the moon is beautiful isn't it?

Dex went still. The principal kept talking beside him. Something about lockdown protocols, fire exits, parent pick-up procedures, and perhaps thanking him for the visit. Dex didn’t hear any of it. He watched the little boy rub his face with his sleeve, watched you reach into your cardigan pocket and produce a tissue because of course you had one ready, because of course you had walked through life expecting the world to hurt these precious little things and had prepared yourself to help.

“Reading slowly just means you get to spend more time with the words,” you told the boy. “That’s not a bad thing.”

The boy sniffled, and you smiled at him.

Dex felt that smile land in his cold heart, somewhere it had no business being.

It would have been easier if you were only beautiful. That would have been manageable. Uncomfortable, maybe, but manageable. Beauty was a fact. Beauty could be observed, catalogued, eventually put away. You were beautiful in a way that seemed unaware of itself, unpolished and terribly human. The cardigan sleeves falling too far over your hands, the loose strand of hair stuck to your cheek, the worn soles of your cheap flats, you smiling so easily for children who probably forgot to thank you for it.

Dex thought you were gorgeous with an alarmed resentment, as if his own body had betrayed him by noticing before his mind had given permission. Then you looked up at him.

Your eyes met his across the library, and for half a second, Dex forgot what face he was supposed to be wearing. You smiled politely, like he was just another adult in the building, not a man with a gun under his jacket teaching staff how to react in case of a school shooting.

“Hi,” you said. “Sorry, do you need the library?”

The principal brightened. “This is our librarian.”

You gave Dex your name. He repeated it silently once. Then again. Then a third time, because it felt like something he should store somewhere safe, somewhere no one else could touch.

“Special Agent Poindexter,” he said, holding out his hand.

You shook it, and your hand was warm. Dex noticed that there was a tiny paper cut near your thumb. 

You were still smiling at him. Not because he was FBI, and not because he was handsome, though he was. You smiled because you were kind.

Fuck. That’s inconvenient.

Pretty made him look, but good made him stay.

That first visit should have been the last. Dex knew that. There was no operational reason for him to return personally. The school’s safety review was a basic one. The principal had his notes, but the follow-up could have been handled by email. A junior agent could have dropped off the printed materials. Anyone could have gone.

But Dex went. That second time, he poked his head to the library, and said hi. You said hi back, right after you told two boys that no, the beanbags were not for wrestling, and yes, you were very impressed by the creativity of the attempt.

Dex couldn’t stop thinking about it for a week.

The third time, he told himself it was because the library’s rear exit needed another assessment. It was technically true. The lock was old, the corridor outside had basically no surveillance, and the staff entrance was too far from the main office. He made it seem like a legitimate concern, when really, it was a neat little justification. Dex was excellent at finding those.

You were reshelving books when he appeared in the doorway, balanced on the tips of your toes as you reached for the top shelf. The hem of your blouse lifted slightly at your waist. It was nothing indecent. Barely anything at all.

Still, his mind went briefly blank. 

He cleared his throat.

You startled, turned, and smiled. “Agent Poindexter.”

Dex liked the sound of it from you. That was inconvenient too.

“Sorry,” you added, stepping down. “Am I in the way?”

“No.”

“Good. Because if you were about to tell me my fiction section is a security risk, I might cry.”

His mouth twitched before he decided to let it. “I’ll leave fiction alone.”

“Very generous of the DOJ.” That’s when he realised you were teasing him. 

Dex looked at you and thought, you have no idea what a dangerous thing that was.

After that, the visits became a pattern.

Not obvious, because Dex was never sloppy when he could help it. He didn’t go every day. He didn’t stand outside the library staring like some lovesick idiot with no self-control. He knew how to make repeated contact look procedural. 

His supervisor barely looked up from the file the fourth time it happened. “Poindexter, you handled the school outreach last week, right?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve got some updated compliance questions. I can send Nadeem.”

Dex immediately shook his head. “I’ll take it.”

His supervisor paused, but Dex kept his face still. “I’m already familiar with the layout,” he said, and what a good excuse that was. 

The whole truth was that he had thought about you every day since the first visit. You came to him through triggers. When he saw children’s drawings in a hallway. A cardigan on a mannequin The smell of old paper. A mug with painted stars on it in a café window, because you had one on your desk.

You were good, and you were pretty, and that combination felt less like attraction and more like orientation. As if Dex had spent his whole life moving without a fixed point and then walked into a school library and found one.

So, yes, he came back to the school. And, yes, eventually, he followed you home.

The first time, he told himself it was because you were the last staff member to leave again and the car park lighting was poor, so he had to make sure you were safe. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and black. You walked out with a tote bag over one shoulder and an armful of books pressed to your chest, juggling your keys between your fingers. 

Dex sat in his car and watched until you pulled out of the lot. Then he followed. He learned the route to your apartment in fourteen minutes. He cleared that you lived in a building with a front door that did not latch unless pulled hard, that the hallway light on your floor flickered, that your window faced the street and your curtains were thin enough to turn your silhouette suggestive when you moved past them with nothing on.

He hated your building immediately. The lock was bad. The street was worse. Your neighbours were careless. The man in 2B smoked on the front steps and watched women walk past like a fucking creep. The laundry room was in the basement. The side gate did not close properly.

Dex catalogued every vulnerability, then sat in his car for twenty-three minutes after your lights went out and told himself this was a reasonable concern.

He was trained to notice risk, and you just had so much of it. You were too open, too trusting, too underpaid to live somewhere safe enough. 

He found out about the money without needing to try very hard.

He figured out your exact job title, your district, and salary ranges within twenty minutes. He knew what you could afford, what you probably couldn’t, what your grocery budget looked like if your car needed work or if the school asked you to buy supplies out of pocket again. And you did, apparently. He saw the receipts in your hand one afternoon when you came out of a discount store with construction paper, glue sticks, tissues, and children’s stickers paid for with your own money.

That bothered him more than it should have. It enraged him. Not because you were helpless. Dex didn’t think that. You were competent in the way good people often were, holding ten pieces of a room together while everyone else assumed the room simply stayed whole on its own. But you were tired and stretched thin. You loved your job, the children, the library with its peeling posters and overhandled paperbacks, but love didn’t pay rent.

I could, he thought. Dex could pay your rent without noticing. He could buy groceries without checking his account. He could fix the lock. Replace the car. Put you somewhere safe and close. That’s… a good reason to ask you out, right?

If he ever had the courage. 

By the fifth visit, you laughed when you saw him. “Again?”

Dex stopped in the library doorway, because he insisted to the bureau that some of the teachers were security risks. “Again.”

“Should I be worried about the state of our emergency preparedness?”

“No.”

“Should I be worried about you?” That caught him off-guard.  Your tone was teasing, but your eyes were warm and curious.

Should I be worried about you?

Yes, he thought. Probably.

Instead, he said, “No.”

You narrowed your eyes in mock suspicion. “I don’t know. Five visits to the school. Either we are extremely unsafe, or you really like laminated evacuation maps.”

Dex looked at the map beside your door. “It’s a good map.”

You burst out laughing.

Dex loved the sound immediately and started to memorise it so he could copy it when you made a joke. More than that, he wanted to be responsible for it. He wanted to know what your laugh sounded like in his car. In his kitchen. Against his mouth.

The thought came so suddenly that his teeth clenched.

You noticed. Your smile softened, and Dex had the devastating impression that you thought you had embarrassed him. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay.” You tilted your head. “Good.”

Good. The word followed him home.

So did you, though not physically. Not yet. But your image, your voice, the way you said his name after he told you to call him Dex, the way you remembered he took tea plain after seeing him drink it once in the staff room. The way you handed him a paper cup and said, “I made too much,” as if generosity was just something that spilled out of you naturally.

And then there were the guys around you.

He had watched a math teacher who lingered at your desk too long after school, making you laugh over some stupid story about a parent email. A divorced father at pick-up who asked whether you ever took private tutoring work and then smiled in a way Dex didn’t like. A man you met for coffee one Friday evening, two neighbourhoods over, at a café with steamed windows and terrible parking.

Dex hadn’t meant to follow you there. That was a lie.

He had followed you there because you had worn lipstick, the kind you probably put on in your rearview mirror after work, thinking no one would notice.

The date was unremarkable. The man was unremarkable. He wore a blue shirt, laughed too loudly, and checked his phone while you were talking. Dex watched from across the street with his hands still on the steering wheel and felt jealousy move through him.

The man was wrong for you.

He was careless, dull, and too impressed with himself. He made you pay for your own tea. That alone felt like a crime.

You left to do some off-the-clock work, and your date stayed. Dex waited until the man left to use the bathroom, then walked into the café and passed close enough to his table to see the phone he had left face-up beside his plate. He saw a message from someone named Laura lit the screen with a heart attached.

Dex smiled. That was useful.

The next morning, he sent an anonymous message to Laura. The following week, you didn’t see blue-shirt again.

You looked a little sad about it on Monday. Dex hated that. Then he hated the man more for making you sad. Then he told himself it was better this way.

It became easier to scare off your dates after that. All it took was an inconvenient scheduling conflict, a resurfaced truth, a gentle nudge. One man had an outstanding warrant for unpaid fines. One was married. One was simply easy to scare with the right look from the right federal agent in a parking lot.

By the sixth visit to the school, there was no reason good enough to fool anyone but himself.

A “Penultimate walkthrough,” he called it, before the final walkthrough next week. 

The principal seemed pleased, though you looked amused. “Penultimate?” you asked when Dex appeared outside the library.

“Yes.”

“Should I be honoured?”

“You should feel secure.”

“I do. The biography section has never been safer.”

He looked at you, and you smiled like you were proud of yourself. Dex couldn’t help but copy that smile back. Your expression changed when you saw it, going still for one second, like you liked him, too.

That day, he walked through the library with you while you pointed out doors and windows and places the children liked to hide during reading hour. This corner was where the overwhelmed ones went. That shelf had the books no one returned on time because they loved them too much. The lamp near the beanbag was too warm if left on all day, but you kept it anyway because the kids said it made the corner feel cozy.

“This is where they go when they need silence,” you said, gesturing toward a little space tucked behind a low shelf. A lamp. A basket of soft toys. Books with soft edges. A handmade sign that read: take a breath.

Dex looked at it.

You had made a place for children to be afraid safely. Of course you had.

“You did this?” he asked.

You shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s not much.”

Dex looked at you. “It is.”

You met his eyes, and for a moment, the library noise faded behind you.

After that, he wanted to give you things. He wanted to give you better shoes. Better locks. A safer car. A warmer apartment. Groceries you did not buy with mental arithmetic running behind your eyes. A kitchen where your tea sat beside his coffee because it belonged there. A bed you didn’t have to assemble yourself. A life where you did not walk to your car alone. He wanted your life folded into his so completely that you never again had to stand unprotected in the world.

It was raining the day he finally asked.

The sky had turned the school windows grey, and the car park outside shone black under the streetlights. Most of the staff had already left. The corridors had emptied, and you were the last one in the library again.

Dex had lingered through a conversation with the principal he barely needed to have after the final walkthrough. He had checked the same exit twice. He had waited near the lobby until your light was the only one still glowing down the hall.

Then you came out with a tote bag sliding down your shoulder and a cardboard box of donated books pressed against your hip. Your umbrella refused to open, and you stared at it like it had stabbed you.

“Need help?”

You startled, then relaxed when you saw him. “Dex.” You laughed, breathless and embarrassed. “Do you just appear whenever I’m losing a fight?”

“Your umbrella is inside out,” he pointed out, before taking the box from you.

You tried to hold on. “I can carry that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you take it?”

“Because it’s raining.”

You looked at him for a second, then smiled, soft and helpless and too fond for his sanity.

“Okay,” you said, as if letting him carry a box was nothing. As if it didn’t make a dark and pleased thought settle low in his chest.

He walked you to your car and put the books in the back seat. He noted the old jumper on the passenger side, the stack of overdue returns, the half-empty water bottle, the evidence of your life that was still not his.

You stood beside him under the broken umbrella, rain misting your hair.

You were gorgeous, he thought.

It struck him then in the stupidest way. No analysis or clinical separation. Just so pretty it made him feel young and strange and almost angry with himself.

“What?” you asked, smiling like you could tell he was staring.

Dex could’ve said nothing. He could have smiled, stepped back, wished you a good night, returned to his car, and come up with another reason to see you next week.

Instead, he looked at you and thought of your whole life together. Then he said it. “Have dinner with me.”

Your smile faded into surprise. The rain tapped against the broken umbrella between you. You blinked once. It wasn’t really a question, was it?  “With you?”

“Yes.”

“As in…”

“A date.”

Your cheeks warmed. Dex watched the colour rise and tilted his head.

“Oh,” you said softly. Then, after a second, you smiled. “Okay.”

Just like that, he got what he wanted. 

—

The first date was dinner at your favourite restaurant, though you couldn’t recall ever telling Dex that.

You paused outside the little place with the handwritten menu in the window, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “Oh,” you said, surprised. “I love this place.”

Dex looked down at you, calm as anything. “Do you?”

You laughed. “I come here all the time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

The lie was smooth, but Dex said it with such calm that you accepted it because you wanted to. So you smiled up at him and said, “Then we have similar taste.”

His eyes held on your face. “Maybe we do.”

“Maybe we belong together then,” you joked.

Dex’s brain went to a catastrophic halt.

You didn’t see it from the outside, not really. His face barely changed. Maybe his eyes went a little too still. Maybe his fingers pressed once, carefully, against your hand where it rested on his sleeve.

But inside him, his heart lit up white-hot. Belong together.

You had said it so lightly. Dex heard it like a verdict. Like the universe had leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder and said, yes, that one.

He opened the restaurant door for you and followed you inside with your words still burning through him.

You had no idea he had chosen this restaurant because he had followed you there three weeks before, parked across the street while you sat by the window with two friends and laughed over a bowl of pasta. You had no idea he had watched you order the same thing twice. You had no idea he knew which seat you liked, which dessert you split with your friend and pretended not to want more of, which route you took home afterward, how tightly you held your coat closed when the wind picked up.

But yeah, dinner was great. 

The second date was coffee because you were trying to take things slower.

He was already there when you arrived, sitting by the window with your drink waiting in front of the empty chair. Your exact order, right size, right syrup.  He claimed similar taste innocently again. 

You should have been alarmed. Instead, you chuckled and sat down.

Coffee turned into a walk. The walk turned into him standing beside your car, close enough that your shoulder brushed his sleeve. He looked at your mouth once, then back at your eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t even answer. You just stood on your tip toes and kissed him, carefully at first. But his hand came to cup your face, so you made a hum into his mouth and felt him unravel. 

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. You smiled, dazed. 

The third date was dinner at his apartment.

He cooked for you, because apparently Dex did everything like it was a mission and feeding you was no exception. His apartment was neat  and perfectly arranged, but then you were there with your jacket on the back of his chair and your laugh in his kitchen, and he kept looking at those little disruptions were worth you being here.

The food was good, so you smiled and pushed a little harder. “You’re very good at taking care of me.”

Dex went still, and you could’ve sworn his ears went pink. 

After dinner, you kissed him on the couch. That was all it was supposed to be: A kiss.

Yes, maybe Dex made it feel a little too deep. Maybe it was too hungry. Maybe it was a little reckless, considering this was only the third date and you weren't the kind of woman who did things like this. You didn’t tumble into a man’s bed after three dates and let your body make decisions your brain would have to defend in the morning.

Your brain was trying, to be fair. The little voices there had formed a whole committee meeting about it.

This is too fast. This is insane. You have work tomorrow. You barely know him.

Unfortunately, Dex was kissing you, open-mouthed and desperate, his hands tight on your waist, breathing against you like every second of restraint physically hurt him, and your body didn’t seem particularly interested in attending the discussion.

You climbed into his lap because there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

Dex let out a breathy moan when you settled over him,  his head tipping back against the couch. His shirt was still on, but you had already pulled half the buttons open, enough to get your hands on skin, enough to feel his chest rise under your palms every time your mouth found his again.

Your skirt was hiked high around your thighs, his fingers trembling at the hem of it.

Dex, who could easily take what he wanted, sat beneath you with his hands on your thighs and waited for you to tell him he was allowed.

You kissed him harder for it.

His mouth opened under yours immediately, wet and so eager that you felt your stomach twist. You threaded your fingers into his hair and tugged once, just to steady yourself, just to feel him closer.

Dex sighed into your mouth.

“Oh,” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes opened, fixed on you. You smiled because you understood then that Benjamin Poindexter liked being told what to do.

He wanted to be good for you. He wanted to earn every sound you made.

You shifted in his lap, and his whole body reacted. His fingers slid higher under your skirt, then stopped again.

“Dex,” you breathed.

His throat worked. “Tell me.”

You leaned down, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “Touch me.”

He obeyed so fast it made you gasp.

Your panties were pulled to the side with clumsy, shaking urgency, his pants shoved down just enough because neither of you had the patience anymore. It was filthy how desperate it was. There was no time for the bedroom, no careful undressing, no pretending this was slower than it was. It was you in his lap, his open shirt under your hands, your skirt bunched around your waist, both of you panting into each other’s mouths like you had been struck by fucking lightning.

He was so intense you expected him to take over. Because he could’ve flipped you under him. He could have pinned you to the couch and made you forget every thought you had ever had. He had the body, he had muscles, he had the skills. 

Instead, he looked at you like he needed permission to breathe. “Like that?” he breathed.

You nodded, nails dragging over his chest nodding frantically. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Dex listened like obedience was devotion, like your pleasure was a commandment, like the only thing in the world that mattered was keeping you exactly like this: skirt up, mouth open, shaking in his lap while he looked up at you like you were holy.

You knew this was too quick. You never had one night stands. Even three dates was way too quick, by your standards. 

But his hands were on your waist, his shirt was open, his breathing was breaking, and when you whispered, “Fuck, baby,” he shuddered so hard beneath you that all your remaining common sense died on the couch.

Afterward, you stayed folded against him, both of you warm and breathless, your face tucked into his neck.

Dex’s hand moved slowly up your back, careful now. 

You lifted your head enough to look at him. His hair was wrecked. His mouth was red. His eyes were softer than you had ever seen them, though there was still a frightening stillness underneath, satisfied and hungry and already too attached.

You touched his cheek. “I should probably go home.”

Dex went still.

He looked at you from beneath those dark lashes, still flushed, still breathing hard, still beautiful enough to make bad decisions feel like fate. “Stay the night,” he said, trying not to say please.

You swallowed. “I have work tomorrow.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“My things are at home.”

“You can wear something of mine.”

“I need my toothbrush.”

“I have a spare.”

A laugh slipped out of you, helpless and fond. Of course he did. 

Dex’s mouth barely moved, and it was always a smile.

He looked at you like he needed you to say yes and hated that you could tell. Like letting you leave after this would physically hurt. Like you had crawled into his lap and accidentally turned yourself into the centre of his orbit.

You should go home. Your sensible little inner committee was banging on the table now.

But Dex looked at you like he was unaware he had puppy dog eyes, and you couldn’t say no to that, right? 

So you kissed him once. “M’kay, baby,” you said.

Dex held you tighter then, giving an upbeat little whine as he peppered kisses on your collarbone.

Little did you know, there was no going back now. 

—

The next day, Dex picked you up from work, even though you hadn’t asked him to.

He had driven you that morning as promised, his hands on your waist while he kissed you goodbye like he was trying not to follow you into the school library.

You had spent the whole day after that with his shirt on, but it was terribly oversized on you. Still, you managed to make it look intentional under your blazer, tucked and adjusted just enough that no one could tell. You had pinned your hair neatly, put your librarian face on, and acted very normal. Very professional of you, honestly.

Then the final bell rang, the library emptied, and by the time you stepped out of the front entrance with your bag over your shoulder, Dex was already there, waiting by his car with a suit jacket on and badge hidden. 

You stopped mid-step. “Oh,” you said, lighting up.  Beside you, Jonathan stopped too.

Jonathan, the music teacher. Nice Jonathan. Harmless Jonathan. Jonathan who lived two streets away from you and always carried a canvas tote bag with an embarrassing number of reusable water bottles inside it. He had been walking with you because you didn’t have your car with you and he offered to drive you home because you were both headed in the same direction. 

Dex’s grip tightened around his keys.

You were still wearing his shirt, and this man wanted to take you home? Cute.

“Dex?” you called, surprised.

Dex barely spared Johnathan a glance. He came to you instead, handsome in that frightening l way, his attention fixed you that it made the other man feel like background noise.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“Picking you up.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Why?”

Because you were wearing my shirt. Because I spent all day knowing you were out of sight. Because I don’t like it when you’re not with me.

“Your car’s not here,” he said, and that was reasonable enough, right?

“Oh.” You glanced back. “Jonathan was going to offer me a ride. He lives a few blocks away, so—”

“No.” The word came out flat.

You tilted your head, confused. You tried to recover, sweet thing that you were, turning half toward the man beside you. “Dex, this is Jonathan. He’s the music teacher. Jonathan, this is—”

Dex opened the passenger door. “You’re coming with me.”

Jonathan stopped with his polite smile halfway formed.

You looked at Dex for a second, and your sensible little inner voice probably tried to say something about how this was strange. 

Then Dex looked at you, and you melted, because fuck! Some foolish, lovesick part of you found that endearing. He came all this way for me? 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jonathan,” you said gently.

Dex shut the passenger door after you climbed in and stood there for one extra second, hand still on the handle, the word burning through him. What did that mean?

He got into the car.

The drive started silent. You settled beside him, and Dex saw you cozy up one the corner of his eye and had to tighten both hands on the wheel.

“Tomorrow?” he asked finally.

You looked over. “Hm?”

“You said you’d see him tomorrow.”

A little smile pulled at your mouth. You leaned across the console and kissed his cheek, like you thought jealousy was cute when it came from him.

“We work together, Dex.”

Oh. Okay. Okay. That’s fine, right?

Normal boyfriends were fine with that, right?

Still.

Then, asked if you wanted to come over to his place again because he couldn’t help himself. Because having you in the passenger seat made it feel obscene to let you leave again. Because you were already dressed in his things and smelled faintly like his apartment and he couldn’t understand why the day had to end anywhere else.

You looked down at yourself and laughed. “Dex, I am literally wearing your clothes. I need to go to mine.”

He kept his expression calm, but his fingers went still on the wheel.

You noticed enough to furrow your brows. “I’ve got work stuff to do,” you said. “I’ll call soon, okay?”

He nodded. He could do that. He could be normal. He could drive you to your car and let you go back to your apartment with its bad lock and pathetic hallway light and no trace of him except the marks he had left under your clothes. He could.

He pulled up beside your car outside your building and watched you unbuckle your seatbelt. You said your goodbyes and were halfway out when he blurted out, “I love you.”

You stopped.

Fuck. Fuck! 

He had not planned it like that. Not in the car, and definitely not with you leaving. But there it was.

You turned back to him slowly.

For a second, you bit your lip in shock. 

It was quick. Too quick to say that. You’ve been going on dates for what? Two weeks? 

You supposed he’d been around the school for two months now with the outreach program. But even that didn’t really make sense, right?

So now, your inner committee was no longer holding a meeting. It was pounding on the table, screaming that this was insane, that love wasn’t supposed to arrive between a third date and a school pick-up, that normal people didn’t do this.

But Dex was looking at you like you hung the stars for him. 

So leaned back into the car and kissed him. Gently first, then deeper, because his hand found your jaw like he had been waiting for permission to touch you again since the school gates.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

Oh. Oh.

You left before you could take it back.

Dex watched you wave from your door, hands resting on the wheel, mouth curved in a small, helpless smile he couldn’t seem to stop.

She loves me.

The thought repeated all the way home.

She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.

By the time he reached his apartment, he was still smiling.

Then he opened the door, and the smile vanished immediately because you were not there.

The apartment was exactly the same as it had been that morning, clean and perfectly ordered, but suddenly none of that mattered. The couch was empty. The kitchen was empty. The bed was empty. All those neat, controlled rooms had become useless because you weren’t inside them.

Dex stood in the doorway with his keys in his hand and felt his stomach in him turn over.

You loved him, so why were you not here?

The question sat in his head with terrible simplicity. 

You loved him. He loved you. He could take care of you. He had the space, the money, the locks, the discipline. Your apartment was unsafe. Your building was bad. Your neighbours were careless. Jonathan from music lived too close. The world kept touching you and taking from you and making you tired.

Here was safer. Here, it made sense. Here, he could see you.

The thought came fully formed before he knew to stop it.

He could go get you.

He could get in the car. Drive to your apartment. Knock. Tell you that you should change your mind. Tell you the city was unsafe. Tell you your lock was bad. Tell you to pack a bag. Tell you you belonged in his apartment. Tell you until you believed him.

If you said no, he could still bring you back.

He was stronger than you. Faster than you. He was trained. He knew exactly how to move you without hurting too badly. He could overpower you, get you inside his apartment, lock the door, hide the keys, take your phone just for a while. He’d you keep warm. Feed you. Talk to you until the panic passed. He’d do that just until you understood. Because you would understand.

You loved him, so eventually you would understand that this was not cruelty, right?  This was not punishment. This was him seeing the truth faster than you did. This was him making the hard decision because someone had to. This was him saving you from all the places that were not him.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise that was kidnapping.

Actually, legally, literally kidnapping.

Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Coercion. Felony. It was bad.

“Oh,” he whispered. Then, after a beat, “Shit.”

His breath went wrong. The heat in him snapped into panic so quickly he nearly staggered. He saw himself then, not as a man in love, not as someone protecting his girlfriend, but as exactly the kind of thing you would need protecting from.

No.

No, no, no.

He backed away from the door like it had opened onto a cliff.

He loved you. He loved you. He wasn’t going to make you afraid of him. He wasn’t going to put his hands on you. He wasn’t going to lock you inside his life and pretend that was the same thing as being chosen.

Even if some awful part of him wanted to. Especially because some awful part of him wanted to.

Dex went to the drawer with shaking hands and pulled out the tapes.

