dead is the mother of beauty

New York never really slept.

Even before dawn, the city breathed through the distant growl of traffic, the hiss of buses kneeling at empty stops, and the occasional wail of a siren somewhere beyond the rows of apartment buildings. From the fourth floor of your building, those sounds had become familiar enough that silence felt stranger than noise.

Your alarm sounded at six.

You reached across the bedside table and silenced it before it could ring again. A grey tabby immediately lifted his head from the pillow beside you, emerald eyes narrowed in quiet annoyance.

"You've got a harder life than I do," you murmured.

The cat answered with a slow blink before curling back into himself.

The apartment was modest, but it was yours.

Well—not yours. The landlord would certainly remind you of that if the rent was late—but it was home. A small kitchen with mismatched cupboards, a narrow living room dominated by second-hand furniture, shelves overflowing with university textbooks, and walls that desperately needed repainting. Nothing about it was glamorous.

You loved it anyway.

Every object had been bought with money you had earned. Every book had brought you one step closer to where you wanted to be.

Forensic psychology.

Less than two years remained until you graduated.

Sometimes that still surprised you.

There had been nights where assignments blurred into sunrise, mornings fuelled entirely by coffee, and weeks where your bank account looked frighteningly empty before your next pay cheque arrived from the university library. Yet somehow, despite everything, you had made it this far.

You intended to finish.

After showering, you pulled on running leggings, an old university sweatshirt, and trainers that had seen better days. You filled your cat's bowl before crouching beside him.

"I'll be back in half an hour."

He ignored you with complete dignity.

Outside, the cool morning air hit your face immediately.

The streets carried that peculiar quiet found only just before commuters flooded the pavements. A newspaper stand was being stocked on the corner. Delivery vans idled beside restaurants. Somewhere nearby, someone was dragging metal chairs across concrete to prepare for opening.

Your route never changed.

Three blocks east.

Across the small park.

Round the fountain.

Then back again.

Nothing ambitious. Just enough to clear your head before lectures.

Running had become less about fitness and more about routine. It gave your mind somewhere to organise itself before the day demanded your attention.

By the time you returned to the main street, your breathing had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Sweat clung lightly to the back of your neck, and your legs carried the pleasant ache that came from moving rather than sitting at a desk.

The familiar bell chimed as you stepped into the coffee shop.

Warm air wrapped around you immediately, carrying the rich smell of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries. Indie music drifted quietly through hidden speakers while an espresso machine hissed behind the counter.

"Morning," the barista called, already recognising you.

"Morning."

"The usual?"

You smiled.

"Please."

She nodded before reaching automatically for a paper cup.

You leaned against the collection counter, fishing your phone from your pocket while customers drifted in behind you.

Then the bell above the door rang again.

The man who entered looked as though he belonged somewhere quieter. He wore a dark jacket zipped neatly to his collar despite the mild weather. His hair was trimmed short, almost military in appearance, and his posture was impossibly straight. Every movement was economical, precise, as though unnecessary motion had been carefully removed from his life.

His eyes swept across the café.

Not casually.

Methodically.

Door.

Windows.

Customers.

Counter.

You noticed because you studied people. It had become instinct. Most people looked around a room. This man assessed it.

He joined the queue without touching his phone or glancing absentmindedly towards the menu. Instead, he stood perfectly still with his hands loosely folded in front of him.

No fidgeting.

No sighing.

No shifting his weight.

Nothing.

It wasn't normal.

Not unsettling.

Just... unusual.

"Large black coffee."

His voice carried easily across the café.

Calm.

Even.

Controlled.

The cashier smiled politely.

"Anything else?"

"No."

His answer came almost before she'd finished asking.

You collected your own drink as your order was called.

"Thanks."

"You have a good one."

"You too."

Turning towards the door, you adjusted your grip around the warm cup.

Someone stepped aside at exactly the same moment. You both moved to avoid one another. Then accidentally chose the same direction.

"Oh—"

You laughed softly.

"Sorry."

The man immediately shifted back, giving you enough room to pass.

"My mistake."

His voice remained perfectly level.

Not cold.

Simply factual.

Up close, you noticed faint shadows beneath his eyes, as though sleep was something he tolerated rather than enjoyed. There was a tiny scar near his jawline, almost hidden beneath the morning stubble, and another disappearing beneath the collar of his jacket.

He met your gaze for barely a second.

Long enough to acknowledge you.

Not long enough to invite conversation.

"No," you replied with an awkward smile. "I walked straight into your path."

He gave a single nod.

Neither apologetic nor dismissive. Merely accepting the information.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved.

Then the cashier called out, "Large black coffee."

The man inclined his head.

"Excuse me."

"Of course."

He stepped around you with surprising care, making certain not to brush your shoulder as he passed. There was something almost rehearsed about the movement—as though he'd consciously calculated exactly how much space to leave.

You watched him collect his coffee.

"No room?" the barista asked.

"No."

"No sugar?"

"No."

"Have a nice day."

He paused.

"You too."

Again, perfectly polite. Perfectly measured. Nothing about him stood out in the way people often imagined suspicious individuals would. If anything, he seemed exceptionally ordinary.

Quiet.

Reserved.

Disciplined.

The sort of man who kept to himself.

You pushed open the café door and stepped back into the cool morning air. Behind you, a few seconds later, the bell chimed again. You glanced back without really thinking. The same man emerged carrying his coffee.

He turned left.

You turned right.

Within moments, the crowds beginning to gather along the pavement swallowed him entirely.

You never learned his name.

Not that morning.

Not yet.

—

The days settled back into their familiar rhythm.

Lecture.

Library.

Work.

Sleep.

Run.

Coffee.

Repeat.

There was a certain comfort in routine. You had always found it easier to manage the chaos of university when each morning began the same way. It made New York feel smaller somehow, less overwhelming.

About a week after your brief encounter with the quiet stranger, you noticed him again.

He was already inside the café when you arrived.

Just as before, he stood in the queue without looking at his phone. While everyone else filled the silence by scrolling through messages or staring blankly out of the window, he simply waited.

Perfect posture.

Hands loosely clasped.

Eyes calmly taking in the room.

You joined the line a few places behind him.

"Large black coffee," he said when it was his turn.

The cashier smiled.

"No room?"

"No."

"No sugar?"

"No."

"You have a nice day."

"You too."

The exchange lasted no more than twenty seconds.

By the time you reached the counter, he was already walking out with the paper cup held securely in one hand.

You thought nothing more of it.

Until two mornings later.

Again.

The same jacket.

The same measured voice.

The same order.

"Large black coffee."

"No room?"

"No."

"No sugar?"

"No."

It happened often enough that you began to notice the details without meaning to. He arrived within roughly the same ten-minute window each weekday morning. Never looked rushed. Never lingered. Always thanked the staff. Always left.

His routine was almost as predictable as your own.

"You know him?"

The question came unexpectedly one Thursday morning.

You looked away from the door, finding the barista sealing your cup with its lid.

"Him?"

She nodded towards the window where the man was already disappearing into the crowd.

"The FBI guy."

You blinked.

"FBI?"

She laughed quietly.

"I thought everyone around here knew."

"I've only been coming here for..." You paused, trying to count it in your head. "About eight months."

"He flashes his badge sometimes if someone asks why he's carrying."

"Carrying?"

"The gun."

"Oh."

Your surprise must have shown because she smiled sympathetically.

"Scared me the first time too."

"I never noticed."

"He keeps it well hidden."

You accepted your coffee.

"I suppose I wasn't looking."

"He comes in nearly every weekday."

"I've noticed."

The words escaped before you realised you'd said them. The barista grinned knowingly.

"Hard not to."

You frowned.

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "He's memorable."

That was true. Not because he was loud or charismatic. Quite the opposite. There was something about him that made the room subtly rearrange itself around him. People instinctively gave him space without seeming to realise they were doing it. He wasn't intimidating exactly.

Just... composed.

Like someone who always knew exactly where they were standing.

—

Nearly three weeks passed.

Spring slowly crept further into the city. Trees lining the park began showing fresh green leaves, and people exchanged heavy winter coats for lighter jackets.

Your coursework became increasingly demanding.

Behavioural profiling.

Criminal cognition.

Risk assessment.

Some modules fascinated you so completely that hours vanished inside the university library without you noticing.

Others required considerably more caffeine.

It was after one particularly exhausting seminar that you found yourself wondering, entirely absentmindedly, whether the FBI agent would already have collected his coffee.

The thought surprised you.

Not because it mattered. Only because it had become familiar.

He was simply... there.

Like the newspaper stand outside. Or the elderly woman who walked the same dachshund every morning. Or the man who played saxophone outside the subway entrance every Friday afternoon.

Just another constant.

Except, unlike everyone else, he never seemed distracted.

One Monday morning, you arrived a little earlier than usual. To your mild surprise, so had he.

He stood near the collection counter rather than in the queue, his coffee already waiting beside him. Instead of immediately leaving, however, he remained where he was.

Not idle.

Watching.

His gaze drifted towards the front window.

A delivery cyclist almost collided with a taxi outside. A pedestrian stepped backwards into the road without looking. Someone shouted.

Within seconds, everything settled.

The man hadn't reacted dramatically.

He had simply... observed.

His eyes followed each movement with quiet precision before returning to the interior of the café.

Only then did he notice you.

For the briefest moment, recognition flickered across his face.

Not warmth.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

You had seen one another enough times now to become familiar.

He gave a small nod. The same restrained acknowledgement as before.

You returned it almost instinctively.

"Morning."

The word left your mouth before you'd decided to speak.

There was a pause.

Short enough that another person might not even have noticed.

Then he answered.

"Morning."

His voice remained level, controlled, almost careful.

No smile. No awkwardness.

Simply polite.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.

It merely... existed.

The barista broke it.

"Usual?"

You looked over.

"Please."

As she began preparing your drink, you became aware that the man hadn't yet left. He picked up his coffee, adjusted the lid by a fraction, then glanced towards the door.

"You come here every morning," he said.

It wasn't phrased as a question.

You looked back at him.

"So do you."

Another tiny pause.

"Yes."

Nothing more. No attempt at conversation. No introduction. Just an acknowledgement of a fact.

He inclined his head once more before walking towards the exit.

The bell above the café door chimed as he disappeared onto the pavement outside, swallowed once again by the flow of New Yorkers hurrying to work.

You watched him leave for only a second before collecting your own coffee.

It wasn't until you were halfway back to your apartment that you realised something.

You still didn't know his name.

But somehow, after nearly three weeks of passing one another almost every weekday morning, he no longer felt like a stranger.

—

Another week passed.

Mid-term assessments arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train.

Your dining table disappeared beneath open textbooks, highlighted journal articles, handwritten notes and empty mugs that you kept promising yourself you would wash. More than once, you fell asleep with your laptop still open, only to wake an hour later with a crick in your neck and a paragraph of keyboard imprints pressed into your cheek.

The coffee shop became less of a luxury and more of a necessity.

The staff no longer asked for your order.

"The usual?" was all they needed.

"The usual," you would answer.

By now, you recognised most of the regulars. The elderly man who spent an hour every morning completing crossword puzzles. Two paramedics who alternated buying breakfast depending on whose payday it was. A woman in a navy business suit who always left with three coffees balanced expertly in a cardboard carrier.

And, almost every weekday morning... Benjamin.

You still hadn't heard him introduce himself.

One Tuesday, however, another customer had held the door open as he was leaving.

"Morning, Agent Benjamin Poindexter."

He had paused just long enough to acknowledge him.

"Morning."

That was all.

No conversation followed.

The man continued on his way, and Benjamin disappeared into the crowd as he always did.

Benjamin Poindexter.

The name settled somewhere in the back of your mind. You weren't entirely sure why. Perhaps because names made people feel more real.

'The FBI guy' had become Agent Benjamin Poindexter.

It suited him.

—

Rain arrived without warning the following Friday.

The sky had been overcast during your run, but by the time you reached the café the heavens had opened.

People crowded just inside the entrance, shaking umbrellas and brushing rainwater from their coats.

You joined the queue, pushing damp strands of hair away from your face.

"Looks like everyone's had the same idea," the barista joked.

"No chance I'm surviving today's lecture without caffeine."

She laughed.

"That's the spirit."

The bell above the door rang.

