InLoveWithFictionalCharacters

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

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

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

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

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

You didn't answer.

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

The news came three weeks later.

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

The newscast said his name.

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

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

The rest was static.

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

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

Oh, God. You saw it.

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

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

You don't remember screaming.

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

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

They didn't let you visit.

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

"He doesn't want to see you."

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

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

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

"Easier for whom?" you asked.

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

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

"For both of you," she replied.

And that was it.

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

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

And you never asked again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you told her. Almost everything.

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

But some things you didn't tell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You went home.

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

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

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

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

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

The psychologist insisted on a meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

You went.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you went into the bedroom.

Your pillowcase had been changed.

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

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

You started to shake.

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

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

You didn't tell anyone.

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

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

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

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

You didn't want him to stop.

The signs only got worse.

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

And he was right. You did.

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning, the memory card was blank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ben?"

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

And you heard it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You look beautiful," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Everything okay?" Lucas asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's cold," you said.

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

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

"Can I come up?" he asked.

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

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

"No," you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outside, on the street, a car with its engine running waited for hours. You didn't hear it. Or pretended you didn't. By that point, you had given up distinguishing one thing from the other.

The traffic light broke.

It was the first thing wrong that night—but you would only realize that later, when the pieces fit together into a mosaic of terror you didn't yet know you were assembling. You stood at the intersection for five minutes. Five full minutes, your feet cold inside your shoes, your purse heavy on your shoulder, the blue dress—the same one, the cursed one, the one you swore you would never wear again—sticking to your skin beneath your coat. The light was stuck on red, flickering irregularly in a way that wasn't normal, as if someone had opened the fuse box of the world and jumbled the wires just for fun.

In the distance, a siren. Closer, a dog barking—the caramel-colored stray from the corner, who barked at everything and nothing, but that night the bark had a different tone. A warning. An alert. Animals know before we do. They always have.

And the silence. That heavy, sticky silence that wasn't the normal silence of the city. It was the silence of a city holding its breath. A city that knew, in some instinctive and collective way, that something was waiting for you at home. Or someone.

"Weird," Lucas murmured at the wheel, his fingers tapping nervously—a tic you hadn't noticed before. "I've never seen that light like that. Must have been a lightning strike at the control center or something."

You didn't answer. Not because you were being rude—you had already been rude enough to Lucas that night, politely refusing each of his attempts to get closer, each outstretched hand, each "want to talk about it?" You didn't answer because you couldn't. Your mouth was dry. The words had locked themselves inside your throat, little prisoners behind a fence of fear. Because you already knew. You didn't know what—there was no way to know—but you knew something was terribly wrong. Your whole body knew. Muscles tense, ready for a flight you didn't know where to. Breathing short, wheezy, as if you had run a marathon without moving from the spot. Cold hands, tingling fingers, your heart beating somewhere deep in your throat.

It was the same feeling you had before a storm. That weight in the air. That smell of ozone and wet earth. That sense that the world was about to change, and that you had no control over the direction of the change.

Lucas stopped the car in front of your building. Turned off the engine and turned to you with that lost puppy expression he wore every time you said no—which was every time, because you had never said yes. "Want me to come up?" he asked, with polite hope in his brown eyes. The hope of someone who still hasn't learned that certain doors don't open for everyone. "Just to make sure you got in okay. It's very dark, the doorman isn't there… and you seem…" He hesitated, choosing his words with the care of someone who didn't want to scare you. "You seem tense. I don't want you to be alone like this."

"Not necessary," you said. Too fast. So fast that the two words merged into one—notnecessary—and the tone was drier than you intended. You saw his face wilt a little and felt a pang of guilt, but guilt was a luxury you couldn't afford at that moment. "Thank you. It was… it was good."

The lie came easily. So easily that it almost scared you. It was good. It hadn't been good. It hadn't been anything. It had been a two-hour performance where you played a normal woman going out with a normal man, and in the end you had received a note left by a ghost and discovered that the dress you were wearing had been folded on your bed while you ate shrimp risotto without tasting it. But Lucas didn't know that. Lucas didn't know anything. Lucas was a polite, normal, safe man who deserved someone whole and not the shards you called a heart.

You got out of the car. The door closed with a dull thud. You walked to the building's entrance, each step a Herculean effort, as if the ground were turning into quicksand beneath your feet. Felt Lucas's eyes on your back until you went in—polite, normal, safe, watching only to make sure you were okay, not with the devouring hunger of someone who watches because they need to see you to continue existing.

The building door closed with a click. The silence of the lobby wrapped around you like a heavy, damp blanket. The lobby was empty. The fluorescent lights flickered with the same irregular frequency as the traffic light outside, as if the whole city were having an epileptic fit. You clutched your purse against your chest and walked to the elevator. Pressed the button. Nothing. Pressed it again. Nothing. Of course it was broken. Of course. Because nothing that night was going to be easy.

You took the stairs.

Four floors. Counted each step as you climbed, an old habit, a way to keep your mind occupied so you wouldn't think about the noise behind you. One, two, three, four. Because there was noise. Light footsteps, almost inaudible, on the edge of your perception. Someone climbing behind you, keeping the same distance, the same pace. When you sped up, the footsteps sped up. When you slowed down, the footsteps slowed down. You didn't look back. Didn't look because you were afraid of what you'd see. Didn't look because you were afraid of seeing nothing. Didn't look because, deep down, a part of you already knew who it was and was tired of pretending it didn't.

You reached the apartment door. Your heart hammering so hard you felt your temples pulsing. Took three deep breaths. The three breaths Dr. Elaine had taught for moments of anxiety—inhale through the nose, hold, exhale through the mouth. It never worked. It never would. Anxiety wasn't air. Anxiety was a living thing that lived inside your chest and fed on your fear.

You put the key in the lock.

The door opened before you turned the key.

It was unlocked.

The world stopped. Not metaphorically—the world actually stopped. The sound of the street disappeared. The hum of the fluorescent lights ceased. The dog's bark downstairs fell silent. Everything hung suspended in an absolute vacuum, as if the universe had pressed pause just to see what you would do.

You never forgot to lock the door. Never. Even on bad days, on days you could barely get out of bed, on days you went without eating, without showering, without answering messages—you locked the door. Twice. It was a ritual. A prayer. A silent promise you made to yourself every night: you are still here. you are still trying. you haven't given up protecting yourself yet. The key always turned twice. Always.

The door was open.

And you went in.

The apartment was destroyed.

It took you a second to process. Maybe two. Maybe an entire eternity compressed into a blink. The human brain wasn't made to understand chaos all at once—it needs time, needs layers, needs permission to believe what it's seeing. The door creaked behind you as you stood in the doorway, your fingers still gripping the handle, your purse slipping from your shoulder and falling to the floor with a dull thud. You didn't move to pick it up. Didn't move for anything.

It wasn't mess. It wasn't the kind of disarray of someone rummaging through your drawers looking for money or jewelry. There was no method there. No search. There was violence. Pure, raw violence, from someone who wasn't looking for anything except a place to drain what no longer fit inside their chest. Anger. Real anger. The anger of someone who had waited too long. Who had counted every day, every hour, every minute. Who had dreamed every night of this moment—not the moment of destroying the apartment, but the moment of coming back to it, of finding you in it—and now, finally, after 847 nights, after concrete walls, steel bars, orange uniforms, and meals served on plastic trays, now that the moment had arrived, the anger no longer fit inside the body. It had to get out. Overflow. Break something.

The sofa—the same sofa where he held you while you watched movies neither of you paid attention to—was torn. Not just torn. Shredded. The fabric ripped into strips, the foam torn out in chunks, the springs exposed like the ribs of an animal that had died long ago. The stuffing was scattered across the floor like dirty snow, like the entrails of something that had once been soft and warm and was now unrecognizable, irreparable, dead. You looked at the sofa and felt a pang in your chest—not for the sofa, it was never about the sofa, but for everything that happened on that sofa. The cold nights when he wrapped you in a blanket and said "stay here, don't let me sleep alone." The silly arguments about what movie to watch, which always ended the same way—him giving in, laughing, pulling you onto his lap. The last night. The last time he sat there before writing the note and disappearing. The sofa had witnessed everything. Now it was on the floor, shattered, as if he were trying to kill the memories too.

The pictures had been ripped from the walls. The shattered glass covered the floor like a dangerous frost, reflecting the flickering streetlight in a thousand small sharp pieces. Your photos—the ones on your shelf, the ones he never liked because they had other people in them—all had broken glass, all had the faces of other people scratched out. Coworkers. Cousins. That college friend who hugged you too tight. All scratched out with meticulous fury, as if he had used the tip of a knife to scribble over their eyes, their mouths, their smiles that weren't his. Only your face remained intact. Only yours. As if he had separated each photo, broken the glass with a dry blow, scratched out the others with surgical care, and then—only then—returned the frame to the floor. A curation of hatred. A declaration of ownership written in broken glass.

The kitchen table was overturned. The chairs were broken—not tipped over, broken, legs ripped off, backs split in half. The plates covered the floor in colorful fragments, the silverware scattered as if someone had been looking for a specific knife. And found it. You saw the knife later—a serrated one, a bread knife, embedded in the kitchen wall up to the handle. As if he had thrown it and hit the target on the first try. As if throwing knives was just one more thing he knew how to do and you had never discovered.

The curtains had been torn from the window. The metal rod was bent, hanging to one side like a broken arm. The window glass was cracked—not broken, cracked. A perfect spiderweb in the lower right corner, right in the middle of a smaller, round hole, as if someone had punched it and the glass had held up better than the wall.

Because the wall didn't hold up.

There was a hole in the wall. Not just any hole. A hole the size of a fist—his right fist, you knew, because you knew every bone, every knuckle, every scar on that hand. The plaster wall was blown inward, the crumbled coating on the floor, and inside the hole, mixed with the white dust, there were red marks. Blood. His blood, probably. Or not. You didn't want to think about the "or not."

A lot of blood. On the wall. On the floor. In a trail from the living room door to the back, near the cracked window, where the blood formed a larger puddle. A dark puddle, almost black in the dim light, reflecting the streetlight like a dirty mirror. And inside the puddle, no—beside the puddle, because he was too careful, too meticulous, too crazy to sit in his own blood—he was there.

Ben. Dex. The man who taught you to make tomato sauce and to feel fear in the dark. The man who killed with the same hand that caressed your hair. The man who should have been behind bars, behind steel doors, behind a life sentence that meant forever, that meant never again, that meant you were free.

He was sitting on the floor. Leaning against the cracked wall—the same wall he himself had punched, the bloody fist hole a few centimeters above his head, like an inverted halo. His legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. His hands resting on his knees, palms down, his long pale fingers resting in a stillness that bordered on supernatural. Calm. Strangely calm. As if he were waiting for the bus. Or waiting for death. Or waiting for you—and maybe, to him, all three were the same.

He was thinner. Much thinner. The white shirt—the same one from the newscast, you noticed with a knot in your stomach, the same one from the conviction, the one that appeared in the photos that circulated around the world, his face plastered on every news portal as if he were a monster, and maybe he was, maybe he always had been—that shirt hung on his body like a tent, his once-broad shoulders now looked sharp, his collarbones jutted out from beneath the thin fabric like the wings of a broken bird. The face you kissed every night, that you knew better than your own, was now too angular, too sharp, as if the bones were trying to escape the skin. The cheekbones you used to kiss playfully, saying he looked like a Scandinavian model, now cast dramatic shadows over his hollow cheeks. His under-eye circles were so dark they looked like bruises—purple, purplish-black, almost invisible in the dim light. His unshaven beard was thick, unkempt, grown without care for weeks, maybe months, and barely hid the new scars. Small cuts on his chin. A red line on his jaw. A scratch on his right cheekbone, recent enough to still be scabbed over. His hair was longer. Much longer. Fell over his forehead in a way that almost hid his eyes—but you saw his eyes. You always saw his eyes.

Those pale blue eyes. The eyes that looked at you as if you were the only real thing in the universe. The eyes you saw on television, empty, fixed somewhere behind the camera, as if he had already given up on everything. Now they were different. Deeper. Hollowed out from within, like two caves where light entered but found no exit. More tired—not the tiredness of a bad night's sleep, but the tiredness of years, the tiredness of someone who had carried the weight of an entire life on their back and discovered that the weight doesn't lessen, you just get used to it. And hungrier. A hunger you recognized because it was the same as yours. The hunger of someone who had gone too long without touching, without being touched, without feeling another person's skin against theirs. He was looking at you like a man in the desert looks at water. As if you were the only thing that could quench his thirst. And the light was blinding him—you could see in his eyes that it hurt, that looking at you after so long in the dark was like looking directly into the sun. But he didn't look away. He never looked away.

His shirt was open at the chest. You didn't know if he had opened it or if it had been torn—the lower buttons were still there, but the top ones… gone. The fabric opened in a cleft from his neck to the middle of his chest, exposing the marks you knew so well. The old scars, the ones you kissed before sleeping, the ones you traced with your fingertips while he slept. That place near his shoulder where you rested your forehead when you could no longer look into his eyes. The scar on his chest, close to his sternum, that he said was from "surgery" and you never asked if it was true. All still there. All waiting for you.

But there were new ones too.

Small recent cuts, some still with stitches—makeshift stitches, poorly done, that he must have given himself, sitting in some cold cell, with a smuggled needle and a hand trembling with anxiety. A dirty bandage on his left arm, the tape already peeling at the edges, stained with a yellow that could be antiseptic or could be pus. A dark mark on his ribcage—under his arm, where the skin is thinner and more vulnerable—that could be dried blood or could be a new tattoo, something done hastily, with improvised ink and a pain he probably no longer felt. You couldn't distinguish. Couldn't distinguish anything, because the whole world had been reduced to that man sitting on the floor of your destroyed apartment, covered in blood that wasn't only his, looking at you as if you were salvation itself.

And his face. Oh, his face.

It was dirty with blood. Not his blood—you knew that instantly, with a chill down your spine that started at the top of your head and descended slowly, vertebra by vertebra, like ice water dripping down your spine. His blood was different. You knew his blood—had seen it on various occasions, in small domestic accidents, in the slipped knife while chopping onions, in the scraped knee from a silly fall. His blood was bright red, almost shiny, like stamp ink. That blood on his cheek, his chin, his temple—that blood was darker. Thicker. From somewhere else. From someone else.

And the way he didn't do anything to clean it. The way he let the blood dry on his face like a mask, like a crown, like a trophy he wasn't willing to let go of. That told you everything you needed to know. The meeting. The coffee. Lucas with his perfectly combed hair and his life-insurance-ad smile. His car parked on the street, engine running, the polite hand that touched yours for a second at the restaurant table. You didn't know. There was no way to know. No way to know that while you laughed at Lucas's unfunny jokes, while you cut your shrimp risotto into microscopic pieces to avoid eating, while you wore the blue dress that Ben had bought and that wasn't for him, none of those gestures had gone unnoticed. None.

The blood on his face was a silent confession. A declaration of love written on someone whose last name you didn't even remember. You felt a tremor start in your hands and spread, like an underground earthquake, like the ground slowly splitting open. It wasn't fear. Or it was. Or it was something so mixed together you no longer knew how to separate. Love and fear had become the same substance inside you, like two rivers that meet and never part again.

His eyes met yours.

And something in his face changed.

The rigidity. The artificial calm. The posture of someone sitting on the floor of a destroyed apartment as if it were a throne. All fell away for a second. Just one second. The length of a breath. The time it takes to blink. And beneath, deep down, you saw it.

Saw the despair. Saw the fear. Not the fear of being caught—he had already been caught, already been convicted, already been through everything a man could go through. It was an older, more primal fear. The fear that you would look at him and feel disgust. The fear that you would call the police. The fear that you would say that word he couldn't stand to hear, the word that could kill him more than any bullet, more than any sentence, more than any cell: "Leave."

You saw the man who spent 847 nights locked in a concrete cell, counting the days with nail scratches on the wall, repeating your name like a prayer that went unanswered, drawing invisible patterns on his own wrist because yours wasn't there for him to draw on. Saw the man who broke a window with his own fist—the same fist that made the hole in your wall—to escape. Who crossed states by hitchhiking, on foot, inside trucks that smelled of diesel and sweat, hidden in compartments not made for human bodies. Who killed—you didn't want to think about how many, not now, maybe never—just to get here. Just to see you. Just to come home.

And beneath all the despair, behind all the fear, buried under layers and layers of blood and guilt and madness, you saw something else. Something more frightening than the hole in the wall. More frightening than the shredded sofa. More frightening than another person's blood on the face of the man you loved.

Relief.

He was relieved. Because you were there. Because you had come back. Because you hadn't run when you saw the open door, when you saw the chaos, when you saw him sitting on the floor like a deposed king waiting for the verdict. Because you were wearing the blue dress he bought. That dress. The birthday dress. The dress he had carefully chosen, imagined you in night after night before buying it, could barely wrap because his hands trembled so much. You were wearing it. And that meant something. That meant you hadn't forgotten. That meant part of you, no matter how buried, was still his.

His breath—which you hadn't realized was held, hadn't realized was waiting, which you only now noticed his chest hadn't been moving for an eternity—came out in a slow, trembling sigh, almost a stifled sob. His shoulders, tight as piano strings about to snap, dropped a centimeter. His jaw, which had been so clenched you could see the muscles jumping, loosened slightly. A millimeter. Enough.

He raised one hand.

The right hand. The one he used to draw patterns on your wrist on nights when neither of you could sleep. The one he used to hold yours when you crossed the street, as if you were a child and he the only guardian capable of protecting you from traffic. The same hand that, you knew, had squeezed triggers. Squeezed necks. Opened doors that shouldn't be opened. His fingers were clean, you noticed. Strangely clean. As if he had washed them before waiting for you. Scrubbed with soap, removed every trace of blood from under his nails, rinsed until the skin was red and raw. As if the blood on his face didn't matter—that was an accessory, a declaration, a signature. But his hands—the hands that were going to touch you, the hands that were going to find your face, the hands that were going to ask, in the language only the two of you understood, that you stay—those needed to be clean. Pure. Worthy of you.

His fingers moved. A small gesture. Almost shy. A wave. The same wave he made when he came home late at night and you were on the sofa, awake waiting, and he would come on tiptoe and wave as if afraid to scare you. As if he wasn't sure he could still approach. As if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in prison—lying on the hard bed, the thin blanket warming nothing, eyes fixed on the cracked concrete ceiling—and now that the moment had come, now that you were really there, in front of him, wearing the blue dress he bought, all the words he had rehearsed had disappeared. Evaporated. Left only that small, almost pathetic gesture, a wave from someone who no longer knew what to do with his own hands.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His voice, when it came out, was different. Deeper. Hoarser. As if he hadn't used his voice in a long time—or as if he had used it too much. Screamed too much. Called for you too much. Waited too much. There was a tremor in it, a fragility he hated, that he tried to hide by swallowing hard, but you heard it. You always heard it. You heard the holes in his voice, the fractures, the places where pain escaped the edges like water through a dam about to break.

"Darling..."

The word came out soft. Almost a whisper. Almost a question. As if he wasn't sure he could still call you that. As if he was afraid you would say "no, this is over, you lost the right, you lost me, go away, disappear, leave me alone." And beneath the word, you heard the echo of all the nights he must have said your name in the dark of the cell. To the walls. To the thin mattress. To the other inmates who must have thought he was crazy. And maybe he was. Maybe he always had been. But he was your crazy. The only one who loved you in a way that hurt.

His eyes glistened. Not with tears—Benjamin Poindexter didn't cry, he had told you once, on a night you woke up with him trembling beside you, his arms so tight you could barely breathe, and when you asked what had happened, he said: "People like us don't have that luxury." You never asked what he meant by "people like us." You were afraid of the answer. Still are. But his eyes glistened with something else, something that hurt just the same, that squeezed your chest the same way, that pulled the air from your lungs as if someone had opened a window at the bottom of the ocean.

His hand moved again. This time slower. More careful. As if every millimeter of air between you was a minefield. His fingers found your chin—the touch, when it happened, was so light you almost didn't feel it. A butterfly landing. A feather descending. The contrast with the violence around was so absurd, so insane, that you felt a laugh rise in your throat and held it in with force. Different from before. Before, he held you with force, with desperation, as if you were going to slip through his fingers at any moment, as if he needed to apply constant pressure to be sure you were still there. Now he touched you as if you were made of glass. As if you were the most precious and fragile thing in the universe. As if he was afraid of breaking you with a rougher movement, afraid you would shatter into a thousand pieces and he would spend the rest of his life trying to put you back together, cutting his fingers on each shard.

His thumb traced a circle on your jaw.

Automatic. Instinctive. Like breathing. The same circle. The same pattern. The same gesture he made every night before sleeping, when you had already closed your eyes and he thought you weren't watching. The same drawing he made on your wrist, your palm, the back of your neck. Concentric circles. You never asked what they meant. You were afraid the answer would be something you didn't want to hear. Or maybe you knew. Maybe you'd known from the beginning that those circles were him trying to map you, possess you, turn you into sacred territory that no one else could occupy.

Your body responded before your mind.

A betrayal. A truth. A piece of you that no longer obeyed your brain, that acted on pure animal instinct, on muscle memory, on the habit of so many nights of love and fear mixed together. Your eyes closed for a second. Your head tilted against his hand, heavy, surrendered. His skin was warm—warmer than it should be, fever-warm, the warmth of a whole life burning from within. And a sound escaped your throat. A small, painful moan, not entirely human. A sound that was both relief and despair.

He heard it.

And something in his face broke.

The control. The facade. The posture of a man who had just destroyed an apartment and sat among the rubble like a king. All fell. Not for a second this time. It truly fell. Like a house of cards finally finding the right breath. For a moment—a single, brief, luminous moment—he wasn't the elite sharpshooter. Wasn't the convicted murderer. Wasn't the fugitive who had just crossed the country with blood on his hands. He was just Ben. The Ben who pulled you closer in the middle of the night, when you were already asleep, as if even unconscious he needed to be sure you hadn't left. The Ben who whispered things in your hair, things you never repeated to anyone, things he probably didn't even remember saying because they came out of him like confessions from a sleepwalker. The Ben who was afraid to fall asleep first because he needed to be sure you wouldn't run away while he was vulnerable.

His hand trembled against your face.

His thumb stopped mid-circle. The other fingers, the ones resting on your jaw, vibrated like violin strings after snapping. The tremor traveled up his arm, through his shoulder, shaking his thin body for a second. He held his breath—you saw his chest stop—and then let it all out in one jet, as if he had held the whole world inside his lungs and could finally let go.

His blue eyes wandered over your face, slowly, as if he were re‑memorizing every detail. As if afraid of forgetting. His nose—you noticed his nose was now slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and hadn't healed right. The line of his lips—chapped, dry, the lower lip split in the middle. The new scar on his eyebrow. All the marks that prison time had left on him, all the stories he wouldn't tell, all the pieces of him that had been broken and hastily mended, without anesthesia, without care.

His thumb resumed the movement. One circle. Another. Another. A rhythm. A prayer. A thread connecting this moment to all the past nights, to all the promises tattooed on skin and in silence.

His mouth almost touched yours. Close enough for you to feel the promise of a kiss, the ghost of a kiss, the warmth of a kiss that didn't happen but vibrated in the space between your mouths like a stretched string.

His eyes met yours. And he smiled.

The smile was small. Crooked. Disturbingly familiar. The same smile he used before kissing you, before pulling you into the dark, before doing all the things you kept in your memory like a photo album you would never open again but also never throw away. But there was something different now. Something broken and lit at the same time. Like an exposed wire, sparking, smoking, but still conducting electricity. Like a house on fire but still habitable, walls in flames and the sofa still soft, windows bursting and the bed still warm. Like someone who had gone to the bottom of the well and come back, but brought the bottom of the well with him—stuck to his shoes, under his nails, at the back of his throat.

The smile widened. Showed teeth. His eye gleamed—not the wet gleam from before, but a dry, electric gleam, a little bit crazy. There was joy there. A dark, dangerous joy that you hadn't seen since before the prison, since before the note, since before the end of the world. The joy of someone who survived something they shouldn't have. Who escaped a cell that was meant to be permanent. Who came back from hell in jeans and a white shirt open at the chest, dirty with blood, thin as a thread, but alive. Alive.

His free hand—the left, the one resting on his knee—rose slowly. His fingers found your hair. Buried themselves in it. Pulled a little, not hard, like an owner. With the familiarity of someone who had done this a thousand times. With the certainty of someone who knows that hair, that smell, that temperature still belong to him. It was a possessive gesture, but it was also a request. Let me stay. Let me touch. Let me be yours again, the same way you've always been mine.