Dr. Eileen Mercer’s voice filled the apartment through a soft crackle of static. “Your internal compass isn’t broken, Dex. It just works better with a North Star to guide you.”

Dex sank onto the couch.

North Star.

That was what you were.

Of course you were. You, with your kind heart and your gentle voice and your stupidly good heart. You, making safe corners for children. 

He had simply made the catastrophic mistake of falling in love with the star.  Which complicated things.

Because you were supposed to guide him, not belong to him. You were supposed to be fixed above him, untouchable enough to follow. Not in his apartment. Not in his bed. Not wearing his shirt and saying I love you in his car like you had any idea what those words would do to a man like him.

Dex pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes and forced himself to breathe while the tape kept playing through the static.

The apartment was still wrong without you. His hands still shook. The need to leave and get you didn’t disappear just because he had named it correctly. The desire sat there, dark and patient, waiting for him to mistake it for devotion again. But he stayed where he was.

He stayed on the couch with his teeth clenched so hard it ached, listening to the tape like it was the only thing holding him in place.

He loved you. That had to mean something better than possession. It had to.

So Dex sat in the empty apartment and tried, breath by breath, to become the kind of man who could love his North Star without building a sky small enough to trap her.

—

Dex barely made it through the week by hearing your voice through the phone.

You were busy with the school, chaperoning a trip, dealing with children and permission slips and packed lunches and museum gift shops, so he did the good thing, the normal thing. He didn’t show up. He didn’t follow the bus route. He didn’t appear outside your apartment just because he knew you would be exhausted.

Well. Maybe he just did it once, but he didn’t even stop! He just took a quick peek around the block to make sure you got home safe. 

After that, he took it one day at a time.

At night, he lay in bed with the phone pressed to his ear and listened to you talk when you called. You told him about the children, the chaos, the little girl who tried to correct the tour guide, the boy who cried because his sandwich got crushed in his bag.

He hated that he couldn't tell if you were warm enough. Hated that you sounded exhausted and he wasn’t there to put a blanket over your shoulders or press his mouth to your temple or make the world stop asking things of you for five minutes. But he behaved.

When you said, “I’m so tired, baby,” he closed his eyes like the world wrapped a hand around his throat.

When you said, “I miss you,” he pressed his fist against his mouth until the feeling passed enough for him to answer normally.

“I miss you too.” An understatement so violent it almost made him laugh.

Then you came back to regular life, and started spending more time with him. 

And naturally, you started spending more nights at his place.

It was easy. His apartment was closer to the school. His shower was better. His fridge always had food you liked. Your tea was already in his cupboard. Your toothbrush was still in his bathroom from that first night, and the spare charger by his bed somehow became yours without either of you discussing it.

One night a week became two. Two nights a week became most of the week.

Your laundry ended up in his machine. Your favourite cardigan stayed folded in his bedroom. Your substitute teaching papers got graded at his kitchen table while he made dinner. Your commute became easier because he drove you when he could, and when he couldn’t, he made sure your car had petrol, the tyres were checked, and the weird noise under the hood had been fixed before it became a problem.

It was dangerous, how much easier he made your life.

Dangerous because you were a school librarian on a school librarian salary, and Dex had big boy FBI paychecks and paid for groceries without mentally rearranging the rest of the month around it.

You tried to argue about that once. He looked genuinely offended.

“I should help,” you said.

“You do.”

“I mean with bills.”

“You buy supplies for children who are not yours because no one else will. Let me pay for dinner.”

That shut you up, not because it was fair. But because it was kind. Or because it sounded kind. Or because, with Dex, the difference had started to blur.

Your car made a noise; he had it checked. Your shoes wore thin; a new pair appeared by the door. You mentioned once that you were out of your favourite cereal, and the next morning there were two boxes in his cupboard.

By five months, you were barely at your own apartment.

You still paid rent. You still had mail there. Technically, you still lived there. But most nights, you went home to Dex.

Then one night, while you sat at his kitchen table grading reading logs and wearing one of his shirts under your cardigan, Dex said, “You should move in.”

You looked up. “What?”

“You should move in here.”

He said it so calmly. Like he was pointing out the weather. Like he had not been waiting weeks to say it. Like he had not already measured the space in his closet, looked up your lease date, and made sure there was room for your books.

You felt your inner committee rise from the dead.

Babe. What the fuck. Five months. Are you actually considering this? What’s wrong with you? Huh?

So you pushed back, but not very well.

“Dex,” you said, looking around his apartment. “We’ve been dating for five months.”

“I know.”

“Moving in would be very quick.”

“I know.”

But would it? You were at his kitchen table in one of his shirts, your papers stacked on his coffee table, your mug in his sink, your shoes by his door. Half your life was already there.

Suddenly, Dex leaned down and kissed you before you could keep arguing.

He did it because he had seen men do it in movies when they wanted to calm the woman they loved. 

That was how affection started with him, really.  He imitated touch. He put a hand on your waist because that was what boyfriends did. He rubbed circles over your hip because that was what loving partners did.

But then you melted under his hands and sighed into his mouth. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his shirt.

And Dex thought, oh. So that was what it was supposed to feel like.

So after the first time, it no longer felt like pretending. It was no longer fake, no longer a costume he wore to convince you he could be normal.

He liked this. He liked the warmth beneath his palms. Liked the trusting weight of you leaning into him. Liked that touching you made him feel whole.  His thumbs kept moving in slow circles at your hips, more because he wanted to than because he remembered he was supposed to.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes like the words had done exactly what he hoped they would. “Dex…”

“You love me too.”

You laughed softly. “That is a terrible argument.”

“It’s my best one.”

Unfortunately, it was.

You hummed, but you were smiling now, and Dex felt his whole chest go warm.

He kissed you again, a little braver this time, still rubbing those gentle circles into your hips like he had finally found a love language that made sense in his hands.

You sighed, and he smiled against your mouth. It surprised him, even after five months, how much he wanted to be good at this. 

“Okay,” you whispered.

Dex went very still.

You opened your eyes and looked up at him, soft and doomed and already half his. “Okay, baby. I’ll move in.”

—

People got weird when you told them you had moved in with Dex.

Your friends did that careful-smile thing. Your mother went quiet on the phone before saying, “Already?” like the word had three question marks and a police report attached. One coworker just blinked at you over her mug and said, “Wow. That’s… fast.”

You kept giving the same answers. My lease was ending. His place is closer. It makes sense financially. He takes care of me.

Jonathan was the most obvious about it.

You told him in the staff room, after he was complaining about one of his classes committing recorder-based psychological warfare. “I moved in with Dex,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Slowly, he turned around. “Your fed boyfriend?”

“He has a name.”

“Agent Intense?”

“Dex.”

“Right. Your fed boyfriend.” He stared at you. “That’s so fast.”

You sighed. Here we go again. “My lease was ending.”

“You’ve known him for six months.”

“If you count his school outreach, seven actually”

“That’s not better.”

You crossed your arms, already defensive. “He’s not bad.”

“I didn’t say bad,” he shrugged, “I think more like…  creepy.”

“Jonathan.”

“What? He once looked at me like I was trying to steal you because I offered you a ride home.”

“He’s just protective, that’s all,” you huffed.

“I’m gay.”

“I know that.”

“Does he?”

“He does now,” you said.

“Does he care?”

You opened your mouth and closed it. Because no, Dex didn’t care when you told him. Johnathan was still just another person standing between you and him, platonic or romantic or whatever. Jonathan could have been gay, married, celibate, and allergic to women, and Dex still would have watched him with that flat suspicion the second he stood too close to you.

Jonathan pointed his teaspoon at you. “Exactly.”

Your phone buzzed before you could answer.

Dex: Did you eat lunch?

You smiled and held up the phone like evidence. “See? He’s sweet.”

Jonathan looked at the message, then at you. “Sure,” he said carefully. “Sweet.”

You texted back yes, baby, and when Dex replied within seconds, Jonathan sighed. You ignored him.

After all, Dex cared. That was all.

—

The people who thought the move-in was quick were in for a treat, because one month after you moved into Dex’s apartment, he asked you to marry him in the back seat of his car.

See, you had shown up because summer holidays had made you stupid with missing him. You were bored. You had no school, no library chaos, no children asking where the glitter glue went. Just too much free time and the embarrassing realization that you had become the kind of woman who missed her boyfriend at eleven-thirty in the morning like an addict running out of nicotine patches.

So you brought him lunch and went to his workplace. That was a normal girlfriend thing, right? Except the lunch did not get opened.

Dex had barely gotten the car door shut before you were kissing him, and he had barely made it through the first breath of your mouth before his hand slid under your thigh and dragged you into his lap in the back seat.

“Dex,” you laughed into his mouth.

He made a low and lewd sound into his mouth. Then his hands were on you again, pushing your skirt up around your hips with a little too much force, a little too much need, until the seam gave with an unmistakable rip of fabric.

Dex stared at the torn fabric in his hand with the horrified focus of a man who had committed a federal offence against cotton blend. “I’ll buy you another one.”

“That is not the point,” you chuckled.

“I’ll buy you five.”

You should have been annoyed. But his eyes were black with want, and there was something so obscenely flattering about Benjamin Poindexter accidentally ruining your clothes because he needed you too badly to be careful. So you tightened your fist in his tie and pulled. “Later,” you whispered.

Dex obeyed, because liked it when you pulled him by it. He liked the pressure, the direction, the filthy little reminder that he was still half-dressed for work while you were undoing him in the back of his own car. His mouth opened under yours, hands clamped on your hips like he was trying not to lose the last piece of his mind.

Your inner committee, exhausted from the moving-in situation and still technically on unpaid leave, attempted to return to service.

Babe. This is his workplace. This is a federal garage.

Babe, your skirt is ripped.

Babe, we cannot keep replacing clothes every time this man gets horny and emotional.

Then Dex kissed down your throat and the committee immediately lost quorum.

By the time you were done and either of you remembered he had to go back inside, the windows were fogged at the edges. His hair was ruined from your hands. His tie was loose and crooked. His shirt was open at the collar, your lipstick low enough on his skin that he would need to button all the way up and pray no one noticed. His mouth was swollen. 

You sat in his lap, skirt torn and shoved badly back into place, one hand still looped lazily around his tie. “You have to go back in,” you whispered.

His forehead rested against yours. “I know.”

“You look…”

His eyes lifted to yours.

You smiled. “Compromised.”

Dex’s mouth twitched. His thumbs moved on your thighs, circling through the thin fabric of your ruined skirt.

You tugged his tie gently. “I should let you go.”

His hands tightened, only barely.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, as if he would die if he let you leave without saying it first.

For a second, you just stared at him. Somewhere inside your head, your inner committee walked back into the room, saw the situation, and immediately considered retiring.

Babe, no. Babe, absolutely not. Babe, stand up for yourself!

“What?” you managed to choke out.

“Marry me,” Dex calmly, like the idea had been sitting in him for weeks, waiting for the right opening, and apparently the right opening was you flushed and breathless in his back seat. 

“Dex.”

“I love you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Your inner committee sighed so hard the lights flickered.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter. “You love me. We already live together. It gives you legal protection. If something happens to me, you’re taken care of. If something happens to you, they call me first.”

“You are making a case,” you realised, though you shouldn't have been surprised.

He just shrugged. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t get married.”

There it was, the simple Dex logic of it: I love you. You love me. Why wouldn’t we?

It was reasonable if you ignored the fact that he was clearly halfway to losing his mind and had probably been planning this long before he said it out loud. And underneath that, there was the thing he did not say. Because sure, the practical reasons were true. But underneath all that, there was the darker, sweeter logic he kept tucked behind his teeth. If you were only his girlfriend, you could change your mind. You could wake up one morning, decide he was too much, pack a bag, and walk out before he had time to kiss you and remind you how gentle he could be when he was trying. A girlfriend could leave in one terrible conversation. A wife had to take steps.

And Dex loved steps. You’d have to go through lawyers, papers, and waiting periods. A marriage would buy him time, and time meant he could come to you, he could hold your face, and remind you that you loved him as much as he loved you. He would never hurt. But if the law could slow you down long enough for him to convince you that leaving was a mistake, Dex couldn’t help loving that, too.

He didn’t say that, though. He only looked at you with his hair mussed and his mouth ruined and said, “It makes sense.”

Your inner committee made one last brave attempt: Babe. Please. We JUST moved in.

But you banged the gavel at the head of your imaginary table and pouted. But look at him! He’s so hot! 

In the real world, Dex was looking at you like you were already his wife, like the ring was only a formality. Then he kissed you, tenderly this time.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth.

The committee dropped their clipboard. Fine, you win, they seemed to say, Whatever you say, handsome.

You laughed weakly into the kiss, and Dex pulled back just enough to look at you.

“What?”

You touched his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and felt him lean into it like affection was still new enough to surprise him.

“Yes,” you whispered, hand tightening in his tie. “Yes, baby. I’ll marry you.”

For a second, he looked almost scared by how happy it made him. Then his arms locked around your waist and pulled you close, his face turning into your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“But you really do have to go back inside,” you whispered with a chuckle.

Dex lifted his head. He looked ruined, happy, and possessive in a way that should have made you run but somehow only made you kiss him again. “I have ten more minutes.”

You giggled and pulled him in by the tie.

Your inner committee walked directly into the sea, never to be seen again.

—

Dex let you pick the rings.

The engagement ring first, because he said you were the one wearing it, so you should love it. Then the wedding bands, including his, even though he tried to act like he didn’t care what his looked like. That lasted until you slid a simple band onto his finger in the shop and watched his whole face go still, almost overwhelmed.

A month later, you married him at the courthouse.

It was too soon for anyone around you to feel truly comfortable about it. Your family came anyway. Your friends came anyway. Even Jonathan, looking like he had accepted his role as the last remaining voice of reason, and still failing anyway. On Dex’s side, there was a couple of coworkers standing near the back in neat suits, polite and reserved, present more like witnesses than family.

Dex had no parents, no siblings, no cousins, no childhood friends with embarrassing stories. No one who could say they had known him when he was young. No one who could reassure your parents he was a good person through and through. Just coworkers, Ray congratulating him as the rest of his coworkers stood on the courthouse hallway while your side filled the room with nervous affection and badly hidden concern.

You saw the way your mother looked at him. The way your friends glanced at one another when they realised there was no one on his side who really belonged to him. It made them uneasy, and because you loved him, you rushed to explain it in your head before anyone even asked. His parents were dead. He grew up alone. It was complicated. He didn't have people the way other people had people.

You said little pieces of that aloud, as if it explained half of it away. Maybe to you, it did. Maybe that was a teeny part of the reason you kept choosing him. Dex had no one, and then he had you. But it was also tender, in its own damaged way. He stood across the room in his suit, eyes finding you every few seconds as if checking that you were still real, still walking toward him eventually. He looked alone until he looked at you.

The problem was not that Dex didn't love you. Anyone with eyes could see that he clearly did. That was half the horror, really. 

He loved you devoutly, too much for such a small courthouse. His attention followed you like a sniper scope. When someone hugged you, his eyes moved there. When Jonathan made you laugh, his face soured. When you looked at him, though, everything in him relaxed so completely that even your worried friends had to see it.

The ceremony itself was almost absurdly short, just a few legal words. A few signatures. Then came the ring that he slid on to your finger with a reverence that made your throat ache. His thumb lingered over the band once it was in place, brushing the metal like proof, like possession he was trying very hard to make gentle.

Your family saw it. Your friends saw it. Ray probably saw it too. But no one said anything anymore. They had tried to warn you. They had tried to tell you it was fast, intense, worrying. They had tried to point out all the red flags. But standing there, with Dex looking at your ring like the world had finally given him permission to keep the one good thing he had found, you knew why none of their warnings had worked.

Because you knew they were not entirely wrong. You just loved him anyway.

When Dex kissed you, it was gentle enough to make your mother cry. His hand came to your cheek, and his mouth touched yours like he was afraid of doing it wrong in front of everyone. But you felt the restraint beneath it, the hunger and devotion. The way he kissed you softly because that was what you deserved, even when every dark part of him wanted to hold on harder and bruise and mark his territory.

—

Two years later, Dex was in prison.

Jonathan tried not to say I told you so. To his credit, he really did try. He stood in your apartment after everything went public, arms folded too tightly, mouth pressed into a line while the news tore the FBI corruption apart in digestible pieces. Even family and friends looked at you like this was the ending they had feared from the start.

But you knew better.

Not because Dex was innocent. He wasn’t. You loved him too much to lie about that. He had done terrible things. There were parts of him that had always been hungry for direction, always been too easy for the wrong man to use.

And Fisk had used him perfectly.He had found every fracture in Dex and pressed his thumb into it. The instability, the need to be useful. The desperate, obsessive love Dex had for you. 

Fisk kept you in a basement beneath one of his shell properties and let the world mourn you.

That was the cruelty of it: Fisk did not need you dead. Dead was final. Dead meant there was nothing left to use. But alive, hidden in a cold and windowless place? That made you useful. That made you leverage. Fisk could keep your body locked away while giving Dex a grief designed to break him.

So Fisk staged your death. He built the lie piece by piece. He staged an accident, a fire. The reports say that the body burned beyond recognition was yours, and even had an urn with someone else’s ashes in it with your paperwork attached just in case people started asking questions.

Dex believed it, because why wouldn’t he? Fisk made sure every piece fit. Even Matt believed it for a while. Everyone did.

So when Dex found it, he carried the urn like it was alive. He thought he figured out that Fisk was manipulating him, which was correct. He thought that Fisk had killed you, which was false.

He put the ashes in the passenger seat. He drove to the hotel with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over sometimes, hovering near the metal like it might feel lonely. He talked to it in that broken voice of his, the one he would have been humiliated for anyone living to hear. He told the urn things. He apologised. He told you he loved you.

Then Dex’s spine broke.

And you were found by the cops shortly after, alive. Bruised, starved, shaking under a blanket in the basement Fisk had buried you in, still asking for Dex before your voice had fully come back.

So when they told you he went into surgery under guard, he had fought your way into that hospital room on the only ground no one could deny: you were his wife, his next of kin, his legal family. You should be allowed in, and you eventually got what you wanted. 

During recovery, he looked wrong under hospital lights. The tubes and monitors and bandages made him look less like the terrifying thing the news kept replaying. Guards stood by the door. His wrists were shackled to the bed rails, his ankles too. You scoffed at that but couldn’t do anything about it, really. 

When his eyes opened, he came back fighting. His hands jerked against the restraints, chains snapping taut with a hard metal sound that made one of the guards shift forward.

“Don’t,” you said quickly. “Dex, don’t.”

His head turned and saw you. Suddenly, thoughts halted to a stop.

You had seen Dex angry. Jealous. Focused. You had seen him desperate in your bed and gentle in your kitchen. You had seen him worshipful, frightening, almost boyish with love.

You had never seen him look like that. Like he was staring at a ghost and trying to decide whether believing in it would kill him.

His mouth parted, but sound came out.

You stepped closer, hands trembling. “Hi, baby.”

Dex’s breath broke. “You’re alive.”

Your chest caved in. “yeah.”

“No.” His voice cracked in disbelief. “No, I saw— Fisk said—”

“I know.”

“You’re alive,” he said again, louder now, almost frantic. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”

“I’m here.”

The chains snapped tight again when he tried to reach for you. Pain tore across his nerves, but he barely seemed to feel it. His eyes stayed locked on yours,wild and terrified, like if he looked away, you would vanish and the whole nightmare would become true again.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

“I know, baby.”

You moved to him before anyone could stop you. Your fingers found his hand where the shackle allowed, careful around the bruised skin. His grip closed around yours instantly, weak but desperate, like even broken he could not help trying to hold on.

Your wedding ring caught the light. It was a reminder that he was still yours, you were still his, and whatever was left of him seemed to collapse under the proof.

“You’re alive.”

—

Dex was incarcerated after he healed enough to be moved.

Not rehabilitated. Not treated. Incarcerated.

They put him in solitary confinement like that could contain him. Like isolation would ever make him better. Like locking him away from voices and faces and human contact would somehow fix a man whose worst injuries had always come from being left alone too long with his own head.

You hated it. So for three years, you fought to get your husband moved somewhere that might actually help him.

Three years of forms, lawyers, psychiatric evaluations, and rejected petitions. Three years of people looking at Benjamin Poindexter and seeing only what he had done, three years of people looking at you, Mrs. Poindexter, as if you were insane because you still loved him. Three years of explaining, again and again, that solitary confinement was not treatment. And Dex had always been dangerous when he was quiet.

Your old school library job no longer paid enough to carry the life Fisk had torn apart, so you took a better job at a public library. It's a better salary, but longer hours. More responsibility. You now had to think about staff rotas, community programmes, council meetings, difficult patrons, funding cuts, late nights under fluorescent lights while you built displays and answered emails with your wedding ring flashing every time your hands crossed the keyboard.

Every other day, you went to the prison.

Sometimes straight from work, your blazer wrinkled, your tote bag full of library paperwork, your lipstick faded from too many cups of coffee. Sometimes on your days off, when you could pretend the visit was the centre of the day instead of an activity squeezed between legal calls and grocery shopping and a life you had never wanted to live without him in it.

Dex always noticed when you were tired before you said it. He noticed when your shoes were new. He noticed when you had cut your hair, even slightly. He noticed when you had skipped lunch and lied about it. Even in prison uniform, even under the dead light of the visiting room, Dex was still your husband in all the ways that made people uncomfortable and all the ways that kept you coming back.

You told him about your days. You told him about the elderly man who came into the library every Wednesday to read the newspaper and complain about the chairs. The little girl who asked for “a book with a dragon but not a mean dragon because mean dragons have bad vibes.” The teenager who pretended not to care about poetry and then checked out three collections when his friends were not looking. You told him about staff meetings, leaky ceilings, broken printers, new shelving systems.

There were visits where he barely spoke. But even then, his eyes stayed on you. Even then, his fingers moved toward yours. Even then, when you said, “Baby,” parts of him came back to the surface.

You kept fighting because he needed help.

Then one afternoon, after three years of pushing against walls that did not move, one finally gave. The blip, after all, freed some space up. Though you really shouldn't celebrate such a tragedy, it was hard to ignore the fact that this time, it worked in your favor. That day, you carried the news into the visiting room.

His eyes moved over your face, your hands, the folder tucked beneath your arm. “What’s that?” he asked.

You smiled, biting your lip, “I have good news.”

You reached across the table. This time, they let you hold his hand. It was a small mercy. His fingers closed around yours immediately, like he could feel the tremor in you and wanted to steady it without frightening it away.

“A facility we applied to reviewed your case,” you said. “It’s looking good. The transfer is pending final approval.”

Dex didn’t move. You kept going before fear could steal the words from you.

“It’s a secure psychiatric institution. It’s not freedom, I know that. But it’s not solitary. You’d have doctors, actual treatment, scheduled therapy, medication reviews. You wouldn’t be in shackles.”

His face remained controlled, but you knew him too well. You saw the tiny shift in his breathing. 

“It’s going to be better,” you whispered. “Okay? Not perfect. Not easy. But better. You won’t be alone in a box, and we get longer visitation hours, okay?”

Dex was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “That’s good.”

Your laugh came out broken, because part of you still found that endearing. “That’s good? That’s all you have?”

His mouth almost softened, guilty at the thought of offending you. “It’s very good,” he amended.

You squeezed his hand, and for one rare second, the visiting room didn’t feel quite so much like a cage. It felt like a door opening somewhere far away.Then Dex looked up again. “But I hope my request gets approved before I get moved.”

“Request?” You blinked. “For what?”

He held your gaze with the seriousness of a man discussing nothing more important than bills. “A conjugal visit.”

For a moment, your mind simply stopped. “What?”

“A conjugal visit,” he repeated, as if you might not have heard him the first time.

You stared at him. Of course he had thought of that.

In three years of legal petitions, medical reviews, prison visits, and fighting to have him treated like a person instead of a weapon, you had somehow not allowed yourself to think about that part. About being his wife in that way still. About how long it had been since he had touched you without guards and tables and rules between you.Dex had, though.

“Dex,” you said softly, rubbing slow circles on his hand.

“What?”

“You are in solitary confinement.”

“I know.”

“You’re probably not getting approved for a conjugal visit.”

“Probably not.”

His expression didn't change, but he squeezed your hand and your stomach turned over despite yourself. You leaned forward as much as the table allowed. The guard near the door shifted, but you ignored him. You kissed the edge of Dex’s mouth, brief and soft, but still enough to make his breath catch.

“Let’s focus on this, yeah?” you whispered.

His eyes stayed on yours. For a second, the hunger in him quieted, almost obedient. He nodded once. “Okay.”

Your hand stayed in his until the guard told you time was up. Dex didn’t let go until he had to.

—

He got approved. Somehow, Benjamin Poindexter got approved for a conjugal visit.

You read the notice three times in your kitchen, work bag sliding off your shoulder, lanyard still around your neck, your shoes aching from a long day on your feet. The letter was painfully plain and administrative. But it was approved nonetheless.

You stared at it until the paper blurred. “What the fuck?” you whispered.

Because there was no way. There was no reasonable, lawful way that your husband, a convicted killer, a high-risk prisoner, had been granted that kind of access.

You knew then that Dex had done something. Nothing obvious enough to get the request pulled. He might have threatened a guard. Maybe Dex had mentioned a name, a detail, some small piece of information he shouldn’t have known and let them do the rest.

You should have been horrified. Mostly, though, you pressed the paper to your mouth and laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, because all you could think was: That’s how badly he wanted me. That’s how much he loves me.

—

When the day came, you waited in the room alone.

You had done the paperwork, gone through twenty locked doors to get here. You came knowing you had a couple of hours with your husband. And forthe first time in three years, there would be no table between you, no visitor chair bolted too far from his. No guards close enough to hear every word. No one telling you not to lean too far across the table when all you wanted was to touch his face.

A couple of hours was not enough. 

You smoothed your hands over your blouse, then over your skirt, then clasped them together in your lap to make yourself stop fidgeting. You had dressed too carefully without really thinking about it. You had a white blouse, a nice skirt, because Dex liked seeing you in skirts. You were wearing the cardigan you were wearing when you met him.

