It started all from a silly argument — something about a comment you made in passing after a long and exhausting day.

That kick-started a screaming match between you two, where you were both too deafened by your own pride to actually hear what the other was trying to say.

Now the apartment is quiet again, but the tension is so thick, it almost feels suffocating.

You can see Dex trying to get back in your orbit, standing just a bit too close for comfort while you get ready to go to sleep.

After applying the last product of your routine, you walk out of your shared bathroom, purposely avoiding looking in his general direction.

He follows you like a lost puppy, but he doesn't talk yet, too lost in his own internal dialogue, just now catching up on the fact that this fight affected you way more than usual. 

He keeps waiting for you to do something: yell at him, hit him, draw blood, both physically and emotionally.

But you do none of those things.

Instead, you pick up your pillow from the meticulously-made bed and start walking to the living room, all of this without saying a word.

The action makes every thought disappear from Dex's head, except for one. 

She's leaving.

Like a moth to a flame, he's right behind you, desperately grasping at the fabric of the t-shirt you're wearing with his trembling hand.

"Wait, where are you going?" 

His voice is shaky, and his eyes are already glassy.

But you're a blank wall, not gracing him with a response while your face remains unmoving, looking like one of those Greek statues. With much more force than necessary, you let your pillow drop on the couch.

"Babe, please, I- Don't leave me," he begs, tears now spilling from his pretty eyes, staining his cheeks. 

You've been here times and times before, and you expected him to react this way, so you don't falter.

When Dex sees that his desperate plead does nothing to make you stop, he drops on his knees and wraps his arms around your legs.

"Please, baby, I'll do better, I swear," he says, burying his face in your lap. "Just don't leave me." 

Your arms remain planted at your sides, not making a move to touch or console him. Instead, you try to take a step back, but it's no use. His grip just tightens, and more sobs spill out of his trembling lips.

"I can't sleep alone, you know that." 

You roll your eyes, and when you do finally touch him, it's only to free yourself from his grip.

When you finally manage to do so, you drop on the couch, carefully angling your back to avoid looking at him.

You don't know exactly what you expected him to do — maybe to keep crying and begging all night — but not to lay his massive body on top of yours.

Dex's frame weights uncomfortably on you, but not painfully. You can feel him all around you: his form, his warmth, his scent.

His lips immediately find your face, pampering it with damp kisses, his tears soaking your cheek as well.

"I can't live without you. I need you so bad," he hiccups. "Please, tell me I'm still yours." 

It takes you so much strength to resist giving in, but it's all in vain as he keeps mumbling pathetic sweet nothings against your skin, making you feel guilty for choosing to punish him this way.

A tired sigh escapes your lips, and you cave.

"I'm not going to leave you, Dex." 

Your words should have been enough to calm him down, but when you try to move from his grip, and finally go to sleep — in your own bed, and not this uncomfortable couch — he doesn't let you, only snuggling his face deeper in the crook of your neck.

"Stay. Please." 

And you do, because despite everything, you seem unable to do otherwise.

A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!

All the love, Anna ♡

You threaded your fingers through Dex’s dirty blond hair. His warm breath brushed softly across your skin.

These were the moments you lived for—lying in bed with Dex, both of you in nothing but your underwear, listening to the secret words he murmured against your skin.

You knew who the man gently kissing you really was. Even if he had left that life behind for your sake, his hands were still stained with blood. Every time he touched you, you could almost feel that blood dripping onto your own skin.

“Baby,” you said gently, “we need to get up.”

Dex grumbled and pulled you closer. A laugh slipped from your lips as you wrapped your arms around him.

“We’ve got things to do, darling.”

Dex sat up immediately. The disappointment on his face was impossible to miss. You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips before slipping free from his arms and climbing out of bed.

“Stay.”

“As much as I’d love to, I can’t. You know that, Dexy.”

Dex let out an irritated sigh and sat up. When he had agreed to run away with you and start a completely new life in another country, he had believed it meant he’d earned the right to hold you forever.

“I have sculptures to finish. If the orders are late, you know how angry the Germans get.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, fucking Germans. I can kill them al for you.”

You raised a finger to your lips. “Shh. Don’t be racist.”

Dex grinned and flopped back onto the pillow while you put one of your favorite records on the turntable and continued getting ready.

Your room was filled with sculptures you had made. Dex loved displaying your work, and he loved watching you create it. Just as you had rebuilt him from the ground up, watching those magical hands shape flawless works of art stirred feelings in him he could never put into words.

By the time you had nearly finished getting ready, Dex finally got out of bed. Wrapping his arms around you from behind, he held you as you swayed to the rhythm of the record.

“If you ever leave me,” he whispered into your ear, “I’ll kill myself.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m never going to leave you, Dex. Stop talking.”

Dex was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke again, his voice so soft it sounded like he was reassuring—or confessing—to himself more than to you.

“What if you die? What if I can’t protect you?”

“Dex, you watch me twenty-four hours a day.”

“What if it’s something I can’t stop?”

You rolled your eyes again and turned to face him.

“I see you’re in a cheerful mood this morning.”

He gave a faint smile, but the worry in his eyes never faded. You cupped his face in your hands. He placed his own hand over yours, gently brushing the ring on your ring finger with his thumb.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Closing his eyes, he whispered,

Masterlist

Notes: i hope u enjoy it! Any feedback is appreciated. If there are any mistakes or inaccuracies inform me. Inbox is open for requests or just to chat.

—————————————————————

She was so incredibly cold; withering in her comfortable bed where it was supposed to be warm and cozy. 

Although she was cold and her body shivered, sweat gathered all over her skin. A headache kept on persisting to survive, not allowing her a minute of rest. 

A wet cough erupted from her cracked lips and her body began to ache more. 

The sun shining through the window hurt her eyes, adding to the discomfort. 

With a grumble y/n drew up the blanket over her head and hid herself from the rising day. 

“Fuck me,” a hoarse murmur came out of her. 

The phone kept buzzing and vibrating somewhere in bed, her throat stung like hell, and she could barely take a breath; and she was just so tired, y/n thought. 

So incredibly weighed down by the sickness—by a common cold. 

“Fuck me.”

The phone kept buzzing every few minutes or maybe it didn’t? Maybe she was deliriously out of it all, who gives a shit at this point?

With a heavy sigh y/n tried to fall into a deep sleep but only managed to close her eyes and pretend to sleep. 

Fifteen minutes passed. 

Maybe thirty minutes?

Her tired eyes and mind kept on conjuring interesting images: some sort of fiery field, a farmers market, Dex in clothes he would never wear. 

High fever, y/n though. She snuggled deeper into her blanket and pillows, relaxing into its soft embrace—

At first she did not hear anything, but her body stiffened; an off putting feeling coursed through her body. Only after a few minutes her body caught up to the soud—banging. 

What and where eluded her still. But it was persistent… and followed by muffled sounds. 

The next set of bangs was more aggressive, it made y/n sit in her bed. Hair wild and sticking to her damp skin, she had to brush it off of her face—the banging continued. 

Her eyes darted all over the bedroom, to the closet door, to the curtained windows, she even leaned down to look under the bed. 

Y/n neared the conclusion it must be coming from outside of the bedroom—probably the front door. 

“Ugh,” y/n flopped back into the bed and hoped it would go away… but maybe Mrs. Smith is in need of help or Sienna’s daughter?

“Fuck me.”

Y/n moved around on the bed struggling to lift herself up, eventually managing to untangle herself from the blanket and the pillows. 

Slowly and very painful, hands leaning for support on walls and furniture, y/n managed to near the door. 