You didn't need to look.

For reasons you couldn't quite explain, you already knew who had walked in.

Benjamin paused just inside the entrance, folding a black umbrella with careful efficiency before slipping it into a waterproof sleeve. His jacket was spotted with rain, though not nearly as soaked as everyone else's.

He must have anticipated the weather.

Of course he had.

He quietly joined the queue behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder.

"Morning."

His eyes met yours briefly.

"Morning."

The line moved slowly. Someone ahead was arguing over an incorrect order, while another customer struggled to decide between pastries.

Neither of you spoke.

It wasn't uncomfortable anymore.

Simply... quiet.

Eventually, the cashier called your name. You stepped forward, reaching into your bag for your purse.

Your stomach dropped.

You checked again.

The front pocket.

The inside compartment.

Nothing.

"...No."

You frowned to yourself.

"I've left my wallet at home."

The cashier offered an understanding smile.

"It happens."

"I can just—" You sighed. "I'll come back."

As you turned away, a calm voice spoke behind you.

"I've got it."

You looked around.

Benjamin was already holding out his card.

You blinked.

"Oh... no, honestly, you don't have to."

"It isn't a problem."

"I can come back."

"You could." His expression remained as composed as ever. "Or I can pay for your coffee."

You hesitated. It wasn't the amount. It was accepting something from someone you barely knew.

Perhaps he recognised the uncertainty because he added, in the same measured tone, "You can repay me another morning."

There was no pressure in his voice. No expectation. Simply a practical solution.

The cashier looked between the two of you.

"Should I...?"

Benjamin gave a single nod.

"Together."

The payment terminal beeped.

Transaction approved.

You stared for a moment before letting out a small, embarrassed laugh.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I really will pay you back."

"I believe you."

His coffee was placed beside yours.

"Large black coffee."

He picked it up.

You collected your own cup.

For a moment, the two of you stood near the door while rain hammered against the windows hard enough to blur the city beyond into streaks of grey.

"I appreciate it," you said again.

Benjamin nodded once.

"You said you're at university."

You looked at him, slightly surprised that he'd remembered.

"I am."

"What do you study?"

"Forensic psychology."

For the first time since you'd known him, something changed. It wasn't dramatic. Had you not spent years studying facial expressions, you might have missed it entirely.

His attention sharpened.

Not suspicion.

Interest.

"Genuinely?" he asked.

The question came just a fraction quicker than his previous replies.

You smiled.

"Genuinely."

"What made you choose that?"

You shifted your coffee into your other hand.

"I've always been interested in why people do what they do. Not in the crimes themselves..." You searched for the right words. "More the people behind them. Their behaviour. Their decision-making. How trauma changes someone. Things like that."

Benjamin listened without interrupting.

Completely.

The bustle of the café continued around you—the hiss of steaming milk, the scrape of chairs against the floor, customers weaving past on their way back into the rain—but his attention didn't drift once.

When you finished, he was silent for a moment.

"Interesting," he said simply.

You laughed softly.

"Most people think it's morbid."

"I don't."

The reply was immediate.

Matter-of-fact.

"I think it's useful."

Before you could answer, something buzzed inside his jacket.

Not a phone.

A sharp electronic tone.

He reached into an inside pocket and glanced down at what appeared to be a bureau-issued device.

His posture changed almost imperceptibly.

Duty.

He slipped it away.

"I have to go."

"Right. Of course."

There was a brief pause.

"I'll see you around."

Benjamin inclined his head.

"Yes."

Then, without another word, he opened the café door and stepped out into the rain, disappearing once more into the moving crowds.

You watched the door swing shut behind him.

Only then did you realise that, after more than a month of crossing paths, you'd finally had something resembling a conversation.

It hadn't been long. Perhaps three minutes.

Yet somehow, it felt as though the quiet distance between the two of you had become just a little smaller.

—

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

© anehlcia 2026. Do not repost, copy, translate or use any of my work for ai. I post only on tumblr.

You had met him while working in a café, the horrible job as a waitress that is paying your way through the last year of college. He came in wearing a black quarterzip and a baseball cap, at first you found him off putting, a weird silent guy that barely looked anyone's way and at the same time seemed hyper vigilant, you went over anyway to grab his order and to your surprise he was… sweet? Greeted you much more politely than most people you were used to, ordered a banana milkshake that made you scrunch your nose unconsciously

“What? Bad order?” He says, smirking up at you with a raised eyebrow, you just now realize you accidentally let your face show too much and get embarrassed. 

“No sorry just a… unconventional one, never had anyone order that” You say apologetically to which he just smiles up at you and just now it hits you how handsome this guy actually is. 

Dex became a regular, always showing up and taking his time talking to you. You liked him, you had moved to the city, and had a hard time making friends so finally having someone you could talk to, vent, complain about your mean professors, crazy schedule, bad payment, or someone to tell your good news, the one time your research got an award, the A you got on that really hard test, was all you had wanted. Dex had heard you all those times, he'd always listen to you like you were saying the most interesting thing he'd ever heard. Talking to dex was easy, good, you oftentimes forgot about other customers due to being so wrapped up in a conversation with him. Anytime you got out late he'd wait and walk you to your apartment “This city is too dangerous for you to be walking around alone” is what he'd always say, dex had this protective thing about him, always looking out for you, and you really appreciated it, it felt good being taken care of. 

His go to coffee shop, the one five minutes from the bureau, closed for renovations. 

He had cursed under his breath, gripping his keys so hard that they dug into his palm.

He hated deviating from his routine.

The closest coffee shop was a small place beside a gift shop. Owned by an immigrant family.

He had decided to enter it, and his life changed from that moment on. 

There you were, hands working the espresso machine behind the counter. Your lips were pursed, frowning as you banged your hand against the piece of metal. 

He still remembers it vividly. How glowy you looked, like an angel.

Your hair was up, highlighting the contours of your face. 

And the uniform, oh that damn uniform. 

A simple white t-shirt, low cut. Enough that your bra peeked out slightly. Blue lace. Probably to neutralize it with the white.

And then the jeans hugging your upper legs. 

He cleared his throat, approaching the counter with a clenched jaw. 

His hazel eyes glared into you, watching you yell something out in a language that captivated him. 

He’d never known someone who spoke so beautifully. The way your lips curled when using a certain sound, or how your tongue poked out slightly in concentration.

He was so entranced by you that he choked. 

Next thing he knew, Dex visited the little shop every minute of his lunch break. 

He watched you prepare sandwiches, drinks and the occasional milkshake.

He knew that you opened the shop at 7 sharp. And that you closed at ten. 

He knew that you lived on the third floor of the apartment complex connected to the area. Specifically the room whose window was parallel to the abandoned library. 

He knew so much about you, yet you didn’t even know of his existence. 

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. 

Weeks of him jotting down every habit of yours. Weeks of breaking into your apartment and analysing every square footage. He even bought the same cleaning products as you, thinking that using them would recreate your apartment. 

Until one day, he was sitting at the farthest table from the counter, his menu up while he checked his phone. 

You weren’t blind to the new stranger in your business. 

He was like a predator, and you knew that guys like him needed a clear slap in the face to spook them. 

Or a taste of the same medicine. Which you may or may not have been doing for the past three months. 

“I got this.” You whispered to yourself, walking over to him with notepad in hand.

With the grace of a woman who knew what she wanted, you carefully tapped his shoulder. 

Dex froze, looking up hastily with a deep breath.

There you were, looking down at him with a hand on your hips.

And you had touched him. 

“You know, my parents aren’t exactly nice to people who loiter here.” You reminded him, your tone soft yet laced with a firm edge. 

Dex paused, gulping as he tried to regain his bearings. 

“Is that what I’m doing?” He asked, voice too unsure for it to be a smooth comment. 

You smiled at his nervous tone, nodding with an amused sigh. 

“You haven’t bought anything here ever since you started coming here. It’s weird to have a regular that doesn’t help profit.” You tried to diffuse the tense atmosphere that surrounded him. 

His eyes practically shone as he observed you, feeling the small tremors in his hands. 

They should not be doing that. The most dangerous part of his body, and they cower at the mere idea of you.

“I’m sorry about that.” He said softly, looking down at the menu. “What…What do you recommend?”

You looked over his shoulder, hand reaching out to point at the coffees. “An espresso would be good. Might keep you awake enough for whatever missions you pull.” You stood up straighter, grabbing your notepad. 

Dex paused, furrowing his brows. “You know where I work?” He asked with a small smile.

You blushed slightly, nodding. “Saw your badge one time. We don’t have many agents around here.” The lie came smooth off your tongue. 

You had actually followed him back to his job once. You said to yourself that it was probably to just see what he did for a living, but the truth was much more sinister. 

He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll get two espressos if you sit here to drink it with me.” He offered, his voice cracking mid offer. He cleared his throat, looking down. 

You couldn’t help the small hesitation. You squinted at him, then back at the counter. “Sure.”

God, he was so in love with you, and you didn’t even know his name. At least that’s what he thought. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You started dating soon after that. 

His routine changed drastically.

Instead of brushing his teeth after waking up, he went immediately to your messages, the rush of oxytocin in his fucked up mind addictive.

He cut out the hour of  journaling from his routine, opting to spend an hour at the coffee shop instead.

It ended up with the same effects, no?

You made him process his feelings more than some stupid journal could. 

Everything was perfect. He took you out to fancy restaurants, and you talked about your day. It gave him an insight of your childhood till now. Dex loved to know what made you you. However, he was still hesitant on letting you know what made him him.

You were also hesitant to show him the real you. The you that appeared when you truly loved someone like you loved him. 

Until that one night.

You had fought with him over the fact that he had threatened a client that day.

You didn’t care if he was possessive or not, but you drew your line when it affected your work. More importantly, when it affected your money. 

Dex had blown up, yelling insults at you that came out of his mouth like double-edged knives. 

You were surprised at how quick he was to snap from a lovable boyfriend to an angry man. 

Yet you didn’t let that faze you. 

“Are you done?” You huffed, crossing your arms.

Dex froze at the strict tone, gulping before he fell to his knees, crying as he squeezed your calf. 

He couldn’t believe how he was acting. How dare he insult the only reason he woke up in the morning? It was blasphemy for him. 

“I’m sorry, angel. I’m sorry, I’m just mad.” He sobbed against your thigh. 

It was utterly pathetic, like a child getting scolded by his mother.

You frowned, running a hand through his hair.

With a small hush, you quieted him.

The rush of endorphins that your brain engineered made your body shiver in hidden delight, your heart constricting at his passionate show of love. 

Begrudgingly, he got back to his feet, leaning over you with shaky breaths. 

You looked up at him, the soft pad of your thumb wiping away his tears. You gave him a soft smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. 

“I think you need to go home, Dex.” You suggested. 

He froze, looking down at you. He shook his head, a small whine coming from his lips. He could feel the bile rise to his throat, his once steady hands now trembling, grasping at his shirt that you were wearing. 

“No, no, angel, cmon. I said I was sorry. I really mean it.” He stuttered out.

You were not leaving him. Not ever. 

He needed you to breathe.

To see.

To live.

You nodded, cupping his jaw.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.” You told him, pressing a kiss to his lips before walking away in the direction of your car. 

.

.

.

Finding the guy was the easy part. 

Turns out, he was one of Fisk’s men that he sent to keep an eye on Dex.

So, what better way to ask for forgiveness than a grand gesture?

He snuck into your apartment, tying the man up against a chair.

“You shouldn’t have talked to her, fucker.” Dex said in a calm tone, putting plastic sheets around the kitchen. 

The man shook his head, sweaty and desperate. 

“You sick fuck! What the hell is wrong with you? Fisk is gonna find you, and he’s gonna make you pay.”

Dex ignored the man’s pleads, making sure to cover your floor so it wouldn’t get dirty. 

A small thud on the door signaled that you were outside. 

His breath hitched slightly, knowing he had exactly three kicks to the door before you entered.

He had learned prior to your relationship that your apartment door was a fickle thing, requiring three kicks to shimmy open. 

He stood up, hiding the agent with his broad figure.

Dex’s vision tunneled as you entered the apartment, waiting for your reaction.

Your eyes took in the scene quickly, and you cleared your throat, leaving your purse on the floor.