You stared at your wedding ring until Dex stepped inside. For a second, neither of you moved.

He looked different. That was your first thought, blunt and stupid and immediate. He looked different, because of course he did. Years had happened. Prison had happened. Surgery had happened. His hair was shorter. His jaw looked sharper. But he was also bigger.

You noticed from your previous visits, of course, but seeing him a bit closer now, it was evident. His shoulders filled out the plain prison shirt. His arms looked stronger than they had in the hospital, muscle sitting heavy under institutional fabric, like all the recovery and physical therapy and whatever routines they let him have had made him sturdier.

You blinked before you could stop yourself. What were they feeding him?

Dex’s eyes found your face first, gaze locked onto you. For one fragile second he did not look like a prisoner at all.

He looked like Dex. Your Dex. Your husband, seeing you after being forced to miss you for too long.

“Hi,” you whispered.

His mouth parted slightly. When the door closed behind him, the lock turned, and whatever restraint he had used to walk in there like a normal person vanished.

You barely got to stand before his hands were on your face and yours were on his chest, and the first kiss was so clumsy it almost made you laugh. Your noses bumped. His mouth missed yours by half an inch and caught the corner instead. You made a tiny sound, half sob and half laugh, and Dex froze like he had done something wrong.

“No,” you said quickly, already smiling through the sting in your eyes. “No, come here.”

You took his face in both hands and kissed him properly, softly at first. Then again. And again.

These were little, ridiculous kisses. The kind you had imagined giving him in every prison visit where a guard stood too close. You kissed his mouth, the corner of it, his cheek. You kissed the line beside his nose, the skin under his eye, the edge of his mouth again.

Dex stood there and let you love him, as if he couldn’t believe you still did at all.

His hands stayed at your waist, almost uncertain, like after all this time he still didn’t fully trust that he was allowed to hold you without someone telling him to stop. But the longer you kissed him, the more his fingers settled. The more his body leaned into yours. The more the tension in his shoulders slowly started to melt.

“I missed you,” you said between kisses.

Dex’s eyes closed. “I missed you, too.”

“I missed you so much.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You kissed his cheek again, because apparently now that you had started you couldn't stop. “I missed you in the kitchen. I missed you in our bed. I missed you when I had to fix the shelf myself because you would have been so annoying about doing it better.”

His mouth twitched. “You fixed a shelf?” he asked.

“I tried to.”

His eyes opened with attentive focus you had missed so badly. “What happened?”

“It’s currently leaning.”

Dex stared at you, then he laughed. It wasn’t loudly, or freely. It was small, rough, and almost startled, like his body had forgotten how to make the sound and needed you to remind it. 

You broke a little. “Oh,” you whispered, smiling like an idiot. “There you are.”

His expression changed before he leaned in and kissed you again, not clumsy this time. A kiss that said yes, here, I’m here, I came back up when you called.

His arms moved around you properly then, and fuck, he was solid.

You had expected him to feel fragile, because part of you still remembered the hospital bed, the shackles, the bruised skin around his wrists after surgery. But this Dex was heavy and strong under your hands. When your palms slid over his shoulders, you felt muscle there making your stomach drop and go hot at the same time.

Still, he stayed sweet for a little while.

You had both expected the hunger. But before that, there was Dex touching your hair like he had thought about the texture of it more than once. There was you smoothing your thumb over his cheekbone, relearning him up close. There was him pressing his face into the side of your neck and breathing in once like he had been living on memory for years and memory had never been enough.

“I missed how you smell,” he said, voice muffled against your skin.

You laughed. “That’s creepy,” you said, but smiled into his hair anyway.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, then lower, over the ridge of his shoulder. You felt him shiver when your touch found the edge of the scar beneath his shirt. You paused, but he shook his head against you. “It’s okay.”

So you kept touching him gently. Through the fabric first, then at the collar where your fingers could slip just beneath. The scar was there, and Dex’s breathing changed when you traced it. Not with pain, exactly. It felt more… intimate.

“My baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His hand flexed at your hip. This time, when his mouth opened under yours, the sweetness warmed.His body crowded yours a little more. His hands moved from your waist to your back, then down again.

“You got…” You swallowed, then laughed softly because there was no graceful way to say it. “You got big.”

Dex blinked. For half a second, he looked genuinely confused. Then his eyes dropped to where your hands were spread over his chest. “Big?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I had physical therapy.”

“That is a criminal understatement.”

His mouth twitched again as you dragged your palms over his shoulders, shameless now, because you had earned this. You had earned the right to be stupid about your husband’s arms after three years of prison visits and legal calls and sleeping alone.

“You’re very…” You squeezed his bicep lightly. “Recovered.”

Dex looked at you. “You’re flirting with me.”

You shrugged, but didn’t deny it.

The sound he made was almost an arrogant chuckle.

He kissed you again, and this time there was no mistaking the heat under it. Then, his hands settled on your blouse.

Not grabbing yet, but touching the fabric at your waist, thumbs moving slowly over the buttons as if he had only just realised there was something between his hands and your skin.

You were still smiling when his eyes dropped.

Suddenly, his eyes were fixed on the small gap where one button had loosened, where the fabric had shifted just enough to reveal a flash of black lace underneath.

Dex recognised it at the same time you remembered. “Is that…”

Your face burned hot as you nodded.

It was the black teddy he had bought you for your first wedding anniversary.It was sheer lace at the cups, delicate straps, a low satin-trimmed neckline. Dex remembered the first time you tried it on. You stood at the foot of your bed, pretending not to be shy, while he sat there ruined, looking at you like his brain had briefly stopped receiving oxygen. And now, you had worn it here.

Dex’s thumb brushed the edge of your blouse, right where black lace disappeared beneath it. His eyes darkened. “You wore my anniversary gift under your blouse,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. “When you say it like that—”

“How should I say it?” He demanded, and it was a little mean. But that always did turn you on.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Less like you’re about to lose your mind.”

Dex looked back up at you, too focused, too hungry. “I am.”

Oh.

Your hands tightened in his shirt.

The room felt smaller after that, less like a prison facility and more like the bedroom he remembered, the one with your knees pressed into the mattress and his hands shaking at your waist because he hadn’t known a piece of lace could make wanting feel that violent.

His grip settled firmer on your hips. “You have no idea,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “What you do to me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. There he was. Your husband, touch-starved, breathing against your neck like he had waited years to find out if he could still make you tremble.

You smiled, kind and doomed all the same. “Show me.”

Oh, he had a list.

Dex was undressed before you could blink, all broad shoulders and blown pupils, moving with a focused urgency that made the sterile little room feel suddenly too small to hold him. The white walls, the bolted table, the narrow bed, the chemical-clean smell of the sheets, and none of it stood a chance against the way he looked at you.

He had been counting down to this for years. Every prison visit, every supervised touch, every night alone in a cell had led into this exact moment.

His hands were already on your blouse, quick but not careless, tearing through buttons, ripping them off with a precision that would have been funny if his breathing had not been so rough. The black teddy appeared inch by inch beneath the fabric, lace and satin and memory, and Dex looked ruined. 

First on the list: his mouth between your legs.

You understood that the second he dropped to his knees. Dex had barely gotten the teddy off before his hands were already under your skirt, gripping your thighs.

Then his mouth was on you, and every thought in your head broke apart.

“Oh,” you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other twisting in the clean white sheet beneath you.

Dex made a sound against you that was almost a groan, almost a laugh. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. He was not gentle, like he used to be. He was focused, hungry, and touch-starved enough that every reaction you gave him seemed to make him worse.

“Fuck,” he breathed against you, voice rough and ruined. “You taste so fucking sweet.”

Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”

He didn’t let you finish. His mouth returned to you, and the room became nothing but the wet heat of him, the harsh sound of his breathing, the narrow bed creaking under the way your hips moved despite yourself. The sterile little room had no right to hold something this filthy. 

He was still so good, it was unfair.

Dex had always been terrifying when he focused. When he learned something, he learned it completely. And you realised, breathless and shaking, that he remembered everything. Every place that made you gasp. Every rhythm that made your hand tighten in his hair. Every tiny, helpless sound you tried to swallow and failed.

You tried to move back once, overwhelmed, but his hands slid under you and dragged you closer with a low, possessive sound that made your stomach twist.

“No,” he murmured. “Stay.”

So you stayed while he buried himself there like he could spend hours between your thighs if time were not an issue. You stayed while his fingers dug into your skin, while his mouth made you forget the guards outside, the transfer, the years, the ugly world that had kept him from you. You stayed while he took you apart with the kind of devotion that felt less like softness and more like obsession given a mouth.

At some point, you said his name too loudly, and Dex groaned like that was the point.

Of course he wanted them to hear. Of course he wanted the men outside that locked door to know that whatever they thought they had taken from him was still his. You were still his. 

When you finally broke, Dex did not stop right away.

He held you through it palms spread over your thighs, breathing you in like the end of the world had tasted sweet and he couldn’t make himself pull away.

Only when you tugged weakly at his hair did he lift his head.

Dex looked up at you like he had just crossed the first thing off a list and still had every intention of finishing the rest.

Number two on the list should have been obvious when he suddenly looked shy. 

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

Your breath was still uneven. “Dex.”

His mouth pressed briefly to the inside of your knee, like he needed one more second to gather himself. “I want your mouth.”

Oh.

Your stomach flipped so hard you almost laughed. Who were you to deny this man anything? 

You slid off the bed and onto your knees in front of him, and Dex went very still.

His hand came to your cheek, careful at first, thumb brushing your skin like he needed to touch you gently before letting himself want. His breathing changed when you looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide enough to make him look almost feverish.

“Baby,” he said, voice rough.

You smiled before giving him what he asked for.

Dex’s hand stayed in your hair, not forcing, not taking. His head tipped back. His throat worked. His eyes squeezed shut and opened again because he seemed to hate missing even one second of you.

He was big in every way you remembered and worse because you had missed him.

Too much, almost. Overwhelming enough to make your eyes water, enough to make your hands press at his thighs when you needed a second, and Dex stopped immediately each time.

His hand softened in your hair. “Too much?” he rasped.

You shook your head, breathless, stubborn, and a little ruined yourself.

Dex looked like that might kill him. Then you kept going, and he fell apart beautifully.

He moaned your name like a warning, like a plea. His hand stayed on your cheek against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness at the corner of your eye with such tenderness that the gesture felt obscene in context.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You felt him getting close, and you wanted nothing more than feeling him down your throat, but he pulled back, stopping himself so abruptly you almost protested.

Dex stared down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild, mouth parted like he had just survived something.

You blinked up at him.

He gave a rough little laugh, almost pained. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

You smiled slowly. “Not yet?”

His gaze darkened again. He reached down, thumb brushing your lower lip, still shaking from the effort of denying himself.

“I have two more things on the list,” he reminded you, making your thighs pressed together.

Dex helped you back onto your feet with hands that weren’t quite steady, then kissed you so deeply you tasted the restraint he had forced himself to keep.

“Bed,” he murmured against your mouth.

Number three on the list was taking you from behind, of course. 

He turned you toward the bed with hands that were still shaking his mouth at your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear. 

He moved slowly at first, because even like this, rough and ruined and half-mad with missing you, Dex was still Dex. He still listened to every breath, every shift of your body, every little sound that told him whether you were overwhelmed or wanting more. The stretch of him made your hands fist in the sheet, your body tensing around the sheer shock of having him again after so long without. His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Breathe,” he rasped. “I’ve got you.”

He took his time even though you could feel restraint burning through him. The way he cursed softly against your skin when you finally relaxed into him, when your body remembered him properly and pulled him closer.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking. “You’re so—”

He cut himself off with his mouth against your shoulder, like the words were too much, like saying them would make him less controlled than he already was.

Then he started moving. God, he hadn’t forgotten you, so of course you were loud almost immediately.

The first sound broke out of you before you could stop it, your whole face burning. Dex’s hand tightened at your hip, and the next lewd mewl came worse. He made a low sound behind you, smug and satisfied in a way that made heat crawl up your spine.

You bit down on your own wrist, trying to muffle yourself.

His hand slid up your body and gently pulled your arm away. “No,” he said, voice rough. “I waited three years to hear you.”

Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”

“Let me hear you.”

And then he made sure you did.

He got rougher, hungrier. His body covered yours, his mouth dragging over your neck while his hands held you exactly where he wanted you. The bed creaked under you. The sheet twisted beneath your fists. Your voice filled the room because he kept pulling it out of you, again and again.

At some point, there was a knock on the dorm but unfortunately Dex did not have enough self control to stop.

You looked over your shoulder, cheek pressed flush into the sheets.

The little window opened and a guard looked in. They were worried, you realised. You had been so fucking loud.

The humiliation should have swallowed you whole. Instead, your stomach flipped.

“You okay?” the guard called. 

You could barely speak. “Hmmph, Y-yes!” you managed.

Dex’s hand slid over your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.

The guard moved away when he realised what he was seeing, face red.

The second the shadow disappeared, Dex’s mouth was at your ear. “You liked that.”

You shivered.

“You liked him checking,” he murmured, darker now. “Liked him hearing what I do to you.”

You should have denied it, but you could not bring yourself to lie, Dex made a rough, broken sound against your neck and moved again, deeper into the heat, rougher now because he was jealous, because some stranger had seen even a glimpse of your face like that and Dex couldn’t stand it. He kissed your shoulder hard and held you like he could erase the guard’s eyes from the room by making you forget anything existed except him.

“Mine,” he breathed. 

You answered with his name, exactly how he wanted it.

Number four on the list started with him denying you an orgasm.

That was how you knew prison had changed him.The old Dex, the one who melted when you praised him, the one who went doe-eyed and obedient under your hands, had been buried under three of whatever this was.

Dex flipped you over before you could come undone.

Your gasp broke against his mouth as your back hit the narrow mattress, the white sheet twisted beneath you, your body sore in the best, most aching way. You were already too close and he knew it. Of course he knew it. He knew your body like he had studied it for a test he refused to fail.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

You made a helpless little sound, half protest, half plea. Dex’s hand slid up your waist, and he was inside you again in no time. 

Oh. you realised, he wanted to look at you when you came. That was all. So sweet. So cute. 

But then you felt him twitch, and you realised that he was close before he did. Or maybe he knew, and he was just too far gone to care about anything else.

“Dex—” Your voice caught. “Dex, I’m not— fuck, I’m not on birth control.”

He didn’t stop completely. His whole body stuttered above yours, rhythm faltering, breath punching out of him like you had hit him in the chest.

“Hmph—fuck.” His forehead dropped against yours. “I know.”

Your eyes snapped open. “You know?”

His hand slid over your stomach, possessive, and the sound that left him was almost pained.

“I know,” he said again, rougher. “I know, baby.”

The words should have sobered you, but you loved him, and you loved that he was still above you, still shaking, still so close you could feel every tremor of restraint tearing through him.

“Dex,” you gasped.

“I thought about it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Every night.”

Your body went hot. His hand pressed a little firmer over your stomach, not forcing, just holding there like the thought had been living in him for years.

“You in our apartment,” he murmured, words breaking between breathless little sounds. “My wife, wearing my old shirts. Sleeping alone. Fighting for me. Sitting across from lawyers and doctors while I sit in a– hmmphh— a fuckin’ box.”

“Baby—”

“And all I could think was… fuck—all I could think was I should have left you something.”

Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.

A baby, he meant.

A living tether. Something that would tie you to him in a way no prison door, no court order, no transfer file could undo. And sure, if you were going to leave him, you would have done it already. No court in the world would blame you for divorcing a killer. No friend, no family member, no sane person would call you cruel for walking away.

But you stayed. And fuck, somehow, staying was still not enough for Dex. He needed proof that some part of him could still belong to you permanently. 

In his mind, twisted and tender as it was, this was not a trap. It was a gift.

His eyes locked on yours, blown dark and terrifyingly attentive even through the haze.

His mouth was against yours, then your jaw, then your throat, never settling anywhere long enough to be gentle. He kept touching you like he could not decide what he needed more: your face, your waist, your hips, the heat of your body. 

“You feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked as you squeezed him a little. “How bad you want it?”

You did want it, but you could barely answer. Every breath came out wrong, caught somewhere between a moan and his name. Your thoughts had gone useless, scattered apart by the obscene tenderness of his palm resting low and possessive like he was already imagining the seed taking root there.

“Dex—” you sighed, trying to bury your face in his ned

“No, baby.” His mouth brushed your ear, rough and hot, as he pulled your hair back gently to look into your eyes. “Don’t get… shit— shy now. Not after that. N-not after the sounds you’ve been making ‘f me.”

Your face burned, but your hands only tightened on him.

His voice dropped lower, filthier, the words breaking between harsh breaths. “My pretty girl wants something from me, huh?”

Your whole body went hot.

Dex’s palm pressed a little firmer over your stomach. “S-she wants me to leave her with something.” His breath hitched, and for a second his voice almost failed him. “Wants to walk out of here carrying more than m-my… hmm— fingerprints.”

You made a helpless sound.

“There it is,” he murmured. “You like that, fuck! You like thinking about it.”

“Dex-please—”

“Yeah?” His mouth found yours, messy and desperate, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his face flushed, his control hanging by a thread he was clearly ready to let snap. “My pretty girl wants my baby, huh?”

Your breath caught so hard it hurt.

Dex saw it the way your body answered before your mouth could.

His face changed, hunger folding into something sickly sweet, almost tender in the worst possible way. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You do.”

Your eyes stung.

You hated and loved how well he knew you all the same.

“Wants something of mine when they t-take me back,” he breathed, mouth dragging along your cheek. “Something they c-can’t put in a cell. Something that— hnghhh — still has me in it.”

You were shaking now, overwhelmed and aching and so far gone that language felt like a thing happening on another planet. Dex was talking to you like he knew exactly where every dark little want lived under your skin, like he had spent three years locked away with nothing but the memory of you and all the ways he wanted to make himself permanent.

“Say it,” he murmured.

You couldn’t, not properly. Dex’s eyes darkened further.

“C-can’t even talk,” he whispered. “That’s okay. I know you.” His thumb moved slowly over your skin. “I know what my wife wants.”

Your breath broke.

His forehead pressed to yours, and for one second, under all that hunger, he was shaking with the effort to hold himself back.

“But you gotta tell me,” he said, voice raw. “Tell me no and I’ll stop.”

The restraint from him was phenomenal. Your hands slid up to his face, holding him there, forcing him to look at you while you gave him the answer.

“D-don’t you fucking dare stop,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed it again, like one yes was not enough to survive on.

“Yes–Fuck! Yes, baby.”

His mouth crashed back to yours, swallowing the rest of your answer, and the room disappeared into heat and the terrible intimacy of choosing this with him. His hand stayed over your stomach the whole time, almost reverent, like the fantasy had become real the second you let him have it.

He kept talking against your mouth, the words coming apart as badly as he was.

How good you were. How much he had missed you. How he had thought about you every night. How he wanted to leave something behind. How you would be going home with him in a way no guard could take from you.

You clung to him through it, nails catching on his shoulders, then his back, then the scar along his spine. Dex shuddered when you touched it, a broken sound leaving him before he buried his face against your neck and held you closer, closer, closer, like he could press three lost years into the space between your bodies and make them disappear.

When he finally came with you, he did it with your name on his mouth and his eyes fixed on yours, like he needed you to see every second of what he was giving you.

His forehead dropped to yours afterward, both of you breathing too hard.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The guards outside were silent. The room was wrecked in small damning ways: twisted sheets, scattered clothes, your blouse half on the floor, the black lace halfway off the bed.  

Dex kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.“I missed you,” he whispered, and this time it sounded almost broken.

You closed your eyes and held him there. “I missed you, too.”

—

The knock came fifteen minutes later, and you hated it. “Poindexter,” a guard called, “Time.”

Dex was still against you, face buried in your neck, one arm locked around your waist like pretending not to hear it might make the door stay shut. For a second, neither of you moved. His breathing was still uneven against your skin, and your fingers were still in his hair, and the narrow bed beneath you looked absolutely ruined.

Another knock. You touched the back of his neck. “Baby.”

“I know.”

He didn’t sound like he knew. He sounded like leaving you there might kill him.

You both moved in a rush after that, half-dressed and breathless, trying to put yourselves back together before the guards came in. The sheet was twisted. Your skirt was crooked. Your blouse was missing buttons because Dex had been too impatient, so you had to clutch the fabric closed with both hands while smiling like an idiot anyway.

Then the guards stepped in. One of them looked at the bed, then at you, then at Dex. His face went carefully blank.

“Hands,” he said.

You stepped forward before Dex could turn around.

The guard sighed. “Ma’am—”

“One second,” you said.

Dex bent instantly, like he had been waiting for permission. You kissed him once. Then again. Then to his nose, because one kiss was not enough and never would be.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He looked like he might cry. “I love you, too”

Then they cuffed him.

You hated the sound of metal around his wrists. It meant the world taking him back. At the door, Dex looked over his shoulder, and you stood there still holding your blouse together, still smiling, still ruined.

The guard muttered, “Filthy animals,” as they disappeared into the hall.

Then you heard Dex chuckle, low and rough and proud. Like being filthy with you was the best thing anyone had ever called him.

You stood there for a second, and then you laughed under your breath, too.

Because you loved it. You loved being disgusting with him. Loved that the room looked wrecked. Loved that the guards knew. Loved that Dex would carry that insult back to his cell like a compliment, and that you would go home with the same stupid, shameless pride in your chest.

Filthy animals.

Yeah. You smiled to yourself, still holding your blouse together. Maybe you were.

—

You were pregnant.

You found out before the transfer, while Dex was still in prison, still waiting to be moved to the secure psychiatric facility you had spent three years fighting for. For three days, you carried the secret around yourself like a forcefield. You went to work, answered emails, helped patrons at the public library. You smiled politely at everyone while your whole body felt like it had become a locked room with a miracle inside.

When you told Dex, he knew something was different before you even sat down. His eyes went to your face, then your hands, then the way you kept pressing your palm nervously against your stomach. “What happened?”

You laughed once, shaky and soft. “Nothing bad.”

Dex didn’t relax, so you reached across the table and took his hand as much as the cuffs allowed. His fingers closed around yours immediately. “I’m pregnant.” For a second, it was like the whole visiting room lost sound. Then his eyes dropped to your stomach. “What?”

You smiled through the tears already coming. “I’m pregnant, baby.”

The chair scraped back before the guard could stop him.

Dex moved toward you on instinct, cuffed hands reaching for your face, not violent, not thinking, just desperate to touch. The chain between his wrists caught on the edge of the table, but he barely seemed to feel it. His palms found your cheeks, and then he was kissing you across the table like the whole room had disappeared.

“Poindexter,” the guard snapped.

Dex didn't hear him. Or he did, and for one dangerous second, he didn’t care.

You kissed him back, crying into his mouth, fingers gripping the front of his prison shirt because this was your husband, your baby’s father, and he was making this broken sound against your lips.

Another guard came over. “Back. Now.”

They had to pull you apart. Actually pull you apart.

They had one hand on Dex’s shoulder, another on his arm, dragging him back while his cuffed hands strained toward you and yours reached for him across the table. His eyes stayed locked on your face the whole time amazed and almost frightened by the size of what he felt.

The transfer happened not long after.

The institution was better than solitary. You reminded yourself of that every day. He had doctors now. Treatments, structure. He was not locked alone in a box anymore.

But he still was not free. He wasn’t there when your stomach first started to show, but the institution had better visitation rules than the prison, and the first time you came in visibly pregnant, Dex was allowed to touch you. His hand settled over the curve of your stomach so carefully it made your throat ache, like he was afraid the smallest wrong movement might cost him the privilege.

He wasn’t there when the baby kicked for the first time either, but later, during one of those visits, the baby kicked beneath Dex’s palm. Dex went completely still, eyes dropping to your stomach.

Still, he wasn’t there for the smaller, lonelier things. He wasn’t beside you in the maternity shop when you cried because nothing fit right and you wanted him there so badly it hurt. He should have been there making some too-serious comment about proper shoes, back support, and whether the changing room bench was structurally safe enough for you to sit on.

But even then, you told him everything. Every appointment. Every craving. Every scan. Every tiny development you could turn into words and carry to him.

Then Leonard was born. Leo, for short, named for his father.

Dex wasn’t allowed to be there.

That hurt him in a way he didn’t know how to hide. You didn’t know this, but one of the nurses told you he had become erratic after the call came through that you were in labour. Not violent, but frantic, pacing, asking the same questions over and over, trying to negotiate with people who had no authority to give him what he wanted. By the end of it, they had to force a couple pills down his throat so he could just calm down.

So when you finally called, exhausted and crying, with your son against your chest, the silence on the other end felt too careful.

“He’s here,” you whispered. “He’s here, baby.”

Dex didn’t answer right away. For a moment, all you could hear was his breathing, thin and controlled, like he was holding himself together by force. Then, very carefully, he asked, "Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes.”

You could almost picture him sitting there, hand curled too tightly around the phone, trying to make himself calm enough to deserve hearing this.

“Tell me,” he said.

You told him Leo had blonde hair. You looked down at the baby curled against you, tiny and furious, with pale hair against his head and features that already made your chest ache because there was no denying whose child he was.

“He looks like you,” you whispered.

Dex didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice sounded stripped bare.

“He does?”

“Yeah, baby.” You smiled through tears, touching Leo’s tiny cheek. “He looks like his father.”

Still, after weeks, then months, then years of hearing about Leo through you, Dex began to know him in fragments.

Children were not allowed inside the institution, so Leo had never met his father. Dex knew him through the stories you told him in visitation rooms, through the photographs you were allowed to bring, through the change in your voice whenever you said his name. You gave him a picture of Leo asleep with one fist tucked under his cheek. Leo with blond hair and your eyes. Leo scowling at the camera in a way that looked so much like Dex it made him go silent the first time he saw it.