His thumb stopped mid-circle. The fingers in your hair tightened a little more. The blue eyes, those eyes that looked at you with devotion and despair and hunger and love and madness, fixed on yours like two nails. The smile was a crack in his face, an open wound, a wide-open door to a place you knew well because you had lived there for a long time.

"Guess who's back from jail?"

your eyes were slightly fluttering, the tiredness from the day rushing over you. your head dropped gently on dex.. he smelt of sea salt and oak, and a tad of musk. you closed your eyes just momentarily, soaking in the hum of the television and dex’s chilling body temperature. 

dex looked down at his body, gazing at your figure. he brought his trembling hand up to your face, stroking a stray hair from your forehead. dex then rested his hand on your cheek, thumb moving in small circles. you were so precious. what did he do to deserve you?

your eyes blinked awake, feeling a large, calloused hand on your cheek. dex stopped his movements for a moment, moving to retract his hand. before he could, though, you set your hand over his. the small, manicured one compared to his rough one. 

you removed your hand now, trailing it up dex’s muscular arm to his broad shoulder. “you're so beautiful,” you mumbled out between your sweet lips.

dex hadn’t replied with words, but instead lifted you to sit in his lap. god, he was so big. he was capable of so much, and you weren’t afraid a single bit. your body shifted around, finally settling on his strong thighs. his large arms came around you, hands settling at your lower back. dex peered back up at you with the deepest fucking eyes, looking at you like you were the sweetest girl ever. 

“my sweet girl,” he hummed, his grip tightening. it was firm, but not enough to bruise. never enough to bruise. dex would never hurt his girl, and he would never allow her to be hurt. 

you pawed at his shirt, begging to get the soft cotton off. “dexy, m’begging you, please.” 

“anything for you,” he rasped out, pulling the fitted navy shirt over him. his sculpted body was covered in scars, raised and red. you didn’t care, though. dex earned them. proof he was superhuman. 

now, clawing off your own tee, dex pulled you somehow closer. you were wearing the bra he liked. navy, fabric smooth like butter, and cupped your chest perfectly. it was his favorite because it wasn’t like the others that dug into your skin and left marks that you would silently rub before you stepped into the shower. 

you snaked your arms around dex, his eyes locked onto you like a target. his eyes were now rimmed with hazel and filled with a deep void of desire. you peered down at his pink lips, laying a warm kiss. it was short, but sweet. dex loved how soft and pliant you were. you would melt in his hands, like strawberry ice cream on a balmy day.

dex wasn’t much different. anytime you would cuddle, ass plush against him, he too would melt. anything you would do had him chasing the high over and over again. 

he now chased your lips, pressing back against your smooth ones. they tasted like your banana cream lip gloss and whipped cream. he licked them once before he went in again, tasting all of you. you giggled at his sweet action, a hand snaking to his sandy blonde tufts. you gripped it gently, bringing it towards you. he hummed in satisfaction, the slightest sting of pain thrilling him. “fuck.”

you ran a hand down his chest, down to his abdomen. your pointer finger drew hearts over his abs as you looked back up at him. “can i, baby?” you asked, eyelashes batting. you shifted your hips right over his growing bulge, a wet patch already forming in his grey sweatpants.

he nodded, “yes, f-fuck, love.” your gaze never broke, because that was the real intimate part. dex never took you fully from behind, unless there was a mirror in front of you two, or if he held you against him. he loved looking at your fucked-out face as you took all of him.

your finger trailed down, right above his length. you let it linger there, licking your lips. his hands engulfed your ass as you pulled at the band, letting it snap against his waist. his hips twitched at the action, restraining from bucking up into you. 

you pulled him out and cupped your warm hand around him. you could hear dex’s breath hitch, the airflow becoming heavier. after a few jerks, you swiped over the tip, a bead of his sweetness sticking to your thumb. dex whined out, mouth agape. you drew forward, taking advantage of the opening. you kissed the side of his mouth, your spit drowning his shaved skin. he tilted his head to the side to take control of your mouth now, his tongue immediately invading it.

you pulled your underwear to the side, already wet, waiting for him. every time you and dex made love, he knew at this point it was his turn to take the reins. dex dragged his hands up and down your thighs, feeling the soft skin. you hovered over him, not wanting to sink down until he gave the green light, even though you knew you always had it. when it came to dex, anything was plausible. 

“my girl needs me now, hm? need me to fuck her good?” he asked with a smooth tone, cupping the curve of your waist. 

you nodded with teary eyes, the ache in your cunt worsening by the second. a tear slipped, and dex wiped it away with his thumb, licking the wet streak. the salty trickle now replaced by his damped love that you would go to war for. 

dex brought you down slowly, easing into you. no matter how many times you had taken him, it was still far too much. maybe he needed to mold you more, he thought.

you whined pathetically, hands planted right on dex’s chest. he threw his head back in ecstasy, never getting tired of your gummy walls. “move please, please, dex, i need you,” you begged. 

he brought you back up before slamming down. a moan etched from you, the noise coming straight from the back of your throat. dex winced with pleasure, getting his fix. he brought his lips to your artery, leaving open-mouthed kisses on the pressure point. 

once he saw you catch your breath, he continued his movements, pulling your body back up and down with no effort whatsoever. he’s throbbing inside, tip kissing that sweet spongey spot inside you. you're babbling now, whispering sweet nothings against him. dex glanced at your tummy and the slight bulge in it. he was obsessed with the fact that he could see himself leaving and entering you.

dex closes his eyes, replaying the image over and over. his lips trailed down to your chest, licking and nipping gently at the smooth skin. dex was so proud whenever you took him, falling apart so easily. the fact that you let him every single time, treating him like he hung the moon. 

“i-i’m gonna cum, dexy..” you whimpered against his lips, closing your eyes. the tightness in your tummy was ready to snap. “i know, babygirl, let it out,” he moaned back, his jaw unlocked. 

you tightened around him, listening to dex’s instructions. you would never disobey him. you were so loyal, like a dog. 

“not much longer, baby,” you cried out, eyes tearing up once more. “now, c’mon, sweet girl,” he grunted. 

you threw your head back, letting go. you saw stars transform into white, chest heaving. 

dex wasn’t far behind, bucking up and his pace increasing. though, he was getting messy. he pushed your hair back before bringing your face back to his. dex smothered you in spit-soaked lips as you were still coming down from your high. 

“yeah, that’s it, baby. take fucking all of it,” he groaned. and you did. like his good fucking girl.

you could feel dex’s movements faltering as he gripped harder. “fuck, all mine. where, sweetheart?”

his hand trailed up to your throat, wrapping around it like he could cut off your airway at any given moment. “inside, dex,” a mewl comes from you. “inside me, please!”

dex sobbed at your words, thrusting fully into you. you both came instantaneously. he was still fucking up into you, his cum filling you to the brim. the creamy ring around him made you drool buckets. you whined at dex, laying a lasting sloppy kiss on him. “i love you, dex,” you mumbled.

“i love you too, doll, so fucking much. you’ll never know,” he whispered out, palm back to cradling the back of your head on his chest.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

He's close, broad chest puffed out against your shoulder blades, chubbed up cock nestling against your tailbone as if to wordlessly express how pent up he got during his workout. It was a common phenomenon, you noticed with him — how seemingly desperate he'd become when he returns home to you from the gym, all that excess testosterone and adrenaline and endorphins the cause for such a horned up state. 

From his placement behind you, he cranes his neck around slightly so he can reach for that patch of flesh at the base where his fingers resided a moment before. He presses his lips to it, contact sort of rough as kisses form. And while his mouth is momentarily occupied by that space of skin above your collarbone, his eyes continue to bore into yours in the mirror, gaze so intent you can't help but remain willing to the eye-fucking he's giving you. 

The hand he has on your cunt, firms and his fingers begin to paw and knead at you as pulse-like squeezes ensue. He's gaze remains keen as he watches your response in the mirror, studying the slight contorting of features on that face of yours he adores. Like your expression crumples: brows curling in the centre, eyes clamping closed and lips parting — all of it a direct cause of him.

Dex's foot slips between the two of yours planted firmly on the floor, and instead of keeping it there for closeness, he instead taps at the inside of your foot, silently directing you to step out; indirectly making you spread your legs. Almost like what he'd do with a perp at work.

With the gain of space between your thighs, his grip on your cunt adjusts also and the fingers that reside there, lower. His middle finger begins a slight circling around your entrance, touch controlled and strategic as it skims across the quivering centre of you that kisses at his touch. He doesn't dare dip it in, not yet at least. He simply keeps the pad of his finger pressed up against your opening, like he knew the anticipation to work you up faster.

Of course, it does. 

Your thick swallows of spit soon turn into breathy whine-like pants, each one sounding like a plea for his touch to continue. Lifting a hand from it's hanging placement at your side, you bring it to the back of his between your thighs, fingers latching on needily as you nudge him. Like a wordless directional guide, you hint for movement to resume. 

Call him sadistic, but it was all he needed. He wanted to see you devolve desperately, to watch the composure slip away so that you may possibly feel an ounce of what he feels — has felt since leaving his early morning gym session.

He nips at your throat, teeth skimming your skin a moment before he pulls away. But only slightly. "Bed," he murmurs, lips still pressed to your skin. "Get on it."

Grip retracts from your body and you make your way to the bed behind without thought or question. Sitting patiently at the edge of the mattress like the good thing you are, you watch him in the mirror, as he does you. His eyes meet yours in the reflection once more and he begins to undress from his sportswear, the lycra compression top the first thing to go.

"Take it off," he instructs, his back to you. 

You do as asked and slip yourself out from your robe, the soft fabric pooling on the bedding around your ass as you undress from it. Garment revealing your bare body beneath.

His heavy eyes rake over your naked display in the reflection, gaze scanning the entirety of your chest like it was the first time he had seen it. The top falls to the floor and it's then he rids his lower half of clothed restraint; gym shorts and boxers dropping down in the same, singular motion.

He catches sight of you, wanting eyes seemingly locked on his cock in the mirror. He notices you visually trail over his body, gaze slowly sauntering up him until you meet his eyes once again. 

Though it's short lived. He turns around, body now facing yours as he steps forward to meet you. His hands settle on either side of your throat, thumbs pressing carefully at the base of it as he tilts your head back, making you crane to focus on his face. He looks needy, you notice, something so desperate within his eyes. 

Dex lowers to meet you, mouth roughly capturing yours as a low, deep hum reverbs at the back of his throat. One hand from it's placement around the base of your neck slips upwards and he settles his grip on the lower of your face, holding you firmly in place as the kiss devolves into a somewhat deep, sloppy mess. And as you slip your tongue past his lips and into his mouth, you reach for his cock hanging most temptingly in front of you. You wrap your fingers around the middle of his swollen, and very obviously aching dick, but it can only be there for so long before he retracts his lips from yours and swats your hand away. 

Dark green eyes are blown huge as he stares down at you, face a few inches from yours. The tip of his nose skims yours as he slowly shakes his head, the motion almost daring, sort of like a warning. He clearly doesn't have it in him for that this morning. He surely won't last.

He adjusts the hold he has on your face slightly, thumb reaching to your bottom lip to swipe the little bit of spit collecting beneath. "On your front," he whispers against you, tone just shy of a taunt.

Once again, you respond without resistance and do as asked. You turn and lower yourself to the mattress beneath, resting on your front with your feet planted on the floor, ass unintentionally poised up. 

His hands settle notably on your hips, grip firm as he drags his palms to rest over the cheeks of you ass. Dex paws at each for a moment, fingers creating indents and divots with the fatty flesh that pools them.

One hand stays in place, while the other grows absent. The warmth of his skin on one side now gone. He lifts it to his mouth and spits in the centre of it, saliva briefly sitting in the palm of his hand before it's used to lube the length of him.

With the hand he still has on the cheek of your ass, it falls to your hip — grip growing firm on it as he angles you, repositioning you to be perfectly accessible to and for him. He directs himself between your ass cheeks and to your cunt between, though he refrains from easing in just yet. Instead, he pokes his head at it from behind, crown of his cock pushing through your lips so as to collect his most preferred kind of lube: your arousal.

And when he deems himself laboured enough from withholding his desperation, he sinks his dick into you — movement slow and calculated as he eases the entirety of his cock with that singular motion. That long groan he emits from the back of his throat ceases momentarily when your fluttering cunt accommodates him fully.

"Hands," he directs, voice sort of strained. "Give me them," his soft tone reserved for you and you alone is now callous and rough. A sign he's starting to lose it.

Like your body has avid response to his commands, your pussy unintentionally and needily latches onto his cock, grip of your walls enveloping him like you didn't want to let it up. And it's noted, noted by the way he chokes on a breath and retracts his dick from you. 

He wasn't going to last, and he was slowly starting to realise that. 

You put your arms behind your back, wrists crossing as you let them hang atop the top of your ass — each waiting patiently for what you're sure is to follow next. 

Sinking his cock back into you, he grabs a hold of your interlocked wrists. His much larger one keeps them each in place at the small of your back, the weight of his body above ensuring that. Dex is all about control, about feeling in control, so you have no problems giving that to him, no problem with being his compliant play thing for when he's as desperate as this. 

A sort of pattern ensues as he pushes in as much of his cock as he retracts, and a gradual system forms from that repeated motion before. And it's as he sinks back into you, taut balls pressed firm to your folds from behind, that all this pent up frustration and need of his is worth it; all that desperation coursing through his veins finally feels like it was worth the wait.

“please,” he begs over the phone, “i’ll be good i swear. i’ll stop fighting just let me come home.”

from his tone you could tell he was just done crying and it just sounded pathetically beautiful.

“this is not your home. this is my house.” you coo as you stir your dinner. “stop calling me dex.”

you hang up without listening to the rest of his pleading. though less than 10 minutes later, he’s at your front door, begging again.

“baby,” eyes red and puffy, “i need you, i can’t breathe without you. please, please, don’t cut me off again, just—” he breathes as he ghosts his arm by your shoulders like he’s asking for permission. “can i please stay?”

you sigh and let him inside the house. he silently walks in, muttering a quiet thank you as he passes you. as soon as you close door and turn, dex is already on his knees.

“what the hell are you doing dex?”

dropping to his knees, his hands caress the backs of your thighs, dropping his head and burying it between them. gripping you tightly like he could bare letting go. “please take me back. nothing is good without you and it’s making me fucking sick, please,” practically blubbering at this point.

he was so strong and his biceps wrapped around you effortlessly. you could feel the strength just radiating off of him always, like an ever glowing essence.

you sigh, hand touching the nape of his neck and travelling up through his hair while he hums in contentment, “please stand up.”

the sound that he makes was teetering the line of desperation and relief. his lips press against the plush of your thigh while his hands rise to cup your ass. with your hand still buried in his hair, you pull him up with a slight tug, trying to get him to stand. though he keeps slowly rising, kissing up your side and dancing over your stomach, the fabric rising with every movement. a soft gasp escapes your lips and his touch slides up your spine, a shiver running through you. he stops just by your neck when you tug his hair harder and he hisses your name though one would argue it was a moan. you shove him gently and tell him to sit down, though you knew he could’ve stopped you.

you tend to his wounds and wipe his face and he watches you the whole time with puppy eyes. you share your dinner with him but you don’t touch again then, he only steals glances between bites.

within the span of an hour he’s inching closer to you on the couch and he’s watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. no one really cares about the news playing on the television as it repeats something about the AVTF.

his heavy hand rests just under your chest as he pulls you in and buries his nose in your hair, taking a long deep breath in. memorizing your scent like it gave him life.

by the end of night dex is situated between your legs, groaning like it hurts to part from you. he whispers soft thank you’s like he’s grateful for this meal you’ve provided. pushing your legs up higher over his head while you pant and squirm. but dex takes more control then, ignoring your pleas to slow down and dragging you closer to his mouth. maw slack and relentless as he laps and teases. his strong arms wrap and hook around your thighs. tongue teasing the sensitive bud for what felt like eternity. you’ll push his head away to no avail, weakly spent as you attempt it.

“dex, enough. i can’t,” you pant, voice bordering on barely concealed exhaustion and blissful satisfaction.

he shakes his head against you and that only makes you gasp again, throwing your head back.

“not until you promise hmm?” he says between his drunken moans, “you can’t leave me.”

crying out from overstimulating pleasure you nod, “okay, fuck— i won’t. you can stay.”

looking up at you through his hooded eyes, he smiles with them before kissing your inner thigh. he leaves gentle kisses to let you cool off, letting the feeling subside for barely a minute before diving right back into his ministrations. he lets you squeeze yours legs around his head and writhe as you say his name.

“now really try to suffocate me with these,” he says as he squeezes your thighs harder around his neck, turning his head to bite the plush of your thighs.

you know you’ll let him in again. you’ll always let him come back. maybe one day you’ll tell him how you follow him too.

You smile to yourself. The act coming from a place of slight amusement. It was like routine with Dex, when you close the door, he'll pretend he needs something from the other side — make up some kind of ruse in order for you to open it. 

Making your way to his side of the bed, you look inside his nightstand drawer for the charger that's almost always there, though it isn't. The neatly segregated contents void of the charger he claims he needs to collect. And so you adjust the towel still wrapped around you and sit yourself down at the edge of the bed. You glance to the near empty nightstand and to the door, and it's then you decide to toy with him for a moment.

"I'll pass it to you, one second," you tease. You pretend to search and tap your feet on the floor; remaining in place so as to give the illusion you were actually looking. "It's not in here."

"Well," he sighs, seemingly panicking for an excuse. "It is."

"Where is it?" you question, playfully provoking him. "I'll get it."

"Can I just come in?" he remarks, growing annoyance clear in his tone. "I'll be quick," he adds, voice far softer — like he was prompt to correct himself.

You give him a hum in response, but it doesn't have to be particularly loud for him to hear it. All he needs is the slightest possible confirmation in order to open the door. And like it was an instant invitation, he pushes it open and steps inside. 

He lingers in the door frame for a moment, eyes falling from the exposed expanse of your shoulders and down to your bare legs. His gaze reluctantly pulls away for a quick moment and to the kitchen behind him, the hot pans on the stove reminding him of where his prior attention was. Though he's thankful to have been ahead with forethought, and it's when he finally hears the pans reduce to a quiet, inconsistent sizzle, he steps further into the room.

Your eyes meet his, peered up gaze following his stalk like movements as he grows closer and closer. And it's then that he halts, big broad frame pausing in front of you — intense hazel eyes cast down on you below. You were fine playing with him between a closed door, fine to tease when he didn't face you; but to have him directly ahead of you, watchful gaze locked on you, you no longer felt that same sense to toy with him like you did before.

His eyes lower and focus in on your lap for a moment. And it's then his head tilts aside, like you were supposed to know what it means. 

Though you do and you give him a small nod. Again, it was all he needed. 

He bends at the knee and lowers, movement slow and controlled. He's far closer to the level of your eyes, but still, it feels like he's looking down upon you. Dex places his palms on either of your thighs, hands spread wide as he guides your legs apart — separating you. 

The placement of his thumbs lower on either side of your thighs, the pads itching along the inners of each with faint little circles he draws into your skin. He sits further onto the heels of his feet, and it's then he looks up at you, eyes heavy as they study the growing want in your face. 

His gaze soon diverts from you, though yours remains on him — watching him intently as he dips between your thighs, face turning aside so he can press his lips to the inners of one. Breath hot as his mouth ghosts your skin. The trail of his lips rises higher and higher and in it's place, a litter of kisses are left behind. 

Your head involuntarily falls back, and the rest of you then follows. You adjust and push yourself further up the bed, scooching back so as to kindly make some space for Dex between you. He moves with you, lips remaining in place at the inner of your thigh like his mouth is fused to your skin.

Getting comfortable betwixt your thighs, he rests on his elbows — face subsequently itching in closer to your cunt. He shifts his weight a moment, arms coming up from their placement at the edge of the bed to wrap around you; arms encompassing your lower hips. His fingers paw at the squish of your inner thighs, pads sort of pulsing your skin as he pries your legs further apart.

He's slow and teasing. Like he's making you wait the way you did him a few moments before. But really, he's only taunting himself. 

Nuzzling inwards, he presses a kiss to crease of your inner thigh, and then another and another, though the more that follow, the closer they get to your cunt. And by the fourth, maybe fifth kiss he sears into you, his lips reach the ones of your pussy.

Your stomach shudders as a direct response to his touch and it's when you feel your back lift from the sheets, that your hands shoot down and for his hair. Bending your legs, you lift your feet and place them at the edge of the mattress. You hook them, heels digging into that rimmed cuff as an effort to fix yourself more comfortably.

He presses another kiss to you, but this time, slightly higher than the one before. His lips reach your clit and it's there he resumes a small series of faint, and just as lengthy kisses — each one making your thighs beside his head twitch from the gentle care. His tongue extends outwards and he licks a stripe from the middle of your cunt, to where his lips remain just below the mound of your clit.

And he repeats that — doing so over and over and over until all that coats your cunt is a slight sheen of his spit. Before long, those licks turn into suckles; mouth moving deliberately in one spot, focus honed in on where you're most sensitive. Your clit.

With his grip still encompassed over the uppers of your thighs, he adjusts you within his grasp — angling and tilting your hips so as to better nuzzle his face between. You too reposition; altering the placement of your legs so they can trail down the length of his back, the behinds of your thighs pressing into his shoulders, the heels of your feet hooked at his sides.

It's as if you've inadvertently entrapped him, caged him between your thighs. But he's quick to return the gesture — quick to ensure he's just as trapped as you'd involuntarily made him. 

Dex's hold withdraws from your thighs and instead roams upwards, hands flat, thumbs leading the way as he runs up the sides of you, movement slow and intentional. He pauses when he reaches your tits, and it's then that he cups them; holding each nice and firm as he uses them as a way to anchor himself to you. To keep you exactly as is.

His tongue curls between your folds, the once flat muscle now pointed and deliberate as he pushes it through your pussy's lips — pressure slight, yet apparent as it divides you. While his touch is light, your body processes it as anything but, and as the tip of his tongue knocks up against your clit, you jerk against him. Hips winding and bucking a couple times against his face like you had no control over it.

Your nails rake across his scalp, fingers pushing through his hair just moments before you grab fistfuls on either side. While it was an effort of control on your side, it only encourages him, it simply eggs him on to have you respond in such a distinct and albeit, forceful way. 

But there's only so much direct pleasure you can take, especially when his mouth is so concentrated on your nub of nerves. And when he begins to tweak your nipples between thumb and index, you find yourself eager to scamper from the gratification he brings you. 

The height within you hasn't yet been located, but with every lick and suck and kiss he presses into your cunt, you feel yourself aimlessly creeping closer and closer towards it. Though it begins to teeter into too much and your hips shudder against his tongue as a means to escape from the bottomless pit of pleasure.

He doesn't let you far, not when his grip tightens around you.

"No," he murmurs into you, the word muffled yet firm — voice reverberating against your cunt. "Stay."

But as much as you try, you just can't. You react instinctively, body responding through lack of self-control, and it's in the following moment where you feel yourself reach that edge. 

You feel it harsh and fast. 

Your back curves from the sheets as you cry out, panting out nonsensically as he continues to tongue fuck you through it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you choke out, voice strained. Desperate. 

If you thought it felt too much before, you were surely mistaken; just blatantly erroneous. You make attempts to rid him from you — weakened hands pushing at his head, though it's no use, not when he further secures his grasp around you. 

"Keep still."

"Fuck," you whine. It's just shy of a mewl.

But when you really, seriously, genuinely try to flee, he lets up. He releases your shaking shuddering body and slowly stands, emerging from between your thighs. 

Dex leans over you, hands either side of you for support as he lowers atop, face itching in for yours. 

"Dinner's in fifteen," he hums against your lips, the taste of you on his tongue slight.

Even with his mouth ghosting yours, he neglects to press a kiss. Instead he pushes himself away from your bare body below and stands over you. His eyes trail over you a moment before he covers you with the towel that had fallen open from those ten-some minutes of tongue fucking. 

His absence grows larger, and as he heads for the door, he pauses — turning slightly to look back at you. Features stern, sort of like a warning. 

He taps at the door, head tilting so as to firm his expression.

"This stays open."

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.

“-ey, were you listening?” The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.

You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.

“Uh yeah, the closing right?” You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didn’t need something.

“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.

It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.

“Ah, I don’t-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didn’t want to close alone.

Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll appreciate it.

You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.

“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.

She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”

She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift. 

“You’re welcome.” It’s muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.

You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didn’t have any customers to tend to.

“You set?”

The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didn’t know how he could move so quietly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.

You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.

“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”

Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.

He wasn’t wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.

There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.

You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didn’t have the keys to those.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.

Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldn’t even flinch.

Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.

You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.

The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didn’t want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.

You quickened your steps.

There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.

The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.

You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.

You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldn’t have to wait too lon-

Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.

It wasn’t a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.

“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.

One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunching noise.

You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.

Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…

“Please, I’ll do anything please-“

He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”

It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.

You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.

Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.

They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.

You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.

This was not the time to freeze.

The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldn’t make out the words.

In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.

It wasn’t until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.

Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.

The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.

“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”

This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t even find out what happened.

Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.

No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.

You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.

The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.

A little bit more… five, four, three-

You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.

You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.

He wasn’t yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.

Shit.

Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.

This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve left.

But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.

Quite frankly, Dex couldn’t give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.

He hadn’t decided which.

“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.

“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”

Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.

Behind his mask, Dex’s lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.

The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.

“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”

Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because they’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson.

He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at people’s heels.

“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.

Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“

Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”

He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.

Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”

A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.

“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”

He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.

Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”

“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.

The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.

Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.

Time to find a little tattle-tale.

Maybe you did have powers.

It wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.

No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.

After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.

You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.

But you couldn’t stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.

There was something else.

In the last few days you’d had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.

You knew they were there. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.

There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.

The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t make sense.

Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?

It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadn’t come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.

You had to go out into the world eventually.

The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didn’t come in for your next shift.

You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.

Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.

“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.

You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.

It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.

Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.

It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.

You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.

“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.

More silence from you.

“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”

You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.

Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.

“You should take better care of your things.”

The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.

There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.

“Please don’t.” You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.

He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.

You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.

“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.

In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didn’t want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.

His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t understand why you were so calm.

Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.

He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.

You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”

He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”

Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.

You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.

The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, “What’re you doing?”

‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.

After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”

It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.

You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.

He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. “About a half hour.”

You blinked, “Oh, okay.”

Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.

In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”

His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.

You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.

“I’m sorry?” Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?

Unless… he wasn’t here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.

He must’ve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.

He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.

“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”

You blinked at him again, “Okay?”

“Yes.” His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.

With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.

“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.

You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.

Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.

A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.

You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.

You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.

Wait. He wouldn’t still be here, would he?

You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldn’t rule anything out.

Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.

Nothing.

You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.

You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.

Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.

It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d usually keep it.

You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.

Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food you’d been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.

All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.

What the hell is happening?

It’s just because you’ve been bored. Nothing else.

Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.

He did not do things for no reason.

That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?

It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.

As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.

He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didn’t try calling the police, not even once.

It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.

He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadn’t finished the job yet.

He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.

You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.

His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.

He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.

You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.

His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadn’t seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.

He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.

At him?

At him?

The fuck was he doing?

He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.

He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didn’t really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.

Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.

He couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t coming back the next day.

He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.

Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.

But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-

He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

Moretti didn’t exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.

Except he didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d find out eventually.

Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.

He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.

This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.

Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.

You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.

He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.

His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.

He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.

As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.

A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.

Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?

Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.

Not important, focus.

You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.

If he didn’t already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.

It made him angry.

Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.

He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.

Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.

He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.

Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing he’s good for. You would be no problem to take care of.

Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.

This wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.

You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.

You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.

There was something he was itching to do since he got there.

He didn’t show up that day.

Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.

Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ in your head.

The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.

A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?

No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you weren’t going to snitch.

You didn’t even consider calling the police.

You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.

Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.

You cracked open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and winced. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t talk to yourself either looking like this.

There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.

Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.

Your heartbeat quickened but you didn’t halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.

You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasn’t there.

The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.

Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?

You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.

But why would he clean your house then?

You weren’t sure if you’d ever find the answer to that last question.

Still on edge, you tip-toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.

You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.

“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”

Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.

Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”

His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost… happy?

You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. “What?” Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.

You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.

You wondered what he would look like without it.

You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.

“Nothing. What’s that about?” He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.

He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.

“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.

His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.

What?

The hell?

Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“

He only stared on with the same solid expression.

You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”

“No.”

You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”

Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”

You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.

There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, “Because I don’t want to. You…”

His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”

Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”

He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.

“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

It seems like he wasn’t even prepared for what the answer was.

You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.

Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.

Your only worry was what he would do with you.

“O-Okay.” Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.

You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didn’t see the redness in your face.

He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.

It should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.

He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?

You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.

It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.

“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.

There’s a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.

So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.

You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.

He was still focused on the food…

No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.

You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.

You didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve made a good piano player in another life.

The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.

You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didn’t think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.

You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.

The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.

You needed some background noise.

You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.

“And here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-“

The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.

“-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-“

The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didn’t need many guesses to know where it came from.

The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.

“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.

He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”

You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.

You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.

He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” He said after a thick swallow.

The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.

“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”

To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”

You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.

Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?

You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like he’d never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.

Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.

You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”

He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.

“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.

“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.

What he said made you curious, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”

He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”

“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.

“You’re not bothered by that?”

You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.

He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.

With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.

He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.

Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.

Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldn’t go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.

Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.

“Sit back.”

You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.

“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” He tapped the headrest for emphasis.

Okay, bossy.

You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.

You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didn’t falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldn’t keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.

You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.

It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…

The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.

He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.

You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.

He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, “I have to go.”

“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.

Knives arrived more frequently after that night.

He didn’t stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.

You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.

A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.

As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.

Someone knowing so much about you should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.

Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.

Unless, he does know you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s ignoring it.

You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.

Besides, after the day you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.

To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.

It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.

“About time.” Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.

Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.

You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.

You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.

“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.

You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.

“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.

Breathe, don’t let him get to you.

“I’m just going to do my job.”

His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”

You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.

You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.

Matthew wasn’t really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.

Because you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-

“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.

You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.

You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.

I bet knives never had to work in retail.

You’d be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.

He’d probably stab someone on his first day.

Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.

You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve been.

There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.

“Shit-” You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.

“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.

“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”

He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.

“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.

You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.

The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.

You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.

A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.

You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.

The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldn’t need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.

You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.

The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.

“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.

You’d usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.

He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.

“Who did that?” His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.

It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.

Even though you knew his anger wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”

Your clarification didn’t seem to calm him much.

He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.

You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”

“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.

You didn’t want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.

He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.

As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didn’t have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.

It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items he’d need.

You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.

There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.

“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.

The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.

“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.

“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”

And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.

He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.

You didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t accept it.

You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.

“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”

He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”

You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.

Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.

Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, “Are you upset?”

“Explain what happened.”

You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.

Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.

By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didn’t want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.

A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.

You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”

He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.

You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”

He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”

There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.

“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone was playfully mocking, but it was the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.

“I have.” He adverted his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”

You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.

“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.

“An officer.”

“Like, a police officer?”

“No. Not exactly.”

You blinked in confusion.

He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”

You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”

He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”

“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.

He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”

It was clear that was all the answers you’d get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.

There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.

An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.

To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.

“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”

You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”

A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”

You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.

Something else. Not you.

“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.

Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”

You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”

A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”

Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.

The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.

Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.

Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.

Or the next day. Or the next one after that.

He didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t quit either.

You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.

If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldn’t have any more problems.

Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.

You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.

Cared for.

But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.

Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.

It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.

Bullseye.

He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.

You didn’t care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.

Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.

You ignored the slithering thought, knowing it’s not true.

Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didn’t stray from.

He wouldn’t just dissapear.

Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.

You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, they’d talk about it here.

So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.

You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didn’t hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.

There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.

You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasn’t Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.

Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.

“Dex-” His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.

Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.

“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”

You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”

“Not Jesus, just me.”

You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.

“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.

“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.

“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”

You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”

You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”

That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.

Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.

Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.

“Ben, it’s okay.”

His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.

You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.

The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.

Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyelids as you did so.

You couldn’t stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.

His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.

It wasn’t until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.

It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.

You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.

“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.

“I do.”

“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t made for him.

It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand-to accept, but he did, and you could do the same for him.

“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”

Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.

You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.

That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.

While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.

You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.

He couldn’t seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.

His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.

You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.

Lucky for him you didn’t want any.

In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.

You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer.

You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.

His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. “No, get out of that suit first.”

He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”

He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.

He wasn’t as injured as you’d assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.

You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.

His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.

It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.

His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.

The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where he’d already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.

You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.

His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.

It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.

His eyes weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”

It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.

“So do them.”

He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.

He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.

Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.

You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”

You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.

You didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”

Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”

The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.

The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.

It only made wetness pool in your core.

“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.

It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.

“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.

“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.

“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.

“Hmm, interesting.” He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.

He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.

“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.

“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.

“Yours.”

“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.

“Me.”

You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.

He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.

You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.

Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.

His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.

They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.

You couldn’t even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.

Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.

Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didn’t let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.

You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.

His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.

Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.

He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.

“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.

You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.

He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.

You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.

“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”

The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.

You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.

He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.

It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.

The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.

Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.

The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.

Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.

You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.

“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.

So you waited.

Until you didn’t.

His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.

“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.

You couldn’t even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.

Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.

He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.

You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.

His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.

His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.

He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.

You couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.

He didn’t rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.

The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.

All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.

His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.

The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.

His face hadn’t moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.

“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.

“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d be consequences of soreness the next day.

He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.

A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”

He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”

“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scarred spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”

He didn’t make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.

Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.

“Hey Dex?”

He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.

“What happened?” You didn’t have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.

A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.

The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though he’d been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was… rousing to say the least.

His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.

“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.

You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.

The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.

“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”

He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.

“I’m with you.”

You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.

Div by: @pixopix

You’re making dinner when Dean comes home. The TV is still on, and so is the smoke alarm.

“Son of a– Move!” His eyes widen at the sight of you fanning the fire on the counter. He quickly steps behind you and steers you aside with his hands on your waist. With practiced ease, he snuffs out the fire, though smoke still lingers in the air.

You don’t even know how it happened. One minute, you’re flipping through your magazine, waiting for the pasta to cook. And the next, you find your fluffball dragging the burning dishcloth across the countertop, a trail of fire following her like she was straight out of hell.

Dean already told you not to leave your magazines near the stove to avoid a fire hazard. But what are you supposed to do while waiting for the food besides reading? Your phone is too distracting. You’d forget about whatever you’re making the moment you start scrolling.

Welp. You should’ve just listened to the expert. Lesson learned.

Dean turns off the alarm and dumps all of the newest issues, or what’s left of them, into the trash, then turns to you.

“Damn it, sweetheart. How many times do I have to tell you to put these away? It’s dangerous. What if–” He tilts his head, and his voice softens instantly when he notices your tremble. His hands find your shoulders. “You okay? I’m sorry, baby. C’mere.”

He tucks you into his chest, arms around your smaller frame. You can hear the frantic heartbeat through his uniform shirt, which tells you the fireman is more concerned than angry.

“I’m okay.” You murmur, though your hands are shaking. “Sorry, baby. I didn’t think it would be that bad.”

“‘Course you didn’t.” His arms tighten around you for a second too long, like he needs to feel you, all warm and breathing, before he can relax.

“One of these days, I’m gonna come home and find you roastin’ marshmallows while my clothes are burning,” he laughs. “Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart. I like surprises, but I prefer having a roof over my head.”

You huff a small laugh. “Hey!”

“What? Like you didn’t set our kitchen on fire ten seconds ‘fore I even stepped through the door.”

“It was the cat.” You mumble, and a playful scoff escapes Dean.

“Riiiight,” he drawls, his voice vibrating pleasantly in your ears. “And you were aidin’ it.”

“Did not!”

“Then how are you gonna explain that?” He jerks his chin to the trash, and your lips pull into a small pout as you wriggle in his arms. “It was herrrr!”

Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. “Alright then, maybe we should do somethin’ ‘bout it. Teach the little felon a lesson. Maybe no treats tonight?”

Your cat chooses this moment to strut into the kitchen and mewl in protest like she’s been eavesdropping all along.

“You got a problem with that?” Dean turns his head to talk to her.

She answers with another meow. Then she rolls onto her back, wriggling on the kitchen island like someone else just did. Dean bites back another laugh, his eyes crinkling as he looks down at you.

“You realize your cat just committed at least three felonies, right?” he says. “I swear, baby, she’d had it out for me since the day she got me called out to rescue your ass.”

“Pffft. Now you’re being dramatic.”

“Attempted murder, destruction of property, conspiracy–”

“That’s it.” You rise onto your toes and press a kiss to his lips. A small triumphant grin spreads across your face. You wanted to shut him up, and you did.

But the victory lasts about two seconds.

Before you can pull away, Dean’s hand is already in your hair, soft lips brushing against yours. “Not so fast,” he murmurs, settling his other hand at the small of your back to draw you closer.

He kisses you slowly this time, and you melt right into him. A soft hum escapes you when his thumb slips under the hem of your shirt and strokes your skin. Your fingers curl into the back of his uniform, holding on a little tighter.

The fuzzball purrs once but quickly pads out of the kitchen after realizing she’s no longer the center of attention. Probably off plotting her next crime.

Eventually, you come up for air because breathing is still a thing around here. Dean brushes his nose against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Cheating.”

You let out a small, breathless laugh and return the nose kiss. “I’m sorry. You must have been fighting tooth and nail against it. Poor you.”

Dean snorts, thumb rubbing gently behind your ear. “Now, don’t get smart on me, trouble. You’re the one harborin’ a fugitive.”

“Really, Dean? We’re still on that?”

Another laugh rumbles in his chest as he hooks an arm around your waist and turns you back toward the stove.

To your credit it wasn’t like you went out often, maybe once every two months after your friend Leah practically begged you to, but Dex dreaded it anyways. You didn’t even enjoy going out, you got so nervous about what you’d wear that you’d think about your outfit all week and show off different variations to Dex the night before. While he didn’t mind the fashion show, admittedly he enjoyed seeing you in a miniskirt and chunky, healed boots, he hated seeing how self conscious you’d get when you tried stuff on.

You never enjoyed loud, crowded spaces either. Bars were always packed and clubs were obnoxious with the volume of music and it’s not like you were the type to dance. It made Dex’s heart ache when he saw how stilted and uncomfortable you looked when he peered through the windows. It was evident that you’d rather be at home, with him, curled up under a blanket listening to the sound of his voice as he read aloud to you.

Still, because you were a good friend to Leah you would end up going out. Dex would walk you to the bar and greet Leah politely and you’d walk inside after planting a kiss on his cheek and giving him a hug. 

“I’ll text you when I’m ready to leave.” You’d say quiet enough for only him to hear. He’d nod, place his baseball hat on, then watch you trail your friend inside the establishment and make his way to the back of the building where a fire escape ladder was placed. 

Dex was accustomed to rooftops, he did his best work on them. As much as Dex wanted to bed on his hands and knees for you to stay home with him, he never wanted to be the demanding, needy boyfriend that so many girls suffered from. While you may be younger than him, you’re still an adult, and Dex has always treated you like one. So he compromises by perching himself on a rooftop across the street so he can watch you through the lens of his telescope. 

Tonight you’re dressed in a pair of black, ripped jeans because it’s a little cold out and a gray, cropped t-shirt. You look effortlessly pretty, the neck of your shirt is stretched out so it slips off one shoulder showing off the slope of your neck and your delicate collarbones. Through the lens Dex can see the shift of your muscle and bone under your soft skin. With enough staring, he convinces himself that he can smell your bright, clean, perfume. 

You rake a hand through your hair and sip your drink as Leah sits beside you at the bar speaking animatedly. Thankfully, she hadn't asked you to go out to the dance club which would’ve been your greatest nightmare but instead wanted to go to the dive bar near your apartment. It was the same one where Dex overheard you talking to your friends, it felt like forever ago and even though so much had changed in yours and Dex’s life since that fateful night the bar was still the same. The same black and white tile floors, the same neon bar signs and christmas lights, the same bartender and tacky countertops. You didn’t mind this location that much, it had an old fashioned jukebox and it was fun to watch people play pool. One time Dex took you there on a Saturday afternoon and showed you how he played a perfect game, sinking each ball perfectly.

The soft lights in the bar made your purple, metallic nail polish gleam. Each nail looked like a perfect jewel, catching and shifting color under the haze as you stirred your jack and coke with your straw. You were listening intently at whatever Leah was saying and Dex smiled when you smiled, your nice teeth peaking out from under your lips in a laugh that made a line of arousal shoot down Dex’s spine. What a gorgeous girl.

Leah got up and walked to the bathroom leaving you alone at the bar. You glanced at your phone, typing in your password and pulling up your messages. Dex saw you move your thumbs as you wrote out a message then shut your phone off after sending it. A few seconds later his own phone buzzed, he smiled when he lowered the telescope and checked what you sent him. 

I miss you. Want to get me in fifteen minutes? I love you.

He grinned, tucking his telescope under his arm and leaning against the brick ledge of the wall so he could text you back. 

I miss you too. I will be outside waiting for you. I love you too.

Sliding his phone back into the pocket of his cargos he smiled as he thought about how soon he’d be smelling your perfume for real and feel you pressed into his side. You usually had a hard out at 9:30 PM when you went out with Leah, itching to be home with Penny and in your comfies rather than a pair of jeans. Dex mentally went through what pajamas of yours were clean as he decided which ones he wanted to dress you in when you got home. He decided on the soft, waffle knit skirts and the oversized RIT crewneck you found at a thrift store. 

Placing the telescope back up to his eye he expected to see you talking with Leah again but instead of Leah being by your side there was someone else. Someone else who was leaning into your space, talking to you, holding a credit card in their hand. In his hand. 

A guy. Not just any guy but a guy who seemed close to you in age and was noticeably attractive. He was tall, taller than Dex making him over six feet and seemed athletic in a runner way, lean and lanky but muscular enough to look proportional. He had straight, messy brown hair that was a little long in a 90’s way and skin that was lightly tanned like he just got back from vacation. His eyes were light blue, contrasting his hair in a way that could only be described as dazzling and an easy, kind smile that was inviting. He was dressed casually in a soccer jersey and jeans that made him look cool. When he spoke his lips naturally curled into a grin, he was trying to make you laugh. 

And even though this mystery guy's attempts at trying to make you smile were not working and you clearly seemed uninterested in him; evil, rotten, rage-fueled jealousy surged through Dex’s blood making the vein in his neck pop and his grip on the telescope tighten. Dex trusted you, he watched you from across the street not because he was worried you would leave him but because he was worried someone would try to hurt you, and yet he couldn’t help but feel envious of the guy in front of you. He was the complete opposite of Dex, and he was hitting on you.

This guy was carefree and fun whereas Dex thrived off of structure and rules. This guy was tan and brunette whereas Dex was blonde and fair skinned. Most importantly and most obviously, this guy was your age. Dex was almost ten years your senior. 

The age gap had never bothered either you or Dex. It was never a point of discussion unless you referenced a show or movie from your childhood that Dex didn’t recognize or when Dex complained about his shoulder or knees hurting. Sure you were younger but nothing about you was immature, you didn’t even like being called a ‘girl’ and preferred to be referred to as a ‘woman’. You were an adult who paid their own bills and had a full time job, Dex never recognized the gap because it rarely felt like there was one. 

You said something to the guy, his shoulder was blocking part of your face so he couldn’t read your lips, and eventually he backed off but Dex’s envy still remained. Dex could feel his pulse through his fingertips, watching as Leah returned to the bar and you broke the news that you would be heading out soon. It was his queue to leave, so he collapsed his telescope and scaled down the side of the building with a few jumps, landing on the pavement nimbly and making his way across the street. Just as you pushed the door open he made it to the cement side walk just outside the bar.

“Hi baby.” You greeted, your face melting into that sweet smile of yours that he adored so much as you opened your arms asking for a hug. Dex’s turmoil was pushed aside quickly as the constant, lingering feeling of neediness took its place at the suggestion of a hug. He wrapped you up in his arms and pressed his nose into your scalp, you always smelled so clean and it made him feel grounded. “I missed you.” You mumbled into the fabric of Dex’s jacket. He knew that you knew he was always within a few hundred feet of you when you went out but it still made his heart pound that you missed him when he wasn’t near you. Dex always wanted to be wanted, especially by you. 

“Lets go home sweetheart.” He whispered to you, pulling you against him with a firm, warm hand that you instinctively leaned into. You tucked your head onto his shoulder and as much as Dex wanted to pick you up and carry you back to the apartment he knew you would protest, claiming that you could walk on your own even though he knew that your boots were pinching your toes. 

When the two of you eventually get back to your apartment complex he dropped you off at your door after pressing a tentative kiss on your lips and assuring you he’d be back in a few minutes after he showered and changed into something comfier. Weekends were for sleepovers and more often than not they were at your apartment because you feared Penny would get lonely. Dex never minded, your apartment was objectively more cozy than his and he knew you had trouble falling asleep in a bed that wasn’t your own. 

In the sterile light of his bathroom Dex got undressed and waited for the water to warm up. Catching his reflection in the mirror he frowned, were his temples always that gray or was this a new development? He leaned closed towards the mirror, assessing the sides of his head and ran his fingers through the short, gray, hairs that stood out against the blond in the harsh lighting. You liked the gray hairs, you even affectionately called them his ‘shimmer strands’ on multiple occasions, always running your fingers through them when he laid his head on your lap or when you kissed him. But would you like them when they weren’t just on the sides of his head?

Raking his fingers through his short hair he pushed it back so he could assess his hairline which at the very least wasn’t receding and still going strong. He wasn’t balding in the back either which was a blessing but as he combed through the blond he began spotting a few rogue grays that were on the top of his head and not just on the sides. The familiar feeling of panic started rearing its ugly head and Dex tried to take long, deep breaths in an effort to try and calm down. 

As he breathed in for eight seconds then out for eight more, he continued to stare at himself in the mirror. At first glance he certainly didn’t look old, he was only thirty-five and in very good health due to his long runs in the morning and calisthenics workouts he did at the gym, but up close was a different story. He had the beginnings of crows feet forming on the sides of his hazel eyes, lines on his forehead and between his brows from his constant scowling, and laugh lines that were more prominent on the left side of his face rather than the right. He always thought he was so much more symmetrical, was age jacking up his face?

The mirror began to fog from the steam billowing out of the shower and Dex relented and finally got in, scrubbing his body extra hard as if he could wipe away any signs of age. As he rubbed his skin red and raw he thought of you and your soft skin and the natural, youthful glow that was especially prominent when you were smiling or fresh out of the shower. You may not care about the age gap now, but what happens when he turns forty, or even fifty? When it becomes significantly more noticeable  because of the wrinkles on Dex’s face and when his hair is more gray than blond. Would you care then? 

Dex knows already that you are far too good for him and better than anything he could ever deserve. You’re sweet, you love animals, you’re forgiving when you shouldn’t be. Last week you paid for the coffee for the person in front of you because they were low on change. You keep one petal from every bouquet you’ve ever bought and press them into journals. You have a strict routine that you altered just so you could make space and time for Dex. 

And who was Dex besides an incredibly medicated FBI agent who had twice weekly therapy appointments? His only skill was his aim and without his aim he was not impressive. He was just old. 

As Dex dried himself off and put on the gray crewneck that he knows is your favorite, his shoulder twinges, another reminder that he’s not as young and spry as he used to be, then slips on his slides and lumbers over to your apartment. When he gets inside he’s greeted by Penny who rubs at his shins and as he leans down to pet her his lower back starts to ache because he pushed himself a little too hard during his work out the day prior. How annoying. 

Making his way through your apartment he can still hear you in the shower so he picks out the pajamas that he thoughtfully planned out for you. You’re humming in the shower, loose from the two cocktails he watched you drink while you were out which was evident by the amount of kisses you asked for while walking home. 

“Hiii sweetheart.” You say in a sing-song voice when you hear Dex come into the bathroom and sit on your toilet seat. The water turns off just as Dex settles down and you push the shower curtain back revealing the smooth, delicate, planes of your body. Dex is already up, reaching for your towel and trying to ignore the sharp throb that shot up his knee from the abrupt motion. He had walked around with you in the morning at the market then crouched on a roof all evening, he felt decrepit. 

“I think I’m going to have ice cream.” You murmur as Dex watches you slip on your clothing. Smooth legs sliding into your cute shorts, your crewneck oversized on your shoulders as water from your hair already leeches into the neck of it. You lather on your serum then your moisturizer in quick, practiced strokes like always, then scrunch the ends of your hair with a towel. 

