oh, how I love being a woman

Dex pictures your apartment, the soft lighting, how you’d told him you refused to give it up to your ex. “Right.” He agrees, and you nod, like he’s done something right. He leans further onto your desk, and something in your face lights up. 

“Oh, I forgot to say, great job on the last bust,” you tell him, grinning. “I heard that you were a pretty incredible shot.”

He straightens slightly at that— the praise, the borderline pride in your voice on his behalf. You’d congratulated all the agents when they’d come back into the office, of course. But this was something else. Something just for him. 

His brain latches onto the last thing you said, tearing it apart greedily. “Were you asking around the office about me?” He teases, but there’s a sincerity edging the words that makes you give him a bashful look. 

“I don’t get to see you out there, G-man. Am I not allowed some curiosity? I heard you didn’t miss a single shot.”

Curious. You are curious about him. 

You have him in the palm of your hand, and it still isn’t enough. You still feel the need to ask others about him. To peer into his life just as he does yours.  

“I didn’t,” he breathes out. 

You let out a little laugh. “And your humility is praiseworthy.” You’re teasing, but he can’t anymore. There’s something in his head that is caught in your words and running laps around them until there is a track in his mind shaped like you. 

When he’s quiet for too long, you don’t give him a strange look. Just continue without pointing out the brief moments of his otherness. When he forgets to stay on script. “Hey, Hill asked me out to drinks later.”

Dex tenses at that, his nails biting into your desk as he frowns. “What?” he asks, keeping his tone in check. 

You roll your eyes. Good. “Trust me, I don’t want to go, but I’m pretty sure he’ll fire me if I don’t. I was wondering if you would come along and help play some interference?” You glance away from your computer and back to him. 

You want to go out for drinks with him. 

You’ve gone out for lunch, yes. And coffee. Sometimes he gets to join you on your Saturday walks when “watching birds” intersects with your schedule. But he doesn’t think you’ve had an actual date. He’s not counting the arcade. That was too loud, too many colleagues around. 

This would be the closest you’ve gotten. Somewhere dark, more intimate. He’s sure he could get rid of Hill fast enough for it to just be the two of you. 

“Of course,” he agrees casually. “What time?”

“Right after work,” you grit out. “Can’t even go home and change out of these damn stockings.” He glances down at your legs as you say that and notices they’re the pair with a drag on the side of your thigh. Your hand covers it, and you clear your throat. “Is it that noticeable?”

Dex shakes his head and takes his stare off your legs. “No,” he lies. “I’m just more observant than most.”

Your eyes crinkle as you give him a look he can’t read. “I’ve noticed,” you tell him quietly. “So,” you clear your throat again, letting your tone turn more jovial. “After work? We can walk there together,” you offer. 

“Sounds good.” He taps your desk as he backs off and heads to his own. But his attention remains tuned to you, to the click of your heels every time you pass by. The tear in your stockings that catches his attention when you linger by his desk for a moment too long to share something with him. 

“Ready?”

You stand beside Dex’s desk, your purse slung over your shoulder, coat on. His hand rests on your hip for a moment while he finishes sending an email to one of the higher-ups. As polite a back-off with the fucking psych evals as he can manage. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters, and the way your face falls makes him scramble. “I just forgot about an eval I need to do tonight.”

“Dex,” you scoff, stepping away from him. His hand drops into his lap, cold without you resting in it. “If you had told me, I would have asked someone else.”

Dex flinches back, frowning up at you. Asked someone else…

To go on a date with you? To protect you from Hill?

That’s how replaceable he is to you?

His hands ball in his lap as he bites his tongue. “Thirty minutes, tops,” he tells you, jaw clenched so tight he can hear his teeth creak. He stands, and he can see the office psychiatrist popping his head out of his office, waving Dex forward. Dex holds up a hand and turns to you. 

You lick your lips, gaze darting over to Hill, who’s waiting by the door. “Thirty minutes?” you ask, your gaze pleading as you look back at Dex.  

“I swear,” he promises, squeezing your arm slightly. You roll your eyes, and he can tell you’re really not happy about this. But it’s thirty minutes. And if you could have so easily replaced him with someone else— asked someone else…. Then how bad could you really need him?

“Okay,” you whisper. Dex hesitates by your side before walking over to the psychiatrist. He lingers by the door before he walks in, checking over his shoulder. You’re standing with Hill now. Grimacing as his palm finds its place on your lower back. 

Dex’s hand tightens around the knob of the door.

Jesus Christ, if the man inside didn’t determine whether or not he stays on the field, he’d be following you right now. But he can’t, so he thinks in his head that he’ll cut it down to twenty minutes and heads inside. 

“... another use of excessive force. Which is starting to reflect poorly on—”

Dex glances toward the clock, jaw gritted. It’s been fifteen minutes of this asshole doddering on, already. “Look, I respect that this is your job. But if I’d had a mask on, the papers would be calling me a hero. I did what I had to do,” he bites out, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The psychiatrist pauses, hand stilling above his little notebook. “I understand that. But events like this can leave tolls on agents. It’s a trauma.” Dex rolls his eyes as the man continues. It’s a trauma for anyone who gives a fuck about human life. 

Dex cares about specific people, but if it comes down to him and some asshole with an automatic, he’s the going to be the one who walks away. And he really doesn’t care about the weeping widows he leaves behind or the “toll” it should be exacting on his conscience. 

“I’m just trying to make sure that you have a support system, agent. Something you can rely on to keep yourself stable.”

Despite what you’d said earlier— how quickly you had threatened to replace him— he still sees your face in his head when he thinks of stability. Dex takes in a slow breath and nods.

The doctor’s brows raise. “You have a support system?”

“A woman,” my woman. 

“Tell me about her,” the doctor tells him. Not a request. 

Dex’s eyes dart toward the clock. Twenty-five minutes now. “She works here. Hill’s administrative assistant,” he tells him. 

“Oh, yes,” the man says, your name with a small smile. “She’s quite kind, very patient. Especially dealing with a man like Hill. That temper,” the doctor lets out a low whistle. 

“Yeah,” Dex grits out. And now, you’re at the bar with that quick-tempered man. You’d asked Dex to be there, and he isn’t. His hand wraps tightly around the armchair as he checks the clock once more. “We’re dating.”

“Oh, and what do you do for your dates?”

Jesus fucking Christ, did he want to know what your sex life looks like, too?

“On Saturdays we walk in the park.” That’s finally true. “On Sundays we go out and get pizza.” You’re slightly less aware of that one. “We get lunch together and coffee every day.”

The doctor’s brows turn in. “Every day,” he mutters. Dex doesn’t appreciate his tone of voice as he scribbles something in his notebook. “That’s quite a lot. Do you have much time for your own independent hobbies?”

Like what…. Fucking birdwatching? No, Dex just does fine watching you. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says instead. That’s gotta be enough. He’s got no guilt, he has a support system, and independent hobbies.

He's the picture of stability.

He just needs this asshole to give him his stamp of approval, and he can leave. 

Dex is nearly out of his chair, but the doctor continues. “Do you feel that you can talk to her about more… difficult subjects?” Dex freezes, frowning as he looks over at the other man. “For example, the loss of two agents during that convict transfer? The lives you had to take and the toll that exacted.”

Dex hesitates, just a second. You talk to him about your bad days, when your family starts badgering you too much. Shitty memories of exes. Dex…

He doesn’t have anything dark to share. What people quantify as “bad” doesn’t affect him like it would affect someone else. His bad would be you leaving. That guiding star he’s finally found being ripped out from under him. 

“Yes, of course,” he answers quickly. Covering up his momentary lapse. The doctor purses his lips before nodding. 

“Alright, I feel that I can sign off on your return. However, I want you to stop by my office more often. Just in case you ever need to talk.” Fat chance. 

Dex is already out of the office before the ink on his release has dried. He checks his watch and curses as he runs out of the building. That old bastard had kept him in there for forty minutes. Surely, ten minutes couldn’t mean that much to you, though. 

He’s sure that you’ll understand. 

He debates driving, but trying to find a spot to park would take more time than just running down the street to the bar. By the time he gets there, his nose and cheeks are pinched from the cold, and his breath is steaming in the air around him. 

It’s been fifty minutes now; he hadn’t even considered how long it would take to get here. He rushes into the bar and scans the room for you or Hill. But he doesn’t see you or your boss at any of the tables. He pushes through the people crowding the bar, his heart still trying to settle from the run as he leans against the counter. 

“Hey,” he calls over the loud music, catching the bartender’s attention. 

“Yeah?”

Dex give hims a rough description of you and Hill. “You see anyone like that in the last hour?”

The man frowns before his eyes go wide. “Yeah, man. They were over there,” he points to a table in a secluded corner. The darkest section of the bar. Dex’s nails dig into the counter as he sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what happened, but she looked real upset when she left.”

Dex’s gaze narrows. “She left?” he asks, voice low. He’s surprised the bartender actually manages to hear him. But he gives him a brief nod before getting called away by another customer. 

Dex slowly backs away from the bar. He pulls his phone out as he walks out of the building. There are about ten texts from you. All are varying degrees of asking where he’s at or how much longer he’ll be. 

His jaw clenches, his hand squeezing too tightly at his screen as he clicks your contact and dials. The line rings for a long time before your voicemail cuts in. Your sweet voice says, “I’ll call you back when I can!”

“Come on,” he mutters. “Pick up,” he tries again. He still can’t believe you would have just left. Even if Hill had said something to piss you off, you could have waited for him to give you a ride home. 

On the fourth call, you finally pick up.

You took too long to answer, and he was getting worried. So he’s already in his car, halfway to your place when you answer. “What?” Your voice is sharp, but there’s something else. Something vulnerable and wet.

Were you crying?

“I went to the bar, and you were gone,” he says, trying to make it sound less like an accusation. Even if it feels like one. 

“You said thirty minutes,” you bite back. He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like the tone you have or the sudden coldness in the way you’re talking to him. 

“I know, I’m sorry. The asshole had me in his office longer than I thought.”

“Did you know you had the appointment when I invited you out tonight, Dex?”

“No,” he reassures. “No, it completely slipped my mind. I just wanted to go out with you.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you suck in a shaky breath. “Okay.”

His knuckles go white around the wheel while he looks down at his phone. A picture of you smiling is staring back at him, and he’s having a hard time reconciling that with the woman he’s talking to right now. “Is everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Yep,” you answer, voice flat and empty. 

He bites his cheek, trying not to get mad at this sudden stubborn insistence on leaving him in the dark. “I’m gonna come over—”

“No.” You don’t snap or raise your voice. But it makes him freeze nonetheless. “I don’t want to  see you right now, Dex.” 

“What?” He’s already parked outside your building, brows furrowed as he stares up at your window. The light’s on, but your curtains are closed. “I— What does that even mean?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “What the fuck do you think it means? Don’t come by.” You hang up, and Dex fumbles for his phone. He pulls it out of the cup holder and dials your number again. 

Voicemail

Again

Voicemail

He tries four more times, and when you don’t pick up, he can feel it building. The tight, coiling panic in his chest. You’re rejecting him. You’re pushing him away. Over one mistake. Just because he was a little late to play interference with you and Hill. 

It’s so unbelievably petty, so cruel, that he can’t recognize the woman who’s doing this as the woman he’s been seeing. It’s not you. This is not something that you do. You’re not cruel to him; you don’t shut him out. 

Dex pulls away from your building and drives off before he gets out and does something he regrets. When he gets home, he plays Mercer’s tapes on repeat, heart pounding in his chest as cold sweat beads at his temples. 

But it doesn’t help. Because it’s not her voice he’s hearing. It’s yours.

Telling him not to come by. Whispering that you don’t want him. That this has all been one big trick he was stupid enough to fucking fall for. 

Dex’s jaw is clenched painfully tight, his wrists clasped to his body to resist the urge to get up and storm out of his door. This isn’t the you that he knows. This isn’t the person who’s been guiding him and reframing him. 

It can’t be. 

He can’t have been so wrong. 

Dex is still shaky when he goes into work the next morning. His clothes are the same ones he was wearing the night before. His skin is pale, and he’s clammy like he’s about to come down with something. Everything feels off-kilter. 

And it only gets worse when he sees your desk. 

The plant is gone. 

The one that you had cared for. Brought back from the edge because ugly things need love too, and anything can recover in the right environment. But now it’s gone.

Did you throw it away just to spite him?

Were you taking away this reminder of you and who he thought you were— Is it to rub his nose in how badly you tricked him?

Dex stumbles slightly as he leans against the desk. But then he sees that everything is gone. The tchotchkes are missing. The bright colors of your personality have been taken away, leaving the office more grey than he ever remembers it being. 

There are only the sterile remains of a notepad and a phone whose light is blinking with unread messages. He rounds the desk and searches for any clue as to where you might have gone.

Why would you have suddenly packed away everything that was you?

You just keep taking from him. 

The only thing he finds is the strip of photos from the photobooth resting right on top of the trash. Dex feels sick as he bends over and takes them out of the wastebasket. This had to have been an accident. Maybe you were mad at him, but you wouldn’t just throw this away so easily. 

You couldn’t. 

Dex hasn’t even turned his computer on. It's 8:05, and you still haven’t come in. He checked the break room and saw that you’d taken your coffee from the hiding spot. Another piece of his routine that you were stripping from him. 

He’d come close to checking the women’s restroom, but even he knew that was crossing a line. 

He’s just sitting, waiting for the click of your heels to come up behind him. Wondering why he ever hated the noise so much. All he wants is to hear it now, for you to tell him this was all one cruel joke. He wouldn’t ever understand the motivations for it or how you could act like that. 

But he’d forgive just about anything if you would just walk through the damn door. 

His gaze keeps drifting to your desk. It’s blank, completely, just like it had been when Myrtle had still been here. Before you’d come.

That’s how he’d wanted it to stay for so long. He’d take back every complaint and ill wish if it meant you would fill his space with your scent and your touch once more. 

It’s 10:30 by the time he realizes you’re not coming in. At the same moment, he realizes he’s taking an early lunch.

Dex gets out of his chair and leaves the office without a word to anyone else. The drive to your place is made in a daze; the route is practically more familiar to him than his own way home. 

He sits outside the brownstone and debates calling. But you’d ignored him last night. You’d been cruel and hadn’t offered him any insight into what happened. So he gets out, his car door slamming as he storms toward your steps. 

He pushes the intercom to your apartment and waits. When there’s no immediate response, he just keeps his thumb pressed to the button for two minutes. Then your voice crackles through. “Who is it?” you croak, and you sound like you’re just waking up. 

“Delivery,” he lies, making his voice deeper. “Need you to sign.”

“One minute,” you call out. Maybe you slept in. Maybe that’s all this is. A careless mistake on your part because you were up all night just like him. Just as disturbed by the space as he was. Dex rocks back on his heels as he waits. 

Then he sees your slippers coming down the stairs, eyes swollen and cheeks puffy. You stop at the bottom, lips parting in shock when you see him waiting for you behind the glass door. You suck in a sharp breath and square your shoulders as you storm forward, ripping the door open.

“Dex,” you bite his name out with a hostility he’s never heard. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You didn’t come into work,” he explains. Because you being there is a part of the routine now. It’s his structure, the focal point of everything. And you don’t get to just take that away. 

Your eyes narrow in disbelief. “Jesus,” you mutter. “You want to know why I didn’t come in?” You continue without actually giving him a chance to answer. “That asshole Hill fired me last night.”

Dex thinks he might stop breathing as he stares up at you. Because… no, that couldn’t happen. You might make some mistakes, but he covers for you enough that he’s never had to consider this as a possibility before.

He never had to worry about you quitting or being fired because it just wouldn’t happen. 

“What—” he sucks in a sharp breath, and your face softens for a second. Just a moment of the woman he knows before this new, cruel mask slips back on. “What are you talking about?”

“Christ, do I need to spell it out for you? I needed you last night. I asked you to be there for me, and you bailed. I needed interference because Hill is a fucking creep, and when I wouldn’t play ball and jerk him off in the bathroom— I got fired for not being a team player. Any more questions?”

Your voice is trembling, so angry you’re nearly bursting at the seams. Dex is starting to feel the same; his heart is pounding so hard he can feel his carotid pulsing as he tries to absorb everything you just threw at him. 

So this isn’t your fault. And it isn’t his.

It’s Hill— he’s the reason that you’re gone. 

He moves up the steps, reaching toward you. You flinch back, standing with the door positioned slightly in front of you like a barrier. “Sweetheart, I had no idea—”

“I know,” you cut him off, eyes dropping to your feet. Good, so you understand, then? So you can both just put that awful night behind you. He can work out a way to get you back behind your desk again. 

“I know that you didn’t understand just how scared of Hill I was.” You lift your head, and your eyes are flat. The whites are red from where you’d been crying. You take another step back. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I asked you to be there for me— the one time I actually asked, Dex, and you didn’t just volunteer. And you just fucking bailed.”

“No,” he cuts in, trying and struggling to keep his breathing even as his face flushes with anger. “I was there. You left,” he accuses. 

You let out a sharp scoff, blinking rapidly as you fight back tears. “Did you not just hear anything I said? My boss was sexually harassing me, and you’re turning this on me?”

“No.” He shakes his head, hands coming up to grip his hair. He can’t look at you, not right now. Not when you have that distant sheen to your eyes. “No, you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I’m really not,” you mutter. “You know, I think that I was right.” You lick your lips, stepping further behind the door. He really wants to reach in and wrench you out, force you to stop running from him. 

“I think this all happened too fast,” you tell him, motioning between the two of you. “And I think I could use a break right now, Dex. At least while I try to figure out how the hell I’m paying my rent next month.”

“A break?” He repeats, feeling like a broken record as he stares up at you from the stairs. You’re not meeting his eyes, though. You just nod. “What do you mean, a break? You’re breaking up with me?”

“No,” you snap, your patience fraying with every question. “No, I’m not. I’m just saying I need some goddamn space. Please, Dex,” you’re practically begging now, tears in your eyes as the door is nearly closed. “Just give me some space,” you whisper. 

You begin to retreat, and he can see the crack of the door growing ever smaller. He scrambles, panicking as he reaches for any tether back to you. Back to the stability you provide.

“Wait,” he nearly shouts, and you jump. His hands reach into his pocket, and he pulls out the strip of photos. “You left these,” he tells you. The picture trembles in his grasp as he holds it out to you. 

You look between it and him with a sorry expression and tired eyes. “Keep them,” you tell him, letting the door fully close now. Dex can do nothing but watch as you walk back up your stairs. And he stays there until he can no longer see you, until he’s sure the door to your apartment has already closed. 

When he’s certain you won’t be coming back down, he sinks onto the stoop. His head hangs between his shoulders as he tries to steady his breathing. His chest is twisting so painfully that he can hardly see a foot in front of him. 

His hands search for anything to destroy, anything to take the anger out on. Without thinking, he’s tearing the photo strip to shreds. Eyes blurring as he rips through your face. He leaves the remnants on the steps for you to find later. 

Mistakes.

People make mistakes. Dex has made plenty of them. He overcorrects his behavior when he doesn’t come off quite right. Sometimes he doesn’t correct enough, which leads to too many psych evals and a disrupted schedule. 

But the majority of people believe in second chances. He’s sure you’re one of those people. You have to be. Because that’s how he categorized you in his head.

But you're answering your phone or returning his calls. You don’t respond to his texts. He’s driving himself half crazy wondering if you’re even seeing them or if you blocked him. 

The thought of you blocking him makes him angrier than he’s ready to face. 

He called off work for a few days. Took the vacation days that he’d never bothered with. Because work is rigid, it is scheduled. Structure. 

You need structure, Dex. 

Your compass isn’t broken. You just need a North Star. 

And he’d had one. He’d had you. And then you’d taken it. Why? He still can’t figure it out, and he’s been going over the argument in his head for days at this point. 

You’d invited him out for drinks. He hadn’t realized he had an evaluation that night— a genuine mistake. All you had told him was that you needed some interference.

When you said that you were worried Hill was going to fire you if you bailed— he thought that was an exaggeration. A dramatic hyperbole because you were trying to be funny. 

Again, a mistake. Because you never told him. He knew that Hill had a temper; he’d seen it more often than he could count. Often pointed toward you. And a lot of the time, that worked out for Dex because he could be there for you with open arms. 

But you’d never told him that he was sexually harassing you. Because that changes things. That’s recontextualization— It’s important.

Dex understands sexual harassment is inherently distressing, especially when coming from a person who’s in a position of power above you. He can’t empathize, but he can understand the illegality of it and that, for a woman, it would be incredibly upsetting. 

That changes it from simply being something he gets to practice comforting you about to a problem that actually needs addressing. 

But no, you hadn’t told him any of that. So he thought he would be half an hour late to an awkward outing, and you still hadn’t corrected him. Then he gets there, and you’ve left. You’ve decided that you’re upset at Dex despite Hill being the perpetrator. 

You accused him of not being there for you. When all he’s done is shift his life around you. Make you the focal point of his schedule. The crux of his foundation that his life stands on. He has anticipated your needs before you realized them. Made himself available to you in every way he can. 

But one mistake…. That’s enough for you to throw it all away?

You aren’t callous, and you aren’t purposefully hurtful. You’re too good for that. But his brain cannot comprehend your erratic and irrational behavior over the past few days. It can’t wrap itself around the image he had of you and the person who is now presenting. 

Without you at the office, the majority of his life has been upended. And he knows he’s given you too much power to become so dysregulated so quickly. He should never have gotten involved.

North Stars aren’t things that are meant to be seen up close. 

They’re a distant focal point. A guiding star. Not a guiding hand.

He should have kept you as something distant, a picture— an idea rather than something physical he had held in his hands. Something he had tasted and was now being deprived of. 

He watches as you leave your brownstone for the first time in three days. You still look just as rough as the last time he’d seen you. Something about that satisfies him. You haven’t gotten any better with that space you wanted so badly. 

Shouldn’t you have realized better by now and reached out?

Why haven’t you reached out?

Dex slips out of his car and follows you down the street. He keeps the typical distance between you, despite the way his hands are clenched in his jacket. That desperate urge to catch up, grab you, and ask what happened is needling at his skin.

The last time he’d seen you, you’d kept that fucking door in his way. If he had just been able to hold you…. Maybe you wouldn’t have been so upset. 

You don’t have your earbuds in as you walk today. And you’re carrying your purse, which you don’t typically do. 

Jesus, could you let him have anything?

You don’t stop by the shitty guitar player with a dollar and a wave. No, your head stays down, fighting against the cold wind as you continue on your typical path. There is an insistent energy burning in him that he can’t shake off. 

Dex runs ahead, quickly catching up with you. You startle at the sound of pounding footsteps and rear back when you see him in front of you. 

“Dex, what—”

He holds up his hands. “Please,” he interrupts. “I’m doing this in public so you don’t feel scared,” he soothes, forcing himself to back up because his hands are twitching toward you. 

Your nose wrinkles and you glance around at the people passing by. It’s Hell’s Kitchen; he could mug you right now, and these people wouldn’t do shit about it. But he needs some sort of excuse, no matter how thin it is. 

“I’m not scared of you,” you mutter, finally. The surprise drops from your face as you let out a heavy sigh. 

That’s something, isn’t it?

“You—” he steps forward, and you shoot him a sharp look. Biting his cheek, he sucks in a calm breath. This is the closest he’s been to you in days. He cannot fuck it up so quickly. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

“I’m aware,” you bite out, your hand tightening around your purse strap. “I’m not sure you understand what space means.”

He tilts his head and puts forth the right sort of earnest expression. “Sweetheart, I know you want space. But you have to understand that I’m worried about you. Your boss was sexually harassing you, and you never told me.”

You open your mouth, and he holds up his hand, bowing his shoulders, making himself small. “It’s not your fault. I know that. But I also know that you’re in a rough spot right now. You can’t blame me for being worried that you’re cutting everyone off.”

His eyes narrow. What you say next is really going to dictate how polite the rest of this conversation will be.

You cast your eyes to the sky and let out a heavy breath. “You have a point,” you mutter. 

Good, then he was right, and he’s not the only one you’ve so cruelly cut off. You must not be talking to your family, either.