And by then the banging has stopped; she lingered for a few moments, then looked through the peephole—

Dex. 

Oh. 

He looked… pale and sweaty, and frantic, and scared, and angry. What the hell happened, she thought. Quickly undoing the locks Dex installed—he kept saying that it is easy to break in, you need better locks—she swung the door open and both of their frantic eyes met. 

“What’s wrong,” y/n began to say, voice gravely and breathy. 

While at the same time Dex’s raised voice reached her ears, “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Wha?”

“Why haven’t you been answering me?”

“Huh?” this was very confusing for her, everything was so overwhelming. With the back of her hand y/n wiped her nose, “I didn’t hear you calling.”

His eyes lingered over her form, the anger usually made him not as perceptive of the outside world, but now he noticed—the runny nose, the hard breathing, the hoarseness in her voice. She was sick, and he came to the worst conclusion imaginable—y/n was fucking some other man. 

Anger and fear always made him experience tunnel vision. Dex came here to confront his lover, maybe beat the living shit out of a guy, but all he found was his lovely girlfriend pale and wobbly on her feet. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered and extended his palm to her waist. 

“You’ll get sick,” y/n tried to reason with Dex. With his hand gently wrapping around her waist, Dex stepped into the apartment and locked the door. Quickly he took off his shoes and straightened to look at her. 

“When did you get sick, hmh?” he was gentle with her now, all the worry and doubt left in the hallway. Dex’s hand gently enveloped her waist, bringing y/n into his chest. 

“You’re gonna get sick,” mumbled y/n into his clothed chest. 

“I don’t care,” his other hand came up to caress her hair. 

She was sweaty and sticky, the smell was quite awful, too, Dex thought. If it were anyone else, he would probably ignore them or tell them to fuck off. But this was not just anyone, he was holding the world in his arms—his North Star. 

He would bear this mess, Dex would not shun her out just because y/n was unfortunate enough to get sick. 

With his cheek pressed against the top of her hair Dex spoke, voice soft and tone warm, “You should have called, sweetheart. How long has this been going on, hmh?”

Dex felt her shrug. “A day or two.”

He knew exactly for how long, because after she finished work Friday evening, y/n did not contact him. Dex thought she was fucking some other guy, but the reality was his precious star was sick. 

He forgave her for Friday, Dex knows she likes to take long baths and read for hours on end. Or maybe she had a migraine or a headache. One evening was not the end of his world. 

The app on his phone informed him that y/n was in her apartment—so, Friday night Dex worried but did not come to any solid conclusions. 

But he kept checking the app every ten minutes. 

On Saturday, he did not receive any calls or texts from her. His pulse picked up, thoughts darkened, and the picture frames that held her pictures were taken off of the walls. Not shattered or broken just yet, Dex tried not to overreact. At the moment, he just couldn’t look at her face. 

But her location did not change; y/n was still at her apartment. So, Dex waited—but not as patiently as the previous evening. 

Early Sunday morning he texted her first:

Hey, are you okay? I love you, i can help with whatever :)

No answer. Usually, y/n was glued to her phone; a reply would reach him in minutes, even when she was working or reading. 

After an hour there was still no reply. 

Dex tried again:

Are you home? Can I come over, im worried about you. 

Still nothing. 

He texted some more and then began to call her. Dex must’ve called y/n ten times before deciding to just come over. 

His mind was a strange thing, Dex himself did not even understand it fully. His North Star was not answering him, and his only conclusion was she must be with another man. He was sick, Dex knew it, but not once did he think that maybe y/n was in trouble or unwell, or even laying dead in her apartment. 

Tunnel vision did not allow him that; she was fucking another man, and that was final. And she was doing so in the same bed that the two of them made love, the thought sickened him even more—angered him. 

They never fucked, that was a conversation Dex initiated. He wanted to love her and dote on her—he always wanted to make love to her. Even when she misbehaved and he had to remind her of how to be his good girl. Even when their lovemaking sessions were rough and Dex used her body to pleasure himself—it was still love making, because he loved her, and y/n loved Dex. 

But now all of it melted away, as soon her body was enveloped in his, Dex forgot the imaginary man and the frustrations eased out of his body. 

“You need to shower, it will make you feel better, yeah?” Dex encouraged her, he could feel her face shaking against his chest. 

Dex’s arms tightened around y/n. “I’ll comb your hair and make you something to eat—and you will go take a shower.”

This time it wasn’t a suggestion but rather a demand. He couldn’t allow himself not to take care of her—sweaty and unclean, a shower will help her feel better. It would rinse off all of the perspiration, the warm water would ease her muscles. 

Her head shook again. 

“It’s not up for debate,” said Dex and lifted her up, one hand under her knees the other around her back, and carried her to the bathroom. 

Carefully setting her down on the warm tiles, Dex rummaged through the drawers looking for the hairbrush. 

“You should have called me or texted, I would have come over,” he said softly. 

Y/n turned to him, body now leaning against the tiled wall. 

“Did I not text you?” y/n asked quizzically, voice hoarse. 

Y/n sounded exactly the same after the first time he fucked her throat; Dex smirked at the memory. That was a good day, he thinks, and quickly is brought back to reality after his eyes lay upon the brush. 

Turning around to face her Dex motions for her to turn her back to him—her hair. 

“No, you didn’t,” his voice was tight, he was displeased she did not inform him but could he really blame her? Maybe—just a little. 

His fingers worked through her hair, untangling the bigger knots and only then beginning to brush it. 

“I thought I did,” Dex heard her mumble. 

“It’s okay, now. I was just worried.”

“You could have come over as soon as you began to feel that something is wrong,” y/n offered gently. 

“I didn't want to intrude on you or invade your space, sweetheart,” he leaned into her and placed a soft kiss on the back of her neck. She was sticky and salty, Dex did not mind it. 

Of course, that was a lie. He wanted to force himself into her space all day everyday. She was an individualist, y/n enjoyed spending time alone, but god Dex hated that trait of hers. All he wanted to do was be with her day and night, touch her constantly, know every minute detail about her day and plans. And she… she was closed off, y/n would inform him of going out and such, but never in much detail. 

Y/n thought that her life was her own and Dex’s belonged to him. But the reality was, her life was Dex’s. He often followed her around, nothing exciting—walks in parks, reading a book on a bench, thrift shopping. Sometimes he would let her go alone, sometimes Dex did not want to spend an hour outside a bookshop waiting for his North Star to explore all of it and still not buy anything. 

“You never intrude, baby,” she tried to sound soft but a cough interrupted her. He did not mind—he was a man not a fucking pussy, he served in the military, Dex has seen more gore in his life than most—a wet cough erupting form the chapped lips he wanted to kiss was no problem at all. 

“Okay,” Dex said and put the hairbrush on the counter, his other hand running through her oily hair—his large palm pressing into the back of her head and slowly moving downwards caressing her hair. 

“Take a shower, I’ll make you something to eat.”

He planted one last kiss on her neck and left the bathroom. 

Her apartment wasn’t bigger than his, although it had more personal items and furniture, it was more colourful than Dex’s. He had a couple of photos hanging on the walls—mostly of his North Star, a few pictures of the both of them, and from his days at the hotline. 

The kitchen was a mess, the living room was a mess—Dex glanced into the bedroom, it, too, was a mess. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. 

Dex started with the kitchen, cleaned it up and washed the dishes, he was quick. He never liked dirty places or messes, especially where one eats. But he would forgive her this time, y/n was sick. Quickly moving around the kitchen he found a pot and heated some water. 

