lovely

You’re perched on Pope’s bed, back and posture stiff, unsure of how to act. Should you even been inside of his room without asking? What if he didn’t want to makeout with you tonight? Are you taking advantage of him? Does he even want to makeout with you at all? 

What are you talking about? He fingered you. If he can shove his fingers in you, he can definitely push his lips to yours… right?  

You drop yourself dramatically onto his bed with a loud groan, your mind racing. What if? Why? Why not? Will he? Won’t he? It won’t stop. 

“You look like a fish out of water.” His familiar voice has you sitting up, eyes wide in shock. 

“Geez,” you huff, embarrassed by the way you were flopping around in his perfectly made bed. Which is now unmade. “I need you to get louder shoes. Ones that squeak. Or the light up ones so I know when you’re coming.” 

He shrugs, leaning against the shut door of his bedroom. “How else am I supposed to catch you doing weird shit?”

“Haha.” You deadpan. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting here forever.” 

“Handling something.” 

You grin, leaning back on your arms. “Oooooh, did you beat up your brother for me?” It’s a tease. You don’t truly believe he’d get into a fight with his brother over you.

You may joke like you are, but you’re not stupid. The web of odd familial ties in the Cody family are… borderline incestuos. Weird. Confusing. And you don’t doubt that it’s all Janine Cody’s fault. She has a way of making anyone in a room with her feel powerless. You see it with the gardeners she watches over as they work, the way she speaks to her sons, even her lawyer who isn’t around often, but you’ve seen a few times. 

Conversing with the woman feels like she’s ripping your chest open and grabbing at everything she can, inspecting you. As terrible as it makes you feel, you try to push that back on your schedule for Lena until the very last second, even to the point where Lena can’t see the woman from the constant activities you take the little girl to. 

“No.” Is his lacking response. 

You sigh dramatically, “and here I thought you were my knight in shining armor.” 

“I’m not that.” 

“Clearly.” 

The silence isn’t awkward but the way his hands are rubbing at his jeans, tells you that he does believe it to be so. You stand, tugging at your t-shirt to fall over your body. “So, you—” 

“Do you think we can reschedule?” His voice sounds almost shaky. Almost, not quite nervous, more ashamed. He clears his throat, “I don’t think I'm up for—“ 

You nod, immediately feeling the guilt eat away at you. “Of course, Pope.” You take a step back, sitting back down on the bed, afraid to make him feel afraid. “You don’t even have to makeout with me at all. I was only joking. Well… half-joking.” 

He sighs, bothered by your words. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to makeout with you. Just… another day.” 

“I didn’t say that you didn’t—“ 

“Stop talking.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I don’t think I want to makeout with you anymore.” He admits. 

“Jesus.” You cackle, “what’s up your ass?” 

“You.” 

“Oh, baby, I wish I was.” You get up off the bed, making a thrusting motion with your hips, hands out like you’re holding onto somebody. “Get all up in there.” 

He grimaces, “that’s disgusting.” 

“Fine.” You stop, “I’ll leave.” 

“You should.” He agrees. He doesn’t move off the door, still pressed up against it. 

It’s impossible to hold back your grin. “You gonna let me out?” 

He doesn’t speak. His eyes are on you in that intense manner he usually carries. The constipated look, Nicky would say. 

“Hello?” You tease, “anyone in there?” 

“Fuck it…” he breathes low, cutting the distance between you in two steps. His hands are on either side of your face, pulling you into him. And his lips are on yours. 

You don’t spare a second, hands falling to his waist, face tilting to deepen the kiss, noses nudging as you do so. And he delivers on your wish. The kiss is hot and heavy, tongue lapping into your mouth as the back of your knees push against his soft bed. Your hands move from his sides to his chest, then back down to the bottom of his shirt, urging him to remove it. 

He pulls his lips from yours with a loud smack, “no,” he shakes his head, removing your itching fingers from his shirt. “Not that.” 

You groan, leaning your forehead to his chest. “Fine. Can I dry hump you at least?” 

His eyebrows furrow, “are we teenagers?”

You scoff, lifting your head to eye him. “Dry humping is a lost art. I’ve made it my duty to bring it back to light. Think about it. The act is—“

“Shut up.” He groans, annoyed as he grabs your chin and presses his lips to yours again. One of his hands lowers to your waist, down to your hip, and ends at your thigh, gripping your leg high up on his leg. 

“Pope!” You squeal when he drops you onto his bed. “What the fuck?!” 

“What?” He shrugs, not caring. “Swear you told me that you like it when a man manhandles you.” 

“Yeah, I like it when they grope my ass or spin me to push me up against a surface, not throw me like a ragdoll!”

“Miscommunication.” His tone is bored as he grabs your hips, pulling you to lay atop of him, lips meeting yours again. 

You pull from him, sitting up. “Can I take my shirt off?” You ask breathily. 

“W-what? Why?” 

You shrug, “want you to admire my boobs.” 

He looks bewildered, eyes wide and shocked as he looks up at you. “Don’t look so surprised.” You scoff, “I love my boobs. All my friends have seen them.” 

“Wha—“ you tug your shirt off, left in your ugly sports bra. 

“Oh my god, wait!” You cover his eyes with your hands. 

He flinches, but doesn’t push your hands away. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“My bra is ugly.” You groan. “Pretend what you saw was sexy lingerie.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lying back with his eyes covered by your hands. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

“I’ve had this bra since I was a freshman.” 

“… in college?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” He admits, “that’s kinda gross.” 

You scoff, moving your hand from his eyes to pinch his nose. “It is not. I wash it regularly and I’ve only had to stitch one slit since then. And bras are expensive. You can only talk shit if you buy me new ones.” 