“I just—” You stare down at your feet, hands balling up the hem of your shirt. “I have no idea what to do, Dex. I have no job now, and barely any money and—”

He hears the hitch of your breath, the slight tremble of your shoulders. He moves slowly, one hand carefully resting on your shoulder. A light squeeze. When you don’t flinch back, he inches even closer until his arms are wrapped around you and your warmth is pressed against him again. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I was just so hurt. I needed you and— I know that I get attached too quickly. I give people too much weight—”

“Hey,” Dex interrupts, because you’re entering the dangerous territory of insulting something he values far too much. “I understand,” partially. “I just wanted to talk to you. And then you locked me out. I’ve been spiraling a bit here.”

He laughs, but it has a hard edge to it that you grimace at. You push at his chest, and he tightens his grip before slowly loosening. You don’t get far, just enough to check your watch. 

“Shit,” you hiss, wiping under your eyes. 

“What is it?”

You shake your head and smooth your clothes. “I have an interview in fifteen minutes. I’m sorry, Dex. I want to talk, I do. But I need to go.”

He nods, pretending he understands, but he really doesn’t. Because how can you prioritize that over this, right now?

He could just take care of everything, move into your place, and handle the rent. A small part of him recognizes that’s not what you’re looking to hear right now.

So, he plays the dutiful boyfriend, backs off a respectable distance, and offers a small smile. “Do you want a ride there?”

“No,” you shake your head. “No, it’s just across the street. But, uh, would you want to get dinner tonight? So we can talk about things?”

He bites his tongue, stopping himself from answering too quickly. “Yeah, of course.”

“I’ll text you,” you swear, brushing past him and taking off at a run toward the street. He waits a minute before following, making sure you get there in one piece. It’s a place about ten minutes from the FBI office. A little insurance company probably looking for an administrative assistant. If you got a job there, you and Dex could still get lunch together. 

Jesus, how many times is he going to have to adapt his schedule for you?

He got here thirty minutes early.

The restaurant you picked is nice; it looks expensive, so he imagines he’ll be footing the bill. Not that he minds; he just wants a chance to talk to you again. Somewhere more private would have been preferred. 

You’d reserved a table right beneath the lights, directly in the middle of the restaurant. About as public as you could have gotten here. 

When you walked in, you looked better than when he’d seen you last. Hair done, nice makeup, and a dress that made his hands itch to touch you. But he resisted and told you that you looked pretty as he pulled the chair out for you. 

He didn't tell you that he was desperate to rip it off and feel your skin against his again. 

Now your head is in your palm, eyes looking anywhere but at him. Dex clears his throat, pulling at his tie as it begins to feel tighter around his throat. You finally drop your hand and turn to face him. He straightens up, and you drag in a shaky breath. 

“Okay,” you whisper under your breath, meeting his eyes with an awkward smile. “Um, I don’t really know how to say this. I like you a lot, Dex. I like being around you. I enjoy the time we spend together. But… with everything that’s happened, I really don’t think this is going to work out.”

Dex’s hands tighten around the leather menu until he hears it creaking under his grip, warping into the shape of his fist. “What?” He blinks, letting out a sharp scoff as he glances around.

Had you brought him to a public space so you could break up with him?

You grimace. “I think that came out wrong.”

“I hope it did,” Dex tells you, and he doesn’t monitor his tone. He doesn’t soften his voice or force warmth into it. The mask is gone as he glares across the table at you. Your eyes widen slightly, and you swallow roughly. 

“I just mean that, well, I get attached too fast. What takes some people six months takes me three. And then I start putting these expectations on you that you never asked for. I don’t think that’s fair to either of us, Dex.”

Mature. Emotionally intelligent. A kind rejection to anyone else. 

But Dex is just like you. He’d thought he couldn’t stand you. He wanted you gone the first time he met you. It took him a week to change his mind. And then less than a month to restructure his sense of morality around you. 

You’re sitting across from him and insulting the only way he knows how to love you. 

“Do I get any say in this?” He asks, leaning across the table. 

You blink, seemingly surprised. “I mean, I just thought that after what happened—”

“You assumed,” he interrupts. You square your shoulders, expression hardening at the tone he takes. “I don’t appreciate that. Especially with the way you’ve made me feel the past week. The very least you could do is let me get a damn say in whether or not I want to break up with you.”

“I thought—”

“Don’t,” he tells you simply. He shrugs, his expression void of warmth. “Just don’t.”

You glance to the side, ensuring no one’s listening as you let out a sharp scoff. “Dex, I’m not in a great place to maintain a relationship right now. I can barely afford groceries. Let alone managing someone else’s emotional needs.”

So you could let a stray dog run through your kitchen? Put you at risk of fleas and ticks? But he’s too much of a burden?

“You could let me help,” he bites back. His temper rises as he really struggles to mitigate it. “You’re so damn stubborn. You accuse me of not being there when you need me, but I’m right here. You need me. You need help.”

“I don’t need you,” you snap, nails digging into the tablecloth as you scoff. “I think we might both be making some pretty heavy-handed assumptions here, Dex. Maybe this was a bad idea.” 

You start to stand, and Dex feels his chest tighten. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist. You freeze, jaw clenching as you stare over at him. “Please,” he practically begs. “I’m sorry, just… That’s not how I thought this was going to go. You caught me off guard. Please,” he nods toward the seat. 

Slowly, you lower yourself back down. Your head falls back into your hands as you let out a rough breath. “We could talk about something else,” he offers. “How’d the interview go at the insurance firm?”

Your brows furrow and you freeze. Dex realizes his mistake a second too late. You lift your head, tilting it slightly as you regard him with an expression he can’t read. “How’d you know where my interview was?”

Dex bites his cheek as he shrugs. “You mentioned it earlier,” he dismisses. 

“I don’t think I did.”

“You were pretty upset,” he insists. “You told me about it at the park. Remember?”

Your teeth grit together as you nod, even though the move looks reluctant. Your eyes drift to something over his shoulder, your gaze distant. Too distant. “Sweetheart, I—”

“You said that you go to the cafe a lot,” you interrupt. And he knows you’re thinking of the disgusting one with the doddering old lady behind the counter. 

“Not too often,” he corrects, giving a stiff laugh. 

You force a strange smile. “Right…. It’s just, you didn’t even want to stand near me when I got that dog from the alley. You were so disgusted by it. And I understand that cleanliness is pretty major for you. I really doubt that with her stained cups and D-level health rating, you would ever set foot in that cafe for more than a minute.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he tells you, shaking his head, trying to play dumb. But the panic is creeping in; that feeling that you’re about to bolt has him sitting up straighter. 

“Yeah, I’m just being silly,” you scoff, shaking your head. Dex watches you warily as you ball up the cloth napkin in your lap. “See any Pileated Woodpeckers lately?”

Dex’s brows furrow as his entire face collapses into confusion. “What?”

You shrug. “Pileated Woodpecker. It’s a pretty common bird at the park.”

“Um, yeah, I guess.” He’s not entirely sure what you’re fishing for here. 

Your nostrils flare as you slam your hand on the table. He glances around, the noise having caught the attention of a few other couples. “Oh, god dammit, I knew you were a liar.”

“What?” He demands. “How the hell did you get ‘I’m a liar’ from woodpeckers?’

“Because they’re birds you find in deep northern forests,” and you say it like an accusation. Entirely serious, as you glare over at him with something like betrayal in your expression. 

He is drowning, watching as you’re slipping through his fingers. And the reason he loses you cannot be a fucking bird. “Why do you know that?”

“Because I was trying to learn about your hobbies, Dex. I wanted to know more about you. If that meant birdwatching in the park like old people, I would have done that for you. But even that’s a lie,” your voice trembles as you lean back in your chair. You let out a shaky breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

Something in him warms at that. It wasn’t a question born from a trap. While he’d been studying you, you’d been doing the same. You’d been cataloging his behaviors and trying to adapt to them. He almost smiles, but you’re shaking your head as you let out a long sigh. 

“Jesus, Dex. How did you know where my interview was?” You tilt your head; your bouncing knee is shaking the entire table as you wait anxiously for your answer. “And don’t fucking lie to me again,” you bite out, pointing an accusing finger at him. 

If he tells you the truth— he loses you. 

If he lies— he loses you. 

There is no possible outcome to come from this where he doesn't lose. “I followed you,” he admits quietly, his entire body collapsing into itself as he sinks back into the chair. You don’t even look surprised as you purse your lips and nod. He can’t tell if you’re incredibly good at managing yourself or just good at hiding the way you spiral in public.

“How long have you been following me?’

Dex tilts his head; his jaw clenches as he lets out a sharp breath. “You want to know?” He asks, mask gone, voice dead, as he watches you slip away from him. 

“Yes." But you don't sound so sure of yourself now.

“Since you started working at the office.”

You flinch at the admission, pressing a hand to your chest as you suck in trembling breaths. Dex watches with a flat expression, trying incredibly hard not to lose his temper in the middle of the restaurant. 

“Oh my god,” you breathe out. “I thought you hated me,” you mutter under your breath. 

“I did,” he tells you, and your head whips up. “And I wanted to understand why I hated you. That’s what I do,” he tells you, leaning forward onto the table. “I study the things I don’t understand. And by doing that, I realized I didn’t hate you at all. I lo—”

“Don’t you dare say that to me, right now,” you interrupt, voice quiet and thick as your eyes turn glassy. “I— Everything, it’s all been a lie,” you suddenly blurt. 

Dex’s brows turn in, and he shakes his head. “No. No, it hasn’t.”

“It has,” you hiss at him. “It has, because this entire time I thought I found someone who listened. Who understood me. A partner that actually knows how to anticipate my needs. But I didn’t. I just have a goddamn stalker who got really good at studying me, as you put it.”

Dex’s fingers bite into his legs as he glares at you. “Be mad at me all you want. But you don’t get to water this down to suit your narrative. It was more than that. You know it.”

“Do you think that changes the fact that you’ve been lying to me the entire time?” You ask, genuinely baffled as you stare at him. Slowly, you shake your head, standing up from your seat. Dex darts up, mimicking your movements. 

“I need to leave.”

“No, don’t—” he rounds the table and grabs your arm. “Please,” he begs. “You are— You are so important to me.”

Is that how someone is meant to categorize the person who’s shaped their entire moral standpoint? Who has fundamentally and permanently changed their life?

You glance down at his hand on your arm. “Dex, let go of me.” But he can’t. He can’t let go because that means this is all over. Everything comes crashing down. You know him now. Every nook and cranny. Every piece of himself he can give to you. 

And you’re running. 

You can’t run. 

“Please,” he whispers, and he hears the tears that are threatening to spill over. 

You rip your arm from his grip and stare at him for a long moment before turning. You practically run from the restaurant, not once looking back. Dex stands there, lost as he stumbles, leaning against the table. 

It’s over. 

“Please, please, I just need you to pick up. You don’t understand, please,” he sucks in a sharp breath; his chest heaves while something warm carves its way down his cheeks. He’s speaking into your voicemail for the sixth time in an hour. 

He throws his phone across the apartment with a noise he can barely comprehend comes from him. Something animalistic and anguished. There’s a red film over his eyes, a raging loss in his chest. 

He doesn’t realize what he’s done until the plaster is crumbling around his hand. Dex stumbles back with a choked breath, staring at the hole he’d just punched into the wall. His knuckles are bloody, and he looks down and sees a crimson stain on his white shirt. 

“No,” he mutters under his breath. Over and over again. 

He rips the shirt off, untucking it, and stumbles over to his sink. He pours soap over it and scrubs relentlessly. The cold water is a direct sting to the bleeding wounds on his knuckles. 

But the water’s just turning crimson; he’s only spreading the stain further. He drops his shirt into the still-running sink and stumbles out of the kitchen. His hand drags along the counter as he walks blindly through his apartment. 

Everything— Everything that he did. It just meant nothing to you. You just took what he gave you and ripped it to pieces. He meant nothing to you. 

And you— you lied. 

You lied because you’re nothing like what you were meant to be. You weren’t kind. You weren’t understanding. You weren’t fucking smart enough to realize that everything he did— his “stalking” was him watching out for you. Learning about you so he could be what you needed. 

His hand wraps around something cool, and he lets out a shout as he throws his arm blindly behind him. He hears the glass shatter, the rattle of the wooden frame against his wall. His eyes lift as he turns.

The picture of you, the one he had cherished so much, has a knife buried in your eye. 

You deserve worse, he thinks. 

Then he’s digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, shaking his head, trying to shove the thoughts away. He loves you. The you that he knows. He doesn’t want to hurt you. 

He rushes into his bedroom. He punches the code to his safe incorrectly twice before he manages to swing the door open. His hands are trembling as he rips the shoebox from the safe. He tugs the headphones over his head as he returns to his living room. 

Dex sits in the wreckage he created as he tries to focus on her words. Tries to drown out the last two hours of his life while he shivers on the floor, the sink still running and his hand covered in plaster. 

He doesn’t hear the door. His head is tucked into his knees, and he still hasn’t found his breath since he got home. 

But he hears the gasp. 

His head whips up as he sees you standing in his doorway, staring down at him with horror in your expression. “Dex,” you whisper, your eyes darting across the shattered plates on the floor. The tapes he’d been ripping through. Trying to find one that would let him rationalize this. 

But then you’re looking at him again. He can’t move.

Why are you here?

He doesn’t want you here. Not now. Not while he’s like this. 

But then you’re moving forward because you never really do what he wants. Your purse drops to the floor, and your shoes crunch across broken glass as you kneel in front of him. “Oh, Dex, what did you do?” you whisper. 

You’re taking his hand in yours, the one he’d punched through the wall, and staring down at the blood. He doesn’t know what to do.

Mercer’s words are still playing on a loop in his ears. There’s still that urge. That burning resentment that thinks you deserve to hurt. That you should feel like he does.

“Don’t,” he mutters, pulling his hand away from yours. He doesn’t deserve it. Not while he’s thinking like this. He needs something to keep him grounded; if that's the pain radiating through his hand, so be it. 

“Why are you here?” He whispers. 

You frown, sinking back on your heels. He can see the concern in your eyes as your gaze skates across him. “Your voicemail. The last one. The noise you made— I mean, it sounded like you’d been shot.”

It feels like it. But he doesn’t say that. Because it’s too soft and too exposing. He doesn’t need you to know just how deeply you can cut him. Even if you’re looking at the evidence surrounding him. 

“Stupid as it is,” you continue. “I was worried.”

Dex bites his cheek, glare boring into the wall across from him. “Why is that stupid?” he mutters. 

“Did we just go on the same date?” You ask, and you try to laugh, but it comes out strangled, your breath choked. 

“Don’t call it that.” Because your first real date couldn’t have been your last. That’s just too pathetic. 

“Dex, please,” you whisper. And you’re reaching for him, your palm taking his fist in your hand. “Let me help you tonight. I’m…. I’m worried,” you concede. 

It’s just another lie, a bitter part of himself whispers. Another ploy to lull him into that feeling of being understood. Being loved. Only to rip the rug out from under him again. To shift his entire world axis so he doesn’t know which way is up. 

“Dex,” you call his name again. Now your other hand is coming up, gently cupping the back of his neck as you tilt your head, catching his eye. He stares at you, the worry creasing your face and the way your palm squeezes reassuringly at his neck. 

“Fine,” he grits out, still not sure how much he can trust you. Or himself. 

You nod, guiding him to stand. His feet are bare, and you kick away the glass as best you can, leading him toward the kitchen. But then you’re going still, your grip tightening as you inadvertently jerk him to a stop. 

Your grip loosens on him, and your breathing grows heavier, pupils dilating as you stumble a step back from him. “What…” he turns and follows your gaze. His stomach drops.

One chance.

You give him one chance, and he fucks it up in a minute. 

“No, sweetheart, it’s not like that,” he assures you, moving to block your view of the picture. Of the knife still buried in your face. 

“Dex…” You shake your head, lips parting with a trembling breath. “What the fuck am I supposed to think about that?” Your voice breaks as you whisper the question, tears pricking your eyes. 

“I wouldn’t,” he almost says I wouldn’t hurt you. But he can’t even be sure of that anymore. “I— it was an accident.”

“You don’t miss!” You shout, your voice rising as you move to put the table between the two of you. “Is that what you think of me? Really? You want to hurt me?”

“No!” His voice rises in turn, and you flinch back, putting another foot of space between you. Because that is true.

He doesn’t want to hurt you, but he can’t trust that he won’t. If it comes to his temper and your safety, he wouldn’t bet on himself.

“I have never wanted to hurt you. You— you just don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t,” you snap. “I really fucking don’t, Dex. Because I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t care about you after everything I just learned. You should be disgusting to me.” Your voice is bordering on shrill; it’s the loudest he’s ever heard you, as the tears finally come spilling down. 

“Don’t say that,” he begs. He can’t be that to you. He can’t be something revolting. Because you used to be the one person who saw him and wasn’t afraid. But now you’re stepping back every time he moves forward. 

“But that’s what I’m saying. You’re not. And you should be. Any rational person— any sane person would think of you as a threat and move on. But I can’t. Because I heard that noise you made and I had to check on you. I had to make sure you were okay. You have done such a good job of making yourself integral to my life, Dex. I’ve been fucking falling apart without talking to you.”

You’re saying what he wants to hear, but you sound resentful as you admit it. Your glare is sharp, nearly crumbling beneath the weight of your tears as you watch him. 

“Was any of it real?” You ask, your voice cracking as you stare at the picture behind him. 

“Don’t,” he grits out. “You can be mad at me, shout at me, hit me if you want to. But you don’t get to ask that. I have,” he sucks in a sharp breath, trying to rationalize. He needs to regulate, to calm down. He’s getting angry again, and now there’s a new target for the anger, a soft target who he doesn’t want to hurt. 

But the person he goes to for regulation is currently watching him like he’s the worst thing that ever happened to her. 

“I have rewired my entire brain— my life around you.”

“I didn’t ask for that,” you interrupt, leaning across the table. Your fury looks animalistic: the way your teeth grit, the hate in your eyes. 

“You didn’t have to!” He shouts. “That’s love— you don’t have to ask. I didn’t know how to touch, how to love, but I learned for you. I learned from you. How is that not real? How can this not be real?” He asks, motioning between you. The wreckage that lies at your feet. The hurt festering inside you both. 

It wouldn’t hurt if it hadn’t been real. 

You bite your lip, and you’re looking at him with pity in your eyes. It makes him irrationally furious, and he has to turn away so he doesn’t see that look on your face. “If I left right now…. Would you let me?” You suddenly ask, watching him warily. 

Dex’s heart stops. You’re here. You were going to give him a second chance, and then you saw the depth of his flaws. And it’s too much. You can’t handle it.

Maybe you never could.

The version of you in his head might have always been better than the reality. But that doesn’t change how he feels about you. How badly he doesn’t want to let you go. 

But he can’t handle that tone of your voice anymore. That look in your eyes, like he’s a danger you should have realized months ago. “Yes,” he finally whispers. 

Your jaw clenches as you move around the table, slowly inching toward the door. Dex backs up, not capable of watching as you walk out. You could have just fucking stayed out. Could have left him to rot tonight. 

It would have hurt less than being taunted with another chance just for you to so cruelly rip it away. 

The door clicks shut, and he lets out a loud groan, head falling into his hands. His instinct is the tapes. He needs the tapes, the familiar, regulating voice. But it’s pointless because over the past few months Mercer’s voice has turned into yours, and he can’t undo that in one night. 

He forces his head up and rears back. You’re standing by the door, arms crossed as you watch him fall apart. “I didn’t think you’d let me,” you whisper, nothing he can read breaking through your expression. 

“I don’t like you, Dex,” you tell him, harsh and blunt. It makes him flinch.

Did you stay just to hurt him? Is this his punishment for his perceived slights against you?

“But I care about you in a way I resent you for. Because, whether or not any of this was real, you still manufactured this. You still made a reality where I became dependent on you. And I know,” you growl out, “that on some level you have to be aware of that.”

“Why me?” you suddenly ask, brows furrowing as a little bit of hurt bleeds through. “You could have picked any other woman to project on. Any. Why me?”

Dex opens his mouth, and it snaps shut just as fast. Because he doesn’t know, not really. And that’s always bugged him in a way. But he pushed it off as two people who just worked together. Even if he had to make it all work. 

“I don’t know,” he tells you, honestly. “But I— I need you,” he admits, taking a step closer. 

“Why?” You mutter, watching him hesitantly.

“You,” he sucks in a sharp breath. You’re so close now, just a foot away, and he can practically smell that familiar perfume, feel your warmth on him again. “You are so good. And I can be good, too. I just— I need a North Star. Something to fix my compass.”

“It’s not my job to fix you,” you bite back. “And you don’t get to make it my job, either. That’s not fair, Dex. I want to love you, not be the standard that you base your morality on. You can’t idolize someone and love them. Sooner or later, you’re going to realize I’m not what you want.”

You want to love him. 

He lingers on that before the rest of it hits him. He lets himself savor that for a minute before he has to face the rest. He wants to tell you that you’re wrong. He has always loved you just as you are. But he’s been spiraling the past week. 

He keeps trying to rationalize and regulate, to fix his system by arguing that this woman you’ve become isn’t you. But that’s not true. 

It’s just not his North Star. 

It’s not the central function that he needs so desperately. He doesn’t know how to love you without that title attached. Without that role for you to fulfill. Because then what would there be? Girlfriend?

He’s never needed one. He’s never wanted one. What he wanted was someone to be a focal point. 

He was always right. He should have stayed away. He shouldn’t have gotten involved. You’re too human to be what he needs. 

You purse your lips and look off to the side. “You’re realizing it, aren’t you?” you scoff, letting out a humorless laugh. “That you just completely fucked both of our lives for someone you don’t even know how to love?”

“No,” he bites out, but the argument crumbles before it can form. “I don’t know,” he admits. 

You bite your lip, but he can see it— the slight tremble, how desperately you’re trying not to fall apart. “Your North Star,” you mutter under your breath, letting out a rough sigh. “Right. I’m sorry I wasn’t perfect enough for you, Dex. That I can’t be your moral compass. But I didn’t deserve this!” 

You’re shouting again, and that sadness, that anguish on your face has turned into rage faster than he can blink. You storm through his apartment and grab one of the pictures he has of you. “Don’t,” he mutters. That seems to be all he can say. 

“I didn’t want to be idolized,” you shout, tossing the frame to the floor. “I didn’t want to be a thing. I wanted to love someone and trust them. And you tricked me into fulfilling some fucked role that no one is ever going to be able to fulfill.”

You reach down through the broken glass and take the picture. He watches as you rip it apart, tears carving down your cheeks as you shred through the smile you’d captured for him. The first piece of all of this that had shifted you from an idea into something real. 

“This wasn’t real,” you choke out, tossing the shredded pieces to the floor. “This entire time, you’ve wanted an idea of me. The second you didn’t get what you wanted, you hated me. Admit it. Admit that you resent me for not being good—”

“Fine!” He shouts. He rips the knife from the frame beside him and throws it past your head. You yelp, jumping to the side as it lands in the other picture behind you.

“If that’s what you want, fine. You’re not good enough. You’re not kind enough. You’re too bitter and angry. And I can’t care about you because the only way I could understand you is if you were my North Star. If you were worth something.”

“Oh,” you drawl, chest caving as you let out a bitter laugh. “Worth something.” You nod your head. “Right. I’m glad to know where I stand now. Dex, thank you. You’re a fucking psycho,” you hiss out. “You make me dependent on your presence in my life, and the second I become inconvenient, that’s it?”

“I’m not a psycho,” he interjects flatly. Psychotic tendencies. It’s an important distinction. 

Your face falls as you stare at him. “I can’t believe how much time I’ve spent on you. That I was stupid enough to come over here.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Right, you just left me six voicemails about how you were falling apart without me. But it’s not me. It’s that fucked idea someone put in your head that the way you could fix yourself was through someone else. That’s why you’ll never be able to really love someone, Dex. Because of whoever taught you that there’s a person out there who can be idolized and won’t shatter those expectations. 