Dex watches you wordlessly, his insides clawing under his skin, begging to grab the silken skin of your thigh and nuzzle his face into your hip, but he remembers how rough his hands can be and worries he may scratch your flawless body. The feeling of your fingertips caressing the side of his jaw snaps Dex out of his spiral as he sees you looking down at him with a smile on your face. 

“You look so handsome when you have scruff.” Now your whole hand is cupping the side of his face, letting the scratch of Dex’s facial hair rub into the delicate flesh of your palm. Dex wants to jerk away but he knows it would break not only your heart but his. He loves when you touch his face, it wasn’t something he ever experienced before he met you, and it’s quickly become one of his favorite things. 

“Yeah?” Is all Dex manages to say. His eyes already feel like they’re burning so he blinks rabidly to try and suppress any tears that may well up. Your open fondness for him triggered something within Dex that made his eyes start to well up due to an overwhelming feeling of neediness. 

“Yeah.” Your voice is petal soft. “It makes the lines of your face stand out and-”

“L-lines of my f-face?” 

He’s back to square one. He’s old. You recognize that he’s old. It’s noticeable that he’s old. You are uncomfortable with the fact that he is old.

It doesn’t even matter how embarrassing his voice just sounded. The question came out scrambled, Dex’s voice sounding a pitch higher than usual and he has a bad habit of gasping and stuttering as he speaks when he gets nervous. All that matters is that you recognize that he is old.

“Yeah,” You say slowly, kneeling in front of him as he still sits on the toilet seat. Dex has begun panting and he hates how alarmed you look, he should be the one calming you down not the other way around. “Like the lines of your bone structure.”

“Do you mean wrinkles?” He blurts out, hands balled into fists on his knees. You rest a hand over one of them, squeezing his wrist and tugging it as you stand so he follows you out of the bathroom and onto the soft quilt on your bed. 

It was happening. It was all crumbling down. The guy you met at the bar made you realize that you did not love him anymore and you think you should be with someone your own age. You hate him. You think he’s a creep.

“Ben what-”

“Are you breaking up with me because I’m old?”

Your grip on his wrist tightens and you balk at the question. Dex watches as your face instantly contorts into confusion, brows knitted together and you squint your eyes like you misheard the question. You blink rapidly then move your hand so your fingers are laced with his. 

“Why would I break up with you?” You manage to say, your voice high and thin. Now you’re blinking back tears and Dex regrets everything because he made you upset. You’re upset and it’s all his fault, another mistake and another reason for you to not want him.

“Because you don’t like that I’m older than you.” Dex murmurs, wiping at his face with his free hand and sniffling wetly to try and keep everything in. He grips your hand, scared that if he stops he’ll never touch you again. 

“I never said that.” You say softly. He watches your chest rise and fall in heavy breaths. You’re trying to stay grounded and your hand is back on the side of his face and Dex instinctively leans into it. “I like that you’re older. Do you not like that I’m younger.”

“I don’t care that you’re younger, you’re an adult.” He says quickly, his eyes fluttering shut as you rub his cheek. 

“Then what’s the problem?”

Dex huffs and you tug him closer so he’s leaning into your side and resting his head on your shoulder. He can smell the clean scent of your laundry detergent and the wheatgrass in your shampoo.

“I saw that guy talking to you at the bar.” He mumbles. You nod and lean your cheek into the top of his head just after pressing a kiss near his hairline. 

“Yeah I figured.” You whispered back. “He asked to buy me a drink and wouldn’t leave me alone.” Dex feels your fingers comb through the hair at his temples and he shivers. “You know what I said to him that finally got him to back off?” There’s a hint of a smile in your voice and suddenly Dex’s interest is piqued. 

“What?” Dex leans into you harder so eventually he’s slumped over with his head on your lap. You keep running your fingers through the hair at his temples as his breathing begins to slow. 

“I said my boyfriend is an FBI agent and would hunt him down if he kept talking to me.”

Dex’s eyes shoot open and he turns to look up at you. You’re smiling down at him, your eyes squinting and crinkling at the sides. Just like him. 

“You said that?” Something deep and fond rips into his chest and the ache of worry is replaced with adoration. 

“Yeah.” Your thumb swipes at a stray tear that managed to slip out and rubs it into the lines near Dex’s eyes. “I told him you were a sniper. That you never missed.”

Dex’s mouth breaks out into a wide, crooked, toothy grin. 

“Tiger shark.” You whisper into his forehead before pressing a kiss onto it. When you lean back you stare down at him sweetly and he places his hand over yours so he can feel your cool fingers slide against his. “I’ve always liked that you’re older than me.” You admit and Dex’s chest continues to swell. “You’re more settled into your job which allows you to be very stable. I like stable, you know that.”

“Mmhmm.” Dex replies. Still smiling up at you as you trace the lines of his forehead with your fingernail. 

“But stability aside, I like you, or rather love you, for a lot more reasons. I love how you treat me like I’m your equal. I love how we are cut from the same cloth in a lot of ways. I love the way you take care of me and watch over me. And,” You lean into him and press a soft kiss on his lips, both your eyes remain open, “I happen to love the way you look.”

“Really?” Dex asks after a brief pause, still in slight disbelief at how perfect you really were. North Star. 

“Really.” You affirm. “I love the way you are right now, in this phase of life. You’ve shown me pictures of you when you were younger and you were very, very cute. But I like this version of you. I think you’re one of those guys who only gets better with age. I love that about you. Makes me think that I met you at just the right time.” You smile, then Dex smiles, then you share another kiss as he is still lying with his head in your lap only now the tears have subsided. 

“You don’t think it’s disgusting that I look older?” He presses, still feeling needy and wanting reassurance. 

“You could never be disgusting to me.” Dex moans lightly at the way your fingers scratch his scalp, your worlds licking his open wounds. “And you’re only 35, you’re not even old.”

“I have wrinkles.”

“Everyone has wrinkles. And that’s a good thing. Aging is a privilege.”

The statement sits in Dex’s chest, heavy and important. He thinks about where he was when he was your age. Fresh faced and working as a SWAT officer. Violence and rigidity kept him in line, it was a harsh time in his life but then again his whole life was painful. These moments with you, his North Star, was the most peace he had felt in a long time. No more needless suffering. It would be a privilege to grow old with you.

“I love you.” He murmurs into the skin of your hand, kissing the scar on your palm delicately.

“I love you too baby.” You whisper back. You press another kiss onto his lips and Dex admires the soft skin of your eyelids and how naturally long your lashes look. You pull back from him with a soft look on your face and Dex moves to sit up straight. “Now come get ice cream with me.” You’re tugging at his hands and pulling him so he stands up. Dex mindlessly follows you into the kitchen where you split the last few bites of cookies and cream that’s in the freezer. 

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Thank you for 100 followers! You guys are really sweet and I’m so grateful for all the notes. <3

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Caution! Wet Floor!

He chuckles, low and warm, and doesn’t break his stride as he leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “Common name.”

“There’s like, a whole movie about how bad of an idea this name is to use with our current status.”

“What movie?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith?”

“Sounds pretty on the nose.”

“See, you do this. I genuinely can’t tell if you’re fucking with me sometimes.”

You look up, and he smirks. Raises an eyebrow.

“That face isn’t helping.”

“You think I’m being funny?”

“Now I do.”

“You’re in a mood.”

“And you’re laughing at me about it. I can see it in your eyebrows.”

His smile grows, and he leans down to press a kiss to your nose. You scrunch it up, and your frown deepens.

He does laugh now, seemingly delighted by your grumpiness, and catches your chin to turn your face toward his. He leans down again, pressing his lips to your cheek. Your nose again. Your other cheek. Your jaw. Over and over until you’re losing the fight with a smile of your own. You don’t have much of a problem with PDA, but Dex seems to genuinely enjoy it. Even before, before he became Bullseye and went to prison and lost the rest of his fucking mind, he was never averse to sliding an arm around you when you waited in line for coffee, or pressing a kiss to the side of your head as you walked down the street together.

Now, crazier and bolder and so much less worried about how the world sees him, the asshole pulls back with a squeeze to your ass that has you squeaking in surprise.

“Sleep on the plane.” He hums, hiking your bag up a little higher over his shoulder.

You do your best to puff your protest, to roll your eyes, but you’re still blushing.

“I don’t need sleep.”

“You’re only mad at me when you’re tired.” He looks down, raises an eyebrow. “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m irritated with you. Stop doing the eyebrow thing.”

His low chuckle, despite your irritation, settles itself in your bones like a warm embrace. Fuck, you love him. It would be so much easier to be pissy with him if you didn’t love him so much.

“You’re still laughing at me.” You try, in a final weak attempt to to a grump.

He squeezes your side, unbothered as can be. “Sleep on the plane, baby.”

-

You fall asleep before the plane even takes off, and wake up when you land.

And, true to his word and his obsessive knowledge of every mood you’ve ever been in, you’re happier than ever when you depart from the airport and begin the long, winding drive to your new temporary home.

When the two of you decided on where to go, you picked somewhere warm. Somewhere by the water. Somewhere, obviously, as secluded as possible from the outside world. And, thanks to your skills and a bit of Dex’s input, you managed to secure a small cabin on the beach in a tropical country right smack-dab in the middle of nowhere.

It’s night when you finally pull into the overgrown driveway, the hum of the jungle foreign and heavy around you.

Dex brings the bags inside, and you sit in the car for an extra few moments despite the ache in your bones from all of the travel. One more wire transfer, one more sweep of everything to make sure the two of you are completely off the grid, and a full shut down of your portable WiFi, and…

As if by some second instinct, Dex pulls the car door open just as you’re closing your computer.

“Home sweet home.” He hums, already reaching for you like the ten minutes of separation was a personal offense. You smile, hopping out of the passenger seat and sliding your fingers up through his cropped hair. He leans into your touch, like always, and looks down at you through like you’re the only other person in the world. Like always.

“Perimeter swept? No giant spiders?”

His smile widens, and he rests his forehead comfortably against your own. “None I couldn’t handle.”

“Sounds promising.”

And, with that, you let him lead you into your new home.

To your surprise, candles are strewn about the room, casting a steady glow on the simple bed in the center. You can hear the ocean. Hell, you can see it through the curtains, reflecting moonlight off the waves.

You suppose being on the lam isn’t so bad, after all.

“What, no rose petals?” You joke, turning to Dex only to find the spot behind you completely empty.

Your brow furrows, and you call his name into the silence of the little cabin. Nothing.

Immediately, your mind goes to the worst case scenario. He’s been taken. Snatched away from you in the span of a second and now he’s bleeding out again somewhere you’ll never find and-

You feel something whiz past your arm. One of the candles snuffs out, plunging one corner of the room into darkness.

You blink, and narrow your eyes a little. “Dex?”

Another candle goes out, the soft whoosh of whatever is being thrown sputtering out the flame. This time, as realization dawns on you, you feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Another candle. Another. Two more in quick succession.

The room is cast in a low, hazy glow. One candle remains standing, flickering in the now too-low light of the room.

Your eyes scan the room again, finding nothing but shadow, and the last candle snuffs out and plunges the room into darkness.

You can feel his presence nearby, but you still can’t see him. A predator hunting prey. It sends a thrill through you, and you smile a little wider.

Carefully, you turn, trying to find his silhouette in the moonlight. You still see nothing, and wonder just how far he’s planning to take this little game, when you suddenly feel the prickle of warm breath against the column of your throat.

His hand slides down over your arm. His lips brush your neck, and you lean back against him as he slides his fingers over yours and turns you towards him.

“What was that about?” You murmur, distracted by the warm kisses trailing over your skin, the calloused fingers curling through your own.

“Romance.” He murmurs, and you laugh.

“Usually, the candles stay lit for romance.”

“Can’t throw fire, baby. I can just put ‘em out.”

“What other skills are you planning to show off tonight, Bullseye?”

His chuckle is low and warm, and in a second you’re lifted off of your feet and tossed through the air, bouncing on what you can only assume is the dead center of the mattress. You land with a delighted laugh, and feel his presence at the edge of the bed, large hands sliding reverently up over your thighs until he reaches the button of your jeans. He undoes them in one smooth twitch of his fingers, and then pulls the hem of your shirt up so he can press a slow, warm kiss to your stomach at the same time he slides them down over your legs.

He always undresses you like he hasn’t a thousand times before. Like it’s the first time, every time. You hear his breath catch as he pulls your shirt over your head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and his mouth trails over every inch of skin he can reach until you’re tangling your fingers in his hair to drag him up to kiss you.

“All mine.” He whispers against your lips, large body enveloping yours. “North Star.”

You arch into him, every molecule in your body begging to be closer to his. You pull at his t-shirt until he removes it, then his pants, until you’re both completely bare, nothing between you but the barest whisper of warm tropical air and the sound of the waves crashing on the beach.

This doesn’t feel like running. This feels like finally being home. Like you’re the only two people in the entire world, and everything that nearly ripped you away from each other before will never be able to find you again.

He has your leg hooked over his shoulder, large fingers digging into the skin of your thigh as he trails his mouth down over your calf, bites at the inside of your knee so sharply you yelp, and chuckles when you huff and squirm in irritation.

“Stay still, baby.” He chastises gently, grinning wide as he nuzzles his nose against the inside of your thigh. You’re about to make some kind of comment, when the distant shriek of a tropical bird outside cuts you off.

“That was loud.” You observe, curious. You’re used to the white noise of the city. To traffic honking at three in the morning and shouting from the street. This new environment might just take some getting used to.

Dex seems completely unfazed, barely bothering to remove his mouth from your skin. “You’ll be louder.”

You roll your eyes, and try to fight a smile as his lips finally reach their intended destination. “Someone’s feeling cocky toni- oh my God.”

He hums, raising an eyebrow up at you, and his smirk would make you roll your eyes again if you still had the ability to form a coherent thought.

He takes you apart like the act his his personal favorite pastime, blue eyes falling closed like he’s in fucking heaven. You tangle your fingers in his hair, head rolling back against the pillows as your free hand flies up to instinctively cover your mouth.

His own hand shoots out, catching it with perfect accuracy and pressing it firmly down into the sheets beside you.

“Louder.” He growls, doubling his efforts, and it takes no time at all for you fall apart with a cry of his name, thighs squeezing either side of his head so tightly that his groan of approval vibrates through your entire body.

As you fall back to earth, he crawls atop you, a mountain of a silhouette in the darkness of the room, and when you reach up to cradle his face in your hands he turns to press a kiss to the heel of your palm.

“That’s one.” He murmurs, and you can feel the curve of his smile against your skin.

You smile back, and hook your leg around his hip, flipping him onto his back and straddling his hips between your still-shaky legs.

“Fuck.” He breathes, dropping his head back and sliding rough palms up over your thighs, gripping your hips tightly enough that you hope he leaves bruises. “You’re an angel.”

“I definitely don’t fit that description.” You hum, leaning down to brush your lips over his. He chases your kiss, and you pull back, leaning down instead to nip playfully at the underside of his jaw. “Totally your fault, by the way.”

“Corruption looks good on you, baby.” He rasps, fingers trailing up your sides and making you shiver. “You gonna cuff me again?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You see the glint of his teeth, pearly white in the moonlight as he grins up at you. His hands grip your hips a little more tightly, lifting you up as effortlessly as if you weigh nothing, and you gasp as he sinks you back down onto him with that same downright inhuman precision.

“Fuck.” It’s your turn to breathe the word, fingers curling against his biceps as he starts to move you against him, guiding your body atop his in a way that already has him hitting that perfect spot with every slow movement. 

“Not an angel,” he murmurs, voice already rough and strained, “but you feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You whimper, leaning down to capture his lips with your own, and he growls into your mouth before he flips you onto your back, sliding one hand into your hair as the other hooks your leg around his waist.

“Mine.” He growls, low, and you fucking love when he gets like this. When he makes every movement a challenge to himself to see how good he can make you feel. When he looks at you like you’re the only other person in the world. “All mine.”

You nod your agreement, and you’re already so far gone it’s almost ridiculous. You grasp at his biceps, nails digging into his skin before you drag them up to his hair and yank him down to kiss him so desperately you can’t remember how to breathe right.

He angles his hips just right, speeding up his movements until your entire body is trembling with need. He doesn’t look away from your face, not for a second, and as you feel the edge approaching fast as you lean up to gasp into his mouth, nails digging deep into whatever part of him you can reach.

“Mine.” Another rough thrust has you choking on air, but you stil grip him closer. “You’re mine.”

He groans, and grabs your hands to slam them into the mattress above your head.

“Give it to me.” He whispers, burying his face in your neck as your eyes flutter closed. “Let me feel it.”

You fall to fucking pieces, crying out his name and digging your heel into his back as you try to remember how to breathe. 

He moans, low and wrecked and downright starved, and digs his teeth into your shoulder. His movements slow, just a bit, but he doesn’t stop. You gasp, and squirm beneath him, and he angles himself to hit that perfect spot again until it’s too overwhelming. Too much.

“Oh God,” you whimper, and he pulls back just enough to grin at you, dropping down to catch your lip between his teeth as he starts to move faster. You gasp again, and you might even try to push him off at the overstimulation if he didn’t still have you pinned beneath him.

“Dex.” It’s a plea, a desperate gasp, and he nods as his fingers lock even more tightly around your wrists.

“Again.” It’s a command, but it’s still too fast. Too much too quickly. You don’t know if you fucking can.

“P-please.” You breathe, and he bites harder at your skin, possessive.

“Again. You can. I know you can.”

“I…I’m- oh, fuck. Please.”

One hand releases your wrists, dragging down your body until you feel his fingers working between you in time with his thrusts and you can’t think you can’t breathe you need-

“That’s right.” His mouth moves up, and he bites at the shell of your ear, and your toes curl as your heart threatens to beat its way out of your chest. “Scream for me.”

And you do.

It takes you both a good while to come back to yourselves, with you trying to catch your breath and ease the shaking in your legs and Dex trailing slow, mindless kisses over your marked skin.

“I’m yours.” He murmurs, so quiet you almost don’t even hear it, and you smile as you nudge the top of his head with your nose until he leans up to kiss you again.

Your fingers trail through his hair, the blond strands soft between your fingers, and you smile.

“You’re mine.” You confirm, and he makes a noise like a helpless whimper against your lips, like his love is so overwhelming that it might break him. “And I’m yours.”

-

When you wake, it’a to early morning sunlight and the trills of tropical birds. Waves crashing on the beach nearby. Dex’s arms wrapped tightly around you, and the warm skin of his bare chest against your cheek.

You move to snuggle closer, but when you lift your hand to wrap your arm around him something glints in the quiet light of dawn.

There’s a ring on your finger. A simple, beautiful diamond ring. When you look closer, you see that it’s tinted blue.

“Dex?” Your voice is hoarse with sleep, and his eyes are still closed, but you see his lips twitch upwards in a small smile. He’s pretending to be asleep. He does that, sometimes, as odd as it is. You don’t know if he thinks it’s funny, or if he’s trying to find an excuse to watch you sleep that he doesn’t need, but you’ve always found that particular quirk to be one of his strangest.

“I know you’re awake, psycho.” You accuse, and his smile grows as he tugs you closer and buries his nose in the hollow of your throat, sliding his knee between yours and rolling atop you. You wiggle beneath the mountain of muscle, and he just holds you tighter as he lets out a loud, exaggerated snore that vibrates from his chest into yours.

“Dex.” You pat at his broad back, the ring catching the light and glistening blue once again. “How long have I been wearing this?”

He rolls again, and you squeak in surprise as you now find yourself sitting atop him, hands braced on his chest as his own hold you in place by your hips. He’s still smiling, wide and bright and more than a little mischievous. “Do you like it?”

You think back to last night. To Dex snuffing out the candles, one by one. To the completely darkened room, and the way his fingers had slid over your own as he’d turned you in his arms. Such a simple touch, you never would have thought twice about it. And afterward, there wasn’t exactly a moment you were in your right mind enough to notice anything other than him.

You’ve been wearing this ring for the entire night, and you had no idea.

You look down at the diamond, and back up to his face. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“We’re already married.” He says easily, shifting to sit up against the headboard with you still straddling his lap, one ridiculously muscled bicep resting comfortably behind his head. “I’m just asking you to wear the ring.”

Something swells in your heart, big and warm and light. “It’s gonna be pretty hard to get a marriage license while we’re on the run, and using fake names.”

“Don’t need one.” His hand leaves your waist, sliding down over your arm to play almost absentmindedly with the fingers of your left hand, eyes locked on the ring. “And for the rest of it, I’m not above bribing a priest.”

You just stare at him for a moment, truly and completely shocked, before you start laughing.

“That’s a yes.” He confirms, clearly proud of himself as he tugs you to him and cuts off your laugh with the press of his lips against your own.

He isn’t sure why. He can’t exactly place it, but it’s just…there you are. Running right into him like that. Asking if he’s okay when you look like his shoulder bone might have fucking concussed you.

He reaches down, picks up your phone, and offers it to you.

“I’m fine.” He says, softer than he means to, and you open your other eye.

“Are you made of concrete or something?” You huff a laugh, accept your phone, and slide it into your pocket. He’s staring too hard. He needs to break the gaze but it feels impossible and wrong to even try.

“Not that I know of.”

A feeling like desperate need claws its way up his throat when you smile again. When you laugh at his words like you really hear them. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he needs, but it’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain.

“I’m sorry about that.” You say again, and you mean it. “If I left a bruise, don’t sue me.” You glance down, notice the badge clipped to his belt. “Or…arrest me.”

He can’t remember how to speak. How to breathe right. But he needs to act…normal. He can’t just yank you to him in the middle of the street, bury his nose in your neck and inhale your perfume. Not like he wants to.

The world is narrowed down to a pinpoint. The crowded, chaotic streets of the city are gone. The honking of taxis, the bustle of people trying to get to their destinations, the towering buildings, it’s all gone. It’s just you, and your smile, and your eyes looking up at him.

His smile twitches a little before it finally forms on his lips, lopsided and genuine. You relax at the sight of it.

“Don’t have my cuffs on me, so I guess you’re safe.” And you smile at the joke, and it’s perfect.

He’ll buy you coffee. He’ll talk to you. He’ll make you smile more.

Your phone dings, and you curse as you glance down at it. “Shit. I gotta go.” You murmur, shooting one more apologetic glance up at him. “Sorry again. Really.”

“It’s…okay.” But it’s not. You can’t leave. You can’t walk away from him he just found you he’s not done-

But you’re gone, and your sudden absence shudders his breath and makes his chest feel too tight. No. No, you need to be here. With him. He just found you. You can’t leave.

He doesn’t move for a good few seconds, frozen in place as the noise and chaos crashes back in, crippling and horrible.

The bell to the coffee shop dings. There. That’s where you are. Where you’re going. Not gone. Not too far for him to find again.

He waits sixty seconds, counts his breaths, and follows.

-

“Yikes, what happened to you?”

You’re rubbing your forehead. You’re hurt. His shoulder hurt you. The dull ache in the spot where you slammed against him feels like a connection. A tether holding you to him.

“Too embarrassing.” You grumble, but he can hear a hint of humor and familiarity in your voice. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Well now I have to know.” You smile at the blond man. Nelson. The lawyer. Dex knows about him. Are you with him, somehow? Is Nelson trying to take you away from him?

You huff a laugh, and plop down unceremoniously into the opposite chair, still rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to respond to your millionth text, and I just absolutely slammed into this smoking hot FBI guy.”

“FBI?” Nelson repeats, but you said hot. You called him hot. He’s so distracted by that that he barely hears your next words, dripping with sarcasm as you pull one foot up onto the chair and wrap your arms around your knee.

“Yeah, and then I told him all about my extra curricular activities, and my home address.”

“Your jokes aren’t as funny as you think they are, you know.”

“Neither are yours, and we’re still friends.” You accept the cup of coffee Nelson slides your way, and Dex’s heart stutters again as you smile over the rim of the mug.

“So, speaking of which…”

“I knew it. I knew it. You never just wanna hang out and get coffee.”

“We hang out and get coffee all the time.”

“The ratio is off, lately. You ask for favors more since you went into that corporate law job. Now your pro-bono work always goes through me and all my incredible skills like some dirty little secret.”

Pro-bono work. Secrets. What do you do? You’re kind. You’re good. He can feel it. Sense it like second nature. But the questions and lack of answers are making him grip his own mug a little tighter, making it difficult for him to lean back in the shadows and hide like he’s supposed to.

Nelson looks sheepish, but you give a good natured wave of your hand. A silent ‘go on’ gesture that Dex can’t help but find painfully charming.