“I will.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I will. What’s your size?” 

“Big as fuck.” 

He scoffs, moving your hand from his eyes, sitting up and moving you to straddle his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. His big hands are gripping your hips, securing you on him. Without skipping a beat, “take it off.” 

You don’t hesitate to tug the piece off, tits spilling out for him. You hear the way his breath hitches, eyes dancing on your chest. He won’t look away, even when you wiggle on his lap. “Hello? My face is up here.” You sing, desperate to get him to look at you. “You know, this is a lot more than a sloppy makeout. If I were a freaky person, I would say you’re trying to sl—“ 

“Oh, god…” he breathes, moving you off of his lap and getting up off the bed himself. 

You’re scared, watching him carefully as you sit on his bed, tits out. “A-are you okay?” You ask, eyes searching his body for any sign of discomfort. 

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” He’s turning his body away from you, facing the bedroom door. “You should— you should go.” 

But you’re too concerned to follow his wishes. Instead, you sit up and reach over to him, noticing the way his body is shaking. “Pope…?” You place your hand on his bicep, desperate to help him.

He flinches away, “just go.” 

authors note . . . to my big bitches (me) he can and will toss you around. don’t let no twig man stop u

The world entered through a wormhole of tissue paper, emerging through the darkness in blotches and fuzzy shapes. Yet you were able to feel the intensity of your hand being held.

Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, your doctor’s voice occasionally pushing through the forest of fluff to remind you that you had to keep sipping water. Accepting the straw that materialised in front of your face was easy enough. It led you back to the man sat at your side who was holding it – and your hand still in his other one – for you. You tried to squint at him whilst you drank to abate the overwhelm that came with looking at someone you were half sure was handsome, but catching and keeping the straw between your pursed lips took all your concentration.

“Woah there,” he dabbed a napkin – where did he get a napkin from? – around your mouth.

Ah, you were dribbling, not swallowing.

At some point, he’d placed the cup back on the table. You only realised when he squeezed your hand in both of his, his smile making you weak at the knees. Probably. Your legs felt like you hadn’t moved them in years. His face was in full focus now, and goddamn if it wasn’t the most beautiful one you’d seen.

“Hey.” The “y” was really drawn out by whoever was saying that. They sounded close by.

The stranger’s smile grew bigger, creating lines at his eyes that sweetened the deal, “Hi again.”

You took in the black sweater he was wearing, how cosy it looked around his arms and how you wanted to snuggle into them.

“’M I dreamin’?” said the voice. You looked to your right to catch who it was, but no one else was there, not even the doctor. Where’d she go? Where’d the chatterer go?

“You’re awake,” the stranger answered. He cocked his head to the left; you copied him.

“Cool.” Oh, it was your voice talking. “’Ve we met?”

He chuckled and you would be offended if he didn’t look so damn attractive doing it. The joy echoed clearly out of his throat; your eyes latched onto the dimples that framed his mirth like a painting.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” he confirmed. A corner of his mouth stayed upright in a smirk.

Eh, fuck it.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you slurred.

Your own tongue poked out of your mouth as you watched him wet his lips, his head and shoulders shaking before he replied, “How about I buy you one and you get the next round?”

He ended his proposal with a wink which sent you reeling like he’d spun the world and you on a plate.

“’Kay, charmer,” you smiled goofily at him. If you looked dumb, who cares? No you, you were getting propositioned by a hottie with a body – seriously how’d it taken you so long to notice his arms?

“Be right back.” He kissed your brow, still smiling down at you. Woah, this guy was forward!

In your anaesthetic haze, you went to playfully slap his chest, but he was already out his chair and the room. You would’ve scrunched your body up in on itself to keep the view of his behind in sight, except you were achy still and could barely lift your head off the pillow.

You were left staring at the popcorn tiled ceiling, brightly lit. Stupid interior choice for a flirting hot spot, you’d have to take this guy somewhere else.

“Just checking your-”

“Swee’ Jesus,” you winced in slow motion at the sudden voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” apologised the voice, now appearing at your side in the form of a nurse by an IV bag. Your gaze trailed down the tubing and frowned when it found a needle plastered to your hand, but you didn’t fight against it.

“What’s’is name?” you pointed vaguely in the direction he’d gone and pouted. How long did it take to get you a damn drink?

“Jack?”

“Ohhh, nooo,” your head lolled back and forth on the pillow, “Not supposed to date a ‘J’ name. ‘S cursed.”

Your nurse tapped the tautly full IV bag (that you were sure was nearly empty a second ago), “Bit late for that. He’s your husband.”

“M’husband?” You gawked, eyelids slipping halfway in shock as all other energy was directed on trying to remember what this man looked like on your wedding day. “I married that?”

The nurse smiled down at you, “Aren’t you lucky?”

“Y’see those biceps?” slipped out your mouth before the idea of being embarrassed could even be conjured from the recesses of your subconscious. “Could bounce a dime off that ass… ‘R a nickel.”

What would be harder to aim? You couldn’t remember their sizes or shapes, so calculating the prime aerodynamics would be tricky. Getting past the number seven of counting the ceiling tiles without getting bored was already threatening you with another round of sleep.

Thank God, the hot guy came back with two drinks in hand. Instantly, this room was better.

“Hey, handsome,” you cooed.

“Well,” he balanced the drinks on a moveable table, “Hello, gorgeous.”

Beaming at him, your head rolled back towards him and you demanded, “Gimme some sugar!”

Hopefully you were pouting. You were telling your lips to pout. If they were listening, that was another thing.