“Enough,” he barks out. You’ve dismantled enough. You’ve ruined the new structure and life he’s created. But you can’t take that from him. You don’t get to take the Doctor from him, not when she’s already left him, already betrayed him once. 

You let out a slow sigh and glance over to the knife. You walk over and rip it out of the frame. You toss it carelessly to the side as you brush aside broken glass and pull out the photo. The one with your lips pressed to his cheek. 

The first time he thought he might be capable of something that he’d dismissed his entire life. 

You stare down at it with tears slowly drying on your cheeks. “I guess we were both pretty stupid,” you hiss out. Dex steps forward just as you dig your nails into his face and tear. You drop the remnants on the floor and walk over the broken frames. The glass and shattered pieces of his life. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, watching as you pick up your purse. “That’s it? Are you just going to leave? You come in here and make things so much worse—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap. “Have I inconvenienced you? Have I made your life harder?” Your jaw clenches as you swallow roughly, staring over at him. “What do you want from me, Dex? Because whatever it is, I’m so sure I will never be enough for you.”

He wants you. The first you, the one he’d thought you were. Kind, good, honest, a person he could follow and model himself after easily. But then you had to make things difficult, and he’d let himself get involved. 

Now, he’s attached to this other version of you even if he doesn’t want to be. There is a part of him that has locked onto the broken parts of you, and he should let it go. He should. But he can’t because he is yours and you're his.

But you’re not a North Star.

You’re not anything. 

“Nothing,” Dex answers. “I don’t want anything from you. I just— Don’t leave,” he pleads. 

Your brows furrow, lips twitching as you stare at him. “Not wanting to lose me isn’t the same as loving me, Dex. It’s not enough.”

He’s not enough.

You hesitate before grabbing the handle of the door and storming out. 

You don’t come back this time; the door slams and he waits. Hovers by the table while he waits for the door to creak. For the test to be over, because he’s proved again that he can let you go. But you don’t come back, and Dex finds himself moving past the table. 

He sinks onto his living room floor and stares at the picture you’d shredded. His eyes dart to the journal on his couch, and he reaches for it. His eyes scan the observations he’d made. The weeks of observing you and forming such a distant opinion of who you were. 

He rips the pages out and throws the journal across the room. 

There is a moving truck outside the brownstone.

He is parked four blocks down, monocular to his eye. He’s only going to be here for a minute before he heads into the office. He just… He needs to know.

Two men in coveralls come through the door, and they’re carrying your armchair down the steps. 

Dex takes a slow breath as he drops the monocular onto his passenger seat. He drives past the truck and glances up toward your window. You’re standing there, passing a box off to another man. 

So, your ex sleeping with another woman wasn’t enough to get you out of there. But knowing that he could be watching is.

He tries to ignore how much that hurts as he walks into work. The new receptionist is younger than you. Too-short skirts and red lips that always give him a smile that makes his stomach clench. 

Seems like Hill found someone who would play ball. 

“Hey, man,” Ray comes up behind Dex. He sounds concerned, and Dex is sure that he doesn’t seem like he’s doing great. But he just hasn’t bothered with the mask. Hasn’t forced himself to smile and push out niceties he doesn’t care about. 

He stares out the window of the breakroom, eyes peeled on the street. Ray lets out a rough sigh as he lingers beside Dex. “I’m worried about you, man. You doing okay?”

Dex sucks his teeth and considers. “Fine,” he tells Ray. He turns and paints on the face everyone looks for when they’re only playing at caring. When their conscience dictates that they check in so they can put themselves in a better light. 

“Don’t worry about me, man,” he pats Ray’s shoulder and nods toward the door of the breakroom. Ray’s eyes narrow and he seems unconvinced, but he leaves anyway. Because he’s played his part. Done what society dictates is correct by checking in with his weird coworker, who no one can look in the eye for too long. 

Dex glances through the window again. His eyes find the insurance firm across the street and… right on time. You come running out of the building, waving over your shoulder to someone at the door. You’ll be off to grab the office’s lunch order right around now. He doesn’t know what position you got hired for, but you seem to be making yourself as valuable as you can to them. 

He’s sure the move has cost you. The security deposit on a new place, first and last month’s rent, and just getting the supplies to get away. He knows you don’t have that money. 

Maybe you called your sister, even though he knows that you hate asking her for money. Or you emptied your savings, took out a loan… called in a favor. He could try to find out. 

The thought is instinct, and it makes him bite his cheek, a slow sigh escaping him. He drags his hand down his face and turns away from the window.

He only watched twice, just to answer a gnawing question that he knew he wasn’t going to be able to let go of organically. 

Dex still doesn’t know where you live. He could follow you home after work; it would be easy enough. But he hasn’t. So he goes to the park instead and sits on a bench that’s shadowed by a tree. He has a birdwatching book on his lap because some part of him feels like maybe it’s something he should learn about. 

Because you had tried for him. So he flips through the pages, making note of the flying rats that jump from tree to tree with bored observation. He sits there for a few hours, knowing that this is typically the time you come on Saturday.

You don’t show up. 

The second time, he tosses the book into the trash and walks out of the park. He had his answer, and he didn’t need to waste any more time figuring out just how much you had reformed your life and your schedule around him. Around the assumption of his presence and the fear of him watching you. 

It’s almost romantic how you both love the same way even if you can’t accept it yourself. 

Dex stops by the pizza place you go to every Sunday and sits at a table in the back. He’s never actually tried the food, he realizes. And when he bites into it, he realizes why.

It’s too greasy; the cheese is sliding off the watery sauce. It’s honestly disgusting. 

But it’s cheap, and it’s quiet, and he’s sure that’s why you typically come here. He glares down at the slice with a low scoff before he throws it away. 

After that, he doesn’t follow your schedule anymore. He recreates his own. He listens to Dr. Mercer’s tape on structure and rigidity as he patches the hole in his wall. He lets it loop through his head as he goes out to replace the plates and mugs he’d broken in his anger. 

Structure

Schedule

A rigid framework for his life

But he can’t listen to her talk about the North Star anymore. Because you ruined it. You added a new perspective to the very idea that’s led him through society. Maybe Dr. Mercer was wrong to tell him that so young. To say he wasn’t broken; he just needed someone else to fill the gaps. 

She could have meant herself. A therapist, a guiding hand through the world. But then she’d left him, and she’d never told him another way to be. Or another path to walk where he could form his own ideas without relying on someone else’s empathy and morality. 

He’ll never know, and he just skips through when she starts talking about it on the tapes. He destroyed a few of them. Pulled out the film and burnt them in a wastebasket on his porch. Not all of them; he still needs some sort of framework. Just the ones where your voice has become too embedded in his head to hear what she says. 

He runs into you at the hardware store.

An actual coincidence for once.

He’s there to pick up a sander to smooth over his patchwork job on the wall and get some paint. He doesn’t know what you’re there for; Dex forces himself not to look into your cart to find the answer. 

It itches at his brain; his eyes are burning as he stares at you on the other end of the aisle. You’ve completely frozen, knuckles gone white around the handle of your cart. He can see the way your breathing picks up, your chest moving more rapidly as you freeze. 

Dex bites his cheek, and he can’t help but stare. This is the closest he’s been to you in over a week. But it hurts, honestly, seeing you standing there, terrified of him. It makes something hot spark in his chest that has him turning on his heel and storming toward the checkout before he’s gotten his paint. 

He can hear the little gasp you let out behind him as he walks away. And he’s infuriated later as he’s staring at the rough patch of his wall— that sound looping through his head. 

Dex doesn’t liken himself to a victim.

He hates those sorts of people that bitch about every minor inconvenience and think the entire world is out to get them. Half the time, they’re just too lazy to do anything to actually fix their problems. 

But he’s really starting to think that the world is out to get him. 

Ray asked him to pick up lunch, and Dex agreed because Ray was paying. All he’s doing is standing in line, waiting to pick up two half-decent subs. Then he hears the woman ordering at the counter, his shoulders tense as he recognizes your voice. 

You’re clearly ordering for your office because he truly doubts you could put five subs down by yourself. His jaw grits as he glances toward the door. He could just run out before you see him. But he doesn’t let himself leave the line. 

It’s not his fault that you chose to work ten minutes from his office. Every lunch spot nearby is the same place he would go. He’s already rearranged his entire life for you once.

He’s not doing it again. 

You pay and then go stand by the end of the counter while you wait for your order. Your eyes drift as you rock back on your heels, scanning the deli. He forces himself to look away. But he can practically feel the moment your eyes land on him. Even through the din of everyone else, he can still hear that sharp gasp you let out when you see him. 

Dex huffs out a breath as he steps up to the counter. He orders whatever bullshit Ray wanted and picks the first thing on the menu he sees because he wants this done. And he doesn’t go to stand at the end of the counter like everyone else. 

He sits down at a table and pulls out his phone, just staring down at it so he doesn’t look at you instead. Dex has earned the right to be able to go out and get lunch without being stared at like he’s some sociopathic freak.

If you didn’t want to see him, you should have picked a better place to work. 

Still, he can’t help the way his ears hone in on your heels clicking impatiently against the linoleum. He lifts his eyes, just barely, and sees your hands balled at your sides, a frantic energy buzzing beneath your skin. 

They call out his name first, and he takes the long way around you to grab his bag. He brushes past you without a word. He’s honestly proud of himself— resisting the temptation to argue with you some more. Bait you into a minute of conversation just to sate that restless thing inside him that still hasn’t let go of his idea of you. 

But then they’re calling your name, and his head drops to hang between his shoulders as he hears your heels clicking up behind him. They come to a slow stop, and he lets out a rough sigh. Not turning around, he opens the door and steps to the side. You wait a moment before rushing past him and running onto the sidewalk. 

It’s almost funny, watching you struggle to balance the food and drinks while your heels get caught in the cracks of the cement. But you keep on rushing away. Dex gets a whiff of your perfume, and he’s pleased enough to realize that hasn’t changed, at least. 

You glance over your shoulder, eyes wide, but he’s already turning, heading up the street back to the office. The idea of being able to speak again isn’t worth the risk of having the foundations he’s built his life on be eviscerated by you. 

Again.

Dex had gone with Ray to apprehend someone believed to have connections to Fisk’s weapons smuggling. It’s been suspected for a while— Fisk’s illicit activities at his private port. But they’ve not gotten a solid lead until this one. 

The suspect’s located in a crumbling brownstone that looks like it should have been demolished years ago. There’s a shoddy chain-link fence on either side of the place, and Dex can already hear the mutts barking. He just has to hope they’re holed up inside somewhere. The last time that he had to get a rabies shot because of one of these assholes— his arm had been sore for a week.

Ray approaches first, running up the steps as Dex lingers by the alleyway. He keeps his hand resting on his gun, eyes narrowing as Ray pounds on the front door. “Federal Agents! We’re—”

Dex rolls his eyes. “He’s running,” he calls out, ripping open the chain-link fence. He can already see the guy racing out of the back door, tossing a terrified look over his shoulder as he runs down the alleyway. 

Ray takes the other side as Dex chases after him. Maybe it would have been better to bring backup for this, but it was meant to be an interview. Not an arrest. He hears barking getting louder behind him and risks a look over his shoulder. 

The suspect’s back door is swinging open, and a goddamn Rottweiler is running him down. “Fuck,” Dex hisses, turning back around. The man’s jumped on top of a dumpster and is struggling his way over a chain-link fence. 

Dex leaps up after him, bounding over the fence easily. The Rottweiler snarls behind him; the fence rattles as it snaps its jaws at him, trying to bust through. Dex surges forward and manages to get his arm around the guy's neck. He jerks him back and tosses him to the pavement. 

“Why’d you run?” He asks, grinning as the guy scrambles back from him. “We only wanted to talk, Mark. Now, I think we might need a search warrant.”

“Look, man.” He throws his hands up, slowly getting to his feet. “I heard federal—”

Dex doesn’t let him get another word in. These guys always have some bullshit to spew. Ultimately, they’ll flip; they just need the right encouragement.

Dex brings his arm up, fist slamming into Mark’s jaw. He crumples to the ground in a pathetic heap and lets out a small whimper as he spits blood onto the pavement. 

The snarling at the fence only gets louder as Dex shoves him to the ground, his knee pressing into Mark's spine. “Call off the dog,” he orders. 

Mark hesitates, and Dex presses his hand to the back of his head, dragging his cheek across the rough pavement. “Alright, alright,” he calls out. “Roscoe, back!” He shouts at the dog. The Rottweiler growls, but he slowly backs up from the fence. 

Dex glares down at the back of the other man’s head. It’s been a while since he’s been on his own with a suspect. And with everything they have on this guy, he knows he’s a piece of shit.

The type where other agents turn a blind eye if there are more bruises than there need to be. 

There’s no voice telling him not to. No fucking North Star or doctor’s voice echoing in his ear, reminding him what mercy is. What he’s meant to represent as an agent. 

Dex’s hands twitch around the back of his neck before he lets out a rough sigh and cuffs him instead. It’d feel nice for a minute, and then he’d have to deal with the psych evals. The temporary withdrawal from the field because he’d shown signs of excessive force again. This asshole isn’t worth the headache. 

He gets him to his feet just as Ray is coming around the other corner of the alley. Dex shoots him a wry look as he marches Mark toward him. “Took you long enough,” he taunts. 

Ray chuckles, eyes darting over the bruises on Mark’s face, the spot where the pavement had scraped him up. “Looks like he gave you some trouble,” he notices, his brows furrowing. 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Dex dismisses. “You might want to take care of that, though,” he tells him, nodding toward the dog still waiting behind the fence. Ray lets out a low groan as the dog starts to growl. 

“Dex—”

“I got the guy. Least you can do is get the dog,” he calls over his shoulder, already marching Mark back to the car. He can still hear Ray complaining as he walks away. He can have fun with the rabies shot this time. 

Dex makes it back to the SUV and throws the door open for Mark, hand still tight around his cuffed wrists. As he’s about to shove him inside, something in his peripheral vision draws his attention. He feels like he already knows what he’s about to see, but he looks anyway. 

“Of fucking course,” he mutters, glaring down the street. You’re standing there, a polite amount of distance between you and the man you’re talking to. Your smile is amicable but withdrawn, and you’re nodding along to whatever he’s saying. 

Dex’s eyes narrow as he observes the other man. Probably about an inch or two shorter than Dex. Brown hair and a jagged scar that goes from his ear to his chin. He’s already got his face memorized before he truly becomes cognizant of the behavior. 

“Ow, man,” the man in his grip hisses, and he looks down. His knuckles have gone white around his wrists. With a huff, Dex rips his eyes from you and shoves Mark into the car. He slams the door behind him, and then he just watches. 

Just for a minute. 

You shake the man’s hand, and he passes you something. Dex can’t make it out from here, but he watches the other man as he walks off. Dex sees the car he gets into. He could memorize the plates, have a solid ID by the end of the day if he uses the database—

Then what?

There’s no point in keeping track of who’s in your life because he isn’t. Running background checks on every man he sees you with is only going to drive him crazy. 

Jaw clenched, he turns toward the car and gets into the driver’s seat. He glances into the rearview mirror, and he still sees you standing there. He tilts the mirror so he has a better view of Mark in his back seat. 

“This is all one misunderstanding, man,” Mark pleads, blood still caked in the corners of his mouth. 

“Always is,” Dex mutters. Ray comes running up to the car, getting in the passenger seat beside Dex. He pulls away from the building and drives back to the office. 

Dex lets out a tired groan as he enters his apartment. He rests his bag on the table, fingers hooking into his tie, and he feels like he can breathe again as he loosens it. 

His eyes briefly snag on the rough patch of his wall. He needs to actually finish fixing it, but he hasn’t found the time or energy to bother. He’s digging around in his fridge for dinner when he hears his phone buzzing on the table. 

Frowning, he walks toward it and notices it’s an unknown number. Picking it up, his finger hovers over the answer button before he clicks it off. All he wants to do right now is pass out. He doesn’t feel like dealing with this. 

Just as he moves to turn around, it buzzes again. “Christ,” he breathes, turning back toward it. He hangs up again, and he doesn’t even get to set it down before it starts ringing once more. This is different than someone just calling to ask about his car’s warranty. 

Something tightens in his chest as he finally answers, pressing the phone up to his ear. “Who is this?” He demands. 

There’s a trembling breath and then a sniffle. “Dex?” And he knows that voice intimately. Knows it better than he ever wants to admit to himself.

“I— I didn’t know who else to call,” you whisper, but your voice cracks around the words, and he hears a rough sob rip through your throat. 

Weeks of doing what you wanted. Of backing off. Of restructuring his schedule back to something he recognizes, and it just takes one call.

One moment of getting to hear your voice again, and you’re scared, but it’s not of him for once. 

There’s a part of you that must still see him as something safe if he’s the first person you call.  With a rough sigh, he’s grabbing his keys, already out the door. “Where are you?”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“Where are you?” He demands again. 

You suck in a sharp breath and seem to get a better hold of yourself, just for a moment. “Fifth Street. By the park. Um— It’s an alleyway by the old apartments.”

Alleyway

I told you walking home was going to get you in trouble— But he doesn’t say that because, distantly, he realizes that it's the last thing you want to hear from him.  

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He tells you instead, starting his car. You hum; the sound is pitchy and desperate. Distantly, he can hear your heels as you pace.

You don’t say anything else, but he listens to your steps grow more frantic, your breathing picking up speed. “What happened?” He asks, trying to stop you from falling apart before he can get there. 

You swallow roughly before answering. “He… He grabbed me, and I didn’t know what to do… Jesus, Dex, there’s so much blood,” you whisper, the soft admission something you don’t even realize you’ve said. His knuckles tighten around the wheel as he listens to you cry softly into the phone. 

He’s done what you asked. He’s left you alone. It feels unfair and cruel of you to do this. To reach out to him rather than to your family or even to that man you were with today.

But you’ve forced him to realize that’s what you are— inherently, your existence is cruel to him.

You taunt him with what he might have, with your presence, only to pull back. But he doesn’t hang up and tell you to figure it out on your own. Maybe he should, but he’s already pulling up to the building and parked by the time he considers it. 

Dex gets out of his car and closes the door silently. He glances up at the surrounding buildings, but there aren’t any lights on. Despite being close to the park, it’s a relatively run-down area. He can hear the sirens in the distance and dogs barking in one of the alleys he passes by. 

It’s the type of place where the sound of a struggle goes ignored because no one wants to risk their own neck for some stranger. 

He hears you before he sees you. Pulling the phone from his ear, he can make out muttered whispers beneath your breath, heels clicking loudly against the cement as you pace. Dex walks up slowly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure there’s no one around to see either of you. 

There’s a dark stain at the mouth of the alley, a puddle that’s steadily growing. He steps over it to see you, pacing beside a crumpled body, shaking hands covering your face. He says your name quietly, and you yelp, whipping around to face him. 

Your cheeks are stained with blood, hands covered in it. And the entire front of your shirt is crimson. Dex’s eyes narrow, darting between you and the body.

“Is any of this yours?” He asks, reaching for your wrists as his eyes scan over your body, looking for any visible injuries.

“No,” you whisper, voice clogged as your head hangs between your shoulders. You step toward him before jerking back, but he keeps his hold on your wrists. “I can’t— I’ll get blood on you,” you mutter. 

Dex pulls you closer anyway, his arm banding around your back as he takes in the dead body. With the dim streetlight, he vaguely makes out a scruffy beard. A holey beanie and clothes that are too tattered to be of any use in the weather. He assumes it’s either a homeless man or a junkie. He saw a woman walking alone at night and thought she’d be an easy target for purse snatching. 

Dex moves back from you slightly, and you stumble without his weight to lean on. He tilts your chin up, eyes narrowing at the inflamed skin and purple band that’s beginning to form around your throat. His eyes dart toward your blouse, half of it ripped open. 

Not just a purse snatching. 

“You’re not hurt?” Dex checks again, and you shake your head. “Okay.” He shrugs his jacket off and pulls it over your shoulders. Your bloody hands come up, keeping it closed over your torn clothes. “What happened?”

You lick your lips and glance over at the body, chest heaving and your hands shaking. “I thought he just wanted my purse,” you tell him. Your eyes dart toward him. “But then—” your voice cracks as you struggle to get the words out. “He was choking me and tearing at my shirt. So, I… I shot him.”

“Self-defense,” he reminds you. “We can just call the cops." But you begin vigorously shaking your head, tripping as you jerk back from him. 

“No. No, what I did was not self-defense.”

Dex frowns as he glances between you and the body. “What are you talking about?” He asks, voice low. 

You can’t meet his eye as you stare down at your feet. “I shot him, and he stumbled away. And I could have walked away. But… There was a brick next to me, and I swung, and I just couldn’t stop until he finally stopped making noise.” 

Dex steps over the stream of blood and moves closer to the body. He uses a nearby stick to lift the beanie. Beneath is a mess of skull and brains. The man’s face has caved in, his eye hanging from the socket. He glances down at the bloody brick by his feet, the gun strewn across from it. 

Clear evidence that you could have gotten away and then chose to continue. You’re right: in the eyes of any good prosecutor, that turns it from a case of defence into homicide. Even if you were under duress. 

Dex drops the stick and steps over the man’s legs. He grabs you and pushes you toward the mouth of the alley, even as you try to fight him. “What are you doing?” You ask, eyes darting over your shoulder. 

“Watch out,” he mutters, not answering as he helps you avoid stepping in the blood. 

“Dex,” you call, still keeping your voice quiet in case anyone is listening. 

His stare hardens as he stands in front of you. “You called me to help, right?” Slowly, you nod, lips turning down. “I’m going to help. Now go to my car and wait for me.” He passes you the keys, and you hesitate. “Now,” he orders. Finally, you nod your head, legs shaking slightly as you rush away from him. 

Dex lets out a weary sigh and turns back to the body. The first thing he grabs is your gun; he flicks the safety back on and tucks it into his belt. The rest is easy, though it would make anyone else sick to their stomach. 

He finds the casing of the bullet in a crack in the pavement and stuffs it into his pocket. Then he grabs the beanie from the man’s head. The squelch of what remains of his head spilling out doesn’t disturb Dex or disgust him. He grabs the bloody brick you’d used and the stick he’d touched earlier. He stuffs both into the beanie and double-checks the scene. 

Bodies found in alleys aren’t a surprise here. The brutality of it might be. But there’s nothing to suggest it wasn’t just a drug deal gone wrong. Or a fight over territory. His eyes narrow before he steps over the blood, tucking the beanie into his side and walking calmly back to the car. 

He’d be the picture of normalcy if it wasn’t for you in the front seat. Your hands are trembling in your lap, and your face is covered in blood from where you’d touched your cheeks. The spray from you caving in his skull. Dex tucks the beanie beneath your seat. He’ll deal with it tomorrow. 

You jump as he closes his door, blinking rapidly as you watch him. “What’d you do?” you ask quietly. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he tells you. Because it doesn’t. The less either of you talks about this, the better. “Tell me your new address,” he orders, intent on getting you home and dealing with the aftermath of this tomorrow morning. 

Your brows furrow as you stare at him. “You don’t know?”

Dex scoffs, face falling flat. “No,” he tells you, eyes narrowing. 

You seem surprised, but you tell him anyway. Dex nods, and as hard as he tries not to… he still catalogues the information away.

He lets it fall somewhere in the recesses of his mind, even though it's something neither of you wanted him to know. 

The walk up to your apartment was spent with you hiding behind his back, head tucked and hands fisted in his shirt so the neighbors wouldn’t see the blood covering you. 

Your hands shake as you dig through your purse. You pull out your key, and it scrapes across the lock a few times before you manage to slide it in. “Come in,” you mutter, opening the door for him as you step inside. 

Dex keeps his gaze steady on you. He doesn’t want to look around the apartment and see your decor. He doesn’t need to try to examine the fact that this is you. He’s standing inside your most private place, and he could look up and learn so much more about you. But he doesn’t. 

He drops his keys on your counter just for something to do, a movement to keep him focused on anything but you. 

You let the door close, but your hand lingers on the knob. Your head is hanging between your shoulders; at least you’ve stopped crying. “You should go wash off,” he tells you, noticing the stain you’re leaving behind on the door. 

