su

The men stood back and made crude remarks, except for one, who untied the fabric around your face and removed the gag. You took in a deep breath and began to cry. “Please, let me go! I haven’t done anything, I-I don’t know anything!” you sobbed. The man grabbed your chin roughly and forced you to look up at him. “No, but you know someone,” he replied pointedly. He allowed you a few seconds to think; it didn’t take you long to go through your list of contacts considered dangerous. “Does this… have to do with Frank?” you asked carefully, your voice cracking through your tears. The man let go of your face and smiled disingenuously. “I don’t know anything about what he does. Please…” “It’s not about what’chu know, sweetheart,” you flinched at the misappropriated term of endearment “we’re just tryna send a message.”

You swallowed thickly. You’d known Frank for a few months now, meeting at a local library, reaching for the same book. Minutes of apologising and offering the book to and fro led to the start of your unusual friendship. Frank was cautious of it at first and tried his best to avoid you. You were a civilian, innocent and naïve to the way he lived, and his mission in life made him too hard for everyday people. But then he bumped into you again in a café, and again in the local corner shop, purely by chance. Every time the two of you felt the need to strike up conversation. One day you invited him to your flat for coffee, and after that, he kept showing up. At first he made up excuses, mainly to fix things – your shower, your boiler, a wonky cupboard door. The two of you would chat easily about things, and eventually Frank opened up to you about bits of his life. You didn’t want to know much about what he got up to in the shadows. When Frank showed up late one evening covered in blood and injuries, claiming he had nowhere else to go, you didn’t question it; nor any other time he appeared like that afterwards. You just cleaned his wounds, gave him a bed to rest in and a hot meal; you spoke to him about your ordinary life. You didn’t approve of what you saw, or what you heard, but then you didn’t fully understand his motivations, so how could you judge him? Besides, the Frank you were getting to know was contradictory to the Frank you heard whispers about. Frank fixed things, he helped cook, he kept to himself and was protective, he liked to read…

The men circling brought you back to your terrible present. “Please,” you begged, tears staining your cheeks, “please let me go—” A thundering boom made you jump and the men whipped their heads around, raising their weapons. Heavy, purposeful footsteps echoed through the empty building, getting louder and louder. The men began shouting, and tried to get into some sort of formation; too late. Frank burst into the room and began raining down hellfire. A wave of both relief and terror washed over you as you saw him.

Except... this wasn’t Frank. This was the Punisher. You watched with glassy eyes and eyebrows stitched together as you witnessed the violence. Gunshots fired on both sides banged and echoed off the empty walls, creating a painful reverb in your ears. You struggled against the chair; your survival mode screaming at you to run and hide, but you couldn't get away. A tiny, rational voice in the back of your head was telling you that this was Frank, and he was here to save you. And you were desperate for him to get you out. But as you watched him repeatedly beat a man's head against the wall, horrible cracking sounds reverberating and blood spraying everywhere, you realised this wasn't the Frank that sat at your kitchen table drinking coffee. Not at all...

As the fight drew to the end, you saw Frank glance over at you; he looked at you properly, and something flashed across his face. He paused, lifting the last man standing off the floor, his other hand wielding a wrench. You were shaking uncontrollably in your chair, eyes wide and trying to blink back tears that were spilling out anyway. Your mouth was shut in such a tight lock that your lips had nearly disappeared. Frank closed his eyes for a second and breathed in deeply through his nose, as if he were internally battling something. The animal in him won, and he hit the guy with the wrench, creating one final, terrible sound. The wrench echoed as it clanked on the floor, Frank groaned as he stood up. He slowly walked over to you.

Stopping a few paces in front of you, he held up his empty hands. Your eyes never left him. "It's me," he said, his voice gruff. He watched you barely nod in recognition, something in your gaze glossing over, the shock making you retreat to somewhere safe in your mind. He drew out a quiet breath and crouched in front of you, producing a pocket knife from his utility belt. He sawed at the restraints around your ankles first, hating how he could feel your body trembling underneath his touch. He stood again and moved behind you, undoing your wrists.

Although freed, you were so highly strung and tense that you didn't move at first. Then you slowly moved your shaking hands round to rest on your knees. Frank crouched in front of you again; you were looking ahead, but you weren't taking in any external information. Frank looked at the red hand-print on your cheek and the dried blood streaking across your eyebrow and wished he could kill those assholes all over again. He placed a gentle hand over one of yours. "Hey? Can you stand?" you felt yourself nodding, and tried. Your wobbly legs buckled and you felt yourself dropping, but Frank caught you, his arm supportive around your waist. You instinctively grabbed onto him, but pushed yourself back slightly as you looked about the room, overwhelmed. The smell of gunpowder and blood and metal was making you feel sick, and the sight of bits of people – teeth, hair, flesh – scattering the floor among the bodies burned itself into your mind. Taking wobbly steps, Frank followed closely behind you, ready to catch you if you wavered.

Reaching the van, Frank opened the door for you and you slowly climbed in. He watched you put your seat-belt on, your hands still shaking. He walked around to the driver’s side, hesitating before he got in, thinking about how you’d reacted to his touch. When he got behind the wheel and turned on the engine, he glanced at you. Your eyes were straight ahead, your arms wrapped around yourself, one hand reaching up to your chest to cling to the necklace you always wear, fingers weaving around the chain and toying with the pendant. Frank didn't bother asking if you were OK, he could clearly see you weren’t. He just had to get you away from here, somewhere safe.

It was a painfully quiet drive. All Frank could hear was your shaky breathing and crying. Usually you filled silence with conversation, with laughter. Your catatonic state was concerning him; he was wondering how he could pull you out of it without involving a hospital or the Police. The only thing he could think was to get you somewhere familiar and get you cleaned up. He drove to your home. As he followed behind you when you entered the building on autopilot, he looked about him with an air of sadness, convinced this would be the last time he would ever come back here. You stood in the middle of your flat, arms limply hanging at your sides. Locking the door quietly behind him, he came up behind you and placed a gentle hand on your back; he felt you start at the touch, and anguish washed over him again. “Hey, let’s get you cleaned up, huh?" He moved around to face you, his hand moving slowly from your back to your forearm. He began walking backwards, guiding you to the kitchen. "That's it, good girl." He pulled out a chair and sat you down in it.

"Let's make you some coffee, huh? Get you cleaned up... let’s see, coffee..." Frank turned away and began mumbling, busying himself pulling out mugs and brewing a pot. He found your first aid kit in a cupboard and placed it on the table, the sound making you jump. Frank admonished himself under his breath and continued quietly. You blinked, and let out a long, quiet breath. You looked around; you were home. How did I get here?, you wondered. You glanced down as Frank placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of you. He pulled out a chair opposite you and opened the first aid kit. "Alright, let’s get you cleaned up, huh? That’s it…” Frank pulled out antiseptic wipes and plasters and carefully, softly, began cleaning your wounds and cuts, his fingers barely touching your chin as he guided it up to the warm light of your home. He smoothed the plaster over your cheekbone, his thumb lingering. He looked deep into your eyes, and you blinked, looking back. "That's it," he said quietly. “Come back to me."

In your head, things were fuzzy, foggy. You’d definitely been drugged when those men took you. They'd been rough with you, hit you. You could feel the sting in your cheek forming a bruise. You were confused; confused why they’d taken you, confused how you’d made it home. Shock and trauma had a funny way of working. You could piece together fragments – Frank storming the building, how he... killed those men. And now he was here, sat opposite you, cleaning blood from his knuckles. "That was really scary," you said, voice croaky, and barely above a whisper. Frank stopped cleaning and looked at you, leaning forward, wanting to touch and comfort you, but stopping himself; afraid that you'd shrink away from him again. "Yeah," he replied quietly "I'm sorry you had to see that." You didn't say anything.

"I got lazy," he continued, "I got lazy. Since meetin' you… I stopped noticin'. I got a lotta enemies, you know? And every single one of 'em is gonna pay for thinkin' they can use you to get to me... that's why you gotta stay away from me." You looked at him, brows furrowing.

“What? Frank..." "This is what happens, why I don't get close to people," Frank stood up and began pacing. You watched him, mouth open, unsure what to say. “Frank, I didn’t mean you. I meant—" "You don't belong in this life, you don't deserve this," Frank continued. You stood up gingerly, the shakes still not fully worn off. You tried to step into his path, but he kept avoiding you, waving you away.

Anticipating his moves, you landed in front of him and placed your hands on his arms, stopping him. Frank froze and couldn’t bring himself to look in your eyes. His gaze flitted from you to the floor and back again; he braced, waiting for you to agree, to tell him how afraid you were of tonight, of him. He hung his head. Your heart ached. You slowly leaned in rested your head on his firm chest and breathed out deeply. Frank blinked down at the top of your head, surprised, moved. Despite everything you’d just experienced, just witnessed, you still sought comfort from him. You still trusted him.

He learnt that you respond particularly well to a phrase, a simple little saying that permits his help: "I know you can, but let me help you," or alternating strains of it, depending on where he sees fit. But the premise of it remains the same each time: you're capable, but you shouldn't always have to be.

It varies, when and where he says those few little words to you. Often, it's when he's trying to be chivalrous and gentlemanly. Though, trying is hardly the word, he doesn't need to do that — it's natural to him, only you're not always so typically keen on it. 

Like that one time when he came home to you groaning and mumbling curses from the bedroom; he thought the worst of it, naturally. And when he stepped in with his gun drawn, he immediately lowers it — the sight of you sitting on the floor amongst furniture parts the reason for retracting his weapon. You're on the floor amongst pieces of wood, screws and instructional papers, all of which scattered around in what he imagines to be from a moments frustration.

"What you got there?" he had said, voice sort of amused from his placement in the doorframe. 

"It's supposed to be a dresser," you said, eyes closed so as to avoid the pile of illogical mess surrounding you. You received the incorrect parts, you were sure of it. 

"Never would'a thought that, baby," he teased, in which he recognised instantly to be a mistake. You weren't in the mood for that. "Jus' playin' with you, sweetheart," he said as he stepped into your shared bedroom, pushing his sleeves up. "Lemme give it a go."

"I can do it," you reached for the instructions on the floor, hindering him from his help. "I just need a minute."

"Yeah baby, I know," he nodded, sitting on his knees across from you. 

"I can do it," you repeated, putting particular emphasis on your ability to see this project through. 

"Didn't say'ya couldn't," he picks up a piece of wood, matching it with another almost immediately. "What?" he said, meeting your eyes that were boring into his — he couldn't be serious, he did that so quickly. "You gon' give me that or you gon' keep being a goddamn pain in my ass?" he eyed up the instructions, one upping your defensive tries with gentle abrasion.

You tightened your hold on the directions, firming your ground. "The second." 

He stood with his usual groan, heading for the door when you stop him with repeated calls of his name.

"Yeah that's what I thought," he turned back and took the instructions from your outward, extended hold. He stepped over the piles of wood planks and metal screws to meet you on your side this time. He paused and as he lowered himself down onto his knees again, he pressed a kiss on your hairline. "Jus' try'na help you, baby. Stop givin' me a hard time."

Or when he tries to carry your shopping bags, much less when he actually tries to pay for it. 

Often, he joins you when you go shopping, keeping you company —keeping you safe— for when you flick through rails of clothes or skim shelves of collectibles. He'd tag along, stalking behind you almost as he watches you pick through items that momentarily catch your attention. He would always vocally question whether the hangers of clothes were too heavy to be lugging around or if the multiple little items in your hands were too awkward to hold, but you'd always decline his offers, pretending you need to have them all in your hand so you can make up your mind on them. And as that almost never works, he'd instead be preemptively adding up the prices in his head, trying to figure out the total so he can have the cash ready by the time you get served.

He would intervene, sticking out a handful of cash to the worker, stern inflexible look on his face. Of course, they wouldn't ignore his tries, not with an expression like that. They'd take his money and ring you up, stuffing the receipt in the bag. And when you'd try to take the bag, he'd get in there first; large hand taking up all space of the handle. 

You'd walk towards the exit together, your mouth forcibly zipped until you reach a place of somewhat quiet outside the store. You hand would be pandering his, attempting to take the bags from his hold. 

"Cut it out, these're my things. Jus' bought 'em," he'd pull himself away, small smirk on his face. 

"Frank," you'd giggle faintly, closing the distance as you further your tries. "Come on." 

"Nah," he'd shake his head, slipping his other, free arm behind you, hand on the small of your back as he leads you away from the store. "You're jus' gon' say 'thank you', and that's it, yeah? No more 'bout it."

"Can I at least pay towards it?"

"Nah, you gotta let me do sum' nice and be quiet 'bout it," he would say, pulling you into his side so he can press a kiss to your temple.

"I don't like that."

"Yeah, I know, baby," he'd chuckle. "You're too goddamn proud."

And sometimes, when you're feelings particularly weak with sickness and internal grime, he'd think you to finally be infirm enough to allow his help without so much as a discourse or disagreement. Only that's not true, even defeatedly laid in bed under a mountain of blankets, you'd still try to pretend that you can take care of yourself. Which of course, isn't the slightest bit true. 

You would try to move about, hobbling out of the bedroom only to be stopped by a wall —Frank— there's no other way to describe him. He'd turn you around, eyes stern as he gestures you back to bed. He'd shake his head, arms folded so as to broaden himself further. 

"Ain't happenin'," he'd say, almost like a tut. "Bed," he would have said, word simple and effective — direct. 

You wouldn't be completely willing to accept, but you'd be a little more forthcoming than usual: a small mumbled comment under your breath being your only form of dispute before you drop yourself back into bed. He'd then walk over, footsteps heavy as he meets you on your side of your shared bed. 

"Jus' lemme take care of you, yeah?" he'd comment, tucking you in the covers. "Makin' it so goddamn difficult," he would have brushed his knuckles over your cheek, caressing the side of your face with as light a touch as he could muster. 

With most, Frank's patience runs thin, but with you, he'll repeat himself forever if it would mean he can help take care of you.

… his little miss independent.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Standing in the kitchenette makes him feel.. some vicious breed of awkward. There isn’t a strong reason to be. He’s alone, nobody bugging him and nobody watching. But even having his socks on the same tile, the specifics come back to him and he feels god awful all over again. He was never great at forgetting. Especially nothing pertaining to you.

That thought brings fresh disgust to the surface of his skin, and Frank shoves it back down with a rough drag of his hand down his face. Not the image of you, per se, though your expression hangs perpetually over him like a rosary over a cot. The question of why he couldn’t just leave you in peace.

He guesses that he’ll never come to an answer if he keeps ignoring it like he is. He only has a vague interest in the colors moving across his TV screen, as he shifts for the first time in about half an hour to look down from his ceiling. It’s beat up, some garage sale junk made in 2013. Cable wasn’t great. But he had no idea how to get anything else on there, and Curt could never figure it out either.

So, Frank Castle, ex-marine, Kandahar-vet, partly-retired-vigilante, is reduced to watching the food network on a Friday night. And he hates to admit that it’s pretty entertaining.

He’s deep in a feature about ratatouille when the shoddy intercom by the door buzzes. And in an instant, Frank is transformed— from a man truly showing his age, considering whether the recipe on TV is worth scratching down on a notepad he keeps on the coffee table— to a man who has earned his paranoia from a laundry list of shameful deeds.

Before he knows he is doing it, he’s checking off security measures. Windows, locked. The door is locked too, twice over. Alarms are set. Or did he forget? Maybe he should’ve checked another time, before his particularly rough shift at the job site caught up to him like it now had. Frank isn’t a jittery man; the only clear difference in his gait as he traipses to the buzzer is the new hardness of his shoulders, and the movement of his eyes landing on the kitchen cabinet he designated for his SIG Sauer.

He presses the calloused tip of an index onto the button. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to; a woman’s voice bursts over the intercom system, static-fuzzed. “—llo? Helloo! You up there? Frrr-aaa-nnnk.”

Frank’s shoulders fall, a weighted breath collapsing from his nostrils. Christ. It sounded like you had been talking to the intercom box long before the static emanated from the speaker, like he had caught onto the tail end of your ramble. “Yeah.” He says, too quickly. “Yeah, I’m here. What’d’you need? You okay?”

He hates the relief that floods his system. Even worse is the readiness he speaks with; as though he had been waiting for you to ask anything of him. But, he doesn’t think of this instantly. At the moment, he is just a man in pajama pants, relieved that his neighbor is willing to speak to him at all, brushing his knuckles across his bearded jaw. Your reply dampens the relief. “I think I forgot my keys, can you, like, let me up? I reeeeally would really appreciate it, y’know. It’s cold. Pretty cold for spring.”

You don’t sound distressed, per se. More talkative than normal if that was possible, a certain drag hanging the syllables of your words. Drunk. Very, drunk. “M’ comin’ down. Stay put.”

He can’t let himself just buzz you in, let you hike up all those stairs to your floor. The decision doesn’t take much thinking. Any thinking, really. “Oh, thaaankk you, Frank! So, so much!”

He throws on the first shirt he can find (which happens to be a navy graphic-token from boot camp, more than well-worn) and is at the ground level within minutes. Frank finds you, leaning against the brick wall beside the outdoor intercom, looking out across the street as cars pass. Your face is turned away, but you’re easy for him to make out. It’s well past 11 PM, the night saturated with lamplight, red brake lights and neon signs suffusing color into the breeze. It’s only as he opens the lobby door that your attention turns to him, and he truly sees you.

The fluorescent light shining down from the concrete awning washes over your features in a way that would be unflattering for any other woman. But you aren’t any other woman, he knows. What might’ve been shimmer on your eyelids a few hours ago is now smudged around your eyes. Your hair looked a bit like it had been in an updo, and ripped free at a whim. He doesn’t smile, but some kind of lightness fills his chest.

“Awh, Frank.” You say, and he sighs through his nostrils, dips his chin imperceptibly. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t know about that.” He holds the door open as you walk— only stumbling once— into the lobby. It takes discipline not to watch you walk, not to look at the dress you wear; backless, black, short. He keeps his eyes up.

Elevators finally fixed, and so he bumps a knuckle into the button and watches the way you lean against the metal door jamb like your legs are decoration. “.. Had a good night?” Frank brings himself to ask.

The doors slide open, and he decides that a strong hand on your shoulder is a good fall-deterrent. “Oh, yeah. So fun. So, so.. uh, no. Actually. Not that fun.” Your line of reasoning crumbles before it was laid down. “Really cheap liquor. And I, like, couldn’t find any of my friends towards the end, so I just left, y’know?”

“Left?” The elevator hauls upward.

“It’s like, four blocks away.”

Something in Frank’s stomach churns, like a hard sock to the gut. He’s fairly good at concealing the feeling through a rough grunt, “You walked here?”

“Yeah!” The lightness of your reply elicits a half-groan, half-sigh. His roughened fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose, then to drag down his face, to his beard.

He wants to be angry with you; he can’t be. “Christ.” When he opens his eyes, you’re watching him with this sweet little furrow to your brow. Shaking his head and averting his look to the upward tick of floor levels, he grumbles, “Don’t do that again. You need t’get home, y’call me. From anywhere.”

The elevator dings, and the doors peel open. You nod slowly, eyes squinting as if you were thinking hard. “.. Thanks, Frank,” you murmur after a moment. He shrugs. It’s nothing. When will you get that it’s nothing, not since it’s you?