Y/n taught him how to make broth—quick, easy, and delicious. Dex put a couple of cubes of vegetable bouillon, chopped some vegetables he found in her fridge and left the pot to simmer. 

He bought the same bouillon she used, truth be told his apartment held many things she used and liked—the sauces, the bouillon, the chocolates she enjoyed and the chips she swore she would die for. 

Her personal items littered his bathroom—it was an organised mess, she told him—but every time she would leave his place, Dex would pack all of it into the spacious makeup bag he bought her.

Her living room was just a mess, no organisation. He cleaned it up, the wrappers and the empty cups. This, he could not forgive her, this mess was made days before y/n fell sick. 

Then Dex’s attention was drawn to the bedroom—the shower was still running, he still had time. His lingering gaze was set on the bed, sheets crumpled and stained with sweat. To Dex, it looked like a mess after sex, the thought irked him, and he began to remove the dirty sheets. 

The phone in her bed caught his attention. It was so close to her, yet she did not text or answer him. Quickly snatching it he unlocked it—passcode the year they met—he did not mean to snoop, it was instinctual for him now. He had done it so many times with her permission and without it, with her knowing and without her knowing. 

The phone unlocked and the first thing he saw was their messages, and the usent message y/n typed out:

Geting sick, idont think we can hang iut this wknd :,((

His heart ached for her, his poor North Star, so tired she couldn’t even hit send. He will apologise to her in his own way, Dex thinks. After she is well and healthy, he will apologise for something y/n doesn’t even have a clue about. A nice dinner date, a velvety jewellery box, and y/n as a dessert. Yes, he’ll need to apologise to her on his knees, as is appropriate. 

Dex continued with the task, finding the clean sheet in her closet, he made quick work of it—Dex tried but he could never understand why y/n needed this many pillows.

He asked once, y/n said for snuggling, Dex replied you have me, she laughed yeah, but when you're out being FBI Benjamin Poindexter I snuggle the pillows. He did not understand the appeal. 

The water stopped running and he was still three pillowcases away from completing the task. Her skincare is detailed, Dex thought, he still had time. And by the time she emerged from the bathroom, the apartment was cleaned up and aired out. Of course, it did not meet Dex’s expectations but he did the best with the time he had. 

“Nooo,” y/n whined, “you did not need to do any of this.”

Her hands motioned to the apartment and a breathy cough caught her off guard. Dex stepped up to her, hand gently brushing her back. With little force he began to manoeuvre her towards the kitchen table. 

“You’ll get sick,” she coughed into the elbow. 

“I won’t,” Dex murmured and drew out a chair for her. “Sit.”

Y/n did as told; Dex liked when she listened, it made things easier for him—easier to control the scene. 

“Made broth, just the way you like,” Dex informed y/n while ladling the soup into a small colourful bowl. “How do you feel, sweetheart?”

Y/n cleared her throat and nodded, “Better.”

“Good.”

Dex gently placed the bowl and a spoon in front of her, and went back to pour himself some.

“It’s hot,” he reminded her, y/n hummed and leaned back into the backrest of the chair. 

“What were you so worried about?” her hoarse voice pierced the comfortable silence. 

“Hmh?”

“You looked frantic and scared at the door, what happened?”

Dex set the bowl on the table and sat in front of y/n. The spoon in his hand began to swirl the contents of the bowl, eyes gazed upon it. 

Dex did not want to tell her the truth, that he thought that y/n would stoop so low as to cheat rather than talk it out with Dex.  

“I was just… worried about you,” Dex’s gaze finally meets hers—red and watery. “I should get you some medicine, what do you have at home?”

“Umm…,” she scratched her chin, “I’m not sure, you can check, it’s—” y/n turned and pointed to one of the cabinets. 

Dex stood up and aimed for it. He took out the plastic box and rummaged through it—he did not find anything useful. Old cough syrup, empty bottle of Advil, and gauze. 

“Didn’t I tell you to buy more stuff for your emergency kit?”

“Did you?” y/n asks him shyly.

“I did. You have nothing, I’ll need to go to the pharmacy,” he pushed the box away from himself—as if it offended him—leaving it on the kitchen counter and returned to the table. “I’ll go after we eat,” Dex informed her. 

“Thank you,” a small whisper left her lips. She began to swirl the spoon in her soup, blowing on it to cool it. 

“Where do you think you caught it?” Dex asks casually, but it wasn’t. He wanted to know if she went out somewhere or met someone he wasn’t aware of. 

“Probably work,” she sighed and began to blow on the spoonful of soup, “Dan brought in a kid on Monday. You know, kids are like vaults full of bacteria and shit…”

“Mhm… Dan? He’s the one that drops you off after work sometimes?”

She shook her head and took a spoonful of the soup, then hummed, “Oh, this is delicious, thank you, Ben.” 

The smile on her face almost made him forget what she just negated—almost. 

Dan… if not the old grandpa, with a wife of forty years, who occasionally gave her rides home, who the fuck was he?

“He’s a new guy. Before, we called Daniel Dan, now we call him just Daniel, and the new guy Dan—because that’s his full name,” she explained slowly, in between taking sips of the broth. 

“Ah,” he nodded, “is he nice? Dan, I mean. 

He saw y/n shrug. “I don’t know, we don’t really work together, most of my projects are with Daniel. But the kid seemed polite, so at least he can teach the kid some manners.”

Dex hummed in agreement. 

Dan, a new player on the field. He’ll need to look into him. It irked Dex that she didn’t tell him sooner—or maybe it was for the best, he would have come here with the intention to kill Dan. 

They ate in comfortable silence. Y/n felt better, a shower can do wonders for body and mind, she thought. Having Dex here also uplifted her spirits; he cleaned up her apartment, he cocked for her—he came in to check on her. It felt nice to be loved like this, Dex always took care of her. He would always plan things in advance, which she liked, he would always take care of the details and such. Y/n never had to worry much while being in a relationship with Dex. He always took good care of her. 

And once again, he cleaned the dishes and made sure the kitchen was clean. 

Dex instructed y/n to go rest in the bed while he went out to buy medication for her; she obliged. Her body was still very much in pain, her mind and eyes tired. He kissed her forehead goodbye, in return earning another you’ll get sick that he did not pay much attention to, and made his way towards the door. 

********************************************

The next time y/n woke up it was much darker outside—the sun had set already—and a firm and warm body was pressed against her back. 

She smiled to herself and leaned into his embrace; one of his hands was under a pillow and the other atop her hip. His hot breath hit the back of her neck and, usually, that would bother her but she did not mind it when it was Dex. 

Her eyes fluttered open and were met by a beautiful bouquet of tulips on the windowsill. 

You learned that before medical school, before emergency rotations and back-alley sutures that made men in masks limp to you and bleed all over your tile at 3 AM. You learned it at eleven, crouched near an alley behind your old apartment, palm full of deli turkey your mother told you was for lunch, watching a stray with a torn ear bare his teeth at every adult who tried to corner him. Animal control had come with poles. A neighbor had come with a towel. Your mother came with her worried mouth pressed thin and her hands hovering near your shoulders, ready to snatch you back if the dog lunged. The dog had lunged at everyone except you. He had stared at you with yellow-brown eyes, ribs moving under filthy fur, every part of him made of pain and suspicion, and he had taken the turkey from your hand so gently that you cried on the spot. Full ugly tears, snot and all, as if tenderness from a ruined thing was the saddest miracle in the world.

Benjamin Poindexter reminds you of that dog every time he appears at your door.