“Oh,” you take a deep breath and nod, staring down at your hands. “Yeah,” you mutter. Dex watches as you brush past him, looking like you’re stuck in a daze as you head into the room off to the left. 

He hears the water turn on a moment later and frowns. He doesn’t understand why he’s still here. He could just leave. He should. His gaze drifts without conscious permission, and he finds himself taking in your apartment. 

Floor lamps, lights strung up on the ceiling— it’s all soft and warm. Something easy on the eyes to come home to after a long day. You have a large rug in the middle of the floor, a couch that’s big enough for two despite it just being you.

You are everywhere. 

Your knickknacks, the color that’s been missing from the office, little pieces of you that he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed until he’s staring at you— the essence of who you are. 

Balanced on the ledge of your window is that little plant you used to keep perched on your desk. He walks over without thinking, reaching out and running his thumb over one of the leaves. 

The edges are browning again. 

He lets go of the plant and turns toward the other room. The water’s still going, and he frowns, taking a step inside. It’s your bedroom that he walks into. Your bed is pushed up in the right corner, boxes piled along the wall. It seems like it's the last place you’ve bothered to unpack. 

Dex keeps moving until he’s standing at the threshold of your bathroom. You’re standing over the sink, eyes glazed as you stare down at your hands. The water’s running clear now; the grime is still under your nails, but the blood is gone. But you keep scrubbing, hands growing harsher with each swipe. 

“Alright,” Dex mutters. “That’s enough.” You glance over at him. Slightly caught off guard, you let him nudge you to the side and shut the water off.

He stares at you, at the blood that’s dried onto your cheeks and neck. “You should just take a shower,” he tells you because it seems like you’re not capable of making any sort of decision right now. 

When you don’t say anything, he backs off and heads back into your room. He digs through your dresser until he finds soft clothes for you to change into. You seem to need help, and it feels good to, for once, be the most stable person in this relationship. 

As he steps into the bathroom again, you’re tugging off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Your blouse underneath gapes open from where it’d been torn, and your fingers are clumsy as you unbutton it. “Here,” Dex announces before you strip any further. He places the clothes on the edge of the counter and begins to retreat. 

“Where are you going?” You call out, brows furrowing as you turn to face him. Your hand holds your shirt closed as best you can. His eyes drop to the bruises around your neck, and his teeth grind together as he bites back the words trying to spill forth. 

This wouldn’t have happened if you just listened to him. If you just let him help you. 

“Leaving,” he tells you. Your face twitches and your lips purse, eyes darting away from him. “Like you want,” he tacks on, tilting his head as he observes you. You only let out a shrill hum, your head giving him a jerky nod as you continue to stare right past him. 

Dex waits for any sort of hesitation; when none comes, he has to resist the urge to let out a bitter scoff.

How can you accuse him of using you after this?

You called him— knowing he would come, and now that he’s done what you wanted, you’re just done with him.

God, you are cruel to him. 

He walks out of your bedroom and heads for the door. He waits a second longer before stepping outside, letting it close softly behind him. He gets down one flight of stairs before letting out a low curse, realizing he left his keys on your counter. 

“Dammit,” he mutters, eyes falling shut as he stills on the stairs. 

It’s reluctance that slows his feet as he quietly creeps back to your apartment. He opens the door as carefully as he can, not wanting the noise to alert you that he’s back. He doesn’t need you accusing him of trying to abuse your invitation. 

It’s going to take a week to try to burn out the memory of your address. 

It’s only because he’s actively listening for you that he hears it. He’s waiting for you to come around the corner and scream when you still see him inside— accuse him of something atrocious. But he hears the shower running, and louder than that is you. 

You’re crying. The sort of ugly sound that can only come from someone who actually puts value on human life. Who feels guilt when all you did was protect yourself. 

Dex’s hands are wrapped around his keys; he already has one foot out the door. He could just leave, be done with this and you. Go back to what he’d been before. A man who didn’t care for relationships or love because they were messy and they didn’t provide anything useful. 

But he’s closing the door, dropping his keys, and walking back into your bathroom. 

He dedicated so much of himself to you that it doesn’t feel fair that you just get to call on him and he comes running like a dog. Sniffing for a bone you’re never going to give him. 

You’re curled up in front of your shower, water steaming behind you. You’re still in your clothes; you hadn’t even managed to get out of your stockings before you collapsed. Your shoulders shake as you keep your head buried in your hands, and Dex watches it all, waiting for the gap between your next gasp and sob. 

“Why did you call me?” He demands when you’re quiet enough to hear him. 

You choke on your sob, head whipping up as you stare at him through bleary eyes. “Dex?” You question, because he should be gone. He really should.

“Why did you call me?” He asks again, his glare not softening as he stares down at you. 

Your brows furrow as you shake your head, mouth opening and closing as you struggle for an answer. “I—” Your gaze drops, focusing on his legs instead of meeting his eyes. “I knew you would come,” you whisper. 

Dex scoffs, shaking his head. “Of course.” He begins to turn, but he hears you clamber to your feet, clumsy as you follow him. 

“Dex, please,” you beg, voice breaking around his name. He pauses at the threshold of your doorway, but he doesn’t let you have the satisfaction of him turning around. “I needed you. I need you,” you force out. 

His eyes narrow as he processes that, shaking his head wordlessly before turning to face you. “So I’m sick for needing you. But you’re not?” he hisses, storming closer. 

You jerk back, and he stops himself. He remembers the last argument clearly enough. How angry he’d been. And he knows that there were boundaries he violated, even by his standards. He never should have thrown that knife at you, or made you think he would willingly hurt you. 

Because even now he keeps his hands where you can see them, not wanting you to be as afraid as you look at him. 

“You don’t need me.” You tell him; your voice is soft, scratchy from crying and being choked. “You needed the idea of me, Dex. But all I want is you, even if you're creepy and you hurt me… and sometimes scare me. I still have to stop myself from calling you every night.”

You had hurt him too; did you not realize that? You had eviscerated the idea that had kept him moving through society, feeling like he had an anchor.

You took that from him.

You don’t get to act like you’re the only one who was hurt. 

And, really, creepy? Is that how you see him? He’s just some creep who came into your life, and now you’re stuck with him. How flattering. 

But his mind is latching onto what he wants to ignore the most. You’d been fighting the urge to call him. You had moved apartments, changed routes, even changed your number. And a part of you was still seeking him out. Dex refuses to let himself follow that thought any further. “You should get in the shower,” he tells you. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you finally admit. Your hands are wringing each other as you stare at him. “Please, can you just stay?”

How satisfying would it be to walk out, right now?

Probably more than he can imagine. Considering the last time he really saw you, he was begging you to stay, and you told him he wasn’t enough. 

You’ve just admitted that you know you’re not enough. But that you need him anyway. And you would finally hurt like he did.

There is a part of him that loves you, even if you reject it, and tell him that’s not what love is. That’s what it means to him; that’s what you are to him. 

Not some idealized notion of a guiding hand. Just you— cruel as you are, he still wants you. But it’s not fair that he’s the only one who is the bad guy here. It's not fair that you can call on him and then be rid of him just as fast. 

He turns to leave, and you dart forward, your hand wrapping around his wrist. You’re as warm as he remembers. He’s thought about this a lot more than he’d ever tell you. How casually you can touch him without looking scared. 

But when he looks back at you, you are scared. And it’s not because of him. It’s because you don’t want him to leave. Is this how pathetic he looked to you? It would be humiliating if you weren’t just as bad as he is. 

“Dex,” you whisper, pulling yourself closer. “Just tonight,” you bargain. “Please.”

This really isn’t fair that he cares more about you than you do him. He knows he’ll stay. Not because he feels sorry for you, but because he’s missed you. And if this means one more night of getting to feel your warmth, then he’ll take it. Because anything is better than the last memory he has of you— looking at him like he was a monster. 

He doesn’t say anything, just moves a step closer. The relief is clear on your face as your grip tightens around his wrist for a fraction of a second before backing off. “Go,” he tells you, and his voice isn’t kind as he motions toward the bathroom. 

“You won’t leave?”

“No,” he sighs. He walks over to your bed and sits on the end of it. He drags his hand down his face and shakes his head. “I’ll be here.” You hesitate a second more before nodding, disappearing into the bathroom. You don’t bother closing the door. 

Dex falls back on the bed, and he hates that it's you he smells, how eager he is to lean into it and breathe you in again. He resists because he really doesn’t need to feel more like some mutt you’re letting in for one night only. 

You come out half an hour later, body scrubbed clean of the grime and dressed in the clothes he’d picked out. You linger on the threshold of your bathroom for a moment before walking toward him. He sits up as you settle beside him, your weight sinking the bed until you’re both tilting toward each other. 

He stays quiet because he’s not going to be the one to start this. He’s done enough already, just by cleaning up after you tonight. “How can you do it?” You ask, staring down at your hands. 

“What?” He mutters. 

“How can you kill someone and just… not carry that the rest of your life?”

He doesn’t answer, waiting until you look over at him. Your head tilts as you consider him. “I don’t care,” he answers flatly. Your jaw tightens at that. He shrugs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “If it’s between me and some asshole with a gun, I’m going to be the one walking away.”

“And when he doesn’t have a gun?” You prod, and it almost feels like you’re trying to trap him. But if you claim to care about him, creep and all, the truth shouldn’t bother you. 

“Same rule,” he tells you. “I don’t care.”

Your face doesn’t change; fear doesn’t flit across your expression. You just nod, eyes dropping to the floor as you let out a very tired noise. “I wish I didn’t care.”

He scoffs at that. “No, you don’t.”

Your shoulders stiffen as you glance over at him. “Yes, I do,” you whisper. “I don’t want to feel like this because some asshole thought he could get away with trying to rape me in an alleyway tonight. I don’t deserve to have to carry the burden of his misdeed.”

“You don’t wish you were like me,” he insists. “Because if you were, you wouldn’t care about the strays you see. Or about trying to keep dead plants alive. If you were like me…” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Well, you really wouldn’t give a shit about me.”

“Is that how you feel about me?” You ask. “Do you just not give a shit anymore?”

Anger flares through him. You were the one who left him when it got too hard. Where the fuck do you get off on this holier-than-thou shit? “I never said that.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “You just said I wasn’t worth anything.”

Dex turns to face you, glare sharp. You’re waiting expectantly, brows raised as you shrug casually. “You do that a lot,” he mutters. 

“What?”

“Put words in my mouth. Make things sound different than they are. You’re really good at making me the bad guy.”

Your eyes narrow as you let out a sharp scoff. You push off the bed, pacing before you cross your arms, staring down at him. “I don’t make you anything, Dex. You’re just blind to how everyone else sees you. I see what you don’t want me to. And you hate that, and you resent me for not being good enough to be your ‘North Star,’” your tone is mocking as you say it. Rolling your eyes at the idea. 

The fucking idea that kept him going into adulthood. That kept him standing when Mercer left him alone.

“I don’t care about that,” he snaps. And now he’s on his feet too. “That’s not what this is about!” You square your shoulders as his voice rises, but you don’t flinch back or concede your space as he takes a step closer to you. 

“I can make my own decisions without needing someone else to try to fix me,” he tells you. “But I have a foundation, a structure. And people don’t get a place in it unless they have a purpose. And you… You have no purpose. I care about you, but I don’t know why.”

You stare over at him, your shoulders rising and falling with each measured breath you take. “That really shouldn’t make sense,” you bite out, almost reluctantly. Your eyes fall shut before you glance at him again. 

You walk past him and perch on the edge of the bed. Your head hangs between your shoulders as you both stand in the quiet. “I’m tired, Dex,” you whisper. 

That’s it?

After he finally managed to put into words what has constantly been twisted against him— You just give up? 

“It is always on your terms,” he accuses, still standing over you, face still hardened into something angry. 

“What?” you ask, looking up at him. Your hand comes up, idly stroking the bruise around your neck without realizing it. You clear your throat, grimacing. 

“You get mad at me, and you ask for space, and I give it to you. You call me, and I come running. But it is so easy for you to leave me, to kick me out once you’ve gotten what you wanted from me.” He tells you. 

You go completely silent; even your careful breaths stop. Dex waits—impatiently— but he waits.

“What?” You let out a bitter laugh as you lift your head, your nails biting into the sheets beneath you. “It’s easy for me to leave you?” you repeat incredulously. 

“Yes,” he doubles down because you have never tried to prove him wrong. 

“Mm,” you hum, an angry noise that vibrates in the back of your throat as you shake your head. “And I’m the one putting words in your mouth?” You demand, cutting your eyes up at him.

“I moved, Dex. I got a new job, new friends. I changed my number. And I still cannot get you out of my head. Every day I wake up, and I wonder if I should call, but I talk myself out of it. Because the last time I saw you— I went to you knowing it was stupid. And then you threw a fucking knife at me. You couldn’t promise that you wouldn’t hurt me. And I still called you tonight. I still invited you into my life knowing exactly what it would mean. Things haven’t been easy since you decided I was something worth noticing.”

Dex falls quiet as he stares down at you. Your voice hasn’t risen, you haven’t stood up from the bed, but the apartment has fallen completely silent around your confession. For once, his brain is quiet. 

He doesn’t have an argument on the tip of his tongue because there isn’t one to make. You want him; you still do, you just said it. And he doesn’t understand.

“Then why did you leave?” he whispers. 

You suck in a sharp breath and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Because I want you,” you whisper. “And I’m terrified by it.”

Slowly, he moves forward. He settles himself on the bed beside you and keeps his hands in his lap as he resists the urge to reach out to you. “Why does wanting me have to be terrifying?” he asks, looking over at you. 

“Because anyone else would have reported you to the cops or filed a restraining order. And they should— I should. But I’m still holding on.” The noise you let out is self-deprecating as your face falls into your hand. “I’ve never felt more stupid,” you whisper into your palms. 

Stupid. He sits with the word as he lets the silence linger. You’re stupid for wanting him. But you’re not.

He knows you’re not because every piece of him that would have scared someone else away has somehow found its match in you. 

You’re not stupid for wanting him. You’re stupid for denying yourself every chance you get. “Then stop leaving,” he tells you. Because it’s a pretty simple solution, but you seem averse to simple things. 

Your head lifts as you look over at him. But you don’t object, just let the words linger between you. Carefully, he lifts his hand, lets it hover before he rests it on your back. You seem unaware of how you lean into him. 

“Don’t leave if you know that it hurts. That you want this,” he tells you. His hand drifts, cupping the back of your neck as his thumb traces just below the bruises. 

Your eyes flutter shut as you let out a tired breath. “It’s late,” you say, dodging the truth. “We should go to bed.” You reach up, and he expects you to push his hand away, but you grab it and hold onto it. You squeeze his palm once before moving back onto the bed. 

Dex frowns; he wants to push further. To just hear you admit it. But you’re pulling the sheet backs and then you nod him closer to you. “Can you just stay in here tonight? I’ll just feel better with you here.”

With you here. 

Not having someone beside you because that could mean that any warm body next to yours would make you feel more comfortable. You want him. That’s the only reason he lets it go. Shelves the conversation for tomorrow. He glances down at his jeans. 

“Hold on,” you tell him, walking over to your closet. “I think I still have some of your clothes in here.” His brows furrow at that. He hadn’t even realized you’d stolen any. You come back with a shirt and the sweatpants he’d been looking for long before you split up. 

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. He gets up and changes in the bathroom. When he comes back, you’re on the side closest to the wall, leaving him the edge facing the door.

Slowly, he climbs in beside you. You keep your back to him, and he stares up at the ceiling, feeling cold despite how close you are. 

You let out an irritated sigh before rolling over. “I’m cold,” you reason as you inch closer to him. Dex lifts his arm and lets you rest under it, your face screwed up like you’re pissed off at yourself for wanting this. 

He’s sick of feeling like wanting him is something so horrible. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see that look in your eyes anymore. 

Dex takes in your kitchen with disapproval.

There’s a dirty box on the counter. The plates and utensils are scattered across the laminate. Nothing in here is organized. It’s the sort of chaos that makes his fingers twitch, a needling urge to fix it pushing on him. 

He rolls his shoulders back and ignores it, reaching for the coffee machine instead. It’s the only thing in here you actually have set up. It feels familiar, scooping out the grounds for two rather than just himself. 

He leans against the counter as the carafe brews. His fingers drum against it with a restlessness that’s been burrowing beneath his skin since he woke up to your arm draped over his chest. You were so warm it was almost too much. 

“Oh.” He turns around and sees you standing in the doorway of your bedroom. You rub the sleep from your eyes as you move toward the kitchen. “I thought you left.”

He shakes his head, forcing himself to look at the coffee instead. “Early riser,” he mutters. You hum, and he glances over his shoulder; your fingers are pressing into your temples, eyes clenched tight. “Your head?”

“Mhm,” you respond, keeping your voice quiet. He reaches over and flicks the kitchen light off, letting the sun coming in through the windows light the space instead. “That’s what a night of crying will do to you,” you let out a laugh that sounds forced. 

When the coffee is done, you slip behind him, pulling two mugs out of one of your boxes. His nose wrinkles as he watches you blow the remnant of cardboard from one of them. But you’re already moving to the sink, washing it without him having to say anything. 

“Sugar?”

 “Cabinet above the coffee,” you tell him quietly. You set the mugs down by his elbow. It’s irritating, as he’s pouring yours, to realize that he still remembers the way you take it. “Thank you.” You take the mug from him and move over toward your couch. 

He lingers in the kitchen a second longer before following you. He doesn’t sit beside you, but chooses the chair beside the couch, still trying to keep some distance between you and him. 

The silence feels like a physical barrier between you both as you sit there, sipping your coffee and not meeting his eye.

“How do you feel?” He asks because he feels like it's what he’s supposed to do. Something bad happens, and that’s the path you’re meant to follow. 

How do you feel → I’m sorry → That must be really hard

He doesn’t usually do that with you, but he’s not sure of any other way to communicate with you right now. 

You glance over at him with a glint in your eyes that makes him think you see through the charade. But you don’t point it out; you never do. “Sick,” you tell him. “I feel like my stomach is in knots.”

Dex nods, takes another sip of his coffee, and looks toward the plant on your windowsill. It’s getting too much direct sunlight, he thinks. That’s why the leaves are browning again.

“It will be hard getting over this,” he tells you, perfunctorily. 

You let out a snort, and he glances back over at you. Your eyes narrow as you stare at him. “Thanks for the script,” you snip, though there’s no hostility in your tone. You seem too tired for that as you release a heavy sigh. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. What else is he meant to say?

You shake your head, swallowing roughly as you follow his gaze toward the plant. “I feel sick because I don’t feel guilty. I should, shouldn’t I?” You ask, turning back to him. There’s something lost on your face, a limbo you’re lingering in, and you're not sure where you’re going to land. 

“I should feel bad that I killed a man,” you continue. “But I don’t. I think that’s what's making me feel sick. Because I know what's supposed to be there, and it’s just… not.”

Dex tilts his head as he considers you. Your legs are tucked under your body, your hand lingering near the bruise wrapped around your throat. “You’re asking the wrong person,” he tells you. “Maybe to other people you should feel bad. But you protected yourself last night. What’s so wrong about that?” he shrugs. 

You glance over at him with a curl to your lips that's nearly a smile. “I probably am asking the wrong person,” you admit. “But I’m also pretty sure you’re the only person I’d ever want to ask about this.”

The admission is soft, quiet. He lets it linger between you both as you finish your coffee. 

“Do you need to go into work today?” You ask; your tone is hesitant. He wants to think there’s something hopeful in there. But he can’t trust that it’s not just him searching for what he wants. 

“No,” he tells you. You’re going to get him in trouble for having him call out so often in the time that he’s known you. A part of him figured that you would ask him to stay longer this morning, anyway. 

You nod, letting out a heavy breath as your nails drum against your legs. “You should move that plant,” he notes, nodding toward it. 

Your brows furrow, your face twitching in surprise. “Where did that come from?” you ask, letting out a small laugh. 

Dex shrugs. He stands and grabs your mug from you, taking it into the kitchen. “Its leaves are turning brown again.” He turns the tap on and starts washing the mugs out. He’s drying them off when he sees you get up. 

You walk toward the plant and lift it, considering it for a moment. There’s a frown on your face as you stare at it. You hesitate before moving it back from the window, placing it on the shelf near you instead. 

Dex moves away from the sink and hovers. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what the expectation is here or what role you’re waiting for him to fulfill. He took care of the body. He took care of you last night.

What more could you want from him?

Why would you drag out the inevitable when you both know that you’re just going to run again?

You stuff your hands in the pockets of your pajamas and turn to see him watching you. “What are you doing?”

Dex purses his lips as he takes you in. You seem fine in a relative way. You’re not crying anymore; you haven’t expressed any sort of distress. He’s done what he needs to, hasn’t he? He glances toward his keys, and your brows twitch inward. 

“I should probably head out,” he tells you. 

“Oh.” You take a step closer before thinking better of it and stopping. Dex watches as you process what he’s said, his lips turning down. He moves toward your bedroom, collecting his clothes from last night. He takes the time to fold them, and you’re still out in the living room, quiet. 

Maybe you hadn’t expected him to make the first move. 

Dex walks back into the living room and sees you’ve moved. You’re lingering by the door, staring at the wall as he grabs his keys. You’re blocking his path without seeming to realize it. He calls your name, and you blink, glancing over at him. 

“Right, sorry,” you mutter. Backing up, you even go so far as to unlock the door for him. Dex nods and glances over at you, debating whether a goodbye is even worth it. Maybe you’ll need him for another favor next week. 

Maybe his life is going to become a schedule that you rupture through when you suddenly decide you want him again. 

He only manages to get the door open an inch when he feels your hand on his arm. “Do you have to go?” You whisper, not quite meeting his eyes as you lightly tug him back from the door. 

“No,” Dex answers slowly. “I just thought that…”

“What?” You shake your head, frowning. 

“I thought you’d want me to leave.” Will he just never understand you again? Is this what it’s like having a woman in your life?

Maybe this is why he’d never bothered; you’re too unpredictable. 

You offer him a small smile that trembles slightly at the edges. Reaching past him, you let the door shut again. “Don’t assume,” you whisper. “It makes an ass out of both of us.”

“What do you want?” Dex asks, genuinely baffled. Stay, leave, come back— you can’t get your shit together long enough to let him collect his thoughts. 

You sober up at that, your face falling as you straighten. Your foot taps against the ground, your hand tightening around his wrist. “You,” you slowly admit. “I want you to stay. But…” you suck in a sharp breath and steel yourself, staring into his eyes. 

“I don’t know what I am, Dex. Am I an idea to you? Something to form your life around? Or am I real now? Do I get to be real with you?” 

What the fuck could that even mean?

He places the clothes he’s holding on the table, turning to face you fully. Your hand drifts from his wrist as he lifts his hands, cupping your neck, fingers brushing beneath the bruise. He’s holding you again, and it’s better than he remembers: the feeling of you in his hands. The way you lean into him.

“You’re real,” he mutters; he’s holding the proof of it. 

Your eyes narrow, and he can feel your pulse throb against his thumb. “I really want to believe that,” you tell him. 

Dex doesn’t know what else he could possibly do to get you to listen. To show you how he feels. You lean closer to him, seeking out his warmth. Dex’s eyes dart to your lips. He’s clearly terrible with words. You’ve never once believed a thing that’s come out of his mouth. Not any of his admissions of love, not the way he’s devoted himself to you… 

He dips his head, and you push into his hold, meeting him halfway. He’s caught off guard by the way your hands come up, resting lightly on his shoulders. It’s gentle, tentative, as you slowly put more pressure into the kiss. His hands twitch around your neck before they drop, dragging down your body and settling on your hips. 

He tugs you into his chest, and you make a soft noise against his mouth that has him sucking in a sharp breath. He pulls back, watching you carefully, waiting for you to tell him to stop. 

Your lips twitch down, and you tilt your head. Your hand comes up, thumb stroking the edge of his jaw, and he leans into it. “Don’t go,” you whisper. Dex shakes his head, and you surge toward him again. 

