we are all fools in love

It’s taken long enough. You can make this quick - pull your nerves together long enough for a brief hello, and then back to the warmth and safety of your bed and finally put this all to rest.

You’ve thought about this before. Seeing him, again - out at some local art event, like the one first drew you together - the flicker of something that once felt like anticipation at the thought, settling low in your stomach.

But as it finally happens, that flutter drops into unease.

He’s waiting - a haloed silhouette in the frosted glass. A text, and then a second buzzing in your pocket when you don’t answer immediately. You pass others in the stairwell on the way down. Blurred faces, with your narrowed focus, but you think it’s ones you know.

Friends of your neighbors. The young man from the bar down the street. A striking woman with pale streaks in her hair. A hood drawn up against the drizzle outside, damp drops still lingering on dark fabric.

Your name, you think - something murmured, but you can’t lose your nerve now. A hand raised with a quick wave, a promise to return when you’re done.

An inhaled breath, as your hand lingers on the doorknob. Eyes shutting for a moment, and then you’re stepping out. Letting the door click shut behind you - a familiar, apologetic smile slipping automatically into place.

They turn, and you look at him in the first time in years.

He’s older. He was then, but now you are too - enough to already catch the petulance in the lines of his expression. A reminder of why you had caught his eye, why someone his age, who had seemed so travelled and mature, had been so single.

No one else would have put up with this, and it’s something you wish you could have told your younger self.

The half-hug as you greet him feels awkward. Your arm tucked beneath his, a hand patting his back twice.

“Wow.” It’s huffed out, amused. His own hand lingering too long against your shoulder, “Been a while, huh?”

“Yeah, a year, I think.” You agree. Longer, actually - closer to three, but you don’t say it. Not wanting time to keep its hold on you, not when you’ve worked so hard to move forward.

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Well, uh-, thanks for coming out.” You hedge, in the silence that follows - a hand finally reaching out, palm up and expectant.

There’s reluctance in the way he passes it to you, the slow drag of the golden chain from his jacket - and you’re quick to tuck it safely into your pocket.

Something sentimental. Left on a bedside table in another city - an intermittent string of texts spanning months, circling the topic of returning it to you. Seemingly resistant to ship it back to you, and it’s just dear enough that you had been willing to entertain the messages.

“So, you gonna ask me to come up?” There’s the slow dip of his eyes, skating over you again, “I’m in town through the weekend.”

Letting you know he’s still not seeing anyone. Letting you know what he’s hoping, the same as last time.

“Can’t. I’m sorry, I-” You manage, the words repeating, after too long of a pause, “I’m busy.”

“Really?” There’s a short scoff, the raise of eyebrows, “You’ve got plans, after I came all this way?”

Your eyes dip, settling over his shoulder. Unfocusing, as the words stick on your tongue. Wanting to point out that you would have been happy with an envelope in the mail ages ago.

That this ended, even before that.

“It’s going to take me forever to get back to my hotel in this traffic. You know that, right?”

You should have let the past go, in every sense. Annoyance ripples, but you remember the stairwell inside - clinging to the excuse as you thumb over your shoulder, “Got a couple friends over, it’s an apartment thing.”

“That’s fine, I’ll join you. Might as well wait out the rain.”

There’s an edge to the smile now, the easy-going curve going sharp. The front door pulled open a little too hard, cracking against the frame as he pushes inside.

Swinging shut, after. Leaving you in the rain - the concrete darkened at the edges of the stoop. The cold flick against your cheeks as you inhale another breath, the street outside filled with red brake lights.

You can’t believe you used to hang onto his every word. So eager for his texts, wanting to prove that you were just as smart as clever as he was.

What a joke.

And then to think that you owe him anything-

Your mirthless laugh snaps you back into the present. The irritation finally pushing through the too-polite veneer, getting you to move.

The door yanked open, as you stomp inside - grabbing the nearest sleeve and tugging hard.

They come easily. Your nails dig into the fabric of their hoodie, the momentum taking them to edge of the concrete railing just outside.

“How dare you.” It’s snarled out, “You think that you can just come here-“

But the words die out. It’s not flat, cold eyes you meet but warm, dark ones. A hand you know well lifting - placating.

“I know, sweetheart.” It’s sighed out, “S’lot has happened, and I just wanted…”

“Frank?” Your hand still lingers on his bicep, as if to keep him there.

Everything else swiftly fading. Wondering how Frank Castle had been plucked from your mind, hand-delivered to you after days of silence, “You’re back?”

”Yeah, honey. I’m back.” There’s a small tick of his lips, though there’s still the pull of worry in his brow, “Ran into Wade at Sister Margaret's, said you might be home.”

A hesitance then, the peek of a tongue against his lips, “Didn’t mean to upset you, though. Just thought I heard-”

You huff, softening.

The hand shifting against his arm, as you step between the thighs that open for you as his back presses against the brick post. His palms moving on their own - finding the familiar curve of your waist.

“I didn’t mean you, Frank.” Your eyes bounce between his, watching the way the mark carved between his brows only deepens.

You could never mean him.

Every moment with Frank was something you cherished, something you could never get enough of. Stolen minutes after dark, letting you take what you need. To tell him just what you want.

So, you do.

You let him see how honest you are. The tilt of your head as you inch closer. Your other hand smoothing across his chest until you can feel the thrum of his heart.

The part of his lips, as you glance up at him from beneath the fan of your lashes. Giving him all the time to move away, but an hand only slides along your spine - tugging you forward to close that last inch.

The hazy background around you fades completely the moment his mouth presses against yours. A rough sound in his throat at the way your lips part when he deepens it - his fingers splaying low across the small of your back.

Swallowing the sigh that slips from you, when he licks into your mouth - taking - the flutter in your belly blooming into something molten.

There’s the bang of a door, behind you.

An incredulous “Are you fucking serious?” that pulls you sharply back into reality.

You jerk away, nose scrunching. The returning jolt of anxiety skitters up your spine as you murmur out, “Sorry.”

But his lips only brush yours again - lazy and unhurried. Those warm, dark eyes crinkle at the corners, the hand at your back tugging you closer. Possessive, in the way he shifts to make a barrier.

“Nah, sweetheart.” There’s a flash of white, with Frank’s grin - the pieces falling fully into place.

“This is gonna be fun.”