Which is insane, clinically. Dex is a man. Dex is a killer. Dex is precise, lethal, too calm in ways that make the hairs on the back of your neck lift even when he is sitting on your exam stool with his shirt off and three cracked ribs under your palm. Dex looked at you with blood in his teeth and asked if you keep the good suture scissors in the second drawer or if you hide them from your 'less charming clients,' and he smiled when you stared at him too long. He is six feet of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms, and yet the first thing your mind gives you when you think of Dex is that stray dog taking turkey from your fingers.

That knock at this time is unexpected. Matt.

Matt knocks like a man who hates needing help. Two firm taps, a pause, one more. Spiderman kncoks like he's not allowed to come in. Jessica once kicked the door and yelled your name until you opened. Dex, on his own, never knocks at all. He appears. He waits. Sometimes he bleeds on the mat. Sometimes he makes a small, polite comment about your hallway light going out.

You are across the room before the kettle finishes screaming. Your clinic is technically a closed flower shop with a fake lease and a drain installed under the center table, which makes you look deranged. Until someone comes in with a knife wound and then everyone suddenly appreciates plumbing. The place smells like antiseptic, old brick damp from rain, black tea, and the faint copper ghost that never fully leaves, because blood is part of everything. You unlock the deadbolt, undo the chain, tug the door open, and Matt Murdock nearly falls into you with Bullseye hanging off him like a corpse.

For one bright, stupid second, all your thoughts empty out into his name.

Dex.

His face is a mess. Blood has dried under one nostril and smeared across his mouth in a dark shine. His lower lip is split. One eye is swollen enough that it changes his whole expression, turning him younger in the ugliest way, all that sharpness buried under bruising and exhaustion. His suit is torn at the side, tactical fabric shredded into strips. When Matt adjusts his grip, Dex makes a sound so small you feel it under your bones.

Matt's mouth tightens. Blood mats his dark hair near his temple. Only consolation is that he looks a little better than Dex. "He needs help."

You stare at Dex. Dex stares back, or tries to. His good eye drags over your face with the slow, stunned relief of a man who expected darkness and got a porch light. The part of you with a medical license starts counting injuries in a list that stacks too fast. Facial trauma. Rib involvement. Possible abdominal injury. Scalp laceration. Possible pneumothorax. The part of you that has made the mistake of caring about him too much, looks at his lashes stuck together with rain and blood and wants to put his head in your lap.

With a gentleness reserved for skittish animals, you reach for his jaw, two fingers under his chin to angle his face toward the light. "Dex, can you hear me?"

Blood shines over his teeth, as his mouth twitches. "Hey, Doc."

Matt shifts him higher with a grunt, muscles in his forearms cording from the effort. Dex makes another small sound, angrier this time, as if the pain is just now surfacing. "He took the worst of it. I did what I could, but he kept telling me to leave him."

"Balanced the scales," Dex mumbles, head tipping back against Matt's shoulder. Rainwater slides from his hair down the side of his neck. "You had a city to save."

"Ma — you should come in." You catch yourself at the last second. It rises right up, soft from habit, and catches at the back of your teeth as Dex's good eye opens again.

He smiles at you through the blood. Barely. A broken curve of recognition, jealous even while half-dead, which is so Dex that something in you aches. "I know who he is, doc. You can call him Matt."

You close your eyes, breathe through your nose once, a fond sigh, which also is deeply annoying. "Of course you do."

Dex's smile widens enough to make the split in his lip bleed again. "Smart boy."

No. Nope.

"Table. Keep his neck aligned." You tell Matt, stepping back and sweeping one arm toward the center of the room. "If either of you tracked glass in here, I'm making you both sweep before sunrise." You add, not wanting to sound too soft.

Matt obeys with a silence that says he has learned, through years of being injured in your presence, that arguing only rises blood pressure. Dex tries to help. That is the horrible part. His fingers grip the edge of the exam table once Matt lowers him, knuckles white, body shaking with the effort of being useful. His legs drag a fraction of a second behind the rest of him. Your mind sees it, circles it, hates it. You pull trauma shears from the tray and cut through what remains of the suit before any panic can bloom large enough to slow your hands.

"Eyes on me," you tell Dex, softer than you mean to. "You do exactly what I say for the next hour. That's the deal."

His lashes flutter, and his ruined mouth quirks. "I'm always good for you."

Matt turns his head slightly, lips tugging on a frown half formed. 

You feel it. Dex feels it too. They are both bleeding and somehow still measuring each other. Matt's face gives almost nothing away, but you have known him long enough to read the pauses, even the slight angle of his chin. He hears Dex's pulse change around you. He hears your answer. He hears the rotten little truth of it, warm and embarrassing under all the antiseptic.

You press two fingers to Dex's carotid and pretend the pulse under your skin is purely clinical. "That depends on your definition of good."

"Flexible," Dex breathes.

"Try alive."

"That's less flexible."

When you shoot him a look, he settles. It happens so fast Matt's brow pulls in, and despite the blood running down the side of his own face, despite the exhaustion in every line of him, you see him file it away. Dex does that for you. Dex, who would rather spit teeth than accept help from almost anyone, quiets under your hand like you found a switch under his skin.

You hate how much that means to you.

The shears bite up the side of Dex's suit. Rain-wet fabric peels away from him, exposing bruises already darkening over his ribs, long shallow cuts crossing his abdomen, a deeper gash near his left flank with slow, steady bleeding. You talk while you work, partly for him, partly for Matt, mostly for your own sanity. "Breath sounds normal. No deep lacerations. Two tiny blessings. Dex, if you lie about pain severity, I will find out and I will be extremely annoying about it."

His good eye trails over your face. "You already are."

"Funny. You get one joke per liter of blood loss."

Matt huffs through his nose, almost a laugh, then winces. You point at the chair by the wall without looking up. "Sit."

"I can take care of myself."

The room goes quiet enough for the kettle to click off in the corner.

You turn your head slowly, gloved fingers still pressed to Dex's side. Matt is standing near the exam table, one shoulder lower than the other, blood sliding past his ear, jaw set in that martyr shape you have wanted to smack off his face for years. "Sit down, Matthew."

Dex makes a low sound, a grunt, or an attemp at it. "Matthew."

Matt's eyes go over Dex, jaw clenching and unclenching. "This is a bad time."

"For you, maybe," Dex says, and then coughs hard enough that the joke breaks.

You lean over him fast, one hand at his shoulder, the other bracing his ribs. "Small breaths. Look at me." His eye finds yours again, frantic for a second. He would kill anyone else for witnessing this, but not now. Your voice drops even further. "That's it. You can hate me after."

He breathes the way you tell him to. Obedient.

When Matt sits, some ridiculous, childish part of you wants to clap. Another part wants to cry. You do neither, since your hands are full of a man who has decided your voice is a leash he can tolerate.

The first twenty minutes disappear into work. Blood pressure readings, pupils, pulses, lung sounds again, neuro checks, wound depth, rib stability. You listen to Dex's chest and feel him try to keep still under the stethoscope, sweat shining at his hairline while his fingers curl over the table edge. When you clean his lip, he keeps his eyes on you as if the room might vanish if he looks away. When you probe near the gash at his side, his breathing goes jagged, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of jerking away.

"Hey." You catch his face in your hand before he can sink his teeth deeper. "Open."

He opens his mouth, shaking while he does it. 

You can feel Matt's head turn again. You ignore it, cheeks heating as you slide gauze between Dex's teeth to keep him from chewing himself bloody. "Better. Bite this if you need to. No hero teeth."

Dex's gaze moves over you, half-lidded, feverish, words coming out mumbled over the piece of gauze. "Do you treat all your patients like dogs?"

You secure a dressing against his side and let the pressure hold under your palm. "Only my favourite strays."