His arms – Christ, his arms were bulging out of that black t-shirt – bracketed you into the bed as he drew closer to you. Each freckle, speck of stubble, line across his skin brightened with clarity. You could happily stare at him for days. Why was he this close again?

Oh yeah, you’d requested a kiss from his pretty mouth.  

No sooner were his lips brushing yours, you collapsed into giggles as if he was tickling you five drinks deep, batting him with all the strength you had. He barely moved.

“Glad to see the meds are working their magic,” What’s-his-face barely moved to leave a prickly kiss on your cheek before he withdrew back to his seat.

A gasp escaped you as you covered where he’d left his affection. The laughter kept spilling out like water from your mouth though. Then your fingertip caught on something on your left hand. Before What’s-his-name could take your hand again, you lifted it in front of your eyes which widened five long seconds later.

“Oh shit! I’m married?” You gawked at the ring. How long had that been there?

“Yeah,” He showed his hand where a ring glinted teasingly at you, “We’re married.”

Jaw slack, you reached a shaky hand out and prodded his ring then yours.

“We’re married?” you said softly, eyes big and beaming.

“Yeah. Two years in a month.”

Before you could feel any embarrassment at forgetting your husband’s name again, you spotted your nurse passing the corridor.

You flinched at the volume you couldn’t control as you bellowed, “Will I be outta here in time to have anniversary sex?”

A low cackling echoed beside you and you frowned at your husband who was hiding his crimson blush in cupped hands. Evidently, your expression conveyed your concern at his lack thereof; he took your hand back in his and kissed your knuckles.

“I’ll take you home tonight if you behave,” he squeezed your fingers gently, “Get some rest?”

"Hey," you answered. "Where’d you go?"

"I saw the calendar alarm in your phone," he said. "And you were out of the... the things. In your bag. I checked."

You blinked. "Andrew, what?"

"I’m at the store," he clipped, drowning out the sound of a grocery cart rattling in the background."There are too many."

"Too many what?"

"Options," he muttered, sounding distressed. "There’s a whole wall. Different colors. Wings? Why do they need wings, are they going somewhere?"

You let out a laugh, leaning your head against the cool wall. "No, Andrew. They just help keep them in place."

"Okay," he breathed, and you could practically picture his intense stare burning holes into the packaging. "There’s a green box, 'Super'. And a yellow one that says 'Regular'. Then there’s a box with a picture of a woman doing yoga. Do you do yoga when this happens?"

"Usually I just want to die on the couch."

"Right. Okay. I’m getting both. The ones with the wings."

"Just get the regular ones. That’s the safe bet."

"I’m getting the big box," he decided, his tone final. "And I got the heating patches. Smurf said it helps."

-

Ten minutes later, you heard his boots on the hallway. The door creaked open, and Andrew stepped into the bedroom.

He walked over to the bed and set a grocery bag on the nightstand. He reached back into a second bag and pulled out a stuffed animal, a ridiculously soft penguin, and placed it right next to your pillow.

You sat up slowly, your eyes widening as he began to unload the haul. He had grabbed a variety pack of pads, two different brands of tampons, a bottle of ibuprofen, and four different bars of dark sea-salt chocolate.

You looked from the pile of supplies to Andrew.

He was standing there, looking awkward.

"I wasn't sure," he muttered, his voice rough. "So I just... I got the things that looked like the ones in your bag. And the chocolate. I remembered you liked the salt one."

The quiet thoughtfulness of it hit you. With you, Andrew was trying.

A hot tear tracked down your cheek, followed immediately by another.

"Hey," he said, his voice sharpening with worry. He stepped closer. "Is it the pain? Do you need the hospital?"

"No," you sobbed, letting out a shaky breath. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I’m just... you’re just so good to me."

Andrew froze for a second, clearly not expecting tears of gratitude. He wasn't good with high emotions, but he didn't pull away. He reached out, his hand hovering before settling gently on the back of your neck, pulling you forward until your forehead rested against his shoulder.

"Don't cry," he exhaled. He began to rub slow circles into your low back. "I just went to the store."

"You went to the store and I didn't have to ask," you sniffled.

"I figured it out," he reached over, grabbed one of the chocolate bars, and pressed it into your hand. "Go change. And eat. Then rest."

He stayed there for a long time. The room was quiet. Andrew hadn’t moved. He looked down at the pile of supplies on the nightstand, his brow furrowing as if he were mentally double checking a list.

"I looked it up," he said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

You looked up at him. "You looked what up?"

"The... the stuff," he gestured vaguely to the bags. "Online. It said when this happens, you... lose things. Nutrients. It said I should make sure you eat focus on iron rich foods. Spinach. Red meat. Beans."

He paused, his gaze shifting to the door. "I got steaks in the fridge. I’m gonna go sear one. And I bought that bagged kale salad you like, even though it tastes like dirt."

You stared at him, your heart doing a slow somersault in your chest. The image of him hunching over his phone in a grocery store aisle, researching iron rich foods for menstruation just to make sure you were okay, was too much.

Fresh tears immediately welled up, spilling over before you could stop them. A small sob escaped your lips.

Andrew jumped slightly, his hands coming up as if to catch the tears. "What? Did I say it wrong?"

"No," you wailed, half laughing through the crying as you grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. "No, no, baby, that’s exactly it. See? That’s why I cry, you’re being too sweet."

He looked completely baffled. When he realized you were happy crying, he let out a huffed breath, his shoulders finally dropping from their defensive hunch.

"God you're so exhausting sometimes," he muttered, though he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay here. I'll tell you when the steak is done. Don't cry."