The quiet hangs as you step into the hall, one that’s comfortable considering the smell of alcohol lingering on you and the duty of caretaking wafting off Frank. You go the wrong way, first, he uses a guiding hand on your back to turn you. You laugh. He shakes his head.

Upon reaching his door, Frank watches you rifle through a purse that couldn’t possibly fit more than your phone and theoretically, keys. But, what did he know. He lets you dig around for a bit, amused, until you make a frustrated sound.

He interjects, “You lost your keys.” Saying it himself makes him nervous all over again. The kind of nervous that Frank tends to encounter often; not effectively worried, or paralyzed, but the kind that shakes him into running down a bullet pointed list. He guesses that it’s the marines that turned him into a man that converts threat into fuel. Already, he knows that he’ll have to check that club for your keys, change your locks, get you a new one. He grabs his own keys from a pocket. “.. This isn’t your door, anyway.”

“Oh, right. Fuck.” A smile crosses his features at your expression, he shakes his head. As if you had a thing to worry about.

With a jut of Frank’s chin— “C’mon.”

—

By the time he’s done setting the extra locks back into place, you’ve kicked off your heels haphazardly. Looking over his shoulder, he watches you stumble-to and slump-down-on the couch less like you were attempting to sit and more like your feet gave out.

Springing into action, Frank finds it easier to focus on the tangible task at hand than the prospect of you, drunk on his couch. He grabs a bottle of cold water, not without checking your state over his shoulder.

You aren’t black out drunk. He shouldn’t be so focused on propping you up. He shouldn’t think he’s propping you up, in any capacity. You’re not his to take care of.

The reminder is a whip to beat back the part of him that relishes in your smile, when he hands you the bottle and says with the intention of a command but the tone of a too-gentle murmur, “Drink.”

A mild sip delves into a chug. Haphazardly, you lean over to the coffee table and set down what two or three ounces is left of the bottle. Frank raises his brows at you. Okay? You nod back. Okay.

He watches you lay back and sort of sprawl over the couch, arms wayward. Your legs leave just enough room for Frank to sit on the edge of the couch. Absent-mindedly, he tugs down the bottom hem of your dress for your own sake.

“Your apartment is so bare,” your eyes are moving, tracing the walls. He shrugs. He never expected this place to be permanent. Or, atleast, to last long enough under his name (Pete’s name, he amends) to justify buying more furniture than was necessary. You smile, a little more open, a little more honest than your sober face would break open to reveal. “You need like, a painting.”

“I’m not a painting guy.” Frank squints, averts his eye. He hates how awkward he feels, seeing you again. Some vulnerability settles twixt his third and fourth rib. Some kind of fear, fear of mishandling something delicate that he’d already dropped once, and he didn’t at all expect to be handed glue to mend it. You seem none the wiser.

“There’s too many paintings for you not to like atleast one. Like, atleast a hundred thousand.”

“Yeah?”

“Because, think of it, like, people have been painting since, what, the year 500. So imagine how many there are.”

“You’re right.”

That satisfies you. Atleast, you smile and settle more into the couch cushions. “I’ll get you one for your birthday,” you chirp.

He huffs through the nostrils, lip twisting with humor. “You’re not gettin’ me anything, sweetheart.” He wishes he regretted the pet name. “If I really want a painting I can buy a painting.”

“So you really don’t want a painting?”

“Enough with the damn painting.” Frank grunts. You laugh. Loud, unabashed. Not forced to last longer to make someone feel better about a lame joke. He doesn’t think he’s a funny man, hasn’t been for a few years. He thinks he could be, if he tried.

Maybe he wants to start trying. Or maybe he’s already started, months ago.

You’re smiling at him. And he doesn’t have a clue why, can’t explain the mild upward curl to his own lips. Then you’re reaching out. To him.

“What?” Frank mutters, hating the sweetness to his tone. You’re just smiling. A little lopsidedly, and though the overhead light is off, the dim floor lamp beside the couch illuminates your features in warm yellow. Just enough that he can see the faint smudge of your eyeshadow. And, against his better judgement, he leans to you. Gives up, just in that one foot of space bridged.

It’s close enough for you to curl your fingers into his beard, not tugging, but feeling. The backs of your fingers brushing his jaw. He feels sick. “Did you trim?”

“..What?” Frank repeats. Idiocy keeps his eyes glued to yours, squinted, his voice just above a whisper, and his brow faintly drawn. He can smell your perfume, under the liquor. From here, a little mark that might’ve once been a scabbed scar from youth is visible on your chin.

“You trimmed your beard.” You say it so casually. He trimmed his beard. It’s purely observation. If anything, it’s funny to you. This isn’t difficult for you. The firm gentleness of your fingers is nauseating. Frank closes his eyes.

“Yeah.” A lame response. He barely took half an inch off, just enough to distance himself from a fictional hobo.

Where’s his resolve? He rips his eyes open, and through pure discipline, moves away. Your expression is unchanged as you drop your hand. He can’t explain the craving for distance and closeness, culminating in the same breath, in the same man, and he almost wishes he didn’t let you in, didn’t let you crash onto his couch, didn’t let you remind him.

It was hardly your fault, he reminds himself. You were drunk; he was taking you too serious. You break the silence, as if you are oblivious to the weight pressing on all sides into Frank. “Has anyone told you that you could be a good Hagrid?”

He doesn’t have to think about the chuckle that comes out from his chest. It’s something like relief from the unintentional torture you don’t realize you’re inflicting. “Christ, no. I, uh, haven’t gotten that one yet.” It feels good to smile with teeth bared, as he is now. Unplaceably good. “That’s, what, Lord of the Rings?”

“What? What’s wrong with you?” You laugh, again, features breaking into mirth. It’s easy for you, he knows. “It’s Harry Potter.”

Frank bows his head, grinning still like a boy. “Uh. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.” His eyes flick up to you, through his lashes. “Y’know, my boy loved those movies.”

“Yeah?” You rub a knuckle into your eye, further smudging your makeup.

Frank screws his face up, lifting his shoulders and nodding in emphasis. “Oh yeah. Got him the box set one year for his birthday. Back when we had the DVD player.” He’s not sure when the words to describe his son came so easily to him. Maybe he just needs him to be known to you. Maybe he just needs to say the memory aloud, for his own sanity.

You don’t seem perturbed by it. He tries not to examine the smile playing on your features too closely. You mumble under your breath, brows raising, “Harry Potter.” Conclusive.

A quiet passes. He, with a grunt, rises to his feet. As if pulled by string you lift your head up, beginning to push yourself onto your shoulders. “Are you—“ you begin, but he waves his hand. The worry on your face is not too sweet for him to immediately want to shoo away.

“Not leavin’.” A soft sound of recognition leaves your lips. Frank can feel your eyes burn into him as he moves to the kitchenette. It wasn’t like he kept makeup remover around. Maybe he should start— just in case. He finds a chance to rebuild some resolve, in the simple routine; in wetting a clean wash rag from the kitchen cabinet, wringing out the warm water over the sink.

“I haven’t seen you in forever. Soo long.” He can hear rustling over his shoulder. A quick glance finds you kicking a old throw pillow at your feet onto the floor; stretching your legs out fully. Getting comfortable, he guesses. “Where’ve you been, Frank?”

He chuckles, a brief, easy sound. “Here.” He turns, bearing the wet rag in one hand. His shoulders raise to his ears, curling his lip with humor. “It’s been, what, a week?”

“A week?” You repeat. He watches you comb your tresses with painted fingernails, a faint grimace playing at your lips. An affirmative grunt from him, followed by his weight dipping the couch cushion beside your leg. You sit up, hands in your lap. “So, so weird.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, only since he doesn’t think he should. Doesn’t trust himself to say anything right. He offers the rag to you, with lips pressed and eyes squinting.

“What’s that for?” You sit up.

He waves the rag in a small circle, the movement more of a result from the shrug of his shoulder than anything. He grumbles, near awkward, “.. Y’know. Your makeup.”

Understanding washes over your face in nearly the same moment as giggles open it up. Frank doesn’t mean to stare. Truly, doesn’t. But does it count, when your own eyes screw shut with laughter for the sake of nothing but laughter? Can’t he steep his mind in the warm water of your presence a little, as long as you never notice, and never cast him away?

“Okay. Okay, alright.” Frank mutters, half to himself. He lets exasperation color his tone, but in truth he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind leaning forward, raising the rag to your face all too gently. Your cheek pulls up in a smile under his hand, sputters of giggles leaving you. “That hurt at all?”

You hum, “No.” Carefully, he brings the cloth up to the skin under your eye, lifting some smudged shadow. “Thank you. So much.”

Frank huffs through the nostrils, dabbing too gently at your eyelid to be at all efficient in removing the makeup. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s really not nothing.”

Onto the other eye, with the same care. Some part of him is anxious to break you. He tries, really does try, to find some good way to wave you off. “come on. Don’t be like that.” You peek open the clean eye at him. He huffs again, and can’t resist the upward tick of his lips. “You know I’m here.”

Here. Where was here, exactly?

He doesn’t finish the thought. Does what is right by you, and nothing more.

Frank’s focus is concentrated on the rag and the thin skin of your eyelid, and it isn’t until he’s satisfied with the lack of shadow that he moves away, tosses the rag over the back of the couch. Isn’t until then, either, that he realizes how much silence has passed, and that your expression has turned some kind of melancholy.

“I’m sorry we haven’t talked.”

So am I.

Frank stays silent. You go on.

“And i’m more sorry about the other night. Really.”

Frank doesn’t mean to fail at holding your eye. He means, really, to take this conversation like a man. But his churning stomach betrays him, and his eye dart between the notepad on coffee table, the barren wall, you. You, frowning with guilt. Why should you be guilty? He moves to amend it, almost on instinct.

“Don’t say sorry.” He mutters, quieter than he means to. He pats a rough palm against your bare shin, the curve of your warm calf on his fingers. Despite his better judgement.

The rise of your protest is nearly tangible, alcohol having washed away any trace of a poker face. “Seriously, sweetheart.” There it is again. He squints briefly as if flinching from the craving thing inside of him.

“But I was wrong. So, so wrong.” Frank shakes his head at you. He leans over, grabbing the near empty water bottle, handing it to you with what he hopes is a firm, expectant expression.

“You gotta sober up.” He grunts. It’s an easy way out from under the wing of your pity. He can’t stand it— can’t stand the look on your face, like you owe him a fucking thing. Especially not some lame words for his sake. You take the water, delicately.

“I wish I didn’t.”

“.. Didn’t, what?”

“Didn’t leave, that night.”

He reminds himself to close his parted lips, to squeeze the hell out of his jaw, teeth-crushingly tight, in order to keep from saying anything from the chest. You frown at him, quiet, stone still until your head lolls to the side drowsily, ear finding the top of the couch back.

Frank turns his cheek with a weighty sigh through the nose. Hands splayed atop his thighs, and in a nervous tick, he curls his lip, looking to the far wall like it might give him a line. What else can he do? Warily, he glances at you in his peripheral. Sipping the water bottle until it's only hollow plastic. Like you’ve already forgotten this conversation, who last spoke, and said what.

There’s nothing to do. That’s the only right answer. Leave you be. Don’t search for meaning in words from a drunk woman. Even if that woman is you, and he wants to, worse than he’s wanted to find meaning in anything for fucking years.

“..S’my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed, y’know?” No response. He makes a lame, hesitating noise like his throat is a step ahead of his head, creating sound before his lips form words.

“Maybe you were right. I could’ve, uh, drunk too much.” A lie. He winces as the words pass his lips. “I don’t remember. I don’t know what man roundin’ on fifty gets, fuckin’— wine drunk.” Frank chuckles at himself, then, though it’s more of a grunt laced with weak humor.

Silence.

“..I just don’t you t’.. I don’t know. Think I’m some asshole.” He swipes his thumb against the crooked bridge of his nose, and can’t help the flit of his eyes from wall to wall. Another kind of humorless huff through the nostrils. “Maybe that ship has sailed. I just.. it’s good to have company. Y’know? I don’t want t’be the one that ruins that.”

He lets the quiet breathe a few seconds, until he gives himself the humility to look over his shoulder, see if he’s said something wrong. Instead, Frank hums a short, low note, in something close to amusement.

You’re all but knocked out cold. Maybe that’s for the better. He has a feeling your neck will hurt like hell tomorrow, craned like that. In his mind it’s hardly a decision; he’ll take the couch.

If you’re at all roused by Frank’s arms shifting under your knees and against your back to lift you, then you give him the kindness of not letting him know it.

He’s not a good man, he knows that; but if he’s anything, he’s dutiful. He doesn’t allow himself to appreciate your weight in his arms, as he moves to put his bedroom door open with his broad back; slow enough to not rock you. Neither does he give himself any credit, nor kindness to himself for pulling the comforter over you, closing the blinds so that you can sleep into the daylight.

Frank does, however, allowed himself to linger in the doorway. Callouses on the cool door handle, chest full and heavy with something familiar and suffocating. He does not try to name it. Does not try to recall the lifetime ago when this feeling was constant, surrounding him, woven into the fibers of his muscle and tendon.

He wants to be grateful to have been given another chance to feel it. But Frank is a man who puts a ravine between what is craving and what is deserved. And he does not deserve this.

He pulls the door closed against the jamb with a click.

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“Why aren’t you listening to me?” You heard Matt’s voice from outside of their office. You had just came back into the office, after looking more into a few cases you were all working on. You were eager to share the information you acquired to both your boyfriend, Matt, and Foggy.

“You are in a relationship, Matthew. This is insane.” Karen soon spoke up. You raised your ears in curiosity. Were they talking about you? You leaned into the door, trying to listen into their conversation.

You have been in a loving relationship with Matt for about two years now. You met him while working at his law firm, and ultimately fell for him. Who wouldn’t? Matt is a dream come true. It didn’t make you uncomfortable to know that his ex girlfriend, Karen, also worked along side Matt, since you knew he loved you. He reminded you every single day of how much he loved and appreciated you. He never gave you a reason to doubt him.

“Y/N? God, Karen. Can’t you see? She means nothing— not next to you.” Matt said, your heart sinking at his words. No, this isn’t the Matt you knew. The Matt you knew and fell in love with would never speak of you like this. No.. he loved you. He told you every day.

He loved you… right?

“You don’t mean that, Matt.” Karen replied softly. You could sense pity in her voice for you.

“Y/N… she’s lovely. She really is— she’s so good to me, but she’s not you. She will never be you.”

You heard Karen reply, but you weren’t paying attention anymore. You bit your bottom lip, hiding your silent cries, and shuttering breaths. You started to walk away from the office, not daring to even look back. You were grateful it was usually noisy around the office during that time, so Matt wouldn’t have been able to hear you.

You stood in the middle of the sidewalk, finally allowing yourself to hurt. Tears streamed down your face, painful sobs leaving your throat. The stares of people didn’t matter to you. How could he? How could you have been so naive? It was all too good to be true, and you knew this. You knew it was, yet you brushed it off. Just thinking this was the universe finally letting you be happy, for once. How naive.

You walked around the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. not having a place to go. You shared the apartment with Matt. You couldn’t go to Karen, or Foggy. Gosh, where were you going to sleep for tonight? Those were the only people you truly trusted and knew. You didn’t have any family left in Hell’s Kitchen. No one.

As you walked around town, flashbacks kept replaying in your head. Walking past that italian restaurant Matt loved so much, the small bar Matt liked playing pool in, the park Matt loved taking walks with you at, everything reminded you of him. You closed your eyes in defeat, as you felt small rain drops fall on your skin.

Just what you needed.

But even then, it was comforting. You always liked how the city looked during rainy nights. It brought you peace and now, consolation. You walked around the streets you loved so much, an emotionless expression in your face. You felt empty. You felt so pathetic, and like you had wasted two years of your life. Two years of nothing but what you thought was happiness and love. But it was just a fantasy. A delusion. Fiction. It just wasn’t real, nothing was real. You weren’t Karen. You didn’t have as much history with Matt as Karen did. You just weren’t her.

While you continued to walk, your tears now hidden in the rain, giving you the freedom to let go, to cry as much as you pleased, you heard a name you hadn’t heard in a while.

The Punisher.

Frank Castle. The man who once saved your life. The man who seemed to care so deeply about you. A long lost friend. You lost communication with him a few months ago. It was nothing new, Frank traveled a lot, he never truly stayed at one place for too long. You didn’t know he was back, as he hadn’t told you. He’d always find a way to contact you, to let you know he was alive and well. Most of the times, he simply got you flowers. He knew how much you liked them. So he wanted to be associated with something you liked so much.

You soon found yourself at his front door. Terrified he wouldn’t be home. After composing yourself, or at least trying to, you knocked twice on his door. You bit your lip, looking down anxiously.

Please be home, Frank. Please.

After a few minutes of silence, that sense of hope inside of you started to die down. He wasn’t home. Of course he wasn’t home. You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head. Again, how fucking naive. You wiped your teary, swollen eyes, and turned around on your heels, starting to walk away from his door. You began thinking of where you could spend the night. If anything, you could wait under they all leave the office, and you could sleep there.

“Y/N?” You heard a deep, raspy voice call out behind you, interrupting your thoughts. You could have sworn your heart stopped. You turned around slowly, finding Frank.

“You’re home…” You managed to whisper, earning a cautious nod from Frank.

“Everything okay, doll? What’s goin’ on?” Frank asked, his eyes scanning you, looking for any injuries on you. His expression softening at the sight of a broken you.

You opened your mouth to speak, yet nothing came out. You faked a smile, wiping your eyes once again. Frank’s heart tightened. He slowly began making his way to you. Your smile soon turned into a frown, small sobs leaving your lips. You couldn’t stop yourself from breaking down in front of him. Loud, and sore wails filling the hall you both were standing on.

Frank didn’t say a word either, he only embraced you into a tight hug. His strong arms stroking your back lovingly, as he held you together, knowing that if he let go, you’d fall apart right in front of him. Once he noticed your cries had calmed down, he finally spoke up.

“Let’s change you out of these wet clothes.” He spoke lightly, guiding you into his apartment. He closed the door behind him, leading you into the bathroom. He brought some of his clothes for you, and a towel.

“Take a warm bath, and then we’ll talk if you want to, alright?” Frank said, before offering you a small, pitiful grin, and closing the door. You took off the damped clothes and jumped into the shower, instantly relaxing as soon as the hot water touched your cold skin.

Frank could hear your whimpers and cries from his living room, where he impatiently waited for you. He had never seen you like this. His heart felt heavy while looking into your blood red, swollen eyes, your quivering lips and broken expression. He sighed harshly, remembering how cold you felt when he held you into his arms, how much you were shaking. He quickly stood up, gathering warm blankets for you. He also prepared warm chocolate for you, your favorite kind, in hopes of lifting your spirits, even if it’s just a little.

He must have gotten too caught up in trying to make you feel comfortable, that he didn’t notice you. You stood by the counter of his kitchen, wearing one of his t-shirts and long pants, which were most definitely a little big on you. He smiled just a bit, once he locked eyes with you. You returned the kind smile, watching him as he poured the hot chocolate into a cup for you.

Soon, your eyes drifted to a flower arrangement, carefully sitting by the end of the counter you were leaning on. You sighed quietly, in relief.