You froze, eyes widening as you took in everything. But not with fear or disgust, like Dex thought would happen, but instead with a surprised look. 

“Dex?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“What are you doing?” You asked, eyes glinting with morbid curiosity. 

You took a step forward, watching the man in the chair. 

Dex couldn’t help but frown at your reaction. 

Every time he showed this side of him, his true side, people would freak. 

They would call him psychotic, demented, crazy. 

But you weren’t saying anything.

In fact, you seemed to be curious about it.

That caught him off guard, making him gulp.

“I’m making it up to you, angel.” He answered, holding the knife to the man’s temple.

You didn’t try to stop him, instead you pulled out a chair, sitting in front of the man. 

“What makes you think that killing someone fixes our fight?” Dex frowned at that, observing your calm demeanor. 

“I’m fixing the problem. I want him gone. He caused our fight. He was gonna make you leave me.” He argued and you sighed, getting up and walking to him.

“I wasn’t gonna leave you, ever. You’re mine, Dex. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.” You said, hand reaching for the knife in his hands.

You cupped his cheek, smiling. “It’s a nice gesture, though.”

“You two are fucking crazy.” The man sealed his death warrant with those words. 

In an instant, Dex snatched the knife from your hands, skewering it in the base of the neck. 

You gasped as blood spurted everywhere, spraying some on your face.

He just killed a man for you. Dex just killed someone, for you.

The gurgles and wheezes of the man were tuned out while you looked up at Dex, eyes wide.

Your pupils were blown out, much like his. Probably due to adrenaline. 

“I love you, Dex.” You whispered out, resting your hands on his chest. 

“I…I adore you, angel. You’re the reason I’m alive.” He said before kissing you. 

dex stands in front of you, his fbi uniform still buttoned up tight, badge catching the light. his shoulders are slumped, eyes downcast like a kicked puppy. you sit on the edge of the bed, one thigh stretched out, waiting.

"come here, baby," you say softly, patting your leg. "my good boy needs to get off, doesn't he?"

he shuffles forward, cheeks already pink. the leather of his duty belt creaks as he straddles your thigh, lowering himself carefully. you feel the hard shape of his cock through the fabric, already straining against his zipper. his hands hover at your shoulders before settling there, fingers trembling.

"that's it," you murmur, reaching up to stroke his jaw. "my sweet, pathetic little thing. so desperate for me, aren't you?"

dex nods, biting his lip. he starts to move, rolling his hips in slow, tentative circles. the seam of his pants drags against your skin, and a shaky breath leaves him. you can feel him getting harder with every pass, the wet spot spreading where his cock leaks through the fabric.

"look at you," you coo, voice dripping with affection and mockery. "rubbing yourself on my thigh like a needy little slut. my fbi agent, so proud in his uniform, and here he is—humping my leg because he can't help himself."

his hips stutter at the words, a whimper catching in his throat. you tighten your grip on his jaw, forcing him to meet your eyes.

"keep going, baby. i wanna feel you cum in those pretty pants. make a mess for me."

dex's breathing grows ragged. he grinds down harder, chasing the friction, his cock throbbing against you. sweat beads at his hairline, his whole body trembling with the effort to hold back. you stroke his hair, voice turning sweet again.

"such a good boy for me. my big, strong, man! so eager to please. cum for me, baby. soak yourself like the desperate whore you are."

he breaks with a choked sob, hips jerking forward as his cock pulses hard. hot cum floods the front of his uniform pants, soaking through in thick spurts. his thighs shake as he rides out every wave, forehead dropping to your shoulder, uniform ruined and damp.

you hold him there, petting his hair while he catches his breath, the wet heat of his release seeping through to your skin.

The two of you were sitting in the tiny living room of your apartment on a Friday night, the string lights and lamp set to their most ambient settings. The whole room was tinted with a warm glow that contrasted harshly with the bright blue lighting coming from whatever new Animal Planet documentary Adrian had put on as your first watch of the evening.

Admittedly, you didn’t really care what was on when you got to sit close to him, his warmth radiating, seeping into you at your side. The scent of fresh soap and clean cotton mixing with something warm, a tiny bit woodsy, and distinctly him. He pretty much always showed up like this—freshly showered, curls styled as neatly as he could get them. Almost like coming over to your place was worth the effort. Or like you were…

You’re not even entirely sure when it started now, but the two of you had developed this regular little hangout routine over the past few months. Adrian would come over, not even stopping to say hello before absolutely blabbering about some documentary or new game he was excited about, waltzing straight inside as soon as you opened the front door, the two of you settling in like it was the most natural thing in the world. It wouldn’t be until you were both seated on your plush couch that he would pause suddenly, his brow furrowing for the quickest second, as if a sudden thought had crossed his mind. He’d push his glasses back up at the bridge, turn to beam at you, dimples flashing, and say,

“Hi.”

And then he’d shift his attention fully to you, asking all the usual questions.

“How are you?”

“How was your day?”

“Did you eat already?”

“Also, did you know that a group of frogs is called an army?”

“Wait, why do you think that is? What would an army of frogs be protecting?”

You loved this part. Just listening to him talk, his voice washing over you, words tumbling out at twice the speed of normal conversation, as was his default.

Your mind briefly drifted to the moment it had really clicked for you—ironically, while he was standing next to a dumpster. You ever-so-slightly purse your lips to stop yourself from laughing out loud when you remember the way he was riling Harcourt up that day, just by being himself. You, however, he’d riled up in a very different way… 

The way he spoke, the way he moved, an odd mix of bravado and insecurity, all pouring out in that rapid-fire cadence, hands gesturing wildly like his body couldn’t contain the energy of his words. He was a walking contradiction.

And you were captivated.

And that was before you’d even known who he really was. Before knowing his real name, or the face that went with it. When you’d finally learned of the infamous Vigilante’s secret identity, the one that came with aviator-style glasses and pretty green eyes and rosy pink lips… Adrian Chase. It almost felt unfair. Like the universe was just showing off at that point.

Now, he had a designated spot on your couch, his white sneakers already off by the door. He knew where you kept the good snacks, the ones you’d buy specifically for him, even if he didn’t realize it.

“How do you always have Chips Ahoys on hand? What kind of shady dessert-related dealings are you getting into when I’m not around?”

The only downside to him coming over was when you’d have to say goodbye to him at the end of the night, watching him go into the cool night air, your heart twisting with longing and unspoken feelings. You’d watch as long as you could, the way he’d dig for his keys, the set of his shoulders as he walked, committing his outline to memory.

Sometimes he’d even turn around and catch you, and before you could flee from embarrassment, he’d break into his signature grin, wave at you, and yell, 

“Bye! Don’t forget to lock your door–there’s weirdos out here!”

You made yourself stop, snapping back to reality, knowing you didn’t have to think about that yet and could just enjoy the easy energy of the night. You were so ready to relax, and you were treating yourself a little extra this evening.

Last you checked, Adrian was still pretty disapproving of weed (despite it being legalized), but he didn’t really seem to mind when you did it. Just wouldn’t participate himself.

What he didn’t know was that being high also helped you relax around him, quieting that internal surveillance system that monitored your every move around him, terrified of slipping up and revealing how pathetically obsessed with him you actually were.

You’d already grabbed everything you needed and settled back on the couch, lighter coming up to spark the pre-rolled joint’s end. You took your first hit of the night, letting the sensation fill your chest for a moment before exhaling, trying not to completely cough your brains out in front of him, though he already seemed fully invested in the documentary.

He was sitting slightly forward with both hands on his knees and an expression of awe and wonder plastered on his face, his eyes glued to the screen as a crow descended over a sunlit field. 

The blue light from the TV reflected off his glasses, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his throat. You had this recurring thought, this need, to press your mouth there. To feel his pulse dance under your lips. To bite down gently and hear what sound he’d make.

God, you needed to chill. You took another hit to distract yourself, then held the joint out toward him.

“Care to partake?” you’d said, knowing the answer would be no but asking regardless, like you always did.

Adrian’s eyes flicked from the screen to the joint in your hand, then to your face. He leaned back against the couch, a look of contemplation in his eyes, his lips slightly pursed. You expected the usual decline, maybe another comment about “principles” or whatever.

Instead, he surprised you.

“Maybe…” he said quietly.

You nearly choked, almost spurring on another coughing fit. “Maybe?” You cringed internally at how high-pitched your response became.

“I mean—” He pushed his glasses up, and you noticed he was bouncing his leg, one of his tell-tale nervous habits, and another quirk you shared. “At first, I couldn’t believe they legalized that shit, but… you do it all the time and you seem fine, and—“

"Would we say ‘all the time’?" you interrupted, tone questioning and a curious expression on your face, despite knowing fully well he was right.

Adrian gave you a look, one eyebrow raised, a small smirk forming. "Yes," he said simply, letting the word hang there.

Adrian took in your mellowed out state, as he had many times before. Your heavy-lidded eyes, soft and hazy, looking at him like he was everything while he talked. And god, the way you'd bite your lip before making a heinous joke or stifling a laugh of your own. It was the hottest shit he'd ever seen, if he was being honest.

You gave him a playful eye roll, but let him continue, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“Anyway, I’ve been reading about it—the actual science, not the propaganda stuff—and, statistically speaking, it’s safer than alcohol, which I’ve had before. A LOT. So, logically—”

You listened to his rationalization as best you could, your brain taking a minute to catch up through the haze beginning to swirl through it, before the reality of his words finally settled.

“Adrian…” you said gently, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face in what you knew was a Cheshire-catlike fashion. “Are you talking yourself into getting high with me right now?”

He blinked at you, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Ohmyfuckinggod.

Your heart thumped unevenly in your chest, anticipation bubbling. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, though. You know that, right?”

You'd never wanted him to feel pressured when you smoked… even though you were secretly desperate to get him high. To see what a giggly mess he'd be, somehow even more so than usual. To watch him react to the sensations in real time. He was always so expressive, and you longed to see him blissed the fuck out.

He turned his head against the cushion to fully meet your eyes, having slumped all the way back into the couch, and gave you a gentle, almost sheepish smile. “I know…” he started, his voice unusually soft, “But I want to… With you.”

With you. You knew those two silly words shouldn’t have affected you so much, your already-dry throat tightening now. You also knew you had to get it together quickly.

"Okay…" you said, exhaling the word, trying to keep your voice steady. "It is different from drinking, though; it kinda sneaks up on you more suddenly…"

Your voice trailed off for a second before you regained focus, sitting up straighter with sudden excitement, hands gesturing toward him, hovering over his forearm. "But I'll take really good care of you, I promise. We'll start slow,” you said, a bit breathier than you meant to.

His eyes flicked toward your hand, then back up at you. His gaze intensified then, and you saw a flash of something unrecognizable in his eyes, a slightly pained expression, but maybe heated too? It was then that you caught the unintentional suggestiveness of your own words, a half-second too late, and felt heat creep up your neck. Shit.

“In other words, I’d be honored to be your weed guide,” you said, trying to play it off.

Adrian grinned at that, amused. “Is that what we’re calling it?” He tilted his head to the side in that puppy-dog way of his.

“That’s exactly what we’re calling it.”

You were already going through the logistics in your head, how much to let him have, how to make sure he feels safe. You figured a demonstration would probably be most helpful to start.

“Okay, first. Here, watch,” you said, bringing the joint up to your mouth again. He sat up, focusing on you, and you looked off into the distance, trying not to feel nervous at his attention.

Adrian stared intently—not at the joint, of course, but at your lips, though you were thankfully too preoccupied to notice. He watched the way they wrapped delicately around the paper, your cheeks hollowing ever so slightly as you inhaled. Fuck. He tried to think about literally anything else, but his brain wasn’t cooperating. Just kept flashing him images of those lips wrapped around other things… He tried to shift in his seat nonchalantly in an attempt to ease the growing tightness in his jeans.

You let the smoke fill your lungs again before exhaling slowly, watching it curl up toward the ceiling. Heat bloomed in your chest and spread lower, settling between your thighs, your eyelids briefly fluttering at the feeling.

It was also a secret that sometimes weed made you unbearably horny.

And mixing that with Adrian sitting right next to you… all lean muscle and nervous energy? You knew it was maybe a little fucked up, but… this was partly why you loved getting high on nights he came over. Everything just felt better, comfortably bolder. 

