady. Most people would have run. You walked. thats not a compliment I mean it like one.

You laugh. Maybe you cry a little. Your phone buzzes again.

You’re not going to call the police.

It's not a question.

how do you know that i could be on the line right now with them Because neither of us does what we’re supposed to do.

You close your eyes.

then what are we supposed to do You’re supposed to be reporting me. I should be turning myself in. But here we are. yeah here we are

A pause. Then:

Did you eat today?

The question is so mundane, so normal, that it cracks something open in your chest. You think about how you were planning on going grocery shopping. Now, groceries feel juvenile.

fuck off There's a bodega on the corner. It’s still open. You should go. are you fucking kidding me No.

Another pause. Then:

It’s the same song and dance. I keep telling you that I won’t hurt you and I mean it. But I can’t make you believe me. That’s for you to work on. you showed up at my building I live here. you showed up in the stairwell I was just getting the cat. You saw that. no you knew i was coming home Yes. You come home between 6:15 and 6:30 on weekdays. You were late today and I was starting to get worried. But I'm being honest. I was only getting the cat. I wasn't coming to your door. you were WORRIED Yes. about ME Yes.

You press your phone against your thigh and stare at the wall. You turn the phone over.

yuore fucking insane Probably. youre a serial killer I’m working on it. One good deed at a time. are you sure you’re working on that They were bad people who would have kept hurting others if I hadn't stopped them. you can’t play judge jury and executioner tony or whoever the fuck you are Whose call is it? The same cops that keep killing? Do you think the system is flawless enough to catch and punish them all?

You don't have an answer for that.

thats not the point Then what’s “the point”?

You type. Delete. Type. Delete. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard.

the point is that im supposed to be a good person You are. yeah and i'm texting a killer like you know what the pinnacle of morality is You’re just texting with someone who understands you.

You don’t respond. The text bubble glares up at you. It’s pushed up by a new message.

A photo of Mr. Meowgi. The gray tabby is curled up on what looks like a gray couch—Tony's couch, you think, the one stationed in 4C. The cat’s eyes are closed. His little bowtie is crooked. One paw is draped over his face like he’s embarrassed to be photographed.

From this morning. He was clingy before I gave him back to my neighbor. I think he knew something was going to change today. what You know now. It changes things. does it For you? Yes. For me? No. I’ve known. Like how I know  you’re relieved when I send you those videos, even if you hate yourself for it.

Your throat closes.

you don’t know that I do, because I feel it from you.

You press both hands over your face. Your breathing is turning shallow and your heart is a caged animal rattling bone bars.

You’re the only city journalist who writes properly. my editor killed that stuff. No, you killed it. You chose to stay quiet. You moved to human interest when she asked. You can fight to write about what you want again. what was i supposed to do What you’re doing right now. this isnt journalism It's connection.

You stare at the word.

it’s manipulation genius

The text itself is feeble. You read it back to yourself and hear the high, reedy whine. You’re pathetic.

Manipulation is dishonest. We’ve both been honest about what we want. you don’t know whati want You can tell me.

You hesitate. Your thumb hovers.

You’ve been two people all this time: the normal, human being that goes to work, and the idiot that keeps crawling back to a cell phone in the dark. Dishonesty here only splits the idiot in half: one upholds a lie, and one you keep even closer to yourself.

You might as well be real here.

to hate you You’re saying that like you don’t already. no Why not? i don't know I think you do. i don't Then let me try to help. stop talking to me I’m just going to ask you to think of some things. I’m not coming to your place.

You rub your forehead.

fine

He types for a long time. Just as you think he’s going to stop, the message comes.

Think about every person the Task Force hurt, and every badge they hid behind while they did it. Now think about the way they died. No chances to hurt anyone else. That’s good. That’s real change, isn’t it?

You think about it.

Do you really feel bad for them? no Ok Do you feel bad for yourself? yes Why? because i’m still talking to you and i don't want to stop. That’s not something to feel bad about. then what is it You appreciating honesty. I keep saying it. Now, you’re seeing it.

Your phone is warm in your hand.

you looked normal I am normal. Mostly. you smiled at me I was being friendly.

Your heart is warm in your chest. Spring thaw. Summer birds flying home.

what song were you whistling Vienna. It seemed appropriate. why “Vienna waits for you.” You’re still waiting for something that’s never going to come. You can’t wait for permission to feel or do things. Just reach out and grab it. i assume you want me to follow through You’re already there. You just haven’t admitted it yet. admitted what? That you’re glad I’m doing this.

Your phone buzzes one last time.

Goodnight. Leave the lights on. I like seeing them from up here.

You don’t turn them off.

You sit on the floor for a long time.

And then, finally, you type:

goodnight tony

The response is immediate.

Sweet dreams, Cronkite.

☆☆☆☆☆

You don’t sleep well that night. For once, it isn’t the videos keeping you awake.

It’s the four feet of plaster and joists and subfloor that separate your apartment from Bullseye’s. You stare up at the water stain in the corner and listen for something.

You get nothing. No footsteps. No radio. No typical annoying upstairs neighbor attitude at all.

But you know he’s up there.

Your phone lies on the bed like you, back down and face up. It’s stupid to keep it like this, because one notification would light up the room.

It’s fine. Your newest photo album can always use some new pictures.

☆ SATURDAY ☆

The knock comes at 8:14 AM.

You sit up so fast the blood drains from your head, leaving you dizzy. A knock at this hour on a Saturday can only be one person. Your friends know you’re usually too busy for that.

You tug a loose sweatshirt over your head before crossing the cold floorboards and tugging the door open a crack. The chain is still on.

Standing there with one hand shoved in the pocket of his dark jeans and the other holding a foil-covered plate like an offering, is Bullseye. Tony. Whoever he really is. The hallway window’s light glides across the line of his jaw and makes his brown-blond hair look like fine gold threads.

“Morning,” he says. His voice has warmth that doesn't match the cold things you know about him. There’s also a hollowness in it, but it can be easily passed off as fatigue. “You’re hard to wake up. I came here an hour ago.”

You shift your weight, leaning against your own doorframe to mirror him. The wood is solid and cool against your shoulder blade. “I was sleeping.”

“I don’t doubt that you needed the rest.” He holds the plate up a little higher. The foil crinkles. “I had some leftover pancake batter. Can I come in?”

You don’t know what possesses you to slide the chain free and step aside. All you know is that he walks in like he's done it a hundred times. Maybe he has on the days you stayed out late for drinks or to finish an article at the office.

The apartment feels different with another body in it. The air is syrupy and warm with a weight here that grounds you in the here and now. For the first time in days, you feel no compulsion to look at your phone.

Bullseye sets the plate on your kitchen counter with a soft thunk and pulls back the foil with a flourish. A small stack of golden brown pancakes. There’s maple syrup in a small glass ramekin and a slice of butter already melting into a glossy pool at the top.

You watch him move through your kitchen. He doesn't hesitate. He opens your drawers with the easy familiarity of a roommate. Silverware clinks. He finds your forks in the left one, your good cloth napkins in the second drawer down.

“How do you know where I keep my forks?”

He glances over his shoulder and a slow smile widens his mouth, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You have a thing about organization. Left drawer’s utensils. Right’s the junk and tools.”

Your face must speak for you—shock, violation, a strange thrill—because he continues as he sets the table.

“I watched you make pasta once. About three weeks ago. The right drawer had a can opener, and the left had a fork.”

You don't know what to say to that. Your throat feels too tight to even gasp. So you sit down at your small table. He sets the plate in front of you, perfectly centered, and pours a glass of orange juice from your fridge. 

"Sit," you say. It comes out softer than you intended.

He pulls out the chair across from you and sits. Folds his hands on the table. His knuckles are clean, unmarked. He just watches you eat.

The pancakes are perfect. Fluffy, almost cloud-like, with slightly crisp edges. The syrup is the real kind of maple and it soaks into each bite. It’s everything you like.

Again, your poker face is awful. He reads the question forming on your tongue before you can ask it.

"You have maple syrup in your cabinet. The expensive Canadian. You keep your butter on the counter in a little crock so it’s always spreadable.”

You eat in silence for a while, the only sound is the scrape of your fork on the ceramic plate. He doesn't talk.

Your voice feels throaty from sleep and syrup, so you clear your throat. “You could have… texted.”

"I wanted to see you."

You set your fork down. It makes a small, sharp sound against the plate.

“You can’t just show up at my door. Or with pancakes.” You sip the juice. “Especially with pancakes.”

"Why not?"

“Because it’s… weird.”

"Probably," he tilts his head just slightly, like a dog hearing a strange noise. "But you didn't tell me to leave."

You look at him. He is watching you with those brown eyes, almost warm, almost patient, but you know what lives behind that patience. You know what those hands have done. And still, you don't tell him to leave.

"You're not going to hurt me," you say. It’s not a question. It’s a fact you’ve decided to believe.

"No."

“Or anyone in this building?”

"Not unless they’re Task Force." He corrects. He looks away for a moment before returning to meet your eyes. “And I’ll bring you breakfast every day. If you want that."

You pick up your fork. The handle is still warm.

"Okay," you say.

☆ SUNDAY ☆

He knocks on your door an hour later this time. 9:15. You’ve been up for forty-five minutes, pacing.

You open it wearing embarrassingly plain clothes: a wrinkled t-shirt and sweats with a small hole in the knee. He is holding a brown paper grocery bag, the top folded down neatly.

"French toast," he says. "Brioche.”

You feel your brows knit before you can stop them. “You brought groceries?”

“Yeah.” He stands at the threshold, a patient sentinel, until you step aside again, and he cuts a direct path to your kitchen. He sets the bag on your counter with a decisive thump. “You’re understocked.”

"I don't really bake."

“You don’t really cook, either.” Bullseye—should you be calling him Tony now?—starts pulling things out: a loaf of brioche wrapped in wax paper, an egg carton, a plastic container of strawberries, a small bottle of cinnamon powder. “You’ve been eating takeout and whatever you grab from the bodega. You haven't used your stove much lately.”

Heat crawls up your neck. "How do you know that?"

He glances at you, then at the stovetop. “The dust.”

He’s not wrong. Your heart is a dull, insistent thud. “So is this a thing?”

Tony stops. He has a carton of eggs in one hand, a whisk in the other. He turns to face you. The morning light is behind him, pouring through your window, casting his face in shadow so you can only see the outline of his jaw, the glint of one eye.

“Because you need someone to take care of you,” he says. His voice is quiet, stripped of its usual pleasant veneer. “And I’m the only one who's going to do it.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and impossible. You walk to the counter. Pick up the small jar of cinnamon he brought. Unscrew the lid and smell it—sharp, sweet, familiar, like the holidays of a childhood you barely remember.

“You should get nutmeg too,” you say. “It’s better with nutmeg.”

His smile changes his whole face.

☆ MONDAY ☆

The knock comes at 6:47 AM. Not in a dream, but on your door.

You open it in your pajamas with no embarrassment this time. 

Tony’s holding a white paper bag with the top folded shut. A grease stain blooms through the side.

“For work.”

You blink. Your eyelids feel like they’ve been glued shut, and are only now coming apart. “What?”

“I got you your usual bagel.” Tony holds the bag out. “You have to sit in on a city council meeting today, so I figured I’d save you some time.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Two days ago you said Adriana is going to kill me if I don't go.”

You stare at him. You can feel the cold hallway air chilling your bare ankles. “You remember everything, don’t you?”

“I pay attention.” He presses the warm bag into your hands. The paper is warm, almost hot, from the food inside. The smell of the toasted bagel wafts up, which reminds your stomach that it hasn’t eaten all night. “Don’t let it get too cold.”

"You're getting me breakfast sandwiches now?" You look down at the bag.

“Every day.” He steps backward. “If you want.” He turns and walks toward the stairwell, a shadow against the hallway’s window.

“Tony?” you call. Your voice echoes slightly.

He looks back. His face is unreadable from this distance.

“Thank you.”

His smile is small, but you can feel it. “Have a nice day.”

☆☆☆☆☆

Tuesday. Another paper bag. Another breakfast sandwich situation. This time on a flaky croissant that breaks off into buttery crumbs on the first bite.

Wednesday. A Danish pastry, stuffed with a beautiful herbed cheese.

Thursday. There’s a note tucked under your front door, written on a torn piece of notebook paper in neat, economical handwriting: *You're running low on coffee beans. I left a fresh bag on your counter. Don't argue.*

You walk to your kitchen. There’s a bag of coffee on your counter. The good kind. The expensive kind. A single-origin Ethiopian, the kind you only buy when you get a fat freelance check.

You make a pot using your old French press. The grounds bloom and release a rich, blueberry-tinged aroma. You drink it black to appreciate the flavor of it. 

You think about him the whole time

☆ FRIDAY ☆

I have something different in mind tonight. what A restaurant, 8 PM. you want to take me to dinner?? I’ve made you six breakfasts. This is the next step, if you want to take it.

You stare at the screen until the letters blur. The phone feels hot in your hand.

where I'll text you the address. It's a little upscale, so you should wear something nice.

You set your phone down on the kitchen counter. Pick it up. Set it down again. The counter is clean now. You wiped it down yesterday.

A week ago, you would have argued with yourself. Would have listed all the reasons this was wrong, dangerous, insane, in one of your bullet-pointed lists in your head. Pace your apartment and talk yourself out of it, and then talk yourself back in out of curiosity.

You don’t do any of that now.

The cycle has stopped sometime in the last few days. You weren’t sure when. Maybe over the French toast, or the warm bagel, or when you looked up at his dark, second-floor window and didn't feel fear anymore, just a strange, hollow ache.

You don’t do any of that now.

The cycle has stopped sometime in the last few days. You weren’t sure when. Maybe over the French toast, or the warm bagel, or when you looked up at his dark, second-floor window and didn't feel fear anymore, just a strange, hollow ache.

You think about the videos again. The grainy, terrible quality. The way you watched them over and over, dissecting every frame, taking notes in the dark. The way you felt when Lieutenant Voss died on screen—that small, quiet satisfaction that you used to hate yourself for. The badge numbers you’ve seen. The commendations for bravery you’ve read in old PDFs that never, not once, mention the names of the civilians they'd hurt.

And Tony.

Your morals don’t have to fight anymore. They’ve found an alignment, like two tectonic plates grinding together to form a new, unstable ground. He does what he does. You feel what you feel. Neither of you is going to change.

okay Good. I'll pick you up at 7:30. u have a car? No. But the restaurant is within walking distance. I can call a cab if you’d rather take one. dw i can walk

He comes to your apartment at 7:28.

When you open the door, he looks at you. His eyes travel from your shoes to your face, slowly. He’s wearing a dark jacket over a black button-down shirt. No tie, with the top button undone, revealing the hollow of his throat.

"You look nice," he says. His voice is low. You’re in black. You feel like you’re going to a very nice funeral.

"So do you." You say

He smiles and offers you his arm. His elbow is right there, the simple hinge of bone and muscle under fabric.

You take it.

☆☆☆☆☆

The restaurant is Italian. It’s simple and polished from the outside, a perfect red awning and a vintage sign. Inside, it’s all low, gold light with the smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes. It’s the kind of place where the wine list is longer than the menu.

He’s reserved a table in the back. A corner booth upholstered in dark red leather. Perfect sightlines to the door, the kitchen, the windows, you realize. He can see everyone, and no one can sneak up behind him.

“Looks like you planned this,” you say, sliding into the booth. The leather is cool and smooth under your palms. “How long?”

“Since Tuesday.” He sits across from you, his knees almost touching yours under the small table. He picks up the wine list. “I hoped you’d say yes.”

"What if I said no?"

He looks at you over the top of the list. His brown eyes are serious.

“Then I would’ve cancelled the reservation and made you breakfast until you said yes to something else.”

You laugh. You can't help it. It bubbles up out of your chest, unexpected and bright.

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

"We—this can’t be normal.” You gesture between you, at the candle flickering on the table, at the beautiful room. “Can it?”

“Probably not.” He sets the wine list down. Leans forward, his elbows on the table. His voice drops, not only for the act of intimacy, but to make sure nobody eavesdrops. "But you see me. The real me. Not the mask. And you get me. You know how to… be around me.”

"That doesn't make this normal."

He reaches across the table. His fingers find yours. They’re warm, slightly calloused. His hand covers yours completely. “But it’s real for me.”

You look down at your hands. His fingers intertwine with yours. His skin is warm. The candlelight makes the veins in his wrist look like rivers on a map.

Dinner is three hours.

You talk about anything. Everything. Maybe nothing, because it floats out of you like it’s all unimportant. The food is incredible—a silky handmade pasta with a deep red wine that makes your head feel light. He orders for you without asking, and everything he chooses is perfect, down to way the olive oil drizzled over the bread.

At some point, you stop thinking about the videos.

Or the body count.

At some point, you stop thinking about anything but the way he looks at you across the table. The candlelight carves shadows into his face. His thumb traces small circles on the back of your hand.

“Walk with me?” he asks after dinner, after the check is paid, after the his last sip of espresso.

You walk.

The city is cooler tonight, spring stepping in and out like it’s a shy houseguest. The streets are glossy and the air smells like wet asphalt and car exhaust. There must have been a mist of rain while you were dining. 

Tony’s shoulder brushes yours with every other step. You don’t reach for his hand here yet.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m thinking.”

He laughs a little. “What about now?”

You stop walking. The sidewalk is cracked under your feet. A stubborn weed pushes up through the concrete. He stops too.

The streetlight above you casts a cone of yellow light down onto both of you, illuminating the imperfections in his skin: the scar that cuts across his cheek, and the one above his eyebrow.

“I can’t leave,” you say.

He goes still. “Leave what?”

“This.” The words come out before you can stop them, tumbling over each other. "I've been telling myself for weeks that I could walk away. Block your number. Move to a different building. Call… someone and let them handle it. Call the police, like a normal person."

“But?” He’s not smiling.

“But I can’t.” Your voice cracks. The sound of it is ugly. “And I don’t want to.” Your voice climbs as you speak, turning everything into a desperate question. “I watched the videos,” you continue. “All of them. Multiple times. I took the notes, and I wrote the articles Adriana wanted me to write, and I filed them. But then I go home and I sit in the dark, in that tiny apartment, and I think about you.”

Something inside him seems to move, because he starts breathing again. “Hey—”

“I’m in too deep.” You laugh. It’s wet, hysterical, and you wipe your nose with the back of your hand. "I've been in it for weeks. Maybe since the first video? Fuck, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about what you’ve done, and I don’t care what anyone else would think if they knew. I can live with it.”

You look at him. His face is unreadable, a mask of stillness in the yellow light. The silence it taut between you.

Then he steps forward. His hand comes up slowly to brush your cheek. The pad of his thumb just grazes your cheekbone. His touch is impossibly light. A cheesy thought, you know, but the contrast of all the violence he’s enacted only emphasizes it.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he murmurs.

You smile despite yourself. You feel the warm tears cut tracks down your cold skin. “Don’t make it weird.”

He laughs. A real one, not the short puffs he’s been doing when you amuse him. You love how his skin folds around his eyes.

He leans in. You can smell his laundry detergent and underneath it, the faint scent of a woody aftershave.

You close your eyes.

The kiss never comes. Instead, his forehead meets yours. The skin is so comfortably warm. His breath meets yours when he sighs.

“Thank you,” he says.

You open your eyes to look into his.

Brown. Entirely focused on you, with his pupils blown as wide as humanly possible, black swallowing the brown. You’re sure yours look the same. “For what?”

He pulls back just far enough to see your whole face. His hand slides down to hold your shoulder.

“For everything.”