But he didn’t love Leo properly yet. How could he? He had never held him. Never felt the weight of him against his chest. Never smelled his skin, never rocked him through a cry, never watched him fall asleep in his arms. Leo was still partly an idea to him, a child made real through your love before Dex could reach him with his own.

But he loved Leo, in a way, because you loved him.

That was easier. You loved that baby, so Leo mattered. Your face relaxed when you spoke about him, so Dex learned to relax around the sound of his name too. And somewhere in the darkest, neediest part of him, he thought he owed Leo his life because he made you stay.

Leo was Dex’s gift to you, because he didn’t want you to be alone. 

So Dex loved Leo in the only way he knew how at first: because Leo was yours, because Leo was his, because Leo looked like him, and because Leo kept a piece of him in your life while the rest of him was locked away. He loved him for your sake, before he knew how to love him for his own.

—

Leo was three years old when Vanessa Fisk made Dex kill Foggy Nelson.

He was three, serious-eyed, stubborn in the exact way that made your mother sigh and say, “That’s probably his father,” under her breath. Leo had Dex’s watchful stare, Dex’s unnerving ability to go quiet when he was thinking too hard. But he was still a toddler, so the quiet never lasted long. One minute he would be silently studying the wheels of a toy truck like he was investigating a crime scene, and the next he would be shrieking because his banana had “broken wrong.”

He loved dinosaurs, but only “scary ones.” He refused to wear socks that had seams in the wrong place. He called the moon “the night light” and cried once because you explained he couldn’t take it home. He had Dex’s face in miniature and your habit of talking to himself while concentrating, which meant you spent most mornings watching your tiny blond child line up toy animals on the floor and whisper, “No, no, you go there. No, you not listening.”

You were a good mother. You packed snacks. You remembered nursery forms. You cut grapes in half. You kept emergency wipes in every bag you owned. You sang the same bedtime song three times if Leo asked, even when your throat hurt and your body felt hollow from work and worry and loving a man the world had never stopped punishing.

Dex knew all of that through you. Leo liked peas this week. Leo hated peas this week. Leo asked why cats had no eyebrows. Leo threw a shoe at the wall because bedtime was, apparently, “a bad idea.” Leo had asked about Daddy again.

You and Leo had become the one fragile architecture that kept Dex going. Vanessa understood that because Vanessa Fisk understood devotion, even when it was ugly. 

So when she found out about you and Leo, it was over.

She came to Dex with ammo in her metaphorical gun.

This was no way to live, she told him, taking away the meds. Was this what he wanted? To hear about his son in secondhand stories? To let you raise a child alone while other men opened doors for you, helped carry groceries, taught Leo to kick a ball, to ride a bike, to be brave? Raising a child was hard, wasn’t it? You were young. Lonely. Exhausted. Beautiful. How long before someone else started looking less like help and more like a replacement?

Didn’t he want to be a husband? A father? Didn’t he want to come home?

Then, she gave him a photo of you at home, hair tied back, Leo on your hip. How… did she get this photo?

Then she gave him structure: Kill Foggy first. Then he could go to you and Leo.

That was the order of how it went. It was a task, a reward, a way back to the only life he still cared about. And Dex had always been most dangerous when someone took his pain and turned it into a sequence.

So he killed Foggy Nelson. And afterward, when they dragged him back into court, you wanted to see him.

Not because you excused murder. Not because Foggy didn’t matter. But because you were his wife, and you knew that Dex didn’t kill like that out of nowhere.

He wouldn’t simply go on a rampage. He didn’t wake up one day and decide he would burn every bridge that led to you. He loved you too much for that. So you came to the conclusion that someone must've reached into the most frightened part of him, and aimed him again.

You knew that, but the court didn’t care. This time, the court issued an order. It was for your son’s sake, they said. An injunction, no contact. You and Leo were not to be in the same room as Benjamin Poindexter. Not in court, not in visitation, not anywhere a judge could prevent it.

You stood very still when they told you this.

Leo was at home with your mother, probably refusing lunch because the sandwich had been cut into triangles instead of squares.

You didn’t cry. Not when the injunction was read. Not even when Dex was sentenced for the second time. You just listened. Then you got to work.

Because crying would come later, probably in the shower, probably with one hand over your mouth so Leo wouldn’t hear. But right then, there were lawyers to call, motions to file, and records to request. You knew your husband. You knew what manipulation looked like when he was the one pointed like a weapon.

And after court, you went back to Leo. He was sitting on the living room floor in dinosaur pyjamas even though it was the afternoon, blond hair sticking up at the back, one sock on and one sock missing for reasons nobody could explain. He looked up when you came in, toy stegosaurus clutched in one hand.

“Mama,” he said seriously, “Nana said no more crackers.”

You knelt in front of him, your knees cracking with the exhaustion of the day. “Your grandma is probably right.”

Leo frowned like you had betrayed him on a legal level. “I need snacks.”

“You had a snack.”

“I need more snacks.”

“You need dinner.”

He considered that, then lifted the stegosaurus. “Dino needs crackers.”

“Dino can have pretend crackers.”

Leo stared at you with Dex’s eyes. For one awful second, you almost laughed and almost cried at the same time. Instead, you reached out and smoothed his hair down. It sprang back up immediately.

“Daddy has that face too,” you whispered.

Leo blinked. “Daddy?”

You had never lied to him. You told him Daddy was away. Daddy loved him. Daddy couldn’t come home yet. All true, and yet, none of it was enough.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Daddy.”

Leo looked down at his dinosaur, then back at you. “Daddy like dinos?”

You smiled even though your throat hurt. “I think Daddy would like whatever you like.”

Leo nodded, satisfied by that, and shoved the stegosaurus into your lap. “Then Daddy like this one. He bite.”

You held the toy carefully, like it was evidence. “Yeah,” you whispered. “He bite.”

Leo climbed into your lap after that, all knees and elbows, and you wrapped both arms around him. He smelled like shampoo and the strawberry yoghurt he had somehow gotten on his sleeve. He pressed his face into your shoulder for exactly four seconds before wriggling away again because three-year-olds loved affection on their own schedule.

You let him go. You watched him return to his line of dinosaurs, babbling to himself, head bent in concentration.

You opened your notes app and started another list: Lawyer. Injunction appeal. Facility records. Contact restrictions. Dex’s medication logs. Visitor records.

You could be heartbroken later. Right now, you were Leo’s mother. Dex’s wife. And someone had used your family to turn your husband into a weapon again.

And you were going to find out why.

—

A year later, you were watching the news while Leo played on the carpet.

Not watching, really. You were letting it sit on in the background while you moved through the living room with half your attention split into a dozen places at once. Leo’s sippy cup was on the coffee table. His toy dinosaurs were arranged in a careful little line near your foot. There was a basket of laundry on the chair you had been meaning to fold since yesterday, and your laptop sat open on the sofa beside you, full of documents, court filings, old visitor logs, psychiatric reports, and all the research you had been collecting like ammunition.

You had been working for weeks. You had names, dates, transfer notices, facility records, connections that were too neat to be coincidence. You had followed the clues until your stomach turned. Dex was going to be moved into general population, and it was not an administrative error. It was not random. It had the Fisks’ fingerprints all over it, even if she was careful enough never to leave them where a normal person could see.

After all, it hadn’t taken you long to find out about the Red Hook charter. That part had been almost laughably easy. Child’s play, really.

The public library had a stack of old municipal records tucked away in the back, half-forgotten beneath outdated notices and donation forms. Someone had slapped a label on the box years ago — NEEDS TO BE SHREDDED — and then, by some miracle of underfunded bureaucracy, no one ever had.

So you had done the one thing you could think of and sent Matt Murdock an anonymous tip. You didn't give a signature or explanation. It was just enough information to make him look where he needed to look. It was just enough to prove to him that Dex was not acting on his own.

Matt went to see him that morning. You knew because you still had someone inside the prison willing to tell you what the official channels never would. A friend, barely. A contact, more accurately. 

Then, that night, the news broke: Benjamin Poindexter had escaped from prison and attempted to assassinate the mayor.

Your husband’s name was on every channel again. Your husband’s face was dragged back into the world as a threat, a headline, a monster with a body count and no context anyone cared to say out loud.

You stood frozen in the middle of your living room, remote in hand, while the news anchor spoke over footage you could barely process. On the carpet, Leo lifted his plastic stegosaurus and made it bite the sofa cushion.

“Rawr,” he said seriously.

You looked down at him and how completely unaware he was that his father had just broken out of prison and tried to kill a man.

Leo was too busy frowning at the stegosaurus with Dex’s whole face in miniature, pale brows pulled together, mouth pressed into a stern little line. “No,” he told the dinosaur, pushing its plastic nose away from the triceratops. “No bully.”

The stegosaurus apparently disagreed, because Leo made it chomp again. Then he gasped, offended by his own storyline. “No. Bully bad.” He picked up the stegosaurus, turned it toward the triceratops, and shook it gently. “You say sorry.”

You stared at him.

Leo bumped the stegosaurus’s head carefully against the triceratops. “Sowwy,” he said in a deeper voice.

Then he made the triceratops pat the stegosaurus on the head. “Okay. Be kind now.”

Your chest tightened so hard you had to sit down.

Leo looked up. “Mama?”

“I’m okay,” you said too quickly.

He stared at you with your own eyes, unconvinced.

You turned the volume down, but not off. You couldn’t make yourself turn it off. You sat there with Leo at your feet and the whole city falling apart on-screen, trying to understand the sequence. Matt’s visit. The transfer. The Fisks. Dex escaping. The mayor. None of it random. None of it was out of nowhere, and you probably were the one to set this into motion the second you gave the anonymous tip.

“Mama,” Leo said again, holding up a toy. “Dino hungry.”

“Dino is always hungry,” you whispered.

“Need snack.”

“Okay,” you said, because your voice was already too close to breaking and arguing with a four-year-old about a plastic dinosaur felt like the one thing you could actually survive. “Let me check what we have.”

You stood and crossed into the kitchen, still listening to the news. The fridge light came on cold and white across your face. You stared into it without really seeing anything: half a punnet of strawberries, Leo’s yoghurt, and Leftover pasta. A little container of cut grapes.

The news anchor said Dex’s name again. Your hand tightened around the fridge door.

You reached for Leo’s yoghurt, then stopped because he had asked for a snack for the dinosaur, not himself, and for one absurd second that distinction mattered enough to make you laugh under your breath.

Then you realised that Leo was… silent. He wasn’t babbling. He wasn’t talking to his toys. Is he okay?

Worried, you looked back into the living room.

Leo was standing in the middle of the carpet, one dinosaur clutched in his hand, his small body frozen in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

He was waving at the window.

No. Not the window. The fire escape.

Beyond the glass, half-hidden in the dark metal lines of the fire escape, was his father.

Oh.

Little did you know, Dex had already been there for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen whole minutes of being half-hidden in the dark, one hand braced against the cold metal railing while he looked into the life he had only known through your stories. At first, he watched you, moving through the living room with the television flickering against your face, beautiful and alive, one hand absently touching your wedding ring while you tried to hold the world together through the sheer refusal to give up on him.

But when his eyes found Leo, Dex forgot how to breathe.

He knew what his son looked like from photographs. He knew he had blond hair, serious eyes, and that little frown you always said was his. But seeing Leo in person was different. It was jarring, how much he actually looked like him. Leo was now a real person to Dex, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in dinosaur pyjamas, scolding a plastic stegosaurus for biting another toy.

Dex watched Leo make the dinosaur apologise. He watched Leo say that bullying was bad. He watched his son choose kindness with no one guiding him toward it.

Oh. Leo looked like him, but he was good in a way Dex had never been able to be without help. Dex had always needed a North Star, someone outside him to point toward right when his own internal compass spun uselessly in the dark. He would always need you that way, always look to you when the world blurred at the edges and everything started to feel lost.

But Leo did not need a North Star. Leo had one inside him. Leo had a functioning moral compass in a tiny body with Dex’s face and your kindness. Dex’s focus, but not his emptiness. Dex’s intensity, but not his fracture. Dex, if someone had loved him correctly from the start.

And that was when Dex understood that he loved him. And not in the distant, complicated love he had forced himself to. Not just because Leo was yours, or because Leo was his, or because Leo had kept you tethered to him while the rest of the world tried to take him away.

Now, he loved Leo because Leo was a good version of him. Because protecting Leo suddenly felt a lot like self-preservation. Like if Dex could keep this child safe, if he could make sure the world never reached into Leo and broke the compass before it had a chance to grow, then maybe some part of himself could be saved too.

Then Leo noticed him.

Dex saw the exact second it happened. Leo’s head turned, eyes lifting past the kitchen table, past the window, to the dark shape crouched on the fire escape.

For one breathless second, Dex couldn't move. He had been caught. Not by the police. Not by guards. Not by Daredevil. By a four-year-old boy. 

Leo didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. Of course not. He was your son, too. He was brave, like you. 

He only blinked, then lifted one small hand and waved.

Because Dex didn't want to scare him, because he did not know how fathers were supposed to wave at sons they had never held, Dex lifted his hand and waved back.

That was when you noticed.

And fuck, he couldn’t wait to be in your arms again.

The second you got the window open, Dex came through it, one hand catching the frame, the other already reaching for you. The sniper rifle was still strapped across his back, cold against the warmth of your apartment.

You barely had time to say his name before his hands were on you.

He pulled you into him so quickly your feet left the floor, spinning you half across the living room with a strength that startled a laugh out of you before it broke into a sob. His arms locked around your waist, your hands flew to his shoulders, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was clumsy in the way only grief and longing could be clumsy. He kissed you like every locked door, every court order, every year stolen from you both had narrowed into this one second.

He tasted like blood and rain.His lip was split. One of his teeth was missing. There were stitches along his forehead and dirt at the edge of his chin, but he was here. Your husband was in your living room with his body against yours and his hands on your back like he was trying to convince himself you were not another trick his mind played against him.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his mouth.

Dex made a broken sound and kissed you again. “I missed you.”

“No, baby,” you whispered, laughing and crying at the same time as you pressed kisses to his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his cheekbones, the scar you’ve yet to trace there. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

His forehead dropped to yours. For a second, he just held you there, eyes closed, breathing you in like he had forgotten the world. His fingers moved at your waist, not quite gripping, not quite letting go, that old helpless need in him trying so hard to be gentle and failing only because there was too much feeling in one body.

Then a small voice behind you said, “Mama?”

It went through him all at once, the way a person remembered fire after touching a flame. His hands stayed on you, but his whole body locked up, breath caught, eyes opening with a kind of fear you had never seen in him. 

Because no, Benjamin Poindexter had no defence against a four-year-old boy in dinosaur pyjamas.

Slowly, you turned in his arms to see Leo stood in the middle of the carpet with one sock missing and his stegosaurus tucked under one arm. His round little face was serious, sleepy, and curious. He looked much like Dex, it made your chest hurt, but he was smaller, untouched by every cruel thing that had made his father into a weapon.

“Mama,” Leo asked, pointing the dinosaur toward Dex, “who’s this?”

Dex’s breath hitched, you felt it under your palm.

For a moment, you couldn’t answer. You had imagined this introduction a hundred different ways over the years. Maybe in a supervised visitation room. Or through a phone call. Maybe one day in some future where paperwork finally gave way and Leo was old enough to understand more than he should have to. You had not imagined Dex standing in your apartment with a rifle on his back, blood at his mouth, wanted by half the city, looking down at his son like the universe had placed his missing pieces in a boy that looked like a mirror.

You swallowed.“Leo,” you said softly, voice shaking. “This is Daddy.”

Dex inhaled like the word had gone straight through him.

Leo blinked up at him. “Hi daddy,” he repeated, testing the shape of it.

Dex was still trying to keep himself held together with force and habit and whatever discipline had survived. But a foreign emotion moved across him as you felt your own eyes fill again.

“Hi, Leo,” he whispered. His voice was wrecked.

Leo studied him with the grave suspicion of a child encountering an adult who looked both interesting and badly assembled. His eyes moved over Dex’s face. Then his little brows pulled together.

“Your teeth is missing,” Leo said.

You made a small sound, half laugh, half sob.

Dex blinked at him. “What?”

Leo took one step closer, stegosaurus still tucked under his arm like backup. “Your teeth is missing. Are you okay?”

And that was what broke him.

Not the years he had lost. Not even the word Daddy, though that had nearly taken his knees out. It was the concern in his son’s voice, the immediate, unprompted softness. The way Leo saw something wrong and, instead of flinching from him, asked if he was okay.

Dex lowered himself slowly to one knee, as if sudden movement might shatter the moment.

The rifle shifted against his back, so violently out of place beside your son’s little bare foot on the carpet. Dex seemed to realise it too. His hand moved as if to take it off, then stopped, uncertain, afraid to do anything too fast with Leo so close.

“I’m okay,” Dex said carefully.

Leo looked unconvinced. “Mama has plasters.”

Dex looked up at you.Your hand went to your mouth, and you cried properly then, because Leo had no idea what he was offering. No idea that his father had come through the window carrying a weapon and a history no child should have to understand. No idea that asking about a missing tooth and suggesting a plaster was the kindest thing anyone had said to Dex all year.

Dex looked back at him, and saw a person. A tiny person with Dex’s hair and Dex’s nose and Dex’s mouth, but he was human, in the way he never was. He was kind.

Leo was everything Dex had wanted to be and never knew how. Leo was a good version of him.

For the first time in Dex’s life, he looked at someone smaller than him and thought, with stunned humility, that he might have something to learn.

From his son, his better self.

Leo tilted his head. “You want Dino?”

Dex looked at the stegosaurus like it was sacred.

Then he held out both hands, slowly, carefully, letting Leo decide.

Leo stepped closer and placed the dinosaur into his palms.

Dex took it as if it weighed more than the rifle on his back. As if this battered little plastic toy had more power to undo him than any weapon ever made.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Leo nodded, satisfied by the manners, then moved closer. His small hand lifted and patted Dex’s cheek, not quite where the scar was, gentle in the imprecise way of toddlers trying their best.

Dex’s eyes snapped to yours. There was panic there. Wonder. A silent, helpless question: What do I do?

You sank down beside them, one hand on Leo’s back, the other reaching for Dex’s face.  “You’re doing okay,” you whispered.

Leo patted him again, then leaned forward and, with the sudden trust only children could offer, pressed himself into Dex’s chest.

Dex stopped breathing. Then, slowly, so slowly it made your heart ache, his arms came around your son.

Leo fit against him like he had always belonged there, his same-colored hair tucked beneath Dex’s chin. Dex held him as if the whole room might punish him for wanting it too much, as if any wrong movement would prove he didn;t deserve this.

You watched his hand spread carefully over Leo’s back. The same hand that had hurt people. The same hand that had held weapons. That same hand that now shook from the effort of touching his son gently enough.

Leo looked up from Dex’s chest. “Are you cold?”

Dex swallowed. “A little.”

Leo considered that, then turned to you. “Mama, Daddy need blanket.”

You laughed through tears. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Maybe he does.”

Dex closed his eyes.

His face bent toward Leo’s hair, and for a second he didn’t quite kiss him, He only breathed there, close enough to smell the child he had made and never held. Shampoo. Crackers. Life. His son smelled like life.

When Dex opened his eyes again, they were wet. He looked at you over Leo’s head, and the room seemed to fold around the three of you. 

“I missed everything,” he whispered.

You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his shoulder, one hand covering his where it rested on Leo’s back. “You’re here now.”

It was not enough, you both knew that. It was nowhere near enough.

But Leo wriggled in Dex’s arms and said, “Daddy, Dino hungry,” with the complete seriousness of a child who had accepted this new adult into his world and immediately assigned him responsibilities.

Dex looked down at him. Then at the dinosaur. Then back at you, for instruction. You tilted your chin like, go on.

“What does Dino eat?” he managed.

Leo gasped, scandalised that his own father didn’t know. “Crackers.”

Dex looked at you, and you nodded, so he also nodded, “Okay.”

Dex knew now that he was meant to love Leo because Leo was his second chance in miniature. 

And Leo had no idea his father would burn the world to keep him safe. Because in the end, that's what makes him a good man, right?

—end.

Extra note : I keep getting distracted from my Dex x reader / ex!Bucky fic, but I promise it’s on its way. In the meantime, my immediate thought after writing this is a sequel where Reader and Dex finds out Leo has powers (is a mutant) and that’s why Dex starts killing anti-vigilante task force. Because he wants to protect his son. (No promises, but let me know if anyone’s interested!)

Even before the knocking fell silent, regret crept upon Jud. This was a mistake.

The storm tore at your cottage's ivy, rattling the closed shutters as it did his soul. The weather a physical manifestation of Jud's inner state.

He shouldn't be here, especially not now, but he had to. All those loose ends, too many things he regretted, and punishments, not just divine, but legal, that would eventually catch up to him. If he didn't confess to you now, reveal himself of his own free will, he would never forgive himself. He had to gaze into your eyes one last time, drown forever in this memory of you, before the waves carrying uncertain consequences of his actions would come crashing down and rip him away.

That was the only truth his overwhelmed mind managed to grasp, the faint ray from a lighthouse guiding the ship of his spirit to safe shores.

Jud had followed this light, this goal, through the forest to your house, before he could even fully comprehend what he was doing. When the heavy rain drenched his clothes, painting them blacker than the night sky above him, and the blood clung to his hands, still wet and fresh.

He had killed Samson.

Over and over again, Jud retraced the events of the last hour, trying to piece them together into a logical sequence. The thoughts a constant mantra, following the rhythm of his shaky footsteps through the undergrowth.

The investigation with Blanc had developed into a distraction from his actual duty. Jud had to return to his roots and therefore rushed back to the rectory after closing the church, with a plan in his head and a note from his bedside drawer before his mind's eye. On the way, he had stopped at Sam's garage, caught by a sudden flash of light, and watched as Wicks - formerly a corpse, now a living man - strode out of his tomb toward Sam.

He had followed them. Wicks had knocked him unconscious with a jab.

When Jud had regained consciousness, he had lunged at Wicks with a knife.

Then darkness.

When Jud reopened his eyes, he had found himself holding the sickle. The sickle stuck in Sam's chest. Blood stained.

Jud had killed Sam.

It was the only logical conclusion.

But no matter how often he repeated these events, replaying them in his head, everything blurred into a haze of anger, fear, confusion, grief, remorse, and helplessness. What was imagination, what reality? Cold water seeping through his clothes, running down his skin, blood on his hands, heartbeat drumming loud in his ears. A deer fleeing from a hunter's shot or a wolf relentlessly hunting its prey?

Was Jud the wolf or was it the world? No, the world had been shifted a few degrees by God's hand at the beginning of the week, and now the Lord had turned it completely upside down, making it a bizarre mirror of itself. Nothing made sense anymore. So Jud went back even further in his mind, trying to piece the events of the last few days together into a logical sequence. The thoughts a constant mantra, following the rhythm of his swift footsteps through the undergrowth.

On Black Saturday: interrogations, all day long, until Geraldine's compassion overcame her ambition to solve this case as soon as possible, and she dismissed Jud with a well-intentioned warning.

A warning he was so foolish to disregard. When he turned on his phone for mere two minutes, a flood of messages for the Killer Priest swept over him. Hatred, contempt, and spite spilled out of the display in an endless stream of black pixels. But amid the deluge, a dove with an olive branch in its beak, a ray of light in the darkness. Jud immediately recognized your number among the sea of digits. A shabby gratitude flared up in him because his new number - which he had gotten after breaking off contact with you (a precaution on his part) - now concealed his identity.

He tapped on the chat. Two new messages. The first from Friday afternoon, the second just a few minutes old.

Thank you for getting me home safely last night. I'm so embarrassed by how I acted and I hope I didn't cause you any more trouble! Please tell me how I can make it up to you, another priest condemning me would be too much. Even for a harlot like me. (Btw, this is “Lilith” - Martha gave me your number)

I wasn't sure whether to text you, but I heard about Wicks' murder yesterday and Geraldine told me you're the prime suspect? I'm not certain what's going on, but I do know what it's like when people here gossip…can spread like wildfire. I'm sorry you're going through this. Don't know if this is appropriate, but if you need a place to relax for a few hours or want to talk to someone, my house is always open to you.

An offer that tasted bittersweet. For when Jud's feet inevitably carried him to you, the only place where he felt safe, longing to feel the warmth and peace that this message and your mere presence promised, they remained rooted at your property line, unable to pass through the iron garden gate. The sight of your cozy cottage, nestled between the trees and bushes, golden light gleaming from the kitchen window, only reminded him painfully of another terrible mistake, driving him yet into another crisis of faith.

His desire to remain near you had led to the violation of his vows and your feelings, not to mention a risky masquerade. Had you not shown him during your confession how he had broken his own principles? And now Wicks' mysterious, sudden death. Had he not broken his principles again by allowing the anger he felt towards the old man entrance into his heart?

You, Wicks, the lies, the hatred. A test of faith or rather a punishment for his previous transgressions?

On Easter Sunday, therefore: praying. In the woods, all night long, until he threw himself before the altar at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude in despair, begging Christ to show him the right path, and He promptly sent him Benoit Blanc.

The chaos surrounding the detective's arrival was so extensive that Jud was surprised he even managed to write down the events leading up to Sunday night within an hour. On that day, he thought of you only once, when he decided to omit your role for his life in Chimney Rock, to keep the lie to himself because it had no bearing on the investigation, unlike his soul's peace.

The most important thing was this: Wicks was definitely dead. Jud had seen his corps with his own eyes and almost vomited at the sight of the white, lifeless body. Any doubt about this was out of the question. Jud kept reminding himself of this fact as he fled through the forest, the trees above him swaying furiously.

And finally, Monday, today: Wick's funeral. The mood had been subdued, strange - not the kind of quiet grief or tearful affection Jud experienced at other burials. An indefinable tension had hung in the air, one he was almost inclined to describe as underlying hostility, thinking it was directed at him. He didn't get any further in his deliberations, because as he carried the coffin out to the tomb alongside Dr. Nat, Cy, and Lee, you suddenly stood in the middle of the mourning congregation. Dressed entirely in black, yet not one of the vibrant flowers nearby could compete with you.