His eye softens like he cannot control himself. It is small. A tiny failure of the mask. A starved thing hearing a bowl set down.

Matt hears that too. You can tell from his silence, from the careful stillness in his chair. When you finish with Dex, you cross the room with a suture kit for the cut at his temple. Matt turns his face towards you before your knees touch the edge of the chair. He smells like rain, blood, city smoke, and that faint soap he uses which you have always found unfairly comforting. You have stitched Matt under worse circumstances. You have dug glass out of his shoulder while he spit blood into your sink. You have fed him soup with one hand while keeping pressure on his dressing with another. That comfort is old. It sits between you now.

Dex watches it like it is a blade aimed at him.

You dab antiseptic at Matt's temple. "This is shallow. You are lucky."

Matt's mouth curves in that tired, self-punishing way. "People keep telling me that."

"Maybe try believing them once in a while."

Ignoring that, he dips his chin towards Dex. "How bad is he?"

You glance back at Dex. He has his head turned toward the ceiling now, but his eye is still angled in your direction. Watching. Always listening. "Bad enough that moving him tonight would be stupid. He's stable enough. But I need imaging he will never agree to. Possible rib fractures, soft tissue trauma, no obvious neuro deficit from what I can assess here, but I want repeat checks every hour. He needs observation."

"He wanted me to leave him," Matt says quietly, like his voice won't carry in the small room. 

Dex speaks from the table, voice rough around the gauze and dried blood. "You should've. Still think you should."

You thread the needle through Matt's skin with more force than strictly needed, anger showing up in a different place. Matt says nothing, but his mouth pinches.

"No one dies in my clinic unless I say so," you call over your shoulder.

Dex exhales, a soft sigh followed by a start of a complaint. "You really —"

"Please lie down and stop talking."

Matt's hand closes around your wrist after you finish the last stitch. He does it carefully, fingers warm, thumb pressing once against your radius as if he is asking permission through touch. Comfort. Familiar, heavy with years of people trying to survive horrible nights. "Fisk is still moving," he says. "Karen..." His voice thins for half a breath. "Karen may kill him if I bring him anywhere near her."

Dex smiles at the ceiling. "Smart woman."

You look from Matt to Dex, then down at the blood-speckled gauze piled near your knee. "You want to leave him here."

"I think he is safer here than anywhere else tonight." Matt's mouth tightens, next words dragging through his teeth. "I think everyone else is safer too."

Your laugh comes out dry and humorless. "So I get custody of the homicidal puppy while you go deal with the rest of the apocalypse."

Dex turns his head toward you. Even wrecked, even pale, even with gauze stuffed in his mouth and bruises swallowing half his face, the look he gives you has teeth in it. Offended by the word puppy. Pleased by the word custody. Matt catches every ugly shade of it.

"He listens to you," Matt says.

"He has limited hobbies."

Dex murmurs, "You."

The word drops into the room with a wet little thud. One syllable dragged over broken lips, and still it finds some secret place under your ribs and presses. You hate him a little for that. You hate Matt a little for hearing it. You hate yourself most of all for wanting to go back to the table and touch Dex's hair until his eyes close.

Matt rises slowly. You stand with him, suddenly aware of how small the clinic is with three people and so many things no one should say. He reaches for the cowl, then stops. "Call me if he gets worse. If he loses consciousness, if he starts vomiting, if he says anything about numbness or weakness."

"I went to med school, Matt."

His mouth tilts, a small smile, the first real one from him tonight. 

You can feel Dex watching you, clear enough to hurt. Pain pulls his face tight, yet jealousy sits in him like a second pulse, stubborn and alive. He has killed for balance tonight. He has decided dying would be neat, fair. Still, your hand on Matt's wrist bothers him. Your voice saying Matt's name bothers him. The fact that you can tease the Devil of Hell's Kitchen into sitting down while Dex lies cut open on your table bothers him so much that he has dragged himself back from the edge purely to be petty about it.

Trying to ignore him, you walk Matt to the door and keep your voice low. "You owe me."

"I do."

"No, you really do. This is beyond the usual owe me. This is pay my fake flower shop's electric bill for six months owe me."

His hand finds the doorframe. "Send the amount."

You blink at him, at his audacity. "I was making a point."

"I heard the point." His face softens toward yours, bruised and tired, but warmth nonetheless. "Thank you."

You almost touch his arm. You stop yourself, which is silly, since Matt would sense the hesitation anyway and Dex would read the shape of it from across the room. "Go. Try to keep your skull intact."

Before the door closes, Matt turns his head toward Dex. "If you hurt her, I will hear it."

Dex laughs once, and the sound turns into a wince. "If I hurt her, you can have what's left."

The clinic holds the echo of Matt's footsteps after he leaves. Rain ticks against the front window. Dex's breath is slow but uneven, the gauze in his mouth damp with blood and spit. You stand with your hand on the lock and try to make sense of this situation. A murderer on your table. A city outside eating itself alive. A man who wants to die looking at you like he would crawl back through hell if you asked him to stay.

You lock the door.

Dex watches the motion, tracking you. "You're awfully close."

You cross to the sink and strip off your gloves. The snap of latex feels too loud. "You were actively bleeding out fifteen minutes ago. Pick a smarter topic."

"Answer."

Water runs pink down the drain. Your hands shake only after the gloves are off. "Matt and I have history."

Dex's jaw works around the gauze. "So do we."

"You show up here, bleed on my furniture, say alarming things, refuse hospital transfer, and once asked if I had a membership program after your fifth visit." You shut the water off and look at him. His face makes you angry. But only a little. That hungry stare from a man who has no right to demand any part of you after deciding twenty minutes ago that death sounded fine. Yet under it is the dog with the torn ear. The animal watching every hand, every doorway, every flick of attention, trying to figure out who belongs to him, who might leave, who might choose some other dog with a clean fur.

You walk back to the table and take the gauze gently from his mouth. "You are exhausting."

Dex's throat move with effort, swallowing, saliva wetting his mouth. "Do you look at him like this?"

The question is quieter than the others. Worse. It has no blade in it. Only a man lying open under fluorescent light, too hurt to hide the wound he actually cares about.

Your fingers hover near his cheek. You let them settle at his jaw, light enough that he can turn away if he wants. He does no such thing. He leans into the touch so fast it ruins you.

"Dex."

His lashes lower, tickling your palm when he seeks the warmth. 

"I am going to clean you up, give you fluids, keep you awake for neuro checks, and cuff you to the bed in the back room so you avoid doing some noble-suicidal assassin bullshit the second I blink." Your thumb moves once along the unmarred edge of his jaw. His skin is cold. "After that, you can interrogate me about Matt Murdock until I regret saving your life."

A sad smile curves his lips. "You already regret it."

"No." The word comes out so soft. "I really, really do not."

The clinic's back room used to serve as a supply closet, then you stopped having supplies. Now it holds a narrow bed bolted to the wall, clean sheets, a cabinet of emergency meds, and a chain you bought after a masked idiot with a concussion tried to wander into traffic with three fresh staples in his scalp. 

Dex sees the cuff and laughs until pain takes the laugh away from him. You roll your eyes while helping him shift down onto the mattress, every inch a negotiation with his battered ribs.

"You chain all your favourite patients?" He asks once his uninjured ankle is secured with a padded restraint and the chain runs through the bedframe.

You tug the blanket over his waist. "Only the flight risks."

"Matt ever get the chain?"

Your hands pause, which already gives him a lot without meaning to. 

Dex smiles without opening his eyes. "Interesting."