The wanting didn’t feel so dangerous when you were floating like this, and you loved the way the weed made you braver, let you “platonically” touch him more freely, let the ache of it all feel almost good instead of terrifying.

Lost in your thoughts and the euphoria working its way through your body, you made yourself shift focus back to him and caught the tail-end of some movement, Adrian shifting and then going still, like he’d been caught doing something. You wondered briefly what that was about, but didn’t linger on it, your thoughts already feeling pleasantly slow and syrupy.

“Okay, questions?” you said, looking at him expectantly, feeling like a proud teacher. Like Mr. Miyagi. But like, with weed.

He quickly shook his head, seemingly pulling himself from his own thoughts now. "Nope, no questions." He cleared his throat, then added with a slightly nervous laugh, "I mean, yeah. I got this! Probably." He grimaced, uncertain.

"You do got this," you said with a smile, examining the joint in final preparation to pass it off to him.

"Don't try to hold it too long your first time though. Just a few seconds, then let it out slowly. And you're probably going to cough. Everyone does.”

You held it out toward him cautiously.

"Ready?”

"Yeah. Okay. Yeah," he said, nodding more to himself than to you, and reached for it, fingers brushing yours as he took it. The brief contact sent electricity up your arm, and you wondered, not for the first time, if he felt it too.

He brought the joint to his lips carefully, and, of course, you found yourself staring at his mouth, soft and uncertain, watching him inhale. His eyes widened slightly at the sensation, and then, predictably, he started coughing, scrambling to cover his mouth with his arm, his shoulders shaking. His other hand waved the joint toward you as he coughed, silently begging you to take it away.

You grabbed it back from him, placing it on the cheap ashtray on your coffee table before turning your attention back to him.

“Easy, easy,” you said, reaching out and rubbing his back instinctively. He was solid and warm under your hand, his shoulder blade shifting under the soft fabric of his thin shirt. “You’re okay. That’s completely normal.”

He took a deep breath that you could feel through your hand. “Jesus, fuck,” he wheezed, eyes watering. “That’s—wow.”

“Yeah…” You reluctantly pulled your hand away. “Water?”

He shook his head, straightening up and giving you a slightly embarrassed grin. “Nah, I’m good. That wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be, actually.” He tried to regain an air of confidence before suddenly stifling a few more small coughs.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, light and affectionate.

“You did pretty good for your first time,” you said, still smiling, trying to reassure him.

He rubbed at his eyes, his glasses shifting upward a bit, trying to play off the fluttery feeling that spread through him at your praise. “Cool. Cool, okay. Good to know.”

Once he seemed to recover, you reached forward to grab the joint and brought it to your mouth again, casually taking another hit. Deep, comfortable, easy.

He watched you still, entranced, and it made his chest feel oddly warm. Or maybe that was the weed. Was it even working yet? He ran a hand through his hair and opened his mouth to speak, to ask you when it would hit, but the words dissolved before they could form. He stopped suddenly, mouth lightly hanging open, turning to look straight ahead at nothing in particular, his brow furrowing. Wait. Something felt… different.

At that moment, you heard a quiet, sharp intake of breath from Adrian’s direction, your eyes following the sound back toward him.

There, in the dim light of your living room, you watched the most beautiful transformation you’d ever seen in your life: Adrian Chase getting high for the very first time.

You watched his expression shift, subtle at first. His eyes widened, pupils dilating as he blinked slowly and drifted them side to side, like he was seeing the room for the first time.

“Ohhhhh…” he breathed.

It hit him all at once—that first wave. You could see it wash over him completely, the way his shoulders dropped, the way each breath came deeper.

Every sensation was suddenly amplified, like someone had turned up the dial on his entire nervous system. The couch felt softer beneath him. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly, mesmerized by the simple movement. Every hair on his arms stood on end, not from cold, but from pure awareness, like his skin had woken up and was feeling everything.

“Whoa,” he whispered, barely audible. His voice even felt different coming out of his own mouth.

The euphoria bloomed in his chest, spreading outward like warm honey through his veins. Every nerve felt electric, alive, buzzing with gentle energy. And it wasn’t overwhelming—it was perfect. Like his body had been holding tension he didn’t even know was there, and now it was finally letting go. He suddenly thought about how grateful he was to you for your guidance, never leading him astray. 

As if you could. He didn't think you had a mean bone in your body. Although, technically, bones can't be mean. They're just… calcium. And other stuff. What even are bones made of? 

He realized he was getting lost in his thoughts, shaking himself back to the present.

He turned to look at you, movements sluggish, and the second he did, you were everywhere, consuming every sense... The warmth coming off your body, so close to his. Your soft, gentle breathing. That unmistakable floral, fruity scent of your perfume… god, he could smell it even more clearly than usual. Like everything about you was magnified.

His face broke into the widest, most uninhibited smile you might’ve ever seen from him then.

“Holy shit,” he said, to you now, laughing softly, almost disbelieving.

He looked so beautifully unguarded, just existing in the moment, feeling all the new sensations. And all the little noises he was making? These soft, wondering gasps and hums, falling from his lips so sweetly it made your stomach flip and burn at the same time.

“There it is,” you smiled at him, your eyes twinkling beneath your heavy lids. “How do you feel?”

Adrian considered this seriously, assessing his body. “My face feels warm.” He brought both hands up to his cheeks. “And my thoughts are…” Then he dropped his hands to his lap suddenly, a gentle slap reverberating off his thighs. “Slower? But not in a bad way. In a way where I’m actually noticing them instead of just… having them all at once.”

“Yeah…” you breathed out softly, closing your eyes and smiling slightly to yourself, feeling it too. That blessed quiet where you could actually hear yourself think. “That sounds about right.”

He relaxed further into the couch, his forearm just barely brushing against yours, though you were hyperaware of the contact, the heat of him, the gentle prickles of hair grazing yours. You reveled in it.

He turned his focus fully to you then, really looking at you, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch.

“You’re like, really pretty,” he said, like it was a simple observation. A fact as straightforward as the ones he spouted about crows or spiders or deep-sea creatures. He hadn’t even really meant to say it, but it just kind of came out.

Your heart stopped and started again, hammering against your ribs, cheeks warming at the sudden compliment.

“I mean, I’ve always thought that. Since I met you.” He tilted his head slightly, still watching you with that same open, wondering expression, similar to the one he’d had for the crow on screen earlier. “But right now it’s like… louder? In my brain. The thought is louder.” He pointed toward his head, tapping his temple twice, and paused, seemingly intrigued by the feeling.

Say something, you urged yourself, panic rising. You knew you’d been staring at him in silence too long, brain foggy with weed and want and Adrian, but he beat you to it.

“Is that weird?” he asked, a small crease appearing between his brows. “Did I make it weird? Chris says I make things weird sometimes by just saying whatever I’m thinking.”

That snapped you out of it. Your mouth dropped open wide at him. “Oh, please! He’s one to talk.”

This, in turn, brought Adrian back too. 

“Fuck!” he practically barked in laughter. “He is, isn’t he?!” The two of you broke into a minor giggle fit before catching your breath. The sudden ease in your chest, amplified by your high, led you to push your luck as you let out a contented sigh.

“Besides, Adrian… I think you’re really pretty too.” You smiled at him with part of your bottom lip tucked in between your teeth, the way you did.

‘Pretty’ didn’t even begin to cover it, but it was all your floaty brain could come up with at the moment.

Adrian’s face lit up with that damn smile that takes up half of his face. “Cool,” he said simply, and then turned back to the TV like he hadn’t just tilted your entire world on its axis.

On screen, the narrator was saying something about how crows could recognize individual human faces and remember them for years. Your brain chose that moment to pay attention. Ironic. Adrian’s face like this was already burned into your memory.

Your eyes were still glued to his profile, entranced by the way the blue light and shadows played across his features, the curve of his smile, the shadow of the little freckle by his eye. And, once again, his fucking neck… 

The veins thick and prominent, his Adam’s apple bobbing now and then. You swore you could feel a faint ache in your incisors, like they were begging to sink into his jugular.

“Some-one’s star-ing~” he said in a gentle sing-song, not even looking at you, just grinning at the TV.

Startled, your face went flush. You had been staring, lost in that visceral fantasy. Heat pooled low in your stomach at the cockiness in his teasing tone. Like he liked catching you. You involuntarily clenched your legs.

“I’m not—” you started, but he turned to look at you fully then, and his grin widened.

Dex went completely still.

Leash.

His heartbeat picked up so fast it almost resented him.

Because all he could think about was the night before, when there had been no mission, no handler, no fluorescent lights in some CIA black site. You were both in the same hotel room, a leather collar buckled tight around his throat, and you were holding the leash like you had every right in the world to own him.

Dex had been on his knees first, then you had pushed him lower.

You weren’t even that rough, and that was almost more humiliating. All you had to do was look at him and tug once, and he followed. Before he knew it, he was down to his hands, on the floor. His dark eyes fixed on you, chest rising quickly, the leash pulled taut from your fist to the ring at his throat.

He looked filthy between your heels, still trying to pretend he was composed while his mouth was wet with drool and his face was flushed and his hands were curled into fists because you hadn’t told him he could touch you.

You stepped closer until the pointed toe of your heel brushed beneath his chin.

His eyes lifted first, then his chin, obedient to the pressure, tilting up exactly where you wanted him. His throat shifted against the leather collar.

Oh fuck, the sight of  Dex, staring up at you from the floor like he had been made for nothing but this.

You dragged the tip of your stiletto slowly beneath his jawline.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

Dex swallowed, mouth parting. He had no smart answer, then, and you could see the visible effort of keeping himself still.

You tugged the leash and he crawled closer.

He wanted to be guided. He wanted to be pulled around by your hand, wanted to be placed exactly where you needed him and praised when he got it right.

You sat on the edge of the bed and spread your legs and gave another tug.

He came forward so quickly he looked ashamed of it, mouth pressing hot and open against the inside of your thigh. You let him kiss his way up slowly, pretending to be patient. You let him breathe against you, while your fingers tightened around the leash and your heel stayed planted beside his hand.

When his mouth finally found your heat over the underwear, his hands stayed flat on the floor, mouth shameless, tongue dragging a wet patch on the fabric like he was starving for it. He groaned against you when you pulled the leash tighter, the sound vibrating through your whole body, and the way his eyes flicked up to check your face.

He needed to know he was good.

You kept him there until his chin was slick and his breathing was ragged, until his hips were shifting uselessly against nothing and his fingers were digging into the carpet. Every time he got too eager, you tightened the leash and felt him force himself to calm down.

“That’s it,” you breathed, when he bit the cloth to the side. “Good boy.”

Dex’s eyes nearly rolled back.

He looked caught between humiliation and worship.

Then you pulled him up just enough to kiss him.

He came eagerly, rising on his knees, mouth messy against yours. You tasted yourself on him and he made another broken sound when you bit his lower lip and dragged him backwards by the leash, guiding him onto his back on the floor.

Dex went down without a fight.

His hands finally found your hips when you climbed over him, and you let him have that much. You let him grip you, hard and shaking, while you sank down on him slowly enough to make him suffer. His head tipped back against the carpet as the  leash pulled taut in your fist. 

You rode him like that, still in your heels, one hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped in his leash.

Now, in the briefing room, Charles was still talking.

You shifted beside Dex, one heel clicking against the floor.

Dex’s eyes dropped to your shoes, then to your hand, then away, his throat moving under his collarless skin like he could still feel the leather there.

You smiled down at the mission file.

Charles frowned. “Poindexter. Are you listening?”

Dex said nothing.

“He is,” you said sweetly. “And don’t worry, Charles. He follows my instructions very well.”

—

You expected him to leave after you fell asleep. Instead, you woke sometime after three in the morning to find him still on the sofa. He lay on his back, one arm resting beneath his head, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling.

“You’re awake,” you murmured. Dex turned towards you.

“So are you.”

“I came to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

You sighed.

“There you go again.”

“What?”

“Acting like being treated badly means you don’t deserve anything better.” His expression closed, you immediately regretted the sharpness of your words. But after a moment, Dex looked towards the empty space beside him.

“The sofa is small.”

“Yes.”

“You’d be more comfortable in bed.” He looked back at you.

“Are you inviting me?”

“To sleep.”

“I know.”

“You’re injured.”

“I know.”