You had arrived belatedly, but considering your troubled relationship with the Monsignor, no one had expected you to attend, least of all Jud. He hadn't seen you since he had tried to confess on your kitchen floor and instead had nearly buried his head in your lap. Which he later indulged in the most sinful manner in his dream. The memory resurfaced at the worst possible moment, and if he could, Jud would have gladly sealed himself in the tomb with Wicks‘ corpse to bury this shame.

Mary, Mother of Mercy, pray for us.

When he stepped outside again, his gaze flew back to you against his own will. You stood next to Martha under the trees, protectively wrapping an arm around her petite frame. Surprisingly, she did not resist. On the contrary, she listened to the words you spoke to her, turned to you, her gaze open and vulnerable, her hand clinging to your arm seeking support.

Suddenly Jud understood why you were here. You did it for Martha because you had sensed that she would need you. The girl who did not yet bear the name Lilith, whom she now saw again without Wicks‘ doctrine in her heart, occupied by grief. Although he knew better, with Blanc's observant eyes on his neck, he watched you, driven by the desire to grasp even a tiny bit of the warmth you bestowed on Martha.

He needed it too, needed you.

“Sorry about your loss, Father. Here, sign on the bottom.”

One of the construction workers approached him with a clipboard, pulling Jud's attention away from you. He quickly scribbled his signature on the paper, his eyes repeatedly flitting back to you, his thoughts lingering on your conversation with Martha, which seemed to have come to an end. You gently squeezed her arm, she nodded, clutching her handkerchief, and scurried away. Your gaze met Jud's.

But the construction worker interrupted again.

“Listen, between you and me,” he said, leaning in a little closer, “I don't care what the internet says, I think there's a chance you didn't do it.”

“Very comforting words. Thank you, James,” your voice rang out behind Jud, your tone tinged with a sharp edge of sarcasm.

In the brief second it took him to swallow the awkward expression of sympathy and tear off the carbon copy in one swift motion, you had joined the small group. James gave you a friendly nod and left. Blanc inspected you with keen interest from behind his sunglasses. Jud broke out in a cold sweat, the spring breeze doing nothing to ease his tension.

“Nice to see you,” he blurted out.

Blanc slightly raised an eyebrow, a facial slip revealing his growing curiosity. Frustrated with himself, Jud bit his tongue.

“I mean, um - I'm surprised to see you. I didn't think that, uh, that you would come.”

“Well, I'm not here for him,” you said, glancing coldly at the now-sealed tomb.

Right, you were here for Martha.

Then your gaze met Jud's, softening again, gentle as it had been with her. His fingers clutched the copy, the last remnant of poise melting away.

“How are you, Father?”

Blanc glanced from you to Jud. Probably because he was just as eager to hear how Jud would address that question. Just a polite platitude to brush you off, or an honest answer that would reveal something about the nature of your relationship? Unfortunately, he himself would have liked to know as much as you both what words his overworked brain would string together. His spirit yearned for the latter, but his mind, sharpened under Blanc's sharp eyes, argued for the former.

”Given the circumstances, I’m doing alright. Thank you.”

The polite platitude.

Jud could tell from your face that you didn't believe his lie, and he wondered how it was possible for you to read him so easily, even though you believed him to be a stranger. Perhaps it made no difference when one had delved so deeply into a person's soul, as you had into his. You may not recognize his outward appearance, but you could still see right into his heart.

“You know, Father,” you said, studying him intently, “even if James expressed himself poorly, he’s still got a point. Right now, there’s only circumstantial evidence, your guilt hasn’t been confirmed. So if you’re innocent, there’s still a chance to prove it.”

The wind rose, as if to agree with you. As always, you had managed to pull a string within Jud, to lead him, to spark a thought. You (and James) were right: his guilt had not yet been proven, there was still hope for clearing up this whole situation. For solving the murder.

An energy he had thought lost in recent days returned to Jud's body. If Blanc could solve this mystery with his help, he would be acquitted and finally free to confess to you, to cast off all past burdens, cleanse his conscience of everything. First the murder, then the lie. A plan took shape in his mind.

Jud stormed into the rectory, the carbon copy still in his fist.

“All right, everyone. Listen up,“ he said, all eyes turning to him. “Here‘s what‘s gonna happen: Benoit fricken‘ Blanc and I are gonna ask you all some questions, and you‘ll answer them and we‘ll get to the bottom of who killed Monsignor Wicks and why and then -“

I'll tell her the truth.

“- that‘s it.“

But the execution of this plan would have to take a few detours. The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps. Still, Jud would have appreciated at least a vague indication as to where the Lord was leading him. The confrontation of the flock had provided new insights, but raised a lot more questions. Questions whose answering Jud entrusted to Blanc, for while he was on the phone with Louise, another revelation came to him.

Road to Damascus.

Proving his innocence did not inherently demand that he make it his utmost priority. He had once again betrayed his principles and placed himself above his duty, prioritizing this case over his actual responsibilities. Perhaps it wasn't Jud's role to solve Wicks' murder, but instead to simply follow his calling, show faith in God, and atone in whatever way he could. Blanc should finish his game without him, hunt down the killer. Jud would return to his duties as priest of this parish, serving the people who needed him now more than ever, regardless of their opinion about him.

An act of penance immediately came to mind, one he could carry out right away. Something Jud had been putting off for far too long, making up flimsy excuses that weighed on his conscience as a clergyman. He would secure Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude against the storm, return to the rectory, and fetch the note with his confession for you from the drawer in his bedside table. Due to the weather and time, you would surely be at home like everyone else.

The deceit would end tonight, and Jud would regain his sense of self.

But the piece of paper remained tucked away in the drawer, because when he returned to the rectory, Jud became witness to a miracle, that felt like a calamity to him. The Lazarus door burst open before his eyes, leaving his mind as shattered as the heavy concrete.

Wicks had risen.

And Jud had killed Samson.

Startled by Blanc's voice and haunted by Wicks's face, taking shape in the sharp lightning that lit up the night, Jud fled deeper into the forest. He bolted through the undergrowth as the storm raged above his head, the world furious about its own injustice.

Or maybe it was justice. Whatever had happened to Monsignor Wicks, Jud had wished death upon the old man. With Sam's murder, there was no hiding behind the possibility of his innocence, the mystery of the crime. The rightful punishment would find the sinner.

Breathless, he stopped at a tree, the cold air burning his lungs, blood pumping hot through his veins. The vibration of an incoming call in his pocket nearly froze it forever.

Jud heard what Louise kindly explained to him, but he didn't understand. How could Wicks have ordered the equipment for his own tomb unless he knew he was going to die? His image flashed before Jud again and he fell back into the mud, the blood rushing in his ears and the thunder above him the only things that still felt somewhat real. He could no longer distinguish nightmare from reality, no longer find himself in this forest.

So the last scrap of sanity he could summon led Jud to you. The light shining out of the windows of your cottage, gently wafting through the darkness, his lighthouse in the storm. Whatever had happened in that forest, the consequences would find him sooner or later, but he still had a chance of making good on the plan he had left Blanc for in the church. His earlier intention, something he could cling to while everything else sank into uncertainty.

It was a mistake coming here now, of all times. But it was right to finally come clean. To make amends, as best as he could. To bid you farewell. Basking in the radiance of your presence one last time, before he would have to leave you forever. Jud had taken your confession a few days ago, and now it was time to relieve you of the burden of guilt as well.

Lord, I fear what may be revealed. Give me courage to face what I have done, and the grace to speak with honesty.

The iron knocker in the shape of a dove lay heavy in Jud's hand as he hammered it against the green-painted wood. The dove carrying an olive branch above the deluge. A sign that he might finally be on the right path. The rain pouring down on your roof echoed so loud in his ears, that it took him tremendous effort to focus on the sounds behind your door. All his senses seemed to be on high alert, his muscles tense to the point of tearing. He almost instinctively raised his fists, flinching as the door flew open.

A gush of warmth and light spilled into the night, framing your figure. When you recognized who was standing at your door so late at night in the storm, surprise etched itself on your face, but something else lingered there too, something that Jud's brain, torn between flight and fight, couldn't pinpoint.

You took him in from head to toe, graciously giving him some time to gain control of his mouth while you examined his mud-covered, wet, disheveled form. Then your gaze landed on the dried blood on his hands and flew up to his eyes in fright.

“I know it - this is... unexpected,” he stammered.

His tone was cautious, trying not to scare you any more than his appearance already had. He fiddled with his fingers, holding them in check because he was afraid you would recoil if he gestured as freely as he usually did.

“Whatever is going through your mind right now, I will explain - I mean, I will ah, try to explain as best I can. If you allow me. Even though I don't really understand everything that‘s happening myself.”

A breathless laugh crawled out of his throat, getting stuck halfway. Something shifted in your gaze, you stepped over the threshold onto the wet paving stones toward him. Presumably you said something too - perhaps his name - based on the way your lips briefly moved. But Jud didn't hear it, his brain working overtime in a desperate attempt to direct the stream of words now pouring out of him after the first ones had been unleashed.

“But I have to tell you, because if I don't say it now, I may never get the chance again -”

Yes, you said his name, but he couldn't stop now, not when the truth that had been gnawing at his bones for days was almost free.

“And you deserve to know, you deserve the truth -”

Again you called his name, a plea falling on deaf ears.

“And the truth is -”

“Jud!”

You grabbed his arm and he flinched. Panting, his eyes met yours. His heart stopped, the blood ceased to rush in his ears, every muscle froze, even the sky, the roaring thunder, paused in reverence.

This was impossible.

It had to be a mistake.

“Jud,” you said again, more quietly, pleading.

For the first time, his frazzled mind registered your words, truly comprehending what you had just said. His name, coming from your mouth, echoed through him, leaving small, shaky ripples, like a large rock thrown into deep water. Your gentle squeeze of his arm the only sensation that convinced him this was really happening. That you had said his name. Not Father or Father Duplenticy.

Jud. The name he had heard fall from your lips countless times, over the phone, in the garden in Albany, or late at night in his bed.

You knew.

You knew who he was.

The sky came crashing down on him. Filled with fear, his gaze darted across your face, searching your eyes for answers to all the questions racing through his mind. How had you recognized him? And when? How long had you known? Was it a conversation with Martha? Or Nikolai? Had Geraldine called you to warn you about the fleeing murderer? But if so, why had you opened the door? How much did you know?

But no matter what you knew, it was certain that you had recognized him. Your revelation was not the result of his confession, but of divine intervention or your deductive abilities, and so he was denied absolution. Your eyes reflected only the truth of his lie, and there was nothing left to do other than embracing the wrath this realization would inevitably bring.

Would you yell at him? Slap him? Throw him out, ordering him never to show his face again? Or worse, would you cry, demanding he give you a reason for his actions that he couldn't put into words?

His gaze was caught in yours, your breath, little white clouds of steam in the cold of the night, intertwined. Then you took a step forward, closing the gap between you. But instead of your hand flying up to slap his cheek, you pulled Jud toward you and wrapped your arms tightly around his torso.

For a split second, it was as if one of the lightning bolts flashing across the sky had struck him.

Shock.

Total shutdown.

But then, in an instant, all the tension in his body dissolved and he melted into your embrace. Juds hands clung to your back, face falling into your neck. He sank into the warmth of your body, the way you pressed him even closer to you, indifferent to his hair dampening your sweater with rainwater or the mud from his clothes sticking to you.

You embraced him. You held him in your arms, knowing who he was, right then, when he needed it most, and suddenly nothing else mattered for a moment.

“It's okay,” you whispered. “You're safe here.”

Absolution.

You held that wet, dirty, blood-stained priest close to your heart as if he were your lifeline, even though you knew very well that you were his. You had to know. Maybe that's why it felt like you would never let go of him.

And deep down, Jud wished you would do just that.

Feeling somewhat embarrassed, Jud studied his face in the clouded bathroom mirror. No traces remained, but he couldn't help thinking that you only had to glance at his face once and notice that he had been crying. You had probably already felt the tears on your sweater in the doorway, where they had quietly mingled with rainwater.

He ran the towel through his wet curls again and hung everything up neatly. The warmth had returned to his body, but the shower he had taken in your bathroom was only partly responsible. At first, Jud had turned the water ice cold to clear his head and then bathed his naked body in hellfire to prevent death by freezing or at least a nasty cold. He denied himself even the small comfort of a warm shower, the guilt still eating away at his insides. At least his appearance was presentable again, no blood on his hands, no mud in his hair - just soap-scented skin, damp curls, cleaned scrapes, and dark circles under his eyes.

After completely overpowering Jud with a single gesture of affection and leading him inside, you practically pushed him into the bathroom before he was able to utter a single word of resistance. Apparently, you had far less qualms about letting a blood-stained liar into your house at night than the liar in question himself. At least it gave Jud a little time to collect himself and process this latest shock, which joined the never-ending cascade of disasters that had befallen him lately.

Exhausted, he slipped into the clothes you had laid out for him. Sweatpants and a dark knit sweater, both items you kept in your closet in case your cousin visited you while passing through and, as usual, hadn't packed enough. That was just the kind of person you were. Someone who owned clothes for the sole purpose of accommodating a loved one staying over. Hesitantly, Jud sniffed the sleeve, the soft fabric carried the faint fragrance of your detergent, a component of the scent that constantly surrounded you. It reassured him to have something of yours with him, giving him the strength to open the door and sneak through the hallway to the living room.

His black clothes hung over a narrow wooden rack by the fire, still soaked but somewhat less covered in thick mud. You had probably rinsed them briefly in the kitchen sink to remove the worst of the dirt. The domesticity of this action warmed Jud more than any shower could have, but it was also accompanied by a guilty conscience.

You hadn't noticed his figure appearing in the doorway. Your gaze was fixed on the burning fireplace, the flames reflection dancing hypnotically in your eyes. Whatever you saw within carried your mind far away from your body, the feelings this mirage evoked in you remaining locked behind the expressionless facade of your face.

Jud cleared his throat, snapping you out of your dream or nightmare.

“Thanks for the clothes,” he said timidly, unsure how to continue.

You nodded, the hint of a smile touched your face, but it slipped away too quickly. For the first time since Jud had known you, you seemed at a loss for words. Perhaps because the initial shock of his stormy midnight visit had subsided and the reality of the situation finally caught up with you. Silent, he looked at your softly lit figure, counting the stripes on your new sweater, which you had changed into after the muddy embrace at the door.

Because you made no move to send him away or invite him in, Jud cautiously sat down next to you on the carpet in front of the fireplace and leaned back against the sofa, exhausted, mirroring your position opposite him. The floor felt much more stable than the cushion right now. Only the red in the pattern of your persian rug reminded him uncomfortably of blood.

He looked up at you. Seeing the concerned expression on your face didn't make him feel much better. Jud swallowed, his fingers dancing nervously along the hem of his sweater, running over the soft fabric like the beads of a rosary. He wished he had one with him now.

The moment for his confession had come, no prepared monologue, no paper in his pocket, just a dimly lit living room in the storm and his heart on his tongue.

“I -”

“Would you like some tea? I think I need some tea right now,” you rushed out.

Before Jud could say another word, you jumped up and fled to the kitchen next door. Through the open serving hatch, he watched you boil a kettle, add dried tea leavs, and place everything on a tray with two cups. Your movements seemed more erratic than usual, unfocused and nervous. It was an odd sight, since he was the one who had something to dread, not you.

When you returned with the tray, you appeared slightly calmer. Steady hands set the cups down and filled them with steaming liquid.

“Before you explain anything to me, and knowing you, I'm sure you're weighing yourself down with all kinds of guilt about concealing your identity and the state you arrived here in - before you do that, I need to tell you how I recognized you and why I kept it to myself,” you declared as you handed Jud a full cup. “So you can consider my reasoning before you say something you might regret.”

The last remark should have sounded like a warning, but it only carried a slight anxiety that Jud couldn't place. His heart pounded unsettled. He swallowed it along with the tea and burned his tongue, cursing under his breath as he set the cup down.

“I'm so sorry, really I am. I thought, no - I wanted to,” he stammered. Frustrated by his inability to express himself, Jud paused. You deserved a better apology than this. It seemed you felt the same way, signalling him to drop it, so he circled back to the matter at hand. “Was it something I said? Or someone else? Did Martha mention my name or…?”

Your fingers traced an invisible pattern on the ceramic in your hand. A wry smile crossed your face, a mixture of sadness and amusement.

“Every soul in this town knows you as Father Jud. I think I heard your name more often this past week than the entire time we’ve known each other.”

The shame of his foolishness crept onto Jud’s neck, settling there as a subtle red flush. Embarrassed, he looked down in his cup.

“But it wasn’t anything like that, actually. It was your tattoo.”

Jud's gaze flew back up.

The tattoo.

But this couldn't be, because that meant -

“I knew it was you since that morning in my workshop,” you confirmed his terrifying suspicion, holding his gaze.

Thunder growled outside, angrily hunting down a flash of lightning. An uneasy feeling spread in the pit of Jud's stomach, the warm tea transforming into a wild animal scratching at his insides, trying to break free.

He remembered how you had stared at his neck when the ink had shown above the clerical collar - the disbelief in your eyes, the way you had avoided his gaze afterward, your furrowed brow, as if lost in a thought. A thought you didn't quite trust. Then the inquiry about his name when you had seen him off at your door, how you had studied him, curious and hostile.

It had not been a trial of divine judgment, but solely your test, and he had failed, had allowed himself to be tempted into cheating. How could he have been so arrogant, to believe he could deceive you? You, of all people, who had been nothing but perceptive, who had seen through to his soul from the very beginning?

Lord, forgive my pride and my foolishness. Teach me the humility of Your Heart.

You took a sip of your tea, giving Jud time to digest your revelation, then continued:

“Of course, I thought the idea was ridiculous at first. But then you reacted so evasive when I asked for your name, and you didn’t exactly seem like the type who insists on being addressed by title and last name, like Wicks.”

Those two facts - the tattoo and his reaction - sufficed to plant a small seed of suspicion. So you called Martha that afternoon to ask if she had received the letter and, while you were at it, casually inquired about the new priest. You figured the chances of there being two Father Juds from Albany who used to box (and had neck tattoos) were pretty slim. You ended your report with a bitter laugh, a joke about God's weird sense of humor.

“I mean, of all places, you were reassigned here,” you said, “First the mix-up on the phone and then this - coincidences like that don’t happen, this can only be a cruel joke played by the universe.”

Your laughter was genuine, but the sadness in your eyes dulled its effect.

“I'm really sorry,” Jud murmured.

He repeated the words, speaking them softly like a prayer that was almost drowned out by the rumbling thunder, but the sincerity and pain in his expression cried out so loud that he was practically screaming them with his body. You evaded them, looking down at your half-empty cup.

“You don’t have to,“ you brushed him off, “Yes, I was angry that you lied to me, but when that anger burned out, all that was left was, I don’t know - understanding. I understood why you chose to pretend we didn’t know each other.”

Jud, on the other hand, understood nothing. The lie had not been a calculated decision based on logical considerations, but the spontaneous product of a selfish desire. Fragmented words of protest left his lips, and when you sensed his irritation, you added with more severity:

“The reasons why you broke off contact were justified. And no matter how we would have arranged things here in Chimney Rock, there would always have been a weird uncertainty between us, a tension hanging in the air.”

You paused briefly, unsure whether you should give voice to the next thought that hung on the tip of your tongue. Your hesitation worried Jud, you weren't someone who usually weighed their words for long. Always open and direct. Just as you were now.

“I think you lied to put a barrier between us, maybe because you thought we wouldn’t be able to keep an appropriate distance otherwise,” you said a little more quietly, your gaze still fixed on your cup. “And I played along because it was easier for me to act like we're strangers instead of facing our past and my feelings for you.”

Jud shook his head slightly, almost involuntary. Keeping his identity a secret from you had not been an act of restriction, on the contrary, it had been a means to stay close to you. All this time, he had feared how you would react upon discovering who the new priest at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude really was. But this admission, your acknowledgement that you needed the distance this game of hide-and-seek had provided, was far worse than any scenario his mind had painted over the past few days.

Your fury or indifference, even your heartbreak, he could have endured. But not your tenderness. There was a strange cruelty, a particular kind of pain in it, because it turned you into the protagonists of a tragic story that should never unfold between a priest and a parishioner. It reduced your feelings to a cliché whose outcome was as certain as it was bleak.

”The confession on Spy Wednesday,” he murmured, “You weren’t seeking spiritual guidance or salvation, you were there to tell me...to tell me that -”

His voice trailed off, swallowed by the crackling of the fire.

To tell me I should find happiness without you.

The wood of the confessional enveloped him once more, the resinous scent of incense and your heartbeat clouding his senses. He heard your voice through the confessional window, trembling and serious. How you admitted you liked him, took the blame for your sexual - no, your romantic relationship - upon yourself, assured him and questioned him all the same, whether he was lying to protect you or himself, your fear that you might have corrupted him. You wanted him to cast off his guilt, be honest, and look ahead without regret. You wanted to let him go with peace in his heart because you had realized that he belonged to God, not to you.

I want him to be happy, without regard for me. I want him to know that.

It had been the farewell of a lover, not a confession.

The water, which the cold storm had sunk into Jud in the forest, threatened to rise to the surface again. He swallowed his tears with force, the salt scratching his throat.

“Yes,” you admitted in a whisper, as if you had read his thoughts. As far as Jud was concerned, you had, for to you he seemed to be as transparent as one of your stained-glass windows, his existence just as fragile in your hands.

“I thought - I hoped that would be the end of it, but then Wicks was murdered and everyone in town was talking about how you had killed him.”

Carefully, your gaze traced his face, your voice as dangerously cracked as Jud felt.

“And because you worried, you texted me?,” he added hoarsely.

“And came to the funeral, even though I would have liked to avoid people’s judgmental looks.”

Surprised, he furrowed his brow.

“You weren't there for Martha?”

A sad smile crossed your face.

“Also,” you said, and the warmth of the fire flickered across your cheeks. Or maybe the flames played tricks on Jud's eyes. “But mostly I wanted to see how you were doing after you didn't reply.”

Jud‘s heart flipped in a completely inappropriate joyful pirouette. Your expression grew serious again and held it back down.

“I still do. Worry about you, I mean,” you murmured.

A pause followed, the only sound fire as it devoured the wood, just as the tension swallowed all air between you.

“Jud,” your voice sounded calm and low, cautious. “What happened?”

Jud didn't know where to start, so he went back to the beginning. From Wick's murder to the moment less than an hour ago when he knocked on your door, soaking wet and covered in blood, he recounted every event as detailed as his memory allowed. It helped that he had already walked through the events on the way to your cottage, the sequence was as familiar to him as the experiences felt foreign.

Sometimes, a curious phenomenon occurred where one did not truly register what had happened until sharing it with another person. As if the reality became comprehensible only through the reaction it provoked in others. Your surprise at Wicks‘ falling out with the Flock, your nod in agreement when Jud told you about his phone call with Louise and the Road to Damascus, and your face consumed with disbelief at his account of how Wicks had risen from the tomb, made him realize that all this had really happened in the last 12 hours.

Suddenly, Jud felt incredibly tired, all the tension and confusion unraveling in his chest as if someone had finally given him permission to let go of it.

But when describing how he had awoken with the sickle in Sam's chest, Jud faltered. Unable to bear looking at the red of the carpet beneath him or the fire beside him, he made the mistake of meeting your eyes. The shock in your face, the distress it conveyed, bit into his heart like a wolf in a blood frenzy. He turned away.

“I don't know what happened to Wicks,” he whispered, clutching his fingers. “I don't know - I don't know if I was aiming for him or Sam, but I -”

Trembling, Jud took a breath, but all he inhaled was fire, burning his throat, tears welling up inside him.

“I killed him.”

For a while, you said nothing, your gaze fixed on a point far beyond his perception, just as it had been when he entered the living room. Only the soft patter of rain on the window and the crackling of fire mingling in the room. Perhaps you stayed silent because your thoughts and feelings were racing in all directions - grief for Sam, pity for Martha, worry how she would react to his death, fear of what would happen to Jud now, anger over his crimes - perhaps because you couldn't think at all, the gravity of the situation leaving you speech and thoughtless. Your gaze rested on his hands, the spot previously stained with blood.

Thunder hammered through Jud's tired bones, pumping his blood tenaciously through his body. He hung on your breath, waiting for the words that would pass your judgment on him at any moment. Then, finally, you rubbed your face with a heavy sigh and looked him straight in the eye.

“Okay, what should we do now?”

We. You had said we.

The relief hit Jud like an uppercut. He exhaled sharply, gasping for air, the tears he had been holding back rolling down his cheek. Hesitant, unsure of it's own impulse, your hand reached for his. The cups sat long cold on the floor, no longer a barrier preventing contact. It was a small gesture, but it struck Jud deeper than the image of Wicks‘ living face flashing before him in the woods. Even now, after everything he had confessed to you, you did not abandon him.

God loved him when he was guilty, and Jud had often preached about this unconditional love, which people should also open themselves up to. But receiving it from you still overwhelmed him. He felt greedy, unworthy, while everything inside him begged for it and drew closer to you, like water flowing downstream to the sea or flowers growing toward the sun.

“I, um.” He cleared his throat, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes. “I wanted to talk to you, to clear things up between us and say goodbye, and now that I’ve kinda done that -”

His voice trailed off, swallowed by your eyes, shimmering large and glassy in the flickering light. Two lakes lying in still sadness.

“Now that I've done that, all that's left is to walk to the precinct and turn myself in,” he ended the sentence slowly.

“Yes,” you murmured, also caught in his gaze. “That's the only right thing.”

Timid, as if this small movement might frighten you now, after you had accepted everything else, Jud's thumb stroked your knuckles.

“Do you hate me?”

The question was rash, impulsive, a childish maneuver that would only plunge him into further misery. If you said yes, remorse would eat away at him in prison, if you said no, the longing for you.