[FIN.]

a/n: hashtag cockblocked. the song for this part can be found here. once again i'm very sorry if you asked for a tag and didn't get one >_< this system stresses me OUT i'll type the exact username and it still won't let me tag sometimes. evil evil evil. this is kinda short in my eyes because it was supposed to be with part 2. but whatever. if i'm not happy with something i'll never be happy with it, so i put this out anyway.

while this is my end for dex and his journo, if you'd like to see them in another situation i'm happy to revisit them upon request :) i got more dex codependency coming out slowly with reach out, touch faith, so look out for that! if you'd like to be added to rotf's taglist you can reply under any rotf post for a tag :3 thank you once again for every awesome comment and kind reblog!! all your love really helped stick with this even when it felt super hard to write :D

The audio is wind puckering the microphone over the distant noises of traffic. You can also hear the ragged breathing of someone who knows what's coming.

Then a voice. A man, middle-aged, trying to sound much braver than he feels: “You don’t have to do this. We can talk. Whatever they're paying you—“

A sound like a tenderizer hitting a steak. The man stops talking.

You open the video.

The frame is steady. A parking garage. Concrete pillars, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The victim is kneeling, hands zip-tied behind his back.

Bullseye’s chosen weapon is almost comical, a large steel water bottle sprayed matte black. The uncolored bottom catches the dim overhead light for half a second before denting the man’s left temple in a perfect circle. You can see the skin sagging to fill in the sudden collapse of bone. The crater that killed. 

The man falls face-first onto the concrete and never moves again. The video ends.

task force victim no. 12 weapon water bottle parking garage—under grand concourse? will check time stamp 9:47pm

Your phone buzzes.

He cried. It’s hard to see on camera.

You stare at the screen.

Did you also see his hands shaking? 

You type back:

i saw He had a picture of his daughter in his wallet. I left it on his chest. Someone needs to see it before they bag him.

You don't know what to say to that, so you don’t type anything.

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You're quiet tonight. i’m watching it again rn You never rewatch them.

Your stomach clenches. He knows. He always knows.

then im thinking about it What are you thinking?

You think about the face hitting the concrete. You think about the picture of his daughter. You think about the teenager in the coma. The protester with the fractured skull. The sister pushed down the stairs.

You type:

you probably could have done a lot worse

A long pause. Longer than usual.

Then:

That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.

You don't respond.

☆☆☆☆☆

The next morning, you wake up to a different kind of text.

[IMG_2871]

You open it, squinting past the grogginess and against the brightness of your phone screen.

It's a cat.

Specifically, it’s a grayish tabby sprawled on its back across the kind of beige hallway carpet you’ve seen in dozens of buildings, including yours. Likely a man’s hand—pale skin, scarred over on the knuckles, with long, sturdy fingers— is scratching its stomach. The cat’s front paws are curled toward its chest. Its eyes are half-closed in contentment. One ear droops downward in a cute halved triangle. It wears a ridiculous blue flannel collar with a little bow tie on it.

There's no caption. No context. Just the image.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you type:

is that your cat

The response comes in under a minute.

This is Mr. Meowgi. He’s the neighbor's. He used to yell at me when I walked past his door. The cat, not the neighbor. The neighbor is nice. I started bringing Meowgi fried eggs in the morning before going out. Now he likes me.

You almost laugh. You catch it in your throat and press your palm against your mouth like you can shove it back down.

why are you sending me a cat I just thought you should see him. why

A pause. Then:

Because it's nice. You deserve something nice after all the bad stuff you’ve seen.

You lock your phone. You set it face-down on your kitchen counter. You make coffee. You drink it standing up, staring out your window at the gray morning light.

Your phone buzzes again.

You tell yourself you won't check it.

You check it.

Another photo. This time, a view from a rooftop. The sun is rising over the Manhattan skyline, bleeding orange and pink across the clouds. The angle is just slightly off—not as composed as a photographer’s work, or someone used to posting online.

I took this at sunrise. You should see one in person sometime. I know a good spot near where you live.

You don’t want to respond to that.

You save both photos to your camera roll.

[TF-013.mp4            ▼]

The video comes three days later, a lull in the usual system. Friday night. You're half-asleep in bed with your laptop. An old episode of Abbott Elementary is background noise as you watch Nate the Hoof Guy. 

Your laptop chimes.

There was a point where you hesitated, then a point where you didn’t. You’re circling back to pausing before you click anything.

You open it.

The frame is different this time. Brighter. A living room. Beige walls. Family photos on a shelf. A dog whines lamely somewhere off-camera.

The victim is a woman sitting on her own couch. She’s bleeding from a cut on her lip. She’s staring at the camera with something that looks like exhaustion.

“My kids are upstairs,” she says. Her voice is steady. “Please. Don’t do this here tonight.”

The camera doesn't move.

A letter opener—brass, tarnished, the kind you find at estate sales—spins like a fan blade before catching her in the throat.

She doesn’t fall right away. She slumps sideways. One hand twitches toward the wound and blood that looks black soaks into the couch cushions.

The golden retriever starts barking. The video ends mid-bark.

You close the player. You don’t take notes. You sit in the dark and you don’t move. You don’t think about the kids upstairs. 

You don’t believe you thought that a self-hiring assassin would care if there were children in his target’s house. Why would he? You’ve given him too much benefit of the doubt, and now you’re in too deep.

Your phone buzzes.

The kids were with their father. He picks them up every Friday. I checked.

You type back with numb fingers:

you checked I always check. Then I check again.

You lock your phone. You stare at the ceiling. Your phone buzzes again.

She was going to testify as a character witness against someone who was wrongfully convicted of being a vigilante. and why are you telling me this So you know she wasn't innocent. None of them are. you keep saying that You need me to say it.

[TF-014.mp4            ▼]

The videos keep coming. So do the photos.

After TF-014—a lieutenant killed with a dart, the kind you see in bars, buried in his carotid—he sends you a picture of the sunset from the same rooftop. Purple this time. Almost violet.

The clouds were moving really fast today.

After TF-015—an officer who'd been flagged for excessive force three times, killed with an American flag pin—he sends you a photo of a pigeon sitting on a fire escape.

There’s something cool about the iridescent feathers, don’t you think?

You start responding to the photos before you respond to the videos.

meowgi looks pissed today I didn’t give him his fried egg today. I need to buy some more for the both of us. give him two tomorrow to make up for today He’ll start demanding two every day. thats not a me problem

[TF.mp4            ▼]

This video is different.

You can’t tell for sure, barring the feeling in the air and the unnumbered file name.

You download it, because you’ve now been downloading them before playing them. You’re keeping them anyway, so the order doesn’t matter.

You run the audio. It’s complete silence. No wind. No traffic. No breathing.

Your stomach drops. Rolls over like a scared dog.

You open the video.

The frame is unsteady. Not shaky, exactly—but not locked down. He’s being casual.

You're looking at a street. An apartment unit. A string of lights decorates the fire escape, even though it’s March.

They’re the lights you bought for Christmas, and the same ones you still have up.

The camera holds for four seconds. Five. Six.

Then it pans up slightly. To your living room window. The one you're sitting behind right now, blinds half-drawn, because you thought that was private enough. A shadow moves, when you walked from the living room to the kitchen for water.

The video ends.

Don't panic. Like I’ve said, I’m not going to hurt you.

You type with shaking hands:

why are you here I wanted to see if you were okay. im fine im just working jesus fuck go home But the lights in your apartment were off for fourteen hours. Headache? Are you sick?

You want to laugh. You are sick. Just not in the way he’s asking. 

You stand up. You walk to the window and close the blinds completely, they clatter annoyingly against the frame. You press your palm against the wall and try to slow your breathing, but it doesn’t work. It never works. You’re not looking down from the edge of the cliff, you’ve been in freefall for weeks now.

fuck off go home I left that spot. I’m already home. I just wanted you to know that I always could, but I never do.  is that supposed to comfort me how else am i supposed to react to this shit I’m just being honest with you.

You slide down the wall. You sit on the floor with your back against the cold plaster. Your phone buzzes again.

A photo.

You open it.

The sunset. From the rooftop of some random building. The sky is a deep, bruised purple.

Your building.

I think about you when I watch the sun set. I like those outdoor lights on your fire escape.

You save the photo.

You don’t respond for a long time.

But you can’t ignore him.

they’re actually christmas lights i just keep forgetting to take them down Yeah, you’ve been really busy. You can get away with leaving them up. They don’t look seasonal. i guess Good night, Cronkite. goodnight

You set your phone on the floor beside you. You stare at the blinds. The afternoon light filters through the gaps, striping your floor in gold.

Your phone buzzes one more time.

Sweet dreams.

When you close your eyes, you don't see the videos.

You see a gray tabby cat sprawled on his back in a hallway, completely unafraid.

[TF-016.mp4            ▼]

You don't make a conscious decision about it. One day you just… stop opening Word documents after the videos. You stopped logging badge numbers and weapons and locations. You stopped pretending that any of that matters.

What would you even write? victim no. sixteen. another bad person. another creative death. 

The notes were always a performance anyway. They were they way you convinced yourself that you were still a journalist who studied at a university for this job, and not just—what? A murder accomplice? A bystander? A person who saves a serial killer’s cat photos and thinks about him at sunset?

You don't have a word for what you are anymore.

☆☆☆☆☆

The texts change.

Not in content, exactly. He still sends the videos. He still sends the photos. He still makes comments about the kills that land somewhere between clinical and gloating.

But something’s in the air. The thaw of winter leads to the rawness of spring, when animals come out to find mates.

The space between you sending him messages gets far shorter, and he always replies within seconds. The silences get heavier when you pull back before leaning in again. You find yourself checking your phone at stoplights, grocery store lines, in the bathroom at 3 AM when you can't sleep.

No new messages.

You tell yourself you’re just waiting for the next video, so you know when to go to the station and pick up a police report because you’re not watching his videos anymore. That’s your job. That’s what Adriana pays you for.

But you check your phone anyway.

No new messages.

You set the phone down face‑up on your kitchen counter so you’ll see the screen light up as you cook dinner.

It doesn’t.

You eat dinner at your little dining table with your personal laptop open. Another episode of Abbott Elementary you’ve already seen plays as your eyes are glued to the spot just beside your phone. You wash the plate. You check your phone after you’re done.

No new messages.

You’re opening your messenger app before you can think.

are you alive

The response comes within twelve seconds.

Why? Did you miss me? :)

You stare at the screen. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You could say no. You could say don’t flatter yourself. I was just wondering if you’ve been caught.

You type:

maybe

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

That’s not a no. I missed you too, Cronkite.

You want to rip your heart out of your chest and choke yourself to death on it. Before you can start digging, Bullseye sends you a photo. Not a sunset. Not a cat.

A cup of coffee. Paper takeout cup, the kind from the bodega on your corner. The lid is off. Someone’s added too much cream. The coffee is pale, veering into being coffee-flavored cream instead of just coffee-with-cream.

You blink at the photo. Scratch that. This isn’t a cup like the ones in your bodega. You recognize that chipped mint green Formica.

You were just there. Twenty minutes ago. You bought sugarfree gum and a pack of Diet Coke. Mateo, the usual cashier, behind the counter didn’t look up from his phone when you tapped your card. You didn’t look around. You never look around anymore because this is your neighborhood spot, where everyone knows everyone.

Where everyone should know everyone.

Your blood goes cold and hot at the same time.

are you at my bodega I was thirsty.

Chew your lip. Maybe you’ll draw blood.

you could've said something Like what? “Hi, I'm the guy who sends you the videos. Nice to meet you. Can I buy you a coffee?” just say hi

A long pause.

Do you really want me to?

You don’t answer that because the answer is yes, and the answer is no, and the answer is something in between that needs a therapist with every passing day you keep texting Bullseye.

Instead, you type:

how was the coffee Terrible. They put too much creamer in it. you know you can ask them to put less I know, I was just a little preoccupied with something. with what You walked right past me. You were looking at your phone.

You close your eyes. You try to remember the bodega. Mateo behind the counter. The fluorescent lights. The cold leaking out from the drink cooler when you opened it.

A man by the chips, looking at Fritos and Funyuns. Tall. Dark jacket, black or navy blue, maybe. A baseball cap snug over his head. Virtually unidentifiable, you can’t remember a face.

what did you buy Orbit. The green one. thats my gum Yes. why do you know that I told you, Cronkite. I pay attention.

You should be terrified. You are terrified. But underneath the terror, there’s something else. 

Someone’s finally looking at you.

You’ve spent your career watching other people. Watching politicians lie, cops brutalize, crime lords setting the city on fire while everyone pretended it was fine.

No one ever watched you back until now.

☆☆☆☆☆

You start leaving your Christmas lights on all night.

You tell yourself it's because you forget to turn them off. You tell yourself it's because the switch is hard to reach. You tell yourself a hundred lies that all circle back to the same truth:

You want him to see them when he’s near.

You want him to look up at your window and know that you’re inside, and maybe you’re awake. 

Awake thinking about him.

It’s sick. You know it’s sick. This is the plot of a horror movie where the main character’s stupid associate dies because they were too stupid to run when they had the chance. Instead of sprinting for the exit, they’re arming themselves with a candlestick and trapping themself in the bedroom with the killer.

But you leave the lights on anyway with your blinds half‑drawn. You leave a path of breadcrumbs you pretend aren't breadcrumbs. Allude to your dwindling groceries. Allude to when you’ve just come out of the shower. Allude to how you live alone. The ardency is humiliating when you read back what you type.

Your phone buzzes at 11:47 PM with a photo of your building from across the street, your window reflecting the yellow of those not-so-seasonal Christmas lights, you save it to your camera roll.

You have forty‑seven photos now. Sunsets and cats, mostly, but among them are a pigeon and some fried eggs. A shadow that might be a tall, dangerous man shadow, casting a smear of black across an orange-tinted rooftop at dusk.

You have forty‑seven pieces of Bullseye.

He has all of you.

☆☆☆☆☆

The eighteenth video comes at 6:32 AM. You’re still in bed. The sun isn’t fully up yet. The room is still cold from the night’s chill, and you haven’t moved in hours because moving means starting another day of being what you are.

You open the video on your phone, breaking the streak. You don’t get up. You don’t turn on the lights. You just lie there in the dark and watch another bad person die.

You don’t even try to make mental ones. When the video ends you put the phone on your chest by your shoulder, and stare at the ceiling.

Your phone buzzes, slightly warm and reverberating in your clavicle.

She had three commendations for bravery. None of them were for helping civilians. you’re up early I got home pretty late, so I haven’t slept yet. me neither but i’ve been home sinve work ended What do you usually think about when you don’t sleep?

You. The videos. The way his hands don't shake. The way you watched that woman with kids die and felt nothing except a vague sense of good.

You type:

whether i'm still a good person

The pause is longer than usual. Almost a full minute.

Do you want my honest answer? yeah You’re perfectly fine the way you are. You know what needs to be done, but you still feel remorse about others dying. There’s some part of you that still holds together despite everything you’ve seen. But I don't think you’re just asking if you’re good. I feel like you’re asking if you’re alone in your feelings, because it’s hard to deal with this alone.  and i am No. You have me.

You close your eyes. You put your hand over your phone, sandwiching it between your collarbone and palm. You can feel the vibration of his words in your bones.

You should be horrified that a serial killer is validating you. Delete everything. Call the FBI, beg for witness protection, disappear into the Canadian wilderness where no one has ever heard of Bullseye or the Task Force or the Daily Bugle.

But you don't.

Instead, you type:

can u give me a meowgi pic

Bullseye sends one in under thirty seconds. The gray tabby is sprawled across a windowsill this time. Sunlight is hitting his fur. His eyes are half‑closed. He looks peaceful in a way you haven't felt in months.

I’m catsitting. I think he missed me, or his owner. maybe he was just hungry Maybe. I hope it’s because he likes me, but it's hard to tell with cats. sounds familiar

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Are you saying you like me?

You stare at the screen. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You could deflect. You could make a joke. You could pretend you meant something else entirely. Make up an old friend who has a catlike personality, and turn it into a cute anecdote.

You type:

im saying it’s hard to tell That’s not a no. yeah it’s not

You set the phone down. You roll onto your side. You pull your knees toward your chest and press your forehead against the cool wall.

Your phone buzzes again. Twice in quick succession.

Have a good day at work, Cronkite. I'm glad you're still here. :)

☆☆☆☆☆

The twentieth video comes on a Sunday. You’re at your home desk, pretending to work on a piece about city council budget meetings. Adriana has been breathing down your neck for more variance, so the Task Force killings are on the back burner as you cover local news. It’s the change of pace people usually need after covering a heavy topic.

You open the file. The frame is different this time. Wider. A street corner you recognize from a dozen press conferences. The camera is steady, propped on something—a trash can, a mailbox, you can't tell.

You're different today. Quieter. i'm just thinking About what?

You think about how far you've fallen. And how you don't want to climb back up.

work and if i'd feel anything if i saw you in person if i'd feel anything

The pause stretches. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

And what did you decide? that idk

Offensively casual. Exactly the opposite of what your heart is hammering into your ribcage.

Do you want to find out?

Your heart stops. Then it starts again, too fast, too loud.

what do you mean You know what I mean. I'm not going to hurt you, Cronkite. I keep telling you that, and I mean it. We could meet, if you wanted.

You read the message seven times. Your hands are steady. Your heart is not.

when You tell me when. how will i know when that is You’ll know. You have good instincts. okay

That's it. Four letters. No hesitation. No qualifiers. Just okay.

He then sends you a photo. Not a cat. Not a sunset. Not a coffee cup.

It’s a skyline. A more residential street stretches out below, brick apartments with their little windows and little people walking by. At the very edge of the frame, barely visible, is the edge of a building with a fire escape.

Your building.

I’ll see you sometime.

You save the photo. You close your laptop. You pull the blinds all the way up.

The Christmas lights glow white against the gray-brown evening. They look like a signal. A beacon. A message you're not ready to spell out loud.

He’ll read it anyway. He always does.

You’re not a good person anymore, despite what Bullseye says. You made peace with that sometime along the way.

But you’re not alone.

And right now, that's enough.

☆☆☆☆☆

You’re halfway down the third-floor landing when you see it—a blur of gray darting down the steps to the fourth floor, then curling up in the shadow at the base of the steps. You hear scritching noises from claws digging at the sad beige hallway carpet.

“Hey, baby,” you say softly as you come up, trying to seem nonthreatening. “Scared of something?” You shift your laptop bag to sit better on your shoulder as you get closer and—

You freeze mid-step.

That can’t be right. 

That can’t possibly be right. 

You’ve seen this cat a hundred times. He’s a gray tabby with a blue flannel collar. A little matching blue flannel bowtie puffs out from the back of the cat’s head. You have photos of this cat saved to your phone because someone sends them to you.

No.

And then you hear the footsteps.

They’re slow as they come down. The unhurried cadence of someone who knows exactly where they’re going and can take all the time in the world to get there. Your head snaps up the stairs before you can think to run, run, get the fuck out of here.

A man descends from the fourth-floor stairwell above you. Late thirties. Maybe early forties. You can’t quite see his face at first, just vague shape of broad shoulders, and a dark jacket with his hands shoved casually into the pockets.

Pockets that hold pencils and paperclips and a pack of playing cards. Items that shouldn’t be able to kill human beings, but do by some sick and twisted power put in the wrong hands.

The cat meows.

The man kneels down fluidly—too fluidly, like his joints are made of something more efficiently lubricated than bone and cartilage—and scoops Mr. Meowgi up with both hands. The cat doesn’t squirm at all. In fact, it seems to enjoy being in the man’s arms.

You watch him straighten up, cradling the cat against his chest like a baby. The stairwell’s harsh light catches his face.

He’s got a nice jaw. It’s clean-shaven. His blond hair leans more toward brown with his age, slightly tousled from possibly being outside. Brown eyes that look almost kind from this angle.

Your stomach drops anyway.

He opens his mouth, but another cuts him off before he speaks.

“Tony!” An elderly woman’s voice echoes down from the fourth floor. She’s coming down arthritically, with a determined shuffle. “You found my little łobuz!”

The man—Tony—smiles.

It’s a good smile. Warm, even. He tilts the cat toward the woman like a waiter presenting a particularly expensive dish. “He was trying to make a break for it. This little guy’s got a lot of ambition in him.”