“I have a case. This guy…” Nelson slides a file towards you, “didn’t do it. Works for a big company, going down for financial crimes that he didn’t commit. They’re trying to cover their tracks, and a little bit of proof might keep him from missing his kids’ elementary school graduation.” You raise an eyebrow, and Nelson smiles a little. “And middle school. And high school. And…college. The point is they’re gonna try to put him away for a long time, and he didn’t do it.”

You squint, and slide the file closer to yourself. “Financial crimes?”

“Just saying, a little bit of…evidence towards his innocence will really help.”

“Hm.”

“And it shouldn’t be a problem for the best hacker in New York.”

You raise an eyebrow again.

“Okay, the east coast.”

Your eyebrow climbs higher.

“America?”

You grin, and Dex twitches with the need to be closer to you. To see that grin directed at him.

“You’re gonna have to start paying me soon.”

“And if I do, it becomes illegal.”

You tilt your head back again, puff out a dramatic sigh, and curl your fingers around the file.

“I want one of your mom’s sandwiches, at two am. The one with the provolone that I like.”

Nelson grins, wide. “Done and done.”

And then, you tilt your head back towards Nelson. “Does this have anything to do with Fisk?”

Fisk. Fisk? That asshole? That annoying detail he’s about to be stuck on?

“Wilson Fisk?”

“No, the other one. The other crime boss who just got out of prison and has a bone to pick with you.”

Nelson rolls his eyes. “Still not funny.”

“Foggy.”

He hesitates, and frowns. “No. But don’t…just stay away from that, okay? We’ll figure it out. You getting involved, especially with your tendency to…piss people like that off…”

“I haven’t been caught.”

“You will be, if you keep up that little Robin Hood act you have going on. There’s only so much legal counsel I can give you. This is extra legal council. I should be charging you for this.”

“Those companies don’t notice any money missing. You know who does? Mr. Stevenson next door, who can pay off his damn bills and not have to work an extra six hours a day to afford medication for his bad leg.” Your tone is sharp. Defensive.

So you’re a criminal. A good one. Because stealing from the rich and giving to people who need it… that’s good. His own moral compass might be a little off-kilter, but he knows that much.

Then again, you could be a serial killer and he would probably still feel this way, but oh well.

Foggy frowns, like this is a conversation you’ve had many times before, and gives you a familiar little nod, like he knows arguing won’t get him too far. “Just…don’t get involved, okay? Stay away from it. This is more dangerous than you think.”

“Vague.” You grumble, but you’re sliding the file into your bag. “Sandwich with the provolone, three am.”

“You said two.”

You stand, finish your coffee, and smile. “This one’s gonna take a while.”

-

Watching you work is…fascinating.

It’s a slow process, Dex realizes quickly. You don’t click at your keyboard and bust through firewalls like in movies. You lay on your couch, bite your nails, and seem to work through problems one by one. It takes a while. It frustrates you. It makes you smile to yourself when you solve one of those problems.

You get your sandwich. You talk to Nelson for a while. Update him. Get back to work.

The sun is going to rise, soon. You’re still working. His eyes are starting to hurt from watching you through this telescope, but he can’t make himself look away.

When you move to the kitchen, you slide on the hardwood in your socks. You play music. You tap your fingers on your keyboard to the beat.

He watches every second. Every single twitch of your eye. Every frown when you can’t figure something out. Every bright little spark when you do figure it out.

Perfect. You’re perfect. And when you finally do fall asleep, computer resting on your stomach and eyes dropping closed like they’re weighed down by anvils, he wants more than anything to make his way into that dingy little apartment and carry you to your bed in the adjacent room. To slide his fingers through your hair, feel you smile, and listen to your heartbeat until he’s positive that nothing will ever be able to take you away from him.

But for now, he watches. He stays, long after you’ve fallen asleep, and he watches.

-

It takes planning. It takes hours of working himself up to it. Of watching you from afar, plotting every scenario out bit by bit and talking himself out of it a thousand times.

You consume his thoughts like a poison. He follows you to your work. Back to your apartment. Watches every interaction you have with everyone else and wishes it was him you were looking at until he stops fucking sleeping with the need to have you near him.

So, when the torture becomes too much, he follows you to a bar, and he sits in the corner, and he watches you laugh with your friends. Watches and watches and craves to be closer to the light that seems to emanate from your very being.

And he gets up at just the right time, and allows you to bump into him as you start walking back towards the group you came with.

Not a single drop of his drink spills on him - he’s still a little too organized to allow that to happen if he can help it - but he makes it look like it does. He catches your waist as you stumble with an ‘oomph’, and just like that you’re close to him. You’re touching him. He’s touching you. You’re here. With him.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Sorry.” You’re not drunk, barely even buzzed, but he knows you well enough now to know that you’re just a little clumsy, and this place is just loud enough for this to work.

Your eyes turn up to his, and you nearly stumble back.

Practiced smile. Fingers curling against your back a little because he just can’t help it. “We’ve gotta stop bumping into each other like this.” He’s practiced that line in the mirror, and it works. You laugh.

You laugh. At his joke. At his line that he’s practiced for this specific scenario. It worked.

“I know you.” You grin, wide, and then flinch a little, but you’re still laughing. “Have I said I’m sorry yet?”

“You did.” He has to let you go. He would rather die, but he can’t be holding you like this. You don’t know him yet. Not yet. “Never got your name, though.”

“I never got yours. Figured you hated me for dislocating your shoulder.”

“Dex.”

“Dex.” You repeat, and his blood hums in his veins at the sound. “Nice to meet you, Dex.”

“Nice to meet you…public hazard.” Lame joke. Bad joke. He just can’t string a fucking thought together when you’re near him and-

You snort. His heart bursts into flames.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Fuck. It’s too soon. Way too soon. You’re gonna say no, and leave, and he’s-

“Yeah.” You set your drink down. “Yeah, I do.”

-

“So…hobbies?” You take a bite of your pizza, heels clicking against the pavement, and he can’t stop looking at you.

“Not really.”

“Hm.” You don’t seem bothered by it. By his lack of interesting traits. He’s not lying to you. He doesn’t have to. You’re meant to be together, after all. He doesn’t have to lie about himself. Right? “Okay. Any special skills then, Special Agent?”

Actually, yeah. “I have one.”

You perk up, raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

He grins, real and genuine, and pulls a quarter out of his back pocket. “Think you’re ready for it?”

“More than.” You’re excited. Really, truly excited. It’s fucking adorable.

“Nah.” He flips the coin over his fingers, feigns pocketing it again. “Don’t think you are.”

“Aw, come on. Please?”

Butterflies swarm in his chest. A smile curls on his lips. He nods towards the darkened street before you. “Pick somethin’.”

You frown, cock your head to the side, and purse your lips when he doesn’t budge to give you any more information. “Okay….street sign. That one right there.”

“Letter.”

“What?”

“Pick a letter.”

Your brow furrows a little more, and your lips twitch in a smile. “T.”

The throws the quarter out, and the sound of metal on metal sings through the air.

There’s a dent in the T. It’s so small, so subtle, that you have to move over to the sign to inspect it.

“Holy shit.”

Do you like it? Are you impressed? He has to stop himself from grabbing your shoulder and demanding to know.

“Can you do it again?”

Yes. Yes of course he can. He’ll do anything. Anything to make you look at him with those wide eyes and that big grin.

You name five more things, he hits them all perfectly, and he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep impressing you. Keep hearing your startled noises of approval.

But you make it back to your apartment, and he has to force himself to let you leave. To not follow you upstairs and learn every inch of your skin until it’s locked into his memory forever.

Instead, he asks you to dinner, and you agree. You smile, and you agree.

-

He kisses you for the first time on your second date. Dinner and ice cream.

He’s walked you to your door, like he did the last time, and you’re standing there in your dress with that smile of yours and your eyes looking expectantly into his and he doesn’t know how to do this right. Sure, there have been women in the past. He’s kissed girls. Slept with them when the time was right, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and never really…felt anything. Never wanted anything like this. Fuck, he feels more excitement just looking at you than he did with every hookup he’s ever had.

He has to do it. Make it romantic. Make it perfect. He’s looked up the right way to do this. Studied romantic movies like it was some kind of assignment with life-or-death consequences.

Reach up, brush your hair behind your ear, drink in your shy smile, lean closer so his breath ghosts over your lips-

“You have ice cream on your nose.”

He freezes, fingers still cupping your jaw, and pulls back.

“What?”

You giggle, oblivious to how much his mind is spinning, and reach up to swipe it off with your thumb.

“Shit.” He mumbles, shaking his head and stepping back. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-“

You tilt your head to the side, curious and confused and beautiful as you seem to realize that he’s actually freaking out a little. Because it’s not perfect. It was supposed to be perfect because that’s the only way he gets to keep good things. Order. Focus. But he fucked it up and now you’re-

“Woah, hey. Hey.” You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it was cute. Just…try again.”

Try again. Yeah, he…he can try again. It can still be good. Still be perfect.

So he does. He leans down, and when his lips brush yours his breath comes out as a shaky exhale.

And then your mouth is on his, warm and soft and everything he’s ever wanted. Electricity shoots down his spine, through his blood, and some tether of control within him snaps. He presses closer, the hand on your cheek moving to the back of your head to keep you in place, and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you with a passion he didn’t know he possessed.

You gasp against his lips, arms coming up to wrap around his neck as you meet him with just as much enthusiasm. Just as much hunger. And this…this is perfect. This is rough and desperate and perfect. This didn’t need to go according to plan. This is so much better than the plan.

When you finally break apart, he’s out of breath and more than a little pleased to see that you are, too.

“Wow.” You whisper, and he grins as his nose ducks back down to brush against yours.

“Yeah.” He breathes, unable to think of another response. Any other word to describe this feeling. “Wow.”

-

When you see the caller id, you can’t help but smile at the screen.

“Geez, you look so weird with the cartoon heart eyes.” Foggy’s voice breaks you out of your little trance, and you snort as you answer the phone, confirming that Dex is off work and headed back to his apartment. You feel a twinge of excitement, cheesy as it is, at the idea of seeing him soon. You try not to flag down the bartender too quickly, lest the mockery get any worse.

“FBI guy?” Foggy raises an eyebrow, and you smile again.

“His name is Dex.” Foggy’s eyebrows rise even higher. You flush. “I dunno, I like him. A lot, actually.”

“He’s in the FBI. You’re a pretty notorious hacker.”

“So we don’t talk about work.” You take a sip of your drink. “Plus, he’s not gonna turn me in. I’m too good in bed.”

“But he knows?”

“Of course he knows.” You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward like you’re explaining something imperative. “One you start having sex with someone, it’s important that you confess all of your crimes to each other.”

Foggy laughs, and shakes his head. “You’re insane.” And then, curious and caring as ever, “so what’s he like, if he’s got you risking federal prison?”

Your smile returns, cheeks heating a little, and you shrug. “Cute. Nice. A little weird. Well, actually a lot weird, but…I like it.” You think about the precise way Dex loads the dishwasher. How he carefully makes the bed every morning. How he makes an odd joke every now and then, and then looks absolutely panicked until you laugh, and that panic will always melt into an expression of relief and adoration.

Sometimes his emotions are a little…intense. He can get frustrated, and sometimes he doesn’t seem like he knows how to handle it. But you help. You always do. You tell him to breathe and help him work through whatever’s bothering him, and it works. He always listens. Always tries, even if it takes a moment.

You just…work. Something about you, and something about him, and all the weirdness in between…it works.

When you get back to his place tonight, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers and looking genuinely nervous.

“I don’t get this.” He admits before you even drop your keys onto the counter, frowning down at the colorful petals. “They’re just gonna die in a couple of days.”

“Then why did you get them?”

He cocks his head to the side, but you can see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “They did it in the movie we watched last night. You smiled.”

You smile now. Wide. “You know, you’re kinda cute, Poindexter.”

Something like vulnerability sparks in his eyes. “Do you not like the flowers?”

You snort, and move forward to slide your hands up over his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his white button-down against your palms. “I like them. You did good. Really good.”

He smiles at that, like those words are the best thing he’s ever heard, and you pull him down to kiss you.

Your conversation with Foggy flashes through your mind. You forgot to tell him that one thing. That one major reason why you like Dex. Why you’re with him.

You get him. And he gets you.

You just…work.

-

The newspaper sits on the counter, Dex’s picture stamped right on the front page. FBI investigates one of their own.

You try not to talk about work with him. After all, you’re technically a criminal and he’s in law enforcement. But you knew about the investigation. It’s unjust, Dex says, and you believe him because…well, of course you do. It’s Dex. He saved lives that night, and the few coworkers of his that you’ve met since you’ve been dating have confirmed it.

And then the suspension came.

“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.” In what feels like only a few words, his voice morphs from a frustrated growl into something as sharp and loud as the crack of a whip. His hand moves faster than you can even register, and in a split second there’s a kitchen knife sticking out of a photo on the wall. Right in the forehead of the person you recognize as his boss.

“Shit, I keep forgetting how spooky that is.” You breathe, and Dex’s eyes whip back to yours.

“Breathe, Poindexter.” You raise your hands in surrender, and step ever-so-carefully forward, like one wrong move might frighten him off.

“Don’t.” He snaps, fingers curling on the counter, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s breathing too heavily. Too raggedly.

You reach up, and turn his face down to yours. Gentle, but firm. “You gotta breathe. Tell me three things you can see.”

He freezes, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to tell if you’re kidding or not, before he speaks. “Your eyes.” He finally says, voice softening a little with each word. “Your nose…your mouth.”

Okay, it’s usually supposed to be things around the room, but this works too.

“Three things you can feel?”

He blinks, eyes still fixed on you, and raises one hand to your cheek. “Your skin.” He leans closer, helplessly. His hand moves up to your hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. “Your hair…” his free hand drops to your waist, bunching in the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt. “Your shirt.”

“Your shirt, technically.”

He grunts, and buries his nose in your temple.

“Three things you can hear.”

“Your voice.” You hum in response, and he presses closer. “Your heartbeat. Your breathing.”

You nod, and reach up to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He holds you a little more tightly. “Your breathing is better, see?”

He nods, and pulls back to kiss you. It’s slow, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. You pull him closer, and he makes a soft noise against your lips before he lifts you up and carries you over to the counter.

“Do you feel better?” You ask against his lips, feeling his fingers push the hem of your shirt up so he can trace them over your skin.

“I’m still being framed.” He murmurs, pulling back to trail his lips over the line of your jaw. “It’s still bullshit.”

“I know.”

“You make it better.” His hands move up, higher, warming the bare skin of your back. “You make everything better.”

“Hell of a compliment.”

“I mean it.”

“Me too.”

You kiss him again, feel him press his body closer to yours until your fingers are moving up to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt and his are sliding your t-shirt up over your head. Moving down to skate over the hem of your underwear.

“Bedroom?” You breathe, and he shakes his head, lips never leaving your body for a second as he lowers himself to his knees right there before the counter.

“Here.” He rasps, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and pulls you to the edge of the counter in one sharp movement that has you locking your fingers in his cropped hair. “Please.”

“That’s my line, I think.” You’re breathless, his lips are trailing higher.

“No, it’s not.” His blue eyes are on yours, filled with something so much like worship that it halts your breath in your lungs. “It’s mine.”

-

“One more.”

The word is warm and sweet in your ear, a low hum paired with wandering hands and a soft, languid kiss to your jaw.

You snort, and you can feel him grin against your ear.

“I think one more will kill me.” You murmur, feigning misery, and his hand slides down over your hip, teasing. “Seriously, how do you have so much stamina?”

“Mm, it’s just you.” He murmurs, and trails his fingers over your stomach. “I can go all night.”

“We have gone all night.”

It’s been hours since he snapped in the kitchen, and your brain has become too mushy to even remember when the two of you migrated into his room. The problem with Dex’s…ability, is that he really never misses. He can take you apart almost embarrassingly quickly, immediately finding every spot and movement that has you seeing stars. And, with his obsessive personality, he has a tendency to try to one up himself. A lot. To see how many times he can make you fall apart until your legs are shaking and you’re spending the next day aching in all the best ways.

Which is why you’re pretty sure, even as his fingers find the apex of your thighs once more and he swallows your gasp with a smile against your lips, that he’s going to kill you. Death by too-many-orgasms has to be a thing, right?

“Dex…” you breathe, arching beneath him as your hands fly up to grasp at his muscled biceps.

“One more.” He repeats, the words a quiet rasp. “You can do it. Just give me one more. Please.”

How the fuck are you ever supposed to say no to him?

You kiss him, and he groans as he presses his body closer to yours.

One more turns into three more.

-

You can’t get a hold of Foggy. Or Karen.

Their names aren’t on the list of people who died at the Bulletin, so that’s something. Still, the chances of either of them being in the building during the attack are pretty damn high. And you don’t blame them for not answering. If they really were there, they must be fucking traumatized.

You would absolutely love it if one of them could pick up the damn phone, though.

Dex shows up around midnight, and you’ve already pulled on your jeans. Already grabbed your keys in preparation to run out the door and start banging on apartment doors. Hell, you might even go to the church Matt’s been hiding out in since he got back. Self-appointed recluse or not, you want answers. Before the news makes the information public, this time. There’s only so much information that hacking can give you, and if the cops and news outlets are currently scanning through the cameras for information of their own, it’s going to take a lot longer for you to find anything out than it will if your friends would just fucking talk to you.

“Hey, where are you going? What’s wrong?” Hands are on your shoulders, moving up to your cheeks, and you wonder if you look fucking insane with worry and confusion right now.

What the hell are you supposed to tell him? Oh yeah, Daredevil is my friend Matt. You know the one who died and kinda sorta came back? Have I mentioned him? Well apparently he’s gone fucking berserk and tried to kill Karen, but I’m absolutely fucking positive that it wasn’t him, which means that someone is out there murdering people in his old suit-

“I’ve…gotta go.” You say weakly, lamely, and start to pull back.

His hands tighten on you. Fast.

“Where? Where do you have to go?” He’s holding you surprisingly firmly, large arms locked around your body and making a frown curl your lips.

“Dex, let me go.” You can’t tell him. Of course you can’t. You have to figure this out on your own.

He doesn’t. In fact, he holds you even more tightly. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me.”

“I’m-huh?” You turn to him, now, and blink in surprise at what you find. His eyes are dark. He looks like he’s sweating. Shit, he might be shaking. “Dex, what’s going on?”

“I need you here, okay?” He’s breathing a little strangely, hand smoothing up over your back with something like desperation. “I…you need to be here.”

You frown, and reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, and leans into your touch.

“Okay. Hey, it’s okay.” He wasn’t able to help tonight. That’s it. He’s just been suspended. All of the order and structure he relies so heavily on is gone. You didn’t realize just how much it must be affecting him, and you feel like a shitty girlfriend for not immediately seeing just how off he is. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

He ducks down, fingers curling against your cheek and lips hovering over your own. “Tell me you need me.”

“Dex-“ you start, but his fingers slide into your hair and he backs you against the wall. It’s not aggressive, not quite, but it’s firm. Determined. Almost overwhelming in its desperation.

“Say it. Please.”

You frown, but reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. “I need you.”

He groans, and kisses you so hard your knees give out. He catches you, all-but scooping you into his arms as he traces his tongue over your lip and slides his arms around your waist.

You have to go find Foggy and Karen and Matt. You have to make sure they’re okay, and the four of you need to come up with some kind of game plan. Or, they do, and they’ll probably need your help because you just had to learn Matt’s secret. Just had to get mugged that night and recognize his voice. Just had to check security cameras and figure everything out and confront him about it.

So, with your particular skill set, and the information you have, they’ll probably need you, as outside of all this as you like to keep yourself. But Dex needs you more right now, and that matters more. You’ll get to the bottom of this mystery another time, when your boyfriend’s trembling hands aren’t pulling at your clothes and his lips aren’t trailing over your throat as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over again.

“What’s wrong?” You ask again, breathless and worried as he lifts you against the wall, as he wraps your thighs around his waist and curls his fingers against your skin hard enough that you worry it might bruise. You hope it does.

“You make it quiet.” He murmurs between kisses, tugging at your clothes until your shirt slides up over your head, discarded on the floor in a second. Messy. Disordered in a way that isn’t like him. “You make it all quiet. I need it to be quiet. Please.” His voice is shaking. Desperate.

You’re not quite sure what he means, but you nod anyway.

The moment you do, his body is pressing impossibly closer to yours. His lips are moving down your neck, kisses so rough and starved that you can feel his teeth scraping over your skin. His hands are tight on your body, hips rocking forward and making you gasp, and you can still hear the shakiness in his quickened breaths as he moves back up to kiss you so hard your head knocks lightly against the wall.

Your fingers move to the buttons of his shirt. His breaths are getting quicker. His grip is getting tighter.

“D-Dex.” You’re so breathless yourself that you can barely get his name out, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t slow his desperate movements until you finally reach up to pull his face away from yours.

His pupils are blown. His gaze is starved. He’s still shaking.

“Hey, stay with me.” You card your fingers through his hair, and kiss him slowly. Warmly. He doesn’t need rough and desperate right now. He needs reassurance. Grounding. Love.

He releases a shuddering breath, kisses you back, and nods as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m here. I’m good.”

You nod, and as he carries you into the bedroom and lies you back on the mattress, you can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth. He’s here. He’s with you.

He peels the rest of your clothing off slowly, trailing his mouth over newly exposed skin, and you do the same for him, barely able to keep your lips and hands off of him for a second.

It’s slow, and loving, and painfully intimate. He murmurs your name against your ear as he moves with you, and you drag your nails over his muscled back as you tell him how good it feels until he falls apart with a groan that almost sounds like a sob.

He holds you after, presses his lips to your forehead and trails his fingers over your body like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

“Do you think I’m a good man?” His voice is low, quiet and vulnerable as he slides calloused fingers through your hair.

You look up, surprised by the question, and he holds you a little more tightly like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“Of course.” You frown, reaching up to brush your own fingers over his cheek. He turns his face into your palm, kissing it once, and you turn his eyes back to yours. “You’re a good man, Benjamin Poindexter.”

He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something raw and pained and full of hope, and tucks you closer to him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You kiss his shoulder, and let your eyes fall closed. “You’re gonna be okay.”

And for a moment, as he breathes something like a sigh of relief into your hair, you think he believes you.

-

“I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.”

“Oh, now the zombie hiding in the basement is making demands. It’s good to see you too, Matt. I’ve been great, how about-“

“The man in the daredevil suit is Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.”

That shuts you up, right the fuck away. “Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. He’s working for Fisk. He’s killing for him, and framing me.”

You feel cold. “No, he’s not. He wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s expression is intense, his words are low and pointed. Urgent. This is his stupid fucking Daredevil voice. “He would. And he is. Fisk has him convinced that doing this will keep you with him. You have the means and the skill to prove me right. I need you to do that, as soon as possible. You need to get as far away from him as you-“

“Stop.” You snap, holding up a hand you know he won’t see. He’ll feel it though, or whatever. “Stop, Matt. You have the wrong guy.”

“You know that’s not true, and we don’t have time for you to come to terms with it. You are in danger, and you need to-“

“It’s not him.” Your ears are ringing. Your voice sounds desperate. Angry, even. “He’s…he’s a little intense. He’s a little weird, sure. But he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head.

“You look into it the way you know how. You know. You’ll see it.” Matt reaches to grab your shoulder, and you flinch back. He looks pained, like he’s genuinely worried and didn’t call you here after all this time to falsely accuse the man you love of mass fucking murder. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been here for you enough. For Foggy and Karen. But I’m here now. I can protect you now. And you need to stay away from him.”

You pull back, and shake your head again. “I…no. You have the wrong guy, Matt. He’s…you’re wrong. We’ll find who’s doing this, but it’s not Dex.”

“We can keep you safe. You can hide-“

“No.”

“Please. He’s unpredictable. He’s dangerous. He could kill you if he knows you know.”

“I don’t know. I know you’re…you’re wrong.” He is wrong. He has to be wrong. “I’ll find out who it is, okay? But it’s not Dex. Just…it’s not Dex.”

And yet…

No. No. It’s not possible. There’s no way.

Matt spends the next ten minutes trying to convince you, and you block all of it out. You refuse to listen. You tell him you’ll go home, and you’ll avoid Dex until you can find the proper evidence.

You lie. And as you walk out of the church into the suddenly too-bright, too-loud city, you wonder if… if he could…

Fuck. You need to get to your computer. You need to prove him wrong.

-

He killed Ray tonight.