“Those are yours, sweetheart. Was gonna have them delivered to you tomorrow, or somethin’.” Frank said, handing the cup to you. You smiled, genuinely this time. Of course he was going to. How dare you doubt him? He cares about you. Truthfully. You brought the cup to your lips, softly blowing it, before drinking from it.

“See, I just didn’t know where to send ‘em to.” Frank continued, looking at the flowers he got for you. Tulips. “Didn’t know you moved in with Matt.” He said. You sighed at the mention of his name, a frown appearing once again.

“Yeah, well. Definitely don’t send them there.” You replied, so soft it was almost a whisper. Frank nodded, not wanting to push you. He didn’t want to pressure you into telling him anything.

“Are you alright, doll? Talk to me.” Frank said, as softly and tenderly as possible. You sighed shakily, recalling what you heard. Frank bit the insides of his mouth. “Let’s go sit, okay?” He offered, a hand lightly on your waist, leading you to his living room. Frank sat across from you, giving you all the space you needed. You looked down at the cup in your hands, trying to find the right words.

“It’s Matt, he—”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No! Of course not— I mean, yeah? Kind of?” You replied, placing the cup down on the coffee table in front of you, before your hands ran to caress your temples in frustration.

“I’m sorry.” Frank said after taking a deep breath. “Didn’t meant to interrupt ya.” He finished, his eyes never leaving yours. Your heart almost melted. Frank has always been this kind, this attentive.

“It’s fine, Frank. It’s just—” You continued, running a hand through your damped hair, trying to find the best way to explain your situation. “I don’t even know how to explain it, he just— he just doesn’t love me.”

“What?” Frank asked, truly baffled at your words. Because how can anybody not adore you?

“I heard him speaking to Karen. And he told her I was nothing compared to her, and that he only wanted her.” You continued, your voice breaking. “He doesn’t love me, Frank. Simply because I’m not her.” You finished, your head dropped in embarrassment and hurt. You held back your wails, yet there was not point in stopping the tears that now ran down your face. You heard Frank sigh.

After a few minutes of nothing but your silent cries, Frank had now moved to sit next to you, an arm wrapped around you, as you cried into his chest. His fingers traced circles on your skin, attempting to comfort you as much as he possibly could. A few more minutes passed, yet Frank hadn’t said a word.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” You finally spoke up, your voice sore and tired from all the crying. Frank shrugged his shoulders, looking down at you.

“Just can’t understand how anyone would want anybody else but you.” Frank said, his eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion. He was dumbfounded. “You’re it for me, sweetheart.” Frank continued, his face showing utter bewilderment.

“Didn’t know Red could be so goddamn stupid.” Frank said, looking down to stare into your eyes. Your eyes glassy and overflowing with tears. He sighed, his rough fingers wiping away the small teardrops on your cheeks.

“I’m sorry I can’t comfort ‘ya any better, I’m just bamboozled.” Frank confessed, making a small giggle leave your mouth. He offered you a small grin.

“Don’t you dare doubt yourself ‘cause of him. You know your worth and how fucking amazing you are— he’s missing out on you, pretty girl.” Frank continued, his rough hand felt warm and even soft against your skin. You bit your lip, killer butterflies filling your stomach while you heard Frank speak so softly and lovingly to you.

“I just don’t understand— if it were me, I would’ve put a ring on your finger ages ago. Fuck, I would’ve made you a mom by now.” Frank rambled on, your eyes softly widening at his sudden confession. Frank seemed to realized what he said, since he quickly looked into your eyes in panic.

“I mean— I would’ve never exchanged you for anyone or anything. I’m telling ‘ya, you’re it for me.” Frank finished, his hand leaving your cheek. You frowned at the loss of his warmth.

“You should be exhausted, go to sleep, alright? We’ll talk more in the morning.” Frank said softly, before planting a tender kiss to your forehead. You nodded, mostly speechless by what just happened. You made your way to then vacant room Frank had offered you, looking back once in a while, locking eyes with Frank. You smiled timidly, before walking into the room, and closing the door behind you.

“‘I would’ve made you a mom.’ ‘The fuck were you thinking?” Frank cursed under his breath, cleaning up his living room. His eyes going going over to the room you were sleeping at, wondering if you needed anything, and most importantly, if you were okay.

Inside, a smile had formed in your lips, remembering the words Frank had said to you. You couldn’t help the obvious attraction and love you felt towards him, from the very first day you met him. Matt hated Frank, probably because of how fondly you spoke of him and how excited you used to get when a bucket of flowers would get delivered to you. You used to reassure Matt to not worry about Frank, that you two were just friends.

frank's too busy counting under his breath as he moves through another set of pushups, palms flat against the worn concrete floor, muscles shifting beneath the faded black shirt he’d abandoned halfway through the workout. now it’s tossed over the back of a chair, forgotten.

you tell yourself not to look.

he's moving through the pushups effortlessly. every rise and fall is measured. shoulders tense, forearms flexing, old scars catching your attention.

“you gonna keep staring, or you got something to say?” his voice cuts through the room.

heat climbs straight into your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“yeah?"

“yeah, I wasn’t.”

frank pushes himself upright in a single motion and grabs the towel hanging off the chair, dragging it across the back of his neck. he chuckles under his breath, low and rough, and sits on the edge of the battered table. “you’re terrible at lyin', sweetheart."

frank reaches for the water bottle beside him and takes a drink without breaking eye contact. “what was so interesting?” he says eventually.

you blink, too stunned to speak. he lets the silence stretch and lets you sit in it. you lift your chin, trying to recover some dignity.

“I was just… making sure you weren’t overdoing it.”

he raises an eyebrow. “that’s your excuse?”

“yes.”

"yeah, okay, sure- whatever you say."

you clear your throat and make a show of looking around the room instead, as if the peeling paint on the walls has suddenly become interesting. your face feels warmer by the second, and you can only hope the dim lighting hides it.

he shakes his head once, the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he drops back into position on the floor.

“c'mere.”

you blink again. “what?”

“c'mon.”

you eye him suspiciously. “why?”

“need more weight.”

you laugh. “you’ve lost it.”

“get on my back.”

you stare at him for a second, waiting for the punchline but it never comes.

“you’re serious.”

“I don’ joke about no workouts.”

from the other room, micro calls without looking up from his screens. “he really doesn’t.”

you glance between them. “you’re telling me to… sit on you?”

frank plants his hands more firmly on the concrete “what, you deaf now?"

there’s enough certainty in his voice that, after another hesitant second, you step closer. carefully, awkwardly, you shift your weight onto his back, expecting him to wobble or complain. once you’re settled, he adjusts his stance by a fraction of an inch.

“comfortable?”

“frank, are you sure about this?”

“watch me, sweetheart."

he lowers himself in one swing and pushes right back up effortlessly. your eyes widen.

“no way.”

the movement is so controlled that you barely feel yourself rise and fall with him.

“you’re kidding.”

“counting’s easier than talking, doll” he replies between repetitions. you shake your head in disbelief as he keeps going, steady as ever.

“you’re making this look easy.”

“cause' it is.”

from behind the monitors comes an exaggerated sigh “I leave the room for five minutes,” micro mutters, “and we’re inventing new gym equipment.”

frank finally finishes the set and pushes himself upright one last time. “all right,” he says evenly. “hop off.”

the moment your shoes hit the floor, you feel it properly - the difference between being held steady and suddenly being on your own balance again. frank watches you for a second, expression steady again.

“next time,” he says, “you can try not starin' so obviously.”

your face warms immediately. “frank! I said I wasn’t-”

“oh, please." he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, bringing his hand up to massage in-between his eyebrows. “it’s distractin'.”

you go still for a second, confused. “me?”

“yeah,” he says simply, picking up his shirt from the chair and tugging it on. “you.”

frank reaches the sink, turns it on, and leans forward slightly as he splashes water over his face. his shoulders are still relaxed, like he didn’t just shift something in the air between you. like he doesn’t feel it lingering at all. he turns off the tap, wipes his hands on the towel, and without looking back once, heads out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind him.

only then do you exhale properly, staring at the empty space he just left behind like it’s malfunctioning.

It was a late summer night, and you were sitting on the porch, half-focused on a college assignment spread across your lap.

The evening was quiet until you heard laughter drifting up the driveway.

You looked up.

Your dad was stumbling along, clearly drunk, while Frank walked beside him, one hand gripping the back of his shirt to stop him from falling flat on his face.

You’d known Frank for as long as you could remember. He and your dad had been best friends for years. Growing up, he’d always been around. Family barbecues. Birthdays. Weekends spent helping your dad fix things around the house.

Your dad was laughing at his own joke, words slurring together.

Frank looked tired more than drunk. Maybe a couple of beers in him, but nowhere near your dad’s state. That was another thing you remembered about him.

The man could drink and handle it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, folding your arms as you watched them approach.

Frank glanced up at you.

“Yeah.”

Your dad pointed at you dramatically.

“See? See? She’s judgin’ me.”

“She’s got a point,” Frank said.

Your dad scoffed before immediately losing his balance.

Frank caught him by the arm without even looking.

Inside, your dad continued rambling all the way to the living room. Frank practically hauled him onto the sofa.

The old springs groaned.

“What’d you do to him?” you asked.

Frank snorted softly.

“Nothin’.”

He grabbed the blanket draped over the armchair and tossed it over your dad.

A few moments later, your father’s snoring filled the room.

Silence settled between you and Frank.

He stood there for a second, hands on his hips, looking down at your dad like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.

“Want some coffee?” you asked.

Frank looked over at you.

His eyes softened slightly.

“Yeah.”

A brief pause.

“That’d be nice.”

The kitchen was quiet apart from the hum of the refrigerator and the soft gurgle of the coffee machine.

Frank leaned against the counter while you filled two mugs.

Your dad’s snoring drifted faintly from the living room.

Frank glanced towards the doorway.

“He’s gonna hate himself tomorrow.”

You laughed.

“Good.”

“Cold.”

“You carried him in here like a sack of potatoes.”

“He was actin’ like one.”

You handed him a mug.

“Thanks.”

The word came out low and rough.

You sat on one of the stools at the island while Frank stayed standing, both hands wrapped around the coffee cup.

Conversation drifted easily.

A little bit about your classes.

A little bit about your dad.

A little bit about nothing at all.

The kind of conversation that somehow lasted an hour without either of you realizing it.

Frank wasn’t much of a talker, but when he did speak, you always listened.

Maybe because he never wasted words.

Maybe because his voice was unfairly attractive.

Probably both.

“You still workin’ yourself to death with those assignments?” he asked.

You groaned dramatically.

“Don’t.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

The confidence in his voice made it sound less like encouragement and more like a fact.

You smiled into your coffee.

“Thanks, Frank.”

He gave a small shrug.

The kitchen fell quiet again.

Not awkward.

Never awkward.

Just comfortable.

You stood and moved to rinse your mug in the sink.

A moment later Frank stepped forward to put his own cup beside it.

The space between you was suddenly a lot smaller than it had been a second ago.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

His hand settled briefly against your waist as he moved past you.

Barely a touch.

Just enough to guide himself through the narrow space.

Just enough to make your entire brain stop functioning.

He was already reaching for the coffee pot before you’d fully processed it.

Completely unaware of the damage he’d done.

Or maybe not.

You honestly couldn’t tell with him.

You’d spent years trying not to have a crush on Frank Castle.

Years.

You’d told yourself it was ridiculous.

That he was your dad’s best friend.

That you’d known him forever.

That it would pass eventually.

Unfortunately, Frank seemed determined to make that impossible.

Maybe it was the pet names.

Sweetheart. Kid. Honey.

The way they rolled off his tongue so naturally.

Maybe it was the fact he always looked out for you without making a big deal about it.

Or maybe it was moments exactly like this.

Tiny things that meant absolutely nothing to him and absolutely everything to you.

You stared into the sink, hoping he couldn’t see the warmth creeping into your face.

Frank glanced over.

“You alright?”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah.”

His eyes narrowed slightly like he knew you were lying then, after a moment, he simply nodded.

“Alright, sweetheart.”

Frank leaned back against the counter with his coffee, like he’d been trying to look casual for the last five minutes and had finally given up on it.

You began rinsing your mug at the sink, but you could feel him watching you.

“Still see that friend of yours?” he asked suddenly.

You paused.

“…Which one?”

“The touchy one.”

You laughed under your breath.

“No. Thank God. He’s gone.”

Frank nodded once, like that made perfect sense.

“Good.”

You glanced over your shoulder.

“Why ‘good’?”

He hesitated.

Just a fraction too long.

“Just is.”

You turned off the tap and faced him properly now, leaning your hip against the counter.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an answer.”

“It’s a ‘i’m avoiding the question’ answer.”

Frank exhaled through his nose, like he was already regretting starting this conversation.

You tilted your head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Frank.”

He looked at you then, properly.

Like he was choosing every word before it even had a chance to exist.

“You shouldn’t waste your time with guys like that.”

“I didn’t.”

A beat.

“You got rid of him.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

There it was again. That simple approval. No elaboration. No softness he’d admit to.

You smiled a little.

“You always this invested in my dating life?”

“No.”

“Feels like you are.”

“I’m not.”

You hummed, unconvinced.

Frank dragged a hand over the back of his neck.

He looked… uncomfortable. Not in pain. Just like he’d walked into a conversation he didn’t have the manual for.

“I’m just sayin’,” he added.

“Mm-hm.”

“You deserve better.”

Your smile widened slightly.

“Better how?”

Frank frowned.

“That guy wasn’t—” He stopped himself. Restarted. “He wasn’t right for you.”

“And you are the authority on that?”

That got him.

A short pause.

“No.”

But he didn’t look away.

That was the problem.

You stepped a little closer without really meaning to.

“So what, Frank?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to do.”

“I’m just talking.”

“You’re not just talkin’.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

He let out a slow breath.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” He cut himself off, rubbed his thumb against his mug like it had personally offended him. “Like I’m supposed to say somethin’ I shouldn’t.”

Your voice dropped a little, teasing now.

“Say it then.”

Frank’s eyes flicked to yours. A second too long. Then away.

“No.”

“Frank.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He huffed quietly. “You’re trouble.”

“You started this.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

He looked at you again, and this time there was no easy way out of it for him. The space between you felt smaller than it should’ve.

“You’re beautiful,” he said finally, flatly—like he’d just thrown a grenade and was bracing for it.

Silence.

You blinked at him.

Then smiled. “Oh.”

Frank immediately looked away. “Jesus Christ.”

“So you think I’m beautiful?” You laughed.

He shut his eyes for half a second. “I need to stop talkin’.”

“No, no,” you said quickly, grinning now. “Please keep going.”

“Don’t.”

“Keep going.”

Frank shook his head slightly, like he was trying to physically reset his brain.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“What?”

“That.”

“What’s ‘that’?”

“You know what it is.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

You leaned in just a little more, clearly enjoying yourself now.

Frank pointed at you slightly with his mug, not threatening—more like warning himself.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“This.”

You tilted your head innocently. “I’m just standing here.”

“That’s the problem.”

You smiled wider. “Frank.”

He exhaled again, longer this time.

“I’m not good at this.”

“At what?”

He looked at you really looked this time and there was something almost helpless in it, buried under all that control.

“Talkin’ to you,” he said quietly.

Your teasing softened just a little. “Why?”

A pause.

Frank’s voice dropped. “Because you make it hard to think straight.”

“Why, because I’m so beautiful?” you joke, grinning up at him.

Frank’s eyes snap to you immediately.

“Y/N—stop.”

You laugh under your breath. “What? I’m just asking.”

“Don’t.”

“Does this mean you’re attracted to me?”

That gets an instant reaction.

Frank exhales sharply, setting his mug down a little harder than necessary.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble with your dad.”

You glance over your shoulder toward the living room.

Your dad is still completely out cold on the sofa, one arm hanging off the edge, snoring like nothing in the world could possibly disturb him.

You turn back, smiling.

“You mean my dad that’s passed out on the couch and won’t hear a thing? A car could drive into the house and he wouldn’t wake up.”

Frank doesn’t laugh, but something almost like it flickers in his expression.

“That so?”

You nod, completely unbothered.

“He wouldn’t hear a thing, Frank.”

Silence hangs for a beat.

You’re still smiling when you look up at him again and he knows he knows exactly what you’re referencing.

The way your dad had been earlier. The way Frank had practically had to carry him through the house. The way nothing short of disaster was waking him up right now.

Frank’s jaw tightens slightly.

Not angry.

Just… aware.

“You’re pushin’ your luck,” he mutters.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

You take a small step closer anyway, still smiling like you’ve already won whatever game this is.

Frank’s eyes track you instantly, like it’s instinct.

“Kid—”

“Oh, don’t ‘kid’ me.”

That makes his mouth twitch, just barely.

“You’re doin’ it again.”

“Doing what?”

“This.”

“What’s ‘this’?”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly like he can’t believe the conversation has gone this far.

“You know what you’re doin’.”

You tilt your head. “I really don’t.”

Frank looks at you for a long second.

Then quieter, rougher: “Yeah. You do.”

Frank pushes off the counter.

He moves like he’s still deciding something, like his body is ahead of his brain by a half-second.

His hand comes up and his knuckles brush your jaw—just a graze, callused and warm—and then his fingers curl under your chin and tilt your face up and he kisses you.

Not gentle. Not tentative.

His mouth is hot and wet and he tastes like the Jameson he’s been nursing for the last hour, oak and caramel and something sharper underneath.

His tongue slides against yours and you let him. Your hands find the front of his shirt, fists curling into the faded cotton.

The kiss deepens.

Frank makes a sound—low, rough, almost a growl—and his other hand finds your hip. Grips.

Hard enough that you feel the press of each finger through the thin cotton of your sundress. He pulls you forward an inch, two inches, until your hips meet his and the counter digs into your spine.

Your mouth opens wider. His tongue sweeps in.

The snoring from the living room doesn’t stop.

He breaks the kiss long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours.

His chest rises and falls hard.

You can smell him—whiskey and coffee and the faint pine-scent soap he uses, the same one he’s used since you were a kid and he’d come over to watch the game and you’d sit on the floor by the coffee table doing homework while he and your dad yelled at the television.

Now his thumb traces along your jawline.

Down the side of your neck.

Your pulse flutters against the pad of his finger.

“Frank.” It comes out breathier than you meant it to.

He doesn’t answer with words.

His mouth finds your throat, lips parting, and he kisses a path down the column of your neck.

Slow at first. Then hungrier. His teeth graze the skin just below your ear and you gasp—a sharp little intake that makes his fingers tighten on your hip.

He nips. Not hard enough to bruise, but close. The edge of pain sharpens everything else, makes the wet heat of his tongue feel electric when he soothes the spot.

Your head drops back. The kitchen ceiling swims above you—water-stained, familiar, the same crack in the plaster that’s been there since the big storm three years ago.

But everything feels foreign now, your own body strange and new, every nerve waking up.

His mouth travels lower. The hollow of your throat. The ridge of your collarbone, revealed by the thin strap of your dress that’s slipped off one shoulder.

His stubble scrapes your skin. You shiver.

“Been watchin’ you all night,” he mutters, voice low. “That dress… every time I looked over, you were lookin’ right back at me.”

I wasn’t—

The protest dies before it reaches your tongue.

Because maybe you were.

His hands find your waist. Lift.

You’re on the counter before you register the movement, the cool granite shocking through the fabric of your dress, and he’s stepping between your knees and his shoulders are broad enough to block out the kitchen, the light, everything except him.