The woman laughs, breathless and grateful, and takes the cat into her arms. She plants a kiss on its head, then reaches up to pat Tony’s cheek. “My hero. You’re a good boy, Tony. Thank you.”

Tony. Just Tony.

Your brain is already screaming.

Because you recognize the way he tilted his head when he smiled—that slight, predatory cant. You recognize the stillness in his hands even after he let go of the cat, the way they hover in the air for a fraction of a second too long, as if calculating where to land next. You recognize the geometry of his posture: balanced, lethal, coiled.

You’ve seen grainy surveillance photos. Witness sketches. A single blurry cell phone video from a warehouse fire two years ago, posted on a dark web forum you should never have found.

Bullseye.

He lives in your building.

No. That’s not right. He doesn’t just live here. He lives one floor above you. 4C’s famously been been empty for six months. The landlord kept showing to prospective tenants who never seemed to sign a lease.

You try to breathe normally. Try to remember what your face was doing before he came down the stairs. You’re still frozen on the landing, grocery bag digging into your fingers, and the woman is already headed back up with Mr. Meowgi in her arms. You, almost ridiculously, want to go with her to stay shrouded in whatever protection she obviously has, being neighbors with Bullseye and still breathing.

“Tony” is still standing there.

He turns.

His eyes find yours.

And for one endless, horrible second, you see it—the thing behind the smile. Not anger. Not malice. It’s something that looks at you and files something away for himself. You’re painfully aware of how you look. Standing with your feet at shoulder width. Heavy breathing rate. Your hand twitches toward the railing.

Then his smile widens, just a fraction.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says. His voice is pleasant. Almost friendly. “Didn’t mean to get in your way.”

He steps aside and gestures for you to pass him with a sweep of his hand that’s almost courtly.

Move. Move your legs. Move your body past him. Do not run. Do not let him see you run.

You walk.

You walk past him so close you could smell his cologne—something clean, something ordinary, something that makes your stomach lurch with the wrongness of it all. You keep your eyes forward. You do not look back.

But you feel his gaze on your spine the whole way down to the second floor.

And when you finally reach your door—hands shaking so badly you drop your keys twice—you hear a soft sound from the stairwell above.

Not footsteps.

A whistle.

A Billy Joel song.

He’s whistling.

You lock the door, and check the locks twice. You press your back against the wood and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, groceries forgotten in the hallway, heart hammering against your ribs like a caged thing.

He knows.

He knows you know.

And he’s happy about it.

You close your eyes and listen to the whistle fade as he walks back up to the fourth floor, one slow step at a time.

a/n: everyone please show some love to this beautiful fanart made with this chapter in mind. like holy fuck it’s amazing

anyway… THERE WILL BE A PART 3 AND IT WILL BE THE FINAL ONE!!! i just got so carried away with part 2 that it became a monster, and i had to split it. i've outlined what i want and everything so it'll be a couple days? idk my finals ended last week so i've been super free and just. writing all day lmfao pretty please listen to this song after you read this. i lovelovelove the scenes that had it in barry. lastly my mind is absolutely BLOWN by the amount of love i received on the previous part. you guys are so awesome and i'm so freaking honored to have made something that other people enjoy, let alone to this degree. here's to reading more and making more fic with all you lovely people!

It was rare you got to spend time with your family. Your elder brother Edwyn was the heir to your father’s title and, as such, the pair of them spent a great deal of time overseeing the land and renters. Leo, as a second son, was antsy and often busied himself on adventures that you could only dream of. Your sister Marian had been married some six months ago and you missed her dearly. When you had heard than she and her lord husband would also be in Ashford, you had been more than content to brave the long ride down just to see her.

And then there was the matter of your betrothal to Lord Frey’s son, Owen.

You hummed to yourself as you navigated the dark corridors, slippers padding along the stone floor. The only sign of life you could hear was from yourself. There was a good chance that you had gotten yourself turned around so you stopped and began to retrace your steps.

The pair of you had met at your sister’s wedding and both Lord Frey and your own father had been delighted at the way you seemed to draw together. Owen Frey was handsome enough, and not unkind, and he knew all the right things to say. When your father had told you of the potential for an arrangement, you had agreed without really thinking about it.

Owen Frey seemed a sensible enough man, and you certainly tried to be a sensible woman. Lord Frey was said to be an honorable and loyal man, and he and his wife genuinely seemed to care for one another. You hoped that with them as an example, Owen would also come to care for you as a husband should.

You paused, huffing a breath as you scanned your environment. It all looked the same. You were just about to turn on your heel again when you heard something ahead. Some kind of scuffling, and a laugh.

Pressing your lips together, you debated turning around. But by now you were likely already late for dinner and your father would not be pleased. Not when the Ashfords were such accommodating hosts – and not when the Targaryens were also staying.

With a nervous breath, you made your way forward and peeked around the corner. Immediately you sucked in a breath, clapping your hand over your mouth as you registered what was before you.

At first you saw only two lovers entwined. Hands beneath shifts and unbuttoned trousers and choked gasps. Then you recognised the clothes on the woman – a household servant of the Ashfords. You cringed at the way she scratched down the male’s back, moaning into his neck as his hands did something down the front of her dress.

You were not ignorant to the ways of man and woman. Well, not entirely, anyway. But you knew enough to know that it was incredibly bold of the pair to be so intimate so out in the open. You stifled a laugh and turned to dip away – and then you heard it.

“Oh, Owen, please!”

You stalled, mouth popping open with a silent ‘oh’. Shaking, you peered round the wall once more, just to confirm. Neither of the pair had spotted you. This time you saw what you had been previously blind to. The sword at the man’s hip, the Frey sigil on the pommel. The hair, an unassuming shade of brown, that only now you recognised. The man’s hand moved to grip the girl’s hip and you saw the rings adorning his fingers.

You stayed for only a moment longer, a headache forming between your brows. You did not confront them. Instead, you raced away, as quietly as you could, turning blindly down corridors until you bumped into a maid who was, by chance, looking for you.

You trailed after her until she reached the dining room, slipping by her as she held the door open for you. Your father stood to greet you and you heard yourself explaining that you had been lost. So silly of you! Your father laughed boisterously and made some joke about you being distracted due to your engagement.

“For a moment, daughter, we thought you had snuck away with Owen,” he chuckled, “Lord Frey told us the boy is ill.”

Baelor Targaryen offered you a polite smile as he responded to your father. Distracted once more, your father sat down and began conversing with the heir. Feeling that all attention was once again off of you, you made your way to the table and found yourself a seat.

You sat down at your brother’s side without looking up. It was only after your brother had pushed a steaming plate in front of you that you glanced about. You found yourself squeezing at your utensils, something hot and uncomfortable brewing in your stomach as you picked at your beef.

After a particularly vicious stab, you set your cutlery down. Tucking your hands beneath the table, you squeezed at your thighs until you were sure you drew blood. Your eyes stayed dry. You searched yourself for despair, for sadness, and instead found red hot fucking fury.

A shiver wracked through you and finally you looked up. Aerion Targaryen met your gaze. He did not blink as he stabbed a hunk of beef and brought it to his mouth. He chewed it nicely but his eyes were anything but.

You knew about Brightflame. About his propensity for anger and cruelty. You had made a game of avoiding him all week, despite the fact your family took meals with his almost daily. And now, with him sitting across from you, this was the closest you had ever been.

It must be exhausting, you thought, to be so angry all the time. You could feel your own righteous rage swirling in your chest, taking violent swipes at your heart every time you attempted to push what you had seen from your mind.

Aerion stopped chewing and stared openly. You blinked as you realised your lips had curled in something like a snarl. Your anger burned hotter than you knew what to do with. You slouched back in your chair, ignoring the way your brother coughed at your ill manners, and stared right back.

It was stupid. You knew that but you did not look away. Let him be cruel, you thought, let him spit and curse at you for your disrespect. You discovered that you anger enough to return the fire. It needed to go somewhere, did it not?

Your brother stilled, hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing in warning. And still, you did not move. To your surprise, it was Aerion that moved.

He cleared his throat and set his fork down. He leaned forward and you readied yourself for the fall out of your disrespect.

“Woman,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”

Your brother nudged you to answer. Distantly, you wondered if Owen remembered your name. If you thought about you at all as he fumbled with the maid girl in the corridor, where anyone could come across them. Did he feel guilt as he humiliated you? As he made you look like a foolish, sheltered girl?

“You do not recall my name,” you said slowly, “despite the fact that our families have dined together all week?”

Your brother choked on his wine. Aerion’s eyes widened, something chaotic and wild fluttering in his pupils. It looked like fire.

“I do not,” he answered just as slowly, chin dipping as he waited for your response.

You should tread carefully. You should apologise. You should lower your gaze and speak only when spoken to. You should pretend you never saw Owen and the girl and marry him anyway, settle for a life long of betrayal and disappointment.

“Then I do not wish to tell you,” you hissed, slamming your palms to the table as you shot up out of your chair. All eyes landed on you. “Father, I am unwell. I wish to retire.”

Aerion’s eyes made your skin burn. They drilled into the side of your face as you stoutly ignored him, dipping your head as your father stammered out an excuse and the host bid you well.

You walked quickly from the table, wrenching open the door before the guard could do it for you. Once alone in the corridor, the cool air brushing at your heated cheeks, a hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. To Aerion and Leon, it probably looked as though you were running. But it was not fear that had driven you from that hall.

Alone in your room, you waited for the tears to come. When the hours dripped on, and the tears still did not come, you resorted to pinching your thighs until bruises welled beneath your nails. Your eyes remained dry.

The anger would not leave. Seething, you threw yourself across the bed, tempted to tear at the sheets like some wild animal. You did not feel like the lady you had been raised to be. But where had that gotten you? Reeling and thoroughly humiliated, you felt lost.

What Owen had done was not out of the ordinary. You were sure that even your father had fathered a bastard or two in the village. But it was not what you wanted for yourself, and as a fourth daughter, you had more choice than most.

Owen had seemed like the safe choice. The sensible choice. You were vexed at your own naivety, annoyed at your own surprise and subsequent disgust. You had been willing to settle for the first man that seemed reasonable and now you were stuck. Did a right choice even exist?

There would be no wedding. You were sure that you could get your father to agree once you told him of what you had witnessed. Your father would not take kindly to his daughter being embarrassed in such a way. The Freys were going to benefit from the wedding more than your family so it would be no great loss.

You sighed. So much had changed in so little time. The tourney was over tomorrow and you would be making your way back home by mid-afternoon. Once on the road, away from the Freys, you could tell your father what you had seen. He would send word of the cancelled arrangement to the Freys, all without you having to set eyes on Owen ever again.

As the sky began to darken further, a maid came in to light your candles and the fire in the grate. Idly you wondered if she was the one you had seen with Owen earlier. Once she had left, you sat up and went to the window, peering out with boredom.

Anger still kindled in your stomach. You rested a hand over your lowed belly, half expecting to feel heat.

The castle was quiet. The gardens below were quiet, too. Your father would kill you for walking around in the dark without a guard but the room was beginning to feel stifling.

When you were young, you had been an unruly child. Eager to escape your finishing lessons and play with your brothers or roam the grounds alone. Your father had assumed you had grown out of it and maybe you had.

Now, though, all you wanted was to leave the suffocating grip of the castle. Owen was under the same roof as you, somewhere, sleeping soundly or perhaps not alone. If he was going to flout the rules so blatantly, then so would you.

Like earlier, you got turned around several times before you eventually found your way outside. The ground was slightly damp from the earlier rain. You would have to clean your slippers before dawn.

You wound your way around bushes and flower beds until you found your way to a hidden alcove. The moon was bright enough to guide your path and you kept carefully out of sight of the castle. The wall was slanted enough for you to rest against it, almost sitting.

The air was soothing against your harried flesh. You closed your eyes and imagined it cooling further, eager to shake the weight of emotion from your chest.

The garden was enclosed in high walls. Beyond them you could hear raucous laughter and singing. The final night of the tourney was just as loud as the first. What would it be like to be among the smallfolk? To laugh, to dance and to drink as they did? As men did?

What would it be like to fuck as they did?

The word was so crass that you open your eyes and looked around, half expecting your father to appear and scold you for the mere thought. Satisfied that you were indeed alone, you settled back and closed your eyes once more.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed when you heard it. Your name, cutting through the careful silence you had cultivated, drawing a shocked yelp from your lips.

Aerion Brightflame stood five feet in front of you, hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was not threatening – or maybe it was. It was difficult to tell when everything about him was threatening.

Aerion silver hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes appeared hastily thrown on, as though he had gotten ready for bed and then changed his mind. Perhaps the night air cooled his temper, too.

He repeated your name again, and you realised that someone else must have told him it. He looked smug and you wanted to smack him clean across the face for thinking he had won whatever stupid game it was that he thought you were playing.

“Do you make a habit of sneaking about alone?” he asked, stepping closer.

You squinted at him and did not reply. Was this the same man you had been avoiding all week? Whatever fear you had previously felt had been eaten away by fire and now fatigue as you slumped back against the wall.

Aerion’s lip curled at your silence; displeasure dotted in the creases of his face. You tilted your head a little. He was not unpleasant to look at, even when he scowled. He was handsome, you admitted, as all Targaryens tended to be.

“Answer me, woman,” he finally snarled, “or I’ll drag you before your father.”

Aerion had stepped closer. If you reached out a hand, you would be able to lay it on his chest.

What would it be like to fuck as they did?

It was a terrible idea. Downright stupid. When was the last time you had been stupid? Been anything other than the lady you were supposed to be?

You reached out and laid your hand on the dragon’s chest.

Aerion stilled. You met his eyes steadily, attempting to gauge interest. He did not stop you when you stepped closer, tilting your head until your eyes landed on his lips. They looked red and bitten already.

Aerion did not stop you when your hand slid up his chest and into the short hair at the base of the back of his neck. His lips parted and his breath puffed out when you tugged a little, curious. Owen had tugged that woman’s hair. It seemed like something that was done.

“Woman,” Aerion finally said, “are you stupid?”

“No,” you murmured, “but I think I’d like to be. Just for tonight.”

You were not sure who moved first; only that, one second you were thinking how similar a shade Aerion’s hair was to the moon, and the next you were pressed up tight in the alcove.

Aerion used his body to pin you there. At first, the kiss was clumsy and unpracticed. It was your first, after all. But you had always been a quick learner.

Aerion’s mouth was firm and unforgiving. Your lips parted under his like they had done so a thousand times, tongue reaching out to brush silkily along Aerion’s and earning a surprised groan. His hand came up to squeeze your face, holding you still as he had you how he liked.

It felt good. The kissing and the rebellion of it all. Throughout it all, your hands remained in his hair, tugging hard whenever he did something you particularly liked. He nipped at your lips, pulling sweet gasps and moans from them as he went. That push and pull of his tongue in your mouth, smoothing softly over yours – was that what fucking was like?

Aerion pulled away and you almost hissed. His hair looked messier than previously, the front of his clothes ruffled from where you had been pressed together. His lips were red and wet from the kiss and you watched as his tongue darted out and smoothed over them.

The anger had given away to something impossibly hotter. Something molten and desperate was welling in your core. It was nothing you had ever felt or even considered feeling when it came to Owen. You tilted your head back against the stone wall and waited for the prince to make a move.

“Foolish girl,” he finally said, dragging his eyes from where your breasts heaved against the ribbon of your dress. “Is that what you wanted? To act like a whore for the night? Are you satisfied, then?”

You laughed quietly, the sound ringing through the garden. “I think whores do a great deal more than kiss, my Prince.”

Before you could think too much, you reached down to rest your hand over the hard outline of Aerion’s manhood. He made a choked sound and jolted forward, no doubt surprised at your boldness. Instead of laughing at the shock on his face, you pressed your nose to his chest, seeking out the sliver of bared skin you had seen then.

And then you bit down. Hard.

Aerion groaned long and loud, hand coming up to grip the back of your head as he allowed you to sink your teeth into his flesh. It felt powerful. You did not relent until blood welled beneath your teeth, copper leaking onto your tongue as you laved it over his wounded flesh.

You kept your hand firmly on his cock, rubbing the heel of your palm over where you assumed the head was. Aerion’s grip grew tight before he let you go, chest heaving, staring down at you with blow pupils.

He said your name again, quietly this time, and with no mocking. His hands had fallen to grip your wrists but he let go of one, reaching up the place his palm over the spot you had bitten.

“And yet,” you sighed, “I still do not feel like a whore.”

You kept your mind switched off as your hands dropped and began tugging at the strings on his trousers. Your own core throbbed with every little move. It was different from the lazy self-exploration of yourself you had previously indulged in. Was this feeling normal or was it to do with the dragon before you?

“Fuck,” Aerion swore as you popped his cock from his trousers, the heated flesh pulsing in the cooler air.

It looked big – but that did not matter. You had no intention of taking it inside of yourself. Instead, you smoothed your palm over the head, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. You squeezed experimentally and smiled at the sound it produced from Aerion.

Aerion cursed again and then his hands were on you. You yelped as he held you firmly against the stone wall, damp rock pressing into your back, and began to ruck up your dress until it was fluffed around your waist. He kicked your legs apart and shoved his hand down the front of your garments until his fingers met the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.

This was not the plan. Not that there had been one in the first place – but this definitely was not it.

Aerion’s fingers met the soft, pillowy flesh on your cunt with little ceremony. His eyes were glued to your face, chest rising and falling swiftly as he parted you with his fingers and ran his index over the tight flesh of your hole.

“Even whores do not get this wet,” he growled, cupping your tender flesh. “Put your hand back on my cock. Now.”

You resented the bite in his voice but your mind was surprising gentle exploration of his fingers. Instead of sliding inside, they ventured up, up, until they met the soft ball of flesh that would surely make you lose your fucking mind.

Aerion buried his face in your neck, tongue licking over the exposed flesh as your hand found his cock and began to move. When he stopped, you stopped. You would not let him come away from having had more than you. You were determined to satisfy your earlier curiosity.

His fingers rubbed tight circles over your swollen flesh, faster and then slower. He rutted into your palm with hard thrusts, breath hissing in your ear as he approached his peak.

He was not the only one. You could feel your own fast approaching. For the first time, clarity began to clear your mind. You understood why Owen, why that girl, had gotten so caught up. Initially you had wanted to do this to experience what you felt you were missing out on, to be reckless as they had been. Now you felt the urge for control. The urge to prove that you were better than them.

Still you allowed Aerion’s fingers to rub you. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His hips bumped yours as he fucked your hand, orgasm tearing through him in a way that made you dizzy and thirsty for your own.

You yelped when Aerion’s head bent down, nuzzling into the pillowy tops of your breasts before he bit down. Hard enough that you were sure he immediately drew blood. You whimpered and yanked at his hair, teetering on the edge of your own orgasm.

If I go over the edge, you thought, I do not know if I can come back.

With surprising strength, you shoved Aerion away. Your dress came tumbling back down and the whisper of fabric over your skin was enough to almost have you orgasming anyway. Unprepared, Aerion staggered before righting his stance.

His still hard cock was still peeking out of his breeches and you tore your eyes away before you abandoned all common sense. You could feel his seed on your hand, warm and sticky. There was blood smeared all over his mouth and when he snarled at you, you could see it in his teeth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “You are not done here – we are not done here.”

You breathed heavily and swayed a little on your feet. You could see your own arousal on Aerion’s fingers, glittering in the moonlight. It looked rather pretty.

Aerion took a step forward and it shook you out of your reverie. Before he could say anything else (or use his fingers and command you to stay) you tore past him and ran inside. In some miracle, perhaps as reward for your restraint, you found your way back to your room in a matter of minutes. If Aerion called your name, you did not hear it.

The next morning was nothing memorable. You were beyond tired and still mildly irritated, but glad to be rid of the place. You had stayed up late cleaning your shoes and the conspicuous wet spot the prince had left on your dress. If the maids noticed anything as they packed your trunks, they did not say.