It doesn’t bother him. That kind of thing never has. What bothered him was Nadeem talking about you.

“He’s lying. He’s using you. He’s using her.” Dex’s hands had tightened reflexively on his gun. “You think he’s gonna keep her safe? You think this is how she stays in your life? Whatever he told you, he’ll hurt her the second it’s convenient for him, and he’ll take you out too.”

“You need to stop talking about her, Ray.” Dex’s voice is low. Quiet.

“When she finds out, you think she’s gonna stay with you? You think Fisk is gonna make her stay with you? How does this plan of yours work, exactly?”

Yes. Of course. Whether Fisk needs to make it happen or not, you’ll stay with him. And it will be okay, because you love him. Sure, you’ll be upset, but he can make that better. He will make it better. All of it. Everything he does is to keep you happy. Keep you by his side. But for now, you don’t have to know anything. You can just be with him, and love him.

If you learn a little too much, learn about the darkness that lives inside of him, about the things he’s done, Fisk will do what he needs to do, what he promised, and make sure you stay. Simple as that.

And you’ll still love him, right? Right. You’re meant to be together.

The shot lands perfectly between his former friend’s eyes. And, once it’s all said and done, he goes home to you.

-

You’re on the couch when he walks through the door. You’re chewing on your nails. You’re staring at your computer screen.

So perfect. So beautiful. All his. Just like he’s all yours.

Like he has a hundred times before, he moves over to gently move the laptop out of your hands, leaning you back against the cushions with a smile that surely holds all of the affection that feels like it’s about to overwhelm him.

“What’re you doing?” He presses his lips to your nose, your cheek, your jaw.

You’re tense. Something’s bothering you. He can fix that.

“Looking something up.” You murmur, soft and hesitant. “Or…I should be. I can’t…make myself do it.”

He can see in his peripheral that your screen is blank. You’re still tense, and when he kisses you he can taste the faintest tinge of iron from where you were biting your lip.

You’re wearing his t-shirt. He moves to slide his hands under it, reveling in the softness of your skin, and presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. You relax, like you just can’t help yourself, and he smiles as he settles a little more comfortably atop you.

“Hm, you know you’re not supposed to tell me about any of your hacking stuff.” He jokes, but you don’t smile like you usually would. Don’t tease him back. “Might incriminate yourself a little too much. And you know there’s only one way I wanna see you in cuffs.”

You do smile now, though there’s something in your eyes that he can’t place. He wants to ask, but you kiss him and he forgets everything that isn’t you.

“Or, you know. Put me in cuffs.” And you hum, and smile a little more.

He peels your clothing off nice and slow, trailing his lips down to follow every movement. It’s warm, and safe, and soft and gentle in all the ways the rest of the world is not. You gasp his name, look into his eyes even as yours threaten to flutter closed, and he loves you so much it hurts. So intensely that he worries it might swallow him whole. He wants it to.

When it’s over, and he’s pressing his lips over your cheeks and nose again, heavy breaths matching your own, he tastes the saltiness of tears on your skin and pauses.

His brow furrows, and he pulls back.

You reach up, and smooth your thumb over his cheek. “You’re a good man.” You whisper, and you sound like you’re talking to yourself, but he melts anyway.

“I love you.” He breathes, and drags you closer so he can kiss you again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You murmur, and there’s never been so much of this strange emotion in your voice before. He can’t quite place it.

But you’re overwhelmed by your love for him, too. That’s all.

That’s all.

-

The worst part of it all is that you know you’re going to find it before you even bring yourself to open your computer.

And yet, it still feels like a punch to the fucking gut.

“Hello, Karen. It’s nice to see you again.”

You would recognize that voice anywhere.

It took you five minutes to get into the security cameras. Of the Bulletin. Of the church.

It took five more minutes for you to find all of the other evidence. The therapy sessions. The people he’s killed. The people he’s manipulated. Threatened. His lack of empathy. His obsessive behavior. His enjoyment of killing. Fuck, you even figure out that he was stalking you before you ever ran into him at that bar. You like to say, in your cockiest moments, that everything can be found online. Everything is documented even when people think it isn’t. You just have to look.

You didn’t look. In ten minutes, you found it all. In an hour, you’ve found too much for any excuse to ever work. For anything other than the truth to make sense.

And then, with perfect timing like the universe is making some sort of sick joke, Foggy Nelson tells you to come down to the old gym. He shows you Nadeem’s video, and you have to drag a trash can over so you can puke your guts up as the world drops from beneath your feet.

You cry silently. Curl in on yourself against the boxing ring while Foggy and Karen watch you, expressions filled with sympathy and guilt. Because they weren’t here. They didn’t check in on you. They let this get this far and it blindsided you because you were too wrapped up in stupid domestic bliss to even hang out with your friends like you should have.

Foggy’s hand comes down on your shoulder, comforting and kind. “Can you do it?”

You don’t look up from the phone screen even as you take it from his hand.

You nod.

-

“What are you-“

You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t-

Matt is gonna kill you, if Dex doesn’t do it first. And yet, you know without a shadow of a doubt that he won’t hurt you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you.

That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

You grab his arm, and pull him outside with you, into the alley. It will be on camera. It will be obvious that you know, when Fisk sees it. But it doesn’t matter. None of that will matter soon, anyway.

His brow is furrowed, that look of frustration when he doesn’t have control of the situation tightening his features. After all, you did just show up to his work unannounced and drag him outside.

He reaches for you, and you step back.

“What the hell are you doing?” He asks, something in his face cracking a little. “Come here. Please.”

“Tell me it’s not true. Please, tell me it’s not true.”

Panic. Immediate, sharp panic. He knows. He knows you know. “Come here.”

“Dex.”

“It’s not true.” He says immediately, lies immediately, and reaches for you again. You back up again. “It’s not true. None of it’s true. Just-“

You pull out your phone, and play the video. Ray Nadeem’s confession. His eyes widen, and you already knew but the confirmation from him is fucking shattering.

“In three hours, it’s going out to every phone in the immediate area. To the cops. To the public. Everywhere. And if you kill me, it still goes out.” Your voice is tight, shaking. “You’re not gonna stop it.”

Dex tries to grab you now, not the phone, you, desperate. You jump back into the street. Into the public. Away from the dark alley and into the light of day.

“Don’t touch me. Do not fucking touch me.”

“Don’t do this.” He sounds dangerous now. You should probably be afraid of him. You’re going to fucking cry again and it hurts so bad you can’t think. You’ve never felt more stupid in your life. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You promised.” His hand catches your sleeve, and you rip it back.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t leave me. Baby, don’t do this. You love me. I love you. We can-“

“What is this, fucking Barney?!” You snap, horror and shock making your voice shaky and shrill. “You’ve been murdering people.”

You’re fully in the street, now. You’re still shaking. He’s still approaching.

“If you come any closer, I’ll scream.” You mean it. He looks like he’s about to risk it. Like he’s moments away from covering your mouth and dragging you back into the alley. Into the shadows with him.

You turn, and walk away.

You hear him scream from a block away. It’s loud. Primal, even. It turns heads.

You keep walking.

-

He goes to prison that night. Matt defeats Fisk. You see it all on the news, from where you’re curled on the couch with tears drying on your cheeks.

He tried to kill Fisk at his wedding. Broke into the party in Matt’s Daredevil costume. It’s on the news. It’s on film.

He says your name before he starts killing people. Tells Fisk and Vanessa that the two of you wish them a world of happiness. You watch the clip. Newspapers call. You watch the clip again. You shut out the world.

It takes some time for you to leave your couch. Even longer to leave your apartment.

But time heals all wounds, even if they have to scab over and reopen a few too many times.

You meet Matt, Foggy and Karen at Josie’s on a Tuesday. They don’t mention it. You do. You apologize, and Foggy hugs you so tightly that your ribs creak.

And you heal. Slowly, surely, you heal.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

-

It’s a nice, normal Friday night.

Cherry’s retirement party is fun. You’re having fun. You’re laughing with Matt and Karen, listening to the laughter and jokes around you, teasing each other about Foggy’s attempts at hitting on Keirsten, and not thinking about Dex. Because you never think about Dex.

You don’t think about the way he made breakfast in the morning. Always so careful and precise. Always plating it perfectly like the act was a science, watching you when you ate it like he was either trying to figure out just how much you liked it or just…watching you. So much of him looking at you felt like he was basking in your mere presence.

Or the way he would leave on his way to work. Always the same pattern. The same habits. Wake you up with a kiss, get dressed, make breakfast, kiss you again on the way out the door.

The way he would smile at you like you hung the moon in the sky. The way he would hold you when you watched a movie on the couch. The way…

Warm lips against your temple. Your forehead. Your cheeks.

You hum, and feel Dex smile as his arm slides more tightly around you. “Morning.”

“S’the middle of the night.” You complain weakly, turning in his arms to hide your face in the warm skin of his chest.

“Five forty-five.” He murmurs, hand already coming up to slide through your hair. “Gotta get ready for work.”

“Play hooky.” You mumble, nuzzling closer, dreading the moment his warmth leaves the bed.

“Would if I could.” He means it, and you can tell, so you keep trying.

“You’re reinstated and promoted now…” you press a kiss to his collarbone, warm and slow and as tempting as you can make it. “Their apology should come in the form of as many days off as you want. Or going into work after dawn.”

His body relaxes a little. His hold on you tightens, like he’s thinking about it.

And then he sighs, and pulls back to press his lips against your forehead.

“I can’t.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful that you just might be falling in love with him all over again. Still, you plaster an exaggerated little pout on your face as you sit up.

“Goody two shoes.” You accuse, and if you were more awake you might think his laugh sounds a little…different. But he sits up with you, and kisses your neck, and wraps his arms around you again and any doubt or confusion flutters out of your mind as you melt into-

“Hey, you okay?”

Your eyes whip up, reflected in Matt’s glasses. You swallow. Smile. “Hm?”

“Your…” he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, “your heart is racing.”

Karen is looking at you, too closely, too kindly. You smile wider.

“I’m fine.” And you are. You’re fine. You’re absolutely, totally fine.

Ten minutes later, everything goes to shit.

Foggy goes outside. Matt hears something wrong. Karen follows You stay in the bar.

A gunshot outside. The bang of a flash grenade. The screams of panicked patrons.

You’re frozen for a moment, smoke and shock filling your lungs and fogging your mind. Gunshots. Screaming. The heavy sound of footsteps and-

“Hey, baby.”

A low, familiar growl of a voice, barely raised enough to be heard over the commotion but cutting through it all like a knife and zeroing your attention on the approaching figure.

Speaking of knives, you hear one whir through the air just before your wrist is slammed back against the wall, a blade attaching your sleeve to the surface with perfect precision. You reach up in a panic to remove it, only for another knife to slam your other arm back against the same wall. Neither blade comes close enough to even nick your skin, but you’re still completely trapped against the old wooden surface, eyes wide as Benjamin Poindexter stalks over to you like he has all the time in the world.

He’s wearing a mask, but you’d recognize his eyes anywhere. You’ve never seen them so fucking crazed.

“I missed you.” His hand is on your waist, large and gloved and firm even as you try to kick him away from you. He grunts, and halts your movements with a knee pressed between yours.

And then he rips off his mask, and kisses you. Hard. Rough. Tongue forcing its way past your lips and arm locking tight around your hip as his body presses against yours like it’s drawn there by a gravitational pull. It’s been so long, and you are most certainly in shock, but you can’t help the soft noise that pulls its way from your throat at the feeling. The way your toes curl a little at the rough sound he makes in response.

He reaches up, and pulls one of the knives out of your sleeve before throwing it towards Daredevil so quickly you almost miss it. He doesn’t even look. He keeps his gaze right on you.

The knife is deflected. Of course it is, because it’s fucking Matt, but Dex looks down at you, grins, and presses his lips to your cheek before pulling his mask back down just in time to be knocked to the ground.

The battle happens all around you, too quick for you to keep track of, and it takes you a good fifteen seconds to register that you need to get the fuck out of here.

The knife attaching your sleeve to the wall is in the wood so deep that you can’t get it out. You grunt in frustration, and finally rip your sleeve to free yourself. You think, vaguely, that you liked this jacket, before the sound of glass shattering makes you flinch and stumble back towards the door.

Your ears are ringing. You can’t think. You make it out into the street just in time to fall to your knees beside the body of your friend, nearly get trampled by people screaming and running and Karen is crying and you can’t think.

And Foggy Nelson dies on the sidewalk.

And, a few horrible moments of silence later, you hear a thud behind you.

And you don’t scream. You don’t cry. You still don’t even speak. Your clothes are stained with blood, and you can still taste the mint of Dex’s toothpaste on your tongue. Foggy dies, and Dex’s body just hit the pavement behind you.

You crawl to him in a haze of screams and the ringing of a thousand bells in your ears, and you can hear Karen sobbing behind you.

You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Or die right here next to Foggy Nelson and Benjamin Poindexter.

Dead. He’s dead. Oh God, Foggy isn’t breathing and now…and now Dex…he’s-

Blue eyes shoot open, wide and pained and crazed, and a gloved hand grabs your wrist. You didn’t even realize that you were touching him, hands shaking as they move over his body like you can fix it. Like you should even want to. Your palms sting. Knees, too. You think you scraped them on the pavement when you crawled over here.

“What did you do?” You ask, numb and confused and horrified, and Dex groans and presses his injured face into the pavement like the sound of your voice is the sweetest relief. His hand tightens on your wrist, relaxes, doesn’t let you go. “Dex, what did you do?”

-

ONE YEAR LATER

There is a deep, prominent scar on his cheek. He’s even larger than you remember. His eyes are different, like he’s allowed the illusion of control and sanity to shatter.

You’re here for Foggy. You haven’t seen Matt or Karen in almost a year. You are not here for Benjamin Poindexter.

But you’re here. Maybe you shouldn’t be, but you owe it to Foggy. To the other people this man has killed.

So many people. So many deaths. So many, because of you. And now Foggy, for reasons you still can’t understand.

The sentencing comes. The gavel is banged. You can’t hide your flinch at the sound. Dex’s eyes move right over to you, and lock in.

He smiles, eyes filled with a sick sort of love, and your fingers dig into your palms until your nails bite into the skin hard enough to draw blood.

They take him away, and he doesn’t stop smiling at you.

-

“He refuses to speak unless you’re in the room.”

Your fingers curl painfully tightly against your coffee cup. Your eyes fly up to Matt’s face.

“No.”

“I need information. We need information. He’ll be cuffed the entire time. He won’t touch you.”

“I’m not worried about that. I don’t want to speak to him.”

“They moved him to gen pop.”

You try to hide the way your heart pounds at the implication. You fail. And it’s Matt, so there’s no use pretending.

“Is…did they…” Gen pop. They’ll fucking kill him in there. Good, right? Someone like that shouldn’t be walking the Earth. He killed Foggy. He killed so many people.

“They will. He won’t last a week. Which means Fisk wants him dead.” Matt’s hand rests on the table before you, and he leans closer, adamant. “We need to know why. And then he can rot in prison until-“

“I want him out of gen pop.” You hate yourself so, so much for saying it that you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I want you to get him back in protective custody.”

Matt looks like you just slapped him across the face. You don’t blame him.

But he agrees. So you go. God help you, you go.

-

“Hi, baby.” His grin is fucking manic. His eyes are starved as they rake over you like he’s filing away every inch.

You glare, and sit down across from him. He leans forward, almost jerking in your direction, like he momentarily forgot about the cuffs in his desperation to touch you. Well, he’s not going to get to. Never again.

“You killed Foggy Nelson.”

“Your hair is longer.”

“You killed Foggy.”

“Do you think about it? The way it felt when I touched you again?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve thought about it every minute. You tasted just like I remember.” His tongue darts out, smile lopsided as he traces it over his lip, eyes raking over you again so intensely that ice trickles down your spine in a way you really wish was unpleasant. “I wonder what else tastes just like I remember.”

You slap him, the sound cracking through the room, and his head whips to the side. His smile doesn’t fall.

“Do it again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get me out of these cuffs, baby, and I will.”

“If you think I’ll ever, ever let you touch me again, you’re more fucked in the head than I thought.”

His smile cracks. Falls a little. His eyes darken. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why did you kill Foggy Nelson?”

“You still love me.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You’re lying.” He’s still looking at you, intensely enough that you have to fight the urge to squirm. “Say it.”

“Fuck. You.”

His head rolls back, like those two words were a confession on their own. “Fuck, I missed your voice.”

“You said you’d speak if I came here. Answer me.”

“Do you remember our three month anniversary?” He asks, unbothered, and you want to throw something at him. Cuffs or not, the asshole would probably catch it. “Chinese food on the couch. The first time I told you I loved you.” Pain twists in your chest at the memory, and Dex leans forward when he sees it, another horrible smile curling on his lips. “I took my time with you that night. I had you making these noises, do you remember? These high pitched, sweet little begging sounds.” His fingers tap absentmindedly against the arms of his metal chair, and your face bursts into flames. “Think about them every night, but you know it doesn’t compare to the real thing.”

“You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m already in your head. Just like you’re in mine. We’re connected, forever.”

“Did you kill Foggy to punish me?”

He frowns, eye twitching a little when you refuse to give in. “No. But you shouldn’t have left me.”

“So what? Are you gonna kill me if you get out? Are you gonna kill me now?”

He looks genuinely pissed that you would even suggest something like that, jaw clenched and fingers flexing on the metal table again. “When I get out of here, I’m not going to hurt you.” The intensity of his gaze makes your blood feel cold. “But you’re not leaving me again. Ever.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do. I already have.”

“Fuck this.” You push yourself to your feet, the metal chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot. Like the shot that killed Foggy. Fired by the man in front of you. “Fuck you.”

That gets to him. “You’re not leaving. We’re not done.”

“We’re done.” You lean over the table, eyes hard as they look into his. His hands are already struggling against the cuffs locking him to the chair. “We’re done, Dex.”

“I haven’t seen you in a year. You can’t walk out like this.”

“And you’re not gonna see me for another eleven life sentences.”

His voice is a low, violent growl. “Don’t say that.”

And, because you’re a fucking idiot, you do exactly what you told yourself you wouldn’t do.

They confiscated your phone when you came in here. They didn’t confiscate your watch.

One button. One stupid thing you set up in anticipation for this meeting. That you promised you wouldn’t use. And yet, reckless fool that you are, you knew you would.

The security camera light flickers off.

Dex notices immediately, and the hunger that burns in his eyes and curls on his lips lights something aflame in your stomach that you don’t want to think about. Not right now.

You lean both arms on either armrest of his chair. His hands jerk against the cuffs, still trying to reach for you.

You lean closer. You don’t break eye contact. His mouth moves up to chase yours, and you pull back just enough to pull a frustrated grunt from his throat.

“If you ever, come anywhere even close to the people I love again…” you whisper, leaning in so your lips are close enough to his ear that he moans and tilts his head to the side, like he’s silently begging you to rip his throat out with your teeth. “I will kill you myself. Do you understand me, baby?”

For a moment, the thrill of it all makes you forget just how stupid you were for this. Just how dangerous this man is.

And then, as if to remind you himself, you hear a pop. A sharp, pained intake of breath.

Your eyes drop down to Dex’s right hand, just in time to see him slide it out of the cuff.

The crazy motherfucker dislocated his own thumb.

You jerk back, but Dex is faster. Of course he’s fucking faster. His arm locks around your middle, yanking you down onto his lap hard enough to pull an ‘oomph’ from your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck as you squirm against him.

“Shhh, shh.” His rough voice is too soft. You turned off the cameras. You’re a fucking idiot. Something hotter and more intense than panic shoots through your veins, and your breath catches in your throat. “I’ve got you.”

“That’s the problem.” You gasp, but his hand comes up to the back of your head, fisting in your hair and pulling you back so he can look at you.

“I did it for you.” He whispers, reverent. “I bought my freedom with it. For you.”

And then he kisses you, rough and hard, and your attempts to shove him off are met with nothing but a low and hungry growl.

There’s a moment, brief but painfully there, where the feeling of sparks lighting down through your blood is too overwhelming. Where his lips moving against yours is too familiar. Where you kiss him back, and his groan is nothing short of victorious as he wraps his arm more tightly around you.

And then the door opens, and he doesn’t let go. You sink your teeth into his lip, and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He moans shamelessly, but holds you tighter.

It takes two guards to get you out of his vice-like grip. His lip is bleeding. You can taste the iron of his blood. He’s smiling. Wide.

It’s only when the guards start pulling you toward the door that his smile falls, like he hadn’t expected that. Like he hadn’t even considered that you would be leaving again.

“No. Don’t take her. Stop it.” He snaps, as two more guards force his hand back into the cuff. “Don’t take her from me again. Stop it!”

They close the door behind you, and you wipe his blood from your lip with the back of your shaking hand as his scream echoes through the prison.

-

“You didn’t do it. You didn’t help him.”

Matt turns to you, and you can feel the surprise emanating from his very being at the sound of your voice. Here. At this fancy gala to celebrate the esteemed mayor.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. Deflection. And then, concern. “Have you slept?”

No. No, you haven’t. But you’re not going to tell him that. That ever since you went to that prison your thoughts have been more consumed by him than ever. That every beat of your heart has been chanting Dex, Dex, Dex and it’s getting more and more difficult to tell yourself that it’s because you want answers.

And you have them, now. Because you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“I did it for you.”

“It’s not exactly an invitation you can refuse.” Your dress is uncomfortable. Your heels hurt your feet. You can feel eyes on you from all around the fucking room and you’re going to crawl out of your skin. “And yes. I’ve slept.” You don’t care that he knows that you’re lying.

“I-“ he’s going to come up with an excuse, an apology, but Dex is probably already dead. You’ll probably be dead soon, too. So what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of being subtle? Of trying to be careful, anymore? You weren’t careful when you looked into all of this. You didn’t cover your tracks, and you know. You know it all. And they know you know. You’ll be in the ground in a week at best.

“It was Vanessa. She was in charge of his businesses. She did it.” You don’t even lower your voice. You’re exhausted, and you’re hurting, and you’re angry, and who fucking cares anymore?

Matt grabs for your arm, already beginning to steer you away from watching eyes and listening ears. You pull back, whirl to face him. “Stop. They know I know. They know what I do. That’s why I’m here. They’re probably gonna kill me too, tonight.”

For a moment, you think Matt Murdock might actually be speechless. You just keep talking.

“It’s fine. It’s a long time coming, right?” You run a hand through your hair, and your smile is a pained and humorless thing. “Do you know how many people have been killed, just from me loving him? Because he loved me too, and they used it to manipulate him?”

And Matt is still looking worried, still bothered that people might hear you. But who fucking cares?

“But it’s fine, right? At least the ‘weapon of mass destruction’ who did it is rotting in a prison morgue now. He didn’t deserve help. I didn’t deserve to ask for it. Not for him.”

Matt’s hand is on your arm. You want to cry, but you’ve cried all night and the tears won’t come anymore. You’ve cried so many tears for him. Maybe that makes you a monster, too.

“Keep it down.” Matt says, hand tightening on your arm, but you ignore him.

“I know everything, too. Do you know how many pills he was on in that prison, when she got to him? The inside of his body was a fucking pharmacy. I saw the signature. He couldn’t even hold the pen right.”

Matt Murdock’s jaw twitches. He looks right at you, through his glasses, and you can feel his unseeing gaze on your face. “He still did it.”

He’s right. He did. But-

“You don’t know him. He…he doesn’t think like other people. They got to him. They did this.” Matt opens his mouth, and you raise a hand. “I’m not an idiot. He did it too, okay? He did it. But…” and your exhausted eyes rise to the dance floor, and it all makes sense.

Fisk took everything from you. From so many people. Foggy is dead. Dex is dead. And they’re dancing and smiling like this is the happiest day of their fucking lives. They don’t care. Sure, you don’t care. You’re numb. You’re hurting and confused enough that you don’t care what happens to you, but them… these people did all of this, and they’re happy about it.

“They did this.” You murmur, just to yourself, and start to move forward.

Matt catches you, hard. Fast. In one smooth move, he twirls you onto the dance floor, deflecting your momentum and still trying to fucking cover for you.

“You’re delirious.” He says, voice low and grip tight. “You’re acting irrationally. Don’t-“

But you’ve made it close enough. Just close enough to hear what Buck says to Fisk, quiet and serious but very much audible over the din.

“Benjamin Poindexter killed three guards and escaped prison.”