His mouth finds yours again. Messier this time. Desperate.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The hem of your dress rides up your thighs.

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass—gripping and releasing like he can’t decide where to hold on tightest.

One hand slides down. Fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.

Simple cotton. Pale pink. You’re suddenly, irrationally embarrassed that they aren’t something lacier, something more deliberate.

Frank doesn’t seem to care.

He tugs them down and you lift your hips to help, the cotton sliding over your thighs and past your knees and then gone, dropped somewhere on the kitchen tile.

The air hits your skin. Already slick. The coolness makes you clench around nothing.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—sprawled on the counter, dress bunched around your hips, bare and open and exposed under the yellow kitchen light.

His jaw tightens.

“Look at you.”

The words are barely a whisper. Reverent. Ruined.

Then he’s sinking to his knees.

The sight of Frank—your dad’s best friend, the man who taught you to ride a bike and grilled burgers at your graduation party—kneeling on the kitchen floor between your legs sends a pulse of heat through you so strong that your thighs tremble.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Another. Higher.

His stubble scrapes the tender skin of your inner thigh and your breath catches in your throat. He takes his time. Mouth trailing upward. Closer and closer and not close enough.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. Knuckles white.

“Frank.”

His name again. You don’t know what you’re asking for. But he does.

His hands slide under your knees. Lift. Your legs settle over his shoulders, calves draped down his back, and he pulls you closer to the edge of the counter. Closer to his mouth.

His breath hits you first. Warm. Damp. Then his tongue.

Flat. Broad. One long stripe from your entrance to your clit that makes your spine go rigid and your head crack back against the cabinet.

Fuck.

The word doesn’t make it out of your mouth. It stays trapped in your throat, a silent shape on your tongue, because his lips seal around your clit and he sucks.

Your hips buck. He holds you steady, forearms braced across your thighs, pinning you in place.

His tongue circles. Flicks. Traces patterns you can’t name against that tight bud of nerves.

Every stroke sends a bright, sharp pulse of pleasure through your body, building and building, and you can’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips—small, breathless moans that you try to muffle with your own hand.

Frank works you with a patience that seems impossible for a man who kissed you like he was starving.

Slow laps. Gentle suction. Then his tongue dips lower, presses inside you, and your vision whites at the edges.

He groans against you. The vibration shudders through your core.

Your hand flies down. Fingers threading through his hair—thick, dark, longer than he usually keeps it—and you pull. He growls.

His tongue returns to your clit. Faster now. Focused.

Pointed flicks. Then flat pressure. Then—

Two fingers slide into you without warning.

Your back arches off the counter.

“That’s it.” His voice is muffled against your slick skin. “C’mon. Let me feel it.”

His fingers pump slow. Deep. Finding a rhythm that matches the stroke of his tongue and your thighs are shaking on his shoulders and the kitchen is spinning and you can’t remember why this was supposed to be wrong, why you were supposed to stop this.

Your hand clamps over your own mouth.

The sound building in your chest isn’t one you can explain away if your dad wakes up.

His mouth is still on you when you feel his hands shift—palms sliding from your thighs to your hips, grip tightening—and then he pulls back, lips slick, breath ragged.

“Bedroom.”

You nod, throat too tight for speech. The kitchen tilts as you slide off the counter, bare feet hitting cold tile, legs unsteady beneath you.

Frank’s hand catches your elbow. Steadies you. His fingers are damp against your skin.

The living room is dark except for the blue glow of the muted television. Your dad is a lump on the couch, one arm draped over his chest, mouth slack. The snoring hasn’t changed rhythm. Hasn’t even stuttered.

You lead Frank down the hallway on tiptoe.

Floorboards creak under your weight—old house sounds you’ve known since childhood—and each one sends a jolt up your spine. Behind you, his presence is a wall of heat.

You can feel him watching you walk, watching the hem of your dress brush against the backs of your thighs.

Your bedroom door is already cracked open. You push through. Don’t turn on the light.

Moonlight spills through the window, pale and blue, painting silver edges on your dresser, your mirror, the rumpled comforter you didn’t bother smoothing this morning.

The room smells like vanilla candles and the faint trace of the perfume you dabbed behind your ears hours ago when this night was still just a night.

Frank closes the door behind him. The latch clicks.

Soft. Final.

You don’t speak. Instead, you walk backward until your calves hit the edge of the mattress. Sit. The springs groan.

Reaching for the straps of your sundress, you tug one down. Then the other. The fabric pools at your waist and you shimmy it over your hips, let it fall to the floor.

You’re bare except for the moonlight and the heat rising in your cheeks. Frank watches. His throat bobs as he swallows.

Then his hands go to his belt. The leather hisses through the buckle. Your eyes drop. Watch him work it loose, watch the button of his jeans pop open, watch him shove denim and boxers down in one rough motion.

His shirt follows—pulled over his head, tossed somewhere dark.

And then he’s naked in front of you.

His cock is already hard, already slick at the tip—curving up toward his belly.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected. The sight of him sends a pulse between your legs that makes you clench.

“Y/N.” Your name in his mouth sounds different now. Softer. “C’mere.”

You shift back on the bed. He follows, crawling over you, and then he’s settling between your thighs and the weight of him presses you into the mattress.

Solid. Warm. His skin smells like salt and whiskey and that pine soap you’ve known your whole life but never like this—never with his hips cradled against yours and his cock resting heavy on your stomach.

He doesn’t rush.

His mouth finds the hollow beneath your ear. Then the curve of your shoulder. Then lower. He kisses a path across your collarbone and down your sternum, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the geography of your body.

His stubble scrapes in a way that makes you shiver and arch and grip the sheets.

“Frank.”

“Shh.” His lips brush the swell of your breast. “Just let me.”

His tongue traces a circle around your nipple. Once. Twice. Then his mouth closes over it and he sucks—gently at first, then harder—and your hips roll up against him without permission.

He groans against your skin. Switches to the other breast. Gives it the same unhurried attention. Licking. Sucking. Nipping just enough to make you gasp.

His hand slides down your ribs. Over your hip. Fingers tracing the crease of your thigh but not quite where you need them. Teasing.

You’re trembling. Actually trembling. You’ve been wet since he brushed past you in the kitchen an hour ago—that graze of his arm against yours that seemed accidental but wasn’t, couldn’t have been—and now you can feel yourself slick against his stomach.

He lifts his head. Looks at you.

Moonlight catches the shine on his lips.

“Y/N.” His voice is rough but careful. “Do you wanna do this? Are you sure?”

The question lands somewhere tender. Unexpected. This man who kissed you like a claiming, who sank to his knees and took you apart with his tongue—now hovering above you, eyes searching your face, waiting.

Your hand finds his cheek. The stubble there. Warm skin.

You kiss him. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the kiss in the kitchen.

“Yes.” You smile against his mouth. “I’m sure.”

“Have you done this before?”

The laugh that escapes you is half breath, half disbelief. “Yes, Frank. I have.”

You say it like you’re scolding him, like he’s being ridiculous, like you’re not a fragile thing he needs to handle with care.

But you’re not that girl anymore and you need him to know it.

He catches the sarcasm. Grins. Something eases in his expression.

“Alright, alright. Just checkin’.” A pause. Then: “Bossy.”

The word is fond. Familiar. He used to call you that when you were eight and demanding he push you higher on the swing set.

You’re about to say something back—some retort that would make him laugh—but then his mouth drops to your chest again and all the words dissolve.

He kisses the valley between your breasts. The curve of your ribs. Your belly. His body shifts lower and you feel his cock drag against your thigh.

Then he’s positioned between your legs.

His hand drops. Wraps around himself. Guides the head through your slickness—up, down, circles around your clit that make your breath hitch—and then he’s teasing at your entrance.

Pressing. He pushes in and the stretch steals your breath.

He’s thick. God, he’s thick—wider than anyone you’ve had before—and your body has to adjust inch by inch.

You feel every ridge, every vein. Your walls clench around him and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours.

“Fuck.” It comes out punched. Your fingers dig into his shoulders.

“Sh sh sh.” His whisper is strained. His arms tremble on either side of your head. “Quiet now. Quiet.”

“Oh my—” The rest of the sentence disintegrates as he sinks deeper.

Your legs wrap around his waist and the new angle seats him fully inside you and for a moment neither of you breathes.

He’s buried to the hilt. You can feel him in your throat. Pulsing. Hot.

Stretching you in a way that borders on pain but tips over into something else entirely—something that makes your eyes roll back.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful.”

He doesn’t move. Stays buried, letting you adjust, letting the initial shock dissolve into something deeper. His thumb finds your clit. Circles. Gentle. So gentle it makes your hips buck.

“That’s it.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Take your time.”

But you don’t want time. You want him to move. You want friction and rhythm and the sound of skin on skin that you’ll have to muffle with your own palm.

“Frank.” It’s a demand this time. “Move.”

He pulls back—slow, so slow you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls—and then thrusts forward.

Your gasp gets swallowed by his mouth. He kisses you deep, tongue pushing past your lips at the same moment his hips meet yours again.

The rhythm starts. Slow. Every stroke hits somewhere deep inside you that makes lights pop behind your eyes.

The headboard taps the wall. Once. Twice.

You both freeze.

From the living room: a snort. A shift. Then the steady rumble of snoring resumes.

Frank exhales. Drops his forehead to your shoulder. His laugh is silent but you feel it vibrating through his chest.

“Gotta be careful,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t stop moving.

The headboard resumes its slow, guilty rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each impact a whispered confession against the wall.

Frank's hips roll into you with the kind of control that feels deliberate, measured, like he's savoring every inch of friction.

Your fingers curl into the sweat-damp sheets. Your teeth catch your lower lip. The moan building in your chest is a living thing, clawing up your throat, demanding release.

He pulls back until just the tip of him remains inside you.

Then drives forward. Deep. Deeper than before.

"Oh my fucking god." The words rip out of you before you can stop them—too loud, too breathless—and Frank's hand clamps over your mouth.

"Shh." His eyes flash in the moonlight. "Quiet."

But he doesn't stop moving. His hips keep their rhythm, slow and punishing, and the pressure of his hand over your mouth makes everything sharper.

The stretch of him inside you. The drag of his cock against your walls. The way his pubic bone grazes your clit on every thrust.

Your scream dissolves into his palm.

He leans closer. His lips brush the shell of your ear. "You like it, baby?"

The question—rough, low, a gravel whisper—sends a pulse through your core that makes you clench around him. He feels it. Groans. His hips stutter.

"Yes."

The word is muffled against his hand.

He pulls his palm away just enough to let you breathe. "What was that?"

"Yes." You gasp. Swallow. Try again. "Yes. Sir. I like it."

The honorific slips out before you can think about it, before you can feel embarrassed. But Frank's reaction is immediate.

His jaw tightens. His pupils blow wide. A sound escapes his chest—low, rough, almost pained—and then his hand leaves your mouth entirely.

Travels down.

His fingers wrap around your throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting there.

Your pulse hammers against the cage of his grip, frantic and fluttering, and you know he can feel it. Every beat. Every thrill.

"Sir hmm?" He says the word like he's tasting it. Rolling it across his tongue. "Where'd that come from?"

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

His fingers tighten—just slightly, just enough to make your breath catch and your vision narrow to the dark shape of him above you.

The weight of him, the scent of him, the relentless slow drag of his cock inside you—it's all you can do to stay present, to not let your eyes roll back.

"Look at me." You do.

His gaze holds you pinned. "You call me that again."

"Sir."

The word is barely a whisper. Barely a breath.

But it does something to him.

His hand tightens further—firm, decisive, the kind of grip that says I've got you—and his rhythm changes.

The slow, careful strokes dissolve into something harder. Faster. His hips snap forward with a force that shoves you up the mattress, and only his hand around your throat keeps you anchored.

The bed frame groans. The headboard slams and it’s going to be impossible to explain if your dad wakes up, but you can't care, can't think, can't do anything except wrap your legs higher around Frank's waist and hold on.

"Greedy little thing." His voice is strained.

“Been watchin’ you all night,” he says low against your ear. “You know that? Since I walked through that door.”

Your throat works against his palm. "What—" A gasp as he hits a spot inside you that makes stars bloom behind your eyes.

"What was I doing?"

"Everything." Another thrust. Harder. "Nothin'."

Another. "That little dress." Another. “The way you moved around the kitchen… like you didn’t know what you were doin’ to me.” he slams into you.

You cry out—too loud again—and his hand tightens in warning. The pressure makes your head swim. Makes the edges of the room go soft.

“You’re doing so good baby” he whispers in your ear

Your body responds to the praise by clenching around him so hard that he has to stop moving entirely.

"Fuck." His forehead drops to yours. His whole body is trembling. "You're gonna make me come if you keep doin' that."

But you're beyond words now. You're beyond anything except the feeling of him buried inside you and the way your orgasm is coiling at the base of your spine like something alive.

Your hips buck up against him. Desperate. Wordless. Begging.

He reads your body like a language he's known his whole life.

His free hand snakes between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit—swollen, slick, aching—and presses down in tight circles that match the rhythm he resumes.

Slow at first. Then faster. The dual sensation is unbearable. His cock stroking deep. His thumb working your clit.

"Come on," he breathes. "Let go. I got you."

Your hand flys up. Gripping his wrist—not to pull him off, but to hold him there. The other claws at his back, nails raking down muscle, leaving furrows you'll see tomorrow in the daylight. He hisses. Thrusts harder.

"Frank please."

The orgasm doesn't build. It detonates. A white-hot detonation that starts in your core and radiates outward—through your belly and your chest.

Your back arches off the mattress. Your thighs clamp around his hips. A sound tears out of you, raw and keening, and Frank's hand muffles your mouth to choke it off mid-cry.

"Goddamn," he whispers. "Look at you."

His hips haven't stopped. He's still fucking into you, still chasing his own end, and your body is molten around him, still pulsing with aftershocks.

Every thrust draws a whimper from your throat. Oversensitivity sparks at the edge of pain.

"Too much?"

You shake your head. Can't speak. Don't want him to stop.

His hand loosens on your throat. Slides up. Cups your jaw. "Words, sweetheart."

"Don't stop." The words are wrecked. Barely audible. "Don't—please—"

"Please what?"

"Please come inside me."

The request hangs in the air between you.

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or relief, or a hunger so deep it looks like pain. He kisses you. Messy. Open-mouthed. All teeth and tongue and desperation.

His rhythm fractures.

Becomes erratic. Uncontrolled. The bed pounds the wall in a rhythm your dad can't possibly sleep through—except he does, he must, because the snoring from the living room doesn't even pause.

Frank buries his face in the crook of your neck. Groans against your skin. The sound vibrates through your throat, your sternum, the place where your bodies join.

"You feel too good." The words are slurred. Broken. "Gonna—fuck, Y/N—"

"Please." Your hand tangles in his hair. Pulls. "Frank." That does it. The way you say his name while he fucks into you.

His body goes rigid above you. A shudder wracks through him—full-body, bone-deep—and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you in rhythmic spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans your name like a prayer. Like a confession. Buries himself to the hilt and stays there, trembling, spent.

For a long moment, the only sound is breathing.

The stillness after is what you’ll remember most.

Frank pulls out and the sensation is a slow, strange loss—a hollowing where he’d been.

He rolls onto his back beside you, chest heaving.

One forearm drapes across his forehead. The other hand finds your hip, fingers splayed, like he’s not ready to stop touching you entirely.

Silence stretches.

Then: “Fuck. I didn’t mean to do that.” Referring to the mess he left inside you.

You turn your head on the pillow. His profile is sharp against the moonlit window—jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Frank.”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Frank.” You reach across the space between your bodies and press your palm to his cheek. Turn his face toward you. His stubble scrapes your skin. “It’s fine. I’m on the pill.”

The tension in his jaw doesn’t ease.

“Your dad’s gonna kill us both.” His voice is flat. Not dramatic.

Just certain—the way a man who’s known your father for thirty years would be certain about something like this. “You know that, right? If he finds out—”

“He won’t know.” You prop yourself up on one elbow. The sheet slips, baring your breasts, and you don’t bother pulling it back up. His eyes flicker down. Flicker back up. “I promise. If you don’t tell him, I won’t.”

He studies your face for a long moment. Searching. The lines around his eyes are deeper than they used to be—crow’s feet that weren’t there when he was teaching you to throw a baseball, when you were eleven and stubborn and demanded he stop going easy.

You remember the way he’d laughed. Bossy, he’d said. Same as tonight.

“Fine.”

The word is exhaled more than spoken. Surrender.

Then his arm slides under your shoulders and he pulls you into his chest. “C’mere.”

You go willingly. Curling into the heat of him, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

His fingers find your hair.

The rhythm is hypnotic. Slower than the headboard. Gentler than his grip on you. His fingertips trace the curve of your skull, the shell of your ear, the tender place where your neck meets your shoulder.

Every pass draws the tension out of your muscles, unwinding something deep in your spine.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Dry lips. Warm. Then another. Another. Each one lingers a beat longer than the last, like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t have words for.

Your eyelids grow heavy.

It's there for you, there for you to decide what you do with it. Sometimes you get things for the apartment , sometimes you treat yourself to new shoes, sometimes you buy bits for Frank which he may neglect to purchase for himself. 

It's not a transaction gift, he doesn't require something in return, though there is one small condition: you must always give him a little show of what you've bought.

He may not have a lot, but that doesn't stop him from trying to spoil you at every conceivable moment. You're spoilt rotten, but by no means do you act like it. You don't expect it from him, nor do you ask it of him, he just does it. Not because it was societally bestowed upon him as a man, rather something he liked to do for his girl. For you. It's how he sleeps at night. 

Now, you're not impaired. Nor are you reliant and dependant on him, you work too — you make your own money. But he thinks that you shouldn't have to spend it on such menial things. He prefers to take care of the finances, carry the burden solo; maybe he's just a little old fashioned that way. So to him, the money you earn, is yours, what he makes, is shared. He believes he's to fund the life you deserve. 

The way you love and dote on him is enough.

Though you can't have that, nor can you argue him on that. So when you get your payslip at the end of each month, you too take a little bit out — putting aside a moderate little stack into the piggy bank in your closet. The same one you used to save for toys as a kid, only now it's been repurposed; to keep the goal of a future purchase for Frank hidden. A truck you've had your eyes on for some time.

It's your way of trying to reciprocate the generosity he doesn't allow you to return. That, and slipping bills in his wallet and jean pockets. 

You didn't much like to spend Frank's money, but you'd always seem to find a way to do so. No matter how much you may begrudge the idea or try to get away from taking the small stack of cash from his hand, you'd still return with shopping bags and tired feet.

But with the amount of things you purchase each month —and throughout— you sort of run out of things to buy. There are only so many things that can entice you. So earlier today when you were handed the funds to spoil yourself, you decided you wanted to treat yourself from within. You believed yourself to get more long term satisfaction from such a purchase, rather regret and guilt as soon as you step though the front door. 

And so today, you opted for a massage and a pedicure. The pedicure wasn't so much a method for rejuvenation, instead you just wanted pretty soft feet. 

Rather than that typical feeling of shoppers remorse, you came home to the apartment feeling refreshed. You turn the key in the door and step inside, closing it behind yourself.

"'lright, honey," Frank calls out to you from the sofa.