Your father was in a good mood. It was a good thing to spent time with the heir to the kingdom; it reflected well on the house. You smiled blandly as he and your brother Leon recounted their days, commenting on who had done well and the favourites.

The Targaryens had supposed to have been leaving early, but as you and your family made their way down, you discovered that they had not. You kept your gaze averted and curtsied when necessary, thanking Lord Ashford for his hospitality and Balor and his family for their company.

When you reached Aerion, you curtsied as before. Aerion surprised you by lifting your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your inner wrist. You felt his tongue on your skin and bit your lip, praying that your father would not notice.

Aerion pulled back and smiled. Your mouth dropped open. Your blood was still smeared across his lips and teeth.

Within days of arriving home, your father had contacted Lord Frey and told him the engagement was off. He was horrified by what you had reported. His poor darling girl, witness to such depravity!

As he had ranted and raved, you had subtly tugged at the high collar of your dress. You had taken to wearing such high collars and avoiding help from the maids since arriving home. The mark that Aerion had left on you was shocking. Blue and purple tinged with red. It was still sore and throbbed when touched firmly, which you did often.

You had managed to muster tears in your eyes and a tremble in your voice as you recounted the events of that evening. Perhaps you exaggerated a little. It did not matter; your father was thoroughly on your side.

Some days later, after some back and forth with Lord Frey, your father told you that Owen had left The Twins and was no doubted headed here, to your home. Your father had almost had an aneurysm at the sheer assumption of hospitality.

“Do not worry, father,” you had patted his hand, “perhaps he will come to apologise. I will hear him out, but I have no intentions of marrying him.”

“You are kind, daughter,” he nodded, “and wise. You deserve more than foolish young boys.”

Wise. You had nearly laughed. A week ago, you had been the stupidest person in the entire seven kingdoms. Stupider now, perhaps, since you did not regret it.

A week and a half after the tournament, you were sitting in the library when you heard the sound of a party arriving. You set your book down and straightened your spine before marching from the library and heading for the hall.

You paused outside, sharing a look with your ladies’ maid when you heard your father’s laughter from within. That was certainly not the reception you had envisioned for Owen Frey. Confused, you opened the door and stepped within, ready for an explanation.

Your father was stood there, arm in arm, with Maekar Targaryen. And to the left of him, tall and polished, was his son, Aerion.

You froze. For a moment you debated edging your way back out of the room but then your father caught sight of you.

“Ah!” he threw up his arms and came to grab your arm, pulling you further into the dragon’s nest. “My Princes, you remember my youngest daughter?”

“Certainly,” Aerion interjected before his father could speak. He dipped his head, mocking. “My Lady.”

You assumed you responded appropriately. You could not be sure. Maekar nodded stiffly, something like curiosity in his eyes as he looked you up and down. How much had Aerion told his father? Was he, in turn, going to tell your father?

“Why are you here?” you asked bluntly.

Your father said your name, surprised. “You did not know? I invited them here whilst we were all at the tourney.”

“Yes,” Aerion smiled, “I am here to hunt.”

The ground felt like it was dropping out from beneath you. Even the air felt thin. Whilst you swayed on your feet, vehemently regretting that night, your father chattered on to Maekar.

He had no fucking idea what he had agreed to. And, truthfully, neither did you.

Unwilling to leave your father and the princes alone, you found yourself getting ready for a hunt. You yanked on your riding dress and, once your front was covered, turned to allow your maid to lace up the back.

You did not know what Aerion had told Maekar, nor what his plans were with you father. You were worried that, at the first chance he had, Aerion would tell him of your indulgent and careless behaviour. Why else would he come all this way?

It seemed insane that he would do all this just to torment you. Or perhaps it would, if he were anyone else. Out of all the boys to fool around with. . .

You descend from your room and head for the stables. Yanking on your riding gloves, you find the stall of your horse, Silver. She was a precious thing and fickle with anyone other than you. You smoothed your hand over her mane and waited for the stable boy to arrive.

Aerion arrived first.

You scowled at the flash of silver hair you saw from the corner of your eye and did not bother greeting him. It was not him you feared; it was what he might tell you father. You should probably consider attempting to butter him up. Your lips thinned at the idea and you continued to ignore him.

Heat was radiating from his body as he stepped up bedside you, bumping your arm with his. Without asking, he reached out to pet Silver. You hoped she would bite him. Instead, she huffed and leaned down to nose at his palm. You frowned.

Distracted, you did not notice Aerion’s other hand creeping up toward the collar of your dress. You squeaked when you felt his fingers on the hem, yanking it down until the ugly spot he had left on your upper breast came into view.

The flesh was still unhealed. Whenever you looked closely in the mirror, you could still see the outline of Aerion’s teeth.

“Good,” he hummed, “yours has not healed either.”

He did not let go of your clothing, instead leaning closer as though he might bite again. Outraged, you slapped the prince across his face. Aerion let go at once, hand coming to rest on the quickly darkening flesh of his cheek.

Your chest was heaving, eyes wide and blinking furiously. You wanted to shout, to slap him again, to demand the real reason as to why he had come. You had finally been getting back to normalcy when he and his father had shown up.

You snarled still as Aerion reached out again, raising your hand as though you might strike him once more. This time he did not try to tear at your clothes. He tugged them back into the rightful position, brushing the wrinkles from your bosom as though his fingers were not leaving trails of fire behind as they went.

“I knew you had fire in you,” he finally said, brushing his fingers over your bared collarbones.

Before you could respond, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. You whirled around, horrified to see Maekar waiting by the stable doors. Aerion did not seem alarmed. He met his fathers gaze and inclined his head before going to his own horse.

Maekar did not say anything. His gaze bounced from his son and then back to you, as though he was putting something together. He did not speak and seemed surprised. Had he seen you slap his son? It was nothing he had not deserve.

Markar must have agreed because he offered you a soft nod and then turned his attention to Aerion. You went back to Silver and pretended that neither of them were there. The two of them were having some kind of hushed conversation and you could not make out what they were saying.

Eventually your father and the stable boy arrived, and the hunt began.

Your father and Maekar rode ahead, crossbows hanging by their sides. It was the most serious you had seen your father. Neither of the men spoke, which you preferred.

Aerion rode at your side, which you did not prefer. He had his own crossbow but seemed to have little interest in it. His gaze was firmly fixed on the side of your head. Occasionally he would come close and kick softly at your calves, or reach out to pull your hair when he knew neither of your fathers were looking.

One particularly hard pull had you swearing and slapping at his hands. Aerion laughed quietly so as not to draw the attention of your fathers. Yours was particularly oblivious. Maekar, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes sliding from Aerion to you. He seemed bewildered. Perhaps you were not the only one who did not know what Aerion was up to.

After several hours with no sign of game, you began to wish you had remained home. Let Aerion say what he would. It was not worth you distress.

Suddenly everyone seemed to still. You shivered at the sudden change. Even Aerion was silent. You peered out into the dense forest, trying to see whatever it was that had captured everyone’s attention. The only sign that anything was there was a slight rustling in the bush, and then a dull ‘thunk’ as Aerion fired from his crossbow quicker than you thought possible. Then a thud, as whatever it was hit the ground.

Aerion dismounted and disappeared into the brush, returning with an impressively large stag. Your brows raised at the clean shot. It was something even your brothers would have struggled with. Aerion held it up by the antlers and stared in your direction. You smoothed your expression and looked away as though you were bored. You did not want to encourage further ridiculousness.

You stayed on Silver as the men tied the poor creature between their horses and began to head home. Bloodlust satiated, Aerion mostly left you alone, and for that you were thankful.

At dinner, Aerion had the honor of the first serving. It had been divided into manageable chunks, cooked and seasoned in the preferred way of your guests. The scent of venison was thick on the air and you were hungry after the ride.

Your eldest brother Edwyn joined you at dinner. His lady wife was unwell and remained abed. If he was surprised by the royal visitors, he did not show it. He settled into pleasant conversation with your father and Maekar. To his credit, he attempted to include Aerion but the prince seemed determined to make him uncomfortable.

Rather than take the first cut for himself, Aerion slid it your way. All the men at the table went silent. Aware of the gaze of your father and brother, you smiled sweetly and acted surprised.

“For the lady,” Aerion said, smirking at your obvious discomfort.

The meat was rare and bloody. Not your favourite but you would manage. Aerion tucked in to his own with little fanfare, blatantly ignoring his fathers’ eyes. Greasy blood dripped over his lips and he chased the flavour with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with you.

 Conversation resumed and you ate your own food whilst wishing for the ground to open up beneath you. Did Aerion even have to say anything? One look at him and your father would surely learn of your behaviour that night. Aerion was hardly subtle.

For the first time since they had arrived, you wondered about Owen. He had been on his way here, had he not? You cringed inwardly at the thought of Owen and Aerion interacting. Not that Aerion would care about Owen, but during the Ashford tournament, Owen had been practically tripping over himself trying to impress the Targaryen guests. You dreaded to think of enduring that behaviour within your own home.

Aerion chose that moment to kick you under the table. Your knee bounced against the underside, drawing the attention of everyone once more. You laughed uneasily and apologised, waving away your father’s concerns.

You waited until all attention was back on the food, and then you kicked Aerion right back.

The next few days went by in a similar fashion. Maekar continued to hunt with your father, returning empty handed most days, and Aerion remained at the castle with you.

Everywhere you went, he was there. More often than not, the pair of you ended up alone. The servants were scared of him and you could not blame them. You overheard him barking at them on several occasions, and he had even thrown something at one of the maids who had come to wake him one morning.

Miraculously, none of these incidents seemed to make their way back to either of your fathers. If the staff trembled when they refilled Aerion’s cup, they did not notice. Neither did Aerion, for his attention was usually fixated on you.

You kept waiting for that temper to turn on you but it never did. So, you continued to bite back, though not literally, and convinced yourself you were doing it on behalf of all the servants.

After several days, you realised that the only thing that seemed to genuinely irritate him was you ignoring him. So, naturally, that was exactly what you did.

No longer did you glance up when he entered the room. At mealtimes, you arranged yourself carefully in your chair so that his legs could not reach you. You had your ladies’ maid, Silena, wind your hair into intricate braids so that there was nothing he could easily pull.

Aerion’s fury built. You pretended not to notice when he sniped at the servants and scowled at your father. Maekar, eager to soothe over any tensions caused by his wild son, was always quick to distract your father with conversation.

One day, Aerion went out hunting with Maekar and your father. Once again, he presented you with the first cut of meat that he had caught. You thanked him politely and nibbled at it as though dissatisfied. Aerion jerked about in his chair as though he might jump up and start shouting.

Would that be enough to get your father to send him away? Probably not. You were beginning to understand that Targaryen princes got away with everything.

Four days trickled past, and there was still no sign of Owen. Not that you thought of him often. A raven had arrived from Lord Frey, asking if his son had arrived. It was odd and you had felt sorry for the man, worried for his son. No doubt he would turn up soon, but not so soon that you had to bear with him and Aerion under the same roof.

On the fifth day, you were thoroughly exhausted. You had begun to avoid Aerion as much as possible – and it mostly wasn’t. The man seemed to have eyes on you at all time.

He had spent most of the day with you in the library. When he wasn’t thumbing through books, he was digging his dagger into the table that had been in your family for generations. His blatant disrespect was unsurprising and you had snuggled further in your chair and tried to pretend like you were actually reading the words on the pages.

After an hour or two of the stifling silence, Aerion had got to his feet and torn the book from your hands. He had torn into it, throwing pages over you like confetti. You had been furious and ready to deliver another swift smack to his cheek. A servant had entered that time, saving you from breaking your silence, and you had both gone down for lunch.

Your father was not the most observant man, but even he could see that you were beyond taxed by the end of the day.

Rather than indulging in evening drinking and games, he suggested that you retire early and have a bath drawn by the staff. You were more than happy to do just that.

You lounged on your bed with a book you did not read as the servants prepared your tub. The water was steaming hot and inviting. Once it was full, they scattered petals into the water and added drops of some scented oil that had you relaxing almost instantly.

Your ladies’ maid waited to help you undress but, as you had every day since returning, you waved her off.

“I’d like some time to myself, Silena,” you smiled softly, “I’ll call for you once I am finished.”

You waited until the door was shut, and then several minutes more for good measure, before undressing. You tried to avoid looking at the bruise on the swell of your breast. Your eyes were drawn there automatically.

Pressing a hand over it, you hissed at the memory of pain and ignored the sparks it sent between your legs. Piling your hair on your head, you arranged it until you were satisfied it would not get wet. Once you were completely bare, you stepped into the tub and settled down, letting your head fall back against the high edge.

The water was verging on boiling, as you liked it. It was milky from the oils and soap. You grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and began to run it over your shoulders and behind your ears.

You let your mind go blank as you cleansed yourself several times over until all you could smell was lavender and something almost smoky. Once more you sat back, content to relax until the water turned cold.

The sound of the door opening had you sighing and dipping lower into the water to hide your bruise. “Silena, I have no need of you yet –“

“But I have need of you.”

You shot up straight, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. Aerion let the door fall shut, reaching behind himself to click the lock into place. His eyes were dark as the fixed on you in the tub and you shivered, cold despite the hot water.

“I’ll scream,” you warned him.

“I’ll tell your father what we did together,” he countered.

He toed off his shoes as though these were his rooms and began to make his way towards you. You had no weapon, nothing with which you might fight him off with, and he seemed to know it.

You dared not take your eyes off of him. When he settled on his knees next to the tub, you became painfully aware of your naked state. It was strange; he had had his fingers on you, almost inside of you, and yet he had not seen you. Not really.

Aerion seemed to be thinking the same thing. He seemed displeased at the milky state of the water. It concealed you from him. You drew your knees up to your chest and waited for him to speak.

Aerion dipped his fingers into the water and hissed. “Hot.”

“I like it that way,” you defended. Then you shut your lips tightly, wishing you had not spoken at all.

Aerion smiled and touched your bare knee beneath the water. You tried to jerk away but he gripped you tight, nails biting into your softened flesh. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I am not here to entertain you, prince.”

“I thought that, too, at the tournament,” he said, “but then you were so wonderfully entertaining in the garden that night. I want more. Have wanted more, since then, and yet you deny what was once so freely given. Why?”

Your mouth felt dry. “I am a lady.”

“And yet,” he repeated, “you betrayed your betrothed that night, with me, didn’t you?”

You stilled, barely registering his words before they hit you full force. “He betrayed me first!” you snarled, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.

Aerion squeezed your knee tighter, ignoring the water creeping its way up his sleeve. It soaked into the golden embroidery that was pattered there, darkening the fabric until it looked like it had been flecked with blood.

“Betrayed you?” Aerion repeated. “Vengeful little thing.”

“He is no longer my betrothed,” you added weakly. “I told my father about what he did.”

“But he was coming here to see you regardless,” Aerion said, mostly to himself.

“How do you know about that?” you asked, finally tearing his hand from your knee. Blood welled from the indents he had left in your flesh with his nails. You shivered at the sting as the warm water washed over them.

Aerion’s eyes dropped low, searching for that mark he had left on your skin over two weeks ago. Then they dipped lower still, fixing on the tips of your breasts that were barely visible beneath the water.

He let out a muted groan, dragging his eyes upward until they were once again on your face. “I believe I said that we were not finished.”

It took you a moment to remember what he was talking about. “Aerion, no.”

“You think you know what you want,” he murmured, “and maybe you did, all those weeks ago. But your mind has become clouded. Allow me to clear it for you.”

You gasped when Aerion leaned over the tub, hands grasping your shoulders as he pulled you forward and arranged you to his liking. He had you with your back to him, against the tub, allowing him to peer over your shoulders and down your body.

You tried to move forward but he would not allow it. You stopped moving when you felt his teeth at your neck. If he left a mark there, it would be visible to everyone, including your father.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Let me finish what we started.”

Beneath the water, Aerion cupped your breasts with a firmness that had you whimpering. You could feel his warm breath puffing over the shell of your ear and you squirmed, searching yourself for your earlier reluctance. It was not there.

When Aerion rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, you nearly dissolved into the bath water. He kneaded them gentle, rolling the tips between his fingers in a way that had you gripping at his arms and shoving your face against his shoulder.

One hand abandoned your breast, instead snaking down and over the swell of your stomach, searching for the wetness between your legs. You let your thighs fall open without a second thought, eager for that feeling from those weeks ago.

Aerion sucked in a breath. “Sweet girl.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek at the same time as his fingers made contact with your aching clit. This was dangerous, you tried to remind yourself, for this you might do anything.

Like before, Aerion’s fingers began to propel you toward orgasm quicker than you typically could alone. Your clit seemed more than eager for whatever he wanted to give and each touch felt devastatingly soft, as though he was punishing you for not allowing him to give you this back in the garden.

Distantly, you wondered if he was trying to prove something. You could not find it in you to care, so long as he kept doing whatever it was that he was doing.

You almost didn’t notice when his fingers began to slide lower until one was nudging at your entrance. It was not something you typically did alone. You were always too worried of spilling your own blood. You opened your mouth to protest but, before you could, Aerion had you spread apart on his fingers as he gently fucked you with his hand.

You choked on your breath. “Aerion, please – you can’t –“

“Shhh,” he whispered, surprisingly tender as he took you apart. “Do not worry. Just feel.”

All it took was one swipe of his thumb over your clit. You had to plaster your hands over your mouth to mask the sound that was spilling from your lips. Aerion did not stop and instead continued to stroke you through your orgasm, to the point of painful sensitivity. He did not stop until you physically pulled his hands from you, and even then he seemed reluctant.

You sagged against the tub, entirely breathless and shaken. Aerion grabbed your face with one hand, turning you this way and that, as though he were admiring his own work. You waited for some snarky comment.

Aerion hummed to himself, letting his hand drop until it was hovering over the bite mark. His bite mark. He did not touch it, instead he pulled back and got to his feet, stepping somewhat unsteadily away from the tub.

“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. “Never ignore me again.”

With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out as though he was never there. The only sign that he had been was a churning in your stomach and an ache between your thighs.

Once you were sure he was gone, you dunked your head under the water and did not come up until your lungs were screaming for air.

Despite his words, you did not see Aerion the next day. Nor the one after that. You father, brother and Maekar also seemed to have disappeared. Uneasy, you assumed they had some official business that needed seeing to. Maybe the princes had even left.

No, you knew they hadn’t. It felt silly to say but you could feel Aerion, still lurking in your home, despite staying out of sight. Fire seemed to burn hotter with him in the building.

At night you found yourself sweaty and cross, abandoning your blankets and tossing and turning until you were able to pass out. You never slept for long.

On the second day, after hiding in the library and dining alone, you felt unusually anxious. All your clothes felt tight and ill fitting. Had Aerion told your father about the bath? It was all you could think about all day. You picked at your food and didn’t read a thing until it was time for bed, at which time you went up alone and dismissed Selina in favour of dressing yourself.

You tugged on a sleep gown, relishing the soft loose fabric in comparison to your day clothes. The fire in the grate was out and you felt too warm to fetch Silena so you left it alone, allowing the candles lit to guide the way to your bed. You shoved all the sheets down until they were not touching you. Then you positioned yourself like an X, trying to cool down and banish the day’s anxieties from your brain. You had to stay in control. It would not do to let your guard down when Aerion was around.

Sleep would not come. Even when you trained yourself to stay perfectly still, taking even and deep breathes, it seemed to taunt you from the darkest corners of your room. Eventually the candles went out, leaving you in almost complete darkness.

The moon still shone in through your window. It allowed you to see vague shapes and the outline of your own body. You squeezed your eyes shut and begged the seven for sleep.

Just when you were ready to jump up and begin lighting candles, there was a noise. For a moment you did not recognise it for what it was. Your heart shot into your throat as you realised it was the sound of your door opening and shutting, then the lock falling into place.