This is different. This is hungry and unreserved, desperate as your nails bite into his shoulders and you part your lips, tongue darting across the seam of his lips. Dex can’t help the shocked noise that tears through him, the way his lips part so readily beneath your own. 

You seem pleased with that, quick to taste him; let him remember your taste in turn. His hands ball up in your pajama pants as you tug him back from the door. “What are we doing?” He asks, pulling back and staring down at you while he tries to catch his breath. 

You frown and shake your head. “I— I don’t really know,” you tell him. 

It feels like you’re on equal footing for once as he nods. Your hands drag down his chest; they find the palm he still has wrapped around your hip. You turn, leading him back into your bedroom. 

“Are you sure about this?” Dex asks before you can tug him onto the mussed sheets. He doesn’t feel like becoming just another memory that you regret. 

“Please,” you whisper, tugging him closer. His hand comes around your waist while yours settles on his shoulders. “Don’t make me beg, Dex,” you whisper, pressing a light kiss to his jaw as you watch him. 

It would be nice to see you beg him for this.

To beg for a piece of himself. But he can smell you, and he can feel you. Begging doesn’t seem nearly as sweet as getting to feel your skin beneath his again. 

He shakes his head and lets his hands slip beneath the hem of your top. You shudder as his palms drag up your back, tracing over the bare skin he’d nearly forgotten the feeling of. You step back, let him lift the shirt until it’s slipping over your head and falling to the floor. 

He swallows, trying not to make his attraction too obvious, but he’s pretty sure his sweatpants are giving him away right now. You give him a small smile as you reach back, guiding his hands around your body and to your chest. 

You lean back up as he cups your breasts, letting the weight of them fill his palms while you kiss him again. Leading him back toward the bed until his knees are buckling and he’s dragging you down onto his lap. 

His fingers hook into the waistband of your pants, tugging until you’re slipping back, pushing them down to your ankles. You step out of them as he pulls off his shirt. Your eyes travel appreciatively across his body, hands reaching out toward him. 

But he catches your wrists, watches the surprise play across your face as you stare down at him.

“Lie down,” he tells you. You pause by the side of the bed before letting him lead you. Slowly, he lowers you back onto the bed, hands still wrapped around your wrists.

He catches the beginnings of it, the way your breathing picks up, your eyes widening. "Wait," you mutter, staring up at him, wrists tugging desperately at his grip.

He lets you go, backing up as you press your hand to your chest, the other going to your throat. "I—" you swallow roughly, and your eyes clench shut. "I can't."

Dex nods, sinking back onto his heels. He reaches across the floor and picks up your shirt, passing it to you wordlessly. "It's not you," you're quick to rush out, even though you still can't meet his eyes.

"Last night— I just can't do that right now, Dex."

He stares down at his hands, his own heart racing in a tightening chest. "Don't make me leave again," he whispers. Because he had been so close to opening himself up to you again. To letting you see inside him once more.

Slowly, you sink onto the floor beside him and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into you. It's embarrassing how easily he gives in, his body going lax as your warmth surrounds him. "I won't, I swear," you promise, your voice breaking around the words.

Slowly, Dex's arms wind around your waist, helping you stand as he leads you back onto the bed. He doesn't expect anything as he climbs onto the sheets with you. Just lets you bury your face in his chest as he keeps his arms wrapped tight around you.

"I love you," he admits, lips pressed to your temple as he breathes in the unique scent of you.

"I know," you mutter, voice muffled in his shirt. You lift your head, brows furrowing as you reach up and brush a strand of hair from his eyes. “Don’t go,” you implore. 

He shakes his head. “I won’t,” he promises, leaning down to kiss you again. You sink into him, the kiss placid and gentle in comparison to before.

Maybe it would have been better for you both if he’d just left this morning. 

Left you to settle in the wreckage of your relationship. But you want him here, and he’s not leaving until you tell him to. And you both know that you won’t. That it’s never really going to stick. 

a/n: Thank you for joining me on my first journey into Dex's psyche. How he behaves is honestly completely dependent on whether he's still holding onto the idea of normalcy/North Star ideology, or if he's lost that crutch and found the freedom to do whatever he wants. If it was OOC, let me know; I'm trying to improve my voice for him.

Your back is to him, and you’re humming under your breath while you set up a potted plant on the corner of your desk. Dex’s nose wrinkles at that as he takes it in. The browned tips and wilting leaves. You’d brought a dying plant to work. Away from enough natural sunlight to keep it alive. 

Great. Myrtle had been a bit of a bitch sometimes, but at least she wasn’t an idiot. He’s not sure he could say the same about you from what he’s seen so far. 

You’re pulling little tchotchkes out of a box, decorating your desk. Nothing too bad, still professional enough for an FBI office. But enough color that it makes his brows furrow.

Your humming stops, and Dex takes his eyes off your fiddling hands. You’re staring at him, eyes a little wide, taken off guard. 

“Oh,” you let out a soft, surprised noise. “I didn’t see you there.” You offer a thin smile, shifting on your feet.

He realizes he hasn’t blinked. You seem— not scared, but cautious. He blinks, forces a polite smile on his face, and lets the mask slip on as he holds out his hand. 

"Benjamin Poindexter,” he introduces himself. You shake his hand; your grip is firmer than he thought it would be. He was expecting something timid, limp. It will take some time before he determines if your presence is actually worth taking note of. 

You give him your name in turn, and he catalogues that away for later. “First day?” He asks, following the parameters he knows he’s meant to partake in small talk. Just enough to leave an amicable impression and still not have to waste too much time. 

“Yep,” you tell him, your tone a little more cheery now that he’s stopped staring. “I’m Agent Hill’s new administrative assistant.”

Secretary, he corrects in his head, but he knows women don’t like that title, so he doesn’t say it. If only so he doesn’t piss off the face that’ll be greeting him every morning from now on.

“Right,” Dex offers another grin, and the smile you give in turn is less shaky. “Let me know if you need anything,” he tells you. An empty offer, a nicety. 

And you take it as such with a nod. “Thank you.” He walks into the office and glances over his shoulder. You’re fussing with the plant again, sighing as you flick lightly at one of the dying leaves. He shakes his head with a scoff and shrugs off the change, following the path he does every day. 

Dex can handle change.

Really, he can. He's not some imbecile who gets crippled by it, and his brain just can't move on until its adrresed. He's a grown man. Still, even he has his limits.

He doesn't care about change, but only if it doesn’t become an irritation. If it doesn’t have too loud a voice. Or a skirt that he considers too short to be professional, even if it's just touching your mid-thigh. If its heels don’t click against the linoleum every time it rushes into Agent Hill’s office. 

He can handle changes within limits. But this— you being here when he’s getting his afternoon coffee— it sets his teeth on edge. He comes in here because the break room is typically clear. It’s a way for him to get away from the noise, take a moment away from everyone else, let the mask slip while he drinks burnt coffee. 

And now, you’re here too. 

You offer him a casual smile as you fidget with the coffee maker. He barely remembers to return it, too busy wondering why anyone else would be in here right now. It’s right before most people take their lunch breaks. Enough time, sandwiched between work and a break, that he gets it to himself. 

“Want a cup?” You offer, holding out the carafe. 

Dex swallows, grits his teeth, and nods. “Sure, thanks.” 

You grab a mug, black and nondescript, and pour him a cup. You pass it to him wordlessly before grabbing your own mug. Light blue, with little stars painted on it. Ridiculous for a woman who works in an FBI office. 

Dex takes a sip and realizes you didn’t ask if he wanted sugar or cream. Just presumed he took it black.

He does— but it's strange considering he’s watching you pour in enough sugar to give you early-onset diabetes.

Your shoulders tense as you turn, catching him staring. He doesn’t have time to fix his expression before you let out an awkward laugh. 

“I promise I don’t usually use this much. The coffee here tastes like shi—” you catch yourself, biting your tongue as you remember the setting you’re in. 

“Burnt garbage,” Dex supplies for you. You snort at that, a genuine noise that makes his eye twitch. 

“Exactly. I might just bring in my own coffee tomorrow. This instant stuff is terrible.” Dex nods, eyes zoning in on a spot just over your shoulder, steadily tuning you out.

“If you don’t tell anyone about it, I’ll let you use some too,” you promise. You brush by him with a wink as you return to your desk. 

Dex lets out a rough breath as he takes a seat at the small table in the breakroom. But it’s too late. Even that menial conversation took up too much time. Agents are already filing in, their voices a cacophony as they grab their lunches from the fridge or discuss where they’re going out to eat. His eyes drop to the dark coffee in his mug, and he releases a tired sigh. 

Now he’ll have to time his arrival in the break room around you and lunch. Myrtle had never been such a bother. One day here and you’re already too much of a disturbance in his daily life. 

When Dex leaves that night, instead of the typical silence he’s accustomed to, he hears a “Goodnight, Agent,” directed at his back. He turns and catches you offering an awkward smile coupled with an unsure wave. 

God, no— did you really think that tiny conversation in the breakroom was him reaching out? He’s not looking to become a new person’s crutch in an unfamiliar environment. He’s got enough on his plate as is. 

Still, social politeness dictates that he return your wave and smile, albeit reluctantly and stiffly. You seem pleased with yourself at that as you pack up your belongings. He makes sure to get down the stairs before you think you can walk out with him. 

He wonders if he can get Myrtle back as he walks home. Maybe he can track the old lady down and convince her to return to her job. He hadn’t liked her, either, but at least she didn’t try to talk to him. 

As Dex gets home, he realizes the new secretary has already taken up too much of his thoughts today. It pisses him off more as he makes dinner, his hand wrapped too tightly around the pan. Instead of thinking of his routine, his plans, or the tapes he might listen to tonight....

He's thinking of that woman. 

And now, you have him dreading tomorrow, worried he might be expected to entertain you more. Maybe he can push you off onto Ray. He’s polite enough; he can show you around, and you can leave Dex alone. 

Dex drags his hand down his face and shakes his head. He pushes thoughts of you out of his head for the rest of the night. Deciding it’s better to just pretend you don’t exist. That his life is on the same predictable schedule it always is. 

Dex has a plan for when he goes in the next morning. He’ll just ignore you.

Actually— that's hardly a plan. But it’s close enough. 

Social constructs might dictate that he indulge you, invite you out for lunch with the others, and be amicable. But he really doesn’t care about that when you haven’t shown any care toward being such a disruption in his own life. 

When he goes up the stairs, he notices the plant on the edge of your desk. The brown leaves have been clipped away, and it still manages to look like a pathetic, dying thing. A great sight to be greeted with as he comes in, really.

Your head perks up when you hear him approaching, and you offer a polite smile. He brushes past you without acknowledgement. 

His shoulders tense when he hears you still call out, “Good morning, Agent.”

Christ, you’re persistent. 

Dex places his bag down by his desk and runs his hand through his hair. He peers around the wall of his desk just long enough to catch you already greeting someone else. His eyes narrow as the man lingers by your desk, his elbow resting on the edge as you engage in polite conversation. 

Is it just him, then, who thinks your presence was an unnecessary addition?

He watches the interaction a minute more before shaking his head and returning to his own work. You’re still taking up too much space in his thoughts. He plans to rectify that as he lets himself get buried in paperwork from the last major bust they had. 

Still, each time your heels click past him and your tight skirt gets caught in his peripheral vision, his hands are frozen on the keyboard. A huff escapes him at the distraction.

You’re darting around the entire office all morning. 

Click click click

Your heels are persistent and aggravating as he tries to block it out as best he can. Then you’re stopping by his desk, and you don’t just walk by. You linger at his side. Dex grits his teeth, wondering how long he could look at his computer before you just gave up. 

After a minute, he realizes you’re not leaving. He glances over, pretending to be surprised when he notices you. “Oh, sorry, must’ve been lost in thought.”

Your eyes narrow briefly before you paste on a polite smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes as you hold a file toward him. “I need you to sign off on the report you filed last week.”

He takes it from your hands and frowns down at it. “I already signed off on this.” 

You shrug. “Agent Hill says you need to do it again.” He opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “Have it to him by EOD.”

There’s an attitude in your walk as you clack away, hand balled lightly at your side. Dex peers around his desk, watching as you pace back to your own. 

The smile is gone from your face as you glare at your computer screen. And when you look up and catch him watching, you don’t smile. Just return to your work like you hadn’t seen him. He scoffs at that, shakes his head, and leans back in his chair.

Couldn’t handle one minute of someone ignoring you, huh?

Maybe this would be easier than he thought. 

That time comes, right before lunch, when he should be in the breakroom. Every part of him wants to get up, follow the routine he established the day he started working here. But then you’re pacing past him, heels clicking and biting at his ears as you head into the break room. 

His knee jumps beneath his desk, his hand balling in his lap as he forces himself to stay seated. He’ll just have to adjust around you. He can do that. He’s adaptable. 

Again, he puts all his attention into doing his work. Fingers moving across his keyboard while he pretends that one woman hasn’t blown up his day without having even been there a week. Maybe he could tell Hill that he caught you stealing office supplies and get you fired. Something.

Click click click

His jaw clenches, an angry huff escaping him as all attention is immediately ripped away from his work. There’s a soft thud, and he turns.

You’ve left a coffee mug on his desk, but you're already walking back to your own. His brows furrow as he glances over at you. You don’t acknowledge him. 

Sighing, he reaches for it, taking a precautionary sip. He’s caught off guard when his tongue isn’t coated with the taste of cheap, instant coffee. It’s smooth, actually decent. Then he remembers your promise of bringing coffee from home and frowns. 

Just another way you’ve disrupted him. Now he doesn’t even have his burnt coffee. 

Still, that doesn’t stop him from drinking the rest of it. 

At the end of your day, he brushes past your desk. Ignores your “Oh, Agent Poindexter!” He’s gotten down one stair when he hears your heels rushing up behind him. “Agent Poindexter.”

His foot stalls. His brows furrow, and the only reason he turns to face you is that all warmth has sapped from your voice. There is no professional politeness or amicability. Instead, you’re glaring down at him, your foot tapping impatiently against the linoleum. 

“Yes?” He asks, not bothering to acknowledge that he’d been trying to avoid you. 

“The file?” you ask, tilting your head. He shakes his head. “Christ,” you hiss under your breath, and that catches his attention. It only takes one day for your patience to be completely worn thin?

“Look, I don’t know what your issue is with me. But I need that file. I can’t leave tonight until I’ve collected them all.”

You take a step back from the stairs and nod toward the office. His eyes narrow, but he complies. You might be a new irritation, but you’re not going to be the reason his work ethic suddenly deteriorates. 

You follow behind him as he walks to his desk. He picks up the file and holds it between you. Just as you reach for it, he pulls back slightly. “I don’t have a problem with you,” he suddenly says. 

He doesn’t need your poor perception of him traveling through the rest of the office. “Sure,” you mutter, reaching for the file again. When he pulls it back, you throw your hands up in irritation. 

“Really, I’m not sure what gave you that impression.”

Your eyes narrow as you stare at him. “I’m not sure if you’re being purposefully obtuse or you’re just incredibly socially awkward, but you really haven’t given me any signs that you like me. Let alone tolerate my presence.”

Your bluntness catches him completely off guard. But your assessment of him angers Dex more. He has worked his entire life to assimilate with everyone else. There might be occasional moments when he stalls, forgetting the words to the script. But he’s not socially awkward. He’s worked too hard for that. 

“That was incredibly rude,” he tells you. 

You finally snatch the file from him. “So is your behavior. Have a good night, Agent,” you tell him. Heels clicking furiously as you take the file into Hill’s office. He stands by his desk for a long moment, quietly processing the exchange. 

You are intolerable, wholly and completely. Each step you take makes his nerves fire with rage. But you do not get to come into his office, make accusations, and then spread those accusations to everyone else. How he feels about you is irrelevant; you are the face that greets everyone each morning. 

If that greeting starts with whispers about his behavior, then you would alter his foundation even more than you already have. He has carefully cultivated his reputation and perception of himself; he’s not going to let you— some nothing little secretary— alter that. 

When you brush past him and grab your bag from your desk, he follows. You shrug on your jacket as you head down the stairs, and he tries to keep a respectable distance. He doesn’t approach you until you’re in the lobby of the building, with enough eyes on you both for you not to feel scared when he lightly grabs your elbow. 

You startle, jumping as you turn to face him. Your brows furrow, but he’s speaking before you can spew any more venom. “I’m sorry for how my behavior has come off. Truly.”

He’s not— like, at all.

But that doesn’t matter because he knows what face to make to have someone believe him. He knows how to coat his voice with enough sincerity for you to not question the hard look in his eyes.

You let out a weary sigh; your expression softens as you shake your head. “No.” Your voice is tired. “I’m sorry. I was incredibly out of line up there, and what I said was borderline cruel. It’s just…. Today has been—”

You cut yourself off, biting your lip as you glance off to the side. “I just wonder how the woman before me handled some of what Agent Hill says.” You mutter it more to yourself, a confession you hadn’t even meant to make. He wonders what you’re trying to insinuate. 

But then you’re snapping back, offering an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry again, Agent Poindexter.”

“Dex,” he corrects before he can think it through. “You can just call me Dex.”

“Right, Dex,” you test the name out, rolling it across your tongue as your smile widens. “Have a good night, Dex.” You walk away from him, opening up the lobby door and letting the cool air rush through. Dex follows slowly after you, watches as you take a left, and realizes that you walk home. 

Foolish for a woman in this city. Especially this late at night. 

He shakes his head, dispelling any further thoughts of you from his mind. He’s taken care of the issue and fixed the perception you have of him; you really shouldn’t cause any more issues. 

And the next morning, when you greet him with “Good morning, Dex.” He forces himself to stop, to say good morning back. Otherwise, the entirety of last night would have been pointless. And he doesn’t indulge others for no reason. 

Agent Lima has been at your desk for fifteen minutes.

Dex wouldn’t be paying attention if the sound of your hushed conversation wasn’t so close to his own workspace.

It’s difficult to do his work with absolute focus when he can hear whispering beside him and can’t tell what they’re saying. It just makes his brain hone in on that conversation, trying to transcribe what’s being said. 

Dex lets out a hefty sigh and cuts his eyes toward you again. He straightens when he sees the look on your face. His eyes narrow, trying to determine if his perception is correct or if he’s misreading your microexpressions. 

Your smile is polite, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You’ve rolled your chair back for every inch that Lima has leaned further over your desk. He can’t see your hands behind the lip of the desk, but he imagines they’re balled in your skirt like he’s noticed you do when you’re upset. 

He gets to his feet and walks over to you. He doesn’t lean on your desk; he just turns to address Lima. “Hey, man, did you finish that report from the other night?”

Lima pauses, eyes cutting over to you. He shoots Dex a look that he doesn’t completely understand. It could be a Look at what I’m trying to do here, man, or No, I haven’t; can you cover? When Dex doesn’t budge, he lets out an awkward cough. 

“Nah, I’ll go get started.” Lima turns back to you. “Think about it,” he tells you, knocking on your desk once before walking off. 

Dex is ready to go back to his own desk now that his distraction has been taken care of. But now you’re speaking, and he can’t just walk off and ignore you like he wants to. “Oh my gosh,” you breathe out, lowering your voice as you roll your chair closer to him. “Thank you for the save.”

Dex just offers a nod. He’s ready to turn when he realizes he should probably engage in some sort of small talk if he wants to keep your perception of him going. “What was he asking you to think about?”

You roll your eyes with a huff. “He wants to take me to some open mic thing this weekend. I don’t know. I asked what his wife would think of that, and he didn't have much to say.”

“His wife would be used to it,” Dex answers dryly. His answer makes you snort, like the other day in the breakroom. And that makes him pause. It hadn’t been a particularly well-thought-out reply. Something just on the tip of his tongue, because Agent Lima has been an annoyance for a long time. 

“Yeah, well, I have standards,” you bite back. Then you pause and add, “And morals that don’t make room for sleeping with married men.”

You turn back to your computer, and Dex takes that as his cue to leave. But he lingers a moment longer, rolling over what you said about your morals. His eyes dart to the plant on your desk. The leaves, shockingly, have started to perk up. He cuts you one last look before returning to his chair. 

He gets up to go to the bathroom later, and when he returns, his feet automatically veer him toward that break room. His body intrinsically remembers the schedule he’s ingrained into himself for years. 

But then it remembers why he stopped. It’s too late; his shoes on the linoleum give him away before he can turn around. You’re digging around in the top cabinet when you spot him. “Oh, hey. Could you help?” 

He purses his lips before pasting on a polite smile. “Sure, what’s up?”

“I hid my coffee back there, but I think someone might have moved it. Could you take a look?” Dex resists the urge to cut you an irritated glare.

You could clearly reach it yourself. But you asked for help, and he has to comply because now he’s set some sort of precedent for you, where he’s someone who helps. 

He nods, taking a look for you. He pushes aside some mugs before he sees your coffee hidden behind them. He grabs it and passes it back to you. “Lifesaver,” you call him, smiling. Dex stills at that, at the gratitude in your voice. He shakes it off, giving you a brisk nod. “Want a cup?” you offer. 

God must hate him. 

Why can’t you see what a nuisance you are to his schedule?

Each ask for help or minor interruption just further unsettles the foundation he has so carefully created. But he thinks about how well he’s done here. The way people perceive him. He’s not going to let you undo that in a few days. 

“Sure,” he agrees, taking a seat at the small table. It’s quiet while you brew the coffee, grabbing your blue mug and a plain one for Dex. You pour him his coffee, black, again; you don’t ask. And then make your own with considerably less sugar than the first day you were here. 

You take a seat across from him at the table, eyes focusing on a point beyond his shoulder. Dex narrows his eyes, waiting for it. The spark of conversation. The incessant chatter. Something. 

But you just drink your coffee and rest your head on your hand with a tired sigh. He watches you, the way that smile slowly slips away, the slump of your shoulders. He tilts his head. It’s like watching someone’s mask slip away. 

Slowly, he leans back in his chair. Drinks his coffee without saying anything. He doesn’t fully relax around you, of course. But he takes the time he can to appreciate the quiet while he still has it.

A whole twenty minutes of it. 

No voices. No small talk. No expectations. He can just let his mind go quiet while you sit across from him, doing the same. It’s almost like there’s no disruption to his schedule. Just an additional piece of furniture. 

Then, the agents start filing in for lunch. He watches the way you snap up, offering a bright smile to someone who calls your name. You take his empty mug wordlessly and carry it to the sink. He watches as you wash it, engaging in polite conversation with the woman beside you. 

“Earth to Dex.” Dex’s gaze snaps away from you, and he sees Ray standing in front of him, hand tucked in his pants pocket. His eyes are narrowed, a slight smirk on his lips. He follows Dex’s gaze. Your heels click as you walk out without another word to him. 

“I see you’re enjoying Hill’s new assistant.” 

Dex forces a chuckle and engages in the banter as he shakes his head. “She knows how to make a good cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a lot nicer to look at than Myrtle.” Dex nods at that. Ray doesn’t mean that salaciously; Dex knows he loves his wife. But something about his tone makes his eyes narrow. “Anyway, feel like heading out for some lunch?”

“Sure,” Dex agrees, following him out of the breakroom. You offer him a small smile as he passes by your desk, and he returns it without the feeling of his teeth grinding. 

Dex doesn’t particularly enjoy working late.

Like most people, he doesn’t love sitting in a stiff office chair for a few more hours than he has to. But there’s paperwork that needs to be signed and notarized before the end of this week, so he wants to get it done. 

You’re the last one in the office, darting past people’s desks and laying down files. Each time your heels click past him, he waits for you to pass him something. Maybe another report he needs to sign. But you don’t, just work quietly, occasionally humming under your breath. 

It’s less distracting with half the lights off. Something you’d done when everyone else had left. It makes his eyes burn a little less while he’s staring at his monitor. You dip into Hill’s office again and come out with another stack of papers. 

“Oh, Dex.” Your hand lands gently on his shoulder as you pass by him. 

He goes completely still, forcing himself not to react. He’s not entirely sure what his body wanted to do, which is irritating enough. Lash out, tense, shudder, because he hasn’t realized how long it’s been since he’s let someone touch him. But he’s not letting you. You just did. And now you’re backing off, the warmth of your palm gone. 