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚

You were organizing printed out photographs taken during your recent trip. They were spread out on the table in front of you like cards on a casino table, your lips curved into a smile as you reminisced on each memory. 

Your best friend with her arm around you, the sun basking on your grinning faces. It was taken in the morning just as dawn was breaking on the beach. Another taken in the darkness at a foreign club, your skin illuminated by pink and red neon lights. You were so plastered that you pulled some of your friends onto the tiny karaoke stage for an impromptu concert. 

A small laugh shakes your shoulders. One that’s immediately interrupted when you hear the jukebox begin to stutter in the middle of its current song. 

Not again. You groan as the familiar guitar strums filter into the diner. The one that looped and looped and never stopped. Now you know it was futile to hope that it would have been fixed while you were away. 

“Maybe it’ll only play once this time.” Yeah right.

You rubbed your temples, at your wits end with this damn song.

Unbeknownst to you, a few tables down, someone had been observing your every move since you entered the diner. He had been seated at the counter, anticipating your arrival for your morning cup. 

Dex hadn’t even needed to turn around to know it was you walking through the door this morning. Just the hands of the clock on the walls pointing to the right numbers, recognizing the exact cadence of your favorite pair of shoes on the vinyl floors when the glass doors opened.

It had been about two weeks since he returned from handling some dirty work for Mr. Charles. Since touching back down in New York, he had swapped out his noon diner visits for morning ones, effectively syncing his routine with what you had mentioned yours to be on the plane. 

He still remembers the surprise in your eyes when he revealed you’d been in the same place everyday, only missing each other by a few hours apart. It was a coincidence, but certainly not an unwelcome one in his opinion. 

Your nervousness seemed to melt away the more you spoke to him and he was so used to the opposite reaction. Years of being in the military, then FBI, before ending up as Bullseye gave him that effect on people even when he tried to make them feel at ease with practiced speech and small talk.

You, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind it much. 

It took you about one week after him to start coming back into the diner once you returned from your trip.

Dex didn’t want to show himself to you right away; he just wanted to see you as you were. Catalogue your coffee and complicated breakfast order to memory. Watch your reaction to the broken jukebox you ranted to him about. Try to understand how someone like you took comfort in him. 

He could still feel the weight of you on his shoulder. How your hair tickled his skin. The rhythm of your breathing as you slept, even over the sounds of his music and the plane’s engine.

Dex’s body tensed when he saw you stand from your table, the quarter he was shuffling in his hands pausing too.

You trudged to the corner of the diner to the jukebox, jamming a coin into the slot and pressing a combination of letters and numbers on the keypad.

Instead of the godforsaken song actually changing like you requested it to though, it looped. Again.

You gave the thing a light frustrated kick but straightened up when you saw the newspaper man lean over his booth and give you a judgmental stare.

Instead of letting you return to your booth defeated, though, Dex found himself standing from the counter seat and making his way over to you.

You hadn’t noticed him until he held the quarter in his hand out to you, and it glinted at you.

“Need another quarter?” He said it like he was coming to your rescue–which he was.

“Oh, it’s you–Dex, right?” Your expressive eyes lit up in surprise like he knew they would when you saw him again. Your gaze then fell to the quarter pinched between his fingers. “Uh, yeah, the machine ate mine.”

You moved to tuck your hair behind your ear before remembering you had tied it back this morning, and your hand fell to your side instead.

Oops.

You bit your lip trying to conceal a bashful smile. Maybe he didn't notice your nervousness.

Dex inserted the quarter to the machine and pressed the keypad again, the same combination he had seen you enter from afar. 

“Let’s see if it actually works this time.” He mirrored your smile. 

“I hope it does. I really don’t want to hear that song anymore.” You chuckled and pointed behind you towards your booth where you left your items unsupervised. “Did you want to join me?” 

He thought you’d never ask. He followed you back to your booth and slid in across from you. 

“Oh, sorry, I’ll gather these up.” You seemed flustered as your hands quickly swept up the prints, “I just got these printed and I was looking through them.”

Dex was a little surprised you just left them unattended. Anyone could have walked by and swiped one without you noticing.

“No, don’t worry about it. Are these from your trip?” He pointed to one that showcased you standing in front of a popular monument.

“Oh, yeah,” you laughed, looking down at the photo. “I was hungover in this one, actually.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going there to party,” he said with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

You hated that he seemed to remember your conversation on the plane better than you did. Then again, at least you were saving yourself the embarrassment of recalling what you said to him when you were nervous about the flight.

“I was trying to save face in front of a stranger. So what, everyone parties.” You held up the photo of you in the club with a smirk on your face. “It was a bachelorette trip, anyway. Or did you forget that detail conveniently?”

Of course he hadn’t forgotten. He remembered everything you said down to the tone of your voice when you said it. He was looking down at the rest of your photos, trying to memorize every single one of them that had you in it. 

You posing in a flower garden with a bouquet of daffodils in your hands. You in an aquarium holding a plush shark from the gift shop. You…scantily clad on the beach.

His blood ran hot under his skin.

Before he could get another look at that one, your hand had smacked down onto it, palm covering it. 

“Oh god, I forgot that one was here.” The words tumbled from your lips in a hurry, voice thin as you tucked it underneath another photo, hiding it from his view. 

Dex cleared his throat awkwardly, “right. Seems like you did a little bit of everything on your trip.”

You were still avoiding his eyes. The photo wasn’t just a regular bikini picture or something. You weren’t nude but it had definitely been taken for…artistic reasons. 

He instead focused on that aquarium photo again.

You were grinning wide in front of a giant fish tank, carrying the plush in your arms like it was a stray cat or something. He wondered if you put it in your bedroom when you returned from your trip.