“You’re not allowed to misinterpret this.”

“I won’t.” You studied his face.

“You’re lying.”

“A little.” You held out your hand anyway, Dex looked at it as though you had offered him something impossible. Then he took it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Morning sunlight spilled softly through the curtains. Dex woke first, he always did. 

Your bedroom was quiet, peaceful. Different from his run down apartment. You lay curled against his side, one hand resting over his chest. During the night, his arm had settled around your waist. Dex stared at you as you laid there peacefully. You trusted him enough to sleep beside him, he didn’t understand it.

He had given you every reason to fear him, yet here you were, breathing softly against his shoulder. Something unfamiliar tightened in his chest, he carefully moved your hand. You shifted but did not wake as he slipped out of bed. His wound pulled painfully as he dressed, but he ignored it. He needed to leave before you woke up, before he became too comfortable. Before he began imagining that this could be his. A bed, a warm apartment, someone waiting for him to return. You.

He had nearly reached the bedroom door when your grumbled voice stopped him. “Sneaking away?” Dex turned. You were sitting up in bed, hair messy and eyes heavy with sleep.

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“You were being suspiciously quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“That’s what makes it sneaking.” He glanced towards the window. Your eyes narrowed.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“What?”

“You’re not escaping through the window.”

“I need to go.”

“Use the door.” Dex looked back at you.

“You sound very certain there’ll be a next time.”

“There will be.” His chest tightened, this feeling was unfamiliar to him. He didn’t know why he was feeling like this.  You patted the empty space beside you.

“Come back for a minute.”

“I have things to do.”

“Mysterious Bullseye things?”

“Yes.”

“Five minutes.”

“Angel.”

“Benjamin.” The sleepy smile on your face dismantled the last of his resistance. He caved in and returned to the bed. You immediately wrapped your arms around his waist, careful of his injured side, and pulled him down beside you. Dex let out a quiet breath as your head settled beneath his chin.

“Better,” you mumbled as his arm curled around you.

“You’re very demanding in the morning.”

“You like it.” He considered denying it - Instead, he said, “Yes.” You smiled against his chest. For five minutes, Dex allowed himself to remain still. No mission, No target, No screaming city demanding his attention. Only your body curled against his and sunlight warming the sheets.

Eventually, you loosened your hold.

“You should go.”

“I know.”

“Text me so I know you’re alive.” Dex’s brow furrowed.

“I don’t have your number.” You reached towards the bedside table and handed him your phone.

“Put yours in.” He stared at the device.

“You want my number?”

“That is generally how texting works.”

“You could call whenever you wanted.”

“That’s the point.” Dex entered the number, You watched the screen.

“What should I save you as?”

“Benjamin.”

“Boring.”

“It’s my name.”

“I could put ‘Window Stalker.’”

“No.”

“Professional Menace?”

“No.”

“Bullseye with a little heart?” His eyes narrowed.

You laughed. “I’m joking.”

“You’re not.”

You saved the contact as ‘Dex ♡’

He pretended not to notice the heart. The faint pink across his ears betrayed him.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’ve lost blood.”

“That excuse worked better last night.”

He handed your phone back.

“If you need anything, call me.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“What if I can’t open a jar?”

“I’ll open it.”

“What if Gerald starts dying again?”

“I’ll water him.”

“What if somebody bothers me at work?” His face darkened.

“Call me.” You touched his arm.

“I’m joking.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.” You tiredly rose onto your knees and kissed him. It was softer than the kisses from the previous night. Dex’s hand moved to your cheek, holding you close for several seconds after your lips parted.

“I’ll come back,” he said.

“You’d better.” He left through the front door for the first time since meeting him, hopefully it won't be the last.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dex’s first text arrived three days later. You were on your lunch break when your phone buzzed.

Dex: Coffee.

You stared blankly at the screen. That was all, no greeting, no explanation, Just one word.

You smiled.

You: Are you asking me on a date?

Several minutes passed, you imagined him staring at his phone with the same intensity he gave everything else. Finally, three dots appeared.

Dex: Yes.

Another message followed immediately.

Dex: I don’t know how to ask correctly.

Your expression softened.

You: You could try, “Would you like to get coffee with me?”

A full minute passed.

Dex: Would you like to get coffee with me?

You: I’d love to.

Dex: Good.

You: You’re meant to suggest a time and place now.

Dex: I know where you finish work.

You stared at the message.

You: Of course you do.

Dex: I’ll be outside at six.

You: That sounded more like a threat than a date.

Dex: I’m trying.

You: I know. Six is perfect ♡

Dex didn’t respond, but when he arrived outside the café at exactly six, the tips of his ears were pink again. He looked different without his usual dark tactical clothing. Black jeans, a fitted charcoal jumper., a dark coat. Still intimidating, but almost normal. Almost..

“You came,” he said as you stepped outside.

“You asked.”

“I wasn’t sure whether you would.”

“You broke into my apartment eight times. I think coffee has considerably less commitment.”

Dex frowned. “Nine.” You stopped.

“What?”

“The night you found me was the ninth time.”

“That does not make it better.”

“I like accuracy.”

“You’re lucky you’re attractive.” His expression shifted.

“You think I’m attractive.”

“You already knew that.”

“I suspected.”

“You saw me staring.”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t pretend to be surprised.”

“I like hearing you say it.” Your face warmed as Dex opened the café door for you. You looked at him.

“What?”

“You’re being gentlemanly.”

“I can be gentlemanly.”

“You usually enter buildings through the windows.”

“This one is on the ground floor.” You laughed as he followed you inside.

The date was surprisingly easy. Dex chose the quietest table in the corner, positioned so he could see both entrances, you noticed but didn’t comment. He ordered black coffee, you ordered tea and a slice of carrot cake. 

“You’re drinking tea on a coffee date?” he asked.

“I work around coffee all day.”

“It still seems incorrect.”

“You broke into my apartment dressed as an assassin. I don’t think you get to judge social etiquette.”

“Fair.” You talked for almost two hours. Or rather, you talked while Dex listened. He watched you with unnerving focus, remembering every insignificant detail. You learned small things about him in return. He liked jazz, he disliked crowded rooms, he hated repetitive tapping sounds unless he created them himself, he organised his cupboards by size, not category.

“You put cereal beside cleaning supplies?” you asked.

“They’re the same height.”

“That is horrifying.”

“It’s efficient.”

“It’s psychotic.”

“You’re dating me.” Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.

“Is that what this is?” Dex became very still, you immediately realised the question had frightened him. Not visibly, but you knew. 

Dex rarely showed fear in ways other people would recognise. But you saw the subtle tightening of his shoulders, the withdrawal behind his eyes. You reached across the table and touched his hand. “I meant that I didn’t know what to call it.” His fingers turned beneath yours, capturing your hand. “What do you want to call it?” You traced your thumb over his knuckles.

“A date.”

“Only one?” You smiled.

“The first of several.” His grip tightened gently.

“Good.”

When you left the café, Dex kept close beside you. He walked nearest the road as his eyes moved constantly over the people around you, assessing every face and movement.

“You know you’re allowed to relax,” you said.

“I am relaxed.”

“You look like you’re preparing to kill the man behind us.”

“He’s been following us for three blocks.” Your stomach tightened, Dex looked over his shoulder to which the man immediately crossed the street.

“Maybe he’s going in the same direction.”

“He isn’t anymore.”

“You scared him.”

“He was too close.”

You slipped your hand into Dex’s. His attention snapped towards you.

“There,” you said. “Now focus on something else.” He looked down at your joined hands.

“You’re holding me.”

“You’re very observant.”

“You’ve never done this before.”

“We kissed.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“It was private.” You squeezed his hand.

“Do you want me to let go?” Dex’s larger fingers closed firmly around yours.

“No.” He kept holding your hand all the way back to your apartment.

“You can come in,” you said as you unlocked the front door, Dex glanced towards the building’s side alley. You followed his gaze.

“Don’t.”

“The fire escape is faster.”

“You are standing directly in front of the door.”

“Habit.”

“Build better ones.” Dex listened as he followed you inside. You kicked off your shoes and placed your bag on the kitchen counter. He watched you move around the apartment with a strange expression.

“What?” you asked.

“I’ve never been invited before.”

Your chest softened.

“Into my apartment?”

“Anywhere.” You stared at him. Dex looked away as though he had revealed too much.. You walked back towards him.

“Well, you’re invited now.” His eyes returned to yours.

“You can come here when you’re injured,” you continued. “Or tired. Or when you just want coffee without paying for it.”

“I always pay.”

“You leave too much money.”

“You deserve it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You like that.”

“Unfortunately.”

You reached up and adjusted the collar of his coat, Dex’s hands settled at your waist. The contact was immediate, Natural, as though both of you had spent the entire evening waiting for an excuse. His eyes dropped to your mouth.

“You’ve been thinking about kissing me,” you said.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Since you opened the café door.”

“That was hours ago.”

“I’m patient.”

“You stalked me for months because you couldn’t stay away.”

“I can be patient while being persistent.”

“That is one way of describing it.” Dex leaned closer.

“You talk too much.”

“You like listening.”

“I’d like to do something else now.” You smiled.

“Then do it.”

He kissed you, the careful restraint he was holding back this whole time lasted less than a second. Dex pulled you against him, one arm locking securely around your waist while his other hand held the back of your neck as You gripped the front of his coat. The kiss deepened as he guided you backwards, never breaking contact until your lower back met the kitchen counter.

He pressed closer, not enough to trap you, just enough to surround you. Your fingers glided into his hair as Dex inhaled sharply.

“You like that,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Yes.” he growled in a low voice, You tugged gently at his hair earning a low sound that rumbled in his chest. His lips moved along your jaw, then down towards your neck. Nipping and biting at your sweet spot. He couldn’t get enough. 

“Dex.” you moaned out from pleasure,He paused immediately.

You smiled.

“I didn’t say stop.” His eyes darkened.

“Careful, Angel.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying very hard to behave.”

“Who asked you to?” His hand slid beneath your jumper, fingers spreading over the warm skin of your waist as his hand made it way further up cupping your breast in his hand giving it a gentle squeeze. You shivered at the touch. dex watched your face as his thumb moved slowly across your perked up nipple. Every touch was deliberate, measured. He was memorising you all over again, only now you were allowing it. Your hands moved over his shoulders and down his chest as you removed his coat, a thud echoing in the empty apartment as you began slowly undressing each other.  His breathing became uneven beneath your palms.

“You’re tense,” you murmured.

“I’m controlling myself.” He said in between breathes 

“You don’t have to look so terrified.”

“I’m not terrified.”

“You are a little.” His jaw tightened.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I trust you.” The words affected him immediately, Dex went completely still. You touched his cheek.

“I trust you to stop if I ask.”

His eyes searched yours.

“And if you don’t ask?”

“Then you can keep kissing me.” He did.

His mouth returned to yours, slower this time but no less intense. His hands moved along your waist and back, pulling you close enough to feel the warmth of his body through your clothes. The kissing continued as you moved towards the sofa as he laid you down gently, slowly lifting your jumper up getting the perfect view of your tits. He kissed from your stomach up. Teasing and licking, nipping at the skin till he made his way back up to you. He gave one breast a gentle squish and latched his mouth onto the other. You couldn't stop the moans from coming out, squirming under him. His touch, his warmth. 

The way his tongue swirled around your sensitive buds made you feral. “Dex…” you whined out his name, bucking your hips up into him. Begging for more.. He looked up at you, a smug grin on his face as he watched the pleasure in your eyes. The rise and fall of your chest as you tried to catch your breath. 

“Fuck.. you look gorgeous angel.” he breathed out as he admired you under him. He kissed his way back down to the top of your jeans, slowly unbuttoning them as you whined for him to speed up. He laughed at how eager you were. He slid your jeans off leaving you in your underwear, he could see a wet patch covering them. He kissed over it, along your thighs, teasing you more. 

“Dex..please..” you were a mess under him, he loved every minute of it. He wrapped his fingers around the hem of your underwear, kissing as he slowly slid them off. Revealing your dripping pussy. He looked up at you, as if asking for permission. 

“Do you want this Angel?” He said lowly, waiting for your response. All you could mutter was a weak whine and a nod. His mouth connected with your pussy, kissing and licking up your slick. You squirmed under him as you gripped his hair. His mouth buried in your wetness, the bridge of his nose covered in you. 