“Here, Hill wanted you to look this over tomorrow morning.” You lay the paper on his desk and move on.

He’s stuck there staring at you as you refill the copy machine, performing mundane tasks you could have easily done during the day. But this is the time when no one else is here, when you don’t have to worry about being in someone else’s way, and vice versa. 

It’s only when you begin to pack up for the night that he realizes how late it is. How little he’s gotten done since you disrupted him with that touch.

He clicks off his own computer and grabs his jacket. You linger at the edge of the office, like you’re debating whether to wait for him, before you shake your head and head down the stairs. 

Dex follows behind you, keeping a respectable distance. In the lobby, you pause in the doorway. “Have a good night,” you call to him before stepping out into the cold night. 

Dex nods back at you, following you through the door. He starts to go right, his typical path home. But he turns and sees you walking home alone again.

Which, in his opinion, is still incredibly stupid. 

He starts to go home, but he thinks of the headline he read this morning. A woman found dead in an alleyway, mugged for a purse that probably didn’t even have fifty bucks in it. He turns again and is irritated by the way he hesitates. 

He wants to go home and continue his night as he typically does. But a “good” person, someone with empathy and their own idea of morality, would probably follow you. Make sure you got home safely, right? 

You’re not broken. You just need a North Star. 

Dr. Mercer’s words ring through his head as he runs to catch up with you. You startle as you hear his feet jogging behind you. Turning, your face relaxes when you see it's him. Someone familiar, not a potential murderer. 

“Oh, Dex,” you let out a little sigh of relief as he moves to walk beside you. But then your eyes narrow, your brows furrowing with suspicion. You have some form of survival instinct, at least. “Do you live this way?”

“Uh, no,” he answers and notices the way you put an inch more of space between you.

“But, well, I thought you might like someone to walk you home. It’s dangerous this time of night.” You stop walking, and he mimics you. Your eyes dart down to his gun, the badge that still sits on his belt. 

“Okay,” you slowly nod. “Yeah, I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he dismisses, as if this is something he’d offer anyone. It isn’t, not really. But something had compelled him. A tug on that compass that Dr. Mercer always told him isn’t broken, just slightly out of tune. 

Your hands remain stuffed in your jacket pockets as you walk down the street together. He wonders how far your place is. It’s not something he’d taken into consideration when he’d offered this. 

The silence lingers between you. It doesn’t feel like the sort of quiet he’s expected to fill, which Dex appreciates. But he is still curious about you. Mainly… your insistence on putting yourself in danger each night. 

“You don’t have a car?” He asks, breaking through the silence. 

You shake your head. “No. I had to sell it before I got this job. I’m honestly lucky Mr. Hill hired me.”

There it is, that incessant chattering he’d been waiting for. You may be quiet occasionally, but he can still see the words that are waiting to break through the surface. 

It’s not as irritating outside the office. Where the only noises are the distant sounds of traffic and a cold breeze. Without so many distractions, it doesn’t bother him as much as he’d anticipated. 

“Oh?” he interjects where he’s meant to. 

“Yeah. I, uh, well, I just recently got out of a pretty long relationship.” You let out a bitter laugh as you shake your head. “Kind of left me drowning financially. Had to sell the car to afford rent.”

“That must have been hard,” he feeds you the line he’s always echoed when he’s sure there’s emotional distress that he’s meant to be responding to. You let out a low huff of laughter and shoot him a look he can’t read. 

“Why didn’t you just move?” Dex asks, redirecting, brows furrowing slightly. Seems more logical than forcing yourself to walk everywhere. 

“It would have cost more to break my lease than it was worth. Besides, I didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of seeing me leave my apartment.” So, you prioritize emotional satifcation/vindication over logic. Strange. 

You cut your eyes to him, taking in a sharp breath as you realize how much you’ve shared. And he waits for it… the prodding that’s meant to get him to share something just as vulnerable, so you stand on equal footing. He could feed you the orphan bit; that always seems to work. 

“You can’t really judge me, you know? You walk every night, too,” you point out with a small laugh. Your observation has him pausing, resetting the idea of what he’d thought the conversation would be. 

There are so many uncertainties about you that he can’t gauge how he feels about you. The expectations he sets for you always seem to get flipped around on him. They lead toward something more enjoyable, but he doesn’t appreciate his perception of someone being so off. 

“Fair,” he finally settles on. “But I’m an armed federal agent.”

You let out a short bark of laughter at that, eyes pinching at the corners as you grin. “Oh, and I’m just a poor little damsel.” You push back your jacket, and he sees a gun on your belt. His brows furrow. He’s never noticed a gun on your person before. 

“I’m certified before you turn all G-man on me. I'm also a woman in Hell’s Kitchen, Dex. I’m not stupid enough to be walking around without some sort of protection.”

“Smart,” he settles on, and he means it. Only if you know how to use that. 

You pause, and Dex does the same. Watching you as you turn your face toward the alley beside you. “Did you hear that?” you ask, and Dex shakes his head. Before he can stop you, you’re turning into the dark alley. 

He takes back calling you smart. You can’t say you’re willing to protect yourself and then knowingly walk into a dark alleyway. It’s like you want to be a headline. 

You emerge just as he considers checking in on you. There’s a small bundle under your jacket that makes him frown. “Look at this,” you coo, pulling back the material to reveal an ugly, matted face. Could be a dog or cat; hard to tell under the dirt. 

“Do you know how filthy that thing is?” he asks, genuinely curious because he’s not sure you’re actually perceptive of the world around you in the way a reasonable person should be. 

Your lips turn down as you look over at him. “Of course, but it’s freezing tonight. I can’t just leave it out in the cold. Besides, my friend works at a shelter; I’ll take it over tomorrow.”

You start walking again, and Dex follows, eyes still stuck on the creature in your arms. “But you’re letting it into your apartment.”

“Yes,” you let out a huff, rolling your eyes at him. “I’m letting the filthy animal into my apartment. I’ll block off my kitchen, so what?”

“Your kitchen,” he demands. “Do you know how unsanitary that is?”

You come to a full stop, turning on your heel to face him. “It would feel more unsanitary on my soul to knowingly leave an animal to freeze in the cold tonight. Okay?” Dex nods at the tone of your voice, recognizing irritation when he hears it. You hesitate, giving him a strange look, before continuing. 

“My building's just ahead,” you mutter. The quiet is different now. It’s shifted. But he doesn’t know why. Just because he thinks it's disgusting to let a little alley creature into your kitchen? Where you eat and prepare food?

Right, he’s the crazy one. 

He remembers tossing stones at the crows that used to perch on the boys' home. Watching as they fluttered to the ground, their wings not much use anymore. He recognizes that it would disturb you if he admitted it. But it was a bird. A non-speaking, hardly thinking creature. It’s not like it was a human. 

Why put yourself at risk of fleas for a little mongrel you’d be leaving behind in a metal cage tomorrow?

You pause in front of a brownstone. There’s a box outside with intercoms to the different apartments. More secure than he was expecting from you. And a decent enough neighborhood. He could almost understand selling your car to keep it. 

“Thank you, Dex, for walking me home.” Your tone has softened into something kind once more as you give him a genuine smile. He returns it, but then that creature shifts around, and he catches a whiff of it, and his nose wrinkles again. You frown, backing up. “Good night,” you call quietly. 

“Night,” he returns. He waits until you’ve made it inside to turn around and head in the direction he should have gone half an hour ago. It’s cold; his nose is red from it, and he’s uncomfortable. He reasons that he did this to keep up your perception of him. 

But that night, while he’s trying to listen to Dr. Mercer’s voice. It’s yours that he’s hearing. 

It would feel more unsanitary on my soul to knowingly leave an animal to freeze in the cold tonight. 

My morals don’t make room for sleeping with married men.

You would rather prioritize an animal over your own comfort, he realizes. That's good to you. Not someone just walking you home. But one night of discomfort so something else can have a warm place to sleep. 

His eyes narrow as he rewinds his tape. Irritated, it’s your voice in his head, not Dr. Mercer’s. 

But Dex’s mind can’t keep itself on one track. Because he’s not just thinking about that filthy little animal that you’d been holding. But how gently you’d been holding it. And then the way you’d touched him tonight, soft, hesitant but not from fear. Like you knew it would be strange to him, a feeling he wasn’t used to. Not outside of a professional handshake and the occasional slap on the back. 

He can’t help the way he catalogues this information about you in a file that’s steadily growing larger in his mind. 

Study. 

It’s his answer to most things that allude to him and are important enough to affect his daily life. 

Every preconceived notion or assumption he makes about you seems to be wrong.

Almost immediately.

He doesn’t like being wrong about someone. His predictions are almost always accurate. That’s what makes him good at his job and better at fitting in with these “normal” people with their own moral compasses. 

He’s decided that studying you, your behavior, will make his day-to-day life easier. 

He already knows one thing: you prioritize another life over your own. He knows that because it’s 8 O’clock and you’re still not in the office. You don’t have a car and probably don’t have enough money for a taxi. He remembers you mentioning something about a friend who works at a shelter. 

Dex assumes that you went to drop that animal off at the shelter and are probably now running down the street, half an hour late to the job that you’ve barely worked at for over a week. The job you need because of your financial situation. 

Stupid when it comes to logical decisions— clearly. 

But you’re more intelligent in moral and emotional situations than he ever would be. 

Agent Hill keeps leaving his office, pacing to the front and seeing your desk empty. Every time he does, his face gets redder. Cheeks puffing out in a way that Dex is sure is going to be bad for you. 

The door opens, and Dex glances around his desk. You stand in the threshold, smoothing down your wrinkled clothes and trying to catch your breath. Sweat is beading at your temples, and he’s sure your skin has been chilled by the winter winds outside. 

He can hear you panting as you get to your desk, throwing your bag down and pressing a hand to your chest to try to settle yourself. You don’t greet him as you walk by. He watches you stop in front of Hill’s office, fists balling into your skirt before you step inside. 

The door closes softly behind you. 

It takes less than a minute for the entire office to hear it. The temper of a man who was never taught to regulate himself. A man with supposed “morals” and “ethics” that Dex isn’t capable of understanding wholly.

Yet, one of them is in their office screaming about being half an hour late, and the other walked you home last night. 

The thought makes Dex scoff, head shaking as he glances at his monitor. But he can’t think, can’t hear anything over the muffled shouting happening behind the door. Ray lets out a low whistle as he passes by, taking a sip of his coffee, his expression sympathetic as he continues to his desk. 

Dex narrows his eyes. What the hell is the point of a compass if you’re not going to do anything with it?

The door opens, and he straightens, watching you walk out. You suck in a sharp breath, closing the door with more force than necessary as you head back to your desk. Your eyes are red and glossy as you log on to your computer, your lip trembling slightly. 

But it’s not sadness he recognizes on your face. It’s anger. 

Measured and controlled, but still there, brimming at the surface. You can swallow down the humiliation of someone yelling at you when they’re your boss. But you’d bite back when it was Dex who had irritated you. Someone arguably above you, but not the one who signs your check. 

Dex stands, and you don’t acknowledge him as he walks by. He heads into the break room and takes your coffee from its hiding spot. He’s going to brew a cup for one, but it is your coffee he’s stealing. Might as well return a favor, he reasons. 

He pours himself one cup and then, in yours, spoons out the same amount of sugar you pour every day. When he comes out of the breakroom, Lima is leaning against your desk once more. He’s talking, not really paying attention to you. Meanwhile, your eyes are glued to your computer, jaw clenched as you nod along. 

Angry, upset… You still behave politely toward someone clearly incapable of taking a hint. 

“Here.” Dex places your blue mug in front of you, and you finally take your eyes off the screen. 

“Oh, thank you,” you mutter, giving him a shaky smile. 

Lima goes quiet, and Dex doesn’t have a reason to get rid of him today. But he turns anyway, letting that cordial mask of his slip a bit as he stares down at the man. Lima frowns, caught off guard. “I’ll let you go,” he mumbles as he walks away from your desk. 

You let out a low groan, your head falling into your hands. “How many times do I have to say no before it actually means something?”

Dex looks away from you, watching Lima fiddle with his wedding ring as he sits back down at his desk. “Want me to talk to him?”

You peer through your fingers at him. Looking like you’re trying to determine if this is an empty offer, like when someone says, “Let me know if you need anything.” But he means it. Lima coming over here and trying to talk to you distracts him from his work, anyway. 

Slowly, you shake your head, but you seem to believe he was being sincere. “I appreciate it. But I know all you guys are close; I don’t want to make anything awkward for you.”

Dex narrows his eyes. He cares less about Lima’s perception of him than yours. And Lima, a serial cheater, really doesn’t have much sway in the office. Especially because half the guys who are married actually do love their wives. 

“Just let me know if he keeps bothering you,” Dex tells you. And you nod, giving him an appreciative look as you sip your coffee. He lingers for a second. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, and he tenses. “You make this better than I do.” Dex offers a small smile as he returns to his desk. 

Despite your earlier rejection, Dex finds himself standing when Lima gets up to use the bathroom. He checks that you aren’t paying attention as he follows after him. Lima doesn’t really acknowledge him as Dex puts two urinals between them. 

He waits, listening as Lima zips up his pants before doing the same, slowly meeting him at the sink. 

Dex says your name. “She’s a lot prettier than Myrtle, huh?” He asks, putting on the kind of tone and smile guys use in the locker room. 

Lima scoffs, “Prettier than my wife.” He glances up at Dex through the mirror. “I think I’m making some headway there, too. She’s playing hard to get— but you know women like that. Buy ‘em dinner, and it doesn’t take much to—”

“You’re making her uncomfortable,” Dex interrupts, his smile dropping. “And I’m sick of having to listen to your pathetic attempts at flirting. Back off.” He doesn’t say anything else, letting the absence of a threat linger as he stares at Lima through the mirror. 

Lima pauses, hands stilling beneath the water. His mind fills in the gaps that Dex didn’t. And he’s fine letting him concoct his own nightmare of what Dex might do in retaliation.

“You know, if you called dibs, you could have just said that, man,” Lima mutters, wiping his hands on a paper towel. 

“I’ll back off,” he tells him. As he’s leaving the bathroom, Dex hears the muttered, “Freak.”

Dex’s hands tighten around the countertop. He imagines what it would have felt like— looked like as he drove Lima’s head into the marble. 

No. 

He shakes the thoughts off quickly enough, grimacing at himself. 

Your compass isn’t broken. You just need a North Star. 

You hadn’t even gotten angry about Lima harassing you, just a tired reluctance. He doubts you would respond violently to a perceived slight. You seem to just take things as they come, maybe get irritated, but you don’t let it consume you. 

He walks out of the bathroom with a huff. When he returns, he sees you lingering by his desk with your jacket on, purse slung over your shoulder. You smile as you see him, but it falls slightly as you tilt your head, taking in the look on his face. 

He fixes it quickly, offering you a small greeting. “I forgot my lunch at home today,” you tell him with a laugh. “Feel like going to get some with me?” You offer. 

Dex surprises himself when he says, “Yeah.”

You give him a bright smile, and he grabs his jacket, shrugging it on as you wait for him. He follows behind you as you walk out of the office. His hand hovers over your lower back like he might lead you out. But he shakes off the thought, shoving his hand back in his pocket. 

He lets your chatter fill the quiet as you walk down the street and finds it doesn’t bother him as much. 

Studying. 

The answer to the unknown. And he can’t fully know you if all he sees of you is your persona at work. Because everyone acts differently at work. Everyone puts their actual thoughts and dialogue through a filter that is not only socially acceptable but also professionally acceptable. 

On Saturdays, there’s a trail that you walk through the park.

You keep your earbuds in, hands tucked in your pockets, as you go at a leisurely pace. It’s slightly irritating to Dex, working on keeping a respectable amount of distance between you and matching your pace. He’d prefer if you were a runner; that’s more distracting. That makes you focus on your breaths, your pace, and distance, rather than your surroundings. 

You pause as you pass by someone playing their guitar, singing some pop song in an off-key indie rendition. He grimaces, ducking behind a tree under the guise of stretching out his leg. He tilts his head, watches you as you tug out your earbud. 

He can see it on your face: the regret, the way your nose wrinkles at the horrible “music.” Still, you pull out a dollar from your wallet and drop it in the person’s case, offering a small wave as you continue. 

Dex’s eyes narrow as he follows, glaring over at the singer. 

A reward for poor behavior? Or a reward for trying, for putting themselves out there even if they are bad? 

You loop through the park once before heading into a small coffee shop. It’s run-down, with rusty tables outside, and when Dex ducks in after you, a slight musty smell to the place.

Are you just stubbornly insistent on being unsanitary? 

But then you’re heading behind the counter, not ordering. He watches as you approach an older woman in the back. She lets out a bright noise, kisses your cheeks, and tugs you into a hug that looks like it hurts. 

Family?

Dex's head tilts when you turn so his cap covers his face. You say something to her, and she pushes a bag into your hand before you wave goodbye. Dex hesitates before ducking out after you. You’re chewing on a small pastry as you put your earbuds back in. And Dex recognizes this street; you’re heading back home. 

So he crosses the intersection, heads back to where he parked his car a block from your brownstone. You make it there without more fuss or acts of generosity. He lingers for a few hours, ignoring every strange glance he receives. He should just go home; it’s clear your Saturdays are lazy beyond your walk. But he wants to truly understand you, so he stays. 

And when it gets dark, you emerge again. Your purse is tucked beneath your jacket as you cross the street. Dex debates how to follow. A car would be noticeable with its headlights. But you’re more likely to pay attention to footsteps following behind you. 

Sighing, he turns on his car and cuts the lights. He creeps slowly around the corner, pauses, and waits until you get a few blocks further to follow. You head into a small pizza shop and he parks, watching. You get two slices and then sit down at a table inside. You pull a book from your purse and begin to read, wiping your hands on a wet cloth every time you turn the page. 

So, not completely unsanitary. 

Dex grabs the monocular from his middle console and tilts his head, trying to get a look at what you’re reading. He files the name away for later. When you’re finished, you leave the shop with your book still in your hand and go back home. 

He’s certain this is the end of your night, but he follows to make sure you make it inside. He waits outside the building, watching a light turn on on the third floor. 

Third floor, above the entrance— your apartment. 

The curtains open and he sees you. Or a smaller version of you. He grabs his monocular to get a better view. Your apartment relies on lamps and string lights rather than the overhead ones.

So, you prefer it dim— soft. He has noticed when you rub your temples at work. Maybe you get headaches.

You’re already in pajamas. Loose and baggy— comfort over style.

You settle in an armchair by the window, blanket drawn over your legs as you continue your book. It’s only when the curtains close that he leaves, driving back to his own apartment. 

He gets inside and glances over at his tapes before grabbing a journal instead. He doesn’t know why he feels the need— he’s never really done this before. But he writes down what he saw. The expressions on your face with each stop. Distaste at the guitarist, genuine joy with the old woman, a quiet sort of tiredness when you finally stopped for the night. 

He sketches out your life, the differences between this quieter you and the polite, cheerful version of yourself at work. This is why he can’t get a good read on you. Two different masks, two different settings. He has to set his expectations for which setting he’s in. 

Dex closes the journal and places it on his nightstand before finally lying down. He considers picking up his headphones, letting Dr. Mercer’s voice lull him to sleep. But he hears your voice tonight.

Not the guidelines you’ve set morally. 

Rather, your conversations over lunch. The small facts about yourself you’ve shared with him. He realizes, though, that you really haven't given him enough.

You don’t keep friends outside of work; he’s noticed. You speak politely with people, even friendly. He notices you get along with quite a few women in the office. But when you leave, you don’t invite them out. You keep your professional life completely separate from your personal life.

Which begs the question: how does he slip in?

You told him you just got out of a serious relationship.

But how serious is serious? Two years? Six months? And why did it end?

That all determines how willing you would be to enter another relationship. It dictates the timeframe he would have to wait before he could insert himself. 

But he’s not sure that he wants to. Sometimes it's easier, better, being on the outside. Keeping his fixed perception of you as a guideline to base his behavior on. Becoming involved… that could make it messy.

Being involved blurs what a North Star is meant to be. A guiding point, not one of the internal mechanisms of the compass. 

It’s Sarah Rayum’s idea. Not an agent that he interacts with often, but she’s polite, keeps to herself, and she keeps her desk clean. 

It was a particularly horrific assignment. A convict transfer that went wrong and ended with two agents in critical care at the hospital. A while after their recovery, she made a suggestion for team morale. An outing this weekend, partners and children welcome, to lighten the mood. 

Dex had thought it was ridiculous, but then you’d smiled at him. Said, “See you there,” and he agreed because you were asking him to. Because you wanted him to be there. 

But he still thinks this was a ridiculous idea. 

“Wow,” you let out a laugh as you take in the place that Sarah had chosen. One of those large, family-oriented arcades, better for an elementary school field trip. “It’s kind of ridiculous seeing a bunch of federal agents standing around a pinball machine,” you tell him. 

Dex can only agree, not a fan of just how loud it is. He’s not particularly sensitive to sound. Adverse to it, yes, but it doesn’t cripple him. This, however, is ridiculous. Over the sounds of the games and children screaming, he can barely even hear you. 

You lean your head up and practically have to shout in his ear. “I haven’t seen one of those since high school.”

He follows your gaze and nods his head. “Didn’t know they were still around,” he has to shout back. 

It’s a run-down photobooth sitting on the outside of the games. Its curtains are grimy, and he’s sure the seat is worse. But he glances over at you and tilts his head.

He doesn’t have any pictures of you. 

He studies you, but he’s not a stalker. He doesn’t sit outside your building at night with a camera, waiting to capture your most vulnerable moments on film. It would be nice, though, to come home and see you on his wall. 

“Want to try it out?” He asks, nodding toward it. 

You scoff, and your brows turn in. “A bit childish, isn’t it?” Dex purses his lips, backs off at the rejection, and nods.

You pause for a moment before rolling your eyes. “Alright, come on.” He barely has time to register the way you loop your arm through his, dragging him toward the booth. 

Dex leans into you without consciously realizing it. Even over the sounds of the arcade, the smell of greasy food and cheap cheese on stale chips— there is you.

That scent that is uniquely you. It lingers in his thoughts more than you will ever know. 

You tug aside the booth curtains and take a seat on the bench, dragging him in beside you. He falls into it, and there’s barely enough room for you, let alone him. “Ooh,” you let out a low groan. “You’re crushing me here, Dex.”

“Shit, sorry,” he laughs, lifting his jacket from where you’re sitting on it. You squirm before lifting yourself, hovering just over his leg as you click through the menu on the screen.

He stares, eyes intent on those three inches between his leg and you. 

He forgets about the camera, the fact that you can see his stare burning into you while you fiddle with the booth. “Do you mind?” You ask, and your voice is lower here, the noises outside slightly muffled. 

“What?” You give him an impish smile before slowly perching yourself on his leg. Just barely. You’re still holding up most of your weight. He freezes, his entire body tensing up at the feeling of you. 

On him. 

You're warm.

And you’re warm on top of him. 

He hesitates, hand hovering just beside your hips. “Okay, here we go.” You take his hands, settle them on your waist as you lean back into his chest. 

Dex isn’t breathing, he realizes, vaguely aware there’s a timer counting down on the screen. You nudge him with your elbow. “Make a face,” you taunt, and he smiles before he can think of anything else to do.

You let out a soft laugh at his expense. Your knees press into his other leg as you shift to face him. You're staring down at him, and he stares up at you, the color of your eyes even brighter with the screen shining on you. 

A light flashes; another picture is taken. You don’t pay attention, tilting your head as you consider him. Slowly, you lower your face, press your lips to his cheek, and he goes absolutely stock still.

He can feel your smile against his skin as the booth takes another picture. And then you’re pulling away, your arm wrapped around his shoulder as you smile into the camera. 

“Let’s see how those turned out.” You brace your hand on his chest and push out of the booth. Your warmth leaves him as you duck through the curtains.

Dex’s stomach is twisted; his lungs still haven’t recovered. And now the feeling of you has been burned into his palms, and they feel empty without you between them. 