You remained still, tense and silent as you peered into the darkness, heart hammering in your chest. It was not until the moonlight glinted off of something silver that you relaxed.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed, sitting up as Aerion approached your bed. “You can’t be in here.”

“Scared?” he asked, settling himself on the edge of your bed.

“This is highly improper,” you warned, eyes bulging from your head as Aerion began to shed his clothes as though the room were his own.

He did not respond. He continued shucking his clothes until only his braies remained, the outline of his cock already half hard between his legs. You swallowed and commanded yourself not to stare. Eventually he shed those too.

“You can’t be in here,” you repeated weakly.

Aerion’s hand found your ankle in the darkness. You yelped as he yanked you, your back hitting the mattress as he dragged you further down the bed. You were near winded as he climbed on top of you, knees on either side of your hips as he rested his weight softly on your stomach.

It wasn’t until he began to snatch at your wrists that you remembered yourself and began to struggle. With a yell, you set your teeth to the first line of flesh you saw.

Your teeth sank into his bicep much like they had sank into his chest all those weeks ago. Blood trickled into your mouth and you bit harder.

Aerion’s hand came to cradle the back of your hand. “That’s it, just like that.”

Immediately you let go, hissing up at him with bloodied teeth. “There is nothing sweet about this. Now get off.”

Aerion leaned down and licked the blood from your mouth, moaning every time you nipped at him with already bloodied teeth. It was insanity, madness, and it was making you unbearably fucking wet.

“My turn,” Aerion said, and then his teeth were burying into your neck so deeply that you faintly wondered if you would scar.

Your hips bucked upward, driving his cock into your stomach as he sucked at your neck, teeth pinching and tongue soothing as he went. You were done. There was no way you could cover whatever mark he had left this time. Had this been his plan all along?

When Aerion pulled away, there was blood smeared across his face just like before. More of it, even. He ran his fingers over the mark you had left and hissed, fisting his cock with his other hand.

“Enough with waiting,” he muttered, “I have been a patient man.”

You did not protest as Aerion shoved your night dress up until it was bunched under your armpits. You nearly moaned when he parted your thighs, baring you to him fully for the first time.

He pressed his fingers to your entrance and groaned. “So fucking hot. Are you sure you are not blood of the dragon?”

He ran his fingers through your arousal and brought them to his lips, letting your slick mingle with the blood before licking his fingers clean. Your cunt throbbed with each pass of his tongue over his fingers and it took you a moment to realise you were whimpering aloud.

“No matter,” he said, “you’ll have a dragon inside you, one way or another.”

Placing one hand on your stomach, Aerion used his other to notch his cock at your entrance. The heat coming off him was intense. Sweat beaded on your hairline as you tried to focus on the consequence, on why you should not be doing this, but your mind refused to focus on anything but the thick feel of Aerion sliding into you.

There was a flash of pain as he nudged up against something inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, instead thrusting forward and taking your maidenhead with little compassion. You winced at the bite of pain.

Aerion kept your thighs pinned wide to accommodate him. His eyes darted from your face to the obscene sight between your legs. His hips began to shift as he thrust in earnest. All thoughts of pain fell away as you became accustomed to the thickness of him.

Aerion Brightflame was fucking you and you were letting him.

Everyt ime your eyes fell shut he would stop until you were focused back on him. The wet sound of your union had your ears burning as you mewled beneath him, greedily chasing every little feeling he was introducing you to.

You could feel yourself twitching around his length as his nails dug into the meat of your thighs. The scent of sweat and sex was a heady thing, heavy on your tongue as Aerion fucked you steadily with deep thrusts of his cock.

Your jaw dropped open when his hand dipped between your legs, collecting blood there and bringing it to his chest, smearing it there as he gazed darkly down at you.

You watched as he smeared the blood in a line over his lips, and then as he reached down and made the same motion over yours. You could taste the copper and sweat and felt almost dizzy with the arousal that hit you.

Aerion was not finished. His hand went down again, this time with his thumb finding your clit. He wasted no time. He began rubbing in the way he had learned that you liked, driving you toward orgasm faster than you could keep up with.

Your thighs clenched around his hips, trying to slow him down, but he was relentless. Between the quick passes of his thumb and the way he was fucking you, you were helpless. Your orgasm splintered through you like physical thing, wiping your mind blank until all that tied you to earth was the cock breaking you open and the hands gripping your face.

“Yes, yes,” Aerion chanted, hips driving into yours with vigor. “Come around me, wife.”

His words made no sense and yet – your orgasm washed over you, stronger than ever, until you were left writhing beneath him on the bed. You recognised your own voice, begging for a break as Aerion wrang every drop of relief from you.

It was only then that his hips began to lose rhythm. He leaned down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, tongue chasing the combination of blood, sweat and arousal that coated both your lips. You felt him moan into your mouth, felt his hips stutter as he emptied himself inside you.

You were still aware enough to know that it was a bad thing. Visions of yourself, unwed and with child, threatened to break the bliss. You tried to push Aerion off but he was having none of it.

“Be still,” he grumbled, arranging you in his arms until he had you pinned to his chest, cock still inside you. He pinched your ass when you would not stop moving.

“Aerion,” you cried, pushing at his chest. “You – you have ruined me! I could be with child –“

“Good,” he yawned, fingers pinching, “it will reflect well on me when you are with child in less than a year after the wedding.”

You paused, remembering his earlier words. “Wedding? I am not getting married, Aerion.” “Oh, but you are,” he grinned, all sharp and poision, fitting his teeth to the mark he had already made on your neck. “You are to be a dragon’s bride. My bride.” “My father would not allow it,” you said weakly, disbelieving.

“He already has,” Aerion bit down, “he will tell you of your good fortune tomorrow morning.”

“My father would not make me –“

“Make you?” Aerion repeated, pulling back slightly so that he could see your face. The movement reminded you that his cock was still very much inside you. “Who is he to refuse a dragon?”

“Besides,” he continued, “you are well suited to me, wife.”

“Wife,” you said numbly, shivering when Aerion tilted his hips and rubbed his cock against a particularly inviting place inside you.

“What do you think I came all this way for?” he smiled wolfishly. “Look how you blossom beneath me. My wife. Call me husband. I demand it.”

a/n - when the cookie is so good he stalks you across Westeros and his father is so tired of him that he goes along with it

I worked so hard on this 😭 please let me know if you enjoyed it! Every like, reblog and comment is deeply appreciated

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Was that your ex at your door? Had he come back to finish what he'd tried to do earlier tonight? Had the man you'd run into on the street, the one who’d only given you the name “Dex,” not actually handled the situation like he'd promised?

Gaze sweeping back to your damaged face in the mirror, your own fear reflected back at you, the panic clear in your eyes. Feeling your breath starting to come in shallower, your now trembling hand slowly lowered down to the countertop of the bathroom vanity before you pushed yourself away from it. 

Padding barefoot and wary across the tiled floor, you stepped out of your bathroom and back into the main living area of your apartment, pausing beside your television sitting on the stand against the wall. Your mind started racing, your thoughts spinning just as fast as your heart hammering inside of your chest. For the third time tonight, you could feel your adrenaline spiking.

But if that was your ex outside of your door, he was being uncharacteristically quiet. Usually when he showed up–even in a good mood–he was shouting through the door at you inside without a care for your neighbors, not standing wordlessly in your hallway. He also didn’t knock politely just a couple of times and stop, he generally pounded his fist against your door impatiently until you answered. Considering what’d happened between you both tonight, you doubted he’d be this calm standing out there.

But who else would be visiting your apartment this late at night if it wasn’t him?

Your tongue slipped out between your dry lips, nervously wetting them as you carefully began making your way through your small living room and towards the door. When you finally reached it, you leaned forward, pressing your palms flat against it as you squinted through the peephole. To your utter surprise, it wasn’t your ex who’d knocked at your door. It was Dex.

Pulling back away from it, you stared at the deadbolt in stunned silence. Why had he come back to your place? What did he want with you? He’d seemed friendly enough when he’d walked you all the way back here a bit ago, and he’d made you feel safer as he searched the apartment building for any trace of your ex on your way up to the third floor. Surely you could trust him, couldn’t you? He’d told you he was one of those vigilantes fighting the task force, that he’d previously been a federal agent, and he had offered to help you out tonight. Maybe he’d just come back because your ex wasn't home. Maybe he'd wanted to make sure that he hadn’t showed up at your door instead, worried over your safety.

Finally coming to a decision, you began undoing the deadbolt before unlocking your door the rest of the way. Swinging it open, you came face to face with Dex standing innocently in your hallway. One of his hands rose, moving almost mechanically in a short, stiff wave.

“Hello again,” he greeted.

You stared at him for a few seconds, still dumbfounded over the fact that he'd returned. Part of you was beginning to fear that something had gone wrong when he'd confronted your ex, that maybe he'd only upset him further and now you were really in for it.

“Hi,” you finally managed, one hand still gripping your door. “I–I didn’t think you would come back. Did something happen?”

A small, tight smile spread over his lips, but you noticed how it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those same eyes which still held that same, strange calculative look in them from when you’d first met him on the street. But maybe you were reading far too much into it, because you’d certainly endured plenty tonight. You were probably just on edge, trying to see things that weren't really there.

“I just came by to let you know that your ex won’t be a problem anymore,” Dex informed you. “I thought telling you was the right thing to do. So you wouldn’t have to worry.”

Brows rising up marginally onto your forehead, you were shocked at how fast he seemed to have dealt with the situation. It hadn’t taken him very long to leave your place and stop at your ex's. You’d only been back at your apartment for a half an hour, and all you’d managed to do since you’d returned home was change out of your damp clothes and wash the blood from your face before he’d knocked on your door. 

“So he–he got the message?” you cautiously questioned.

Fingers tightening around the door, you held your breath as you watched his smile gradually widen. If he'd really gotten your ex-boyfriend to leave you alone, he'd done more than any NYPD officer ever had for you. You were teetering on the verge of relief waiting for confirmation.

“I don’t think I could’ve made the message any more clear than I did,” he stated proudly. 

There it was again. That weird way in which he spoke that had something itching in the back of your mind, feeling as if there was something not quite being said. But you couldn’t put your finger on exactly what it was or why you felt that way.

“I thought I’d check on you, too,” he added.

His right hand began to raise and your attention immediately snapped down to focus on it, fear shooting through you in a knee-jerk reaction. But the panic that’d been flooding your system quickly started to dissipate when you saw what he’d brought. A first aid kit. Brand new, as if he’d stopped somewhere on his way back to your apartment just to buy it for you. Swallowing hard, you stared at the bright red canvas with the little white cross positioned in the center of it. It looked like one of those really well-stocked ones, not the cheap little plastic ones you’d bought in the past that contained the bare minimum. 

“You–you came back just to check on me?” you awkwardly stammered, staring at the bag in his hand.

Slowly lowering the first aid kit back to his side, you caught the way his expression faltered from your peripheral. Looking back up at him, your brows furrowed faintly together again at the uncertainty that’d suddenly made its way onto his face. His lips had thinned into a straight line, his eyes partially narrowing at a space just over your shoulder as if in thought.

“Should I not have?” he asked. 

“Oh–no,” you answered quickly, shaking your head a few times. “No, I just–just wasn’t expecting another visit. I didn’t think you’d be concerned about my, you know, well-being enough to come back with medical supplies. That was very…thoughtful of you.”

And his thoughtfulness had certainly thrown you. Never had someone paid you that much consideration before. You were used to patching yourself up after one of your exes had gotten upset with you, and you were used to hiding behind lies and makeup to cover up what had actually happened. Having someone go out of their way to make sure that you were alright was completely foreign to you. While he’d still never asked how you were doing, maybe this was his way of showing his concern? 

Dex shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly as he stood in your hallway, and you couldn’t tell if he was downplaying the gesture, or if he truly seemed that indifferent. He was easily the most difficult person to read out of anyone you’d ever met before.

“Seemed like it was part of the process,” he replied. “Do you mind if I–?”

He gestured his free hand in the direction of your face, implying that he’d wanted to come in and tend to your injuries. A sheepish smile slid onto your lips, but your expression immediately shifted into a faint grimace as the gesture caused a sharp stint of pain to erupt in the left side of your face. Gently placing the back of your hand against your swollen cheek, you stepped to the side of your open door and tried to relax the muscles in your face.

“Sure, come in,” you invited him. Blinking rapidly a few times, you attempted to push back the tears now stinging at your eyes from that burst of pain. “I uh, I actually was rather low on things in my own first aid kit.”

Dex made a deep noise in the back of his throat in acknowledgement as he crossed the threshold and sauntered into your apartment. You closed the door after him and turned around, your hand lowering from your cheek as you watched him. He’d taken a few steps into the open living space of your place, standing behind your couch as he openly scanned over the living room and the small kitchen with the little dining table. You felt heat flush in your cheeks, suddenly growing embarrassed at how small and simple the place appeared. 

“It’s not much,” you muttered, almost apologetically.

With his back facing you, you couldn’t quite see his expression as he took everything in. He remained silent for a few seconds longer, still staring at your apartment like he was trying to absorb every detail. But you could feel your unease increasing, as if maybe he was quietly judging you for what he saw.

“It’s very organized and clean,” he commented, sounding almost surprised.  

“Yeah, well I don’t like clutter,” you awkwardly replied, hands fidgeting in front of yourself. “It uh, it puts me in a bad headspace, you know? Seeing things messy and out of place. I don’t like it because–”

Teeth clamping down onto the tip of your tongue, you caught yourself before you could overshare. Like about how you often found yourself in cleaning episodes, scrubbing down every inch of your apartment because of stress and depression. But he didn’t need to know that. He didn't need to know how you maniacally cleaned in order to feel some semblance of order and control in your life.

Slowly turning his head over his shoulder, Dex’s stare met yours again. A muscle jumped in his cheek, feathering a couple of times as he took you in. You shifted uncomfortably on your bare feet, feeling a little more seen than you had in a long time, as if he was somehow peeling back your layers and poking at something deeper.

“I understand,” he stated. “I don't like disorder, either.”

Awkwardly clearing your throat, your gaze drifted back down to the first aid kit in his hand and you remembered why he’d returned to your apartment in the first place. His own eyes followed yours, something flickering across his face as if he’d temporarily forgotten why he was standing in the middle of your apartment, too.

“Should we sit?” you suggested.

You gestured a hand nervously towards the small, square dining table in your kitchen. There were only two chairs tucked beneath it because there wasn’t much room for anything bigger. In answer to your question, Dex nodded once before striding over to one of the chairs, setting the first aid kit down onto the table before taking a seat. You followed quietly after him and awkwardly slid out the other chair, scooting it a bit closer to him so you wouldn’t be on the opposite side of the table.

Dex’s gaze darted over your shoulder as he began to unzip the canvas bag, examining your little kitchen behind you. “You have a lot of plants,” he observed.

His attention returned to the first aid kit when he'd opened it, and you turned your head over your shoulder, glancing back at the kitchen. Behind your kitchen sink sat a handful of potted plants in front of a window. A couple of them were fresh herbs you used in your cooking, but the others were just regular house plants. The corner of your lips twitched into a small smile at them.

“They’re my babies,” you confessed. 

Shifting your attention back to Dex, you felt your cheeks heat even further at the way he was now staring at you. His hands had stopped midway between pulling out bandages and antiseptic wipes, his head canting somewhat to the side as if in confusion.

“Not literally, obviously,” you fumbled to explain. “They're plants. It’s just that they keep me company. My lease doesn’t allow me to have a cat, so I settle for them instead.” 

Another deep, throaty noise of acknowledgement met your explanation, and his eyes flicked back over to glance at your plants one more time before he refocused on his task. He’d gone quiet after that, and you’d fallen silent yourself as you watched him meticulously organize all of the supplies he’d need to clean up the damage your ex had done to your face earlier.

You’d eventually fixated on one of the abstract paintings hanging on the wall behind him once he'd started to tend to your injuries, trying to ignore the tender way his rough fingers held your chin carefully in place as he worked. There was something about his touch that felt like cautious restraint, as if he wasn't used to being this gentle. Strength pulled taut on a leash–not something you were familiar with yourself.

A somewhat comfortable silence had settled between you both as he cleaned out your wounds with the antiseptic wipes before gingerly applying ointment to the various cuts littered across your skin. When he’d finished, he’d started to work on fastidiously bandaging a few of the cuts on your face with butterfly bandages, taking his time as if he'd done this more than once before. 

“How’d you even end up with that asshole?”

His question sliced through the air like a knife, leaving you tense in its wake. Your eyes slowly drifted back towards his face, mouth abruptly growing dry. He was leaning a bit towards you in his chair, his face mere inches from yours as he continued to apply the bandages. But he seemed far more unbothered by the proximity than you were, his focus entirely on his hands.

The question had caught you off guard, not expecting him to ask something so personal, and certainly not so bluntly. Your initial reaction was to deflect it with humor and change the subject, but considering he already knew what’d happened to you tonight, and he’d personally met your ex, there was no point in hiding anything.

“He wasn’t like that at first,” you answered quietly. “They never are. It isn't like you can just…recognize men like him.” Pausing for a moment, your gaze fixed on a spot along his cheek, unable to maintain eye contact as you spoke. “By the time I realized what he was really like, I was already sort of trapped. Fear and manipulation kind of do that to you.”

His fingers stopped where they’d been smoothing a bandage gently over your swollen cheek, his eyes lingering on yours. His brows twitched briefly together, the slightest crease forming and unforming between them as you refused to meet his stare.

“You say that like he’s not the first abuser you’ve dated,” he commented. “Or the first who lost it and tried to kill you.”

His blunt way of speaking caused you to swallow hard, and you fought the urge to squirm in the chair with how quickly he'd read you. You probably should’ve expected him to say something like that, because it seemed as if his straightforwardness was just a part of the way he spoke. He significantly lacked tact.

“He isn’t,” you murmured.

Eyes darting back over his shoulder, you returned to staring at the abstract painting on the wall behind him. It always reminded you of rain on the city streets at night. You scanned over the blues and greens and bits of yellow, attempting to ignore the way he was staring at you like he was trying to pick you apart. 

“That must be hard,” he replied, slow and stiff. “That must be really hard having gone through that more than once.”

Shrugging a shoulder, you tried to brush it off. Just like you always did. Because you kept your actual feelings about all of your horrible exes locked up in a box inside of your mind, and it wasn't a box you ever wanted to rummage around inside. Tonight's experience would also land itself in there, and you'd try to pretend it had never happened just like all the other times you forced yourself to forget.

“My friends say I'm a magnet for guys like that,” you admitted, slightly abashed. “It's a running joke, actually. I've never dated a nice guy. It's always the dangerous ones who find me.”

Dex finished applying the last bandage to your cheek before he slowly sat back, the wooden chair creaking beneath him as his hands finally left your chin and cheek to rest in his lap. Forcing your attention away from the painting, you nervously chanced a glance at him. That calculating and confusing look in his eyes greeted you once more. It had disappeared for the duration that he'd been tending to your cuts, but it was back now. Like he was mulling something over in his mind, and you wondered exactly what that was.

Eventually, you found yourself growing uncomfortable beneath his silent scrutiny, almost like you could feel him inside of your mind digging around in it with his fingers. Not wanting to discuss the topic of your cursed dating life any further, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“I was about to reheat up some leftover pizza in the oven,” you said, throwing a thumb over your shoulder towards the kitchen. “I didn't have a chance to eat yet. Do you want some? As like…a thank you for helping me tonight? It's from Vinny's, that place by the laundromat? I have beer, too,” you continued, rambling even more at the sight of the increasingly puzzled look on his face. “Unless you're not done with the good guy thing tonight? I mean, I get it, maybe you need to go do something else. Or, you know, remain sober to fight the bad guys.”

Dex blinked back at you slowly three times, growing very still in his chair. A few seconds dragged by before a smile gradually crawled its way across his face. The sight of it eased the tightness in your chest that you hadn't even noticed was there. It wasn't quite a warm smile, but it reached his eyes along with the hint of amusement now gleaming back at you among the green of them.