“No,” you whispered. The water trapped in the lakes of your pupils threatened to overflow. “I'm angry and sad for Sam and Martha, but no - I don't hate you. You're still just a human being, living under God's grace.”

Jud's grip on your hand tightened slightly, becoming more deliberate. He loved that you tried to comfort him with words he would have used himself, and he loved even more that you spoke them with complete honesty. You believed in the gift of His boundless mercy, even for Jud. Maybe especially for Jud.

But you didn't know the truth, at least not completely. For he still had one last confession to make, a secret he hadn't even acknowledged to himself nor to God.

“But we can only obtain absolution if we feel true remorse for our actions and willingly surrender to repentance,” he whispered. “And I - I don't regret everything.”

The sorrow in your gaze blurred, giving way to confusion and a spark of fear. Jud swallowed. There was no turning back now.

“I regret the dishonesty, my arrogance, the hatred towards Wicks‘ and Sam’s death,” he explained hastily before you pulled away from him. Then his voice calmed down again, slowly feeling its way forward.

“But I don’t regret meeting you,” he whispered, his eyes tracing your face.

You sat close enough that Jud could study every speck of color in your iris, smell your scent, feel the warmth of your breath. If he didn't free himself from this burden now, it would weigh on his heart forever. He had to say it, just once, so that he could let you go in peace, as you had wished for him in the confessional.

“I don't regret our conversations, knowing what your laugh sounds like and how you like your tea. I don't regret visiting you or wishing I could stay with you a little longer. I don't regret having sex with you, even if it was only over the phone, and I don't regret -”

Jud faltered, the last confession clinging to his heart, unwilling to be spoken.

“I don't regret -”

Gravity pulled him toward you, so close he could almost melt into you. You looked up at him, his soul laid bare before you, vulnerable, open, and raw. In your gaze flickered both fright and hope, and something else that Jud dreaded as much as he craved it. Something that urged him forward, whispering the following words softly on your lips:

“I don't regret longing for you.”

When your lips met his, it wasn't the powerful explosion or bittersweet pain his dreams had conjured. It was warm and gentle, slow but determined. You tasted of tea and fire, of thunderstorm and spring sunshine.

Sighing, he leaned deeper into the kiss, wrapping his arms around you. The instinct to be as close to you as possible gaining the upper hand as he slid his tongue over your lower lip, pleading. When you granted him permission, he groaned, the sound making you flinch.

You pulled back, already panting slightly.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” you blurted out, your hands raised like a murderer who had just been caught red-handed by the police. Or a sinner who had suddenly become conscious of God's presence. “I don't know what came over me - I mean, I do know, but I -”

Your eyes darted everywhere, avoiding Jud's face, fire creeping up your cheeks.

“I kissed a priest,” you said, more to yourself than him, “Oh my God, I kissed the kindest priest I know, after promising myself I would not even look at him lustfully ever again, and now I - God, I’m a terrible person.”

“N-No, no!”

The words stumbled out of Jud, he grabbed your hand, placed it over his heart, as if that would gift them more truth. He said your name, begging you to look at him. You complied, albeit marked by shame.

“You're not terrible, I kissed you. I kissed you because I -”

Because I really fucking wanted to.

Jud swallowed hard. He couldn't possibly say that. Not because it was untrue or because of the profanity, but because the whole situation was just so utterly absurd. By kissing you, he betrayed his vow of chastity, but by suppressing this desire, he betrayed himself. But how could he stay true to Christ if he wasn't honest with Him and himself? Why had God created you in His image, in all that glory, if He didn't want Jud to worship you?

For a moment, your eyes met, lost in the radiance of flames dancing within them, not just those of the fireplace. The heat crept up inside Jud, dancing across his treacherous neck tattoo, which lay completely exposed in the loose-fitting sweater. He didn't miss how you looked at it, completely disregarding your promise not to stare at him with lust.

Then his gaze slipped to your lips and he involuntarily wet his own. Jud thought of that morning in your kitchen when he had smelled you for the first time and wondered if you tasted just as good. Knowing the answer did nothing to ease his desire. Quite the contrary.

Lord, You see my desire and my weakness. Hold me in Your truth and have mercy on me.

“Jud?”

Your question came out raw and quiet, moving forward with caution. You captured his gaze, the shame had vanished and been replaced by a certainty that was shy but undeniable. Jud's pulse hammered against your fingertips, fast and full of anticipation, a morse code only you knew how to decipher.

“Do you want -”

You didn't get to finish your question. It was embarrassing how quickly the pleading yes left his lips before they crashed into yours. Thunder and fire, so gentle and raw that it should have been impossible. Jud didn't know what your question had been, but he prayed he answered it right. Based on the way you returned the kiss eagerly, after a brief moment of hesitation, he must have done at least something right.

“Just this once,” he murmured against your lips.

An oath, to God and himself.

“Just this once,” you affirmed.

A prayer answered.

This time, you didn't wait for his plea, instead sliding your tongue between his lips. Your initiative earned you a low rumble from deep within Jud's chest, and he pulled you closer, one hand gripping the curve where your legs met your hips. God, your hips. Practically sitting on his lap now, little held you back, and you instinctively let them roll against his center. A slow, sensual movement that hit him right where his desire manifested itself, hard and relentless.

Jud thought briefly about all the things that had happened in the last few days, and although it should have seemed absurd to take this step now of all times, it didn't. All the doubts and guilt regarding you that had weighed on him were cleared, all confessions made, secrets revealed before God and each other.

Perhaps it was a selfish impulse, a moment of weakness, to reach for your warmth in his darkest hour and surrender to the desire that had tormented him for so long. Nevertheless, Jud wanted to hold you in his arms just once and hear his name fall from your lips in pure pleasure one last time. Just this once, before he confessed his last sin infront of worldly and divine judges and had to leave you forever for the sake of penance.

He leaned even more into the kiss, wanting to savor you until he never forgot that taste again. The only sin he willingly indulged in. You rolled your hips against him, and the movement alone was enough to make him come untouched. A dizziness washed over him, the pleasure of being touched like this after so long overwhelming him. You being the one to do it making it unbearably more intense. A soft moan escaped you as you moved against him without restraint.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.

In a bit clumsy but gentle move, Jud swung you from his lap onto your back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his crotch. A sound of protest escaped you, but he caught it in another kiss that had you running your fingers through his damp curls.

He had to change positions, otherwise he would have really come soon. But he needed you a little longer, just enough so that the memory of you - laid out on the rug, moaning his name, your hands greedily exploring his body, a body that God seemed to have created for this very purpose - would burn itself into his memory. Jud didn't know how it was possible, but your moans sounded even more beautiful in real life than distorted over the phone.

The thought brought back memories of similar situations, your heavy breathing, descriptions of hands wandering shamelessly to places he could only dream of from afar, black lace and goosbumps. An idea sneaked into his brain uninvited, a wish so obscene and tempting that he couldn't possibly give it a verbal form.

Breathing heavily, Jud tore himself away from your lips, letting them roam down your jaw and neck, searching for a distraction. Involuntarily, his body pressed against yours, six foot one of lean muscle wrapped in modesty and dark knitwear.

God, he wanted you so much.

Jud's lips teased a sensitive spot behind your ear, coaxing a delicious sound from you. Your nimble fingers slipped under the hem of his sweater, tracing a line up his torso, leaving a trail of shivers and arousal in their wake.

Shit.

“I - I want to see it,” Jud panted between kisses.

Your fingers stalled, carving a wordless question onto his skin. His head emerged from your collarbone, darkend eyes gazing down at you.

“Can you show me -” He swallowed. “Can you show me how you like it? Like before, over the phone?"

Someone else might have delivered those words incredibly seductive, but coming from his mouth, they sounded almost desperate, tinged with nervous anticipation and reverence. It was nothing short of a miracle it seemed to turn you on.

“I like it with you on the other end,” you murmured, without taking your eyes off him, your voice not laced with erotic intent, but full of quiet sincerity. You said it as casually as others might state the sky's color. A universally acknowledged fact.

An irresistible force, no less powerful than gravity, drew Jud's lips back to yours, a slight smile curling around the kiss. Then he pulled back again, leaving room for the intimate scene you shared with him once more. With the notable difference that this time it wasn't his imagination, but you yourself who painted the image of this pleasure. Even better: he could touch you, fuel your arousal with more than just words and witness their impact.

Jud's pulse raced through his body with eager anticipation. His hand traced small circles on a patch of bare skin on your hip, the gentle touch of his calloused fingertips making you sigh softly.

“Well,” you murmured, clearing your throat, “normally I would take off my bra first, but it’s after 11 p.m. and I was home alone, so -”

“I know,” Jud whispered.

He had felt that you weren't wearing one when he had pulled you on his lap while kissing. Soft curves pressing against his chest, a sensation that had wiped out any remnants of thought (if there had been any). What if you weren't wearing any underwear further down either? Involuntarily, an image of black lace wrapping around your naked skin flickered in his mind's eye, skilled fingers sliding underneath. Jud swallowed hard.

Carefull, he slid his fingers higher, quickening your pulse. When his knuckle lightly brushed the underside of your bare breast, your breath caught. You swallowed it down and it sought freedom in the form of a blooming rush of color crawling up your cleavage. Jud's eyes followed the pattern, his tongue briefly brushing his lips, impatient to taste it. But he held back, the desire to watch his dreams take on real form greater.

You let your hand join him under your pullover, guiding his hand on the wrist until he was holding your breast. The touch caused a small short circuit in Jud's brain, verging on shutdown, when he heard the whimper you gifted him as he grazed your nipple. Mesmerized, Jud watched your breathing quicken as your hand slipped from his wrist down under the waistband of your pants, unaware that his pulse was racing in sync with yours.

He absorbed every detail. How your lashes fluttered, the throaty hum you released, how your eyebrows furrowed slightly. Suddenly shy under the intensity of his gaze, you dropped your head to the side, suppressing a moan. Jud responded by caressing your cheek with his free hand, his arm propped next to your head.

“Don't stop, please,” he whispered. “You're so beautiful.”

Murmuring a litany of endearments and praise, his other hand caressed your breast and he kissed every inch of exposed skin available to him, following the your natural scent and the sounds of your pleasure.

Under his tender admiration, you became noticeably relaxed, unabashedly indulging in a game beneath him that sent you reeling to the gates of heaven. You pulled him closer, your fingers buried in his sweater, searching for support. Jud cursed the loud thunder - an expression of God's disapproval? - which muffled the sounds of your arousal and hid what was happening beneath your underwear from him.

“Can I -” he panted, “can I take your pants off? Please.”

Your absent-minded nod was all the permission Jud needed. His lips and hands roamed down your upper body, careful not to neglect a single inch of skin from his worship on their descent. Trembling fingers hooked into your underwear, reverently pulling down the lace and the thin cotton of your sweatpants past your ankles.

Your underwear wasn't black, the recurring detail of Jud's most sinful fantasy rested well hidden in your closet. But it didn't matter. He wasn't registering the color. At that moment, he wouldn't have been able to tell you the color of his clerical collar. A wave of awe and desire swept over him when he laid eyes on you spread out on the rug before him, washing away everything else.

With devotion, bent shoulders and heavy breathing, Jud gazed down at your half-naked figure, your face twisted with pleasure, your fingers diving into you with familiar movements. His imagination had deceived him, he could never have conjured an image of such magnificence.

Eager to take in more, Jud bent down, kneeling before the altar of your lust, his hands gliding over your leg. You gasped in surprise as he lay down and threw it over his shoulder, showering the inside of your thigh with kisses and praise, moving dangerously close to your hand and its game. It faltered.

„J-Jud?“

Your voice sounded husky, a familiar timbre that he had secretly longed for over the past nine months. Gently, Jud took your hand, ran his thumb over the back of it and kissed your fingers to ease your insecurity. You smelled warm, of soap and arousal, the trace clinging to his lips. Unconsciously, he let the tip of his tongue glide over it, the urge to taste you growing. Now that you had given him a sample, the hunger became insatiable, an urging, burning flame consuming him from within. Hellfire.

A single taste.

Just once.

Please.

Jud's head sank between your legs, no gravity this time, but a conscious decision. Eve reaching for the apple, hands buried in your flesh, tongue held out. Your moan an angel's choir.

A taste of the forbidden fruit.

Now that he knew it, he would never be the same again. Innocence was lost, Jud's eyes had been opened and he saw the truth. A truth that settled deep within him and silenced the war he had been waging with himself.

The way you cried out to God was anything but pious, your praise directed not at the Lord, but at the man between your legs. He drank up your pleasure, exploring the most sensitive part of your body with a fervor that could only be described as sacrificial.

Of course, Jud was not entirely inexperienced, but his time in celibacy had dulled his skill. What he lacked in technical sophistication, however, he certainly made up for in sheer devotion. Jud devoured you with the craving of someone starving, driven by your indulgent, unrestrained moans and the desperation of a man who knew this would be the only bite of Lilith's apple he could ever take.

Your breath was galloping, your legs trembling in his firm grip. He moaned inside you. Giving you pleasure felt just as good as receiving it from you. His hips rolled against the rug, a subconscious desire to come with you.

You were so close to the edge of fulfillment that Jud could taste it, and he wanted to push you over that cliff so he could seal this feeling inside him forever. The knowledge that this one time, he was the creator of your heavenly ecstasy. Hubris disguised as servitude.

But then you suddenly pushed his head from the place he most craved. A brief fear shot through Jud's pleasure-clouded brain that you might reject him, that he had done something wrong. Then he remembered that everything you were doing should have felt wrong, despite it being the exact opposite.

“W-Wait,” you gasped, clearly struggling to find your breath, let alone words. “Come here. Take that sweater off.”

Your command sounded like a plea, gentle and vulnerable. Although Jud was reluctant to leave your lap, he complied, pulled the dark knit over his head, tossing it carelessly to the side, and crawled back up to you.

Trembling, he rested his arms beside your shoulders, tenderly brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your cheek. His eyes scanned your face, anxious, searching for a look of discontent. But he found only affection and longing, perhaps a tiny hint of premature mourning.

“I want to see you too,” you whispered.

Eyes and hands took him in, consumed him, caressing up his arms, over his shoulders, down his back. There was no fiery desire in them, as one might have expected, but rather the admiring gaze of an artist observing a masterpiece. You looked at Jud as he believed himself to be looking at you, as if he was something precious.

His heart responded to the movement with a somersault, a smile flitting across his face. Jud knew you wanted him. Otherwise, you would hardly let him kiss you, let alone a few other things. But your quiet confession, as if you didn't know that he was at your mercy, body and soul, seeped through him like the first rays of spring sun.

He loved you so much.

There was no hiding it.

The thought, this truth he was trying to bury, gave him a little twinge, because the sincerity of his feelings did nothing to lessen the pain of the impending farewell. This rendezvous would be the only and last of its kind, you knew it as well as he did. When the night was over, Jud would have to repent, not only for every sinful act he had committed with you and those he still wished to commit, but above all for Samson. There would be no reunion, the memory of you a small light he could hold on to in his darkest hour.

So he did the only thing he could do in this hopeless situation and kissed you. Fire, spring sun, and the salt of tears yet to be shed. If he could hold you just this once, Jud wanted it to be worthwhile for you at least. His free hand traveled downward, over the curve of your breast, your stomach, lower and lower until -

The sound you let escape when his fingers slipped inside you was so delicious that he licked it right off your lips. For a moment, Jud had feared that his fingers might be too calloused, their skin roughened by years of box training and woodworking, robbed of their tenderness. So he moved all the more carefull, trying to mirror what he had observed before. His attentiveness seemed to bear fruit. You melted under his hand just as you had under his tongue.

It took a while to build up the momentum that you had suddenly interrupted, but Jud didn't mind. He savoured your reactions to the fullest, revelling in every sigh, every heavy breath. It almost became a game to make you moan his name as often as possible, engraving the sound in his memory.

When he sensed you were close, he picked up the pace, but you surprised him again with an unexpected move. Your hand slid down his stomach, searching. Jud flinched, suppressing a whimper. In question, he pulled away from your lips and looked at you, your expression full of mischief and desire.

O Lord, have mercy on me.

“N-No, you don't have to,” he rasped, “I just want to make you feel good.”

Your nimble fingers slid under the waistband of his sweatpants.

“But I want to make you feel good too,” you murmured.

When your fingers brushed against his aching erection, Jud almost lost his balance. This time he really whimpered. Loud. The thunder couldn't drown it out.

Teasingly, your hand slid up in one long stroke, pure, hot pleasure shooting through his veins. Jud's head fell onto your neck, burying himself in the curve of your throat. It felt so good that tears welled up in his eyes.

“I want to feel you. All of you.”

Jud couldn't tell if it were your words or his, but perhaps it didn't matter anymore. Somehow, with your help, he managed to free himself from his underwear just enough to sink into you, and everything after was a blissful haze.

His mind left him, and he lay in the arms of an otherworldly power as your flesh became one. All he heard was you, all he saw and tasted and smelled and felt was you. Tears of overwhelming emotion at the sight of such glory trickled from the corner of his eyes.

How could such an act of love not be blessed by God when it felt so sacred?

You had already been close, and for him, just a few movements brought him to the brink of desperation. Your hands wandered over his back, holding him close to you as he thrust in and out of you, your foreheads pressed together. Bodies joining in the way God had created them to. Not sinful or wrong, but simply human.

A drop of sweat ran down his neck tattoo and dripped onto your collarbone. The water rippled as you climaxed, your fingers clawing into his back, running through his dark curls. The sight of it, the way you furrowed your eyebrows with pleasure and moaned his name, enough to throw Jud over the edge with you.

Letting his head fall into your neck, he came inside you, cursing and trembling. A fractured wreck, heart full and head empty. He pressed his body against yours, both riding out the wave of your orgasm.

Then the movements slowly subsided, leaving only the crackling of fire, rumbling thunder, and heavy breathing in the room. Just then, Jud realized why the French called it la petite mort. He felt as if a part of him had just died, a part he would never get back.

Gently, as if you might slip away from him, like a wavering ray of sunlight in a cloudy sky, Jud raised his upper body slightly. With his arms propped up beside your head, he brushed sweat-drenched strands of hair from your face. Smiling, you leaned into his touch, but when you noticed the water welling up in Jud's eyes, you examined his face with concern.

“Jud, what's wrong?” you asked softly, your hand clasping his. “Do you regret it? Should I, I don't know - pray with you?”

A choked laugh fought its way out along with the tears. How could one not love you?

“No,” he whispered, “I don't regret it, it's just -”

His voice died. You swallowed hard, visibly fighting your own tears.

“I know, I feel it too.”

The sorrow of parting. You both had known it would come, and yet it tore you apart. All the more painful now that you had deepened your bond. Jud leaned his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, just like that afternoon in the confessional. He had to say it, even if it would only deepen the suffering. But he wanted you to know, without a doubt. One last confession.

His thumb caressed your cheek tenderly, and he kissed you. This time, the salt was truly there. Then he whispered the words against your lips, so softly that they would remain locked between you and him forever:

“I love you.”

A calmness, that had been foreign to him in recent days, embraced Jud as he took the last few steps toward the police station. The storm had passed, leaving clean air behind, the dark night sky resting in silence. The quietly gnawing indecision, which had taken hold of his mind and body since Jud had lied on your doorstep that fateful morning and that had escalated into a destructive spiral when he had found himself in the woods with Sam's blood on his hands, finally subsided. Bidding you farewell had left a gaping wound, but nevertheless - as cruel as it might be - it held a comforting certainty.

He loved you.

You loved him.

Now all that remained was to confess his crime, his sins, and devote the rest of his life to the task he had come here for: atone. The memory of you and that night a small streak of light binding his heart together.

Unfortunately, Blanc seemed to have other plans, completely disregarding Jud's intention to plead guilty. He shoved him out of the precinct with the determination of a man who had no clue about the tragedy that had transpired inside his companion. That, and a race against time, which played in favor of a killer on the loose.

A murderer whose reveal was as unexpected as it was tragic.

As Jud held the dying Martha in his arms, led her to forgiveness, and absolved her of her sins, the moment touched his soul. He felt Gods presence and prayed that she would find her way safely to Him.

But neither he nor Blanc could have anticipated what would find its way to Jud. Eve's apple, a glassy klink that echoed clear and light through the church, landing on the stone floor in the form of a shimmering pink jewel. After a moment of stunned silence and bewildered eye contact, Blanc stood up with his hands raised, buttoned his jacket, and left Jud alone in the aftermath of what could only be described as the most exhausting week of his life.

Uncertain what to do, he stared down at the polished jewel. He thought of Martha and Wicks, of all the events that had unfolded at incredible speed over the past few days, enough doubt and despair to fill a lifetime. He thought of Martha's reconciliation, how she had allowed Grace into her heart, and Blanc's words.

Grace for my enemy.

Jud thought of you and how he had felt like his own enemy over the past two years. He had fought against his feelings for so long, believing that God had tested him, as if you were an obstacle he had to overcome in order to remain true to his calling as a good priest. The Lord had sent you to him in his weakest moments - the evening he struggled with celibacy, the morning after he broke the window, Wicks‘ funeral, last night. You had always arrived in his life when he needed you most.

When Jud had prayed to God for guidance, He had sent you. What if you weren't a temptation, but instead salvation? An answer to his prayer?

Jud knew what he had to do. God had shown him the way once again.

The jewel was never found.

Cy could shout all he wanted, threaten Jud with lawsuits, spread rumors on the internet, and turn the church and rectory completely upside down. And, by God, he certainly tried. But no matter how many times his people or the police searched the buildings and surrounding grounds, they found nothing. They could have taken them apart brick by brick and the result would have been the same. Eve's apple was not there.

For what Cy didn't know was that, until Jud incorporated it as core of the cross in Our Lady of Perpetual Grace, the jewel rested hidden beneath a loose tile in the heart of a completely different house. A cottage built of dark brick, overgrown with ivy, with white-painted shutters and an iron dove as knocker on the green-glazed door.

The object of his desire in the safe hands of a woman called Lilith.

Epilogue - 8 years later

Even before the church bell rang out, fulfillment swept over Jud. This was a good decision.

He still had about an hour left until Sunday Mass at nine, but today he got up earlier than usual, sneaking out of bed at dawn because he couldn't contain his excitement. A delicate ray of morning sun fell through the darkened bedroom and caressed your sleeping face. The peaceful image coaxed a smile on Jud's lips. Careful not to wake you, he kissed the spot on your hair where the light entered your body. Before leaving the Cottage, he said his morning prayer, thanking God for another day by your side and praying for guidance and protection for all his loved ones and the people who needed it most. Then he filled the kettle and placed your favorite mug - the one with a hand-painted heart on the bottom - on the counter, already filled with tea leaves in a small filter bag for you.

You had returned home late last night, installing the windows had taken so long, you had had to call Louise to set up the floodlights. But you were determined to finish, driven by your promise to Jud that you would present him the fruits of your hard labour before Mass. You hadn't failed to deliver.

His eyes kept drifting back to it, unable to tear himself away from the captivating view. Two large stained-glass windows framed the cross, hand-carved by him, above the altar. The works of both your hands, joined in harmony. The center of the windows motif depicted a dove flying above Mother Mary, surrounded by rays of light that stretched outwards, tinged in every color of the rainbow. It had been a good decision, choosing the dove as focal point for the image.

The windows refracted sunlight streaming into the apse, painting small colorful circles of light on the altar and bathing Our Lady of Perpetual Grace in an unreal, enchanting shimmer. It was impossible not to feel His presence.

Between stolen glances, Jud covered the spots with the altar cloth, arranged the chalice and paten, lit the candles. Until his work was abruptly interrupted by a screech and the thundering of the church door falling shut. Surprised, Jud raised his eyebrows upon seeing the guest approaching through the nave, but his confusion quickly faded and gave way to a broad smile.

“Bishop Langstrom,” he called out, stepping a few paces toward his former mentor. “What brings you here?”

The bishop extended his hand and placed the other on top as they shook hands, a familiar gesture. Langstrom had never been a big fan of hugs, and Jud hadn‘t been able to convince him otherwise. God knew he had tried.

For a moment, Langstrom's gaze flickered up to your windows, visibly taken by their radiance. Then he turned back to Jud.

“Where is Father Thomas?”

“Probably still in the rectory,“ Jud replied immediately, concealing his curiosity quite well. „He likes to pray before the service and go over his homily one more time.”

Langstrom raised an eyebrow, but Jud smiled reassuringly at him, his hands clasped behind his back. There was no reason for the concern that clouded his face. Since Langstrom had sent Father Thomas to Chimney Rock as the new priest almost four years ago, he had progressed remarkably. The shy young man who refused to diverge even an inch from his antiquated code of conduct had grown into a steadfast but compassionate clergyman who was fully capable of leading the flock on his own.

“Good.” Langstrom cleared his throat. “Then I’d like to have a quick chat with you before Mass. In private.”

The additional comment stirred up nervousness in Jud. He instinctively straightened his button-up. Black, no clerical collar. His closet was full of black clothes - pants, shirts, sweaters - even all his shoes were black. Old habits proved hard to break, but it didn't seem to bother anyone. You once had offered to knit him a new sweater, should he ever want to wear colorful clothes again. A kind offer, which he had gently declined. Jud had witnessed your skills with the needle when you endeavored to knit baby socks for Geraldine and Camille with disastrous results. A fact you firmly denied.

Langstrom took a seat on a nearby pew in the front row, elegantly crossing his legs, and motioned for Jud to join him. He explained the reason for his visit, that he would be attending Father Thomas's Mass to inform him of his transfer once Easter had passed. It was not unusual for a priest to be reassigned to a new parish after a certain period of time, but the question remained as to why the Bishop chose to visit in person to deliver the news and what role Jud might have played in his decision. However, he had a vague suspicion when Langstrom inquired about his collaboration with the Father and if the flock had welcomed the change.

Since his laicization, which had been linked to his dispensation from celibacy, Jud was no longer authorized to exercise the priesthood fully, even though the sacrament of ordination remained valid. He was a priest in being, just no longer in office. The transition had been far from easy, the application process alone eating up months, despite Bishop Langstrom's support, both in terms of the bureaucracy involved as well as spiritually.