"Hi," you reply, voice like a dulcet coo as you elongate the greeting. 

You join him in the living area, making your way over to him. He's sitting centre on the couch, legs spread wide, controller suspended in the air as his attention drifts from the TV and to you. 

"Someone's lookin' happy," his lips turn down into a grin, brown puppy eyes fixed on your smile.

You give him a quick nod and settle yourself into the corner of the sofa right beside him. You drop the underside of your knees atop his, legs resting over him as you sit yourself as close as possible without being directly on top of him. 

"What'd'ya get?" he places the TV remote at his side, his focus still set in an observational-like gaze on you. His eyes narrow at you as he awaits your answer and his head tilts to the side, neck cocked.

"I got a massage. I feel amazing— you know that knot in my back?"

He knew of that particularly stubborn knot of yours, he's tried to help you rid it for weeks. "I do," he hums, eyes closing as he nods softly, the motion slow and controlled — sort of like he's playfully entertaining you. 

"Gone," you say plainly, tone enthused. "It melted, it's completely gone. Look what I can do now," you extend your arms above your head, theatrically stretching outward without it resulting in a pained groan. "I feel like a new woman." 

His head faintly shakes as a smile tugs the corners of his lips, sort of like he was shying away from joy he gains from your presence. "That's great, baby," he murmurs lowly, cadence just short of a coo.

"I know," you play into the entrainment. "Oh and look at these bad boys," you kick off your flip flops and bend your knees, bringing your legs up. You settle the bottoms of your feet onto his thigh, showing off your new nails. "Ain't they pretty?"

He picks up one of your feet and lifts it, kind of like he was keen to inspect it. "The prettiest," he mutters, eyes fixed on your foot clasped within his hand. Frank raises it higher and presses a kiss into the top of it, and another and another — repeating and doing so until a loose, short string of kisses are planted into your skin. 

Frank places your foot down as carefully as he picked it up, and shifts his attention to your other foot, the one still patiently awaiting the same affection as the one before. He lifts the second, palm snug in the arch of your foot as he lifts it — bringing it to his mouth like he just did a moment before. 

"Real soft, ain't they," he murmurs into you, lips lingering above the patch of skin at the top of your foot. He repeats from before, searing a cluster of kisses into where he just spoke. 

You're sort of stuck in a smitten-locked gaze: ears pulled back as a smile pulls the edges of your lips up. He turns to look at you, like he was seeking confirmation that you were listening, and so you give him a slow nod; your smile turning up into a grin in response. 

"Thank you," you add, voice genuine and honest. 

"Was only a compliment, baby," he replies humorously, noticing the sincerity — thinking it silly for you to reply to his small comment with something so cordial and heartfelt. 

"No," you chuckle small, the noise reverberating in your nose as oppose to your chest. "No, I mean for everything— today especially. I really appreciate it."

Frank turns inwards slightly and lowers in your direction, twisting and itching closer so as to meet your face. He places a kiss to your lips, again and again, each one short and direct — doing so a couple times until he he pulls away. 

"I know you do," he replies, voice gruff like it usually is. 

He resumes his original seated position, only now you turn on your side to face the TV. Your feet remain put across his lap, as do one of his hands atop your foot. A sort of mindless toying with your feet ensues as he flicks through the TV channels, remote in the hand of his other as he searches for something more within your taste.

“You look so beautiful, sweetheart” Frank says, watching you fix your lipliner in the car mirror you’ve flipped down, above your head. You’re parked outside your brother’s house, about to head into the family gathering you’ve been invited to, with Frank.

“Hm?” you ask, blissfully unaware of anything he’s saying, only concentrating on your makeup. You put your lipliner away frantically, and he watches you with the most gentle smile on his lips. His heart swells with that familiar ache of pure adoration. After all this time, you still make him feel like the luckiest man alive.

“Nothin’ baby” he whispers, mesmerised by way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You’re his angel. He straightens up, turning the car off, then looks back to you. “All okay now? Ready to go?” he asks, but there’s no sense of rush in his voice. If he could, he’d sit here and watch you all day. The quiet moments like this, just the two of you in the car, have become his favorite part of any outing.

“Mhm, let’s go” you nod, running your fingers through your hair as one final moment of preparation. You grab your purse, then open the car door to get out, placing one foot out after the other. You close it with a heavy click, and smile as Frank walks around the car and towards you.

His big arm trails around your waist and guides you steadily towards the house, till eventually you’re at the door, ringing the doorbell with an excited giggle.

“Sam!!” you squeal as the door opens, and your brother greets you with a hug. He pulls away, acknowledging Frank too. They’ve only known him for around three years, but they treat him like a life long family member. They love him like a son. Frank feels that warmth settle deep in his chest every time- the easy acceptance from your family still surprises him sometimes, a far cry from the lonely years before he had you.

Frank smiles at him, shaking his hand and pulling him in for a hug. “How you doin bud?” he asks with that gruff voice of his you love, and you can tell he genuinely cares for your family. Your heart warms as you step inside, hanging your coats and bags up as they catch up like old friends.

You turn a familiar corner, and you’re suddenly met by everyone else. Your mother is with your aunties, and before you know it, they’re throwing their hands up in excitement, rushing towards you. You say hi to your cousins, greet your crazy uncle, and finally get through everyone.

Frank walks around like an awkward teenager for a little while, before you eventually see him speaking to uncle Aron, nodding frantically, as if he’s forced to agree with him. You catch fragments of their conversation- something about old cars and the best way to grill steak, and smile at how earnestly Frank engages, even when your uncle gets carried away. The way he leans in, listening intently, makes you fall in love with him all over again. You smile to yourself softly, it’s nice to see everyone getting along well, especially with Frank. You know how his life has felt, without a stable family, and it breaks four heart every time you think about it. But you’re eachother’s, and every good thing you have- you want to share with him, including your crazy, crowded family.

The smell of warm food hovers out of the kitchen, and before you know it, you’re walking towards it. “Want any help mom?” you smile, watching her stir a pot. She turns to you, eyes flicking over your body, and just smiles. “Mom?”

“Yeah honey?” she asks softly.

“I asked if you’d like any help.”

“I’m alright sweetheart, go enjoy your evening.”

You furrow your brows together, wondering what she’s thinking. “What is it?” you chuckle curiously.

“Nothing honey, just- proud of you, I guess. Of the beautiful woman you’ve grown to become.”

You frown emotionally, pouting at her words. “Aw mama, I love you.” You take a few steps, throwing your arms around her forcefully as she stirs more ingredients into the pan she’s working at.

“Alright alright, I love you too” she laughs, wiggling out of your arms. “Now go catch up with everyone else.”

You linger a second longer, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with spices, before heading back out with a full heart.

~

The long dining table in the backyard is already buzzing by the time everyone settles down into their seats. Frank finds you outside and his hand is on your lower back again. “Alright sweetheart?” he asks, pulling a chair out for you. You nod with a smile, and he answers back, “Good.” He takes a seat right beside you, his solid presence comforting you.

Plates start to make their way around, piled high with roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, vibrant salads, and your aunt’s legendary lasagna. “This is delicious” you say, more times than you can count. Your family may be unconventional, but they sure can cook. Franks hand occasionally brushes your knee under the table like he can’t quite help himself. The subtle touches ground you, sending little sparks up your spine even in the middle of all the noise and chatter. You’re happy it does though, it’s like he’s reminding you he’s there every couple minutes.

Conversation flows easily, your uncle Aron starts with his crazy opinions, and you can’t help but look at Frank and laugh. Your cousins tease you about old family stories, and Frank listens with that focused intensity, like it’s his mission to know everything there is to know about you. He chimes in when asked about his work and eventually gets onto how the two of you met. He tells the tire story again, eyes soft on you the whole time. No matter how many times he’s told it, he explains it lovingly again, like it was the same day it happened. “She didn’t need my help, but I wasn’t about to let her go,” he says with a low chuckle that makes your heart flip. “I knew right there when she wasn’t interested, that she’s the one for me.”

You laugh softly, moving your hand to rest on his, already on your thigh. You’re filled by a warmth every few minutes, comfort and relief that this is real, that Frank really is family now.

Eventually, dessert comes out- warm apple pie with melting ice cream, the same one your mom made you when you were 14, crying that your friends were leaving you out. The air is filled with warmth and laughter, and for a minute, you’d give up anything to just stay in this moment forever.

As the sky deepens into twilight, the fairy lights glow brighter overhead. Your cousins kids dart around the yard with sparklers, squealing and chasing eachother, all while one of your aunty yells at them to be quiet. You’re mid-laugh at something your mom said when Ally, your brothers wife appears from inside, stepping outside of the glass double doors that lead to the garden. She’s smiling, gently rocking their six month old daughter in her arms. The baby is fussy, tiny fists rubbing at her eyes, like she’s just been woken up.

“There she is!” you squeal, jumping up to walk towards Ally. You’d wondered where the baby’s been, considering Ally had been downstairs with you all night. “I thought they’d hidden me from you cutie!” you coo, thumb brushing against the baby’s soft skin.

“She’s been sleeping upstairs the whole time,” Ally tells you, one hand moving behind her back, like she’s supporting herself to stand up. You can tell right there that she’s exhausted, and probably needs a break from being a mother all the times. You remember last year, and all the trouble she went through when she was still pregnant. The memories of those tough months make you even more eager to help, knowing how much a small break can mean.

“Here, let me take her for a bit,” you offer, already reaching out. You love children, and it would be good for her to get some rest anyways, so you figure taking her would be a win for both of you. Your sister in law smiles gratefully and passes the warm little bundle over. If it wasn’t for her face poking out of the blanket, you’d think that’s all you’re actually holding- a pile of blankets.

You settle your niece against your chest, one hand supporting her head while the other rubs slow circles on her back. Carefully, you sit back down in your seat, smiling at Frank as he watches you hold the baby so lovingly. She quiets almost immediately, nuzzling into your shoulder with a soft sigh. No more fussing, or rubbing her eyes. You sway gently side to side, murmuring quiet nonsense and pressing a kiss to her hair. The fairy lights catch in her wispy curls, and she lets out the sweetest little coo.

Frank goes completely still beside you. His usual confident posture melts away as he takes in the sight, something tender and almost sacred unfolding in his gaze.

You glance over and find him watching you with an expression you’ve never seen on his face before. His eyes are wide, lips slightly parted, and that tough exterior he usually has is cracked wide open. He looks- vulnerable. His eyes trace the way you hold the baby so naturally, the soft smile on your face, the tender way your fingers stroke her back. It looms so natural on you, that sense of motherhood. His eyes don’t leave the pair of you, and something deep and warm blooms in his chest.

“Christ,” he breathes, almost too quiet for anyone else to hear. He leans in closer, elbow on the table, chin resting on his fist as he just- stares. Everyone else is still laughing and talking, sat around the table under the setting sun, but not Frank. This is the most beautiful moment he’s ever witnessed. The image of you like this, completely at ease with a baby in your arms- hits him square in the heart. It stirs something inside him he’s never let himself fully dream about before; you and him, years from now, with a little one of your own.

He thinks about a little baby girl of your own, with your smile and maybe his stubbornness. It all flashes past his eyes quickly, lazy mornings, tiny hands reaching for him, building the kind of family he never really had growing up.

Your aunties coo and snap pictures of you holding the baby, but Frank only has eyes for you. When the baby reaches out and grabs a strand of your hair, you laugh softly and carefully untangle her fingers, and Frank’s breath catches again.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, scooting his chair until his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you and the baby gently against his side. He’s careful, almost reverent, as he brushes a big, calloused finger along the baby’s cheek. She latches onto it with surprising strength, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a helpless smile. If watching you with the baby didn’t melt his heart, this sure did. He imagines those same tiny fingers gripping his own one day, trusting him completely, and the thought nearly undoes him.

The rest of the evening passes, covered by a golden glow. Frank stays close to you as usual, stealing glances at you every chance he gets. Although you’re his wife, sometimes it feels like he still has a teenage crush on you.

Later, as the sun is almost set, and people start heading out, you and Frank go outside to wave everyone bye. You’re a few steps away, laughing and chatting with your cousin near the garden path, completely wrapped up in catching up on old stories.

Frank sits alone on the patio swing, one foot planted into the grass to keep it rocking gently. Your niece is warm and small against his chest, her tiny fist curled into his shirt as she makes soft, sleepy sounds. He keeps one of his big hand supporting her head, the other rubbing slow circles on her back the same way he saw you do it earlier.

He can’t stop staring at her. The fairy lights catch in her wispy hair, and every little sigh she makes causes his heart to ache. His mind keeps drifting back to you at dinner, how natural you looked holding her, the way you swayed her in your arms. It cracked something open in him. Finally, he lets himself picture it clearly- you with a baby of your own. His baby. A house full of noise and family he never thought he’d get.

“Christ,” he breathes, barely audible, his thumb brushing her cheek lovingly. He carefully rocks the swing a little more, lost in the quiet moment. The gentle creak of the swing mixes with the distant laughter still floating from the house, and for the first time in a long while, Frank feels completely at peace with the idea of fatherhood.

A couple minutes later, Ally comes out to take her. Frank stands, hands you a quick glance as you finish with your cousin, then walks over. After final goodbyes, his arm settles around your waist as he leads you to the car. He opens your door, then gets in and starts the engine, still quietly replaying the whole evening in his head as you drive away.

On the drive home, the car is quiet except for the low hum of the radio. Your brother’s house fades in the rearview mirror, and Frank’s hand finds yours across the console, squeezing gently. You turn to him, giving a small reassuring smile. You can tell something’s on his mind.

As if he knew what you were thinking, his lips part to speak. “You looked real good holdin’ her,” he says after a long stretch of comfortable silence, voice low with emotion. “Got me thinkin’ about us. What that might look like someday.” He glances over, almost shy for a man his size. “A little one of our own.”

You squeeze his hand back without saying anything, warmth spreading through your chest. He lifts your knuckles to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss there as the trees and houses outside drift past. You always thought about a family, but you never knew about Frank’s thoughts. You feel more at ease now, knowing he wants the same thing. Knowing he would be an amazing father.

You make your way down into the bunker where he lives, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder so you don’t drop it and cautiously look around once you’re in the tiny kitchen area. You remember the first time you were here, Frank didn’t want you to see where he lives, he was afraid his lifestyle would scare you away for good.

“Frank, you could live under a rock and I’d still love you,” you told him before kissing him softly and making yourself home. 

You’ve offered him to move in with you several times before, but one, you live in a literal shoebox that’s filled to the brim with your stuff, he wouldn’t be able to fit a single sock in there and two, you kinda both agreed that keeping his weapons and all kind of weird tech stuff away from your home is a great idea, so he stayed in the warehouse, you stayed in your apartment and you rotate between the two places. 

Looking around you notice two extra cups on the table, three plates in the sink with some chili smeared on them, instant signs that he is not alone. You drop your bag by the wall and as you walk further inside you see two sleeping figures in the back room. A girl on the top bed and…

Is that Spider-Man?

Your eyes widen just when two hands grab your waist, pulling you back. 

“Shh, don’t wake the kids,” Frank murmurs into your ear and pulls you into his bedroom. 

“Is that fucking Spider-Man sleeping in the back?” you gape at him once you turn in his arms, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders instantly. Frank growls, like he is irritated, but you see something else in his eyes too.

“He is in trouble and now he is hiding his girlfriend here as well. Fucking nuts.”

“Girlfriend? Spider-Man has a girlfriend?”

“Well, he is clearly in love with her, but she doesn’t remember him or some shit? I don’t know, he rambles too much and makes no sense to me most of the time,” he sighs, his gaze settling on your face as he pulls you closer against him. “Didn’t know you were dropping by today.”

You love how his voice turns softer when he is talking to you and though he would never admit, his whole being turns mushier once you’re around. 

“I could get off work earlier and thought I would surprise you.”

Leaning in you kiss him softly and when he hums happily against your lips you can’t help but smile. 

“Have you eaten?” he asks pulling back. “Saved some chili for you.”

“You’re sweet, but I’m good. I’m gonna take a quick shower and then we can go to bed.”

“Go ahead, Princess,” he winks, giving your ass a gentle smack as he lets you go. 

Twenty minutes later you’re climbing into bed next to him, wearing one of his shirts. He drops the book he’s been reading instantly and opens his arms so you can climb into his embrace under the covers. 

“Mm, you smell good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I used your soap, I literally smell like you,” you chuckle. 

Moving around Frank rolls to his back and you lie half on top of him, chin resting on his chest. His hands are aimlessly wandering your body, slipping under the shirt, drawing circles on your soft skin. 

“Are they in trouble?” you ask, nodding towards the other room where the two guests are sleeping.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You’re gonna help them, right?”

“It’s his business, not mine,” he growls with a frown, but you pinch his peck lightly. “Ow!”

“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t care about that kid. We both know you do.”

“What gives you the idea?” He asks, arching an eyebrow at you. 

“The fact that he is sleeping in the other room. You haven’t let anyone here before.”

“I let you.” His gaze softens and a tiny smile tugs on his lips.

“Okay, you let me here and you love me, right?”

“Of course I love you.”

“So that means you let people here who you love and care about.”

Frank opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t argue. He sighs in defeat as you smirk at him. 

“Sure, I’ll help him,” he mumbles, giving your hips a squeeze. 

“Because you’re a good man,” you tell him, pressing a kiss on his chest before laying your head on it. 

You both go silent for a while. Listening to his steady heartbeat you stare at a photo of the two of you pinned to the wall above his dresser. You love that picture, it was taken on your birthday last year, it was still at a time when Frank was fighting himself over you. It took him a long time to allow himself to love you and not feel bad about it. He was so paranoid that something would happen to you, he tried to stay away from you over and over again, but he always ended up crawling back to you until he just gave up and accepted that he can’t live without you. 

And you feel the same. 

You have never loved a man like you love him and it’s scary and sometimes you hurt each other but you wouldn’t want to live a life without him in it. 

“You said she forgot him? The girl, she forgot Spider-Man?” you ask, still looking at the picture.

“Yeah. The kid said something about… a magic spell or some shit? I don’t know.”

“That must be horrible.”

Frank just hums, but doesn’t say anything. Lifting your head you look at him, finding him already watching you. 

“If I forgot you, would you come after me and try to get me back?”

His eyes darken as he thinks about your words. His fingers that have been gently caressing your sides stop and you feel him gripping you, like you’re about to slip out of his hold. 

“I don’t know. That would be a chance for you to not be a target anymore,” he then says. 

“But I told you I would rather be a target than live without you,” you remind him. Reaching up you cup his face gently, running your thumb across his cheekbone. He leans into your touch instantly. 

“I know. That doesn’t mean I stopped worrying about you.”

You understand him and his worries. It hasn’t been a battle only he’s been fighting, you tried to prioritize your safety as well, but you felt miserable every time you put distance between you and him. At last you had to realize it’s a price you’re willing to pay to love him and be loved by him. 

“I would want you to find me,” you tell him after a few beats of silence. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I would want to get to know you again and fall in love with you again.”

You see that soft shift in his gaze again, his hands squeezing you tighter. Pushing yourself up you move up on his body until you can kiss him. At first it’s soft and gentle, but it turns deep and passionate quite fast, as if you’re actually about to forget him and you want to drink up every bit of each other one last time, though that’s not happening. You still remember and love him just like a minute, an hour, a day or months ago. 