“You know,” he began almost smugly, “I'm actually off the clock from being a good guy for the rest of the evening. Guess you could say I met my quota for the night. I wouldn't mind some pizza.”

Going back to your apartment that night hadn’t been out of kindness or thoughtfulness. Dex just thought it was the last step in resolving your problem. In doing the right thing. All he'd intended to do was tell you that you were safe from your ex, and tend to the injuries on your face. He hadn't cared about anything else. 

But then he'd started talking to you. He'd started to notice the little similarities between you both, things that he could find himself relating to, which was unusual for him. He thought he’d gotten a better picture of who you were as you both talked over the pizza and beer afterwards. He’d been stunned that you’d even asked him to stay in the first place, because no one had ever really invited Dex to stay for something so friendly before. But you had. 

You reminded Dex of a flower. Specifically a tulip, he decided. Like the ones during springtime in the park he frequented for his morning runs, the ones he often saw trampled on by the irritating dogs and children stomping through them, not giving a single shit that something was trying to grow there. 

You were far more resilient than you appeared. Apparently you'd also been crushed under the foot of numerous assholes, smashed repeatedly into the dirt over and over just like those flowers in the park. And while you certainly bore the marks and the stains, you hadn’t wilted and withered. You'd endured, just like those damn tulips did every spring.

That was admirable. He liked that about you. You weren't as weak as you'd initially appeared, even if you were a little timid. But that was expected considering your history with abusive ex-boyfriends. He understood how they worked. How they used fear, how they manipulated and twisted your mind, tricking you into believing their lies. Dex could certainly relate to that after what the Fisks had done to him.

It was that history you'd barely touched on that night over a week ago which had led him once more to The Little Crow this Sunday morning. It was a small cafe in Hell’s Kitchen, one located just at the end of the block where your apartment building sat. The black baseball hat on Dex’s head was pulled low, the visor meant to conceal his face where he sat at a small table in the back of the place. He held an issue of The Bulletin in front of himself, opened to one of the articles you’d written in it–and he found it ironic that you were a journalist there. But he was barely reading the paper, his gaze repeatedly flicking over the top of it as his attention remained solely fixed on you.

Sitting alone in the same booth he'd seen you in yesterday morning, your head was ducked low as you read the same book, your face bathed in the honeyed morning glow of sunlight seeping in through the window at your left. Your fingers picked absently at another chocolate croissant in between turning the pages of your book, and you sipped at the same coffee order you'd had every morning that you'd stopped here before work–a cinnamon latte with oat milk and light ice.

You were a creature of habit. Predictable. Following a pattern that Dex had already started to learn. He liked that you were easy to track. 

Dex had begun watching you in those days that had passed since he'd helped you, finding himself struggling with something ever since he left your apartment once you'd both finished the pizza and beer. If his One Good Deed to balance out his past transgressions was to keep you safe, he assumed that would've been accomplished when he'd killed your stupid ex-boyfriend. That should have been the end of it.

But was it? Was that really the extent of it?

You claimed to have a long history of dating pieces of shit just like the dumbass he'd killed. You said that you'd dated other abusive men who'd also hurt you, and that the one he'd killed the other night hadn't been the only one who'd come close to killing you. He could see the truth of your words in your skittish nature and nervous fidgets. Even your friends claimed that you were a magnet for dangerous men, which he admittedly found amusing considering you'd gotten Dex’s interest.

So what happened if you dated another loser? Considering the types of men he'd seen noticing you while you were out over these past almost two weeks–looks you were completely oblivious to–he assumed there was some merit to what your friends had said. You did seem to attract the attention of a certain type of man.

What if you dated another one and they actually killed you this time? Dex had felt a part of himself bristling at the idea the more he watched you, the more he got to know you. He didn't like the thought of someone so kind and sweet falling victim to another scumbag like that. But if you did, would that somehow negate his One Good Deed? 

Would the scales become unbalanced again if you died? Was keeping you alive the only way to keep them balanced? Would saving you the other week have been in vain if someone else killed you in a few months? Two years?

One of his fingers tapped in agitation against the newspaper, his eyes lingering on you from across the cafe. Your fingers delicately tore off another piece of the chocolate croissant, your attention still completely absorbed in your book as you sat entirely unaware of his eyes on you. He watched as you brought the piece of pastry to your lips before popping it into your mouth and chewing.

No, he decided. He couldn't let you date another asshole. You, the kind woman who made the incessant buzzing in his head dull and stop, who ridiculously named her houseplants, who'd told him horrible jokes over pizza and couldn't handle a single beer without getting a buzz. You’d treated him as if he was good. You'd given him a chance. 

You were different. Like Julie had once been.

That's when he'd slowly begun to make sense of it all. You were his One Good Deed. Keeping you safe would have to become his priority now. It didn't matter what he had to do, he'd found his purpose for what was left of his life while he tried to help Murdock take down the Fisks.

It’d stopped raining before you’d found yourself wandering the streets tonight, well aware that you were out past the mandated curfew Fisk had put into place. The fear of being thrown into the back of one of AVTF’s vans and disappearing kept you from paying much attention to the cold, wet material now clinging to your ankles. So did the throbbing in your right shoulder and the stinging cuts scattered across your cheek and chin, the pain of them only made worse by the salty tears trailing quietly down your face.

Keeping your head lowered and your chin tucked to your chest, you hurried down the sidewalk without a destination as you attempted to avoid the police checkpoints. The few others still out on the street passed you by without a care as to whether you were alright, no one bothered by the sight of a lone woman walking the streets while bleeding and crying at nearly ten in the evening. The state of you didn’t even cause a single head to turn in your direction, as if you were entirely invisible to the rest of the city. Just another woman in trouble, no one else’s problem.

Taking another turn when you’d reached the corner, you continued down the sidewalk without any idea of where you were headed. Your apartment wasn’t a safe option tonight because he knew where you lived. Would he be waiting there for you if you returned home? Or would he show up shortly after you’d locked yourself inside of your place, wanting to finish what he’d almost accomplished earlier tonight when you’d tried to finally end the relationship?

You could still feel his hands around your throat, the memory of him crushing your windpipe causing your left hand to absently raise to your neck, fingers gently brushing over the tender spots where his own fingers had dug in and squeezed. He’d meant to kill you this time. To show you that you’d never be allowed to leave him. When your vision had blurred white, your mind sluggish and hazy as you struggled for a breath, you really thought he’d succeed. 

It was only by sheer luck that you’d managed a swift kick right between his thighs with your last vestiges of strength–a cheap shot straight to the balls. But it’d worked, causing him to double over in pain long enough for you to stumble through his kitchen and towards the door of his apartment. Gasping for air and still struggling to see straight, you’d flung the door open and bolted straight for the stairwell. You’d half-tripped, half-sprinted down the two flights of stairs and ran through his apartment building’s lobby without him managing to catch up with you.

But now you were left with another problem. You had nowhere to go where he couldn’t find you, and you couldn’t realistically stay on the streets all night. Not only were you not safe from Fisk’s task force out here, but it wasn’t safe for a woman alone in general to be wandering Hell’s Kitchen at night. Anyone just as bad as your ex could stumble upon you, and who knew how much further of a deep nosedive your night could still take if they did.

With trembling fingers, you gingerly brushed away a few of the tears still slipping down your cheeks, but a sharp hiss of pain passed between your lips. Despite how careful you’d been with your touch, your swollen cheek stung horribly from where his fist had collided with it a few times tonight. 

He hadn’t liked you trying to stand up for yourself for once.

Drawing your hand away from your face, you glanced down at your dampened fingers just as you passed beneath the bright sign of a still open bodega. The gleaming yellow lights overhead illuminated the tinge of red on your fingertips–blood, not tears. You winced at the sight only to feel a sharp jolt of pain sear its way through the left side of your face at the gesture. 

Even if you could get back to your apartment tonight, did you have enough supplies left in your first aid kit to properly clean yourself up? What were you even supposed to tell everyone when you went into work this time? The cuts wouldn’t be entirely healed by Monday morning, and you felt as if you’d run out of excuses to explain away all of the injuries you'd sustained over the past year. You wished you could’ve trusted the police to do something, maybe things wouldn’t have escalated to the point they had tonight if the world worked differently. But they'd proven useless, only exacerbating the tension within your relationship.

Entirely caught up in your thoughts as you continued down the sidewalk, you hadn’t been paying much attention to the rest of the foot traffic braving curfew around you. Just as you’d started to lower your bloodied hand back to your side, someone roughly slammed into your right shoulder. With a startled gasp at the sharp pain lancing itself up your injured arm, you lost your footing and stumbled a few steps towards the street, your shoes accidentally splashing into another puddle. 

More tears bloomed along your waterline in response, your teeth sinking down onto the tip of your tongue in an attempt to quell a cry of pain threatening to burst out of you. Your gaze nervously darted over to the person you’d just ran into, your pulse thundering in your ears. You were terrified that you’d just pissed off the wrong person tonight with your inattentiveness, and your fear felt validated when you locked eyes with the man who’d also stopped dead in his tracks.

He was standing completely still in front of the bodega’s windows, the bright lights behind him casting a harsh glow that accentuated the sharpness of his cheekbones and lit a few cuts along his own face. At first glance you would have found him attractive with his cropped blonde hair and muscular build, but you noticed something a little off in the way his eyes stared back at you. An intimidating, calculative look held you captive like an animal trapped in a snare, your left hand now cradling your injured right arm carefully to your chest.

“I–I’m sorry,” you blurted out the apology. “I–I didn’t mean to run into you.”

It was a knee-jerk reaction by now, apologizing whenever you did just about anything that could've been deemed offensive, so the words easily rolled off your tongue as they had so often in the past. But the stranger remained quiet, his eyes slowly scanning over your tear-streaked face. You imagined your visibly swollen left cheek and the blood smeared on your face wasn’t helping your appearance, but you weren’t certain whether he was staring at you because he was concerned about you, or because you looked like easy prey.

“I’ll pay better attention to where I’m going,” you promised him, the words coming in a rush.

Turning swiftly on your heel, you ducked your head once more and started back off down the sidewalk, your arm still cradled to your chest as you tried to put distance between yourself and him. But you could feel the weight of his stare on your back like the tip of a knife dragging down the column of your spine, and the hair along your forearms prickled. You’d only managed a few steps before he called out, the tone of his voice causing your feet to halt on the pavement.

“What happened to you?”

With your back still facing the stranger, each of your muscles pulled taut at the question while fear and apprehension flooded your system. He was the first one to actually notice you tonight, but he hadn’t hit you with an “are you alright?” or “do you need help?” The edge in his tone didn’t sound much like concern, but rather something strangely close to curiosity. 

Pulling your injured arm closer to your chest, your eyes focused on a particularly deep puddle farther down the street as you struggled to find a response to give him. The green lights of the nearby traffic light reflected off of the water on the road, but with the curfew in effect, there wasn't much traffic at this hour. 

“Were you attacked?” he called out from behind you. “Was it the task force?”

Inhaling a quivering breath, you accepted defeat and gradually turned back around to face the stranger. You noticed with interest that he hadn’t moved any closer to you after you’d walked away, remaining exactly where he’d been standing in front of the bodega. But the second your eyes met, his expression shifted oddly fast. One second he was looking at you with a flat, hard to read stare, and the next, a friendly smile spread over his face as he held up both of his hands in a placating gesture.

The strange look in his eyes hadn’t changed, though.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured you. “I’ll even stay right here if that makes you comfortable. But you’re bleeding and crying, and it’s clear someone did something to you. Now, if the task force is nearby–” 

He broke off mid-sentence, his hands gradually lowering back to his sides as his gaze swept down both sides of the street. Quietly watching him, you noticed that he didn’t seem to have the normal reaction to the threat of the task force nearby. Most people spoke about them with clear disdain or fear, but he almost seemed to be searching for them. Like he wanted to find them.

“It wasn’t them,” you told him, the words slipping out before you could stop them. 

His attention fixed back on you and you stiffened, still a bit uncertain about who he was and what he wanted from you. While you highly doubted that he’d believe you if you said you’d fallen down some stairs and obtained your injuries that way, you also weren’t interested in someone trying to force you to a hospital, either. You didn’t have the money to cover what your insurance wouldn’t from an emergency room visit, but if he was going to press the question, telling him the truth was beginning to feel like the only logical option you had here.

His eyes narrowed speculatively at you, his head tipping just a fraction to the side. “Who was it then?”

Still clutching your arm to your chest, your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt sleeve as you internally debated on how much to share with him. You’d never openly admitted what your ex had done to anyone before, but here you were being put on the spot to tell a stranger. Mouth opening and closing a few times, you struggled to find something to say, but with no believable lie coming to you in the moment, the truth fell right out.

“It was my ex,” you answered awkwardly. “I–I tried to end things, but he…didn’t like that.”

“So he attacked you because he didn’t want you to leave him,” the man clarified.

You hesitated at his completely blunt, straightforward response. Here you were visibly bleeding and shaken up, telling him that you’d tried to end a relationship and gotten attacked over it, yet he still hadn’t even asked if you were alright. He'd offered no words of comfort or sympathy. If anything, he seemed more focused on the situation than your well-being, which was…odd. 

If he had stopped and taken an interest in you because he intended to mug you or assault you, why would he continue to stand here wasting his time talking to you? Because if he genuinely was concerned about you, he certainly wasn't acting in the typical manner of someone showing sympathy. Which left you wondering if there was another reason as to why he was still asking questions, a third reason you couldn't quite grasp.

“And you're out past curfew because you just left him?” he pushed.

“Well, I–I can’t exactly go home,” you sheepishly admitted. When he only stared at you, waiting for more of an explanation, you continued weakly. “Because he knows where I live. And I’m–I’m afraid he’s going to show up if he isn’t already at my apartment. So I can’t go home.”

There was a brief silence after you’d finished where he continued to study you, and you swallowed thickly under the uncomfortable weight of his attention. After a moment the man took two steps in your direction, but when you instantly took a hesitant step backwards on the sidewalk, he abruptly stopped his approach. Both of his hands raised up in the air again in that gesture meant to remind you he meant no harm. The bodega’s sign behind him cast half his face in heavy shadows now, and a part of your brain screamed danger even though he kept trying to assure you that he wouldn’t hurt you. You weren't entirely certain what to make of him, but fear seemed the most reasonable reaction to his presence, especially after the way your night had already gone.

“So are you on your way to a police station then?” he pried, not moving any closer. “Or one of those women’s shelters?”

Lip curling back in distaste, you shook your head as a bitter huff met his questions. You weren’t entirely sure what it was about him that seemed to be drawing forth such extreme candor from you tonight. Maybe it was just the adrenaline still coursing through you after everything you’d already endured with your ex, or maybe you were just sick of hiding the truth now that it was finally out.

“The police don’t do shit to help. Everyone knows that,” you spat, eyes dropping down to your shoes. They were both drenched from all the puddles you’d stepped in while walking the streets, your socks inside of them squishing uncomfortably as you shifted your weight. “And I don’t even have any idea of where one of those shelters is located.”

Your phone had also died about twenty minutes ago, making it impossible for you to even search up the phone number to contact a place like that and find their location. But you had the good sense not to share that information with him. Whoever he was, you didn’t need him to think you were even more defenseless than you already looked as you tried to figure out what he wanted with you.

“I just…wanted to go home,” you quietly finished.

“Maybe I can help.”

The offer took you by surprise, your eyes slowly drifting up from beneath your lashes and landing on his face. That friendly smile had returned to his features again, the one you assumed was meant to be disarming to a lone woman roaming the streets at night. Your stomach gave a nervous twist at the sight of it, but the prospect of help was too hard to entirely ignore. It wasn't as if you had any other options. You couldn’t keep walking the streets.

“Help how?” you cautiously questioned.

His shoulders rose and fell in an easy shrug, his face still half hidden in shadow while the other half was washed in bright yellow. “Sometimes I help people.”

Something seemed left unspoken in that simple sentence and it made you wonder what exactly he meant by it. Whatever it was hung in the air between you both like the evening humidity. With another silence temporarily stretching around you on the nearly empty street, you stood there processing his offer and what it could mean.

Awkwardly shifting your weight between your feet again, you suddenly remembered how he’d almost seemed to be purposely looking for the AVTF after you'd run into him. Something clicked in your mind and you audibly gasped, eyes widening slightly in shock as your head raised to fully meet his stare.

“Are you–” you whispered, voice lowering so that you wouldn’t be overheard as you were struck with understanding, “–are you one of those vigilantes?” You took a few cautious steps towards him, closing a bit of the distance between the pair of you on the sidewalk. “The ones who are fighting against the task force?”

The corner of his lips slowly drew higher at the awestruck question, the smile on his face turning more amused than friendly. For the first time since you’d quite literally run into him tonight, the expression on his features looked genuine, and that helped to ease some of the nerves that'd been churning in your stomach. 

Maybe you were in luck for the first time in your life. None of the vigilantes had ever come to your rescue in all of the time that you'd lived in Hell’s Kitchen. But whoever this man was, he was offering you assistance at a time when you could desperately use it. 

“You could say that,” he answered smoothly. “And I’m going to make things right. I’m going to help you.”

What luck Dex had running into you while he’d been out tonight. 

For the months that’d passed after he’d killed Murdock’s friend and escaped from prison, Dex had been needled by this voice inside of his head telling him that something felt off. He thought he’d have gotten his mind back now that he was finally free, no longer being fed copious amounts of pills to keep him sedated and stupid, and no longer trapped in solitary confinement, but he hadn’t accounted for all of the damn noise inside of his head that’d returned with it.

It wasn’t his conscience, no. Dex didn’t exactly have a fully functioning one of those. He figured it was the ghost of Mercer’s voice still lingering in his mind, his therapist telling him that he needed to find balance again. To try to fix all the shit that the Fisks’ had twisted up inside of his head when they convinced him to do all the awful things they had. 

If only he could've just died in peace when Murdock had tossed him those four stories down. There’d been a handful of times now that Dex should’ve just died in the past, but he hadn’t. He’d spent countless nights stalking the city trying to find a purpose, to make sense of why it seemed like he kept surviving when he knew he shouldn’t still be alive. 

Eventually he’d figured it out.

He knew he needed to right the scales of his life, balance them out a little more to make up for all the things he'd done. Dex initially thought that helping Murdock fight the AVTF and Fisk would be enough, but the noise was still drilling a hole inside of his head. What he was doing hadn’t quieted it down, so he'd begun to think that maybe he needed to find another good deed. Something seemingly more selfless somehow–because killing Fisk was also about exacting his own revenge.

Which was where you had come in.

He honestly hadn’t been paying any attention to you earlier before you’d both collided on the sidewalk, but the abrupt hiss of pain you’d loosed at the impact had caught his attention. People didn’t generally react like that from a rough shoulder bump on the street. But when he’d taken one good look at you, he’d seen a terrified woman staring back at him, one with bloodshot eyes, a swollen, bloodied face, and panic written beneath the tear tracks. He didn’t need his years of experience in the FBI to know that you were in need of help, which was the only reason why he’d even stopped to talk to you. 

And while he’d been talking to you, that's when he realized what he needed to do. Killing your ex-boyfriend to keep you safe would be Dex’s One Good Deed. That would keep you–a stranger he absolutely did not fucking care about, which to him screamed selfless–entirely safe from your ex. You would be able return to your apartment with no more fear of retaliation from the real winner you’d chosen to date.

He would be saving your life. Surely saving the life of a complete stranger would even the scales. That's what Murdock would've done, right? That was what a good vigilante did. Save people.

So Dex had personally walked you back to your apartment, continuing to let you ignorantly think that he was one of the vigilantes being hunted in the city for fighting back–because in a way, he was. But he wasn’t going to correct your thoughts about who he really was since there was no need. Telling you the truth didn’t fit into his plans because the situation was straightforward–he just needed to make sure you were safe. That was all he had to do. That was his One Good Deed. Keep you safe.