You secure the IV line, check the dressing at his side, and sit on the small chair beside the bed with your back against the cabinet. "Go to sleep, Dex."

"Can't."

"Then lie still and pretend. You're talented."

His fingers slide over the edge of the mattress until they find your sleeve. He grips the soft cotton near your wrist, clumsy but careful. He has enough strength left to hurt you if he wanted. He holds the fabric instead.

You let him.

Near dawn, after the third neuro check, after he has told you the year, the president, your clinic address, and the exact number of tiles in the ceiling section above him like an asshole, his voice comes out thin and drugged by exhaustion rather than meds. "I did it."

You sit up straighter. Hearing him talk through pain is something you don't want to go through, but have to. "Did what?"

"Balanced it. Vanessa for Foggy."

A chill moves through you so slowly it feels like a hand closing around your heart. Foggy. Matt's grief. Karen's rage. Dex's worst crime. The city's endless appetite for payment. You look at him and see, for one horrible second, a man lying at the bottom of a ledger with a red line drawn under his own name. "And now?" 

Dex's fingers tighten in your sleeve, holding you closer. "Now I'm tired."

You reach up and press your hand over his. He looks at the place where your skin covers his knuckles. His expression is too human for the man the papers called Bullseye, and you hate every person who helped turn him into a weapon, including Dex himself. He leans toward the comfort like he never learned how to ask.

"Then be tired here," you whisper. "I can handle tired."

He studies you for a long moment. "Can you handle me?"

You should say something clinical. Something careful. Something with the kind of boundaries you teach medical students when they come through your legitimate daytime job, wide-eyed and terrified of liability. But, you tell the truth. "I keep opening the door, don't I?"

Dex's eye closes. His fingers stay wrapped in your sleeve until sleep finally drags him under.

By late morning, the rain has stopped. The city has that scrubbed-clean look it gets after a night of lying through its teeth. Pale sunlight presses through the frosted glass in the back room, turning the sheets gold where Dex's hand rests on top of them. You wake in the chair with your neck bent at an angle that will punish you for days, hair coming loose from its clip. For one muzzy second, you forget the night. Then the chain gives a soft metallic scrape, and you remember every part of it at once.

Dex is awake.

He is lying still, which is encouraging. Too still, which is irritating. His good eye follows you as you straighten. He looks better, at least in the way people look better when they are still severely injured but no longer actively trying to bleed into the afterlife. Less gray. More focused. The swelling around his eye has deepened purple. His mouth is still split and tender. Stubble darkens his jaw. His bare chest is bandaged in three places, bruises blooming under the tape like ugly weather.

"You stayed," he says.

Your back cracks when you shift, a grunt escaping you. "I live here during disasters now, apparently."

His gaze drops to your wrinkled shirt, the blanket you must have pulled over yourself at some point. "You slept in a chair."

"I have made worse choices." Liking him was one. 

His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but the split in his lip stops him. "Name one."

"You, repeatedly." Apparently early morning you has no filter. 

That pleases him far more than it should. He watches you stand, and when you come over to check his pupils, he tilts his face up before you ask. Trying to be good again. It is awful to your chest, that easy offering. Dex, who fights everyone, lets you put your fingers under his jaw and angle him towards the light, eyes tracking your face more than the penlight. 

"Headache?" you ask.

"Not really."

"Nausea?"

"No."

"Vision changes?"

"Ugly curtains."

"Those are original to the building, and they have seen too much to be insulted by you."

Ignoring that, he looks toward the ankle cuff. "Am I still a flight risk?"

"You murdered someone last night, tried to die at least twice by my count, and keep making jealous comments about a blind lawyer. So, Id say yes."

Dex's eye comes back to you. Slower now. "You're bringing him up."

The audacity if this stupid, beautiful, injured man. "You were going to."

"I was waiting."

"That must have been hard for you."

His fingers flex against the sheet, head dipping once towards his ankle. "Take it off."

You fold your arms, and his gaze moves briefly over your chest before he makes himself look back at your face. The tiny effort, the discipline of it, should not be as intimate as it is. "Tell me why."

"So I can leave if I want."

"Wrong answer."

The old Dex sits up under the wounded one for a second, teeth showing in spirit, even if his mouth is too sore for the full shape. He exhales, irritated. "So I can stop feeling like you expect me to run."

That one is a better answer. He sees that getting to you, which is annoying. Your mouth softening by degrees, fingers loosening against your arms, he sees all of it. You crouch near the bed and unlock the cuff with the key on your necklace. His eyes follow it, the little brass thing sliding from between your breasts, then the lock, then your hand closing around his ankle to ease the padding away from skin.

The chain falls with a dull clink.

Half of you, the pessimistic half, expects him to lunge. But he just lies there and looks at you with wonder in his eyes, as if you have handed him a weapon and he has chosen, for this one morning, to set it down.

"If you run, I will find you and sedate you in public," you say.

"You promise?"

"Dex."

With effort, his hand lifts. The tremor is subtle, visible only because you have spent too many nights learning his tells. He reaches for your wrist and stops halfway, waiting.

You wouldn't have thought more about this if he'd just reached. The waiting is what burrows under your ribs. 

When you give him your wrist, his fingers close around it with almost no pressure, thumb restinh over your pulse like he wants to feel proof you are still here, flesh and warmth, no trick. "Does he get this?" 

He should feel your pulse jump under his thumb, as you sigh and look at him. "Matt gets stitches. Lectures. Soup if he looks starved."

Dex studies your face, eyes tracking every one of your features, scanning. "And me?"

"You get the chain."

He huffs out something close to a laugh, with whatever energy that's left in him.

"You get me missing sleep, changing your dressings while you say upsetting things. You get me pretending I don't worry when you vanish for weeks and then show up with half your side open like a wounded dog dragging itself under a porch."

His hand tightens around the hold, eyes darkening. They are fixed on you with concentration, feeling more like a touch than his actual hands. 

Dex has always looked at targets with focus. You have seen him do it through security footage Matt once brought you, body still, gaze calm, all the world narrowed into distance and outcome. This is different. Messier. He looks at you like he wants to crawl into the space behind your ribs and sleep there where no one can reach him.

"Do you want him?" The question comes out blunt. Too wounded. Subtlety has been stripped from him. What remains is one battered man, waiting to hear if he has already lost something he never properly held.

You sit on the edge of the mattress, careful near his ribs. The warmth of his body seeps into yours. "Matt is my friend."

"He touches you like he has rights."

"He touches me like he trusts me."

Dex's eyes looks pained, his jaw tightening. When you lean closer, his gaze drops to your mouth. Your eyes cleanly capture that small betrayal. His thumb strokes once over your pulse, helplessly possessive. You could still walk away. Probably change his dressing, make tea, text Matt an update, maybe contact someone with imaging access who asks fewer questions than the hospital would. Your brain produces tasks in a neat row. Your body knocks the row over like dominoes.

"He doesn't get this look," you sigh. Hazel eye lifts to yours, stripped clean. You almost laugh at yourself for what you're about to say, too honest for this setting. "No one else gets this look."

His breathing changes. Shallow for a second, then controlled since his ribs hurt. He has to choose restraint with every inhale. It makes the want on his face worse. A man who can hit a target precisely even in motion, is trying to keep still under your hand. The effort has sweat gathering at his temples. His hand closed around your wrist tugs you towards him, wordless, but you don't think words are needed. 

"You have bruised ribs, multiple lacerations, and an ego wound the size of Manhattan," you say, but lean towards him anyway. 

"Your bedside manner was better last night."

"Last night you were closer to death."

His mouth curves faintly, the split lip threatening to open with themotion. "I'm improving. Reward me."