This, he realizes, is his in. This is what you want. A relationship. 

If that’s the way he keeps his guiding star, the threshold on which he bases his decisions, then he’s okay with it. More than, actually. 

“Dex,” you call from outside. He clears his throat and scrubs his hand down his face. Standing, he adjusts his pants slightly as he steps from the booth. “One for you and one for me,” you tell him, handing him a strip of photos. 

“Oh, hey,” you tilt your head as you look through the pictures. He grimaces when he sees his shocked look is tainting the majority of them.

But then there’s you. Your smile is bright and real— your lips on him. Your body on him. He really doesn’t give a fuck what he looks like. 

“We look pretty cute,” you tell him. “Now, Bullseye, you put that aim to use and win me something?” 

Bullseye— he likes that, he realizes. This name that no one else will call him, that is unique solely to you. He likes that you’re affording him such familiarity at all. “Alright,” he agrees, and he holds his arm out, testing. You loop yours through his, and your warmth presses against his side. 

Fuck’s sake, breathe.

You sit across from him in a sticky booth. The sounds of the arcade are still loud, but it's more manageable in this strange corner that’s a bar and “restaurant.” He really doesn’t consider a menu with four things on it a restaurant. But you didn’t seem to mind. 

Next to your elbow is the ridiculous, misshapen bear that he’d won you playing arcade games. Two jackpots, and that’s all it gets him. He doesn’t realize he’s glaring at it until you snort. 

“You know, it’s almost annoying how good at those games you were.”

“What’d you call me… Bullseye?” He raises his brows at you, and you nod your head, conceding. 

“I see I wasn’t wrong.” You play with the straw in your milkshake. Your nose had wrinkled when he’d ordered a banana milkshake. But then you’d ordered one too, promised to try it before judging. You didn’t seem particularly enthused, but you hadn’t said anything. Remained polite about his unconventional choice. 

The picture of you feels like it's burning a hole in his wallet. All he wants to do now is pull it out. Stare down at that moment when your lips were pressed against his because he doesn’t know if it’s going to happen again. 

But it has to. 

You’re flirting with him. Dex might avoid romantic intimacy because he doesn’t truly see the necessity of it. But even he can see when a woman is flirting. 

“So, Agent Poindexter.” He makes a face that has you laughing a little. “Sorry, Dex, what’s with you?”

The milkshake he’d been swallowing sits in his mouth. It warms around his tongue while his brows furrow, trying to figure out what the hell that could possibly mean.

“Sorry?” he asks, pushing his dessert to the side. 

You shrug, playing with your straw as your eyes flit to the table. He wants you to look at him. Your face might be able to lie, but your eyes can’t. “Well, I mean, you’re an attractive man. Objectively.”

Objectively feels unnecessary. 

“Do you have a girlfriend? An on-and-off again?”

Shouldn’t you have asked that before?

So, you won’t sleep with married men. But you’ll sit on his lap, press your lips to his cheek, and check on the morality of it afterward. God, you are complicated.

Maybe that’s meant to be the beauty of it. 

He needs a guiding point. But Dr. Mercer had never said that a North Star would be simple. She never said emotions, ethics, or morality would be simple. Because humans are intrinsically complicated creatures. And maybe you’re the best way to figure out those complexities. To see them through your eyes. 

“No,” he chuckles, and he likes that satisfied little look you get on your face. “What about you? I know you said you just got out of a long-term relationship. But are you looking for something?”

Your eyes narrow with a smile. “You really do pay attention, don’t you?” Dex nods, and he asserts that it's a good thing, based on your expression. You like when someone pays attention. “Yeah, two years of my life down the drain,” you mutter. 

“What happened?” He probes because this is something else that you haven’t given him. Something he’s been desperate for an answer to. It couldn’t have been your fault. He can’t imagine that someone could get sick of you unless they had incredibly poor taste. 

Your expression falls slightly, and maybe he shouldn’t have asked, but curiosity is a selfish creature. “Uh, it’s kind of basic. I came home one day to heels by the door and another woman in my bed.” You look up at him, eyes narrowed into slits as you frown. “Do you know how hard it is to get tramp out of Egyptian Cotton?”

Dex can’t help but laugh at that, and it makes you grin in turn. Levity returns to your tone, face softening. “Got rid of the bed, the sheets, and the man. But I kept the apartment. It was mine first, anyway.” Your nails drum against the table as your gaze goes distant. “Still, doesn’t hurt any less knowing how easy it was to throw away our relationship.”

“That must be—” hard.

Say it, say what Dr. Mercer told you to say.

No, that script is for everyone else. And everyone else isn’t you. They aren't the star guiding him through the complications of a life that could be so much simpler if everyone were more like him. 

He reaches across the table and covers his hand with yours. “I’m sorry.” That’s what people say, isn’t it? Besides, it’s the tone that matters. The delivery— you have to believe the earnestness in his voice for the illusion to work. 

You lift your eyes and stare at him long enough for him to feel less sure of himself. Then you smile, hand flipping in his. Your fingers dance across his wrist before you lace them with his. “Thanks, Dex,” you whisper. 

It’s not hard to believe that someone would cheat on you. Wonderful as you are, the same cannot be said for everyone else. Ethics and morality have never stopped someone from being a piece of shit. Broken compass or not. 

But he can be better for you. Because he would never hurt you like that. He’s never even really wanted another woman. He’s toyed around with sex and casual dates, but there had been no long-term goal and, as such, no long-term relationship. But you aren’t something to be tossed carelessly to the side. 

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, squeeze his hand, and pull away. His palm falls to the table, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the way you pull away. He tries not to take it personally. But he thought he’d done well. Did you not agree?

“To answer your other question: I don’t know what I want. But I like this,” you tell him, voice soft, like it's a confession you’re whispering to him. Something in his mind settles at that, ego satisfied as he nods, leaning back in the booth. 

“And, you know, the banana isn’t too bad,” you concede, taking another sip of the milkshake. 

“You should just trust me,” he tells you. And you laugh, nod along, but you don’t know how much he truly means it. 

Dex lingers by his car as he sees you step out of the arcade. You’re staring down at your phone, lip worried between your teeth. He tucks his keys into his jacket and heads back over to you. 

“Something wrong?”

“Uh, yeah,” you let out an embarrassed laugh. “I don’t think I have enough money to get a ride home.”

Dex frowns, brows furrowing. “I’ll give you a ride home.” 

Your head shoots up, expression uncertain. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he feels more sure of himself as he places his hand on your lower back and guides you toward his car. Why would you rather pay for a stranger to take you home when he can? 

You have to realize by now that you could just ask him. Unless you’re unsure of how much he likes you, which, in that case, he doesn’t understand how much clearer he could be. He’s almost offended by it— the idea that he would have let you get in the car with a man you don’t know, rather than just help you. 

He opens the car door for you, and you shoot him a grateful smile as you get inside. He rounds the front and gets in beside you. Your head is tilted, that curious look on your face as you pick something up. 

“What’s this?” You ask with a laugh, holding up his monocular. 

Dex glances over at it, and his hands tense around the wheel, his mind short-circuiting as you wait patiently for an answer. “Birdwatching,” he suddenly blurts out, and your eyes go wide. 

“You birdwatch?” You ask with a sharp laugh. You clamp your lips together when you realize how rude that sounded and offer an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect that from you.”

“I’m not allowed to have hobbies?” he teases, heart pounding as he pulls out of the parking lot. He barely remembers to ask you to remind him where you live before he starts down the familiar path to your home. 

“Alright, so, sniper, FBI agent,” you count off on your fingers, “highly observant… and birdwatcher,” you settle on with a laugh. “What else am I missing about you, Dex?”

Dex shrugs. “I’m an open book.”

Your eyes narrow before you pick up the monocular again. “Strange instrument for birdwatching. All those old people I see at the park always have binoculars.”

“Did you just call me old?” He demands, his tone teasing, and you let out a sharp huff of laughter. 

“I implied your hobbies are old,” you correct. You put the monocular down again and let your head rest against the seat. “What park do you go to? For birdwatching,” you clarify. 

Dex keeps his eyes on the road, swallowing roughly as he debates. But this could be it, his way into your schedule. “That park off Fifth Street,” he tells you. 

You tilt your head, nodding. “Oh, really? I go there sometimes.”

His brows furrow, and he has to quickly correct his expression.

Sometimes?

You go there every fucking Saturday. He looks over at you and notices your eyes on the world outside the window. Why the hell would you lie about that to him?

Do you not trust him with your schedule? Do you think he’s going to abuse that information? How hasn’t he done enough for you to trust him yet?

Dex takes a deep breath, trying to push down the anger as you look at him again. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he grits out. Your brows furrow, but you don’t push further; you just turn back toward the window. 

“That dog got adopted, by the way.”

“What dog?” he asks, mind still whirring to figure out what behavior of his could have had him closed out. 

“The dog I got from the alley. The one you thought was so unsanitary.” 

“That thing got adopted?” He asks, genuinely surprised as he looks over at you. 

You let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Wow,” you drawl. “Thing, huh? Yeah, that thing got adopted.” You shake your head as he pulls up to your building. “Ugly things need love, too, Dex,” you tease him. 

He bites his cheek as he looks over at you. Do you really mean that?

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him, unbuckling your seatbelt and reaching for your purse. 

He straightens up and lets go of the wheel. “Yeah, of course. You know you can always call me if you need a ride somewhere.” 

You sit up, looking over at him with an expression he can’t truly read. “I know,” you whisper. Your gaze darts down to his lips; your elbow slips onto the middle console as you lean closer. “I’m glad you were my welcoming committee,” you suddenly whisper. 

He finds himself leaning closer, pushing against the bounds of his seatbelt. “What?” he asks. 

You smile, soft, genuine, the type that's burned into the photo in his pocket and swimming through his mind. “I’m glad you were the first person I met at the office.” You bite your lip before leaning closer, nose brushing against his. “I’m glad I met you,” you amend, eyes flitting to his. 

That’s permission, isn’t it? That look on your face that says you want him as much as he wants you. 

His lips press hesitantly against yours. You suck in a sharp breath, but then he feels you smiling against his lips. Your hand comes up, cups his neck as you push closer to him. He unbuckles his seatbelt, arms reaching across the console to tug you closer. Just to have the feeling of you between his hands again. 

You tilt your head, lips parting against his as your tongue drags slowly across his lips. Dex does his best not to freeze up— because he can feel you. Taste you, and you taste like a banana milkshake and flavored lip balm he can’t quite place. 

But he was in college the last time he bothered with a date or attempt at a hookup. And his lips can’t quite remember the movements. So he follows you, parts his lips, and groans when he feels your tongue dip slowly into his mouth. Testing, savoring. 

You let out a pleased noise, and the feeling vibrates through his chest as you lift up, hands sliding up into his hair. Your nails scratch against his scalp, run through blonde strands, and tug. He lets out a groan, and it would be embarrassing if it weren’t for the noise he hears coming from you. Practically a purr as your hands bury themselves further in his hair. 

He can’t breathe; his lungs are starting to constrict. But he doesn’t care. His hands bunch up the blouse you’re wearing, fingers brush against bare skin right above the waistband of your skirt. You shiver at the touch, let out a low moan. You are so warm, and he has never realized just how cold he is before. 

But then you’re pulling back, lips wet with his spit and eyes glossy. Your pupils are blown as you stare down at him, chest heaving slightly as you try to catch your breath. He knows he’s staring up at you with a stupid expression, lips still parted as he tries to burn the taste of you into his mind. 

You let out a laugh and run your thumb over his bottom lip. It takes everything in him not to kiss it, suck it into his mouth, and have another taste of you.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, Poindexter,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that or even how to perceive it. His brain still hasn’t caught up with what's happened. He just knows that his hands are still on your hips and he squeezes, reminding himself it's real. And that he liked it, when he used to think of intimacy like this as a chore. 

You lean down, press your lips softly to his one more time, gentle, closed-mouth. You run your thumb across his cheek before you pull back again. “Good night, Dex.”

He only remembers to say it back when you’re opening the door of the car. Then, because he’s desperate for more of you, he leans toward the open window. “How about I pick you up tomorrow morning?”

You pause at the bottom of your building’s stairs, brows turning inward. You didn’t trust him with the park. Surely, you had to trust him with this.

“Okay,” you call out, but you still sound too hesitant, and it makes his hands tighten around the steering wheel. 

Still, he waves, waits until you get inside, and then he waits longer until he sees the light in your apartment come on. The curtains open and he catches you looking down at him, smiling as your hand is pressed to your lips. You shake your head and move away from the window. 

Dex sits in front of your building for longer than you’re even aware of. Right up until he sees the light go off in your apartment. Only then does he pull out his wallet and take out that picture of you. His thumb smooths over your face as he shakes his head. 

If only he’d gotten a picture of what just happened. 

Dex got the photo strip blown up. He has to go pick it up after work today. He already knows where it will be going. The walls of his apartment are blank, but he wants each different picture on the strip framed so he can see your face around the different corners he turns. 

Dex gave you a ride to work this morning. And it was quiet. No touching. No kissing. But he didn’t mind because you seemed tired, yet you still managed a smile for him. A simple good morning that made him want to take another picture. 

He passes by your desk to head to the break room and sees the photostrip taped up on the ledge. Right where you can see it. Your back is to him as you type at your computer, so you miss the smug look on his face. 

He makes a note to jot that down in the journal later. The pages had begun filling up faster than he thought they would. He hadn’t even known how to describe the kiss. How he’d felt afterward, because he’d never felt that before. He’d never kissed a woman and hadn’t walked away without thinking that it was boring, transactional, or something not worth doing again. 

He really wants to lean over your desk and kiss you again. 

Dex brings you a cup of coffee in your blue mug. The stars on it make something in him feel pleased now, rather than irritated. Because it's like you knew, before you even met him, what you were meant to be. 

You glance up at him and take it with a grateful look. “Do you wanna go to that pizza place for lunch?” you ask him casually as you continue working on something on your computer. 

“Sounds good,” Dex answers. And then he lingers, waiting until you take a sip of your coffee and give him that look that lets him know he did a good job. Then he walks away, settling back at his own desk. 

The click of your heels as you move through the office keeps him focused. Reminds him to be productive so he can take a longer lunch with you.

Once, you walk by him, and your hand brushes his arm. He doesn’t know if it was on purpose or not, but he caught the look on your face as you turned, which made him think you enjoyed it as much as he did. 

He offers to give you a ride home, and you accept. You tell him it's getting too cold to keep walking, anyway. But he knows you like spending time with him just like he does you. Dex heads to the bathroom before you leave. When he comes back, he can hear you on the phone. 

Not the office one, but your personal cell. He lingers behind the corner when he hears you say his name. “Mhm, Dex. Well, his last name is Poindexter.” There’s a brief pause, and you huff. “Shut up, it’s not that bad.”

Dex’s face falls flat at that. 

“Yeah, he’s nice. A little weird.”

Kind of feels like you’re editorializing a bit here.

“Well… I mean, we did kiss. No, shut up. It was just once.” You pause; he hears you hum— that noise you make when you’re really thinking about something. 

“No, it was good. Like really good. I was kind of surprised.”

Again, you could have left it at good.

“Fuck off, Josh was always a shitty kisser. No, Dex was like— I don’t know, it’s been a while, so maybe I’m out of practice, but considering the last year of the relationship, it was probably better than sex with Josh. The fucking Minute Man himself.”

Dex presses further against the wall and considers how to take your analysis of him. Appearing better in comparison to your ex was already good. Though he really didn’t have to do much to beat that man. However, saying that one kiss from him was better than sex was considerable progress. 

Especially because he’d spent the entire night wondering if he’d come on too strong. Or used too much tongue. He’d never been a particular fan of it until it was you he was tasting. 

Then you’re speaking again. “Yeah, 'be careful.' I know. It’s been a while since I felt like this, though. I mean— Yeah, I know, not too much too soon, but you don’t understand— it’s like he just knows what I need before I realize it…. No, he’s not a psychic. Christ, can you just be happy for me?”

Dex frowns, tilting his head as you let out a sharp huff. “Yeah, good night.” You hang up with a sigh, slam your phone onto the desk, and let out a loud groan. Dex comes around the corner then, offering you a concerned look. 

“Everything okay?”

You lift your head, expression tired as your lips flatten. “Sisters,” you mutter. “God's punishment to mankind,” you tell him bitterly, collecting your purse. 

He lets out a laugh at your expense, and you frown. You round the desk, and his hand lands comfortably on your lower back. You don’t tense or move away. Just continue like it’s a part of your everyday routine now. 

He thinks of what you said. About anticipating your needs. It’s because your schedule has been adopted into his own. Where once you were a nuisance, an obstacle in the way of his stability. You’ve become the main crux of it. 

Days spent at work with you, getting lunch and driving you to and from the office. And then… the weekends. You own those, as well. Your takeout on Saturday, your lazy Sundays where you go sit at the park or head to the library. Even if you never see him, he’s there, right beside you. 

He presses a light kiss to your temple as you walk out of the building, and you lean into it. And he likes just how domestic it feels. How used to each other you both are, already. His hand squeezes your waist as he helps you inside the car. 

God, it’s like he went so long thinking he didn’t want to touch, and now that he has it— he’s beyond greedy. He wants hands on you constantly. He pictures pushing you up on your desk, kissing you in front of the office, not caring who sees. 

But he knows you wouldn’t like that; you’re too private about your personal life at work. So he holds back. 

For now. 

It happens next Saturday. The fracture in your routine. The forced adaptation. 

You’re walking your usual trail, and Dex is walking behind you. Except now, his monocular is in his pocket. Because if you turn around and see him, he has a perfectly reasonable explanation. Birdwatching. 

Despite how little he cares for birds. He’s killed enough in his lifetime to know they’re too stupid to be worth his time. 

It’s the typical Saturday schedule. In about ten minutes, you’ll finish the trail and then head over to that disgusting little coffee shop. He still doesn’t know who that old woman is, and it eats at him a little bit more every time. 

Then a cyclist comes up behind you and calls "On your left" when they’re on your right. And you step into their path, get knocked to the pavement as they keep pedaling on. You let out a little yelp, and Dex is moving before he realizes what he’s doing. 

“Shit, are you okay?” He forces himself to look surprised, to pretend that he thought you were a stranger. Because he’s worried, but he’s not out of his mind. So he widens his eyes, lets his lips part in shock as he stares down at you. 

“Dex?” You question, looking up at him. Your brows furrow, pain momentarily forgotten as your gaze darts around, as if the answer to his appearance might be over your shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

He pulls out the monocular and waves it at you. “Get a good view of the Robins at this time of day,” he tells you, the bullshit excuse he made up. Your face creases before you let out a little laugh. 

“Oh my god, you’re a bird dork.”

Dex’s face falls. “Wow, really?”

You shift and then let out a sharp hiss. Dex frowns, reaching for your hands. They’re bleeding, tiny pieces of asphalt buried in the cracks from where you braced your fall. “Come on,” he urges, helping you to your feet. You grimace when his hand brushes the edge of the scrape, but you don’t pull away, even if it hurts. 

“Let’s clean this up.” He keeps his voice calm because that’s what he’s meant to do. That’s the role to fulfill. Soft, caring, something dependable. He doesn’t feel sorry that you’re in pain, not really. But he knows that you’re uncomfortable, and he prefers the opposite when you’re around him. 

So he leads you over to the water fountain and helps you clean out the cuts. “Shit,” you cuss when the frigid water hits your hands. 

“I know,” he mutters, soothing you like he’s heard you do to stray dogs. Because that's his idea of gentility and care: You. 

You stare up at him as he cleans you up. Your eyes soft, lips curled up slightly. “Thanks for the rescue,” you tease, but there’s something sincere dancing on the edges of your words. 

He glances over at you, gives you that half-smile he’s noticed you like. Beneath his thumbs, he can feel the way your pulse speeds up. “Anytime,” he tells you. 

You snort, rolling your eyes playfully. “I feel like a cliché,” you tell him. His brows furrow, and you shake your head. “Poor clutz gets knocked down by a savage biker just for her boyfriend to come to her rescue. Must be fate.”

But his hands are frozen, his grip tightening around your wrists as he stares at you. You seem to catch your slip-up at the same time he does. “Oh.” You try to pull away, but he doesn’t let you. Then he sees the panic in your eyes and reluctantly loosens his grip. 

When he does that, though, your shoulders sink, and you lean further into him. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

Yes, you did. You had to. You had to mean it because he’s thought of you as his for weeks. 

Boyfriend and girlfriend are arbitrary and too juvenile, in his opinion. But if that's what you want, he will gladly give it to you. 

He lets go of your scraped palms, reaches up, and gently nudges beneath your chin. “Hey,” he calls, resisting the urge to laugh when he sees your glassy eyes and the way you’re biting your lip anxiously. “Is that how you feel?”

God, you’re right, this is a cliché.

He doesn’t particularly like the rom-com soft speeches, but it seems like that's what you need, so he’ll indulge. He’d rather it just be clear: he is yours, you are his, that’s it. It doesn’t have to be one long, drawn-out conversation like everyone thinks it needs to be. 

“Um, I don’t know. I feel like—”

It doesn’t capture the depth of my feelings

It’s too little

It’s perfect

He’d accept: I’m in love with you. Even if others might think it's too early. 

“I feel like it's too fast.” His hands tighten around your wrists again, and you frown. He sucks in a sharp breath. He drops his hand from your chin, lets go of your wrist, and takes a step back. 

Your eyes widen, and he hears your panicked intake of breath, the anxiety on your face. “No, Dex, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” You let out a groan and reach up to cover your face before remembering the residual blood on your palms.

“Yes,” you finally grit out. “That’s how I feel. But I also just got out of a two-year relationship a few months ago. And I feel like I’m falling into this too fast. And I always do that, too much, too fast, and I scare people away.”

Oh, well, he could work with that. Because that's a poor reflection on others. Not him— not you. 

He lets out a little laugh when he realizes you’re beginning to ramble, to spiral under the idea that you’ve upset him. He steps forward, takes your wrists in his hands, and squeezes to get you to look at him. 

“I promise,” he tells you. “There’s really not much you could do to scare me off.”

You scoff, the sound watery. “Yeah? What if you caught me standing outside your place with a camera?”

He grins. “I’d give you a key.”

You laugh, really laugh, the tension beginning to ease from your shoulders. You laugh— and he means it. He means it, and neither of you has even been inside each other’s apartments before. 

It is too fast by anyone else’s standards. But you aren’t anyone else, and maybe this is why it works. Because if your biggest fear is being too attached too quickly, then you’re perfect for each other. 

“Come on,” he tugs you along the path. “I know a decent spot for coffee,” he tells you, because there’s another question he needs answered. You nod, lacing your fingers with his even if it rubs against the scrape on your palm. That’s how badly you want his touch; you’d hurt for it. 

As he crosses the street to the shitty little cafe, you pause, jerking his arm slightly. Your narrowed eyes turn to him. “How do you know about this place?”

Dex gives you the answer he’s practiced in the mirror. If he tells you he’s here all the time, you can ask the old lady. And he’s sure that she knows all the regulars. So, he shrugs, perfectly casual. “I stop by here sometimes… After my dorky birdwatching.”

You laugh and slap his arm lightly, letting him pull you up the steps. “I actually know the owner,” you tell him. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she’s my ex’s grandma.” That stops him dead, but you’re already pulling away, rushing behind the counter and giving the old lady a big hug. You step back and turn around, frowning when you see Dex isn’t beside you. 

You spot him lingering by the entrance and wave him forward. He follows, his gait jerky as he comes to terms with what you just told him.

Why would you still be involved with your ex’s family?

Are you still involved with him? Is this one of those ridiculous situations where you remain “friends” afterwards? But no, that wouldn’t fit his perception of you at all. You’re kind, but you don’t let people hurt you and get away with it. 

“Dex,” you call, giving him an odd look. He’s staring. The old lady is watching him with a guarded expression. 