After he’d walked you home and checked to make certain that no abusive ex was lurking in the hallway outside of your apartment, you’d willingly given him the asshole’s address. Dex had left you with a promise to help and a charming smile, and whatever you’d made of what he was going to do, he'd left that up to you to imagine.

Now he was slowly ascending the second flight of stairs in your ex-boyfriend’s apartment building stairwell, taking each step one at a time in the dingy, cramped quarters. Having decided to come straight here after walking you home, he figured that he’d take care of the task before something could happen to you and you wound up dead. Because that would ruin everything. He could easily take a half an hour of his evening to walk a few blocks and kill your ex and complete his task.

That was what a good vigilante did.

When he’d reached the top of the stairwell, Dex pushed open the metal door and slipped into the hallway. His eyes scanned over the multiple apartment doors on either side of it, searching for apartment number fourteen. Padding quietly down the outdated tiled floor in his boots, one of the overhead lights blinked in and out, flickering repeatedly as he walked. Outside of the building, the sound of rain beginning to fall once more came muffled through the walls.

Eventually, Dex found apartment fourteen at the far end of the hall on his right–your ex’s place. He turned and stopped in front of it, extending a hand forward and letting it hover over the doorknob. He paused for just a moment, wondering if your ex would be stupid enough to leave his door unlocked, or if he would have to find a way to break the lock to get inside. Grasping the knob, he gave it a firm twist. The door easily gave way and inched right open for him.

So he was an idiot. Just like Dex thought.

Pushing the door open the rest of the way, he casually stepped inside the apartment as if he'd been invited. Dex could hear the faint shuffling of footsteps moving in a room nearby, so he quietly closed the door after himself. It wasn’t like he intended to be here long, but he still had no interest in drawing the attention of the other tenants in the building to what was about to happen here. 

Silently moving through the little entryway towards the kitchen, Dex wasn’t surprised to find a mess. Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink, mail and garbage cluttered the countertops, and a handful of empty beer bottles were scattered about whatever other available surface was left. Papers and bits of food were spread out over the tiled floor, and Dex’s nose scrunched in distaste at the chaotic disorder.

How did men like these attract women in the first place?

“Who the fuck are you?”

Realizing that your ex had finally noticed that he wasn’t alone in his apartment anymore, Dex’s attention turned away from a precariously stacked pile of overdue bills and focused on the asshole he’d been looking for. Upon a quick once over, he noted the man was tall and carried some strength in his build, and he supposed he held some semblance of society’s conventional idea of attractiveness, but he looked so much like the stereotypical abuser with his messy hair, stained white wife-beater tank top, and the pungent reek of beer that he wanted to roll his eyes.

“I think the better question is, what the hell did your ex ever see in you?” Dex countered. He gestured a mocking hand at the man who swayed on the spot as he added, “Who the hell looks at you and thinks ‘that’s the guy I want to be with’? I don’t get it.”

A myriad of amusing emotions passed over his face right before Dex’s eyes. Initially, the man's expression briefly went blank, but then he became momentarily confused as he tried to process Dex’s insult in his inebriated mind. Afterwards, as if it had taken his few brain cells a minute to finally rub together and start working, his features eventually twisted into something furious. 

“So the slut is fuckin’ you, you little shit?” he snapped, jabbing a finger in Dex’s direction. His voice rose a few octaves as a vein grew visible in his neck. “That’s what’s goin’ on? The stupid fuckin’ bitch was sleepin’ with you, wasn’t she?! That’s why she was saying all that shit tonight ‘bout ending things. ‘Cause you’ve been fuckin’ my girl, is that it?”

Standing by the kitchen sink, Dex found himself already tired of this entire confrontation. He hadn't come here to talk, he'd come here to solve your problem. 

From across the kitchen, your ex let out a bitter, humorless laugh as he stumbled a few steps towards Dex, and the scent of his sour, rank breath crossed the small distance between them before hitting Dex right in the nose. Unable to find the patience to deal with him any further, Dex reached onto the kitchen counter and grabbed one of the beer bottle caps discarded on it. He couldn’t stand here in this filthy apartment smelling this asshole’s breath for longer than necessary.

“After I’m done with you,” your ex continued in a rage, his finger still jabbing the air in Dex’s direction, “I’m gonna go to her place and–”

He broke off mid-threat, swaying once more unsteadily on his feet beside his refrigerator. His mouth went slack and his brows drew faintly together, right beneath the cap-sized hole now situated in the center of his forehead. A trickle of blood trailed down from the wound as his eyelids fluttered faintly, then he toppled forward with a heavy thunk, falling face first onto the dirty, paper strewn floor of his kitchen right at Dex’s feet.

Looking down at the now lifeless body, Dex let out a long, apathetic sigh. “Did you have to be such a fucking cliche?”

With a shake of his head, Dex casually stepped around the man's dead form that lay limp on the kitchen floor and headed back out the way he'd come in. He didn’t need to waste another second in this dirty apartment. 

His task was almost finished now. With your ex dealt with, he figured he would need to return to your apartment and share the good news that he would no longer be bothering you. Maybe he'd even grab a first aid kit on his way back to your place and check on your injuries, just for an extra measure of doing the right thing. 

“I thought you said you knew how to fish.”

You do not know how you got yourself into this dreadful situation.

“I do know how to fish, dragon prince,” you scoff, taking your time with getting the rod Aerion found for you set up, because you do not, indeed, know how to fish, and you’re waiting to see how he sets up his so you can mimic him. “Who doesn’t know how to fish? It is a basic skill.”

He watches you for a moment longer than necessary—gaze trained on your face, your eyes, watching the way they flick toward him and then away again, keeping track of what he’s doing. You pointedly keep your eyes ahead when you realize that he’s picked up on the fact that you’re mimicking him.

His mouth twitches.

“Mm,” he hums, turning back to his own rod at last, fingers working easily through the motions, and you watch in disbelief, hardly able to keep up with how quickly he moves, like the whole thing is second nature to him. He agrees, “It is a basic skill.”

You try to follow along with him, but by the time you’ve managed one step, he’s already two ahead, and you’re forced to slow yourself even more so it doesn’t look like you’re scrambling to catch up.

It is deeply irritating.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he says after a beat, not even looking at you.

The nerve.

Defensively, you snap, “I am not.”

That makes him look over at you, head falling to the side so that his gaze can drop to your hands. You resist the urge to adjust your grip on instinct, forcing yourself to raise your chin and hold it exactly as it is. His brow lifts, amused, lips curled up into a smug smile. He knows damn well you’re lying—probably has known since the two of you were strolling through the market trying to busy yourselves with finding the new merchant ship that arrived from Qohor—but you’re far too proud to admit it. 

You wish to drown him.

“You are,” he says, lips curling up into a smug smile. 

“I know what I’m doing,” you say, raising your chin and giving him a snide look. Why you dig your own grave by doubling and tripling down? A mystery. 

“Do you?”

Your eye twitches, and you turn your attention back to your rod with exaggerated focus, pretending not to hear the way he snorts in amusement. 

This is your own doing, you think miserably. You are not sure what possessed you to lie when Aerion mentioned offhandedly that he used to enjoy fishing, but the words had slipped out anyway—not only did you claim to know how to fish when you’ve hardly even seen a man fish in passing, but you claimed to be better than him in the same breath, which naturally spurred him challenging you to a competition to prove he is better. 

You had half thought he was full of shit anyway—what sort of prince spends his time fishing? There are far more princely hobbies in Westeros, you’re sure. No need for a prince of the blood to spend his time as a common fisherman. You thought the worst that would happen was that you both make fools of yourselves and end up lounging in the sand, but alas, the only fool seems to be you.

But you do not regret it—not yet, at least. The humiliation is still only surface-level; your answer might change by the end of the hour. There had been something strange in his voice when he said it—quieter than usual, stripped of its usual bite, like the thought had come from somewhere further back than he ever lets himself reach. And because Aerion so rarely indulges in that, you have developed a habit of pressing at it when he does.

He had been off all morning, too—wound tight in a way you could not understand and he would not explain. You know that he didn’t get much sleep last night, and he was woken up early to break fast with Vyrano, but it didn’t seem to be because he was tired. When you tried to pry, he turned sullen and defensive, deflecting you at every turn.

So, when he offered up fishing as a peace offering after hours of him jumping down your throat every time you tried to make conversation, you seized on it without thinking. A careless “I used to fish too. Bet I could catch a bigger fish than you,” fell from your mouth before you could stop it—despite the fact that you have never touched a fishing rod in your entire fucking life.

But then he had looked at you—really looked at you, eyes going wide, alive and glittering in a way you have not seen in days—and it had been too late to take it back. You swallowed the truth, doubled down on the lie, and when he demanded to know if you meant it as a challenge, you said yes.

Now you are standing at the edge of the water with a poorly assembled rod and a prince who clearly knows what he is doing, and you can feel the consequences of your own pride settling in around you like a noose.

He steps closer to you, and your spine goes rigid, attention snapping sideways even as you pretend you’re wholly focused on the rod in your hands.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice lower now. His hands close over yours, adjusting your grip so that you’re holding it lower. “If you hold it like that, you’ll snap the line the second something pulls.”

You mutter, “That’s how I was holding it.”

It was not how you were holding it.

“Mhm,” he agrees, thumb pressing briefly against your wrist, correcting the angle, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss beneath your ear. You tilt your head to the side, letting out a soft sigh, and then he lets go and moves back over to his rod, an irritatingly smug smile on his lips. 

You watch as he steps back half a step before casting the line forward, and you mimic the motion—it is not nearly as smooth as his, but you pretend it is. 

Neither of you says anything for a long while, and you find yourself frowning as you wait for something to happen, squinting out to the calm waters of your cove, waiting for a fish to latch onto your hook. You huff, glancing at his line, but his is equally slack. How long until something happens?

“You do not even know how to fish, wench,” he mutters after a moment, but there is no bite behind the accusation. If anything, it is almost fond. Irritatingly so. “Why did you lie?”

“Yes, I do,” you snap, because you’ve come too far to admit the truth now. “I am fishing, am I not?”

Aerion doesn’t respond, but you can see the way his lips are curled up into an amused smile. You have half a mind to take your rod and shove it up his ass, but before you can, he asks, “Who taught you then? They did a miserable job.”

You side-eye him. “My father, of course. You should watch your tongue, prince,” you reply, lying through your teeth. You think your father would sooner beat you with a fishing rod than teach you how to use one. Aerion snorts softly, and you scowl at him. “And who taught you how to fish, then? You are hardly better than I am.”

He gives you a disbelieving look, but then rolls his eyes and looks ahead again.

He doesn’t respond for a while.

“... My brother, Daeron,” Aerion says after a moment. His voice is quiet, eyes a bit more distant as he looks out toward the water. He exhales deeply through his nose, jaw tightening. He smiles wryly, too tight at the corners, knuckles white around the rod. “Though he has not touched a fishing rod since he picked up a bottle.”

Your gaze shifts to him, curious. Aerion is standing stiffly now, gaze fixed on the water—you do not think he meant to say that. It slipped out, too quick and too honest, and now it lingers between you, heavier than anything that has been said all day. 

He doesn’t often talk about his family. You know who he’s referring to; you’ve heard enough rumors about the Targaryen royal family to recognize most of his siblings by name. Daeron the Drunken—the eldest son of Prince Maekar, who can hardly pull himself out of a bottle long enough to sit a horse, much less ride in a tourney. 

You shift your weight slightly, sand crunching beneath your feet.

“My brother is also fond of the bottom of a bottle,” you say dryly. 

You try to keep your voice light, but it is hard—you think Aerion understands, though, because he lets out a huff through his nose. There’s a heaviness in your chest when you think of the number of times you came home to find your brother drowning himself in wine, miserable and glassy-eyed because once the euphoric wave of reckless laughter and dancing comes to an end, he crashes hard, only wanting to bury himself in your arms—but if he is to be father’s embarrassment, it is easier to be drunk, he tells you as you clean the vomit from his hair and he presses his nose into your neck.

You could protect him from everything back then, but never from himself. 

Now, you cannot protect him from anything at all.

You do not like thinking about this. 

“The two of you aren’t close anymore?” you ask after a moment to distract yourself from your thoughts, gaze tracing the way his hair frames his face. His hair grows so fast, you think woefully—much faster than yours, faster than even your brother’s. You think you will try to get him to let you braid it later; you’ve been itching to since you realized he was letting it grow out, but he always bats your hands away when you reach for his hair. 

“No,” Aerion answers, voice flatter now, more closed off. Then you see his jaw tighten, lips pressing together hard. He adds bitterly, “He did not even see me off. Was probably off drunk in a ditch somewhere.” His throat bobs as he swallows, and then he exhales hard through his nose. “I do not wish to speak of this.”

“We do not have to,” you say easily when you see the expression on his face. Your fingers thrum against the wood of your fishing rod before you hum lightly and test, “Can I ask something else, then? Or are we to sit in silence until a fish deems our bait worthy?”

Aerion lets out an annoyed breath, already side-eyeing you. “You only ask that when you are about to ask something particularly irritating.”

Usually, you would answer that with a teasing smile and a nip at his jaw, but your grip only tightens around the fishing rod as you stare ahead, trying to articulate exactly what you want to ask without him throwing a fit. You see him look at you from the corner of your eye, suspicious, realizing that this question might be worse than all of the rest, which it probably will be.

“What is it, wench?” he asks when you don’t immediately speak. “You look as though you’re about to swallow a lemon.”

You ignore that, still trying to figure out how you want to broach the subject. “I was curious,” you finally say, “as to what actually occurred at the tourney in Ashford.”

Aerion stills the way you expect him to. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. His voice is cool and defensive as he asks, “Why, exactly, are you asking about Ashford?”

You raise your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side to meet the daggers he’s shooting at you with an innocent expression. Tread lightly, you remind yourself—he’s been testy all morning, you might be pushing it. “Curiosity, I said. You know the whole grand story behind my exile. I want to know yours.”

Aerion wants to argue with you—you know him well enough by now to know his tells. His shoulders are tense, and his fingers are twitching around the fishing rod he holds, half-inclined to snap it in half. His teeth grind together as he holds your gaze for a second longer, and when you expect him to spit venom—

—he deflates.

You physically turn to him now, concern worming in your chest when you see how his shoulders slump and he lets out a puff of air. The pale scars that line his cheeks gleam under the mid-afternoon sun, and he looks away from you, gaze dropping to the shallow waves brushing his feet. 

“It was not grand,” he finally says, voice smaller than you expect. “It was not grand, or righteous, or something to be proud of. It was not like yours. It was—”

He exhales hard again, shaking his head, expression twisting up as he tries to find a word to describe it.

“It was a mistake,” he finishes quietly. “A stupid one. One of my own design, no less.”

You don’t respond right away, because Aerion seems inclined to continue, lips parting over words, but he can’t seem to force them out, brows furrowing before he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. You lower the rod you’re holding a little, fingers twitching to reach out for him, but you stop yourself.

“They say it started with treason,” you say after a few moments, when he can’t bring himself to add anything else, and Aerion looks at you with such a hollow expression, so tired, so defeated in a way you’ve never seen from him before, that you know what he has been trying and failing to say. “There was no treason.”

Aerion’s eyes slide shut again, breath ragged now as he inhales deeply through his nose once and lets it out. For a second, he looks like he wants to fight the statement—of course, it was treason, you can hear threatening to burst from his lips, because he doesn’t dare splinter the flimsy shield that absolves him of responsibility for what happened, but then his expression twists.  

“It was a puppet show,” Aerion finally says with a bitter scoff. “I was not even supposed to be there. I do not even know how I found myself there. I was supposed to be at dinner with my father and uncle. I must have looked like a damn fool standing there among the rabble, watching like it was meant for me.” He lets go of the rod with one hand to rub his face harshly. “It was ridiculous. A woman dressed up as a knight playing at hero. A dragon made of wood and cloth. I—I was enjoying it, at first. It was—”

He doesn’t finish what he was about to say, but you can imagine. The way he speaks of dragons, dreams of them—sometimes, you hear him mumbling in his sleep, restless and tormented. You can’t catch every word he slurs out, but you always catch one: zaldrīzes. He likes to ramble about them when you let him, telling you about all of the dragons of the Targaryen dynasty—their names, the colors of their scales and flames, how big they are in comparison to the Temple of Yndros on the northside of the isle. Every time you think he’s told you everything he knows about them, he comes forward with half a dozen new facts he hasn’t shared yet. You think you must know more about the Targaryen dragons than half their dynasty because of him. You imagine that he must have been fascinated by it before whatever happened next that made it all go south.

“And then she killed it,” Aerion says flatly. He does not look at you when he continues. “They celebrated it. They cheered. The whore smiled. So I—” Aerion doesn’t finish for a moment. He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face as he stares at you, as though gauging your reaction before he even says anything. “I broke her fingers—and had her tent burned later.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Merciful of you,” you say wryly, leaning in to knock your shoulder against his. “That you did not take her hands.”

Aerion huffs out what you think is a laugh, expression easing, tension bleeding from his shoulders and a smile softening his face. You wonder if he expected you to scorn him, and the thought nearly makes you snort, because he is a fool, and you know damn well he’s heard the tales of your first year of exile.

He tosses you a smile that leaves you breathless for a split second. He is pretty, you think, watching his pale lashes lower as he looks down at the water, skin golden from the time the two of you have spent lounging in the sun. You have half a mind to reach out and brush your fingers through his hair, but you refrain when he continues talking.

“No one else thought so,” he says quietly, smile fading. “That oaf of a hedge knight—he threw me across the tent after he bashed my face in. Demanded a trial by combat after being accused.”

“He struck you before a whole tent of people? And he lived to demand a trial by combat?” you ask, voice riddled in disbelief, and when Aerion grimaces as an answer, you laugh and shake your head. “Your Sunset Kingdom is… fascinating. I don’t even know what would happen if a Freeborn or a slave struck one of the old blood. They certainly wouldn’t live long enough to demand combat.”

“Yes, well, perhaps if my uncle and wretch of a younger brother didn’t intervene on the oaf’s behalf, it would have gone down similarly,” Aerion scoffs, lips pressed together tightly as he stares at the rippling water again. “But they did, so I demanded a Trial of Seven and—”

“You must explain your Andal customs, dragon prince,” you drawl, lips curling up in amusement when he gives you a suspicious look, not sure if he should take it as an insult or not. “I do not know them.”

“They are not mine—”

“Yet, you called upon them.”

“Do you want the whole story or not, you miserable wench?” he hisses, tanned cheeks pink as he glares at you. You smile and pointedly shut your mouth. “It is self-descriptive, if you would use that brain you claim to have. A trial by combat where seven champions are declared for each side, and they face one another in battle.”

“An apt name, then,” you say. And then add, “We have a very similar custom, you know. Iderenne hen perzys.” 

Trial of the Flames.

Aerion doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. He stares at you hungrily, waiting for you to explain, as he always does whenever you off-handedly mention a Valyrian tradition that his family has not retained over the years. You raise your eyebrows at him, but oblige—you suppose you could grant him this without teasing since you’ve decided to pry on a sensitive subject. 

“It is declared between families of the old blood,” you tell him flippantly, eager to get back to his story. “There is an accuser and an accused. Each must name six other representatives of the Fourteen Flames to stand for them, and those chosen meet in a battle to the death. We revere all of the Flames, of course, but each house keeps a patron—and only a votary of a Flame may represent them during the trial. Whichever side loses the trial is exterminated to the tenth degree. It is a dishonor to their patron otherwise. The stain must be cut out entirely for it to be restored.”

Aerion, who had the wide-eyed look he always wears when listening to you talk about this, blinks at the last sentence. 

“To the tenth degree? What does that even mean?”