The nerve of him. The absurd, devastating nerve of him, lying in your bed bandaged to hell, asking for you like he has any right, like he has every right. He has learned the existence of a spot in you where affection, fear and desire knot together, and has decided to press his thumb there. This is medically stupid, ethically worse, emotionally catastrophic. 

But his hand on your wrist makes you feel chosen by a creature who has bitten everyone else, torn ear flashing before your eyes once more. 

You bend down and kiss him. You mean to make it careful. A little thing. A test. Dex makes a sound into your mouth, and the kiss opens wider before you can organize your thoughts. His lips are split, so you keep the pressure light, but he chases you anyway, hungry in a ruined, restrained way that sends a wave of heat through your skin. His hand rises to the back of your neck. You expect him to pull your closer, but he just holds you there, that being somehow worse. His palm is warm, fingers trembling slightly against your hairline, whole body focusing on the point where your mouth meets his.

You pull back first, breathing hard, sharing oxygen. "Pain?" 

His eyes open slowly, hazel swallowed by black. "Yes."

"From the kiss?"

"No." 

"Dex."

"Everything hurts," he says, voice rough, like he's holding on by a thread. "That felt better."

The thread is thin. Your forehead lowers to his temple for one second. Just one. But it's enough to smell antiseptic on his skin, blood in his mouth, rain still caught somewhere in his hair. Enough to feel him exhale like the thread has finally snapped.

"This stays slow," you whisper against his mouth. "You tell me if I need to stop."

His thumb moves along your jaw, soft, so soft. "I'll behave."

That word is so gentle, that he has no practice giving, and you kiss him again before you can lose your nerve. Dex kisses like survival has always been a contact sport. Even injured, even careful, his mouth has a desperate steadiness to it, as if he is memorizing the limits of what he can take from you without breaking the spell. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, then stops. Waiting again.

You place his hand over your hip.

A sound leaves him, too soft to be a groan, too hungry to be a sigh, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your thighs press together, his eye tracking the movement with a precision that makes your skin prickle. "Doc," he murmurs against your mouth.

"Mm?"

"You're shaking."

"So are you."

"I have an excuse."

A laugh from your mouth, but it comes out breathy and uneven, not nearly as cool as you need it to be. "Shut up."

You don't have a comeback, no sharp thing to say. You're letting Ben Poindexter slide his hand up under your shirt. There's an awful tenderness in being wanted by someone who rarely wants anything without destroying it. So, no. No sharp comeback. 

His palm spreads over your waist, careful of his taped fingers, of the bruises on his own knuckles, careful with you in a way that feels learned from watching rather than experience. His thumb brushes the lower curve of your breast through your bra, and your breath goes thin.

His gaze locks on that reaction. "Can I?" 

When you nod, his hand moves higher, cupping you with an aching slowness that makes your hips shift on the mattress. Dex's eyelid lowers, mouth parting slightly as if the feel of you under his palm is enough to daze him more than his injuries. He squeezes once, gentle at first, then firmer when your fingers curl into the sheet.

"Tell me," he says.

"Half-dead, but still you demand."

He ignores your words. "Tell me what you like."

The command, irritating from any other mouth, only drags heat through every inch of you now. You cover his hand with yours and guide him, showing him the pressure, the spot, how your nipple tightens when his thumb rubs over it through cotton. His attention is unbearable. "Like that," you breathe. "A little harder. Yeah, like that."

"He ever hear you sound like that?"

You kiss him harder, stealing those words from his mouth. He absorbs it with a shudder, hand tightening around your breast while his other reaches for your thigh. 

The position is so awkward, you help him a little to sit up. Two bodies learning each other in the small space of a spare room cot.

Jealousy is still there, you can feel it threaded through every question, but now it has heat behind it, a wounded need that makes him cling and challenge at once. You swing one leg over his hips before he can try to move too much, settling carefully over his thighs, your palms braced on either side of his shoulders so none of your weight hits his ribs.

For once, Bullseye looks struck.

You look down at him, at the swelling, the bruises, the blood cleaned from his mouth, the bandages you placed over skin you are now aching to touch. 

A man who tried to die last night is now staring at you like your thighs around him might be a reason to reconsider.

"This okay?" you ask, voice soft, not to startle him.

Dex swallows as he nuzzles closer, as if it was even possible. "Better than okay."

"Hands stay where they won't pull stitches."

A faint smile, soft enough to pull your heartstrings, looks up at you as if you have given him an order he would follow through fire. "Yes, doctor."

Your fingers tighten in the sheet beside his hip at his words. His thumb keeps moving on the bare strip of your stomach like he has found a place warm enough to keep him, palm heavy with feverish want and restraint that looks painful on him. 

When you reach for your shirt, his hand tightens at your thigh. "Slow… let me see."

You almost laugh at the nerve of him. When the shirt drags up your ribs, his eyes follow every inch as if the fabric itself has offended him by hiding you this long. You pull it over your head and toss it to your back. Your bra is plain, worn from too many overnight shifts, and the fact that he looks at it like lace from some altar makes heat crawl over your cheeks. "Say something," you murmur, fingers hovering near the clasp.

Dex's mouth parts, then closes again. The split along the lower one shines where he has worried it open with every kiss. "I'm trying to think like a man with blood left in his head."

"That bad?"

His thumb brushes under the curve of your breast, barely grazing the band of your bra. "Worse."

You unhook it before the embarrassment can make you hesitate. The straps slip down your arms, and Dex goes still. Your breasts fall free, nipples already tight from his earlier touch, and the look on his face makes you feel naked in a deeper place than skin. He reaches up with both hands, then winces at the pull across his ribs. His frustration flashes sharp in his jaw.

"Let me come to you," you offer.

He gives a tiny shake of his head, annoyed at himself. "I hate this."

"You hate being cared for."

"I hate having hands and not able to use them."

That almost makes you smile. You shift closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, other hand cupping your breast and guiding him towards it. "Then use your mouth."

Dex groans like that instruction broke him. His lips close around your nipple, careful for all of two seconds before the pull turns needy. His tongue works over you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips shift against his. He makes a sound into your skin, less like hunger, more comfort, like he has found some impossible warmth in you and intends to live there now. 

One of his hands finds your waist. The other slides around to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh he can reach. He cannot pull you hard without hurting himself, so he holds you in place and sucks like he needs the taste of you to steady him.

"Dex," you breathe, your hand tightening in his hair. His eye lifts without his mouth leaving you. "That's... yeah. Keep doing that."

He answers by drawing you deeper into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with a careful pull that sends a wet, aching spark down between your legs. The sound you make embarrasses you, and he hears it. Feels it. His hand slides lower, greedy over the curve of your ass. When you rock against him, his cock presses thick and hard under the loose pants you put on him hours earlier.

He releases your nipple with a soft sound, mouth shining. "Take these off me."

"Demanding, are we?"

His gaze drags up to meet yours. "Please. I need you closer, and these are in my way."

That is worse than anything filthy he could have said. Your fingers go to his waistband, tugging carefully, your focus split between wanting him and watching the tight pinch around his mouth whenever his ribs object. He helps as much as he can, lifting his hips an inch, hissing through his teeth. His cock slips free against his stomach, hard, already wet at the tip.

You stare for half a second too long. Even when he's injured, Dex notices everything. "Still want to scold me?"

"Constantly," you say, hating the softness in it, and wrap your hand around him.

His laugh turns into a groan, head dropping back against the wall while your thumb spreads the wetness at his tip down his shaft. He is warm in your hand, heavy, alive. The thought makes your throat ache, so you lean in and kiss him instead, messy and careful at once, your bare chest pressed near his bandages, your fingers stroking him until his hips twitch. "Stop moving," you whisper against his mouth.