You tried closing your thighs from how good it felt but Dex wouldn’t let you. He held your legs open, devouring you like you were his favourite dessert. He lapped at your clit back and fourth, sucking and licking relentlessly as you moaned out for him. 

“Thats it Angel…keep moaning for me..” He was enjoying this, watching you call out in pleasure as you forced his head deeper. You were getting close, your hips bucking up into his mouth as you wanted more. “Fuck…” you gasped out, your climax reaching you as you gripped Dex’s hair harder. Dex doesn’t pull away, his grip on your legs is bruising, keeping you pressed against his mouth as you ride it out. Your left breathless as he watches you in awe. He’s smiling ear to ear now as he places gentle kisses along your body making his way back up to your lips. 

“You okay?” he asks, wiping his slick covered mouth. You look up at him as you try to catch your breath, Dex gets up to grab you a towel to get cleaned up. 

“Never better.” You say in between breaths, the biggest smile on your face. You haven’t felt like that in a year. Dex gently cleans you up, admiring your body as you lay on the couch. “I’ll get you some comfy clothes to put on, top drawer right?” He kisses your forehead gently as he gets back up.

“Of course you would know that.” he smiles knowingly as he makes his way to your bedroom. 

Once you both finally settled down, you decide to put on a random movie you both agreed on, neither of you paid attention to the film you selected. Dex sat back against the cushions while you curled beside him, one of his arms draped around your shoulders, for several minutes, there was peace. Then you looked up and caught him staring.

“What?”

“I’m looking.”

“I noticed.”

“I like looking.”

“You’ve had plenty of practice.”

“I prefer this distance.” You shifted closer.

“Better?”

“Yes.” You kissed him again, still tasting yourself on his lips. Benjamin’s hand moved along your thigh, stopping just above your knee, the touch was almost innocent. The way he watched you was not. You placed your hand over his and guided it slightly higher. His gaze sharpened.

“Angel.”

“You can touch me.”

“I am.”

“You know what I mean.” His thumb traced a slow circle against your skin.

“You make poor decisions.”

“Probably.”

“I’m one of them.”

“Definitely.” His expression darkened, You softened your voice.

“I still want you here.” Dex stared at you for a long moment mesmerised by your features. Your lips, your nose, your pretty eyes. Then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours.

“You don’t understand what that does to me.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you might run.” You brushed your fingers through his hair.

“I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” His arm tightened around you, the film continued unnoticed in the background. You kissed until your lips felt tender and your bodies had settled comfortably together, Dex’s face hidden against your neck leaving little marks while your fingers traced idle patterns across his shoulders.

Eventually, you yawned.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“I should leave.” You tightened your arms around him.

“You could stay again.” Benjamin lifted his head.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” you said eagerly, you were hooked.He looked towards the window but you caught his chin and turned him back towards you.

“You are not sleeping on the fire escape.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that.”

“You were considering leaving.”

“I always leave.”

“Stay this time.”

dex looked at you as though the word itself was foreign. Stay. Not hide, not watch, not wait outside. Stay.

“Alright,” he said.

Dex slept beside you that night. At first, he lay rigidly on his back with both hands resting above the blanket, You rolled towards him.

“You look like you’re waiting for an autopsy.”

“I’m comfortable.”

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t know what I’m meant to do.”

“You’ve slept before.”

“Not like this.”

You placed his arm around your waist.

“There.” Dex stared down at where his hand rested against you.

“Is this alright?”

“Yes.” His arm tightened slightly as You tucked your head beneath his chin.

“What about this?”

“Yes.”

“You can stop asking every three seconds.”

“I thought you liked questions.”

“I like your questions.”

His breathing gradually slowed, you finally felt the tension leave his body inch by inch. Just before you fell asleep, dex spoke.

“Angel?”

“Mm?”

“If you call me, I’ll come.”

Your eyes opened.

“For anything?”

“Anything.” You smiled against his chest.

“Goodnight, Dex.”

After a long silence, he pressed a kiss into your hair.

“Goodnight.”

Dex woke before sunrise, his usual. Years of survival had trained his body to react to the smallest change in light. He opened his eyes, he looked over to your sleeping figure You were asleep with your back against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist and your fingers intertwined with his. For several minutes, he did nothing.almost scared to move, as if he might wake you if he does. He listened to your breathing, he counted the seconds between each one, memorized the warmth of your body.

Then reality returned.. There were people looking for him, work to finish, targets to locate. He couldn’t stay here forever. No matter how badly he wanted to. Dex carefully untangled his fingers from yours. You began to stir. He immediately froze. When you settled again, he slipped from beneath the blanket and began dressing.

He moved silently, his shoes made no sound against the floorboards. He picked up his coat and reached the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Your sleepy voice stopped him.

Dex turned. You were lying on your side, eyes barely open.

“I have to go.”

“You’re sneaking out. Again.”

“I’m leaving quietly.”

“That’s called sneaking.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You failed.” You stretched out one hand towards him.

“Come back.”

“Angel.”

“Five more minutes.”

“I have work.”

“Bullseye duties?”

“Yes.”

“Throwing things at criminals?”

“Among other things.”

“Five minutes won’t destroy the city.”

“You don’t know that.”

You wiggled your fingers impatiently. “Benjamin.” He looked towards the doorway, then back at you. You gave him the smallest sleepy smile., to which his resistance collapsed.

Benjamin removed his coat and returned to bed once again. No matter what he couldn’t say no to you. The second he lay down, you wrapped yourself around him, burying your face against his chest.

“Better,” you mumbled.

His arm settled around your waist. for several minutes, neither of you spoke. Morning light slowly filled the room as Dex traced his thumb across your back.

You listened to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I really do have to go,” he eventually murmured.

“I know.”

“I’ll come back.”

“You’d better.”

“I always watch over you.” You lifted your head.

“You don’t have to watch from the roof anymore.” His expression changed.

“You can knock.”

“At the door?”

“That’s generally where people knock.”

“What if you don’t answer?”

“Then you can use the window.” The corner of his mouth lifted as he laughed softly.

“So I still have permission.”

“For emergencies.”

“I could classify missing you as an emergency.” Your cheeks warmed.

“That was almost smooth.”

“I’m learning.” You leaned up and kissed him, Dex’s hand moved into your hair, holding you close until neither of you could pretend that five minutes had not become fifteen. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

“Don’t walk home alone tonight.”

“I finish at four.”

“I’ll meet you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You smiled.

“Coffee afterwards?”

“Yes.”

“A second date?” His eyes softened as he watched the morning sunlight hit your delicate features. 

“The second of several.” You released him reluctantly much to your displeasure. Dex climbed out of bed and pulled on his coat. As he made his way to the bedroom doorway, he paused. His gaze moved towards the window, then towards the hallway. You pointed.

“Front door.” He sighed as though deeply inconvenienced.

“Better habits,” you reminded him.

“I liked the window.”

“I know.”

“It was private.”

“You’re welcome to use it occasionally.” Benjamin looked back at you.

“Tonight?” You laughed.

“Use the door tonight.” He nodded.

Then he crossed the room, leaned over the bed and kissed your forehead. “Sleep, Angel.” You caught the front of his coat before he could straighten and pulled him into one final kiss. When you let him go, his expression was dazed. You smiled proudly.

“Now you can leave.” Dex stared at you.

“That was cruel.”

“Consider it as motivation to come back.” He touched his thumb to his lower lip.

“I don’t need motivation.” The certainty in his voice made your heart flutter, He finally left through the front door. You listened as it clicked shut behind him.

The apartment felt quieter without his presence, but not empty. His phone number was saved in your contacts. His coffee mug remained beside yours on the kitchen counter. One side of the bed was still warm. And although you knew Dex would continue watching from shadows, rooftops and darkened street corners, something between you had changed. 

Benjamin Poindexter noticed everything.

He noticed the slight limp of the businessman walking six paces ahead of him, indicating an old injury in his right knee.He noticed the woman standing beside the pedestrian crossing checking her handbag every few seconds, likely making sure her purse was still there.He noticed the security camera mounted above the entrance of the corner shop was angled three degrees too far to the left, leaving a narrow blind spot beside the alleyway.

Dex saw patterns where other people saw chaos.

Movements. Habits. Weaknesses.

He could calculate the trajectory of almost any object before it had even left his hand. He could look at a room once and remember where everything had been placed. He could predict what someone was going to do simply by watching the shift of their weight or the movement of their eyes. People were predictable. Usually. You were not.

The first time he saw you, you walked directly into him.

It was a chilly Manhattan morning, the streets overcrowded with impatient commuters and the lingering smell of rain. Dex had been moving through the crowd without thinking, his hands buried inside the pockets of his dark jacket, when something warm collided with his chest.

Or rather, someone.

“Oh my God!”

A paper cup slipped from your hand, coffee splashing across the pavement between you. Dex’s arm moved instinctively - He caught your wrist before you could stumble backwards, his other hand steadying your waist for less than a second.

You stared up at him with wide eyes.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Dex blinked.

You had been the one who collided with him. You had nearly fallen. Your coffee was now spreading across the pavement. Yet you were asking whether he was alright.

“I’m fine,” he answered.

His hand remained around your wrist. Your skin was warm beneath his fingers. He released you abruptly.

“I’m so sorry.” You looked down at the ruined coffee, then back at him. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I noticed.”

The words were colder than he intended. For a moment, he expected you to become defensive. Most people did when he spoke like that. They stiffened, frowned or quietly decided that he was strange. Instead, you laughed. It was a soft, breathless sound.

“Fair enough.”

You crouched to pick up the empty cup, brushing the loose hair away from your face. Dex watched you. Noticed your tied up hair now messy like you've walked through a bush. The worn laces of your shoes. The faint smudge of flour on the sleeve of your coat. You worked somewhere nearby. Probably somewhere involving food.

When you straightened, you gave him another apologetic smile.

“I really am sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’d offer to replace your coffee, but apparently I can’t even keep hold of my own.”

“I wasn’t carrying one.”

“Oh...”

Your cheeks warmed.

“Right.”

Dex felt the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. You looked down the street, sudden panic crossing your features.

“Crap. I’m going to be late.”

You stepped around him before pausing.

“It was nice crashing into you.”

His brow furrowed. You laughed again.

“That sounded better in my head.”

Then you were gone.

Dex stood motionless on the pavement as the crowd flowed around him. He watched you hurry down the street, weaving between pedestrians until you slipped through the door of a small café nestled between a bookshop and an ageing apartment building. The bell above the café door jingled and You disappeared inside.

Dex continued staring long after he could no longer see you through the window. He told himself it was nothing, a passing interaction. A strange woman with a warm smile who had ruined her coffee and apologised for hurting him when she was the one who had almost fallen. It should have ended there. It didn’t.

Five minutes later, Dex walked into the café.

The place was small and warm, with mismatched wooden tables and fairy lights hanging around the windows. Soft music played beneath the murmur of conversation. You stood behind the counter, tying an apron around your waist. When you looked up and saw him, recognition immediately brightened your expression.

“You came back.”

The words struck him harder than they should have.

“I wanted coffee.”

“Right.” You smiled. “Of course.”

You picked up a cup.

“What can I get you?”

“Black coffee.”

“Simple.”

He watched as you prepared it. You moved quickly, confidently, exchanging greetings with regular customers while tidying the counter between orders. You hummed beneath your breath as you worked. Dex listened until he identified the song. When you handed him his drink, your fingers brushed. “Careful,” you teased. “I’ve already murdered one coffee today.” He looked at you over the rim of the cup.

“You work here every morning?”

It was too direct. Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Most mornings.”

“What time do you finish?”

You stared at him for a second. Dex realised how the question sounded.

“I was only asking.”

“Are you planning another collision?”

“Maybe.”

A smile slowly spread across your face.

“I finish at four.”

He stored the information away immediately. Four o’clock. “Enjoy your coffee,” you said. Dex sat at the table nearest the window. He stayed for almost two hours - You occasionally glanced at him while you worked. Each time, he was already looking at you.