“The loser of the trial, of course, and their representatives, if they did not fall in battle. Their ascendants to the third generation, and their descendants to the third. All collateral kin of their line—siblings, and the issue of those siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. Their consorts, and the blood of those consorts in equal measure,” you tell him, watching the way his eyes widen as the list goes on. “In short, anyone who shares their blood, or has bound themselves to it. It is not often invoked because the declaring process can get quite chaotic, and many families are tied through marriage now, so the extermination process would be, ah, messy, and blood magic is always finicky. I think the last time it was invoked was during the Century of Blood, actually.”

“Ah,” Aerion replies, clearing his throat. “Well—it is similar in a way, yes.”

You snort. “You were saying—the Trial of Seven? What happened with it?”

“Ah,” he says again, inhaling deeply. “I… did not think the hedge knight would be able to gather six champions to defend him. I meant to—” His jaw tightens. “—I meant to embarrass him. Make a quick thing of it. I did not anticipate that—”

You think you know this part.

“That your uncle would side with the hedge knight,” you finish for him quietly.

Aerion grimaces, fingers tightening around the fishing rod again. “I did not mean for him to die,” he admits, voice cracking over the words. He clears his throat again as though to cover up the weakness in his voice. He says more firmly, though his voice is strained, his pitch betraying his attempt at ambivalence, “But if the Trial of Seven was really meant to be the gods' bidding, then that speaks for itself, does it not?”

It is another flimsy shield, a weak one that already has cracks in it from the way his brows pinch and his lips press together so tightly, throat bobbing as soon as he speaks them. A way of convincing himself that it really is not his fault, blaming gods he doesn’t even believe in to absolve himself of the blood spilled in his name—the rest of the world labels him ‘the Monstrous’ and a kinslayer, along with his father, but…

You sigh. “It is not your fault, Aerion,” you say dismissively. “Even if your trial isn’t some work of the Andal gods. Your uncle chose to ride for the hedge knight—he knew the risks.”

Aerion makes a noise in the back of his throat, but he does not respond for a long while. You glance at him from the corner of your eye and exhale softly when you see that his shoulders have hunched inward slightly, that he turned his face away from you to collect himself.

“I think my father would have preferred it,” Aerion rasps after a moment, staring down at his hands, a dull expression on his face. His fingers are trembling. “If I had died instead of Baelor. I think he would have preferred it.”

Your lips part, but you have no words to respond to what Aerion just said to you. You think he didn’t mean to say that either—a thought that has been plaguing him for nearly a year that he never dared to speak out loud—because his expression crumbles, a breath leaving him as though all the air was knocked from his lungs with just three simple sentences. 

“A—” You can’t even get his name out before the fishing rod nearly goes flying from your hands. Your grip, which had loosened during your conversation with Aerion, tightens before you can lose it. “What the—a fish!”

You don’t know what to do. You dig your heels into the sand when the line jerks violently in your hands, the rod bending in a way that feels like it’s about to snap clean in half, and you make a startled, undignified noise as you scramble to keep hold of it.

“What do I—” you start to ask, gaping when the line yanks so hard that you have to take half a step forward. “What type of fucking fish—Aerion!”

You toss a panicked look in his direction, and you falter when you see the wide-eyed expression on his face. And then—

He laughs. Not the sharp, cutting sound you are used to, or the mocking huff he gives when he is amused at your expense, but a real, bright, unrestrained laugh, bursting out of him before he can stop it. He leans forward as the sound spills free, easy and unguarded in a way you have never heard from him before, amethyst eyes glittering, crinkled at the corners and lips curled up into a pretty, boyish smile.

For a moment, you forget the fish entirely, breathless at the sight of him, and then it reminds you of its presence when it nearly rips the rod from your hands again.

“Aerion, stop laughing!” you sputter, scandalized, as the line jerks again and he laughs harder, like watching you struggle against the fish is the most entertaining thing he has ever seen. “What do I do?”

“I thought you knew how to fish,” he mocks. “Didn’t your father teach you?” 

“My father is a fucking Triarch, not a fishmonger, you buffoon,” you spit as he makes his way over to you, still snorting through laughter. He comes to stand behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back, his chest brushing your shoulder blades as he reaches around you.

“Gods, you are hopeless,” he says, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling, so you scowl as his hands close over yours, taking control of the rod before you lose it entirely, guiding your hands into place before you can even think to argue. He murmurs near your ear, amusement still lacing his tone, breath warm against your skin, “Do not fight it like that. You will lose the line.”

“I am not losing it—” you start to snap, but the line jerks again, harder this time, and your grip slips enough to send a jolt of panic through you, but his hands tighten over yours immediately to correct your mistake.

“Hold,” he tells you, laughter fading as he focuses on the issue at hand, adjusting your stance with a nudge of his knee against yours. “Let it run a little—do not drag it in all at once, you’ll snap it.”

You grit your teeth and let him take the lead, following the guidance of his hands, loosening when the fish pulls, tightening when it falters, until he shifts his grip entirely, one hand sliding down to the line to take over. He works it in easily, drawing the fish closer, and you turn your head to watch him instead of the line, gaze focusing on the way he pokes his tongue out slightly in concentration, silver-gold strands falling loose across his brows, catching the light as the sea breeze puts it in his eyes.

You want to braid it, you think again, almost forgetting entirely what the two of you are doing until the fish breaks the surface with a violent splash, thrashing as he drags it through the shallows and onto the sand at your feet, red scales gleaming under the sun.

Your eyes widen. “I caught it!” 

Aerion gapes at you. “I caught the fish, you useless wench. I did all of the work.”

You give him a smug look. “It is on my rod, isn’t it?” you say, raising your chin, delighted. He stares at you in disbelief. “It is my fish. I told you I would catch the bigger fish.”

“This is my fish,” he snaps, stepping forward to crouch down as the thing flops in the sand, trying to work the hook free before it tangles itself. You lean over his shoulder, watching how he handles the fish with nimble, uncharacteristically gentle fingers. “It was my effort.”

“Our fish, then,” you say, chest brushing his shoulder as you stare at the fish. It is pretty, you decide—a fitting fish for the two of you. “What do we do with it now?” 

Aerion huffs, but there is no real irritation in it, only the ghost of that earlier laughter lingering at the edges as he shakes his head. “You are insufferable,” he tells you. “We can kill it or put it back in the water.”

You hum. “Put it back in the water.”

He looks at you from the corner of his eye and then reaches out to grab the fish by its tail and toss it back into the water. You watch it splash, leaping out of the shallows once before swimming far away, and then you slink your arms around Aerion’s shoulders and drag him down until he’s sitting in the sand between your legs. He lets out a startled noise as you pull him down, but he doesn’t pull away as you settle your chin on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks dryly.

You don’t respond for a long while, fingers slipping underneath his silks to flatten your palm against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, and the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. You ghost your lips against his shoulder, inhaling once as you choose what you want to say carefully, his words from before still ringing through your head.

“I cannot speak to what your father would prefer,” you say quietly. He stiffens in your arms, heart jumping beneath your touch, but your grip tightens, forcing him still before he can bristle. “Fathers are—” You press your lips together, remembering how willing your father was to send your twin off to his death if it meant you would remain his heir. You finish quietly, “—cruel. But I can speak for myself, I would not have preferred it.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, eyes sliding shut as words work over in your head, trying to figure out how you want to articulate yourself. For a moment, you think he’ll pull away, but then he sinks back into you. 

He’s tired, you realize—you should take advantage of it when he dozes off so that you can braid his hair the way you want. 

“I am glad you are here. With me,” you tell him softly. And it is the truth—you are glad. Aerion burns, and he cuts, he bristles and rages and screeches, and there is a good chance that this story that the two of you are living is not going to end happily, because you do not know what will happen when he is called back to Westeros, but you would not have it any other way. “I would not have it differently—not for anything. I am glad you are here.”

Aerion does not respond for a long time.

“You are a fool,” he tells you. His voice is thin. It wobbles. You both pretend that it doesn’t. “Since when are you so sentimental?”

“Do not fret, I do not plan to make a habit of it,” you say with a smile, kissing the crook of his neck once. Twice. A third time before you sigh. “Let’s sit here for a while, okay?” 

He exhales hard. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Okay.”

————————————

“What are you doing?” 

Aerion feels you pause from where you were about to section off a third part of his hair. He was startled awake when he felt you pull through a knot, and he squints when he realizes that you seem to be preparing his hair for something. 

The sun is setting, he realizes, blinking twice blearily. It was noon, not too long ago, wasn’t it? How long has he been asleep? He doesn’t even remember falling asleep. His eyes almost droop again as he sinks back into your arms, until he notices the sweet smile you’re giving him and instantly becomes suspicious. He lifts a hand to rub his face, trying to recall the last thing he remembers.

I would not have it differently—not for anything. I am glad you are here.

Oh, he thinks, a lump suddenly lodged in his throat.

“Nothing,” you reply easily, lifting your hands to force his face forward again. He lets out a noise in the back of his throat, indignant at the feeling of you manhandling him, but he is too tired to snap his teeth at you. “Do not be a child, dragon prince. I am braiding your hair.”

He scowls and shakes out his hair from the neat sections you’ve divided it into. You let out a frustrated noise at him and tug his hair furiously. He sees the way your fingers twist in the sand, as though you’re about to grab a handful of it and fling it at his face. Sensing your waning temper, he shifts away from you, turning to give you a more accusing look head-on.

“You will not play with my hair like I am some maid, you wench,” he mutters with a yawn, brushing his hair back over his shoulder, thoroughly away from you. Your lips curl down into a frown, but he ignores it as he toys with a stray strand framing his face. He muses, “It has gotten too long. I should have it cut. It is becoming irritating.”

“If you cut your hair, I will cut your throat, dragon prince,” you say with another sweet smile, and you ignore the appalled expression he casts your way. You add, “I prefer it longer.”

“I do not,” he scoffs, “and I do not care for what you prefer.”

You stare at him for a moment and then hum, looking away. Aerion’s eye twitches because he can sense the snide comment that’s running through your head without you having to say a word. 

“What?” he demands, irritated. “It is obvious you have something to say, so spit it out.”

“It is nothing,” you say dismissively, and Aerion’s eyes narrow even more when he sees how you’re fighting a smile, bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say, because it’s certainly going to be infuriating, and he is far too tired to argue with you right now. “It’s only that I thought you, too, would prefer your hair at a longer length. It is the typical style Valyrian men wear their hair, but the Andals do prefer their hair cropped short—or so I’ve heard—so I suppose it makes sense you prefer it that way.”

Aerion stares at you, blinking once, slowly, as your words process. It takes a second for him to realize what you’re implying, and when it does, his pride flares violently, teeth grinding together as you give him that despicable smile. 

“... You think me an Andal?” he asks through his teeth. You said it earlier, too, didn’t you—your Andal customs. He should have your tongue. You irritate him terribly. You call him an Andal, you claim his fish as your own, you tell him—

You shrug lazily, brushing the sand from your palm as you say, “I think that if the look suits—”

He catches your wrist before you can finish the sentence, fingers warm and tight as he yanks you closer to him. You let out a delighted laugh as he pulls you half into his lap, and Aerion has half a mind to wipe the smile right off your face. He would, he determines, if you were worth the effort—and if his chest didn’t flutter at the sight of it, but he won’t admit that. You make yourself comfortable on his lap, to his displeasure, settling there and draping your arms around his shoulders, toying with the ends of his hair, leaning in to brush your lips against the corner of his mouth, his jaw, beneath his ear. 

He shudders, but he pretends he doesn’t.

“Do not finish that sentence,” he says, voice low.

Your lips curl up tauntingly, and you lean in to finally ghost them against his. Aerion almost lets out a sigh when he feels you bite down lightly on his bottom lip. You are despicable, and he cannot stand you. Still, he brings his hands to your hips to hold you close, one hand sliding around to your lower back.

“Or what?” you breathe out.

For a moment, he only watches you. The sea wind lifts strands of his silver gold hair from where they’ve fallen loose around his face, and you lift your hand to tuck them behind his ear. He should bat your hand away, but he decides against it—not worth the energy. Instead, he lets his lashes flutter as you brush your fingers lightly through his hair once before cupping his face between your hands.

“You are insufferable,” he murmurs, though there is little heat behind the words now, and he feels as though he’s half a second from dozing off again, letting the weight of his head fall heavy in your palms. 

It is not his fault, he tells himself, exhaling heavily as his head lolls between your hands. 

He is exhausted—he spent all night trying to write a letter back to his father, unsure what to say in response to the news that his grandfather and his cousins, Valarr and Matarys, have all passed. Maekar did not even ask how he was doing. Did not spare any pleasantries. It was a clipped message, a report, if anything. Devoid of heart, devoid of care. Aerion almost doesn’t want to respond at all, but he needs to know if he’s being called back to Westeros any time soon. 

Then, to top it all off, Magister Vyrano had woken him up at the ass-crack of dawn to join him and his daughter when he finally started to fall asleep to break fast, and then you showed up, far too energized as you dragged him to the square to find a merchant from Qohor who evidently only makes it to Lys twice a year, and then, you had the nerve to all but challenge him to a fishing competition when he off-handedly mentioned he used to fish.

But you were a welcome distraction from the letters in his chambers, unlike Vyrano and his irritating daughter and even more irritating attendants. You are always a welcome distraction, he thinks, bitterly, adoringly, warmly—even when you are lying through your teeth and claiming to be better than him. 

He cannot stand you, and he cannot get enough of you. 

After a long moment, he opens his eyes again, studying the oddly open expression on your face, and then decides, “You may braid my hair.”

You blink. “Really?”

“I will not say it again, wench,” Aerion mutters, but he leans his face into your hand, lips brushing your palm once before he raises his eyebrows at you, waiting for you to get on with it. 

A smile splits your face, and Aerion falters, eyes softening as you shift off his lap to sit behind him, immediately getting to work at combing your fingers through his hair. His throat feels terribly tight for a second before he forces the feeling away. 

“Nothing too ornamental. I am a dragon, not a Lyseni whore,” he barks after a moment, but you only wave him off dismissively. He shudders when you drag your nails against his scalp to part his hair. You are oddly meticulous in your efforts to section it off evenly—sighing and picking at individual strands if you feel one section is smaller than the other. “I did not take you as the type of person to enjoy styling hair.”

You let out a huff of laughter through your nose. “Not my own,” you admit. “But I often braided my brother’s hair back home. He was a terribly whiny little thing—after our mother died, he would never let anyone else touch his hair besides me. When my father sent me away to deal with pirates or bandits or a khalasar that rode too close to our city, I would come back to his hair so knotted that it took hours to untangle.”

Aerion pauses when he hears the wistfulness in your voice—open and vulnerable as it always is when you find yourself talking about home. You don’t often; he doesn’t think you like talking about it, and he can’t necessarily blame you. He does not like talking about Westeros either, and he loathes how much you had gotten him to say earlier, so perhaps you will let him make it even now by answering his questions.  

He hears you sigh lightly, running your fingers through his hair before you start to braid it.

“Are you the elder?” Aerion asks after a moment, eyes sliding shut as he lets you do what you please with his hair. He assumes that you are the eldest from the way you talk about him, but he is curious to know for sure. “Between you and your brother?” 

“We are twins,” you say simply after a moment, and Aerion rolls his eyes. He knows that. 

“Yes, but you did not pop out of the womb at the same time, did you? Which of you came out first?” Aerion asks dryly, scowling when he feels you pointedly tug at his hair in response to his attitude. “It is a genuine question, wench, answer it or not.”

“I am the elder,” you say after a moment, “by less than an hour, according to my father.”

Aerion hums. “I thought so,” he says, pleased with himself, sighing lightly when he feels you tie off his hair. 

He tilts his head to the side slightly to look at you when you smooth your hand over the finished braid, and then both down his shoulders before you shift closer to slide your arms around his waist, propping your chin on his shoulder. He hates that as soon as he’s resting back against your chest, his eyes feel heavy again. 

Fuck, he’s exhausted—he can feel it in his limbs, sluggish and weighted, unwilling to cooperate when he has half a mind to push you away. He should have just gone back to his chambers instead of following you out to the market and then to the beach, but he can never seem to help himself when it comes to you, and he fucking hates it.

“What gave you that idea?” you ask dryly, burying your face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. 

Aerion lets out a slow breath, eyes still closed, head tipping back just enough to give you more space without quite meaning to. He murmurs, “The way you look when you speak of him. It is—” The same way Baelor used to look at Maekar, before Maekar caved his skull in while trying to protect Aerion. The same way Valarr used to look at Matarys, before they both succumbed to fever. The same way Daeron used to look at Aerion, before everything changed. “It is telling.”

“Telling,” you echo, and he can hear the mockery in your voice, but you kiss the crook of his neck before he can make a complaint. You sigh, and then say quietly, “He has always been mine—to protect, to scold, to drag back by his collar when he forgets himself.” There is a smile in your voice, but he can hear it fading as you add, “To stand in front of things he should never have to face.”

Aerion’s brows furrow faintly, though his eyes remain closed. He remembers, “Your brother was the spare. You never told me his name. Tell me about him.”

You hum in agreement, nipping playfully at his neck before you rest your forehead against his shoulder. 

“Viserys,” you say softly. Aerion is unsure why something ugly and green pits in his stomach when he hears the warmth in your voice as you say his name. You always sound this way when you speak of him, and Aerion inexplicably hates it. “He loves music and reading—wine too, even when he was far too young to be drinking. He spent so much time in the library when we were children that my father had to drag him from the cushions, kicking and screaming, when it came time for war games. My mother would try to convince him to let Viserys sit them out—said it was not for him and that there was no use forcing it —but our father would not have it. It’s one thing for the Maegyr family to have a useless son, his words, not mine, but it’s another thing to have a son who wouldn’t even try. So, he would try. He hated it, of course—and he was terrible at defending his territory, I would have to fight my way to him every time—but he tried.”

Fathers can be cruel, you had said. Fathers in power with high expectations for their children are crueler, you had not said, but he supposes you must be intimately familiar with that, more than most, more than Aerion, probably. A daughter of a Triarch of Volantis and the second son of a fourth son of the late Lord of the Seven Kingdoms—the two of you make quite the pair, don’t you?

Aerion hums, deciding to prod some more since you’re in a talkative mood. “And your mother? What happened to her?”

“She died,” you say after a moment, fingers stilling against his body. He shivers when you slip your hand into his silks, palm flattening against his bare abdomen, nails scratching lightly at his skin. “Childbirth. Viserys and I were ten. It was a boy—he was small. Quiet. He didn’t cry.” You pause, and then you add, “Didn’t survive either. My father refused to deal with funerary rites, shut himself away for weeks after she and the baby died, and Viserys was hysterical, so it fell on me.”

Aerion exhales, hand sliding to his abdomen to rest over yours, palm covering the back of your hand, fingers entwining with yours. He swallows thickly and says, “My mother died the same way. Also, when I was ten. I—”

He shouldn’t have said that. The moment it leaves his mouth, Aerion knows it—it feels sharp and wrong, something that should have stayed tucked neatly away. He doesn’t like speaking of his mother, doesn’t even like thinking about her. He can still feel the ghost of Dyanna’s hands running through his hair, can still hear the softness in her voice as she pulls him into her lap and calls him her little star. 

Eight years later, and his mother’s death is still an open wound.

“It does not matter,” he forces out, voice much too weak for his liking. “I do not wish to speak of this. Tell me more about your family.”

You do not push the way you usually would; instead, you hum lightly and return to nosing his neck. And then you speak—you tell him of the gardens in your family’s palace, the trees of blood oranges that you and your brother loved, the fountains of fresh water and pools that looked like liquid gold under the setting sun. You tell him more of cyvasse, of the first time you beat your father and the last time you ever lost, and then tales of war games where you would bring all of the other Tiger children to heel. You speak of the heat and palaces and long, languid afternoons spent draped across marble, listening to your brother play the harp or the lyre.

Aerion listens as you tell him all of this, and Aerion also—he also remembers.