“I think,” you whisper, panting against his lips, “I think I could never forget you.”

“Yeah?” he asks, biting your lower lip playfully.

“Mhm. I love you way too much to ever forget about you.” 

Grabbing his hand that’s on your naked thigh you pull it up until it’s laid over your heart. 

“You’re here. Forever.”

“Forever,” he breathes out through hazy eyes as your heart pounds against his palm. Then he kisses you, repeating that word over and over again with his actions, showing you that he feels the same way. 

you sit alone in the local bar late at night. having lived nearby for years, you've come to know this place well; it has become one of your regular hangout spots. lifting your eyes from a stack of homework, you take in the room around you. cigarette smoke hangs heavily in the air, blurring the dim lights overhead. conversations slur together beneath the scent of alcohol.

for a moment, you wonder what keeps bringing you back. suddenly, your attention drifts toward a man sitting alone in one of the darker corners of the bar, a half-finished beer resting in front of him. something about him immediately stands out. a few fresh cuts mark his face. he wears a black hoodie with the hood pulled low, casting shadows across his features. he looks much older than you.

you find yourself studying him longer than you intended. his expression remains unreadable, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. then his gaze shifts straight toward you. for a brief second, neither of you look away. the noise of the bar seems to fade into the background as those cold, intense eyes lock onto yours.

heat rushes to your face. great, now he probably thinks you're some weird creep. you curse yourself for staring so much. you lower your head and pretend to focus on your book, but you're not reading a single word. even with your eyes on the page, you can still feel him glaring. you try to distract yourself, finishing up your beer and focusing on your book.

few minutes later you look up to check if he's still watching. fuck, he's staring. he seems trouble. it makes you uneasy.

it's getting late, and the longer you stay, the more uncomfortable you feel. deciding you've had enough for tonight, you quickly pack your things into your bag - your book, notebook, pens, and markers. eager to get out of there, you barely look at the table before leaving. because of that, you don't notice the hair tie sitting near the edge of the desk.

"good night, jenny!" you tell the bartender that you adore and head out to go home. thank god, you exhale loudly as you feel the cold air hit your face.

"hey!"

fuck. your heart races when you hear the unfamiliar, deep voice behind calling for you. you feel like you're in trouble and start making plans how to escape. no, It's okay. you calm yourself and turn around to see the man you were staring at earlier. he's holding... your hair tie?

"oh!"

"you forgot bout' this, sweetheart" he holds out his hand. it takes a few seconds to process his words. the petname threw you off, as well as his rough voice. so you stood there awkwardly while he was waiting for you to take your tie.

"thank you." you finally breathe out, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. your fingers brush against his much bigger hands, you take a peek to down at them. you continue inspecting. they're huge, and calloused and a little bloody. some cuts here and there. interesting, you think.

"no problem, baby" another petname? he turns around to return to the bar. you feel warm. very warm. even though it's very chilly outside. your heart is beating so fast you can hear it ringing in your ears. damn you're pretty desperate, you blame yourself. curiosity getting the best of you, you step towards him.

"hey, um" what are you doing? what are you planning to say exactly?

the man turns around, looking you up and down suspiciously. silence. very awkward one. you don't know what to say but you know you want to say something. something to make him stay. he probably has wife and kids, you think to yourself.

"can you maybe walk me home, I-" you stumble over your words. wow, just dig your own grave at this point. some kind of evil spirit has to taken over your mind to offer something stupid like that. asking a stranger - a scary, old man, to be specific, to walk you home? home out of all the places? he's gonna know where you live? fuck me. you exhale a shaky breath.

"it's dark and late and I- don't really feel safe." you finish your sentence. hands shaking and fidgeting, face probably red as hell, standing there looking stupid. the man looks taken back, he looks like he was expecting anything other than that. he probably thought you were crazy. who wouldn't.

"you sure?" he puts his big dreamy hands up like he's defending himself and tilts his head to the side. "you wan' me to walk you home?" he seems really confused. eyebrows furrowed together. looking very skeptical of you.

"if you don't mind..." you rub your cold hand on your neck to chill out. swallowing hard and biting your lower lip in anticipation. It's probably your last day on earth. you want the ground to swallow you whole. there's no going back. nothing that can get you out of this situation you created.

"yeah- uh, sure" the man walks towards you. "you live close?" he asks. you nod and smile awkwardly at him. "lead the way" he starts walking next to you. you thank him and introduce yourself properly.

"I'm frank, nice to meet'cha you, too"

the walk home is quieter than you imagined. first of all, you're too nervous to talk. even if you do, you'll probably stutter and embarrass yourself harder. second of all, what do you even talk about, his favorite color? frank's quiet too. and tense. his favorite color is probably black, though...

"we're here" you exclaim, scanning over his features once again, like it's your last time seeing him. he has a strong jawline you want to kiss, big nose to sit on, pretty eyes to stare at while you ride him. you're getting distracted. "thank you so much, frank, I-"

"ts' okay, kid, need anythin' else?"

yeah, you in my bed, you think, but your answer comes out different. "no, but I appreciate it- thank you again," you smile and try to not look too disappointed that he's leaving and you'll never see him again. he wishes you a good night and turns around to leave. fuck. you stare at his broad back, hoping he'll turn around and kiss you or something, yeah sure. you take out keys out of your bag and open the door.

"hey, sweetheart?" the angels must have heard you. you look up at him so fast and try your hardest to hold back your smile. "mind invitin' me for a coffee? been a long day." jackpot.

"oh my god, yes of course, come in!" you don't want to sound too excited but the plan fails miserably. you open the door for him and finally, he's here. you'll believe in god after tonight. "what kind of coffee do you like?" you ask from the kitchen.

"just black" of course, you smile once you know he can't see you. you let the coffee machine pour his coffee, while you quickly check yourself in the bathroom mirror, you know, just in case something happens you look alright. you do. you go back and bring frank his drink.

"thank you, darlin'" does he run out of petnames? you don't mind, keep em' coming. you smile and sit in front of him on the couch, the coffee table separating you. suddenly you feel tension growing in the room. you have a stranger in your house, you remind yourself.

"place looks good, coffee's good, too" he mentions. you thank him and look down at your coffee. you really don't want to drink it right now. sudden anxiety washing over you. what if he's not a good guy? you ask yourself. frank notices your mood shift. he stands up to sit next to you. the couch dips and your ears start ringing, heart pounding. uh oh.

"you okay?" oh god, he's incredibly close. your thigh is touching his, you feel his hoodie on your arm. you want to see how close his face is.

"I'm okay" you whisper when you look at him. your voice coming out breathy and shaken, staring deeply in his eyes. frank looks down at your lips for a split second, then he looks at your eyes again.

"you don't look okay, sweetheart." he brings his hand to your jaw, brushing his thumb on your cheek. okay, that's just not fair. you feel the tension growing. you look down at his lips instinctively. fuck, you wanna kiss him so bad.

"are you singe?" you blurt out randomly. the question sounds out of pocket for a setting like this. frank seems taken back again, confused. "I just- don't wanna be a homewrecker or something like that" you look away from embarrassment. his hand is still on your face. that makes him chuckle.

"I'm single, baby, don' gotta worry abt' nothin'" fuuuuuck his voice and smile. your head is spiraling. you feel dizzy - it's probably because of those two bottles of beer you drank back at the bar, or is that just an excuse for how hot and bothered frank is making you right now. you exhale after hearing his answer. your eyes return on him. he's still too close, scanning your features.

you feel drunk, you're not even drunk. you decide to push your luck and lean in closer. frank brings both of his hands to cup your face. he hesitates before slowly bringing his lips to yours. the kiss feels so soft and delicate. not what you expected from a man like him. you feel him holding back on you.

fuck it. you deepen the kiss, grabbing at his biceps to hold yourself. he tilts your head to get a better access at your mouth. one of his hand goes down to hold your waist. his cold hand going under your shirt to feel your skin. you feel goosebumps at the touch. frank wraps the same hand around you to push you closer to him. your body flushing against his chest.

you feel the adrenaline spread throughout your body. frank moves his hand down to grab the beck of your thigh. you take this as a chance and climb on top of him, your legs spreading on his sides. his hips jerk at the contact. you feel him between your legs and fuck, how it makes you lose control. you're falling apart on top of him.

"you sure you wanna do this, baby?" frank breaks the kiss. you've never said yes so fast in your life. he scans your face, your lips puffy, cheeks red, hair messy, he thinks you look so gorgeous like this. "look at you, pretty girl" he tucks hair behind your ear and softly slides his knuckles at the side of your face, smiling. he brings your lips back to his, more desperate and hungry this time.

you're getting hot and needy every passing second, arms wrapping around his neck, one hand grabbing his hair. you decide to test your luck and roll your hips on his bulge and fuck, it feels so good you let out a whimper.

"easy" frank groans and stops you with a hand on your waist. "you wanna lead me to your bedroom, sweetheart?" his voice is low and deep, vibrating against your lips. you let out a breathy 'yes' and tell him where to take you.

frank picks you up with no struggle, it makes you shy and you hide your face in the crook of his neck. he plants a few kisses on your throat and places you down on the bed softly, getting on top of you. he's hovering over you with eyes filled with lust and wanting. he brings his palm back on your jaw and looks at you intensely. you look so breathtaking under the moonlight coming from the window.

frank can't hold himself anymore, he feels like losing control, but he doesn't want to scare you off. meanwhile, you grow impatient and push him down for a kiss. "slow down, sweetheart," he smiles into it.

"tell me what you want, baby" he whispers. you really don't want to answer that with words, you're probably going to say something stupid. but you push through it because you want him.

"I want you inside me, frank"

frank's grip on your waist tightens. he starts slowly placing kisses down your throat. then his lips move to the back of your ear. "I'm no good for you, baby" he whispers, leaving trails of wet kisses under your jaw. "you sure you wan' me?"

you look up at the ceiling with your mouth open from the pleasure. you feel the heat growing, wanting more. your nails are digging on his back, pushing him closer.

"yes" you moan out and it brings him to the edge. frank starts to undress you, leaving you bare with a bra and an underwear. he takes a good look at you up and down before he takes his clothes off.

you look away for a second, feeling shy underneath his gaze but he notices and holds your face with one hand. "don' go all shy on me, baby, ts' okay" he kisses your cheek and forehead and gets back to work. wet kisses going lower your body. frank takes your bra off with one swift move and kisses your hardened nipples, palming your boobs and squeezing them. he gets distracted staring for a bit too long and it makes you a little embarrassed, making you cover your face with your hands.

frank lets out a breathy chuckle at your act and pins both of your hands up your head. "don' hide from'me, sweetheart, lemme know if you wan' stop, alright?" you nod and he praises, "good girl" he kisses your forehead and moves one of his hands down to palm your pussy.

you whimper at the contact. his hand slides down your panties and his fingers start exploring you. frank gathers your slick and starts circling your clit. a soft moan escapes your mouth, you want to grab something, preferably his bicep to squeeze but his hand's still pinning you down.

"attagirl, tell me if sum ain't right, okay baby?" fuck, the way he's talking to you. you feel one of his fingers slide in and your head falls back, mouth open and eyes shut. he slides a second finger immediately after. the stretch feels so unbelievably good.

frank starts to set a rhythm with his fingers, pushing in and out of you slowly but hard while his thumb is pressing down your clit, messily moving around it. you're getting louder every passing second, pleasure overtaking your body and mind. you feel him sucking on your throat just beneath your jaw and ear and fuck how it adds to the sensation.

"frank, I think I'm getting closer" you barely manage to whisper, voice too shaky and broken. you have no other choice but to start digging your nails harshly in frank's wrist that's holding you down.

"you're doin' so good, baby, don' hold back, yeah?" he comes up to give you a deep, desperate kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth, biting your lower lip. you moan into him, your walls pulsing on his fingers. frank grunts into your neck at the feeling.

you feel the wave of orgasm crashing through you. your brain short-circuits at the sensations you've never felt before. "fuuuck, frank! " you scream out at the pleasure, you feel your legs shaking, nails digging through frank's skin but he doesn't stop yet. getting you through it until you start chanting his name over and over again from the overstimulation.

"good girl, baby" he finally lets go of your hands and kisses your cheek.

"you really didn't have to pin me down the whole time" you say after you're done breathing for your life.

"oh yeah?" his chuckle sounds rough but sweet. "you already tellin' me what to do, woman?" he jokes, and brings a pillow underneath you to make you comfortable.

"I jus wanted to touch your arms" you admit smiling, face probably red as a tomato.

frank takes a good look at your face while you're smiling. you see him softening up on you in real time, his eyes filled with love even though he just met you today. it makes your heart ache, this moment with him feels so raw and real.

for a few seconds, neither of you say anything. frank just keeps looking at you, like he's trying to memorize every little detail before it slips away. the smile on your face starts to feel impossible to hold, too big and too genuine. when he finally smiles back, it's small but sincere, the kind that reaches his eyes. something shifts between you then, quiet and unspoken, and suddenly the space separating the two of you doesn't feel quite so wide anymore.

you feel different kind of yearning this time. you want more, this isn't enough. you hold his face in your hands and bring him down for a messy kiss. you're trying to dominate but he doesn't let you. the kiss deepened in an instant, shifting from hesitant to something far more desperate, like neither of you can bear to pull away.

your hand slowly goes down to take his pants off, opening up his belt when he stops you midway through. "careful" he warns and pins your hands down again.

"need you, frank" you try to fight off his hands but he's too strong and your arms feel like liquid right now.

"need you more sweetheart, I jus' wanna make sure you really wan' this, yeah?" he whispers in your ear, voice low and dangerous. frank bites neck out of frustration. "been holdin' back too much, doll, didn't wanna hurt you."

"I know you're not gonna hurt me, honey, I trust you" finally your turn to use the petname. frank's heart melts when he hears the words coming out of your sweet mouth. you trust him.

he kisses you once again and kicks off his pants with his leg. you look down at his dick for a split second. it's not what you expect. he's big. really big. you swallow hard and exhale loudly. frank notices the worry on your face and holds your face.

"you tell me when to stop, yeah princess?"

you nod.

"lemme hear you, baby"

"yes, frank"

"attagirl"

frank turns you around on your stomach, putting one of the pillows underneath you. he grabs your hips and starts gathering your wetness with his tip. you whimper out at the contact. he's holding you steady and firmly against him, slowly pushing his cock inside? inch by inch. his fingers digging harshly on your sides.

"fuck" frank's head rolls back at the pleasure. he gathers all of your hair in his hand and pushes your head back, his mouth right behind your ear. "talk t'me baby, you gotta relax a little cuz' fuck-" he stutters over his words when he feels your walls pulsing on him.

"too tight" he exhales and starts moving slowly. you're grabbing the sheets with whatever force you have left in you. the stretch feeling way different this time. it stings hard but the sensation of it feels otherworldly. your eyes roll back when you feel frank setting up the pace, ass slapping against him with the rhythm.

if the overstimulation wasn't enough, he brings a finger to your clit and starts circling it while his pace keeps picking up. pounding into you hard with every move. your limbs betray you, only thing keeping you up are frank's hands and the pillow underneath you.

"frank!" you cry out his name, feeling too overwhelmed and desperate chasing your high. frank notices your walls fluttering around him and he already knows you're close. he grabs you by your neck, softly squeezing it while he slams inside you at the new angle.

"you're gonna cum on my dick, baby? gonna be a good girl f'me?" he groans behind you, voice shaky, falling apart inside you.

"yes, frank, wanna cum on your dick, please, please, please" you moan out, completely fucked out, blabbering frank's name every second, hands digging in the sheets desperately, pussy pulsing aggressively around him. his hand goes back from your throat to your clit once again. he presses down on it and it males your whole body jerk and shake, the pleasure overtaking you. you didn't even get to process, it just happened. frank smiled behind you, feeling you orgasm around him.

"good girl, did so good f'me" he keeps going harder and faster to chase his own release now. you feel so tired and liquid but he still feels so good. you love the overstimulation you feel. "gonna cum inside you, doll, wanna fill you up" he grunts and in a few thrusts, you feel his release flowing inside you, making you feel so full and warm.

his body is slumps over you for a second, both of you breathing hard and loud before he pulls out and lays down on the bed. frank kindly turns you to your side so he can hug you to his chest. "you okay, sweetheart?" he asks as he strokes your hair and kisses your temple softly.

"just a little tired" you mumble, voice too quiet against his neck.

"lemme clean you up, princess, I'll be right back inna sec'" he gets up and goes to the bathroom, returning with a wet warm towel, softly massaging your legs with it. "all nice n' clean" he finds a new pair of underwear for you and helps you put it on alongside a loose shirt for the night. he returns to the bed and you’re already halfway gone, eyes heavy, breathing slowing in that soft way that tells him you’re close to falling asleep.

“there you go…” he murmurs, almost to himself, pulling the covers up over both of you. you shift closer without thinking, your body already knows you're safe with him. his arm slides around you, firm but gentle, holding you in place against him.

“you're perfect,” he whispers into your hair, pressing one last kiss there, lingering just a second too long. but you don’t answer. you’re already asleep.

frank stays awake a moment longer, just watching you, thumb tracing a slow, absent line over your shoulder until he stops. then he finally lets his eyes fall shut too, pulling you a little closer, and even though this is new, it sits with him like something familiar he didn’t know he was missing. he’s already sure he’ll want more of you every night after this.

On one hand, you take comfort in knowing that you’re more likely to wake up quickly at the sound of potential threats. On the other hand, it can be exhausting to wake up at every little thing that goes bump in the night.

Hell's Kitchen isn’t exactly a quiet place. The average night is filled with sounds of police sirens and noisy neighbors. Shouting, stomping, fucking, fighting – you name it. Over the course of the year that you have lived here, you have grown accustomed to it – and with the help of melatonin and a white noise machine, you're able to drown most of it out. Usually.

Usually does not typically include the sound of gun shots in the alleyway below your apartment in the middle of a random Thursday night, however.

The initial shot causes you to jolt upright in your bed. Before you can process what you heard, another shot fires from somewhere outside your window, this time unmistakable.

Instinctively, you roll off of your mattress and onto the floor, using the bed as a barricade in case any bullets come flying through your window. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and you try your hardest to regain control of your breathing while not moving a muscle.

Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and then two while you wait for the sound of another gunshot that never comes. You’re unsure of how long you lie on your floor before finally sitting up and reaching into the drawer of the bedside table directly above your head. You pull out the Glock 42 that you purchased prior to moving to this part of town, though you haven’t truly worried about needing to use it until right now.

As quietly as you can, you crawl with the gun in hand to the opposite side of your bed, closer to the window. Your curtains are closed, and you intend on keeping them that way, but there’s a big enough gap between the fabric and the window for you to peek outside.

At first, you see nothing out of the ordinary. There’s enough light from a streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway that you’re able to make out the trash bins and a dumpster that belongs to the bakery next door to your apartment building. You watch with bated breath, waiting for any kind of movement.

Just when you’re convinced that the shooter (or shooters) have fled the scene, a flash of movement catches your eye from the far end of the dumpster. You can tell that it’s a man – he had been hiding behind it, just out of your field of view. His head peeks around the corner, as if checking to make sure the coast is clear.

He steps out from behind the dumpster, taking several wobbly steps before leaning against the metal siding for support. Thanks to the streetlamp and tonight's full moon, you’re able to see that the side of his head is caked in what is presumably blood – whether it’s his or someone else’s, you have no idea. You watch as the man pulls back his coat, revealing a white t-shirt soaked in dark red near his shoulder.