Before either of you could break the stretch of silence, there was a sudden resounding quiet in the diner. No strumming of that same guitar you’ve heard for the past hour, no lyrics that were ingrained on the insides of your brains…

Just silence.

You both shared a confused glance, and then, the mesmerizing tune of synths instead flooded in through the speakers. It was the song you requested. Or at least, the one Dex requested after the poor excuse for a jukebox ate your quarter.

Your lips stretched into a grin. “Hear that?”

“I hear it.” Dex was just as amused as you were. Even he thought the jukebox was a lost cause.

When you began flipping through your photos again, he wondered how long he could keep you talking about your trip. Would he be able to stall you here the whole morning? Maybe stretch it out until lunch? 

But his plans were ruined once his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was ‘work’ which he couldn’t just ignore to his dismay. If they did send someone after him for bailing, he could easily deal with them but he didn’t want to risk the little structure he finally rekindled in his life.

Especially now that he had decided to add you into his routine.

“I have to get going,” he said with an air of reluctance as he stood from the booth. It’d have been easier to leave if you didn’t pull your lips into that adorable pout when he did.

“That’s a shame,” you sighed, slightly disappointed. “But I’ll see you around, right?”

His lips slanted into an easygoing smile. “You definitely will.”

When you returned to your apartment that night, you were on the phone with your best friend. You were discussing your trip together, a glass of wine in one hand and the collection of printed photos in the other. 

“Did you print out that one of us when we went to dinner altogether?” Your best friend's voice crinkled jubilantly on the other line.

“I printed all of them out. They had a deal to print 20 for dirt cheap.” You shuffled through the collection of photos and frowned. “Hold on.”

“What is it?” She asked.

You looked down at the rows of five you spread out on your dining table. One of the rows only had four photos.

“There’s one missing.” 

You knew you shouldn’t have been so careless at the diner. Spreading photos of yourself out all over the table and then leaving them unsupervised to change the music in the jukebox.

Or it could have slid off the table, slipped between the booth seats–it could be anywhere, for anyone to find. It made you feel exposed.

“Which one is missing?” She asked on the line.

Hopefully the missing photo isn’t…oh no. Your beach photo.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the city in the evening glow of street lights and aroma of cigarette smoke, Dex was climbing the fire escape to his apartment balcony after a tough job.

He removed his mask, stepped inside, and then pulled a folded photograph from the pocket of his pants.

He took a pin and stuck the photo onto the wall beside his front door, smiling at it. It had ended up in his pocket as he was leaving the diner. It was his favorite in the bunch you showed him, even if he couldn’t quite pin down why. 

There was just something about the way you were smiling in front of the fish tank, illuminated by the glowing blue behind you as you held tightly onto that chubby shark plush that made him want to have it for himself.

You breathed a sigh of relief when you spotted your racy beach photo among the collection on your table. At least it wasn’t that one that went missing. Although, you did look exceptionally amazing in it if you do say so yourself.

Warmth rushed to your face remembering how you accidentally let Dex get a peak at it. You probably wouldn't mind it if that photo somehow ended up with him...

“No idea.” You said into the phone, sitting on your bed beside your new shark plush you bought during your trip. “I’ll cross reference it with my camera roll later.”

Dex was sure you wouldn’t miss it too much.

the only thing that could satisfy his need for you when he was laying by himself in bed, surrounded by the cold and dark of his apartment, his hand pathetically shoved down his underwear, tugging at himself mercilessly, tormented and enchanted by the way you were smiling at strangers all fucking day as he stalked behind you

back then they were horridly blurry pictures, taken from outside your window and across the street with a professional camera, zoomed in to a degree that distorted what he can now capture so fucking beautifully and up close with just his phone

the softness of the skin, the texture of your hair, the detailed fabric of your night shorts, the peaceful and unknowing look on your face, your enticingly parted mouth

its just too good of an opportunity to pass, theres an itch that needs scratching, dex shuffles awake at night to stand at the foot of his bed, his breath shaky and nervous, dick painfully hard as he snaps picture after picture of your sleeping form

sometimes he’ll even reach out to carefully grab at your ankles to reposition you the way he likes, to expose more of you to him, he smiles something vile and disgusting when he’s satisfied with his work and taps on that little white button on his screen

its no wonder that dex’s collection has been growing at an alarming rate ever since you’ve started staying the night at his

.

dex’s phone vibrates mere moments before he was about to spill ropes and ropes of his spent all over his hand, your name uttered in shameless desperation from his mouth

he was doing it again, jerking himself off to the most recent picture he took of you sleeping, his new favorite one if the way he was close to coming in only a few minutes of him tugging at himself was any indication

dex answers the call with a frustrated groan when he hears you greet him at the other end of the line, far too cheery in your tone, he can also hear the muffled booming music from the bar you’re at and that makes him seethe with jealousy

“i thought you said i wasn’t allowed to call" dex argues with an angry cock of his brow and a twitch of his jaw that you cant even see

it was his punishment, because the last time you went out with friends dex kept calling you several times during the night, asking where you were at all times, who you were with, what time you were planning to head back, if you wanted him to come pick you up...