During their meeting, over a year after the reopening of Our Lady of Perpetual Grace, the fear that he might disappoint his mentor with this decision had gnawed at Jud. Langstrom had placed so much trust in him, had jumped to his defense so many times. What if he considered all this effort wasted now? But things played out differently. Langstrom had sat him down, just as he was doing now, patiently taking in the torrent of words pouring out of Jud, and when he had ended, asked him to sum up the reason behind his decision in a single sentence. Jud had thought about it for a while, his voice hoarse, eyes misty with tears, fingers nervously rubbing his clenched fist.

Love revealed a truth I couldn't ignore: it shouldn't exist in opposition to God.

Langstrom remained a good friend, even refraining from commenting on the story of how you met, no matter how much his tongue itched to make a witty remark. Some time after Father Thomas had been assigned to the parish, Langstrom had asked Jud if he still stood by his decision in good conscience. It wasn't a verbal jab or snide remark, just honest concern. Jud could only smile at his question. Of course, it hadn't been an easy path, but he was used to following an uncommon course. Challenges didn't discourage him.

The love he felt for you never diminished his devotion to God. Although he missed certain aspects of the priesthood, Jud found fulfillment in dedicating himself to the needs of the parish in the ways he could: Social work, church maintenance, religious education, catechesis, educational work, Bible study groups, prayer circles. Two years ago, Jud had even received his license as a state-approved grief counselor, and currently he was taking organ lessons because the music teacher who had taken over after Martha had passed was calling in sick frequently.

And yes, people gossiped, extensively so and sometimes nastily. The wedding of the ex-boxer and ex-murder suspect priest to the artist Lilith had fed the town with delicious gossip for weeks, and theories about who had seduced and corrupted whom were flying thick and fast. The local press had even tried their hand at a few attention-grabbing articles, with headlines competing for the tackiest puns: Holy Fight, Unholy Ending / From Holy Orders to Mixed Signals / Collar Off, Gloves Off: The Priest Who Didn't Stay In His Corner.

But like any fire, this story eventually burned out as well, once it lost its fuel because your marriage turned out just as normal as it was boring for the sensation-seeking population. Besides: it got increasingly difficult for them to feign indifference towards Jud's endearing nature.

It had been a tough process, but all the challenges and past pain of recent years had been worth living in truth before God and himself. Faithful to his belief, faithful to his calling, and faithful to you. After all the doubt, Jud had finally found another way.

“It’s good news, then, that the flock has taken the transition well,“ said Langstrom, his gaze fixed on the dove in the stained-glass window above him. “Changes like this are prone to trouble if the dispensed priest fails to subordinate himself or the flock cannot fully acknowledge the new one. Most bishops avoid this constellation precisely for these reasons.”

Well, if Jud had learned anything about Langstrom, it was that he wasn't like most bishops. Which led him to the actual purpose of his visit:

"From our correspondence, I judge the collaboration with Father Thomas has been quite successful. I've already decided on his successor for this parish, someone from rather...unusual circumstances. The candidate has few supporters in Albany, and I think gaining more experience with the help of a former colleague would be very valuable to him."

Langstrom cast Jud a meaningful glance. He understood. As a dispensed priest, Jud couldn't be an official mentor or otherwise involved in priest training. However, as employee of this church, he could be a good colleague, someone who shared his experiences without imposing himself, listened when a young priest sought advice, and exchanged insights with him about the congregation, its conflicts, and his struggles. Such a practice was not unheard of, but it was not exactly conventional either. But when had Jud ever been conventional?

He smiled, raising his hands in a welcoming gesture.

“I look forward to supporting the Father in his work here.”

Jud's smile spread to the face of his visitor, touching Langstrom. He nodded, pleased with the outcome of this meeting, and stood up. His gaze fell back on the new marian windows.

“Your wife's work, I presume?”

Jud didn't need to answer, the pride radiating off him was confirmation enough. He loved it when people called you his wife. He loved it even more when they called him your husband.

“How is she?” Langstrom inquired after your well-being.

“She’s well, thank you. Had a long job last night, so she’ll be tired today,” Jud answered. “And probably a bit sulky that I got up without her and she couldn’t show me the new windows herself.”

“Ask and it will be given to you.”

Your stern, albeit somewhat teasing voice echoed through the church, causing the two men to flinch in guilt. You had slipped in unnoticed through the side entrance, no doubt because you had checked the exterior view of the windows in daylight at the rear end of the building. A small angry crease appeared on your forehead as you joined the others. Proof of your husbands earlier assessment. Jud gently smoothed this remnant of your displeasure with his thumb, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck to kiss you, restraining himself to a small peck because the Bishop was watching. An unfair maneuver. You forgave him so easily.

“So, what do you think?” you asked.

“Beautiful, love. Truly.”

You raised an eyebrow, a mischievous gleam in your eyes.

“I was actually asking Bishop Langstrom,“ you said, turning to the guest. “It’s good to see you, Your Excellency.”

The bishop chuckled slightly, amused by the bickering and playful banter of the couple standing before him, that were clearly smitten with each other. He was wondering how Jud had even been able to hide his adoration for you in front of others until his dispensation had been granted.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied to your greeting. “And I agree with Jud, it's a wonderful piece. The details are beautifully crafted. I'm sure the parish appreciates your work."

Grateful for the sincere compliment, you smiled at him. With a nod, Langstrom excused himself, saying something about wanting to get some fresh air before mass. Obviously a flimsy excuse to give you some time alone.

The sun shining through your windows embraced you both in a soft glow, sprinkled with colorful specks of light. An unreal radiance illuminated you, and for a moment Jud thought of your wedding day, as you stood before him at the altar. Created to be loved, something almost touched by God.

You wrapped your arms around him, playing with a lock in the nape of his neck.

“So, I guess we're getting a new priest?” you asked softly.

Jud just hummed in response, not questioning what observation had led you to this conclusion, his mind preoccupied with your presence and wondering whether it was still too cold to cycle to the lake this afternoon and go skinny dipping. Your gaze searched his curiously, but he just gently brushed a strand of hair from your tired face, eyes full of tenderness.

“What?” you giggled.

“I'm really glad He sent you to me,” he whispered, tracing little patterns on your cheek and the sensitive part below your ear. You smiled up at him, your lips a smidge teasing, how he liked it.

“What if He sent you to me?”

“No, I'm certain."

Jud looked down at you with such warmth it made your knees soften. God truly had a strange sense of humor. From bizarre acquaintances to long-distance friends, over phone sex partners and pretend strangers to secret lovers and finally to husband and wife before God. Jud couldn't wait to see where He would send you both next.

Lord, Your love went before me and found me. You turned my wanderings into a path of love.

He leaned toward you, catching a white circle of light on your lips.

Jud had longed for Lilith long enough, now he was finally free to love her.

You ask: "But Selma, if Jud showered at Lilith's after murdering Sam, why is his face dirty again when he arrives at the police station to turn himself in?" To which I can only reply: "Because it's dark and slippery in the forest at night and no one has claimed that Jud has good balance after going through all that.”

Also, Jud being like: Blanc, you can go catch your killer on your own, I need to go catch MY WIFE.

ANYWAY I'm so emotional, you guys, thank you to everyone who joined me on this little journey! Feel free to share your reactions and questions in the comments or in my inbox! <3

Next up is a request for Jud on my desk and finally some more storys for Rings of Power.

Taglist:

@eliosberry @simp-hub @euqsia @sittinginthegardern @whistlef0rthechoir @climbingivy97 @onlyangel-444 @luxbub @antxnxlla @imsonotweird @boogjoogies @brightbriefs @nerdypinupcrystal @rainstorms-library @malkinse @justlenastuff @saltwaterburns @missotherme @teayuh05 @zweigsangel @ughhvix @litterallnobody @jujuondatbittt @shiimarisu @argentinemango @azarisworld @activate-drs @lunadi1una @asmodaya @xmenfan7 @mitsuhidesbeloved @the-mixedbag-blog @viscountessevie @ninabinna @schdxt @annabethpotter221b @lucciaa9 @insomniac-trash @daggeronmyneck @roseandthorns123

@lilredbird101 I did end up listening to Fliss „Coming Around“ while writing the epilogue! So thanks for the rec!

By mid-January, Chimney Rock is frozen solid.

Ice crusts the roads. Snowbanks harden into walls. Even the church bells seem to struggle now, their sound dull and distant, like they have to push through the cold to be heard.

You sit at your kitchen table, shoulders hunched, papers spread out in front of you—documents you promised yourself you wouldn’t touch again, yet here they are, accusing in the lamplight.

Your phone rests between your palms.

Jud’s name glows on the screen like it’s been waiting patiently. You don’t overthink it. You’ve learned better.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then—

“Tell me you’re calling to invite me over for that hot chocolate you made last week,” his voice cuts in, dry and warm despite the hour. “I’ve been thinking about it with an almost embarrassing level of devotion.”

You laugh, the sound fogging the air in front of you. “Good evening to you too, Father.”

“If you’re opening with formality,” he counters, “this is either serious… or you’re about to be deeply unkind.”

“A little of both,” you admit. “What are you doing?”

There’s the faint shuffle of paper on the other end. A pen placed down with unnecessary care. You can picture it too easily.

“Trying to convince myself that parish budgets are an acceptable substitute for sleep.”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” he replies, "But, I’m glad you called.”

“Well,” you begin, glancing at the papers around you, “I could just talk. Or—” You wait, then commit. “I think it’s time for another confessional.”

Then, without ceremony, without caution, “Come over.”

Not if you want. Not we should be careful.

Just an invitation.

Your pulse ticks up. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “I am.”

You gather the papers into a neat stack you know you won’t look at tonight, slip on your coat, and head for the door.

“I’ll be there soon,” you tell him.

“I’ll leave the light on,” he replies.

You sit inside the confessional booth, the wood close and familiar in a way that feels almost ironic now.

“I found bank transactions my father copied by hand,” you begin. “He circled them. Highlighted dates.” A breath. “I think the deposits were routed into a personal account. Not parish-facing. Drawn from church donation funds.”

You hear Jud shift closer to the screen—the faint scrape of wood, a quiet intake of breath.

“Read them to me.”

You do.

Account numbers. Withdrawals. Deposits that don’t align with any utility cycles or parish expenses. Amounts too precise to be charitable, too unremarkable to raise alarms. You read the dates aloud, one by one, your voice steady even as your pulse begins to climb.

Jud goes completely still.

You feel it—the way his attention locks in, sharp and absolute.

“That date,” he cuts in. “Read it again.”

You repeat it.

There’s the sound of paper moving on his side now. Faster. Less careful.

“That’s one of the gaps,” he murmurs, half to himself. “The week the records stop. Then everything resumes as if nothing happened.” A pause. “Like someone closed a door and reopened it once the mess was cleared.”

Your heartbeat thuds louder in your ears.

“What about the account number?” you ask. “Does it match any parish funds?”

Then, realization settles into his voice.

“It was moved through a holding account,” he says. “Not logged as parish money at all. Which means it never officially existed.”

Your throat tightens. “My father knew.”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No qualification.

You turn another page.

“These transactions stop three weeks before he died.”

“That matches almost everything missing from that fiscal year,” Jud confirms.

You close your eyes, breath shallow. “So I’m not crazy.”

“No.” The word comes fast. “You’re not.”

The certainty in his voice assures you more than any proof ever could.

You slide the papers closer to the screen, your fingers trembling just enough to betray you.

“He hid these for a reason. Which means if Jefferson knew—”

“He would have understood the threat,” Jud finishes for you.

You exhale slowly. “So now we need proof that Jefferson was aware of what my father knew. I’ll go back through everything I have. There has to be something I missed.”

Before Jud can respond—

“Father Duplenticy?”

Martha’s voice carries down the corridor.

Your shoulders tense.

“One moment, Martha,” Jud calls evenly. “I’m with a parishioner taking confession.”

“My apologies, Father.”

You both listen.

The footsteps don’t move.

Jud exhales under his breath. You hear him stand—the scrape of wood, the rustle of fabric as the curtain shifts.

“Can I help you, Martha?” he asks, closer now, outside the booth.

“Well,” she begins, cloying and cautious all at once, “it would be… questionable for you to be alone with a parishioner at this hour.” A pause. “Especially a female.”

You thunk your forehead lightly against the wood, eyes closing.

“How do you know the parishioner is a woman?” Jud counters.

There’s a delay, just long enough to tell you she hadn’t expected to be challenged.

“I’m almost positive I heard a woman’s voice,” Martha assumes. 

Jud doesn’t rush to respond.

When he does, his voice has changed—cooler, firmer, threaded with something unmistakably protective.

“What else did you hear, Martha?”

Silence.

You can picture her recalculating, trying to find firmer footing.

“I—” Martha falters. “Nothing inappropriate, of course.”

“Good,” Jud replies. Calm. Controlled. “Because confession is protected by oath and doctrine. Not gossip. Not speculation. And certainly not curiosity.”

“This parishioner,” he continues, “came here seeking guidance. That does not become less sacred because you think you recognized a voice.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I’ll let Monsignor Wicks know you were concerned,” Martha offers weakly.

Jud’s mouth curves…not a smile.

“You may,” he says. “And you can tell him I am doing exactly what I was ordained to do.”

There’s no mistaking it.

Conversation over.

Finally, footsteps retreat—hesitant now, chastened.

When the curtain falls back into place, Jud’s voice returns to you, lower than before.

“Are you alright?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “I am now.”

“That won’t happen again,” he adds.

It isn’t reassurance.

It’s a promise.

You straighten, heart still pounding. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes,” he interrupts softly. “I did.”

About a week later, you’re locking your front door when someone clears their throat behind you.

You turn, startled, and find Martha standing at the edge of your path, cardigan smoothed flat like she’s bracing herself for reason.

“I wanted to speak with you,” she begins, already settled into concern. “About Father Duplenticy.”

Your mouth falls open at the audacity, "I'm doing well Martha, thank you for asking so thoughtfully. How are you?" 

Martha exhales through her nose. Not irritated—concerned. The kind she wears like a badge of virtue. “People have noticed how… familiar you are.”

You hum, "Have they?"

“Yes,” she replies pointedly. “And it isn’t appropriate.”

You tilt your head. “We’re friends.”

Martha’s lips press thin. “That’s exactly the problem.”

You wait. Let her keep going. She always does.

“He’s a priest,” she goes on. “A new one. And Jefferson is already… sensitive about appearances. I don’t want you putting him in a difficult position.”

"Jefferson, or J—" you stop yourself before you create more trouble, "Jefferson or Father Jud?" 

"Both." 

You straighten. “Father Jud and I have talked. About the town. The church. Life. About where to find the best pancakes after seven.” A pause. “That hardly feels like cause for alarm.”

"That kind of ease invites speculation," she cuts in. 

You won't let her win, "So does breathing." 

She studies you, displeased. “You’ve always enjoyed testing boundaries.”

You smile faintly. “I enjoy clarity.”

“This one matters,” Martha insists. “Father Duplenticy represents the church.”

“And I represent what?” you ask calmly.

Her jaw tightens. “You know exactly what you represent.”

You do. And so does she.

“I thought you were one of God’s people,” you reply evenly. “And I thought God was loving. Forgiving. Capable of nuance.”

Martha sighs, clearly frustrated now. “I’m only asking you to be mindful. Friendships like that… blur lines.”

You consider her for a moment, then ask, gently, “Then why are you friends with Samson?”

She stiffens.

“That’s not—” She stops. Adjusts. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” you ask mildly. “You spend time with him. Alone. You laugh. You confide in each other. People notice that too.”

Martha’s chin lifts. “Samson isn’t a father in the church.”

Ah.

There it is.

“So that’s the rule,” you say softly. “Men can exist freely as long as they don’t wear a collar.”

“Don’t twist this,” she warns.

“I’m not,” you reply. “I told you. I like clarity..”

Martha folds her arms. “Samson doesn’t represent authority. He doesn’t give confession. He doesn’t stand at the pulpit.”

“No,” you agree. “He just sleeps with you.”

Her eyes flash. “That is not—”

“—what you want called out?” you finish. “Funny. I didn’t either.”

Martha exhales, tired now. “You’re being deliberately difficult.”

"I'm just questioning double standards Martha."

"That's unfair." 

"Is it?" You question, "Or is it just uncomfortable for you?" 

She looks away again, "I'm asking you to simply consider how this looks." 

You nod once. “And I’m asking you to consider why it bothers you so much.”

“You shouldn’t lean on him,” Martha adds. “Not here.”

You step past her, “Don’t worry. I’ve been navigating men’s expectations my entire life.”

As you leave, you glance back once.

“And for what it’s worth,” you add, “Jud treats me like a person. Not a liability.”

Martha doesn’t answer.

But her silence tells you everything.

You text Jud on Wednesday, asking if you can meet for confession.

He agrees immediately.

What he doesn’t know is that this isn’t the kind of confession he’s come to expect.

At the church, you slip into your side of the booth and draw the curtain closed. The scrape of wood feels louder than it should. A moment later, you hear him settle on the other side—close enough to be aware of him, separated just enough to make this feel contained. Controlled.

“Bless me, Father,” you begin, voice quieter than you intend. “For I have sinned.”

“Wait,” he interjects, clearly caught off guard. “What are you—”

You’ve never started this formally before.

“Just,” you murmur, already committed, “follow procedure.”

Then the sound of him clearing his throat, subtle but telling. “Okay,” he says, slower now. “Go on.”

You swallow.

“I’m afraid.”

The pause this time isn’t measured. It’s uncertain.

“Afraid of what?” he asks, carefully.

“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt my friend,” you continue. “Not intentionally. Just… by existing the way I do.”

Jud shifts. The faint rustle of the stole carries through the screen.

“What kind of hurt?”

“Reputational,” you answer. The word feels clinical for something so personal. “Collateral. The kind that comes from being seen standing too close to someone everyone’s already watching.”

His breathing deepens. Less controlled now.

“And this friend…” he prompts.

“Is good,” you say quickly. “Careful. Earnest. He’s trying very hard to do the right thing in a place that punishes people for that.”

His hand presses briefly against the divider.

You feel it through the grain.

“Martha warned me,” you add. “She said my friendship with him blurs lines. That people notice. That I could damage him without meaning to.”

Jud’s voice is calm when he finally speaks, but there’s steel under it. “And do you believe her?”

“I believe she thinks she’s protecting him,” you say. “And the church.”

“Do you believe you are harming him?”

The question is pointed. Intimate.

“No,” you admit. “I think he’s stronger than she gives him credit for. I’m just afraid of becoming the thing someone else uses against him.”

Jud leans forward on the other side of the screen. You can tell by the way the air shifts, by how close his voice suddenly feels.

“Tell me,” he says quietly, “what responsibility you think you’re confessing to.”

You frown, trying to find the right shape for it. “I don’t know. Wanting to stay. Wanting to keep talking. Wanting—” You stop yourself. Correct course. “—to not disappear just because someone told me I should.”

Jud lets out a soft breath that might almost be a laugh if it weren’t so restrained.

“You’re confessing fear,” he says. “Not wrongdoing.”

“I’m confessing attachment,” you counter. “Which feels adjacent.”

“Only if you believe care is a sin.”

Oh.

“But I don’t want to be selfish,” you continue. “I don’t want to be the reason people whisper about him. Or question his intentions. Or use me as a shortcut to undermine him.”

Jud leans closer still.

“May I speak plainly?” 

You nod, then realize he can’t see it. “Yes.”

“Good.” Something shifts in his tone now—authority, but not imposed. Chosen.

“Your friend is not fragile,” Jud resumes. “He is not a child who needs to be protected from proximity. And he is not unaware of the implications of being seen with you.”

Your pulse ticks faster.

“He chooses where he stands,” Jud says. “And with whom.”

You press your lips together. “That sounds… personal.”

“It is,” he answers without hesitation.

The honesty in it makes your breath catch.

​​“Martha made it sound like the only virtuous option is to step away,” you say.

Jud doesn’t pause this time.

“Virtue,” he replies quietly, “is not synonymous with absence.”

The words hum through you.

“Sometimes,” he adds, voice lower now, stripped of ceremony, “it’s staying. With open eyes. Accepting the cost instead of pretending it doesn’t exist.”

“And if my friend gets hurt?” You wonder.

“Then, it won’t be because he didn’t understand what he was choosing.”

“Okay.”

“And if you get hurt?” he asks.

The question isn’t procedural.

It’s personal.

“I don’t care what happens to me, Jud—” You catch yourself. “Father. Sorry.”

“What if your friend cares very much about what happens to you?”

“Does he?” you ask, quietly.

The pause that follows is longer than it should be.

“More than he should,” he reveals.

Your fingers curl against your palm. “Then what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Ask for your penance,” he whispers.

“My penance?”

“Yes.” His calm now borders on dangerous. “You came for confession.”

You swallow. “Alright.” A pause. “What is it?”

You can almost envision him deciding how far he’s willing to go. How much he can allow himself without crossing a line he won’t be able to step back over.

“A drink,” he decides.

Your breath catches. “A drink?”

“At Il Diavolo’s,” he continues, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “One. With your… friend.”

Heat coils low in your stomach.

“That doesn’t sound very penitential,” you tease.

“It is,” he replies. “For both of us.”

“And what,” you ask carefully, “is that meant to absolve?”

“Nothing.”

The admission lands harder than absolution ever could.

You smile without meaning to. “And when am I meant to repay this penance?”

A pause—brief, almost shy.

“Are you free right now?”

Your heart gives a small, traitorous flutter.

“I think I have all the time in the world.”

Il Diavolo’s is exactly what it always is…dim, forgiving, half-forgotten by anyone who still pretends to care about appearances.

You slide into the corner booth first, the one tucked far enough away from the bar that no one looks twice. Jud follows, shrugging out of his coat, eyes making a quick, instinctive sweep of the room before he sits. Old habits. Protective ones. He relaxes only after he’s certain you’re settled.

The vinyl squeaks softly beneath him.

“Good choice,” he notes, glancing around. “This booth feels… morally ambiguous.”

“Perfect for confession-related penance,” you reply.

Nikolai appears, eyebrows lifting just enough to signal recognition before setting two drinks down. Whiskey for Jud. Something pink and unapologetically cheerful placed in front of you.

Jud’s brow creases. “That’s not what you had last time.”

You lift your glass and clink it gently against his. “That’s because somewhere between then and now I had a deeply regrettable evening with my good friend Jack Daniels.” You wince theatrically. “I can’t even smell the stuff without throwing up in my mouth. So…Dirty Shirley.”

“A Dirty Shirley,” he repeats, clearly amused. “Of all the drinks.”

“Hey, watch it,” you protest. “It’s a classic. And I firmly believe in beverages where I can’t taste the alcohol. That way, if I get lost in the sauce, it feels less like a personal failing.”

You take a generous sip.

Jud watches you for a beat, then reaches across the table. “Let me taste it.”

You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting, then hand the glass over.

He takes a sip. Pauses.

“Well,” he admits, surprised, “that is… fantastic. It tastes exactly like a regular Shirley Temple.”

“Thank you,” you say, smug. “I take great pride in my poor life choices.”

He hands the drink back, fingers brushing yours.

A pizza arrives soon after—thin crust, blistered edges, greasy in the most unpretentious way. You both reach for the same slice. Your fingers touch.

Again.

Jud clears his throat, clearly choosing levity. “Alright,” he says. “We need a distraction before I start overthinking this.”

You retreat first, chewing thoughtfully. “Okay,” you say, swallowing, “twenty questions.”

“I thought confession was over.”

“This is penance-adjacent,” you reply. “Rules are simple. You answer honestly. I’ll try not to weaponize it later.”

“That’s profoundly unconvincing.” He lifts his glass anyway. “You start.”

You tap your chin, considering him openly now. “What do you miss most about your old life?”

His thumb traces the condensation on the glass, slow and absentminded, like he’s buying himself time. The noise of the bar fills the gap, but it doesn’t quite reach the booth.

“Being anonymous,” he states finally. “Not being watched for what I represent.”

“Deep,” you say lightly, but your eyes don’t leave his. “Your turn.”

He studies you for a second, like he’s deciding how close he’s allowed to step.

“Why don’t you sell your paintings?” 

You take another bite of pizza, stalling in your own way. “I barely let people see them,” you acknowledge. “Selling them would mean letting them decide what they’re worth.”

He nods once. Then—

“You let me see them.”

Not an accusation. A fact.

You meet his eyes. “You didn’t feel like an audience.”

Jud’s mouth curves, “Dangerous distinction.”

"Maybe so," you shurg.

His gaze drops then—your mouth, the way your fingers rest against the table, the space you’re deliberately not closing—before lifting back to yours.

“My turn?” you ask, innocent as sin.

He leans back, distance reasserted like a conscious act of survival. He signals for another drink, fingers tapping once against the table. “Yes, I believe it is.”

“Are the whispers true? About why you gave up boxing?”

The whiskey arrives. He drinks more than he should, faster than a man who values restraint ever would. The glass meets the table with a quiet, decisive sound.

“They are,” he confesses. His jaw tightens. “I was a boxer. And in the last match I ever fought…” He stops. “I went too far.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I killed my opponent.”

He looks up, braced for the usual reactions. Fear. Revulsion. Distance.

None of it comes.

Your expression doesn’t change. Not in the way he prepares for, anyway. No flinch. No retreat. Just attention.

That unsettles him more than anything else could.

“You don’t look surprised,” he notes.

“I am,” you answer. “Just not of you.”

His throat works. He wasn’t ready for that.

“It’s why I stopped,” he continues, “Why I walked away. Why I don’t let myself forget what my hands are capable of.”

The table feels too small now. The booth too tight. His knee presses against yours when he shifts, and this time neither of you pretends it’s accidental.

“You’re afraid I’ll look at you differently,” you remark.

“Yes,” he answers. Immediate. Honest.

You hold his gaze. “I don’t.”