"I barely moved."

"You moved enough." Your fingers don't stop their graze on his cock. 

"I missed you." His voice comes apart on the last word. "Grant me a little mercy."

You rise onto your knees instead of answering the smarter way, tugging at your pants with one impatient hand while the other stays braced near his shoulder. The fabric catches at your knees, and for one stupid second you almost laugh. This is so ungraceful, far from the kind of fantasy you would have let yourself have about him. Dex does not laugh. His gaze follows the slow drag of your pants down your thighs like he is watching something holy and obscene at once. By the time you kick them off near the foot of the cot, your underwear is damp enough to cling, and his fingers flex against your hips like he is fighting the urge to help. "Those too."

"You're very annoying for a man who can barely sit upright, you know?"

"Please." There's just desperation. 

You push your underwear down just enough at first, suddenly shy under his gaze, then give up and pull them off completely. Your slick coats your fingers when you touch yourself, and Dex's mouth parts like the sight has taken the last good thought from his head.

He watches entranced while you drag that wetness over his cock, making the slide easier, making a filthy shine of both of you. His hands flex against your hips, then still when you lower yourself over him.

The first stretch steals the words from both of you. You sink slowly, one hand braced on the wall over his shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm where the muscle tenses under your palm. Dex looks wrecked before you are even halfway down. His mouth hangs open, eyes fixed on your face, then dropping to where his cock disappears into you, then come back up as if he needs to see you take him more than he needs air. "Too much?" he asks.

Lowering anothet inch, you shake your head, thighs already trembling from the angle. "Just — just let me take my time."

"I'm yours," he says. "Take all of it."

The words do terrible things to you. You sink the rest of the way, cunt closing around him in hot, slick pulses. 

Dex's hands clamp down on your ass with a force that almost breaks through his weakness. His forehead falls against your sternum. He breathes there, mouth brushing your skin, then he turns his face and sucks one breast back between his lips while you start to ride him.

The cot creaks under. Your thighs burn almost immediately, cramped from sleep in the chair and the span of his hips beneath yours. Still, you lift and sink, taking him deeper each time. 

Dex tries to stay still. You feel the fight in him. His palms keep sliding under your ass, helping you rise, helping you drop, giving you just enough strength to keep moving without letting his ribs tear at him.

Then he thrusts up like he can't stop himself. A sharp little cry leaves you, pleasure striking so deep your knees almost give. Dex makes a pained sound in the same second, and your hand flies to his shoulder "Do that again and I swear I'll chain you back to the bed."

His face is tight, sweat shining at his temple. "I can take this."

"You are actively proving the opposite."

"Please." He says it into your breast, lips brushing the skin as he speaks, hands still cupping your ass. "Let me help. Sitting still while you do everything hurts worse."

Your scolding dies half-formed. If there's a tease, you could've gone through with it. But there's only need. Nodding your head against him, you let his hands guide you again. 

He lifts as much as he can with his arms, careful of his side, and you ride the motion, cunt sliding down his cock with a wet sound that makes both of you shudder. His mouth finds your nipple again, sucking harder, and you feel him everywhere, under your skin, in your thighs, between your ribs. "I'm close," you tell him.

His hand leaves your ass, searching between your bodies. But when he twists wrong, pain catches him. You grab his wrist and press it back to your hip. "No. I'll do it."

"I want to make you cum."

"You are." You touch your clit with slick fingers and circle it the way you need, riding him in short, deep rolls. "Just stay with me. That's what I need."

His head drops back against the wall, watching your hand move, watching his cock fill you, then watches your face break open around pleasure. "Look at me. P-please. Let me see you."

When your eyes find his, your orgasm hits you you hard enough to turn your thighs useless, cunt clenching around him in tight, wet pulls. 

Dex curses softly, hands locking on your ass as he spills inside you, hot and endless, body going rigid beneath yours while he tries to keep from thrusting. You keep your mouth against his, breathing into him until the shaking eases.

He says something too low for you to catch.

"What?"

His eye opens, glassy and spent. "Mine."

Your fingers slide along his jaw, careful around the bruising. "You don't get to say that unless you stay alive."

"I'll stay alive." The answer comes fast, hoarse, almost angry with how badly he means it.

Before you can respond, he catches the wrist of the hand you used on your clit and brings your fingers to his mouth. His lips close around them, sucking you off your own skin with a slow hunger that makes you clench again around his softening cock. 

Like he cannot bear another second apart, he pulls you down and kisses you, your taste on his tongue, his hand weak but certain at the back of your neck. His pulse slams under your palm where it's holding onto his neck. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Getting off him is slow and messy. His cum slides down your thigh while you stand naked beside the cot. 

Dex watches with a dazed, almost helpless look that follows you even when you grab a warm cloth. You sit beside him and clean his cock first, gentle around oversensitive skin, and he inhales like this care is harder to take than the sex. "I can do that," he mutters.

"You are injured. Shut up." You continue your path down his thighs. 

"You like telling me what to do."

"I like keeping you alive." You check the bandage at his side next, still naked, still dripping, fingers clinical even while his gaze keeps dropping to the mess he left between your thighs. "Looks okay. Nothing opened."

When you clean yourself, he watches your hand move between your thighs with a frown that is almost offended. "That should be me."

"You can do that when you aren't fighting for your life."

His eye lifts to yours, begging, exhausted. "Next time?"

"Next time." Next time means he's planning on staying. 

Your phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the moment. One small vibration against the metal cabinet, and Dex already knows. His eye shifts before yours does, tired and sharp at the same time, like the rest of him is sinking under but that sharp little blade in him still knows how to lift its head. "Matt," he says.

Offering him a bottle of water, you pick up your phone. Sure enough it is Matt.

"Tell him I didn't vanish." The bottle is unopened at his hands.

Sighing, you grab it from him, uncap and press it to his lips. Dex looks at you stunned, almost offended that you're holding a bottle to his mouth. "Drink."

Whatever response that was about to spill from his lips is interrupted by another buzz of your phone, currently on the cot beside him.

Dex's eyes drop to the screen. Bruised, naked under the too-thin blanket, barely keeping himself awake, and still he finds the one thing in the room pulling your attention away from him. "Persistent," he rasps.

"You're one to talk." The bottle stays at his mouth until he takes one grudging swallow, then another. His throat works, lashes lowering for a second.

The phone buzzes again.

Dex's mouth leaves the bottle. "Just — just reply him."

You pick up the phone with a sigh, and type back a response. 

Still here. Stable. 

Dex's eye tracks every letter. "That's all?"

"You want a performance review?"

His almost-smile tugs at the torn corner of his mouth. "Five stars. Charming. Didn't vanish."

You set the phone facedown beside his hip and lift the bottle again. "One more sip."

He groans, but drinks. This time he doesn't look offended. When a drop slips from the corner of his mouth, you wipe it with your thumb before thinking better of it. Dex catches your wrist before you can pull back. His grip has almost no strength left, but he holds you like letting go is the worst thing that could happen. "I behaved." 

Just two words, like that wounded dog setting its head down because it has run out of places, but has finally found home. Your eyes sting so fast it's embarrassing. You settle your palm against his cheek. "Yes, you did."

Matt's reply comes through, unseen and ignored.

Dex's eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into your palm, your wrist still trapped in his loose hold. And all you can think is, stay.

MY MASTERLIST

EXTRAS. you can tell i almost gave up in the end. also… my man is so puppy dog. prove me wrong…