“you’re not” you answer simply, firmly “doesn’t mean i cant call you dex”

dex huffs out, something resentful but also incredibly turned on, your commanding voice, the control you wield over him, the thought of you wanting to speak to him even when you're out with friends, its enough to make him resume his tantalizing strokes around his dick

but then-

“what are you doing?” you ask him so suddenly that his hand immediately pauses mid stroke, panic floods his entire being, he know you’re far away but for a moment he felt as if you were watching him through his window

y'know- the same way he's done with you countless times before you started dating, and still to this day

“looking at you” dex answer’s impulsively, at a loss for anything else to say when he's drunk on the impending release of tension from below his abdomen, its not a lie but not completely the truth either

he immediately regrets it though, he scrunches his eyes shut in embarrassment of his little slip up

“looking at me?” you answer, kind of angry at him, but still far less put off and weirded out than what he expected “dex are you following me again?”

dex’s breathing falters at your disapproving tone, his brows worry but his hand keeps stroking, faster, so much harder

“no i- i meant- i'm looking at a picture of you” he answers, his voice tight with restraint as he stares at pixels of you on his laptop screen

he really is just digging a deeper hole for him to die in

“oh? what picture?” you ask immediately, he can practically hear the way you're smiling too, so obviously aware of the fact that he's touching himself

“you know um-" dex blinks a few times, rattled at your insisting inquiry, he brings up his hand momentarily to nervously run it all over his face "the one i took of you the other day at the park when we-“

“oh really?” you interrupt, your knowing laugh makes dex immediately break out into a cold sweat

“so not the one you took of me while i was sleeping? you’re not jerking off to that one?" you ask, your voice syrupy sweet even when you're accusing him of something so nasty

dex has to take a moment to breathe, his eyes go big as he stares into the emptiness of his room in shock, he sits upright while his leaking, painfully hardened dick is now neglected

"wait, baby- i can explain-" dex stutters, his voice wavering in utter humiliation and panic

Like a book you liked left three days earlier, your favorite snacks in the kitchen, and a smooth rock placed on your coffee table that you still hadn’t figured out the meaning of.

So the pretty red flower sitting on the counter when you and Karen entered the shop for a day of restock and date checking didn’t surprise you as much as it should have.

“What’s that?” Karen asks, already reaching for it before you can say anything.

She turns it between her fingers, brows knitting slightly before a teasing grin grows on her face. “Have you got a secret admirer you haven’t told me about?”

You only shrug in response.

Because you know exactly where it came from and who left it.

“…hun?” Karen asks, now frowning in worry. “You okay?”

“It’s nothing.” You say stepping forward and plucking the flower from Karen’s hand a little too quickly. “Just a flower.”

“A pretty flower,” Karen says teasingly, watching you twirl the flower. “Do you know what type it is? What it mean?”

“It’s a red salvia.” You force a small smile. “It means forever mine.”

But your grip tightens around the stem as you tell her the meaning. 

Karen’s teasing expression softens slightly as she watches you turn the flower between your fingers. “Well,” she says slowly, “that’s either very romantic or mildly concerning.”

You snort quietly. “Probably the second one.”

“Hm.” Karen narrows her eyes at you for a moment like she’s trying to piece something together. “At least your mysterious admirer has good taste.”

You roll your eyes, moving past her towards the shelves lined with herbal teas. “You say that now, but wait until he starts leaving dead animals on my door like an unwanted cat.”

Karen gasps in mock horror. “Are those the standards these days?”

You hum noncommittally, carefully placing the flower back on the counter before throwing an apron towards Karen and putting on yours.

The rest of the morning passes quietly.

You and Karen work your way through the apothecary together, checking dates, organising shelves, and restocking the herbal remedies that always sold quickly once flu season hit. 

Normally, this monthly routine soothed you.

But today every time the shop bell rings, you find yourself tensing, and every tall silhouette outside the frosted window makes your stomach tighten for a second.

It annoys you that he’s affecting you like this.

By the time the shop closes for the night, your feet and head ache.

“You’re distracted today,” Karen says casually while pulling on her coat.

“I’m tired.”

“You reorganised the same shelf three times.”

You pause halfway through locking the door. “… Did I?”

The look Karen gives is filled with worry.

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The warmth of the diner feels welcoming compared to the cold outside.

Sitting across from Matt and Karen, you’re happily stealing fries off your brother’s plate while Karen animatedly tells a story involving a customer she had this morning, and for a little while you manage to relax like everything's normal.

Until the second Karen casually says, “Oh, and someone left a flower for her this morning.”

You nearly choke on a stolen fry.

“What kind of flower, you ask?” Karen continues, clearly enjoying herself.

“Red salvia,” she answers before you can stop her. “It’s romantic.”

Matt’s fork stops halfway on his plate.

“It’s a flower.” You say it with a smirk, ignoring your brother’s stare.

“It’s not just a flower,” Karen corrects, standing with her empty glass. “It's from your secret admirer.”

That makes Matt go quiet, and you can feel his full attention on you.

“You’ve been distracted lately.” Matt comments after a moment.

“It’s nothing,” you reply too quickly. “Just work.”

“You have been working more hours at the clinic recently,” Karen adds concerned. “Are you sure it’s nothing?”

“You’re both making this a bigger deal than it is." You force a laugh, pushing your empty glass towards Karen. “Go get us those drinks, would you.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Matt asks quietly a few minutes after Karen arrives at the bar. “You can tell me anything, remember?”

You glance toward him. Even with the glasses hiding his eyes, you can see the worry written across his face, and for a second you want to tell him everything.

About Dex, about the bond, the break-in, and the gifts. About the way your stomach pleasantly twists every time you think about him.

Instead, you force a smile. “I’m fine, Matty. Really.”

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Dinner with Matt and Karen had left you feeling lighter than you had felt in days as you walked inside your apartment building.

That last Manhattan cocktail had been exactly what you needed, keeping you warm beneath your coat as you rode the elevator upstairs, your cheeks still flushed from shared laughter.