After that, Dex began visiting the café regularly. At first, he came every few days. Then every morning. Sometimes he ordered coffee. Sometimes he bought something he had no intention of eating simply because you recommended it. He learned that you hated waking up early but enjoyed the quiet hour before the café became busy. You preferred tea to coffee despite spending most of your days surrounded by espresso machines. You always gave the slightly misshapen pastries to customers you liked because you said they had more personality. You called him Dex after overhearing someone use the name once. He never corrected you. He liked the way it sounded in your voice. “Your usual?” you asked one morning. Dex sat at the end of the counter.

“You already started making it.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

“Politeness.”

“You ask questions you already know the answers to?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?” You set the coffee in front of him. “People like feeling as though they have choices.” His eyes lingered on you. “And do they?” Your smile faltered. Only for a second. Then you leaned across the counter.

“You ask a lot of intense questions before nine in the morning.”

Dex’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips.

“You don’t answer many of them.”

“Maybe I like keeping you curious.”

You moved away to serve another customer. Dex remained there long after his drink had gone cold. Keeping him curious was a mistake. Curiosity became interest. Interest became fascination. Fascination became something darker. Something consuming. He began following you home.

The first time, he told himself he only wanted to make sure you arrived safely. You finished a late shift shortly after ten. The streets were slick with rain, streetlights reflected in shallow puddles, and you walked alone with your headphones in. Careless. Dex followed from the opposite side of the street. You stopped at a small convenience shop and bought milk, strawberry sweets and a cheap bunch of flowers reduced to half price. You smiled at the cashier. You thanked the man who held the door open for you. You gave one of the flowers to a woman sitting outside the subway station. Dex watched every second. When you reached your apartment building, you glanced over your shoulder. For one terrifying moment, he thought you had noticed him. Instead, you looked at the rain and smiled to yourself before heading inside. Third floor. Apartment 3B. The bedroom window faced the fire escape. Dex knew before he had even consciously decided to remember. He returned the following night. And the night after that.

Soon, he knew your routine like the back of his hand. You left your apartment at seven twenty-three on weekday mornings. On Thursdays, you stopped at the corner shop on your way home. Every second Tuesday, you called someone—probably a relative—and paced around your living room while speaking to them. You took a shower in the evening and left the bathroom window open afterwards because the extractor fan was broken. You read in bed before sleeping. You fell asleep on the sofa whenever you tried watching films after a late shift. You forgot to close your curtains more often than you remembered. Dex watched over you. That was how he justified it. He was protecting you. The man who followed you from the subway one evening stopped after Dex dragged him into an alleyway. The drunk who grabbed your arm outside the café woke in hospital with three broken fingers. The customer who repeatedly waited for you after closing received one warning. He did not require a second. You never knew. You simply began commenting on how much safer the neighbourhood had felt recently. Dex would sit at the café counter and listen, hiding his satisfaction behind the rim of his cup.

“You look pleased with yourself,” you said one afternoon.

“I’m drinking coffee.”

“You drink coffee every day. You don’t usually look that smug about it.”

“I don’t look smug.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

You leaned closer. “You absolutely do.” His gaze flickered over your face. He wanted to touch you. The thought arrived so suddenly that he tightened his grip around the cup. You didn’t notice. “Maybe I had a good morning,” he said.

“I’m happy for you, Dex.”

His chest tightened. Nobody said things like that to him. Nobody cared whether he had a good morning. You did. You cared without knowing anything about him.That was when watching from a distance stopped being enough.

The first time Dex entered your apartment, it was raining. You were working an evening shift. He knew you would not return until almost eleven. The lock on your window was old. It took him less than six seconds to open. Dex stepped into your bedroom without making a sound. The room smelled like vanilla, clean laundry and the perfume you wore to work. For a moment, he simply stood there. It felt different being inside. More intimate than watching through the glass.

 Your bed was unmade. A cardigan hung over the back of a chair. Two books rested on your bedside table, one open and facedown despite the damage it would do to the spine. Dex picked it up. He examined the page you had stopped reading on. Then he closed it properly and placed a bookmark inside. He moved through the apartment slowly. Carefully. He looked through photographs on your shelves and studied the names written on the backs. He opened cupboards. Checked drawers. Examined the contents of your bathroom cabinet. He learned which medicine you took for headaches, Which shampoo you used, Which brand of tea you liked.

The plant on your living room windowsill was beginning to wilt, Dex watered it. The kitchen sink contained two mugs and a plate, He washed them. He knew what he was doing was wrong - He understood boundaries. Laws. Privacy. But those rules seemed irrelevant when it came to you. He wanted to understand everything, Every insignificant detail. Every preference. Every habit.

He opened the top drawer of your dresser. His fingers paused. Lace. Cotton. Soft colours. Benjamin stared down at the neatly folded underwear. He should close the drawer. Leave. Never come back.

Instead, he reached inside and took a delicate black pair between his fingers. His breathing changed. He imagined you wearing them. Imagined the fabric resting against your skin. His jaw tightened.

“This is wrong,” he murmured to the empty room.

The underwear disappeared into his pocket. He visited your apartment seven more times. Sometimes he moved things only to see whether you would notice. You rarely did. Once, he replaced the batteries in your smoke alarm. Another time, he fixed the loose handle on your kitchen drawer. He threw away expired food from your refrigerator.

He found your journal but did not read it. Even Dex had limits.

Or so he told himself while lying on your bed, his head resting against your pillow, breathing in the faint traces of your perfume.

________________________________________________________________

The night you discovered him began badly.

Two members of staff had called in sick, the café had been unusually busy, and an aggressive customer had shouted at you because his drink contained the exact syrup he had requested. By the time you reached your apartment, your feet ached and your patience was gone. You fumbled with the lock before stepping inside. The apartment was cold. You frowned. A curtain moved gently in the night breeze - Your bedroom window was wide open.

You stopped breathing. You knew you had locked it. You always locked it before late shifts. Slowly, you placed your bag on the floor.

“Hello?”

Silence. Your hand tightened around your keys. “If someone’s in here, you need to leave.” A heavy footstep sounded from the corner of the living room. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Another step. Then a man emerged from the darkness. He wore blue tactical armour, dark gloves and a mask marked with the symbol that appeared almost nightly on the news. Bullseye.

You had seen shaky phone footage of him fighting on rooftops. You had watched reporters describe him as a dangerous and unpredictable killer. You had seen the aftermath of his attacks. Now he was standing in your living room. He raised his hands slowly.

“It’s alright.”

His voice was strangely familiar. “I’m not going to hurt you.” You backed towards the kitchen.

“Don’t come any closer.”

He stopped immediately. Your hand searched blindly across the countertop until your fingers closed around the first object you could find. A wooden spoon. Bullseye looked at it. Then at you. “You’re threatening me with a spoon.”

“I’ll use it.”

“It won’t be effective.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

You held the spoon higher. “I’m warning you.” His head tilted. Despite the mask, you felt as though he were studying you.

“You should put that down before you hurt yourself.”

“I’m not the one who broke into somebody’s apartment dressed like a murderous ninja.”

“That’s not what I am.”

“Which part? Murderous or ninja?”

Something shifted in his expression. Amusement. 

“You’re not reacting the way I expected.”

“How did you expect me to react?”

“Screaming.”

“I might still.”

“You haven’t.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“You’re curious.”

Your stomach twisted. He was right. Fear still pulsed through you, but beneath it sat an unbearable need to know why. Why you? Why your apartment? Why did his voice sound so familiar?

“Take off the mask,” you said.

His body became completely still.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

“Then get out.”

“I can’t do that yet.”

You tightened your grip around the spoon. “Take it off.” He stared at you for several seconds. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands to his face. The mask came away. Your makeshift weapon lowered.

“Dex?”

Dex stood before you, hair dishevelled from the mask and blue eyes fixed carefully on your expression. “Hello, Angel.” Your lips parted. Angel. He had never called you that before. At least, not to your face.

“You’re Bullseye.”

“Yes.”

“You’re the man from the news.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been sitting in my café every morning.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re in my apartment.”

“Yes.”

You stared at him.

“Do you know any other words?”

“Yes.”

You almost threw the spoon at him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Dex lowered his hands.

“Watching over you.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you.

“Watching over me?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

He remained silent.

“Benjamin.”

“Since we met.”

Your stomach dropped.

“That was months ago.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been following me for months?”

“Protecting you.”

“You say that like it makes this better.”

“It does.”

“No, it really doesn’t.”

“You’re safe.”

“You broke into my home!”

“To keep you safe.”

“From what?”

“People.”

“What people?”

“The man who followed you from the subway. The customer who grabbed your arm. The one who waited outside your work three nights in a row.” You went still. The incidents had stopped so suddenly that you had almost forgotten them. “What did you do?” dex’s face revealed nothing.

“They don’t bother you anymore.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you need.”

He moved closer. You immediately lifted the spoon again.

“Stay back.”

Benjamin stopped. His eyes dropped to the weapon.

“You’re still holding that.”

“It makes me feel better.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Well, it does.”

He looked almost fond. The expression unsettled you more than anger would have. “How many times have you been inside my apartment?” you asked.

Dex hesitated.

“Eight.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Eight?”

“Yes.”

“Eight times?”

“Yes.”

“While I was at work?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Once you were asleep.”

Your entire body heated with outrage.

“You were here while I was sleeping?”

“You left the window unlocked.”

“That isn’t an invitation!”

“I know.”

“You clearly don’t!”

“I didn’t touch you.”

“That is not the point!”

“You were safe.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it matters.”

He took another slow step forward. This time, you didn’t raise the spoon. “You don’t lock your bathroom window,” he continued. “Your fire escape is accessible from the roof. You walk home with both headphones in. You don’t check behind you when you enter the building.”

“You sound like an overbearing security system.”

“You need one.”

“I was doing perfectly fine before you.”

“No, you weren’t.”

The certainty in his voice made you bristle.

“You are unbelievably arrogant.”

“And you’re careless.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

The answer silenced you. There was no denial. No attempt to excuse himself. He knew. Dex’s eyes moved over your face. “I tried to stop.” Something in his voice softened. “I stayed away from the café for three days.” You remembered - You had noticed his absence, though you would never admit how often you had glanced towards his usual seat. “I kept thinking about you,” he continued. “I needed to know where you were. Whether you got home safely. Who you spoke to. Whether someone had touched you.” His jaw tightened on the final words.

“You don’t get to decide who touches me.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

“But I don’t like it.”

Heat crept across your cheeks. You hated that your body reacted. You hated that underneath the fear and anger was something else. Something dangerously close to excitement. Dex moved forward again. You stepped backwards. He continued until the edge of the kitchen counter pressed against your lower back. He was close now. Close enough that you could see the faint scar beside his mouth. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. He placed one gloved hand on the counter beside you. Not touching. Only surrounding. Cornering.

“You could call the police,” he said quietly.

“I could.”

“You haven’t.”

“You could take my phone before I reach it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t care whether you believe me.”

His other hand settled against the counter on your opposite side.

“I would never hurt you.”

“You hurt people all the time.”

“Not you.”

“Why am I different?”

Dex’s expression changed. For the first time since he had revealed himself, he looked uncertain.

“You were kind to me.”

You frowned.

“That’s it?”

“Nobody is kind without wanting something.”

“I wanted you to buy coffee.”

“You smiled before I ordered.”

The simple answer pierced through your anger. Dex looked at you as though your smallest act of decency had become sacred. “You remembered my order,” he said. “You asked how I was. You noticed when I didn’t come in.”

“I notice all of my regulars.”

His eyes sharpened.

“You noticed me more.”

Your breath caught. Arrogant bastard. “You’ve been going through my things, haven’t you?” you asked. Silence. “What did you take?” His gaze shifted away. Your eyes narrowed. “Dex.” He looked almost guilty. It was an unexpectedly human expression on the face of a man the city believed to be a monster.

“What did you take?”

“Something small.”

“What?”

He said nothing. Then realisation struck. Your mouth dropped open. “You stole my underwear.” Dex’s jaw tightened.

“You did.”

“I regretted it.”

“Do you still have them?”

He paused.

“Yes.”

“Oh my God.”

You covered your face with both hands. The wooden spoon clattered onto the countertop.

“This cannot be happening.”

“I can bring them back.”

“You should never have taken them!”

“I know.”

“Why did you keep them?”

His answer was low. “Because they smelled like you.” Your face burned. You slowly lowered your hands. Dex watched your reaction with unnerving focus.

“That is deeply disturbing,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“And invasive.”