The world narrows. The floor tilts beneath your feet. Matt holds you upright, and you barely register what he’s saying over the rapid beat of your heart.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex-

“We have to get you out of here.” Matt’s voice by your ear, his feet already beginning to move you away. You blink, too shocked and…relieved to even force your own feet to move. “He’ll be coming for you.”

Alive. Alive. DexDexDexDex-

You may not have Matt’s senses, but you swear you hear the click of the gun at the same time his head whips up to face the balcony.

“Not me.” You whisper, eyes on the dark shape above you. The dark, achingly familiar shape of a man who should be dead.

And the gunshot launches the party into chaos.

Matt. Matt just jumped in front of the fucking bullet and you’re trying to get to him but you’re being dragged away by the crowd, nearly carried off in the commotion and panic as people rush to the door. You almost fall at one point, stumbling in your heels and nearly getting trampled before you’re saved by the arm of some kind civilian, and by the time you make it back into the ballroom to where the paramedics are crowding around your friend you can’t see the shape on the balcony anymore.

You reach towards Matt, and something on your wrist catches your eye. A small etching of marker on your skin that definitely wasn’t there before.

A bullseye.

-

Hours later, you climb the stairs to your apartment, aching and tired and knowing damn well what you’re going to find.

You spent every free minute tracing the bullseye on your skin with the tip of your finger, sitting in the hospital waiting room and listening to the beat of your own heart.

Alive. Alive. Dex. Alive. Dex. Dex. Dex.

The power is still out. You’re exhausted. There’s still blood on your dress.

Matt begged you not to go home, but he would find you anyway. Anywhere.

There’s a bullseye painted on the door of your apartment. Small, but noticeable. Right above the handle.

You drop your keys on the counter. Loud. No use in trying to hide.

“You moved.”

“Yeah.” You say, voice steadier than it should be. “My boyfriend ended up being a serial killer.”

“I don’t really fall under that definition.”

You hum, casual, and move to the dingy fridge in the open kitchen. Pull out a bottle of wine.

“You look tired.”

“You’re missing a tooth.” You pop the cork with your teeth. Take a swig right from the bottle. “You gonna kill me now?”

“Stop saying that.” It’s still dark, you still can’t see much more than his silhouette, but the words sound like they’re gritted out through his teeth. “I love you.”

“I trusted you.” You grit your own words out, fingers tightening on the bottle.

“You still can.”

You take another swig, and lean against the counter. “Now that’s funny. Didn’t know they taught comedy classes in prison.”

“I thought about you every day. Every minute.” His boots thud against the hardwood, and you turn before he can reach you.

“Funny. I thought about Foggy.”

“That sounds hard. Really-“

“Shut the fuck up.” And now, you have to stall. You have to find your phone, and dial Matt’s number. Or reach one of the panic buttons you installed that will call him. With the power out, there’s a pretty good chance neither of those things will work anyway. “Get out.”

“You don’t really want me to.” It sounds like a plea, beneath the roughness of his words. “You still love me.”

You pull out your phone. It flies out of your hand in a second. Shatters against the wall. You jump back.

“Was that a fucking knife?”

“Bottle cap. I don’t wanna cut you.”

“But you’ll shoot at me.” Well, not at you, but you know mentioning it will bother him.

“I would never in a million fucking years-“

“You. Killed. Foggy.”

“And we’ll work past it, baby. We can work past it.” And there he is, turning you in his arms and walking you back until your lower back hits the counter. His breath is warm, ghosting over your lips, and you hate how your body responds to it.

“You’re delusional.”

“You want me. Say it. Please.” Too close. Too close. His hand is wrapping around the wine bottle, pulling it from your grasp and raising it to his own lips. The moonlight spilling in through the window illuminates the lines of his face, so agonizingly familiar. So beautiful.

You reach up like a woman possessed, and brush your fingers over the scar on his cheek. He groans, and leans into your touch.

In a blink, your other hand whips up, and you press the blade of a kitchen knife to his throat.

He smiles, and you wonder if he’s always been this crazy. He leans forward, letting the blade dig into his skin to brush his lips over yours again, and now you genuinely wonder if he would let you do it.

“I should kill you.”

“I’d let you.” He murmurs, a truly sick confirmation, and your hand is trembling and you hate yourself for it. “But you won’t.”

“I don’t have Daredevil’s moral code.”

“No.” His mouth closes over yours, just enough to feel his teeth scrape against your bottom lip. “You love me.”

“I don’t.” But your voice catches on the word, and your hand shakes more, and he’s bleeding and he doesn’t seem to care.

You pull the knife away, and his fingers curl around yours on the handle, guiding your hand to lower it onto the counter beside you.

“You asked Murdock to get me out of gen pop.” He hums, still so close that you can feel his heartbeat against your own. “Didn’t work, but I appreciate the thought.” The confirmation. “Helped me get back to you.”

“I didn’t want you to get back to me.”

“Liar, liar.” He murmurs, teasing and soft, and kisses you again. These kisses are nothing like the last couple of times, so rough and nearly violent with their desperation. No, these kisses are brief and soft, gentle presses of his lips against yours between words like he can’t help himself.

“I thought you were dead.” You don’t mean to say it. You don’t mean to acknowledge it. “Matt left you to die.”

“And you mourned me.” Another kiss. Slower this time. More lingering. You need to pull away from him. You need to shove him the fuck off of you. This is so wrong. So fucked up. He has killed so many people. Lied so many times. He’s fucking batshit insane. “I saw you. You were about to confront Fisk. For me.”

“I don’t know what I was gonna do.” You breathe, and your eyes are already falling closed. Your body is giving in to him like it doesn’t belong to you. Your heart is still beating heavy in your throat.

Dex. Dex. Dex. Dex.

This time, you lean up and press your lips to his. Wrap your arms around his neck. Tangle your fingers in his hair and devour him. He makes a noise that’s almost akin to a whimper against your mouth, his own hands flying up to your face to angle your head so he can kiss you fucking breathless.

You bite at his lip. Pull at his hair like you’re trying to punish him for how much you want this. How much you missed him. How fucking good this feels.

He moans, lifts you onto the counter and presses his body up against yours like he can’t get close enough. Cradles the back of your head and all but sobs into your mouth when you whimper and kiss him hard enough that his teeth click against yours.

You hear a soft, metallic noise, and feel cool metal on your thigh as Dex slices through the fabric of your bloodstained dress to allow himself more room to press his large body between your legs, the prison guard uniform digging into your burning skin and making you arch against him.

You slide your hand over his neck, thumb digging into the thin cut beneath his chin. His moan vibrates through your entire body, and you smear the blood over his throat as you angle his head to pull him closer to you.

His hand slams into the cupboard by your head like he’s trying to brace himself, the fingers of his free hand gripping your hair so tightly you see stars, blunt teeth digging into your lip like a silent and desperate plea for more.

“Say my name.” He whispers, rough, and you don’t. You fucking moan his name, a sound you’ve never heard from yourself before ripping its way from your chest and making him shake as he releases you to rip his gloves off like separation between your skin is physically burning him.

He doesn’t leave you for long, warm fingers sliding up your thigh and trailing sparks in their wake until you’re trembling against him. Until you’re gripping the back of his head and yanking him down to kiss you again. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until they’re curling in the waistband of your underwear and every kiss comes on a swallowed and ragged breath.

You nod your consent, fingers curling even more tightly against his scalp, and he kisses you again. You hear the click of the knife, feel the flat end of the blade slide up your thigh again, and can’t find the words to complain as he slices your underwear from your body.

When his long, skilled fingers reach the apex of your thighs, and he feels just how desperate you are for him, the noise that rips from his throat sounds like the most fucked up prayer that’s ever been uttered.

“Fuck.” He pulls back, presses his nose against your temple, and when his fingers immediately find the spot that has you fucking whining you hear a breathless chuckle against your ear.

“Never miss.” He whispers, cocky and infuriating and agonizingly intimate in the dark apartment, and you’re going to fucking kill him.

Kill. Kill.

All those people. Father Lantom. Nadeem. Foggy.

Clarity rips back into you like a fucking car crash. Like a bolt of lightning. It freezes your burning blood, rises to your throat, and makes you shove him so hard his back hits the wall across from you with a dull thud.

You’re just as breathless as him, and his eyes are on fire as they look into yours. As they rake over you, slow and hungry, and he doesn’t even try to catch his breath even as he realizes why you pushed him away.

“Why?” He asks, but he knows. He knows and he’s goading you and you need to make yourself-

“I hate you.” It is the least convincing sentence you have ever uttered. You’re still breathless, still flushed with need, still spread out on your kitchen counter with his name lingering on your kiss-swollen lips.

Slowly, without looking away from you, he raises his fingers to his mouth, and your next breath catches on a whimper at the sight.

He moves forward at the sound, and your foot flies up to stop him, heel digging into his chest.

Something flashes in his eyes. Something you can’t place. You don’t know what’s in your own expression, but you see him scan it. Watch the breath shudder out of his chest as his hand rises up to trail lovingly over your calf.

And then, scarred and beautiful and illuminated by moonlight, he drops to his knees.

Benjamin Poindexter looks up at you like he’s worshipping at your fucking altar, and refuses to look away from you as his lips press against the skin below your knee.

“Stop it.” You try. You really do.

He shakes his head, and blunt nails drag down over your thigh as he moves closer. Kisses higher. Keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your heel over his shoulder.

“Dex.” It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a plea.

And then he’s right where you need him, on his knees before you with your hands gripping at his hair and his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, and it feels so good that your eyes are watering with something between pleasure and emotion so intense it’s going to drown you.

Your hand leaves his hair, flying up to scramble for purchase on the creaky old cupboard behind your head as Dex doubles his efforts like he’s desperate to pull more noises from you. He moans into you, gripping you more tightly as your heel digs into his back, and your hand leaves the cupboard to slap over your mouth as a near-wail of pleasure echoes off the walls. It doesn’t do much. Doesn’t muffle your helpless noises nearly enough, and before long Dex is sliding his large hand up your body to pull your palm away from your mouth, fingers tangling with yours as his too-skilled tongue turns your blood to lava in your veins.

You fall apart in minutes, shattering with a sharp gasp of his name as your thighs tremble and your nails dig into his scalp. He pulls back like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, resting his head against your thigh and staring up at you with a breathless smile on his lips and you want to hate him so badly it hurts.

But you pull yourself off of the counter, slide onto his lap and kiss him hard as you fumble blindly with the belt of his stupid fucking prison guard uniform, and before you know it he’s rolled you onto your back and you’re ripping his shirt open as he hikes your ruined dress up over your hips and-

“Tell me you want this.” He rasps, low against your ear, and when you nod emphatically he grabs your chin and turns your face towards his. “Tell me.”

“I want this.” It’s a sick, horrible confession, but it’s true. “I want you.”

He groans, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, and his first thrust hits home and your moan is loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, as you scramble at him like a wild fucking animal, desperate for more. “I love you.”

You won’t say it back. You can’t say it back. This is already fucked up beyond belief.

He holds you like he’s trying to touch every inch of you at once, lips trailing down your jaw until every near-whimper is vibrating against your ear. You can’t stop touching him, either. You yank at his open button-up shirt so hard you hear it rip, until he moves to help you pull it the rest of the way off of him, bracing himself against the floor beside your head and rolling his hips into yours until you’re sobbing his name on every breath.

When you break for a second time, your nails are dragging thin red marks down the skin of his back. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps relentlessly hitting that spot inside you until the pleasure builds up all over again and it is fucking unbearable.

“Dex.” You manage to gasp, mindless, head rolling back against the floor as he bites at your shoulder and speeds up his movements until you’re practically sobbing.

“One more.” He growls, low and rough and just as wrecked as you are. “Give me one more.”

The third time, he’s right there with you, pressing his nose into the hollow of your throat with a groan of your name that burrows its way into your very bloodstream. Locks itself in your soul and becomes just as much a part of you as the color of your eyes and the bones beneath your skin.

It takes a long time for you to come back to earth. Longer for Dex to pull himself away from you, just enough to roll onto his back and tug you into his side.

“I love you.” You whisper, like a shameful confession, and he shudders like the sound of it is a drug and he’s more than happy to relapse.

He pulls you closer. You rest your cheek against the sweat-damp skin of his chest. Try to even out your breathing as he cards his fingers through your hair.

You have to go. You have to get out of here. Fisk is gonna be coming for you soon.

He grunts, and you make a soft noise as he sits up and gathers you into his arms, drags himself to his feet and carries you into your bedroom.

Everything is so different, now. Dex is a killer. A monster. Your life has been flipped upside down and shaken like a damn snowglobe. You’re probably going to be assassinated soon.

And yet, as Dex helps you out of your ruined dress, skating his fingers and lips over the newly exposed skin, and reaches into your dresser drawer, it’s all so familiar that you ache.

He digs to the bottom, and his grin is triumphant as he pulls an old FBI t-shirt out. His T-shirt. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.

He slides it over your head, presses a kiss to your cheek, and smiles a little wider when you relax.

And then, when he’s cleaned you up and pulled you into the rest of your pajamas, he smooths out the sheets behind you like a ritual before he lays you down atop them, sliding his body over yours and kissing you until you melt into your cheap comforter.

You make love again. You don’t think either of you even mean to. It isn’t as desperate as the first time, not nearly as mindless and rough, but his kisses deepen and he slides his scarred hand down your back until he’s shifting you beneath him, murmuring a quiet plea against your throat as his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts that you respond to with another emphatic nod. And then he’s sliding them off, and you’re unbuttoning his pants again, and his tongue is tracing silent sonnets over your skin until you’re writhing against him.

He doesn’t tease, but he still seems to savor every second. He nudges your knees apart with his own, and pushes into you with a groan of your name. He moves with you like the tide, builds you until the wave crests and whispers praises against your ear as it crashes through you. You kiss him, tell him how good it all feels, and he tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it.

When it’s over, and you’re lying together in the rumpled sheets and he’s breathing shakily against your forehead and holding you like you might vanish at any moment, you finally speak again.

“We’re not back together.” You mumble, and he hums like you just told him the sky is purple but he couldn’t care less. Like it’s such a ridiculous lie that he may as well indulge it for now.

You frown, but you don’t double down. There’s no point, really. You know him. You know he’s not letting you go anywhere.

“How do I fix it?” He finally asks, and your brow furrows as you sit up a little to look at him.

“What?”

“How do I make you forgive me? For Fog-“

Your hand flies up to cover his mouth as if of its own accord. The movement surprises even you.

“Don’t say his name.” You snap, pain curling in your stomach. Guilt, too. But not enough. You’re lying naked in bed with the man who killed one of your best friends, and you don’t feel guilty enough, and you hate yourself for it. “You still don’t get to say his name.”

He looks at you. Nods. You pull your hand back, and he chases your lips with his own.

He kisses you. You kiss him back. You keep trying to hate yourself for it.

“What do I do?” He asks again, and he looks so earnest that you want to die.

You don’t know what crosses your face. What expression is in your eyes, but his own melt into a look of pure desperation.

It takes you a while to speak, and even when you do, the words spill unpracticed and quiet from your lips.

“He was good.” You whisper, and grief tugs at your stomach with enough force to nearly cripple you. “Foggy was so…good.”

“You said I was good, once.” Dex murmurs, brow twitching a little in that way it does when he’s trying to understand something.

“I did.” You reach up, hesitate, and give in. Your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek. “I think…I think you can be. You can be good.”

He melts. He turns his cheek into your palm, looks at you like you are both heaven and earth and everything in between. “I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do anything for you.”

Your heart crumples, and you see it. You shouldn’t, and you’re fucked up for it, but you see it. You see how he thinks. How he is. How he’s been manipulated and hurt and how he’s hurt others and you still fucking love him.

“I want to kill Fisk.” You whisper, like it hurts, and he reaches up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger like you just admitted nothing more intense than liking sugar in your coffee. “I want them both dead. And I don’t want it…I don’t want it for the right reasons, I think.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Revenge.” You whisper. “The greater good, yeah, but revenge. They killed Foggy. They hurt you. I want them to die for it.”

“Hm.” He slides his hand up your back, palm flat and warm, and turns his nose into your cheek. “If I help you kill them…it balances the scales.”

You frown. “It-“

“A good deed, to make up for the bad. Right?” He presses a kiss to your ear, and your eyes fall closed. “It balances out. You’ll forgive me.”

“I can’t forgive you.” You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t.

Even if you understand how his mind works. How he was tricked and manipulated and taken advantage of. Even if you understand him.

You pull back, look into his eyes, and the look on his face breaks something inside of you. The desperate hope. The need.

“We’re probably gonna have to move tomorrow. Fisk definitely wants me dead.” You murmur, and brush your lips over his.

He smiles. “We’ll move.” We. You and him.

“If we do this, you don’t do it for me. I’m not making you do anything.”

“I do everything for you.” He says, matter-of-fact, and closes the distance enough to peck you on the lips. “But okay. Let’s kill ‘em all.”

-

“Such a sweet boy.” The old woman across the hall is absolutely enamored with Dex, or should you say ‘Tony’. Sometimes you think he’s enjoying it a little too much. Especially now, as he crouches down to slide a fried egg into her cat’s bowl. “And what are you two up to?”

“Takin’ the missus to lunch.” He answers smoothly, sliding his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile brightly, and endure a few more minutes of cooing and fawning before making your way down the hall. He keeps his arm around you the whole time, humming absentmindedly as you make your way out into the street.

“You have got to stop telling her we’re married.” You chastise, and he doesn’t let you go even as he flips a coin behind him into a homeless man’s cup.

“I didn’t.”

“You just called me ‘the missus’.”

He’s smiling, a little too proud of himself. “Could mean anything.”

You still insist that you’re not back together. He still allows you to, but he seems to find it more amusing than bothersome. Which, you suppose, is understandable. After all, you woke up in his arms just this morning, like you do every morning. And, like you do most nights, you spent the majority of the evening moaning his name.

But fuck, he’s like a drug to you. You tried so, so hard to hate him. To pretend like he was a monster. Maybe he is, but maybe you are too.

Because whatever Benjamin Poindexter is made of, it calls out to something intrinsic within you. He knows it, and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.

You don’t know if the spring in his step and the smile on his face is from your activities last night or anticipation of what’s about to happen, but you would say it’s safe to blame both as he holds the door of the diner open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. And, because it’s him and he’s an asshole, he makes you yelp as you walk ahead of him with a playful swat to your ass.

You glare. He smiles, and leads you to the counter.

“You two ready to order?”

The woman behind the counter looks tired. Dex smiles like he’s been practicing how to, sweet and with his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sometimes, when you look at him, scarred and huge and absolutely fucking bonkers, you wonder how much he’s changed since you bumped into him on the street all that time ago. How much you’ve changed.

“My wife and I will have a…banana milkshake, then.” He grins at you, and it is so annoyingly hard not to smile back. “Does that sound good, sweetheart?”

You snort. “Sounds perfect, darling.”

His fingers come up, catching your chin and turning your head to him so he can press a soft, smiling kiss to your lips.

“Cute. I’ll be right back with that.” The woman says blandly, disappearing behind the counter as Dex pulls back.

“Menace.” You accuse, and he pats your cheek before he pulls out his phone.

He makes the worst, least convincing phone call you’ve ever heard. So unconvincing, in fact, that you almost giggle as he says “oh shit, he’s got a gun” in the most monotone voice you’ve ever heard. His eyes don’t leave you for a second. They rarely do. Like when you’re near, he’s locked in on a target.

Then again, hasn’t it always been that way?

You did the research. You did the tracking. All you have to do now is wait.

Dex unwraps two straws, carefully places them both in the milkshake, and leans down to take a sip.

You smile at him, roll your eyes, and lean down to the other straw.

You swear, in moments like this, that his eyes could be little cartoon hearts. He doesn’t stop smiling. Doesn’t look away. And shit, if you don’t feel like baby bluebirds could be tweeting around your own head. Like you’re the only two people in the whole world. Cue the cheesy, romantic music. Cue the world vanishing around you until it’s just you and him in this diner, smiling like idiots and sharing a milkshake.

You glance down at your phone. Watch him finish the milkshake. “Forty five seconds.”

He grunts, calm and relaxed, and starts pulling on his gloves. Pulls a toothpick out of the cup beside you.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me to take cover?” You hum, and the corner of his mouth rises even higher.

“No one’s gonna touch you.” You believe him, and you like that he acknowledges that you know what you’re doing.

“Everybody get on the ground!”

You throw your hands in the air, view blocked by Dex’s large frame, and shriek like a dramatic damsel in a movie.

His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh.

“Too much?” You ask, just as they shout again and come closer.

A toothpick finds its home in the ATVF officer’s eye, and all hell breaks loose.

You climb onto your chair, just in time for Dex to push you over the counter. You land with a roll, and in a second he’s on top of you, hands over your head and body covering yours.

“That was a really great milkshake.” He mumbles almost conversationally as the bullets slow, and you reach up to pull his mask the rest of the way down for him before he climbs off of you and snatches up a handful of silverware.

You manage to get to your feet just in time to watch three officers fall with forks sticking out of their eyes. Unfortunately, it’s also just in time for another man to grab you and press the barrel of a gun to your temple.

“Stand down!” He shouts, right by your ear, and digs the barrel in harder. Deeper.

Dex turns, and tilts his head.

“Ow.” You pat the arm wrapped around your throat. “Wrong move, dude.”

He screams as a fork impales the back of his hand, and you feel two more whir past you before they find their homes in his face. Not kill shots. Not yet. When you turn, he’s moaning on the ground with cutlery sticking out of his cheek and eye.

You tuck yourself into a booth as the rest of the men go down, bullets and weapons finally coming to a stop. Heavy bootsteps land beside you, and Dex pulls his mask off as the man in front of you trembles and clings to a tiny dog in his lap.

“Dogs in restaurants are unsanitary.” He says, genuinely perplexed but not quite annoyed.

“P-Please don’t kill me.” The man whimpers. Dex smiles in that unnerving way he has, and you smile too as you grab a bottle of ketchup off of the table.

“Don’t worry.” He takes your hand, stands you up with him, and throws a final pair of forks behind him to slam home into the retreating form of the man who just held the gun to your head. “We’re the good guys.”

You draw a bullseye on the door. He kisses the side of your head as you make your way out of the diner, stepping carefully over shattered glass with the sound of sirens wailing down the street.

-

ONE YEAR EARLIER

“This is no way to live, Benjamin.”

Vanessa Fisk sits across from him. He tries to focus on her. On anything. His mind has been scrambled since he was checked into this place. The cocktail of pills they have him taking every day makes it hard to think.

But you’re still there. You. You. You.

He lies in his bed at night, stares at the ceiling and blinks like his eyes are weighed down by anvils, and if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel your head on his chest. Almost feel your soft hair against his nose. Maybe your fingers tracing over his skin, soothing and warm.

Your voice, lips barely brushing his own. “You’re a good man, Dex…”

And he’ll reach up, searching for you, wanting to pull you to him and feel your body against his. Wanting you so badly that the pain is overwhelming.

And there’s nothing there. And the room is cold.

“I miss you.” He’ll murmur to the darkness, tongue heavier than his eyelids. And he won’t hear anything back.

Now, Vanessa Fisk pushes something towards him. A picture.

Of you.

His near-useless hand paws at the table, something like desperation surging through him as he grasps for it. They won’t let him have any pictures of you here. They call you one of his ‘victims’. He hasn’t seen your face in so long.

“She misses you.” And a part of him knows Vanessa is manipulating him. Even through the drugs, and the longing, he knows it.

And yet, she pushes the picture toward him a little more, and there you are.

You. You. You.

You, at that bar he found you at. The second time you met. You’re with Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page. You’re smiling, but not with your eyes. He knows what it looks like when you smile with your eyes.

You look sad. His eye twitches with the urge to fix it. The urge to touch you.

His fingers curl against the picture.

“I know what it is to love someone so much that being separated feels like…” Vanessa’s voice is gentle. Kind. Vulnerable, even. Dex can’t stop looking at the picture of you. That vulnerability in her voice is reaching him, matching with his own. “Like a hollowness in your soul.”

He makes a soft noise. It sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

His fingers curl a little more against the picture. Brushing over your cheek. Missing the feeling of your skin against his.

“They talk to her about you.”

His eyes, still slowed by the pills, move up to her face.

“They tell her that you were evil. Horrible. She is trying to convince herself that it’s true.” Vanessa leans forward, earnest. “If you want her, you cannot let that happen.”

His eyes fall helplessly back to the picture of you.

Vanessa slides a contract his way. He doesn’t look at it. His trembling fingers trace the printed line of your cheek.