The apartment is warm and cozy when you step inside, making sure to lock all the locks before sliding your shoes off and shrugging your coat onto a nearby chair.

Walking into the kitchen, you pour yourself a large glass of water while already dreading the dehydration you'll have tomorrow morning after tonight’s drinks.

Sipping from the glass, you make your way to the living room for an hour of mindless television before bed when something on the coffee table catches your attention.

A familiar cardboard box sits neatly in the middle of the table.

“Seriously?” you mutter quietly. “What is it this time?”

Because somehow, despite locking every window before leaving that morning, Dex had apparently been inside your apartment… again.

Sighing softly, you place your glass down before grabbing the box and lowering yourself onto the sofa.

Cardboard damp beneath your fingertips as you carefully lift the lid to see what he’s left you this time.

Your brows pull together slightly as you reach inside and pull out the knife resting in it.

It’s smaller than the ones you have in your kitchen, the handle worn in a way that shows it's often been used, and beneath the warm glow of your lamp, you can see the dried blood staining parts of the blade.

“Jesus Christ, Dex.” The words leave you quietly, more exhausted than alarmed. “This is the worst one yet.”

You turn the knife slightly in your hand, seeing where he had attempted to wipe the blood away.

The sight should concern you more than it does, but after everything that has happened over the past few weeks, you often find yourself feeling irritated, in disbelief, and occasionally flattered.

But this? Who leaves someone a bloody knife as a gift?

Setting it carefully back into the box, your mind drifts to the other gifts left in your apartment by Dex when you weren’t home.

A pretty purple hyacinth had been the first thing he left, followed by your favorite snacks, a book you’d wanted to read, and lastly the smooth rock sitting on the table.

Which you’re still confused by.

For a long moment you stare at the knife inside the box before laughing under your breath.

“Next he’ll bring me dead animals like a stray cat,” you mumble to yourself, putting the box back on the coffee table and grabbing your glass of water.

You know you should throw it all away, the knife especially.

But instead, you pick the box back up and carry it towards the hallway cupboard where the others already sit neatly on the top shelf.

The sight of them all lined up together makes something uncomfortable twist in your gut. Because somewhere over the past two weeks, this had become normal.

The gifts. The break-ins. Dex finding his way into your apartment whenever he pleased.

You hate how little it all unsettles you.

Carefully sliding the newest box beside the others, your thoughts lands on the first one he left. A purple hyacinth that has since been pressed and turned into a bookmark.

A bookmark that now rests inside the book that has made itself a home on your coffee table, half-finished after too many late nights spent reading instead of sleeping.

And the flower from this morning now sat in a glass of water beside the till because part of you couldn’t bring yourself to throw that away either.

Instead you close the cupboard door and head towards your bedroom.

The apartment is quiet as you complete your nightly routine, trying not to think about the fact that Dex had once again been inside your home while you were gone.

Outside, the chilly wind had turned into rain that tapped softly against the windows as you finally slide beneath your blankets.

Exhaustion pulls heavily at your body, helped by the drinks and the lingering comfort from dinner with Matt and Karen.

You reach over to switch off your bedside lamp, your thoughts drifting toward the smooth rock in the living room.

“What does a rock even mean?” you mumble tiredly to yourself.

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The next day unusually sunny for New York.

The city moves at a gentler pace than usual, a soft breeze blowing through the park while birds sing through the noise of traffic.

Arms linked with Matt, you two walk at an easy pace that makes it harder to hide how distracted you are.

“You’re quiet today,” he says after a while.

“It’s a nice day for quiet,” you reply, adjusting your grip on the ice cream in your hand.

“I’m serious,” Matt continues, slowing until you both come to a stop. “You’ve been… distant lately.”

“Work, the clinic, life in general.” You let out a small breath that could almost be a laugh if it weren’t so forced. “Take your pick.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t answer immediately.

Because you know exactly what he means but you don't know how to explain it.

Not the gifts. Not the feeling of being watched. Not the way your apartment no longer feels like just yours.

“It’s nothing,” you say, a little too quickly, gently tugging him to walk again. “You’re imagining things.”

Matt doesn’t respond again.

He just walks beside you, quiet in a way that he usually is when trying to understand you.

For the rest of the walk, you fill the silence. Talking about the apothecary, about how the clinic has been busier lately, about anything that comes to mind.

Anything that doesn’t remind you of him.

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By the time you got home that night, rain had started falling again.

Droplets clung to your jacket as you unlocked your apartment and step inside. Shrugging your jacket off you throw it over the sofa before freezing.

Sitting in the middle of your coffee table was the medium-sized rock. Brows furrowing as you picked it up and admired the unique colours of it again.

Pretty, you think to yourself, running your thumb over the smooth texture before a deep voice speaks from your bathroom.

“It’s the same colour as your eyes.”

You gasp as you turned sharply, your arm now raised in a position to immediately throw the rock in your hand if needed.

There, in the doorway of your bathroom, stood Dex. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he wiped blood from his hands with a damp cloth.

Your eyes immediately scanned him. The healer in you searching for any injuries that might need attention but not finding any.

Good. You were far too hungry to be dealing with that again.

Lowering your arm, your gaze dropped back to the rock in your hand.

“The same colour as my eyes?” you repeated.

Dex threw the cloth into the hamper as he left the bathroom, flicking the switch as he walked out and into the living room. His hair was still damp from the rain as his eyes stayed fixed completely on you.

“Yes.” He said, stopping a foot away from you as his eyes roamed your body.

Your fingers curl gently around the stone. Nobody had ever noticed something like that before. Sure, Matt knew how to read you like a book, but you doubted he remembered the colour of your eyes.