“I know.”

“And—”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m furious.”

“You can be both.”

You stared at him. The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re enjoying this,” you accused. “A little.”

“You break into my apartment, confess to stalking me, admit to stealing my underwear and then laugh at me?”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I like you.”

The bluntness stopped you again. Dex’s smile vanished.

“I don’t know how to do this correctly.”

“That may be the biggest understatement I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know how to want someone normally.”

His voice lowered. “But I want you.” Your pulse fluttered beneath your skin.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you drink tea when you’re nervous. I know you hate silence unless you’re reading. I know you keep chocolate behind the flour because you think nobody will find it. I know you cry at animal rescue videos and pretend you have something in your eye.” Your expression softened despite yourself. “I know you call your mother every Sunday. I know you leave the hall light on when you’ve had a bad day. I know you talk to your plant.”

“You’ve been spying on me talking to my plant?”

“You named it.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Gerald is recovering.”

“You watered Gerald?”

“He was dying.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Dex stared. You pressed your lips together.

“Don’t look so pleased.”

“You laughed.”

“This is still insane.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“Because it is.”

“But you’re not afraid anymore.”

Your smile faded. You should have been. Dex was dangerous. Obsessive. Unstable. Every reasonable instinct should have told you to run. Instead, you found yourself studying the exhaustion hidden beneath his eyes. The loneliness. The almost desperate way he watched you. “You need to leave,” you whispered. His expression became unreadable. “Do you want me to?” You hesitated. Dex noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything.

“You should leave,” you corrected.

“That wasn’t my question.”

You swallowed.

“If you stay, I might do something stupid.”

His eyes darkened.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

He leaned slightly closer.

“Tell me.”

Your heart hammered.

“No.”

“Angel.”

The nickname sounded different now. Possessive. Reverent. You looked at his mouth,  Dex noticed that too. He moved closer until barely an inch remained between you, Yet he didn’t touch. He waited. For all his obsession, all his watching and stealing and breaking in, he waited. “I should go,” he said. The words were quiet– Almost reluctant. “Yes.” Neither of you moved. Dex’s eyes searched yours. Then he stepped back. The absence of his warmth left you strangely cold. He picked up his mask.

“You’ll lock the window after me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“And you won’t walk home with both headphones in.”

“Stop telling me what to do.”

“One headphone.”

“Dex.”

“Angel.”

The name made your stomach twist, You looked away. When you looked back, he had already moved towards the bedroom.

“Use the front door,” you called. He glanced over his shoulder.

“I came through the window.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to leave through it.”

“It’s faster.”

“You’re impossible.” Dex pulled the mask back over his face. “You’ll see me again.” Your heartbeat stumbled. “Is that a threat?” His eyes remained on yours. “A promise.” Then he disappeared through the open window. You stood in the middle of your apartment for several minutes. Gerald sat freshly watered on the windowsill. The kitchen sink was empty. The loose cabinet handle you had been meaning to repair for weeks was suddenly fixed. You should have called the police. Instead, you locked the window and wondered when he would return.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dex disappeared for four days. You told yourself you were relieved but the first morning, you looked towards his usual table at the café and felt grateful to see it empty. The second morning, you checked the street more often than necessary. By the third day, you began watching the news, there had been reports of Bullseye fighting several armed men near the docks. Grainy footage showed flashes of black tactical armour moving across shipping containers before the video abruptly cut out. No arrests had been made. No bodies identified. No mention of Dex. You hated that you were worried. He had stalked you, broken into your apartment, taken your belongings. The man was a walking parade of red flags. Yet you found yourself staring at the fire escape every night. Waiting…

On the fourth evening, rain lashed against the windows. You had the following morning off, so you had changed into an oversized shirt and underwear shortly after returning home. Your hair was still damp from the shower, and the kettle was beginning to boil. The scrape of the bedroom window opening made you freeze - you didn’t reach for a weapon. You didn’t call out. Instead, you turned off the kettle.

A heavy thud came from the living room, then a pained grunt. You hurried towards the sound. Dex stumbled through the doorway, one hand pressed against his side. His Bullseye suit was torn across his ribs,  blood stained the black material and dripped between his gloved fingers. He barely reached the sofa before collapsing against it.

“Angel..” he breathed. You rushed over to him. “Oh my God.”

His head fell back against the cushion.

“You got a first-aid kit in here?”

“You already know I do.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“Bathroom cabinet. Bottom shelf.”

“Don’t be smug while you’re bleeding on my sofa.”

“Can’t help it.”

You knelt in front of him.

“What happened?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“You need a hospital.”

“No hospitals.”

“Dex—”

“No hospitals.”

His voice sharpened. You flinched, regret immediately crossed his face. “Sorry.” You stared at him. Benjamin Poindexter apologising felt more alarming than the blood. “I need to see the injury,” you said. He weakly nodded, your hands moved to the fastening of his armour as Dex watched you quietly while you struggled with the unfamiliar clips and straps.

“How does this thing come off?”

“Release underneath the shoulder.” You reached around him his breath hitched as your arm brushed his chest.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“You made a noise.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You said that already.” You carefully removed the upper layers of his suit. Beneath the armour, he wore a fitted black compression shirt, darkened with blood along his ribs. You swallowed. Even injured, Dex was imposing… Broad shoulders, Defined arms, A powerful chest shifting with each controlled breath. Scars covered his skin where the shirt had torn. Old injuries, bullet wounds, cuts that had healed badly. You forced yourself to focus.

“This needs to come off too.” His eyes moved slowly over you, Only then did you remember what you were wearing - An oversized shirt that ended at the tops of your thighs. No trousers. just a pair of black lace underwear you decided to treat yourself to one birthday. Heat crawled across your skin as he watched you. 

“Stop staring.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“You were looking before you saw the wound.”

“I was assessing the situation.”

“Professionally?”

“Shut up.”

Dex gave a weak laugh before wincing.

“Don’t laugh.”

“You’re funny when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Your pulse is faster.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I can see it in your neck.”

Your hand immediately rose towards your throat, His eyes followed the movement.

“Dex.”

“Angel.”

“Take the shirt off.”

His expression shifted.

“That sounded like an order.”

“It was.”

He obeyed. Slowly, he pulled the damaged shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor. You forgot how to breathe. His body was leaner than you expected but no less powerful. Muscle moved beneath pale skin as he settled back against the sofa, scars stretched across his torso, some faint and silver, others jagged and raised. Your gaze travelled involuntarily down the lines of his abdomen. Dex then cleared his throat. You looked up sharply, embarrassed at how much you were gawking at him as he was slowly still bleeding out on your sofa.

He was smirking.

“Not a word.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was enjoying the view.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“So you’ve said.”

You retrieved the first-aid kit and returned to him, the wound was deep but appeared to be a slice rather than a bullet wound.

“What did this?”

“Knife.”

“You lost a knife fight?”

“I didn’t lose.”

“You’re the one bleeding on my furniture.”

“The other guy is worse.”

You didn’t ask. You cleaned the wound carefully, Dex’s jaw tightened as the antiseptic touched exposed skin, but he refused to move.

“You can tell me if it hurts.”

“It hurts.”

“Then why aren’t you reacting?”

“I am.”

“No, you’re pretending you don’t feel it.”

He looked at you. “I’ve felt worse.” 

“That doesn’t make this hurt less.” Your voice softened. “You don’t have to pretend with me.” Something vulnerable flickered behind his eyes - Then he looked away. You pressed gauze to the wound. “Hold this.” His hand covered yours instead. You froze. dex’s fingers were warm yet his grip was gentle, though you knew how easily those hands could kill.

“You were worried,” he said.

“You turned up covered in blood.”

“Before tonight.”

You focused on the bandage.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You watched the news.”

Your eyes snapped towards him.

“How do you know that?”

“I saw you.”

“You were still watching me?”

“From a distance.”

“You disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“You didn’t come to the café.”

“I was busy.”

“Nearly dying?”

“Among other things.” You secured the bandage around his ribs. “I kept wondering where you were.” The confession slipped out before you could stop it, Dex became completely still. You continued looking down. “I saw reports about the docks. I didn’t know whether you were alive.” His hand rose. Slowly, cautiously, he touched your chin and guided your face towards his. “You care whether I’m alive.” It wasn’t teasing. He sounded genuinely astonished.

“Of course I do.”

“Why?”

You frowned. “Because despite everything, I—” You stopped. Dex’s thumb brushed your lower lip, Your breathing caught in your throat. “Despite everything?” he prompted.

“You’re not as frightening as you think you are.”

“That’s a dangerous assumption.”

“You came here for help.”

“I came because I knew you’d help me.”

“You were sure?”

“No.”

His honesty made your chest ache. “But I hoped.” You looked at him properly, without the suit and mask, Dex appeared almost ordinary. Just a bruised and exhausted man sitting half-naked on your sofa, looking at you as though you were the only safe thing he had ever known. Your fingers touched one of the scars near his shoulder, He tensed.

“Does that hurt?”

“No.”

You traced the edge carefully. His eyes darkened as he followed your delicate fingers glide across his rough skin. 

“Angel.” he spoke out almost like a warning.

“You have so many.”

“They don’t matter.”

“They do to me.”

His hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck. You should have moved away. Instead, you leaned into his palm. The room became quiet as rain tapped steadily against the glass. The television played somewhere behind you, forgotten and muted. Dex’s thumb moved across your skin.

“You should be afraid of me,” he murmured.

“Probably.”

“You should tell me to leave.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m still dangerous.”

“I know.”

His gaze dropped to your lips and instinctively You moved closer.

“Are you going to kiss me this time?” you whispered. His breath changed. “Do you want me to?” You nodded gently. Dex didn't hesitate again, his hand tightened gently at the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him. The first touch of his mouth was almost careful. Testing,  as though he expected you to disappear. Then you kissed him back, something inside him broke.

Dex’s other hand found your waist, dragging you closer until you were half kneeling between his legs. His mouth moved against yours with barely restrained hunger, every quiet breath and subtle sound swallowed between you. Your fingers slid into his hair as he groaned into your mouth.  The sound sent warmth rushing through your body as  the kiss deepened even more. Dex's hand moved beneath the loose hem of your shirt, settling against the bare skin of your waist as you climbed onto his lap. He stopped himself before it could go any further.  His forehead rested against yours as silence and the sound of both your heavy breathing filled the empty apartment. 

“Tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His fingers flexed against your skin.

“You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

“Then show me.”

His eyes searched your face. You saw hunger there, obsession. But also restraint. He could have overpowered you without effort. Instead, he waited for every inch you gave him, Dex kissed you again, slower this time. His hand travelled carefully along your side, never moving further than you allowed. Your palm pressed against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

He kissed the corner of your mouth,  your cheek., your jaw. When his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath your ear, you shivered. Dex noticed. He always noticed.

“Here?” he murmured. You nodded, practically begging for more. His mouth returned to the spot as a quiet sound escaped you before you could suppress it. Dex’s hand tightened around your waist. “Angel.” The nickname became a warning. Or a prayer. You pulled back before he could aggravate his injury.

“You need to rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You can barely sit up.”

“I was doing alright.”

“You were distracted.”

His eyes moved over your face.

“I still am.”

Your cheeks warmed

“You’re staying here tonight.”

Dex ’s expression changed.

“I shouldn’t.”

“You’re not climbing across rooftops like this.”

“I’ve had worse injuries.”

“You keep saying that as though it helps.”

“It means I’ll survive.”

“It doesn’t mean you should suffer alone.” The words settled between you. Dex looked away first, You got off his lap gently as you began gathering the discarded pieces of his suit.

“I’ll get you something clean to wear.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“You are not sleeping in bloody clothes.” You returned with an oversized shirt and a pair of old jogging bottoms that had belonged to someone else. Dex examined them.

“Whose are these?” he questioned with a hint of jealousy

You raised an eyebrow.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His jaw tightened.

“Whose?”

You couldn’t resist. “An ex-boyfriend.” Dex’s gaze sharpened instantly. You laughed. “I’m joking. They belonged to my cousin.” He stared at you.

“That wasn’t funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

“No.”

“You looked jealous.”

“I was deciding whether to find him.”

“There is no him.”

“Good.” Possessive warmth curled low in your stomach.

“That shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.”

“What?”