“You can have her again. I only need one…favor. But you will have your freedom, and she will have hers.”

You. You. You.

Vanessa’s manicured finger taps the picture. Taps the face of Foggy Nelson. “I need you to kill him, and one of his clients.”

Dex looks up, a muddled question in his eyes. Foggy is your friend. You like Foggy. Foggy-

“They are poisoning her mind.” Vanessa repeats. “I do not want to see you lose the woman you love, Benjamin. I am offering you a mutually beneficial opportunity.”

You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. His shaking hand holds the pen. Hesitates. He tries to form a clear and straightforward thought.

“With your freedom, you can get back to her.”

Back to you.

He signs the contract.

-

One good deed, and it’s all better. And you forgive him.

Not like you haven’t already. Even if you won’t admit it, he knows you have. He can see it on your face. Feel it in your quickened breaths at night when he’s got you laid out on the sheets, or on the couch, or against the wall…

And when you eat breakfast together, and he’s staring at you and you’re grinning right back at him, and the sounds of the chaos and the city and the world around him fade and everything is just you. You. You. You.

You’re out at the bodega down the street, grabbing more bandages and water. You’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.

You’re gonna be mad at him. He hates that.

But Matt Murdock showed up four minutes ago, and now the apartment is an absolute fucking wreck, and the lady down the hall is screaming and terrified because Dex had to use her as a human shield for a minute there, and you’re gonna come home to that wreck and worry but…

One good deed. He can do it now. Earn your forgiveness. Earn his redemption. If he doesn’t move now, he might lose his chance. And then what? What’s the point of living if it’s in a world absent of your love? Despite everything, he can’t help but fear a day when you decide that you can’t forgive him. That his sins were simply too much. Where you deprive him of the love you offer now because you just can’t seem to help it, where you stop smiling at him and letting him touch you completely.

No, he has to go now. Killing Fisk solidifies your forgiveness. Allows him to keep you. Keeps the world balanced right.

So he leaves. He leaves the apartment for the last time, and prays to whatever God might exist that you’ll forgive him.

- 

He throws the snowglobe. Plans the trajectory against Wilson Fisks’s swing. Watches the shard pierce Vanessa Fisk’s temple.

It was easy. Almost too easy.

But the bullet. That’s the problem. That landed home, and it hit all the wrong places.

He’s going to bleed out. You’re going to be upset.

But he did it. One good deed. He didn’t kill Fisk, but he killed Vanessa. At least, at the very least, he took that pain away. She ordered the hit on Foggy. Your friend. She made you hurt. She just made him the weapon. And now, she’s going to die.

-

“Mrs. Smithers, please shut up.”

She’s screaming, and crying, and you should probably be comforting her. ‘Tony’ just held a gun to her head, after all. And yet, you have bigger things to worry about.

Two minutes, and they’ll be here. Cops have been called. AVTF is on the way, guns blazing and you have seconds to find him and your heart is hammering in your chest in that familiar staccato beat.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex.

There. The church. The fucking church, of all places.

Vanessa Fisk, mortally wounded. Daredevil and Bullseye at the boxing match. Dex Dex DexDexDex.

You smash your computer against the counter, cracking it in half, and bolt.

You take the fire escape, and begin scrambling down just as you hear them bursting into the hall.

And you pray, with every last shred of your desperate heart, that you’re not too late.

-

He’s bleeding out. He knows it. Seen it enough times to know he doesn’t have long, and Murdock isn’t gonna stick around to help him.

He misses you. He wishes you were here.

The dizziness of blood loss is a little frustrating, but Murdock is busy calling him a piece of shit. Fair. He shot his best friend, after all. If you’re still mad about that, it makes sense that he would be too.

“One last good deed.” He hums, propped up against the wall as blood leaks between his fingers, pooling onto the floor beneath him. “N’then she forgives me.”

“Asshole.” A whole conversation in the pews a minute ago, Dex’s whole speech about how he’s making it better and earning forgiveness and getting his mind back, and that’s all the guy can say. He thought lawyers were supposed to be more eloquent.

“Take care of her when I’m gone.” You. You. You. He sees Daredevil tense. He’s pissed at you, sure, but he cares about you. So Dex smiles, tired, and tilts his head back against the wall, confident in his next words. “Yeah, you will.” And if he ever touches you, Dex will return as a ghost and put a pencil through his eye. But hey, just something to worry about in the afterlife.

Murdock stutters some sort of apology. Has a whole little crisis about whether or not he can save him. He’s so stressed it’s almost funny, but he’s not gonna save Dex. He did it. He earned forgiveness. It’s time for judgement day.

The room pulses. The sounds of ATVF bootsteps echo above. His eyes close, and you’ll be okay. You forgave him. You didn’t admit it aloud, but he doesn’t need that. Never did.

Judgement day ticks ever-closer.

“Dex!”

His eyes open, and it’s too bright in the dark room. He’s too tired, but…

There you are. In the church and illuminated by low light like an angel. He smiles, bloody and exhausted and more than a little out of it. “Hey, baby.”

“Wake up. Dex, wake up.” You sound so panicked. So scared. For him. You love him. You. You. You….

“Dex! Fuck, please wake up. C’mon.” You’re pulling at him, trying to drag him across the floor and failing miserably, and he wishes you would just stay. Just admit that this is hopeless and let him hold you close. Admit that you love him, and that you need him, and let him feel your breath and smell your hair in his last few minutes on this earth.

“Fuck. Why are you so heavy?! Where’s Matt?” You’re trying to get your hands under his shoulders. It’s a little funny, but it hurts like a bitch when you jostle his bullet wound, so he grabs you and spins you down in front of him.

“In the wind.” He reaches up, fingers sliding over your cheek and smearing it with red. Fucking beautiful. They write poems about this shit. About women so lovely they steal souls and start wars. “You gotta go, too.”

“Fat fucking chance.” You press your forehead to his, unbothered by the blood, and cradle his own face in your hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”

Oh, that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. It’s the first time you’ve said it since that night on your kitchen floor, when you were still lying beneath him and still catching your breath and still all his after so much time. Back then, you whispered it like some horrible confession. Sweet music to his ears.

“My girl.” He’s fading. He’s fading fast. You hold him more tightly, smearing his own blood on his face as he does the same to you, the matching stains like a tether. Like a claim. “North Star….”

“Dex. Dex. Stop. Wake up. Don’t leave me don't you dare leave me-“

The sound of your voice is swallowed by the tide, and he doesn’t close his eyes, refuses to look away from you, but his vision begins to blur.

And then, from deep under the water, he hears it.

The door creaking open. Your panicked voice as your head whips to the side, dislodging his bloody hand from your cheek.

“Matt?! Matt! Help him! Please-“

…

-

You’re by his bedside. You have been for hours.

Karen is not happy with you. Neither is Matt. Soledad is stitching up Dex’s wound, pulling the bullet out, and he keeps waking up.

Not only does he keep waking up, he keeps jolting awake from the pain. Keeps squeezing your hand so tightly you wonder if he’ll break bone. Keeps finding your face in the haze of sleep and agony, and grinning like a lunatic when your eyes meet.

And then he’s healed. Somewhat. For now. And you’re fighting exhaustion of your own in the chair you’ve pulled up to the cot he’s asleep in.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karen sounds pissed. You get it. But Dex is pale and his breathing is ragged and slow and you can’t let go of his hand.

“Hey, Karen.” The casual tone of your voice is insulting. You know it. You think you’ve been spending too much time with Dex.

“Him?” Matt isn’t here. Not now. You see sweat on Dex’s brow. Look down to make sure that his bandages are still in place. Every time his breathing slows even a little, your ears ring and your vision narrows.

“Yeah.” You don’t look away from him. You’re still covered in his blood. “Cute, right?” A lame joke, like he’s some boy you just met at the bar, rather than…well, fucking Bullseye.

“We’ve been trying to find you. We thought he kidnapped you.”

Your thumb trails its way over bruised knuckles again. “Well…I mean, he kinda did.” However things ended up that night after the party, you’re pretty confident that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Not without him.

“Are you sleeping with him?” You’re getting a little tired of the twenty questions.

“I’m in love with him.” You answer simply, and hear her suck in a horrified breath.

“He killed Foggy.”

“I know.” Dex stirs, just barely, like he might be reacting to your admission even in sleep. You squeeze his hand, and when you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek he turns his face into your palm. “And I still love him. Isn’t that fucked up?”

-

He wakes cuffed to the cot. They’re worried about what he might do. Honestly, you’re surprised they didn’t cuff you too.

He winces as his eyes open, and smiles when they land on you. His low rasp of a voice is even more gravelly, hoarse with sleep and pain.

“Hey, baby.”

He always says that in the most fucked up situations. It always makes your heart beat a little faster.

He sits up, slowly, and pulls at the cuffs on the bed.

“Do your staples hurt?” You ask, eyes falling down to the bandages. 

He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mere.”

You do, slowly, and it’s only then that he seems to notice the gun.

“You gonna shoot me?” He asks, smile widening a little as he tilts his head to the side.

“I might.” You reach down, slip a paper clip into the cuff on his right wrist, and hear it pop free. He makes a soft noise, rolling his wrist once before sliding his hand up your back as you sink down to straddle his lap.

He leans in to kiss you. You press the barrel against his forehead and push him back. He smiles even wider.

“You disappeared.” You hum, and he pushes his forehead a little more into the gun. “You tried to get yourself killed.”

“Balancing the scales.”

“You got shot. You almost died. I watched you die.”

“You love me.” He breathes it like the memory is a fucking treasure - a shot of heroin straight to the system. His hand tightens on your back, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.

“I still hate you. For Foggy.” It’s a lie, but it should be true. He hums, and you slide the gun around to his temple.

“You love me.” He repeats, and brushes his nose against yours.

“I do.” You admit, soft, and he kisses you. Hard. Slow. His fingers slide up into your hair, curling into a fist behind your head as he completely ignores the firearm digging into his skull.

You pull back, and push it in harder.

“Listen to me, Poindexter.” You murmur, low and dark as your own hand slides up to his hair, pulling his head back and making him groan as he looks at you with a blissed-out grin on his scarred face. “Never do that shit again. You don’t get to leave me. Not now, not ever.”

Words he’s said to you before, albeit in different forms, back when you told yourself you hated him.

“Never.” He agrees, and his eyes fall closed like he would die happy if you pulled the trigger right now. He opens them after a moment, and leans up to bump his nose against yours again. “Wanna put that down?”

“I could shoot you.” You don’t know why you’re saying it. You’re smiling too.

“No bullets.” He hums, pleased. “And it’s not loaded.”

You laugh, and wonder just how crazy you’ve become. “The FBI trained you too well.”

He uses his free arm to tug you a little closer, until there’s no more space between your bodies, and you drop the unloaded gun in favor of wrapping your arms around him again.

“Not the FBI. I know you.” He kisses you again, in that slow and determined way, and slides the palm of his hand up beneath your shirt. “Uncuff me.”

You smile, and shake your head. Push him back down and chase his lips with your own.

He hums, nips playfully at your lip, and tugs on the other handcuff until it rattles.

“You’re injured.” You murmur, muffled by his kiss, and he tangles his fingers in your hair again.

“Feels better.”

“Liar.”

He grunts, and rocks his hips against yours. “This feels better. Let me touch you.”

“You are touching me.”

“Let me touch you more.”

You reach down between you, as wrong and stupid as it is, and unbuckle his belt.

He makes a very pleased noise, and moves his free hand down to unbutton your jeans.

“Uncuff me.” He growls again, demanding, as you shuffle out of your pants and move to pull his down.

“No.”

He pulls you back down to him by the back of your neck, traces his tongue over your ear. “Don’t wanna do this with one hand.”

“I could cuff your other hand.”

He grunts, and the next roll of his hips is harder. More punishing. You gasp, control slipping a little more than you want to admit, and he pulls at the hem of your blood-stained shirt.

“Off.”

You comply, and he leans back to look you over like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. You love how he looks at you like that. You love him so much it hurts.

“Your staples.” You murmur, as he drags himself back up to a sitting position, pulling you more firmly onto his lap until you can feel the very prominent evidence of his desire against you.

“Doesn’t hurt.”

It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to focus as he moves his hand down to slide your underwear over your legs. You maneuver to help him, and his own breath catches in his throat.

“Liar, liar.” It comes out as a whisper, soft and teasing as you press a soft kiss to his lips, and his own lips curl into a smile.

“I want it to hurt.” He noses at your jaw. Down to the hollow of your throat. “Reminds me I’m alive.”

You kiss him, hard, because he is alive and he’s here with you and you suddenly need him so badly it hurts. When you finally sink down onto his lap, bodies joining and breath shaking with the feeling of becoming one, he buries a groan into your hair, hips stuttering as you begin to rock against him. Your thighs burn already at the angle, and he meets your movements with his own as he crushes you to him. It must hurt, and you want to tell him so, but when you open your mouth he groans low against your neck and finds that spot that has your toes curling and hands flying up to find purchase on his shoulders.

You slide your hands over his cheeks, pull his face back so you can kiss him breathless, and pleasure begins to build almost alarmingly fast in your core. You almost lost him. You love him. He’s kissing you like you’re the only oxygen he’s ever wanted to breathe and dragging his rough palm up over your bare back as he meets your movements with his own. The cuff rattles against the chair, but despite his restricted movement and injuries he’s still using his one arm to move you in his lap, angling your body to hit that spot in your core that has you gasping desperately against his lips.

One particularly rough thrust has him hissing in pain, and the reminder of exactly why he’s hurting like this possesses you in the strangest way as you slide your hand down to grip his throat, forcing his gaze to your own.

And there’s so much power in it. In watching this large, scarred, deadly man stare at you like he’s in awe of your existence. The sight of it alone has you falling apart, moaning his name as your body spasms against his. He clings to you, and your hand squeezes around his throat as he pushes his forehead against yours like he’s drinking in the sight of you, too.

“Mine.” You whisper, and he falls over the edge so violently you wonder if he might pass out, hand dropping down to grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.

You sit there for a while, tracing your fingers down the scar on his back as he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“I have to re-cuff you.” You murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He uses his free arm to grip you tighter.

“No. Don’t move.”

“If they walk in here and see you uncuffed and inside me, they’ll probably cuff me too.” You hum, and feel him smile as his teeth dig playfully into your collarbone. You turn your head, lips brushing his ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “They think I’m crazy.”

He laughs, broad shoulders shaking as he pulls back to kiss you.

“Love you.” His fingers trace up your body, trailing slowly over your heated skin.

“Love you too, psycho.” You kiss his cheek. “No more suicide missions, or it’s both cuffs.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Promise?”

“Both cuffs, and no touching.”

He frowns, and kisses you again like he’s trying to prove that he’s allowed to touch you now. “No more suicide missions.”

-

When Matt comes an hour or so later, you’re fully dressed and back in your chair at Dex’s bedside, one eye closed in concentration as you aim a knife at a bullseye you drew on the wall.

You throw it, and it bounces off the wooden surface and clatters to the ground.

“Flick your wrist.” Dex says, but his eyes are on you, hungry and dark. He’s tried to teach you how to aim weapons a few times before, and the lessons have more often than not been cut short by whatever seems to ignite in him like a bonfire at the sight of you holding a knife. It helps now that he’s in cuffs, but despite your activities earlier he looks damn close to trying to break out of them.

You pick up the knife, and try again. It sticks a little outside of the center, but it sticks. You turn to grin at Dex. He grins back, and the expression is downright feral.

“Uncuff me.”

“Bad boy. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

Any response he may have, inappropriate or demanding or whatever it may be, is interrupted as the door swings open and Matt walks in. Angry. Silent.

He uncuffs Dex roughly. Sits across from him and doesn’t even acknowledge you. Rude, but fair. You can still understand why he and Karen are so pissed at you, even if you find it a little difficult to care.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I hate you for Foggy. And Father Lantom. And Agent Nadeem.” Dex’s eyes are right on you as he rolls his wrists, stretching the no-doubt stiff muscles and seemingly oblivious to how off-putting it must be that he won’t even spare a glance toward the man telling him how much he hates him. “And I even hate you for what you did to her. Whatever you did that broke her mind.”

“Woah, hey. I’m of completely sound mind.” You snap, defensive. Matt doesn’t turn around.

“Your shirt is on inside out.”

You look down, flush, and look back up in time to see Dex smirk.

“Dick.” You grumble, because he definitely knew, and he definitely didn’t tell you on purpose. You frown at Matt again. “I didn’t uncuff him.”

“Not all the way.” Dex supplies, and you glare so hard his smirk turns into a manic grin.

“Shut up.”

“Stop. Both of you stop.” Matt snaps, annoyingly serious Daredevil voice and all, and it takes a significant amount of effort to swallow your response and sit back in your chair.

He talks about forgiveness. About how he needs it for his own sake, and not for Dex’s or even yours.

But you saw Matt’s face, when you found him at the gala. When he tried to pull you out of there before you got yourself hurt in your anger and grief. And in the church, when he pulled you and Dex to safety as you begged the near-unconscious man to stay with you. To live because despite it all you couldn’t fucking lose him.

He’s angry. He’s hurting. But he cares about you. And you care about him, too. Your love for Dex doesn’t make those years of friendship just go away.

And then, the ultimate question. Aimed directly at Dex. “So, do you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit?”

Benjamin Poindexter turns to you. You smile at him, an entire conversation passing between the two of you in the span of a second before he rolls his shoulders and turns to Matt.

“What do you need me to do?”

-

The whistle echoes through the vast expanse of the room. Three floors up. Directly and strategically across from the courthouse.

Four ATVF officers whirl, guns raised, and…

And then lowered out of pure confusion.

A woman stands in the doorway, in casual clothes, with her eyes wide and her hands raised in shocked and horrified surrender.

“I-I was just looking for the bathroom.”

Shit. A civilian. They’re gonna have to figure out what to do with her, now. There’s no way she didn’t see the fake Bullseye across the room, and if she tells anyone-

“Wait, please don’t shoot! I know what you do, right? You’re the good guys? You find vigilantes and…you know…” she curls her fingers into the shape of a pistol, aiming at the closest officer’s head, and pretends to fire in demonstration.

Exactly where the woman ‘shot’ him, a knife appears, jutting out right between a pair of wide eyes.

He goes down.

She jumps, surprised, and inspects her hand with alarm like smoke might start coming out of her fingers.

And then, she aims again, almost experimentally, at the second officer. The moment she ‘fires’, another knife flies through the air and hits home.

Just as the shock begins to wear off, spurring the startled men into action, she lowers her other hand into the same shape, and ‘shoots’ the final two men in rapid succession before they can even think to lift their guns.

And then, when all that’s left is the ‘fake Bullseye’, who is still standing there frozen and confused, she laughs.

The sound of heavy bootsteps echoes through the room.

“That was even more fun the third time.” She says, tone bright and amused as she tilts her head back towards the source of the sound.

Bullseye, the real one, appears behind her, and his low chuckle is the most frightening sound the other man has ever fucking heard.

The new Bullseye fires his gun, and screams as his hand is impaled by a knife. He goes down, crumpling to his knees and cradling the bleeding appendage, and his counterpart walks casually forward with the mysterious woman behind him.

He’s only in pain for a few seconds, just long enough to be pushed to the ground, and just long enough to see the glimpse of another knife before it finds its home in his eye.

-

“Holy shit.”

“Hm?” The click of the rifle. The subtle shift of his shoulders as he adjusts his shot. So careful and calculated, and yet you can feel him locked in on every word. Every blink. Every movement.

Even with another target in sight, he is always focused on you.

“Matt just told everyone he’s Daredevil.”

Dex hums, cocking his head to the side. “And?”

“And he’s probably gonna go to prison for it.”

Dex loads the sniper, the shell of the bullet clattering onto the floor. “Prison’s not so bad.”

“Says the guy who broke out of it.”

“For you.” He turns, and you can see his eyes crinkle in the corners even if you can’t see him smile behind the mask. “For romance.”

You hum, and pop your headphone back into your ear, eyes moving back to the monitor as you sit cross-legged atop the table beside the gun. “You’re a fucking psychooo~” you sing, under your breath, and feel him catch your chin between his gloved fingers before you have time to look back up. He tilts your chin towards him, and you feel the warmth of his lips beneath the rough fabric of his mask as he pulls you into a kiss.

He moves back to the gun with the grace of a cat, satisfied, and you do your best not to worry too much about Matt Murdock. Your friend. Daredevil, who has just outed himself to the entire world and sealed his own fate.

The shot is fired and thus your location is given up. It’s time to go.

You hesitate. You sit by the computer, and you watch the screen after it goes blank.

A gloved hand comes up, a warm chest against your back as that same familiar hand guides yours away from your lips.

“What’re you up to?”

Dex’s couch, so long ago. Your eyes locked on a screen. Warm fingers curling around your own. You must have been biting your nails again. It must be late. You barely even heard him come in.

“Tech company. Innocent employee. Spreadsheets.” You tilt your head back, sleepy, and catch his lips with your own. “Not supposed to talk about it though, remember?”

“Criminal.” He kisses you again, but he’s smiling.

“Not technically.” You kiss him back, pulling him closer, catching his hand to guide him around the couch and over to you. “You gonna tattle, Special Agent Poindexter?”

“Never.”

“Time to go.” That same voice is lower now. Raspier. Still just as achingly familiar. So much has changed, and everything is so different, and he’s still so incredibly yours.

“Matt…” the word is released on a breath, and that breath feels too heavy. Too weighed down by memories. Matt. Foggy. Karen. So many memories. So much loss.

“Can’t do anything for him now, baby.” His nose against your temple, his arm around your waist. He took his mask off, at some point. “But if they catch us up here, it’s gonna be a lot worse for him.”

You turn, still frowning, still worried, and reach up to brush your fingers over the deep scar on his cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, like he always does, and smiles.

That smile, sweet and scarred and as familiar as the palm of your own hand, will always feel more like home than any place in the world.

And that’s how it was always gonna go, wasn’t it? Since the day you ran into him in front of that coffee shop, the night he kissed you for the first time, the moment you saw the bullseye etched on the door of your apartment…

It was always him. It was always going to be him. The trajectory of your life changed before you even knew it was happening, jolting in a different direction like a ricocheted bullet, and always still pointed home.

Home, to him.

You smile back, and meet his eyes.

“Where are we going?”

-

Benjamin Poindexter rolls a coin over his knuckles, glances out the window of the airplane towards the earth thousands of feet below, and smiles.

The flight attendant speaks to the man in the seat beside yours, welcomes him into the ‘Million Milers Club’ or whatever, and he does his best not to glare at the noise. The man is beaming - annoying -  but you would tell him that it’s rude to glare if you were awake.

Speaking of which, your head is snuggled up to his shoulder, breath soft and even and both arms wrapped around his bicep like he’s some kind of teddy bear, rather than a dangerous assassin.

Then again, you’re almost just as unhinged as he is these days.

He hums, content, and turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and feeling you sigh and shift a little closer.

“You two seem happy.” The too-friendly guy in the seat beside you is smiling, and Dex resists the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you onto his lap, hiding you from the world because you’re his only his no one else-

He’s gotta reel that under control a little more. That possessiveness. But, well, you’re his. And he’s yours. Two sides of the same coin. Soulmates in every way.

And he knows that you do seem happy. You always do, because you are. You walked onto this plane together in an almost sickening display of blissful love. He lifted your bag into the overhead bin for you, pulled you into the seat after, wrapped his arms around you and basked in your laughter as he shamelessly pressed kisses to your neck and shoulder. You’d leaned back, grinned at him like you were the only two people on the plane, in the world, and slid your hand into his own.

No one suspected that you’d helped him kill people only a few hours before. That you washed the blood off of each other before you came to the airport.

He raises his eyebrows. Too-friendly Guy keeps going. “You headed to your honeymoon?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. He rests his chin on top of your head. He has a ring in his pocket, and when you land in the next country, and he gets the very first opportunity that comes his way, he already plans to drop to his knee and beg you to marry him.

But for now, he nods, and fixes the stranger with a practiced smile.

“Yeah.” He hums, feeling you shift comfortably against him, sighing contentedly against his shoulder. Perfect. His. “It’s long overdue.”

The man looks the two of you over, and seems to be about to say something else, but you shift again and Dex’s attention suddenly couldn’t be any less focused on him.

Honeymoon. Yeah, you’ll have a thousand honeymoons. A thousand lifetimes of happiness and togetherness and love so intense it’s taken lives, saved lives, shattered governments, and so much more.

May as well start now.

~