But Dex did.

Your mouth slightly curves before you could stop it.

Dex stilled the second he saw it grace your face, his eyes focusing on your smile like he’d never seen anything more beautiful before. A small smile of his own appeared.

You felt your cheeks flush as you looked away, clearing your throat. “You better have not bled all over my bathroom floor,” you muttered.

Dex’s expression shifted slightly. More teasing this time.

“It’s not much blood.”

“Say that to my sofa.”

“That was also not much blood.”

You snorted softly despite yourself.

Oh God. This was becoming dangerously normal.

Setting the rock carefully back on the coffee table, you walked towards him before noticing the streak of dried blood he’d missed near his jaw.

Without thinking, you pulled the sleeve of your shirt over your hand and gently wiped the remaining blood from his face.

"There," you murmured quietly.

Dex didn’t move, didn’t blink. His eyes focused on you with the same intensity as two weeks ago. The same look that made your chest feel too tight.

Neither of you stepped away.

Your warm fingers still lightly brushing against his jaw as his name on your collarbone tingled pleasantly.

“How did you even get in here again?” you asked softly, taking a few steps away from him.

“The bedroom window.” Dex answered, his footsteps following yours as if the distance was something he couldn’t bear.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you sighed.

“You know I have a door, right?” you ask, turning around to make your way to the kitchen.

“The windows work,” he says, shrugging.

“You keep leaving them open,” you reply, rummaging through your cupboards for a quick meal.

“I close it.” He states, following you.

“Not properly,” you say, now rummaging through the fridge. “My heating bill is going to kill me.”

“Windows are quieter.” He tells you while sitting at the island.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Dex’s expression softened at the sound, looking at you like he was memorising it.

Your chest tightened again as you stopped laughing. This is bad, you thought to yourself.

Because two weeks ago Dex had been an escaped prisoner bleeding on your sofa, and now he’s sitting barefoot in your apartment after just using your bathroom to wipe blood from god knows where off his hands and after weeks of him bringing you gifts like a stray cat.

But what was worse was the realisation that you wanted him here.

Dex’s eyes slowly scanned your face as you moved towards the island, a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries in hand.

“You’re exhausted,” he noted quietly, reaching for a strawberry.

“I’m fine.” You dismiss him while grabbing two bowls.

“Your hands are shaking again.”

Your fingers curl slightly. “I worked all day.”

“And then went to dinner instead of resting.” He stated.

You frowned. “Were you following me?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

You narrowed your eyes at him, still holding the bowls.

Dex blinked once. “… Mostly no.”

"Dex." You stared at him in disbelief.

“You looked happy.” He commented.

The irritation that was rising quickly turned into something warm that made your stomach clench because the way he said it sounded almost relieved.

Like your happiness was important to him.

For a moment neither of you spoke as you slid a bowl towards him and his growing pile of strawberries.

“You ate the food.” He said, looking towards the empty takeout wrappers.

“I was hungry.” You shrugged, shoving a strawberry into your mouth.

“You forget to eat when you’re tired.” He said, adding more strawberries to his bowl.

“Ugh, you sound like Matt.” You groaned, dropping your head onto the counter.

Dex’s jaw tightened at your brother’s name. “He notices too?”

“Matt notices everything.” You say grabbing a handful of strawberries after noticing how full his bowl was getting.

“I notice more.”

The words landed like a slap. Too honest, too intense, too real, and you think you should’ve shut this down sooner.

Should’ve reminded him that none of this changed what he’d done, should’ve said that none of the gifts were working, and should’ve reinforced the boundaries you created in your head.

“Are you hurt?” You ask instead.

Dex looked down at his bruised hands. “Not badly.”

“You could stop doing stupid shit.” You tell him.

“You’d stitch me up anyway.” He replied.

You hate how right he was.

Dex leaned in closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “You smiled,” he said quietly.

Heat immediately flushed your face.

“It’s just a rock.” You say. 

“It made you smile.” He smirked.

God, you wanted to punch him.

Looking away quickly, you hated how those simple words affected you, how your heartbeat sped up when he smiled, and how a rock, of all things, gave you butterflies.

“You should probably go,” you uttered softly.

Dex stayed quiet for a moment before he nodded once, getting up and putting his empty bowl in the sink.

He moved towards the living room window before pausing. “The flower looked nice by the till.”

Your eyes widened. “You were watching the shop?”

Dex glanced back at you. “I was watching you.” 

Then he disappeared out the window and into the rain.

Your gaze drifted towards the rock sitting on the table, and butterflies filled your stomach again before your eyes lowered to your bowl only to frown.

“Asshole ate my strawberries as well.”

You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.

But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.

Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.

To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.

You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.

“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.

With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.

“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”

But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.

Not your brothers.

Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.

Not Matt.

You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.

The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.

But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.

Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.

Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.

The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.

Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.

Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.

Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.

Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.

Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”

Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.

Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”

Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”

Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.

For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.

“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.

Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”

“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”

“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.

“Let me see it,” you say.

Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.

“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”

His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.

You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”

“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”

You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.

But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.

“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.

“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.

“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.

“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.

“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.

You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”

“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.

You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.

You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.

Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.

“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.

Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”

“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.

And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.

Hurt.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”

You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.

For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.

You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”

The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”

“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.

Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.

“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.

Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.

Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.

“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.

Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.

“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.

“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.

“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.

Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.

Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”

“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.

You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.

His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.

And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.

“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”

Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.

“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.

The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.

Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”

Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”

Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.

Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.

“You’re drained.” He states.

You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.

“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.

“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.

Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”

You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.

Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.

No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”

You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?

But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.

“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.

Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.

“I’m going to see you again.” He states.

Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.

Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.

A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!