You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes from your lips. You immediately cover your mouth with your hand, backing away from the window to search for your cell phone. He has clearly been shot, you need to call for help—

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper as renewed panic begins to surge through you.

Your fucking phone is dead. You press the power button repeatedly, hoping for it to miraculously turn on. You worked a sixteen hour shift at the hospital yesterday and crashed as soon as you got home. Didn’t eat anything for dinner, didn’t shower, didn’t even change out of your scrubs…and didn’t plug your phone in to charge.

You peer out of the window again. The man is still slumped against the dumpster, seemingly clutching at his wounded shoulder in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

You rack your brain, knowing that you need to do something. You’re a trauma nurse for Christ’s sake. You see this kind of thing and worse every day. You can’t just leave him to bleed out in the street while you watch from the comfort of your apartment.

You fear that if you turn your bedroom light on, he’ll see the light from the cracks in your curtains and attempt to run away. So you fumble around in the dark until you find a pair of slippers and a coat, cramming your pistol into an interior pocket.

You want to help – but you have no way of knowing why he was being shot at. The assailant could have a reasonable excuse as to why they put a bullet in this man’s shoulder. He’s injured, yes, but what if he deserves to be?

Your brain and your heart go back and forth with each other the entire trek down the apartment building’s stairwell. Ultimately, your heart wins, and you ease open an emergency exit door that leads directly into the alley where the man still sits with his back against the dumpster.

The second that he notices you step out of the building, he forces himself to his feet. He turns away from you, but not before you note just how much blood is all over him. He tugs the hood of his jacket over his head and begins to walk in the opposite direction, still obviously unsteady on his feet.

“Hey!” You call after him against your better judgment. “Judging by the way you’re walking and the amount of blood on you, I’d bet that you’ve lost a fair amount.”

You notice that he has a bit of a limp that causes him to walk slowly, but he doesn’t stop or so much as look back at you.

“’M fine, lady,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, just go back inside.”

You know that you should listen to him. Every rational and logical part of your brain is screaming at you to do as he says – turn around, go back to your apartment, and lock the fucking door.

But the pain etched in his voice roots you right where you stand. If he had any desire to harm you, why wouldn’t he do so right now? There’s no one else around. But he isn’t jumping at the opportunity to attack you – he’s actively trying to distance himself from you.

“I can help you,” You implore, your voice a bit louder this time. “I’m a trauma nurse. Let me help you.”

He stops, bracing a hand against the brick wall beside him for support. He glances back at you over his shoulder – just enough to give you a view of his side profile. Even from here, you can tell that his nose looks broken.

“See,” you continue, opening your coat enough to let him see the mauve colored scrubs that you had fallen asleep in. “No cops,” you add, reading the hesitation on his face. “I just wanna patch you up so I can go back to sleep with a clear conscience.”

Still, he says nothing. He turns, eyeing you up and down like he’s weighing the pros and cons of putting his trust in a stranger.

Truthfully, you should be doing the same right about now.

You shiver, closing your coat once more at a sudden gust of wind. “Or bleed out,” you shrug. You take a step backwards, towards the emergency exit you had come out of. “At least I know that I tried.”

You turn around, grabbing the door handle but freezing before pulling it open when you hear him finally speak.

“Wait,” he starts, his voice gruff and strained. You look back at him expectantly. “No cops?” he reiterates.

“No cops,” you promise. “Just a nurse trying to do what she went to school for.” You pause. “And maybe get some good karma out of it.”

You hold the door open for him, motioning with your head as if to say after you. He hesitates for a second longer, and then begins to limp towards you. The thought crosses your mind to help him up the stairs to your apartment on the second story, but you quickly remind yourself that you do not know this man. You’re already being risky by simply offering him help – you should at least attempt to keep some amount of space in between the two of you.

He hobbles up the stairwell, one hand clutching the railing and the other holding pressure to his shoulder wound with his t-shirt that is already soaked through with blood. You can tell he’s in a decent amount of pain, despite how he tries to conceal it.

You open your door for him before you can talk yourself out of it, mentally saying a prayer to whatever higher power may be listening that you don’t end up regretting this.

“You can take a seat on the couch,” you say as you close the door behind you. “And remove your coat and shirt, if you can. I’ll gather my supplies.”

You instinctively begin to shrug out of your own coat, but then remember the pistol that rests in the pocket and decide it’s safer to resume wearing it. He is a complete stranger, and a bloody, bruised one at that.

With his back still turned to you, he slowly slips off his coat and then carefully pulls the blood-soaked t-shirt over his head. He hisses in pain, which isn’t shocking considering the intense bruising that decorates the thick muscles of his back.

Your gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should before you start gathering the necessary supplies from around your small apartment. Towels, sterile saline, medical shears, gauze, bandages…

When you reenter the room a moment later with everything you managed to scrounge together on such short notice, he’s already sitting on the couch, fiddling absentmindedly with the wilted petals of the dead flowers in a vase on the table in front of him.

Your eyes are instantly drawn to the entry wound just under his clavicle, near his left shoulder, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. Though it still leaks dark red, it isn’t gushing as you had feared it would be.

“I’m going to do a basic assessment first,” you tell him as you take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, your voice doing little to conceal how nervous the newfound close proximity makes you. You reach for his left hand, which you take in your own. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head after a split-second. “No.”

“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”

He does so without hesitation, the calloused, blood-streaked fingers flexing against your palm.

“Good,” you murmur, bringing two of your fingers to check his radial pulse.

He makes a low sound, something halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “Am I dead?” He hums, voice gravelly but light with amusement.

You roll your eyes. “Not yet.” You pause, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath his skin. “I’m just making sure you’ve got good blood flow to this arm and hand.”

“And?”

“And you got lucky,” you tell him, dropping his hand to reach for a towel and the bottle of sterile saline. “Another inch to the left and the bullet would’ve nicked your subclavian artery. You would have already bled out behind that dumpster.”

“Lucky,” he scoffs, the word dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m lucky, it’s only because I chose the right alley to get shot in tonight.”

You snort a laugh without meeting his gaze as you begin to wipe away the excess blood from his skin, the words and the rough timbre of his voice sending goosebumps across your skin.

“Try not to make it a habit,” you mutter, forcing yourself to focus on the wound instead of the pair of dark brown eyes that appear almost black in the dim lighting of your living room.

The man is silent while you work to clean up all of the blood that is dried to the skin of his neck and chest.

“What about you?” He asks when you pull the now red-tinged towel away for a final time. “Do you make a habit of bringing strange, wounded men into your home?”

“Can’t say that I do. You’d be the first.” Then, because the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the one who lost a liter of blood, you speak again before he has a chance to respond in that voice that makes it hard for you to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing here.

“There‘s no exit wound, so that means the bullet is probably still inside. I’m going to leave it there, because attempting to extract it here could do a lot more harm than good.”

He gives a nonchalant half shrug. “Wouldn’t be the only bullet to live inside me.”

“Oh?” You quip, somehow only mildly surprised by the admission. “You collecting them?”

The corners of his mouth tug upwards into something resembling a smirk. “Something like that.”

As curious as that makes you, you don’t pry. You don’t think you could possibly like the answer. You do the rest of your work in the kind of silence that doesn’t actually feel quiet because it only gives your thoughts time to get louder and louder.

You blot a few fresh droplets of blood. What the hell is this guy involved in?

You place a sterile dressing over the wound. If this isn’t his first time getting shot, how many times has he been shot?

You secure the dressing to his chest with medical tape. What is his name?

As soon as you pull your hands away, he starts to stand in front of you. “Oh,” you squeak, “No, I wouldn’t stand up quite yet. You should give it a few minutes to make sure your bandage doesn’t soak through—”

The man, now towering over you, shakes his head. “This should hold me together. I’ve had worse.”

Jesus Christ.

“At least let me give you something for the pain,” you try to reason with him, standing up. When you do, your chest is only a few inches from his, still bare in front of you. You instantly start to put some space between you. “Seriously, that’s going to fucking hurt—”

He chuckles low, cutting you off. “Extra strength ibuprofen doesn’t really do much for me these days, but I appreciate it.”

You’re at a loss for words for a moment, and you aren’t even sure why. It’s not like you should be thinking of an excuse to make the man hang around your apartment for any longer than necessary. You’ve done what you set out to do - bring him inside, make sure he isn’t going to bleed out, and patch him up. Mission accomplished. Now all that’s really left is to send him on his way and lock the door behind him.

“Right,” you huff a humorless laugh. “Well, I would tell you to stay out of trouble, but something tells me it wouldn’t do much good.”

He grabs his jacket and blood-soaked t-shirt off of the couch, choosing to forgo the latter and instead slip only the zip up hoodie back on.

“No, probably not,” he deadpans, the huskiness of his voice making your apartment feel hotter than it actually is. “Thank you, though. I appreciate this. You didn’t have to help me.” He pauses, looking you directly in the eye, his expression grave and unreadable. “And if you were smart, you wouldn’t have. So let’s keep this the one and only time you do this, yeah?”

The way he’s looking at you gives you very little confidence to fight him on that. Every smart retort that pops into your head dies on your tongue under his stare.

You only nod, and after another wordless, tense moment, he begins to show himself out.

“You at least gonna tell me your name?” You call after him, willing your voice not to crack.

He doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder when he answers with another humorless laugh.

“I promise, it’s better for us both if I don’t, angel.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

Three days pass, and with each one, you’re a little more convinced that the man with the haunted, espresso-colored eyes who sat bleeding in your living room was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.

Then you see the blood-stained hand towel you had used to wipe his skin clean, and you’re reminded that it was not a fever dream. He really had been here, and you had helped him, and you have no reason to believe you’ll ever see him again now.

That is, until a knock from outside your bedroom window wakes you up at seven o’clock in the morning on your day off.

At first, you think you dreamed it. But then you quickly remember what happened last time you heard something from outside this very window, and before you’re fully awake, you’re swinging your legs over the side of your bed and walking the short distance to the window. You peak out of the curtain, and upon first glance, you see nothing.

What would there be to see, anyway? You’re on the second story. Someone would have had to climb your fire escape to—

You glance down and freeze, your entire body going rigid at what lay on the platform of your fire escape.

Flowers.

It’s nothing extravagant. A small bunch of wildflowers tied together mid-stems with a string. But still, flowers. On your fire escape at seven o'clock in the morning.

A folded piece of paper rests beneath the stems, enticing you to open the window and see what it says. To see who the hell they could possibly be from, though a specific, bruised face already pops into your mind in answer.

You look around again, peering both ways down the alley outside your window. There’s nothing but a few trash cans and the same dumpster that your mysterious, after hours patient had hid behind.

If not him…then who the hell else? You can’t even recall the last time someone gave you flowers. The dead, wilted ones currently on your coffee table are from a street vendor that sells them down the block from the hospital you work at. You bought them for yourself.

Once you have convinced yourself that no one is lurking in the alleyway, watching for you to open your window, you do so, quickly grabbing the small bouquet of multi-colored wildflowers and the piece of paper before shutting (and locking) your window once more.

The handwriting on the folded note is a masculine scrawl.

The flowers in your living room need to be thrown away

Thanks again, angel

- F

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

You installed a security camera outside of your bedroom window the following day.

Its position allows you to see your fire escape, as well as the mouth of the alleyway outside of your bedroom.

You didn’t do it because you’re creeped out, or because you feel unsafe. You did it because if he were to come again, you don’t want to miss him. You don’t want to be left wondering if it’s really him.

The man with a scar just under his clavicle, the man who left flowers on your fire escape and then ran before you had a chance to get out of bed, the man who called you angel, the man whose name starts with F.

You’ve been referring to him as Frederick in your head for two months now. You spent an embarrassing amount of time scouring baby naming websites for male names that start with F, and Frederick stood out the most. It means peaceful ruler, and the irony of that makes you laugh considering the circumstances under which you met, but unless he ever returns and tells you his actual name, you will continue to let yourself believe it’s Frederick.

Fred, for short.

After two months, you begin to doubt that will ever happen. You helped him, and he returned with flowers to thank you, and that is the end of that. You eventually stop glancing out your window at every little bump in the night, you stop checking the Ring camera footage hoping that one of the notifications is him, and you resume life as normal.

So when a tapping sound randomly wakes you in the middle of the night after more than two months without a trace of him, you first assume it’s only the thunderstorm raging outside. You think so little of it that your initial response is to simply turn over, pull your comforter tighter, and close your eyes.

Then you hear it again.

Just a bit louder this time, but now undeniable. Knuckles against glass. Still, you hesitate, the fear of realizing that someone is outside of your window, on your fire escape in the dead of night momentarily paralyzing you. Then, still half asleep, you remember what happened last time there was a knock on your bedroom window, and you quickly grab your phone off of your nightstand, jerking it from the power cord.

Your most recent notification is informing you of movement on your security camera. The description reads a person is standing on the fire escape knocking on a window.

You pull up the live footage as your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest. Your hands go clammy, anticipation surging through—

His hair is longer and his beard has grown in full since you last saw him, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s him.

Your trembling thumb hovers over the microphone button for a moment before you’re able to work up the courage to press it.

“No flowers this time?” You speak into your phone, loud enough for him to hear you over the rain that pours down around him. Right away, he glances at the camera located in the upper corner of the window, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a pained grimace.

“Sorry,” he huffs. “Didn’t exactly have time to pick any in between getting my ass kicked and climbing your fire escape at three in the morning.” He pauses. “So what’s it gonna be, angel? You gonna let me in or do I need to walk to the closest emergency room?”

You don’t answer him over the camera. Instead, you put your phone down, flick your nightstand lamp on, and then take a few steps to your bedroom window. Your curtains are closed, and you take a deep breath before pulling them open.

You’re actually doing this again. Letting this stranger, this injured man, into your home again in the middle of the night.

Only this time, he’s sopping wet.

He doesn’t say anything when you first open the window. He just ducks beneath the frame with a sharp hiss, one forearm braced against the sill as he carefully maneuvers one leg through the opening. For a moment, he pauses halfway inside, his shoulders tense beneath the rain soaked fabric of his hoodie. His eyes squeeze shut as he shifts his weight, and a low, involuntary grunt escapes him.

You automatically reach out, your hand hovering near his elbow.

“I’ve got it,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

You don’t argue, but you still stay close while he swings his other leg through the threshold of the window and then straightens his posture as much as he can manage. One arm instinctively folds across the right side of his ribcage, guarding it, while rain droplets drip from the ends of his hair onto your bedroom floor.

“Sorry about the mess,” he grunts, glancing down at his boots that squeak against the hardwood.

You offer a small shrug. “I need to mop anyway.”

Now that he’s inside, you take a closer look at him. There’s a bruise forming along his cheekbone, and another reddish, puffy knot at his temple. His bottom lip is slightly cracked, caked with dried blood. There’s bags beneath his brown eyes, as if he has hardly slept since you last saw him.

“You look like hell, Fred.”

Thick brows scrunch together. “Fred?”

You nod. “That’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me your actual name. Which I’m assuming is not Fred, then?”

Air blows through his nose in a near silent laugh, his chest shaking with the movement before another pained grimace flashes across his face. “Not Fred.”

Your eyes rake downwards where he still clutches his side. “Let me guess,” you sigh, “ribs?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Think so.”

You jerk your head in the direction of your bedroom door. “Go to the living room. I’m gonna see if I can scrounge up some dry clothes that might fit you.”

He hesitates, another ghost of a laugh escaping him as his eyes trail downwards. “Maybe grab some pants for yourself while you’re at it, yeah?”

By the time your brain processes his words, he’s already walking towards your bedroom door, leaving you wide-eyed and warm-faced. You glance down in confirmation of what you’re already painfully aware of: you aren’t wearing any pants.

A t-shirt just long enough to conceal the curve of your ass, but no pants.

You recover from the embarrassment quick enough, springing into action to find a pair of pants for yourself as well as a change of clothes for the drenched man in the other room. Luckily, you still have a bag of random clothes your ex had left at your place forever ago that you had forgotten to throw out. He’s a bit stockier, more muscular, than your ex, but they are similar in height. These might be a little bit tight, but they will at least be more comfortable than wet, cold clothes.

When you enter the living room with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants only a minute later, he has already removed his jacket and undershirt.

His eyes flicker downwards and back up again, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk at the realization that you had taken his advice and put on a pair of pajama pants before his gaze lands on the men’s clothing in your hands.

“Ex boyfriend’s,” you explain, probably quicker than necessary as you place them on your coffee table. “They got pushed to the back of my closet. Should fit you well enough.”

His gaze softens a tad at that. “Thanks.”

You nod, then glance down, your attention instantly drawn to the right side of his ribcage. The skin there is already darkening, a bruise beginning to bloom beneath a patch of angry redness and subtle swelling. You take a small step towards him, a tentative hand coming to his side. Your fingertips brush the skin there ever so lightly, and he lets you, the muscles there tensing.

“Take a deep breath for me,” you murmur.

He inhales, his torso stiffening and muscles in his jaw clenching before he releases a shaky exhale.

“Again.”

Though it clearly brings him discomfort, he’s able to take a reasonably deep breath, which puts your mind somewhat at ease.

“You know, telling me exactly what happened would help me assess the injury more accurately,” you hum, dropping your hand from the warm skin of his side and crossing your arms over your chest.

He snorts. “Got kicked. Boot to the ribcage.”

Considering he had a bullet in him last time he was in your living room, the answer is only mildly alarming.

“People seem to enjoy beating the shit out of you.”

He raises a brow at you. “Is that my official diagnosis?”

You sigh, eyes flickering back down to the puffy, red skin of his otherwise toned abdomen. “It’s impossible to know for certain without an x-ray,” you shrug. “It’s probably just a bruised rib or two. Possibly fractured. Not much to be done either way.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, reaching down for the t-shirt on the coffee table in front of him with a grimace. “That’s what I figured.”

Now it’s your turn to cock a brow. “Why’d you come here, then?”

You can’t help the question as it slips out. He has clearly had more than his fair share of injuries - the evidence of them are littered across his body in old, fading bruises and scar tissue. A cracked rib is minor in comparison to the marred skin of his chest where you had patched him up just two months ago.

For once, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he gives a nonchalant shrug as he maneuvers the dry t-shirt over his head.

“Guess I thought it would be a safe place to lay low until this storm blows over.”

A crack of thunder booms in the distance as soon as the last word leaves his lips. Part of you wants to press for more, but you figure that is likely as honest of an answer as you will get from him, so you hold back all the other questions that threaten to spill from you.

What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? Why here? You really had nowhere else to go?

Who the hell are you?

Instead, you say nothing. You simply pick up the pair of sweatpants still sitting on the table next to you, and hand them to him in offering until he accepts them.

“There’s a bathroom just down that hallway,” you tell him with a small nod in the direction of the guest bathroom. “You can throw all of your clothes in the dryer, if you’d like.”

For a moment, he only stares at you. His mouth parts slightly as if he’s going to speak, but then changes his mind and only nods.

“I’ll get you an ice pack. If you’re going to hang out here, you’re going to ice that rib, Fred,” you sigh as you start to walk in the direction of your kitchen. “And you’re going to take some ibuprofen—”

“It’s Frank.”