Another slice of pizza disappears between you. Grease on your fingers. You reach for a napkin at the same time he does. Your hands brush.

Jud’s thumb lingers against your knuckle. Not accidental. Not bold either. Just… there.

His breath changes.

He looks at your hands like he’s memorizing them.

Then, quietly—too quietly for anyone else to hear—

“Can I ask you something?” he ventures.

You nod, pulse ticking hard. “You already are.”

His thumb presses just a fraction more against your skin. Not possession. Permission.

“Are you this unafraid with everyone,” he asks, “or is it just me?”

"Just you," is all you can manage.

Jud’s breath catches. You feel it through the contact, the way his thumb stills like he’s suddenly, painfully aware of exactly where it is. His gaze drops to your hands, then lifts back to your face, color creeping up his neck.

“That feels—” He stops. Regroups. Clears his throat. “Statistically improbable.”

You let out a breathy laugh, grateful for the narrow exit. “Congratulations. You’re special.”

His thumb lifts immediately, too fast, and your hand retreats at the same time, both of you pretending it was inevitable. Necessary. He reaches for his glass. You smooth your napkin flat. The moment doesn’t dissipate. It hums.

“My turn,” you announce, steadier than you feel.

He nods once, like speech is temporarily unavailable.

“What’s the one thing you want,” you ask, “that you’d never admit out loud?”

His eyes hold yours. No humor now. No deflection—just a long, weighted look that says you already know.

“Next question,” he says quietly.

You smile. Victory tastes sweet.

A little later, somewhere past responsible and well into we'll regret this in the morning, laughter comes easier now. Loser. Like neither of you is policing it the way you were earlier. 

He’s halfway through a story you’re fairly certain he’s also lost track of when you freeze.

Mid-breath. Mid-smile.

“What?” he checks immediately. “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer. You just stare past him and lift a finger, pointing toward the door.

Jud leans carefully out of the booth. He sees Doctor Nat stepping inside.

“Shit,” Jud hisses.

You blink at him. “That’s at least one Hail Mary. You’re not allowed to swear.”

He snorts into his glass. “I’m not allowed to do half the things we’ve done tonight.”

Doctor Nat moves toward the bar, greeting Nikolai with the ease of a man who absolutely does not need to see this.

“He can’t see us,” he whispers.

“He absolutely cannot see us,” you agree.

There’s a beat where you both stare at each other, equally horrified—

Then you duck.

Not gracefully.

You slide down the booth at the exact same time, knees knocking, shoulders bumping, the table rattling dangerously. Jud grabs the edge to steady it and somehow ends up half under the table, his coat brushing your leg.

You clap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

“This is profoundly undignified,” he breathes.

“Oh, it’s terrible,” you whisper back. “I’m having the best time.”

Your faces are far too close now.

You can smell his cologne under the whiskey. Feel the heat coming off him. His knee presses firmly between yours, an accident neither of you correct.

You both hold still. Jud’s breath fans against your cheek.

“This,” he murmurs, barely audible, “is not helping.”

“Then stop breathing on me."

“I can’t,” he admits quietly. “I’m panicking.”

That makes you laugh—soft, helpless, dangerous. Doctor Nat laughs loudly at something Nikolai says.

Jud’s eyes flick to the bar, then back to you, dark and unfocused. “We need to leave.”

“Agreed.”

“Now.”

“Absolutely.”

Then Jud reaches out and takes your hand beneath the table. His grip is warm. Sure.

“Back door,” he commands..

You nod.

You slip out of the booth like criminals, crouched and giggling, timing it perfectly as Nat turns toward the bar. Jud keeps one hand on your back, guiding you, fingers splayed like he doesn’t trust himself not to lose you in the dim.

The back door creaks as you push through it. Cold air hits you both at once.

You stumble into the alley, breathless, laughing too hard now to care. Jud shuts the door behind you and immediately leans against it, chest heaving, head tipping back toward the night sky.

“We are terrible people,” he declares.

“You’re a priest,” you remind him. “I’m just a bad influence.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the laughter fades into something more serene. You’re standing far too close. Your backs are to the brick wall, his arm still half-raised like he forgot to drop it. The alley is empty, lit only by a flickering bulb and the soft spill of sound from inside.

Jud swallows.

“I think,” he says carefully, “we may need to stop sneaking.”

You tilt your head. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he replies, voice low and steady despite everything, “it’s becoming increasingly difficult to pretend I don’t like it.”

taglist:

November arrives in Chimney Rock without ceremony.

There’s no easing into it. No lingering warmth. Just a clean, decisive turn, as if the town has collectively agreed it’s done pretending warmth is still an option.

The last leaves cling stubbornly to the cemetery fence, their colors dulled to rust and ash. Most have already fallen, crushed into the path underfoot. The air bites now. Breath shows. Night comes early and stays, offering cover and excuses. Reasons to retreat, to look away, to keep to oneself.

You and Jud learn how to exist inside that.

The woods feel barer than they did weeks ago. The path feels narrower, more exposed, stripped down to bone and mud and dead leaves that no longer bother to soften the sound of footsteps. You walk side by side, close but careful, the kind of proximity built on trust rather than ease.

Jud breaks the silence like he’s been holding the thought for a while.

“Martha mentioned your father the other day.”

Your step falters just enough to register. “She did?” you ask. “What did she have to say?”

“That he was your grandmother’s prized possession,” he explains, “And that you take after her.”

You don’t look at him. “And I assume she had plenty to say about Grace.”

There’s a pause. Leaves crackle beneath his boots.

“She did.”

You exhale through your nose. “Let me guess. The version where Jefferson and the rest of the congregation still refer to her as the Harlot Whore.”

“Yes.”

You kick through a pile of dead leaves, frustration finding motion. “So because I didn’t follow my uncle’s crusade—because I refuse to believe God governs through fear—I inherit that stain too.” You shake your head. “A legacy of scorn. A woman erased down to a slur.”

Jud slows, then stops entirely.

You do too.

“I never believed their story,” you continue, turning to face him. “Not Martha’s. Not Jefferson’s. Grace wasn’t dangerous because she was sinful. She was dangerous because she questioned men who don’t tolerate being questioned.” Your voice tightens. “My father saw that too. Just like I do. That’s why Jefferson—”

The words build too fast. You stop yourself.

You cut it off. “Never mind.”

Jud doesn’t push. He waits. The woods seem to lean in with him, bare branches creaking overhead.

“You think Jefferson had something to do with your father’s death.”

You look at him then, his eyes are pale in the fading light, attentive without being invasive. You don’t feel cornered.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t have proof. Nothing tangible.” A beat. “But for seventeen years, I’ve lived with the certainty that it wasn’t an accident.” Your throat tightens. “I’ve believed it in my bones.”

Jud absorbs that without flinching. Without shrinking from it.

“That’s a heavy thing to live with,” he offers.

Somehow, from him, it doesn’t feel like pity.

“It is,” you agree. “Especially when everyone around you insists you’re imagining it.”

Jud doesn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he steps closer—not touching, not crowding—just enough to ground you in the moment. His expression settles into something solemn and intent. Protective without spectacle.

From anyone else, the look might make you feel small.

From him, it does the opposite.

It makes you feel seen.

“You’re not wrong to question it,” he says at last. “And you’re not wrong to remember him the way you do.”

The words are spare. Unembellished. No sermon hidden inside them.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The woods hold still. The path waits.

Then Jud tilts his head slightly, something almost like a smile trying to surface. “For someone who claims not to believe anymore,” he adds, “you have an uncomfortably strong relationship with truth.”

You huff softly. “Guess I kept the useful parts.”

He nods once. “I thought so.”

You start walking again. He falls into step beside you without comment, closer now, shoulders nearly brushing. The November air presses in around you, sharp and listening, as if even the woods have decided this is something worth remembering.

A few weeks later, there’s a knock at your door.

You open it to find Jud standing on your porch, coat buttoned wrong, breath fogging in the cold like he underestimated November again.

“Inside,” you tell him immediately, catching his sleeve and tugging him forward. “Before you freeze to death and I have to explain to the town how I killed a priest.”

He stumbles forward with a startled laugh, boots crossing your threshold as you shut the door behind him.

“That’s an aggressive welcome,” he remarks, rubbing his hands together. “But appreciated.”

“You’re visibly losing circulation,” you point out. “I’m saving your extremities.”

“I’d grown attached to them,” he replies.

The house wraps around him at once—lamps glowing low, a throw draped over the couch, the faint, familiar smell of reheated coffee. It’s warm without trying to be. Lived-in. Intentional. Nothing borrowed pretending to be permanent.

Then his attention shifts to you.

“You’ve never invited me inside before,” he notes.

You blink. “Have I not?”

“No,” he replies mildly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Which feels intentional.”

You gesture vaguely around the room. “Congratulations. You’ve passed whatever arbitrary test I was pretending not to give you.”

That earns a smile—quick, genuine, gone almost as soon as it appears.

“It’s beautiful,” he adds, eyes drifting back around the space. “It suits you.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That feels suspiciously flattering.”

“I can retract it if necessary.”

“No, no. I’m just curious.” You cross your arms. “What about it suits me?”

He takes a second, head tilting slightly, the way it always does when he’s choosing his words instead of defaulting to caution.

“It’s warm without being careful,” he says. “Nothing here is trying to impress anyone. It looks like someone lives here on purpose.”

You scoff, but there’s no bite in it. “You’ve been practicing your observations again.”

“Occupational hazard.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling as you lead him farther in, take his coat, hang it where it belongs. The ease of it surprises you both, but neither of you comments on that.

He perches on the edge of a chair like he’s still unsure what the furniture expects of him.

“So,” you prompt, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He hesitates then. Just a beat too long to be casual.

“I’ve been… looking into something,” he admits.

Your humor doesn’t disappear. It just steps aside.

“Into what?”

He glances down, rubs his thumb against his knuckle. A tell you’ve learned to recognize.

“Your father. Church records. Old correspondence. Things that don’t get pulled much anymore.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” The answer comes instantly. “I wanted to.”

You watch him closely now.

“There are gaps,” he goes on. “Dates that don’t align. Notes that stop abruptly. And correspondence that was… redirected.” A pause. “Your father asked questions. More than once.”

You swallow.

“About Grace?”

“Yes.” Jud nods. “And about Jefferson.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. 

“I don’t have proof,” he adds, quick to ground it. “And I won’t promise answers I can’t deliver. But I don’t think you were wrong to wonder.”

You let out a slow breath. “You really are terrible at being neutral.”

He winces. “I’m learning that.”

You meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head slightly, like the words mean something. “You deserve the truth. Or at least an honest attempt at it.”

“You realize this makes you complicit now.”

“Yes,” he answers without pause. “That occurred to me.”

“Well,” you decide, turning toward the kitchen, “if you’re going to exhume church skeletons on my behalf, the least I can do is make you coffee.”

He brightens at that. “I accept. But only if it’s stronger than whatever passes for it at the rectory.”

“Oh, it is,” you promise. “This is a godless household.”

He follows you into the kitchen—close now, naturally so. No awkward distance to negotiate. No need to acknowledge it.

You pour him a mug and pass it over. He takes it with both hands, sighing softly, like his body’s finally forgiven him for going outside.

Your fingers brush his as you let go.

It’s nothing.

Except neither of you moves right away.

You’re the one who steps back first.

Not consciously. Just instinct—like you both need a second to recalibrate after standing too close for too long. You busy yourself with the coffee pot. Jud turns, mug in hand, giving the room space to breathe again.

That’s when he notices the paintings.

They line the wall by the small kitchen table—three of them, all different sizes, all unmistakably done by the same hand. Muted colors. Confident strokes. Nothing ornamental. Nothing trying to be polite.

He slows without meaning to.

“These are…” He trails off, eyes moving from one canvas to the next.

“Mine,” you answer easily, not looking at him. “I paint when I can’t sleep.”

That pulls him fully in.

The first is a study of bare trees, November stripped to bone and shadow. The second suggests a road dissolving into fog, unfinished by design.

And the third—

Jud stops.

It’s a woman. Seated. Turned slightly away from the viewer. One shoulder bare, the curve of her back caught in shadow, the line between clothed and unclothed blurred on purpose. Nothing explicit. Nothing obscene.

Intimate anyway.

The lighting does most of the work—suggestion instead of display—leaving the impression of something private, something not meant to be consumed.

Heat creeps up his neck before he can stop it.

You finally glance over, catching him mid-freeze.

“Oh,” you say. “That one.”

He clears his throat, suddenly very aware of the coffee in his hands. “It’s—” He stops, tries again. “It’s beautifully done.”

There’s care in the way he says it. Respect. Like he’s afraid of mishandling it.

You lean against the counter. “It’s me.”

The word lands softly.

Jud inhales at the exact wrong moment.

The coffee goes down the wrong way, and he chokes—just a little—turning away as he coughs into his fist, clearly mortified.

“I—” He straightens, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. “You?”

You wince sympathetically. “Sorry. Probably should’ve warned you.”

He waves a hand, still recovering. “No—no, that’s not—” He stops, breathes out, then looks at the painting again. Slower now. Careful. “I just wasn’t… prepared.”

“For the nudity,” you tease gently.

“For the vulnerability,” he corrects, and immediately looks away at the counter, the window, anywhere that isn’t you or the canvas. His grip tightens slightly around the mug, knuckles whitening. 

“I painted it when I left the church,” you continue. “When I moved into this house.” A pause. “I don’t know if it means anything specific. I just know it felt right. Like… claiming myself.”

You step closer—just a fraction. Enough to shift the air again.

“You’re allowed to look, Jud.”

That does it.

His breath stutters, barely there. He finally turns his head, eyes catching yours for half a second before drifting back to the painting, like he’s trying to relearn where to rest his gaze.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just—” A humorless huff. “I’m suddenly very aware that I don’t know where to put my eyes.”

You smile, slow and knowing. “Anywhere you want.”

He nods once. Then again. His ears are unmistakably pink.

“It’s… arresting,” he manages. “In a way that feels deeply unfair.”

“Unfair how?”

“Because now I’m standing in your kitchen,” he reacts, dry but breathless, “trying to decide whether I’m allowed to look at the art or the artist.”

Your pulse kicks.

He realizes what he’s said a half-second too late. Clears his throat. Takes a sip of coffee that does absolutely nothing to help.

“I need something stronger than this,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which feels like a separate problem I’ll need to unpack later.”

You arch a brow. “Stronger than coffee?”

“Stronger than anything currently available to me,” he answers, finally meeting your eyes. Humor lives there—but beneath it, something honest. Want, carefully leashed.

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

He lets out a breath that might be a laugh. Might be a prayer. “You make this very difficult.”

You don’t move closer.

You don’t have to.

“I think,” you say gently, “you’d hate me more if I didn’t.”

Jud looks at the painting one last time—long enough that it matters—then deliberately sets the mug down, like he doesn’t trust his hands anymore.

“Yes,” he agrees calmly. “I would.”

And in the silence that follows, with your truth on the wall and his restraint standing stubbornly between you, it becomes very clear:

This isn’t about what he’s seen.

It’s about the fact that you let him.

Jud doesn’t take the long way home.

That’s the first sign something’s off.

Normally, he walks until the night settles him—loops the block, cuts behind the rectory, lets the cold work its way through his thoughts until they line up again. Tonight, he goes straight back, keys biting into his palm, steps too quick for someone with nothing to hide.

The door shuts behind him with a soft, final sound.

The house is dark. Quiet. Exactly the way he left it.

He stands there longer than necessary, coat still on, shoes untouched by the door, as though movement might make whatever followed him inside harder to deny. The smell of coffee lingers on his hands—yours, stronger than anything he’s allowed himself in months—and it hits him all at once, sharp and unwelcome.

This is nothing. 

A painting. A conversation. Familiar territory for a man who has spent years translating want into something survivable.

He hangs his coat. Washes his hands. The routine is precise, almost liturgical. He scrubs longer than needed, like he can erase the memory of your fingers brushing his if he’s thorough enough.

It doesn’t work.

The image is already there—uninvited, vivid. The way the light traced the curve of your shoulder on canvas. The truth of it. The nerve.

His hands brace against the sink, knuckles whitening.

I took a vow.

The words come easily. They always have. He’s built his life around them—around restriction, discipline, the careful architecture of obedience. Vows are clean things. You don’t question them; you live inside them.

But tonight, the word feels…debatable.

He moves through the house, turning on lamps he doesn’t need. The small living room. The table with his half-written sermon. The open Bible he hasn’t touched since yesterday morning.

He sits. Stands. Sits again.

It shouldn’t matter that you painted yourself that way. It shouldn’t matter that you let him see it. It shouldn’t matter that when you said it’s me, his first response wasn’t shame.

It was affection.

He drags a hand down his face.

This is temptation, he tells himself, giving it a proper name.

But temptation has always been loud in his mind—urgent, reckless, demanding. What’s taken root in his chest now doesn’t feel like that.

It feels patient.

He opens the Bible, flips pages without reading. His eyes skim familiar verses, words he’s preached, defended, believed. Tonight they slide off him, failing to catch.

Instead, your voice threads through the quiet.

You’re allowed to look, Jud.

The memory lands heavy and dangerous.

He closes the book.

The problem isn’t that he wants you.

He’s wanted things before—people, lives, different versions of himself. Wanting is human. Wanting is manageable.

The problem is that you don’t feel like a threat to his vows.

You feel like a question they never prepared him for.

He paces the length of the room, restless. Stops at the window. Outside, Chimney Rock sleeps—lights dim, streets empty, the town pretending it hasn’t noticed anything shifting beneath its feet.

You don’t belong to that silence. You never have.

You live intentionally. Paint yourself honestly. Speak truths that cost something.

And without spectacle or force, you’ve become part of his life not as a distraction, but as a constant.

He leans his forehead against the cool glass.

This is why I pulled away, he reminds himself. This is why I created distance.

And yet.

He didn’t leave your house feeling guilty.

He left feeling… awake.

That’s what terrifies him.

He presses his thumb into his palm, grounding himself in sensation. Counts his breaths. In. Out. In. Out. The old methods still work—just not as well.

You weren’t supposed to matter like this. You were supposed to be a complication. A kindness at arm’s length. A friendship he managed carefully, responsibly.

But somewhere between the woods and your kitchen, between your laughter and the painting on the wall, you became something else.

A seed.

Planted quietly. Fed by honesty. Growing every time you meet his gaze without asking him to be less than he is.

He sinks onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

“I made a vow,” he says aloud, testing the sound of it in the empty room.

The words don’t argue back.

What answers instead is the memory of your voice—steady, unashamed, warm.

Then we find a way.

He doesn’t know what that way looks like. He doesn’t know if it’s righteous or reckless or something he hasn’t learned how to name yet.

He only knows this:

Whatever he’s sworn to be, whatever life he chose, whatever rules he built to survive...

You are no longer something he can simply walk away from.

And as he lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the thought settles deeper than doubt, heavier than desire:

This isn’t a crisis of faith.

It’s the beginning of one.

And the seed you planted in him—faint, insistent, alive—is already taking root.

That Sunday, you do the unthinkable. You go to church. 

You arrive late, as you always do. The heavy door groans when you push it open, the sound cutting clean through the sanctuary. A few heads turn. A few expressions harden.

None of it matters half as much as the way Jud looks up.

From his place beside the pulpit—where he always sits during your uncle’s sermons—his attention snaps to you instantly. The reaction is small, involuntary. You swear you can hear his breath catch, swallowed by the cavernous quiet of the chamber.

You move down the aisle with unhurried intention and slip into the pew you’ve always chosen, tucked just deep enough into shadow that Jefferson can’t easily pin you with his gaze.

But Jud still can.

Jefferson speaks with the practiced calm of a man who believes the room belongs to him. He speaks of discipline. Of temptation. Of vigilance. Of the dangers of unchecked desire dressed up as spiritual concern.

“Temptation,” Jefferson intones, “rarely arrives as something grotesque. It comes as comfort. As familiarity. As something that feels right.”

Jud stiffens beside him.

You notice.

Jefferson continues, pacing the pulpit. “It preys upon loneliness. On uncertainty. On those who believe they are above correction.”

You sit very still.

No smile. No shift. No reaction to reward him. Your presence alone unsettles the space, a truth seated where it was never meant to be.

Jud’s hands fold together too tightly in his lap.

“Discipline,” Jefferson goes on, “is the only safeguard. Without it, even the most devout can lose their way.”

The words strike closer than coincidence.

You glance toward Jud—not openly, not daringly. 

He feels it.

His eyes glance at you despite himself, drawn there like gravity. There’s conflict written plainly across his face now, a battle he’s no longer winning cleanly. Jefferson speaks of temptation like it’s an abstract threat, but Jud hears it for what it is:

A warning.

A test.

A leash being tugged.

When Jefferson’s attention sweeps the congregation, it pauses where you sit in shadow. His smile holds, but his eyes sharpen. He sees you.

What he doesn’t see is the way Jud’s attention keeps pulling back to you. The way every word your uncle speaks only makes the distance between obedience and desire more unbearable.

You don’t bow your head when the prayer comes.

Jud notices.

When the final amen ripples through the sanctuary, you don’t rush for the doors. People linger, as they always do—hands shaken, shoulders squeezed, Jefferson’s voice floating above it all like authority mistaken for grace.

You move through the crowd with practiced ease. A nod here. A polite reply there. Nothing offered that could be taken.

You stop where Jud and Jefferson stand, close enough to look united, distant enough to feel false.

Jud doesn’t look at you.

That, more than anything else, tells you he’s struggling.

“Ah,” Jefferson’s voice blooms warmly, pitched just loud enough for nearby parishioners to hear. “My dear niece. What a welcome surprise.”

His hand settles on your shoulder.

Your body tenses instantly.

Jud sees it.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable—the way your spine stiffens, the way your breath catches. His eyes dart to you now, intent, alert.

“I’d… I’d like to confess something,” you say quietly.

Jefferson turns, interest lighting his face in a way that feels indulgent. Possessive. “Of course,” he replies, already angling his body toward the confessional. “I didn’t realize you—”

“It’s not something I’d want my uncle to hear.”

The word uncle is calculated. Precise. A line drawn clean and unyielding.

Jefferson stills. Just long enough to register the challenge. His smile adjusts, becomes something cooler. He glances at Jud.

“Father Duplenticy,” he says smoothly. “Would you?”

Jud looks at you.

You don’t nod. You don’t plead. You don’t give him anything but the truth of your eyes.

“Yes,” Jud answers. “I can.”

Jefferson watches the two of you walk away, his eyes following until the confessional curtain closes behind you.

Inside, the booth feels smaller than you remember.

The wood is worn smooth by years of whispered sins and bent knees. The screen casts Jud’s silhouette into soft angles—shoulders squared, head bowed just enough to be respectful, not enough to be distant. You can hear his breathing. Too close. Too real.

“This doesn’t have to follow form,” he offers quietly. “If you don’t want it to.”

“I don’t,” you answer.

A pause.

“Then talk,” he says. “I’m here.”

Something in your chest loosens at that.

“After… the other day,” you begin, “I started going through my father’s things again. Boxes I’d left untouched for years.” Your fingers curl into the fabric of your skirt. “I found something. Hidden. At the bottom of one of them.”

Jud goes completely still.

“It’s not proof,” you continue. “Not the kind that survives scrutiny. But it points. Dates. Names. Patterns Jefferson worked very hard to erase.”

You swallow.

“I think whatever you’ve noticed missing in the records,” you finish, “this fills in some of the gaps.”

The silence that follows is dense.

“Why tell me here?” Jud asks at last. His voice stays level, but tension hums beneath it. “Why come to church, after all this time?”

You draw in a careful breath. “Because what I found scared me.” A beat. “And because if something happens to me, you can’t break your oath. You can’t break the sanctity of a confession.”

The words fall exactly where you intend them to.

“This stays with you,” you conclude. “Safe. Untouchable.”

For the first time since you stepped inside the booth, Jud moves.

The bench creaks softly. The shadow of him shifts behind the screen.

“Don’t.”

You hesitate. “Don’t… what?”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.” The restraint in his voice is fraying. “Like you’re expendable. Like you’re already accounting for your absence.”

“Jud,” you start, trying to steady him, “I just want to be cautious. Prepared. My family doesn’t exactly have a stellar track record with longevity.” A hollow breath. “My grandmother. My father—”

“Stop.” The word isn’t loud, but it’s absolute.

There’s a beat. Then his voice again—lower now, stripped of ceremony.

“Why would you talk like losing you is inevitable?” 

The question isn't rhetorical. It's not distant. It's charged with something you weren’t prepared for.

You hesitate. “I’m being realistic.”

“No,” he pushes back. “You’re being fatalistic. There’s a difference.”

You can hear his breathing now. Faster. Closer.

“You’re sitting here,” he continues, “preparing for your own erasure like it’s a responsible thing to do. Like it wouldn’t matter.”

“That’s not what I said—”

“It’s what you’re implying. And I won’t accept that.”

Your pulse stutters. “You won’t… accept it?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation left. “You don’t get to speak yourself into harm.”

The silence is electric.

“You think I’m listening to this as an abstract problem?” he asks, voice rough. “Like I’m filing it away neatly under confession and procedure?”

You swallow.

“If something were to happen to you—” He stops himself, breath hitching, then continues anyway. “That’s not a hypothetical I’m willing to entertain.”

“Jud—”

“You came here because you’re scared,” he says. “Because you don’t feel safe. And you thought the only way to protect yourself was to make yourself untouchable.”

His voice drops further, dangerously intimate now.

“You should have come to me because you trust me to stand between you and whatever threatens you.”

The air feels thinner.

“You don’t prepare for your own disappearance,” he finishes. “Not while I’m still breathing.”

The words aren’t a vow.

They’re worse than that.

They’re instinct.

And suddenly you understand something you hadn’t before—not fully, not consciously, but enough to feel it in your bones:

Jud Duplenticy isn’t just afraid for you.

He’s afraid of losing you.

And whatever oath he took, whatever life he chose—

It’s no longer the strongest thing holding him in place.

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