You stop in your tracks, quickly turning to look at him. “What?”

“My name,” he clarifies, voice gruff, “it’s Frank.”

Your surprise undoubtedly shows on your face at the revelation. You repeat the name, more to yourself than anything, with a slow nod.

“Nice to meet you, Frank.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

To your disappointment, but not your surprise, Frank had already left when you woke up later that morning.

Frank. At first, it felt odd to finally know his actual name after calling him Fred in your head for over two months. You got used to it quickly, though. By the fourth, fifth, sixth time that he shows up on your fire escape, you forget how it ever felt to not know Frank Castle’s name.

His appearances became somewhat predictable.

Every two to three weeks, you wake up to soft tapping on your window in the late hours of the night. Sometimes he has cuts, sometimes bruises. Sometimes both. You patch him up to the best of your abilities, you offer him food and water, you let him sleep on your couch until daylight comes, and then he slips out of your front door so silently that it doesn’t even wake you.

That is, until his most recent visit, when you woke up and found him still snoring softly in your living room. He had shown up on your fire escape, as he always does, with a split lip and black eye. The injuries hardly warranted a nurse’s consultation, but you welcomed him in, anyway.

You walked into your living room that morning fully expecting him to be gone. When you realized that he hadn’t moved, you couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment. Early morning sunlight was trickling in through your curtains, spilling across his face and catching on the bruises that colored his skin.

It was by far the most at peace you’ve seen him in all of the months that you’ve known him.

But Frank is a light sleeper. As quiet as you tried to be, he woke as soon as you started moving around your kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee.

He seemed just as surprised as you were that he had slept so long. And then, when you offered him breakfast, he surprised you both again.

He stayed.

He stayed while you cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them together with a splash of milk and extra shredded cheese - just like your grandmother always did when making omelettes, you told him. He leaned against your kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, quietly watching you move around your apartment as if he had done so a hundred times before. As if it was any other Tuesday morning.

Conversation flowed easier than it had ever had. You told him about some of your patients from the past week. About a little boy who had proudly showed you his dinosaur bandage after getting stitches, and about the elderly man who shamelessly flirts with every nurse in your unit despite having recently celebrated his fiftieth wedding anniversary.

More than anything else, you talked about yourself, because Frank asks more questions than he answers, but you did learn that he hates mushrooms with a passion, and takes his coffee black.

That was a month ago now, and you haven’t seen him since.

Not a word. No late night visits, no flowers or thank you notes left on your fire escape in the dead of night. You had given him your phone number scribbled on a post-it note the fourth or fifth time that he showed up to your place, but he hadn’t made any use of that, either.

The first couple of weeks, you didn’t think anything of it. It was normal to go a few weeks without seeing him. But now that it’s been a whole month, you’re worried.

Why hasn’t he come by? Is he okay? Did he skip town? Did he get into some kind of altercation that he wasn’t able to walk away from? Is he even alive?

You stay up late each night, unable to find sleep, your thoughts racing with all of these questions that you have no way of finding the answers to.

You’ve spiraled over the unknown more than you care to admit. From randomly checking your security camera footage in the middle of a shift to searching for his name in local obituaries, you’ve let his extended, unexplained absence consume you. When you’re awake, you’re wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when you’ll see him again. When you’re asleep, his brown eyes and scarred skin appear in your dreams.

Friends and coworkers have started to notice how distracted you’ve allowed yourself to become, too. Hence the reason you’re at a crowded, noisy bar at 10:30 on a Wednesday night.

A couple of coworkers had all but drug you with them after your shift earlier today, insisting that you needed to get out, have a few drinks, and get the mystery man who you refuse to admit actually exists off of your mind.

For the first hour or two, it worked.

You mingled, gossiped, laughed. But now? Two martinis in, exhausted from a twelve hour shift, and listening to some twenty-one year old sing karaoke off key? You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering back to the very person that you had hoped to drown from them.

When you tell the coworker who had invited you that you’re going to head home because you’re exhausted, she tries to convince you to stay for one more drink. When that doesn’t work, she tries to convince you to let her walk you home, and although you appreciate the offer, your apartment is only a few blocks from here and you really just want to be alone with your thoughts and the crisp night air.

Very quickly, you regret not letting her walk you home, or ordering yourself an Uber, or flagging down a fucking taxi.

“Hey, sweetheart. You need a ride somewhere?”

Something in your gut tells you the sudden, masculine voice is talking to you without even looking. You stumble the slightest bit, but you keep walking, giving no acknowledgment that you had even heard him. Your hand instinctively goes to your purse that rests against your hip. Inside is your Glock that you’ve still never actually had to use.

Footsteps thud against the pavement behind you. Your fingers twitch against the leather fabric, preparing to reach down inside.

“Hey!” The voice calls out, louder this time, right behind you. A hand clamps down on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you. Don’t be rude now—”

Three things happen at once.

You shove your hand down into your bag to grip the gun nestled inside, you come face to face with the tall but scrawny man still grabbing your shoulder, and a faceless, hooded figure emerges from the shadows of the nearest alleyway.

“Doesn’t seem like she’s very interested to me,” a deep, gruff voice booms from beneath the hood. It startles the man enough to release his hold on your shoulder and take an immediate step back. It startles you, too, but for different reasons.

You instantly recognize that voice. You’ve thought of it every night since you last heard it a month ago. You’ve thought of it every night since you first found its owner bleeding outside of your apartment.

And if the voice isn’t confirmation enough, the thick, dark beard peeking out from beneath the hood is plenty.

“Oh, I was—” The scrawny man stutters, taking a few steps backwards, attempting to put some distance between him and the unexpected presence, “—was just seeing if she needed a ride—”

“Wrong woman,” Frank barks, lifting his hood enough to reveal eyes so dark that they look black beneath the streetlamp, fixed on the man with an unwavering intensity that silently promises violence.

The man continues to stumble backwards and your grip on the Glock, still tucked out of sight, relaxes.

“S—sorry, man,” he squeaks. “I don’t want any problems. Swear—”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

The man doesn’t say another word before scampering away in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with Frank Castle.

Are you hallucinating? Did someone spike your fucking drink at the bar? Or is he actually standing in front of you, beard fuller and hair longer than you’ve ever seen it, looking at you like he doesn’t know if he should stay or disappear again?

“Hey, angel.”

The words seem to snap you out of a trance. One second, you’re standing there, staring at him with squinted eyes, and the next, you’re pulling your pistol out of your bag, the muzzle pointed directly at his chest.

He takes an involuntary step back, his hands raising in front of him in shocked defense. “Christ, what the fu—”

“I had that handled.” You wave the gun around haphazardly for emphasis.

Frank grabs the barrel of the Glock, pushing it downwards. “Would you stop swinging that thing around?” He pauses, leaning in to take a closer look at you. “Are you drunk?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that escapes you at that. “Why don’t you tell me? You know, since apparently you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking you?” Frank scoffs, almost offended. “I ain’t stalking you.”

You shove the gun back into your purse without taking your eyes off of his incredulous expression. “Oh, no? You just so happened to be in the exact right place at the exact right time after ghosting me for a month?”

He falls silent, giving a small nod to himself as his gaze wanders up and down the street before settling on the cracked pavement beneath his boots. Anywhere but your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to stalk you, alright? I was in the neighborhood and saw you go into the bar. Just wanted to make sure you got home alright.” He pauses, meeting your gaze once again, his dark eyes as intense and unyielding as ever. “And it’s a good thing that I did.”

It’s your turn to scoff at that. “Right. So you care enough to make sure that I get home safely…” You take a step closer to him, your stare unblinking as you look up at him in the light of the streetlamp, “but you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me? Couldn’t leave a note? Couldn’t climb my fire escape at any point in the last month to let me know you hadn’t been gunned down in a random alley in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Frank’s jaw tightens as he swallows thickly. No answer.

You snort a humorless laugh, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”

You start to turn around, to walk away, when the small, petty part of you easily influenced by alcohol begs you to open your mouth again. “And just so you know, Frank, I checked the obituaries to see if you were dead.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.

He lets you go and does not try to hide the fact that he follows you the rest of the way to your apartment, not turning around until you’ve safely entered the building.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

That night, Frank Castle appears in your dreams.

It isn’t the first time he’s been conjured by your subconscious, but it is the first time that you wake up and have to question what is fantasy and what is reality due to how utterly lifelike it had all felt.

You hear a gruff voice calling you angel. You see tortured brown eyes staring at you the way they had beneath the streetlights, heavy with the weight of everything he had refused to say. But instead of staying silent when you start to walk away, he stops you. He calls out for you with a restrained grunt of your name, and asks you not to go.

When you jerk awake to the sound of your alarm, your heart is racing, and for a few disorienting moments, you have to remind yourself that you’re alone in your bedroom. Frank Castle is not here. He’s not snoring in your living room, he’s not waiting on your fire escape for you to open the window and let him inside.

You don’t know if he ever will be again.

It’s the kind of dream that leaves you in a melancholic headspace for hours after waking.

You try your hardest to go about your day as normal. You clock in for a twelve hour shift at the emergency department, feeling severely unrested and slightly hungover. You drink more coffee than you usually do to get you through the first few hours of the morning, in between patients.

First, a seven-year-old boy with a fractured elbow. Skateboarding accident. Next, an elderly woman with a nasty grease burn. Bacon accident. Then, a construction worker with a mangled finger. Nail gun accident. And now…

“There’s a man in Central 12. Says he hit his head. Possible concussion.”

You briefly look up from your task of restocking a crash cart to give your charge nurse, Jenny, a nod of confirmation. “I’ll be with him in just a moment.”

She’s silent for a second. “He asked for you by name.”

That gets your undivided attention. You look up again, this time noticing an amused expression on Jenny’s face that piques your interest even further. “Do you know who it is?”

Jenny shrugs. “Never seen him before. Says his name is Fred?”

You drop the oxygen mask you’re holding out of surprise. “Fred?” You echo as Frank’s face flashes through your mind.

She nods, the amusement on her face quickly shifting into confusion. “Yeah, why? You know him?”

You can’t bring yourself to say yes until you walk to Central 12 and see him with your own two eyes.

And even then, when you see Frank Castle sitting on the exam table in his normal attire of bruises and all black, you still have to question whether or not you’re actually awake, or in your bed, still dreaming.

You close the door before speaking. “You know, showing up to my job isn’t really helping you with the stalker allegations.”

His broad shoulders lift with silent laughter as he looks around the room, not meeting your gaze. “Tried to go by your place this morning,” he says simply. “You weren’t there, so I took a guess…figured you might be here.”

You hum, crossing your arms over your chest as you come to stand directly in front of him. Your eyes skim over his face, looking for any sign of visible injury. “Here I am,” you exhale. “Let me guess. You didn’t actually hit your head?”

Another snort of laughter as his gaze meets yours. You’re aware that it could be your imagination playing tricks on you, but you swear that for a split-second, his eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up.

“I’m having a hard time remembering,” he grunts, a spark of something humorous appearing and then disappearing from his stare. “Maybe you should check me over and make sure I’m not concussed while you hear me out.”

Maybe it’s the rough timbre of his voice, or maybe his choice of words, or maybe the way he’s looking at you, but whatever it is makes goosebumps spread all the way down your spine.

There’s a waiting room full of people waiting to be seen just down the hallway. People with actual injuries. People who might really be concussed. People who don’t come in and out of your life like ghosts.

At least a dozen different reasons as to why you shouldn’t indulge him come to mind, but none of them stop you from reaching for the penlight clipped to your scrub pocket.

“Follow the light.”

He obeys without complaint, lips quirking slightly at the corners as his eyes track the beam left, right, up, and down.

“Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea or vomiting?”

You already know the answers before he opens his mouth.

“No. None of that.”

You click the pen off. “Tell me your full name.”

He huffs something between a laugh and a sigh. “Francis David Castle Sr.”

That answer does take you by surprise. Not the fact that his first name is actually Francis. No, what surprises you is the suffix. Senior. Because if Frank is actually Francis David Castle Sr., then that can only imply…

“You have a son?”

His expression changes almost immediately. The slight amusement disappears from his face, but he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Had,” he grunts. “Had a daughter, too.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. His choice of words makes it clear. Had. Past tense. No more.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” you murmur sincerely.

Frank nods, so small that it’s nearly imperceptible as he clears his throat. “Yeah. Me too.”

You don’t press the subject further. Not here, not now. You just lock the information away with every other fact he’s hesitantly handed over since meeting him. Like his name and how he takes his coffee.

“Alright. Last question,” you say gently. You swallow down the small lump that has unexpectedly formed in your throat, forcing your attention back to the matter at hand. “Why are you here right now, Frank?”

He studies you for a long moment before answering, making the small exam room suddenly seem suffocating.

“I’m here to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, his voice and expression equally grave. “For disappearing the way that I did. For…making you worry. I didn’t think…” he trails off, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Hell, I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

You nod slowly, taking a seat on the stool in front of him before responding. You glance down at your hands in your lap. “Why did you?” You ask, voice meeker than you intend for it to sound. “Disappear?”

Another moment of silence that feels eternal. “Thought it’d be better for you. Safer.” You meet his gaze at that. His lips purse, and you think that’s as much of an explanation as he’s going to give, but then his lips part again. “…and I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone care about me like that. Kinda forgot what it feels like.”

He swallows thickly at that, like he’s holding himself back from saying anything more. Without thinking, you wheel yourself closer to him until your knees are nearly brushing his where they dangle from the exam table. He stares down at you, and you up at him, and the rest of the hospital outside of these four walls seems to fade away.

“Safer?” You murmur. “You know you’re talking to the girl who invited a bleeding stranger into her apartment in the middle of the night, right?”

He chuckles low, his broad shoulders rising and falling with it. “Exactly,” he sighs. “You won’t keep yourself safe, so I guess it’s up to me.”

You quirk a brow. “So you were stalking me last night, then.”

He hesitates just long enough for you notice the faint, barely visible blush that blooms beneath his beard. “Stalking is a strong word.”

“I knew it.”

The blush on his cheeks grows a deeper pink and he rolls his eyes, now avoiding yours. “Look, I wasn’t…wasn’t trying to follow you or anything weird. Just…every now and then, I’d check in. Make sure nobody’s hanging around your building.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “Make sure that nobody has connected you to me.”

Although that might possibly be the most honest Frank Castle has been since you first met him, it somehow leaves you with more questions than answers.

It’s never been a secret that the man who shows up on your fire escape bloodied and bruised on a regular basis has his fair share of secrets that reek of violence and destruction, but hearing it come from his own mouth that merely being associated with him could potentially jeopardize your safety…

It’s the kind of honesty that should send you running in the opposite direction. But then again, there’s a lot about Frank Castle that should have sent you running in the opposite direction a long time ago.

Yet here you are. Not running. Not even telling him to leave. You weren’t able to walk away from him the very first time that you found him bleeding outside of your apartment, and you sure as hell aren’t able to now.

Slowly, you rise from the stool you’ve been sitting on. Once at eye level with him, you take a small, tentative step closer, stopping when your thighs brush against his knees. Usually, the two of you are only ever this close when you’re examining a black eye or busted lip, but right now, there’s no injuries in sight. Just his big, chocolate brown eyes and slightly chapped lips inches from your own.

“You were wrong about one thing,” you murmur, voice breathy. Your hands hover awkwardly for a moment before settling atop his thighs, the touch intimate in a way that’s brand new. “You disappearing wasn’t better for me. It only made me feel like I was losing my mind.”

The air in the room turns thick and heavy at the admission. Borderline asphyxiating. At first, he says nothing, but brings one hand to rest against your hip. His grip is loose enough that you could easily step away if you wanted to, but tight enough for you to know that he hopes you don’t.

“Yeah,” he grunts, voice low. “That makes two of us, then.”

The confession comes as a pleasant surprise that gives you enough courage to ease yourself just between his legs, further into his embrace. His eyes flicker down to your lips for not the first time since stepping foot in this room, this time undeniable and unabashed.

You clear your throat a bit in a failed effort to break the tension. “Well, good news,” you breathe, “I don’t think you’re concussed.”

He chuckles low, his gaze unwavering. “That is good news. I’d hate for you to think I’m not thinking clearly right now.”

And before you even have a chance to wonder if he’s really about to do what you think he’s about to do, he leans forward and closes the small amount of space separating your lips from his.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

Your phone rings at 8:30 that night, just one hour after you get home from your twelve hour shift at the hospital. You’re stepping out of the shower when your screen lights up with an unknown number.

Normally, you ignore or send them straight to voicemail. More than half of the calls that you get these days are robocalls, but this particular number isn’t being flagged as a potential spam risk. In fact, it’s a local number, with a Hell’s Kitchen area code.

And though there’s no way of knowing for sure who it is, you secure your towel around your midsection and answer as if you do.

“I was starting to think you’d lost my number.”

You’re first greeted by silence. Then a familiar, rough chuckle that makes goosebumps bloom on your still damp skin.

“Nah.” There’s another beat of quiet. “Just took me a while to work up the nerve.”

You snort a laugh and take a seat on the edge of your mattress. “The man who gets into gunfights on a regular basis was afraid to call a girl?”

He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t say it made sense.”

You hum in response, trying to fight down the flight of butterflies in your stomach at the mere sound of his voice in your ear. “So, where are you bleeding right now?”

Another low laugh pours through the speaker. “No blood yet tonight,” he sighs. “That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh?” You chirp with a hint of sarcasm. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

More silence. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to force the words out, “I’m calling to ask you something I should’ve asked you earlier.”

You grin despite the small bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach.

“You got any plans tomorrow night?”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

When you hear a knock on your front door at exactly seven o’clock, you’ve already been dressed and pacing your apartment for nearly half an hour.

Even though you already know who is on the other side, you instinctively glance through the peephole. You see a freshly shaven Frank Castle - looking around almost nervously and holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.

Just like ones he had left on your fire escape several months prior.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing your hands over the front of your outfit and hope that it’s good enough for whatever the hell you’re going to be doing tonight. When you had asked what he had in mind, he had laughed, painting a vivid picture in your mind of the light blush that was undoubtedly blooming on the apples of his cheeks.

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” he murmured. “Wasn’t sure I’d even get this far.”

You struggled to see Frank Castle taking you to a five star restaurant, so you picked something somewhat casual but still cute. Comfortable, and weather appropriate, but cute.

At least you hope so. You don’t even remember the last time you had to select an outfit for a date. A date or…whatever this is.

Before you can overthink that, you open the door for him.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Frank’s eyes travel over you slowly, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl like it would if it were literally anyone else. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like he’s trying real hard not to look at you, and that makes you feel warm all over.

“…Hi,” he says at last.

You can’t help but smile at how simple yet nervous the singular word sounds coming from his lips. “Hi.”

His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands as though he’d forgotten he was holding them. “These are for you.” He holds the bouquet out to you in offering. “Figured the others probably needed to be replaced a long time ago.”

You exhale a shaky laugh, thinking of the flowers he had left on your fire escape just days after you first met. You had kept them in a vase in your kitchen for long after they wilted, not wanting to throw them away.

You don’t tell him that, though, or that you intend to keep these for even longer.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

….i had originally planned for this to be longer, but life and my brain had other plans, so i hope it’s still cute as is. sorry if the ending seems rushed. maybe one day i will pick this story back up and write a part two with my original plans for this fic, if people are interested and inspiration strikes!