“Hi, nice to meet you, ma’am,” he says, holding out his hand. The old lady’s eyes narrow for a moment before she breaks out into a toothy smile. She bypasses his handshake for a hug, and Dex shudders. He hides his grimace from you and paints on a smile, pretending like he doesn’t want to shove her off. Because she has that sort of old lady perfume that clings, and the only other smell he tolerates is yours. 

“Ooh,” she pulls back and pats his face appreciatively. “He’s a handsome one.”

You chuckle, “Yep.” And the pride in your voice is enough to make up for the unwanted assault of a hug. You talk to her for a few minutes, Dex interjecting politely, and then she’s shoving pastries into both of your hands and waving you off. 

“So…” you hum and reach over, lacing your fingers with his as you watch him. “Your ex’s grandma?”

Your nose wrinkles and you shrug. “Uh, she kind of disowned him when she found out he cheated. I feel like I’m the reason she doesn’t see her grandkid anymore. So, I visit her when I can. I don’t want her getting lonely.”

God, you’re so good it's nearly unbearable.

“I’m not that great, Dex,” you interject. His eyes widen as he looks over at you. You weren’t meant to hear that. 

But he doesn’t like that you disagree. Modesty is a virtue, yes, whatever, but he’s not exaggerating. “Yes,” he insists. “You are.” And the soft smile more than makes up for everything else. 

He’s stopped asking if you want a ride, and you’ve started to expect it. 

You get in his car each morning, press a kiss to his cheek, and then give him a look that tells him you’re tired and need coffee. But you’re still happy to see him. And then, you wait by the office door for him after work. Sometimes, you’ll lean against his desk. 

Like now, while he finishes up his paperwork for the night. And it’s just the two of you left in the office. “— I told her not to. I don’t know why anyone would want to go to their ex’s wedding. She never listens to me, though.”

You let out an angry huff, and Dex bites back a smile at the sound. You’re perched on the edge of his desk, talking shit about your sister while he tries to finish his report. And you’re right there. He can feel the warmth radiating off you. The scent of your perfume fills the air. 

Your heels click against the floor as you tap them. 

And your skirt… It’s begun to ride up, revealing more of your stockings as you shift to get comfortable. Your thighs are pressed together, taking up the majority of his desk and thoughts. He reaches up without thinking; his arm drapes across your lap, palm settling on your hip with a slight squeeze. 

Just for the reassurance of your presence. The reminder of how you feel. 

You pause in your rant, words stuttering to a halt at the casual touch. He feels you shift, but you don’t point it out. Rather, your palm drops to his arm, traces the veins before finding his bicep, squeezing lightly at the muscle there. 

He really doesn’t care if he finishes the paperwork now. 

Dex turns off his computer and swivels in his chair to look up at you. You’re trying to bite back how big your smile is as you stare down at him. You shift without a word, pushing further into his grip, knees sliding toward him. 

“Finished?” You whisper, nodding toward his paperwork. He slowly stands, but his hand doesn’t leave you. Rather, the other comes to land beside you on the desk. You lean back, staring up at him. 

“Nope,” he mutters, leaning down and kissing you. He expects bashfulness, possibly rejection. Because this is still the office, even if no one is here. Instead, your hand lifts, balls up in his shirt as you tug him closer. 

Your legs part as much as your tight skirt allows, and he moves closer. Both hands settle on your hips now, taking greedy handfuls as he tugs you closer. Your own palms drift, moving from his shirt to his arms, squeezing at his arms. 

You let out a small noise when his tongue darts across your lips, and you part them obediently. He promises himself this will be quick, one kiss and he’ll drive you home.

But then he tastes you— tastes the gum you'd been chewing earlier, mint mixing with the lip gloss you'd put on.

It makes him groan. That unique blend of you that makes him crazy. Suddenly, he’s sinking back into his chair and pulling you after him. You let out a slight gasp as his hands tug at your skirt, roughly rolling it up so your thighs can spread enough to drape across his. 

“Dex,” you mutter, your hand tugging at his hair as he kisses you again. His palms slide up your back, untucking your blouse so he can actually feel your skin against his.

You let out a small laugh, pulling back, but he’s not going to be deterred. His lips drag across your cheek, travel down your neck where he can feel your pulse pounding. 

“What’s gotten into you?” You ask, breathless— because of him.

He doesn’t have an answer, not really. Maybe it’s because you’re letting him. You’re surprised, but you’re not stopping him as his hands move to your stomach, pulling up your shirt. You don’t object, and your hips are slowly rocking against his. 

He doesn’t have a clear answer. 

And he really doesn’t care. 

Not as your hips begin to find a rhythm against his, your hand drifts to wrap loosely around his throat as you tilt his head back and kiss him again. Your skirt is still in the way, too tight around your thighs, so you can’t move freely. 

He’s moving before he’s thinking, fingers biting into the plush of your leg as he hooks them beneath the hem of your skirt. Then he’s tearing it up the side until you’re sinking fully down on him. 

“Oh,” you tug his hair harshly, and he groans, grinning as you glare down at him. “You’re buying me another one,” you grit out, but you haven’t stopped. If anything, you’re moving more eagerly now. And he can feel your pulse everywhere. The heat of you against his lap has his hips bucking in response.

The anger dissipates from your face as you fall forward, forehead pressed to his while his hands find your waist. “Jesus,” you mutter, hips pressing against his, and he’s surprised. It’s been a long time since he’s done this. And he never really paid attention. 

But you’re pulsing, a heartbeat between your legs as you move over the crotch of his pants. You’re so warm, and he can practically feel how wet you are through your thin stockings. He glances down, eyes widening. 

Jesus, were you not wearing underwear under there?

He reaches between your legs, and you don’t even object this time as he rips through your stockings. If anything, it elicits a shocked, pleasurable sound from you. “Easy,” he mutters, trying to catch his breath as his fingers skate across your warmth. 

Christ, you’re soaked. 

It’s hard to believe it, even as he’s feeling it, listening to your soft moans in his ears. He still struggles with the fact that you want him nearly as badly as he wants you. 

Your hands are balled into his shirt, hips still rolling against his wrist. He waits, and you look down at him, nodding. “Please,” you whisper, that keening voice making him groan. He slides a finger inside of you, and you let out another moan. He reaches up, clamping a hand around your mouth. 

Your eyes widen, but he’s slipping another finger inside you, and your lashes are fluttering. “Quiet, sweet girl,” he mutters. “Office is empty, but the building isn’t.” Your eyes widen in alarm at the reminder, but he feels the way you squeeze around him. 

Like you wouldn’t mind if someone found you in his lap like this. Clothes torn, eyes glassy, with his fingers buried inside you. He realizes that you’re still moving. You’re bracing yourself on his arm, and he’s barely doing anything, but you’re riding his hand, and your hips are still pushing against his groin. 

It’s almost painful how pent up he realizes he is. He never really indulges in anything sexual, barely ever has the interest or energy to jerk himself off.

But this is something else. This is you at your most vulnerable, trusting him. It makes him groan as your hips tremble, your soft walls squeezing around him. 

He can hear it, behind his hand, how your breathing speeds up, picks up pitch. He crooks his finger and finds a soft spot inside you that makes you keen, falling into him completely. His fingers slide out of you, and you whine as his hand skates behind you, grabs a handful of your ass like he's wanted to for weeks. 

He lets his hand fall from your mouth and wrap around your waist, pushing you down on the hardness pressing up against his zipper. He can hear you, panting in his ear, cussing as he rolls his hips into you. 

It’s been so long. He’d never thought that he would want this. That it could feel this good. But you’re moaning in his ear, he’s grinding desperately against you and—

Fuck’s sake. 

There’s a stain growing in the crotch of his pants, an uncomfortably wet feeling in his boxers. 

You tremble, let out a high-pitched noise, and your hips are quivering in his hold, legs twitching until you’re pushing at his arm, forcing him to stop. 

When you pull back, your pupils are blown wide; he can feel the heat radiating off your face.

“I cannot believe I just did that,” you hiss, clamping your hand over your mouth as you glance around the dark office. 

His eyes dart up to the camera over your shoulder, and he turns the chair so you can’t see it. It’s just something he’ll have to take care of. 

“Did you…” You trail off, glancing down at the dark stain on his pants. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, face flushing as he buries it in your neck. You let out a soft laugh; some of the humiliation and shock ebb away as your arms wrap around him, your hand skating through his hair. 

“It’s okay,” you coo, even though he can hear the smile in your voice. He sinks further into your hold, and your legs squeeze tighter around his. “Seriously, Dex. It’s… kind of hot, honestly.” He pulls back at that, brows perked in interest. 

You scoff, pushing his face away. “Don’t get a big head about it,” you tease. “I’ve just… Well, I’ve never had someone care so much about my pleasure before.”

He frowns, not necessarily out of sympathy. You’re simply too good for that. Objectively, you deserve better than some minute man who humps into you and calls it a night.

Even though… that is slightly what he just did. 

Dex pushes the thought away as he reaches up, cupping your chin and stroking his thumb across your warmed cheek. “You have that now,” he promises. You smile, placing your hand over his and tilting your head just enough to press a kiss to his pulse. 

Slowly, you pull back, letting out a low groan as he helps you to stand. Your heels must’ve fallen off at some point because they’re scattered beneath his desk. He leans over and grabs them for you, guiding your shaking leg as you slip them back on. 

His hand skates up the back of your calf, then thigh, as he reaches up to roll the hem of your skirt down. He straightens out your shirt while you just stare at him, eyes filled with that look of adoration he’s just been waiting for. 

“You’re still buying me a new one,” you tell him, smoothing your hands over your skirt. 

“Okay,” he agrees, kissing your cheek because he’s incapable of not having his hands on you. He pulls on his jacket, adjusting it so it hides the evidence of what you just did on his pants. Then he grabs yours, helps you cover up so people can’t see the tears he’d ripped into your clothes. 

You stop him before you both leave for the night, lace your fingers with his and press a kiss to the corner of his lips. “Thank you,” you whisper, offering a soft smile before you tug him along behind you. 

He’s slightly ashamed that it makes him hard again, that all he wants to do is turn right back around and push you over your desk. But he resists. Because he’d rather have soft smiles and sweet kisses than carnal reassurance. 

here is the Second Half

end. — I do not own the characters/show/comics Marvel/Bullseye/Dare Devil, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Your head rolls as you take in the rising sun- just out of reach beyond the iron-wrought windows. You had agreed to meet Crakehall at dawn for a spar. The captain will understand why you're late, and he will not utter a complaint. But that teasing glint in his eyes always burns at you.

There are a handful of guards and servants alike who see you as nothing more than the prince's latest plaything. A porcelain creature he will break and leave abandoned on a shelf when he grows bored of you.

But you know yourself far better than they ever could. You will be damned before it is a prince that breaks you.

Especially one as spoiled as him. 

There are a few others, like Crakehall and your fellow knights, who have garnered respect for you. Both for besting the prince at the Ashford tournament and holding your own against each of them every dawn that you train.

Aside from them, Aerion's father is the most displeased at your consistent presence at Summerhall. To the barest extent of your talents, you have tried to calm the dragon prince. But your skills only get you so far. You could never fully quell that raging inferno which burns so violently within him. Maekar fails to see the benefits in breaking long-standing traditions by allowing a woman to guard his son when you cannot even calm him.

Still, as Aerion's hold tightens around your leash, even Maekar has given up his relentless pursuit to rid his household of your presence.

With a sigh, you peel the prince’s arm off of you and rise from the bed. You make your way throughout his chambers, collecting the clothes that had been thrown about last night. You’re pulling on your shirt when he lets out a low groan, slowly rising on his elbows. 

You lace the front of your tunic closed and spare him a look over your shoulder. It is no surprise that he is scowling back at you, clearly perturbed by the lack of warmth beside him. 

“Good morrow, my prince,” you greet, tugging on your trousers. 

“What are you doing?” he demands, bypassing any attempt at civility. 

You let out a low laugh as you reach for your sword by the door and tie it around your waist. “I’ve promised Crakehall a spar today. Lest he be disappointed by those green boys your father has acquired.”

Aerion rolls his eyes at the reminder of the guests now residing in Summerhall. A pair of brothers from some fledgling lord that their father hoped to toughen up in the presence of Targaryens. They could barely hold a wooden sword, let alone a steel one. It was difficult enough watching them try to mount their horses a day past, as their legs flailed all about. 

“The title of Knight is beginning to mean less and less these days,” Aerion complains, a sneer on his lips. “But I do not care for Crakehall’s disappointment. Stay. I’ll have one of the maids send up some fruit and wine.”

“A bit early in the day for wine,” you note, brow raising. Perhaps his brother is beginning to wear off on him. 

“Are you questioning your prince?” Aerion shifts closer, the sheets falling low on his hips. His body is lithe in a way that always reminds you of a serpent. Pale muscles coiled tight, eager to strike. 

Your eyes narrow before you offer him a lax look. “Of course not, my prince. Merely making an observation.”

“Well… cease that,” he demands with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Undress and join me in bed.”

You purse your lips, holding back a smirk as you shake your head, edging toward the door. “I am afraid duty compels me to join Crakehall. I must keep up my training if I’m to defend you.”

Aerion lets out a low noise, leaning back against the pillows with all the ease of a man who has never been told no. “Your duty compels you to do as I bid…” he says nothing else, but the threat of his power lingers in the air.

For a moment, you consider pushing, walking out the door, and doing as you wish. But he’s been relatively docile the past week or so. No need to punish everyone else in Summerhall by waking the dragon once more. 

“As you wish,” you sigh, unlacing your sword and resting it by the door. He gives you a satisfied curl of his lips, lounging back and watching as you strip off your tunic and trousers. You stalk toward him, and he holds up a hand, eyes darting down to your undergarments. 

“Oh…” you let out a low huff and shoot him a sharp glare that only has his interest piqued. “It is perverted, what you demand of me, my prince.”

“And yet, duty bids you comply.” You scowl, but heat burns under your skin as you strip bare before him. And the flames only burn hotter when you reach the mattress, throwing your legs over his lap, pushing him down into the pillows. 

“I see you did not make it to training this morning,” Crakehall taunts as he strides up beside you. Aerion is only a few paces ahead, scowling as his father chides him for something. Perhaps it’s because he had those squire’s horses buck them earlier that day. You care little for Maekers ' ever-thinning patience. 

“Our prince is a demanding one,” you muse. Crakehall lets out a low chuckle; his eyes dip to your collarbone, the indents in the shape of the prince’s sharp teeth. 

“Clearly,” he mutters. 

You finally pull your eyes away from Aerion and look over at your friend– your captain, now. “I will make sure to be there tomorrow– dawn,” you swear.

Crakehall’s eyes soften slightly, and he lets out a bemused sound. “Do not make promises you cannot keep.”

You nearly object until you feel that burning intensity on the side of your head. Turning, you see Aerion watching you over his shoulder as his father prattles on. 

Those cold eyes dart to the mark he’d left on your flesh, and something content rolls across his expression. He spares Crakehall a warning glare before reluctantly turning back to his father. 

“Possessive, isn’t he?” Crakehall wonders aloud, slightly disturbed. 

“Aren’t all dragons?” you offer, shooting him a knowing look as the Targaryens turn into the dining hall.

The table is already set: roasted goose, honeyed fruit, delicacies from Essos you would never have laid eyes on, let alone tasted, before Aerion found you. But he has fed you plenty of them from the comfort of his bed. 

You and Crakehall fall silent as you drift toward your respective corners of the room. He falls behind Baelor, who is already seated. His son, Valarr, sits beside him.

It’s been made clear to both you and Aerion’s cousin that you are, in no uncertain terms, not to converse. He is quite disturbed at the idea of having to share anything that belongs to him with Valarr. No matter how many times you remind him that you are bound to his blood, to the dragons, not Aerion alone. 

You stand a few paces behind Aerion, hands tucked in front of you, eyes drifting over the room. The usual servants flit about, filling goblets with Arbor Gold and pulling out chairs. Daeron is already slumped against the table, eyes heavy as his hand loosely rests around his drink. 

As dinners often go with the Targaryens– you will stand behind Aerion, you will suffer through the bickering and tense silences. And when he inevitably is infuriated by his father or uncle, he will storm off, and you will follow. Most often, that ends with a rough match between his sheets. 

As with any help, the Targaryens do not acknowledge your presence as anything other than a piece of furniture. Tonight, however, you shift uncomfortably as you feel a strange, unfamiliar gaze boring into you. 

Turning your head just so, you find it is Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne, sparing you far more than a fleeting glance. His mismatched eyes narrow before he lets out a sharp sigh, turning away from you. Your gut twists, something close to worry curdling in you. 

Baelor shares a look with his brother and your shoulders stiffen. Oh… this will not be going well for anyone involved. You can already see it, the unspoken conversation, the agreement to band together against a stubborn, immovable force. 

Aerion. 

Whatever will happen tonight, your dragon will not like it. 

They remain quiet long enough for Aerion to begin eating the main course. His mouth is full of roast goose when Baelor clears his throat, beginning to speak. “Aerion, there is something your father and I must discuss with you.”

Aerion’s lips pause around the roasted leg, eyes narrowing as his gaze darts between the pair of them. “What?” he mutters around a mouthful of food. 

Baelor shifts, hands flexing on the oaken table. This time, it is Maekar who shoots you the wary glare.

What in the hells are they about to do?

It’s as if they’re trying to tell you something. Are you meant to subdue Aerion? Take him from the room?

You shake your head minutely, and the fourth prince lets out an aggrieved sigh and casts his eyes heavenward. You will never understand royals. 

Baelor opens his mouth and then stops, seemingly rethinking his approach. It is of no surprise when Maekar’s patience snaps first. “Fucks sake,” he hisses under his breath. “A Tyrell girl; her father is chaperoning her here. They’ll arrive in a day's time.”

Aerion’s food drops back to his plate as he narrows his eyes, slowly leaning back in his chair. He is the picture of easy confidence. But you can see the way his nails drum against the arms of his chair, the taut pull of his shoulders. 

“Why does this matter to me?” he demands, lowly, voice cool. 

Ah, you understand, now, you’ll have to subdue him. 

Quietly, taking care not to rattle your armor, you take a small step forward. In the corner of your eye, you see Baelor hold up a hand at his side. Not yet. 

“She is Lord Tyrell’s second-born daughter, and he has offered her hand in marriage.” Your body freezes, stomach sinking as you take the words in.

It is not jealousy that burns in your throat– it is fear. Fear for yourself. For your position should he acquire a wife. And, quite honestly, a slight fear for the poor girl who will have to marry him. 

You are hard, cut from rough stone and a beginning risen from mud and dirt. You have trained extensively throughout your life to defend yourself both physically and mentally against men like Aerion. Those who take with no regard to others' pain. 

This girl will be soft, a lady trained to please her husband. Perhaps you’ll have to warn her that he prefers prey that fights back. 

Aerion scoffs, nose wrinkling. “A second-born–” he begins, pompous as always. 

Maekar cuts him a sharp glare, but it is Baelor that speaks. “You are the secondborn of a fourth son,” he says calmly, meaning no insult to his brother. But you can see the way Maekar bristles slightly. “A second-born Tyrell girl will be the most generous offer I can give you.”

Aerion considers a moment, hand rising to twirl the knife beside his plate. Valarr watches this, hands twitching toward the blade on his belt. “I refuse,” he finally concludes. 

Maekar scoffs, “You can’t refuse. You’ll marry the girl. That is an order.”

“I get no say in who I am to wed?” He snaps.

Maekar leans forward and shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“And if I have already chosen my own bride?” Aerion demands quietly. By this point, all eyes in the room are burning into you, and you roll your shoulders back uncomfortably. It’s not as if you want to marry him. There’s very little you can do to argue against a prince, however. Second-born or not. 

“I knew this was a horrible idea,” Maekar mutters, falling back in his seat. 

“I’m glad we agree–”

“Not about the girl,” Maekar snaps. “About letting you have that fucking woman-knight.” You grimace slightly as Aerion shifts in his seat to survey you, carefully observing your reaction. You keep your face neutral and can see just how much it angers him.

Gods above, now you’ll have to answer for that tonight. 

“Your attachment is concerning,” Baelor agrees. 

Daeron, seemingly roused from his drunken stupor, sits up. “You can fuck the serving girls, brother. But you mustn’t marry them.” He holds up a lax finger in scolding before laughing and falling back to the table.

“That’s quite enough,” Baelor chides, refusing to look at you this time. “Your brother, as crude as he is, is correct. You cannot marry a sworn knight.”

“I never said I would,” Aerion sneers. That catches everyone off guard, you included. Such a violent dismissal might have stung were you not so aware of the prince’s quick temper and inability to think before he took action. 

Maekar steepled his fingers, face weary as Daeron laughed once more at his brother. “Then who would you marry?”

Aerion stutters for a second before shaking his head. “It does not matter. Why should I not get a choice in who I wed?”

“Enough!” Maekar shouts, getting to his feet; the chair rocks violently behind him. “The Tyrell girl will be here soon enough. And you will treat her with the respect her name deserves.”

Aerion stands slowly, a snake uncurling as he steps around his chair. His face is carefully impassive, lips drawn tight. “We shall see,” he utters, his tone a low warning. Aerion does not spare you a fleeting glance as he storms from the dining room. 

You do not linger where you are not wanted, so you hasten after your prince, his family’s eyes burning into your back. You push through the hall doors; they slam behind you as your armor clatters while you stalk after him. 

His stride is swift, hands flexing at his sides as he mutters to himself. You catch up with him fast enough. But he says nothing, spares no word or look as he storms up the stairs to his chambers. You expect the door to slam in your face as he goes inside, but it remains open, and you take that as an invitation. 

He lingers before his hearth, eyes tracking the flames in a way that has always made you uncomfortable. “The gall,” he scoffs. “To command me to marry some second-born rose,” he spits out. 

You bite your tongue, refusing to remind him that he is a second-born. “To assume I would marry you,” he spits out, gesturing vaguely toward you. 

You bristle, eyes narrowing as you struggle not to take offence at the vitriol in his voice. “How dare they,” you draw flatly. 

His head lifts, anger settling enough for him to realize what he’s just said. How he’s insulted you. But it is not remorse that flickers across his expression; rather, it is something painfully close to eagerness. 

“Do not tell me you are jealous.”

You let out a short scoff, sending him a bemused smirk. “I know my place, my prince. Do you?”

He goes completely still at that, eyes sharpening, any humor within them icing over. His nostrils flare as he slowly straightens. “Leave,” he demands. You bow your head, ducking from his room and hearing a flagon of wine smash against where you had just been standing. 

You’ll leave it to the maids to clean up his tantrum on the morrow. For once, the night is your own. 

You have kept your promise to Crakehall, though he seems more disturbed by that than if you hadn’t shown up at all. 

“The prince did not demand your presence?” he wonders, glancing over your shoulder as if Aerion will appear. 

You twirl the handle of your sword in your hand, shaking your head as you plant your blade in the dirt, leaning on it casually. “You were there. You heard his father. Do you think he is eager for any company but his own?”

Crakehall pauses, gaze raking down your body. But it is not with lecherous intent. Rather, the worry of a captain protecting one of his men. “His anger has always managed to find its way to others,” he says softly. 

You offer a small quirk of your lips, despite the weight settling in your gut. “I can handle his anger and his vitriol. It is his ‘affection’ that is intolerable.” You use the word affection loosely, thinking only of how often he yanks on the leash he has tied around your neck. 

Crakehall lifts his sword, and you follow suit. “I would be wary of how brazenly you say such things,” he warns. He nods toward the balcony above the training yard. Valarr and Baelor both stand there, eyes intent on the guards. But you know that neither of them would be cruel enough to bring your confession back to Aerion. 

They know how he would react. Knight or not, they are too honorable to inflict such a fate on a woman. Well– as long as you’re not the woman they’re going to marry him to. 

“I worry for the Tyrell girl,” you confess, ducking under the swing Crakehall cuts toward you. 

“These things are better spoken about in the barracks,” he tells you, eyes once again darting toward the royals. 

The two of you meet in the middle, swords clashing together. “Here,” you tell him, pushing him back. “The mice in the walls cannot hear our treason over the sounds of our swords.” 

Crakehall pauses, considering your words; you take advantage, attempting to sweep your leg behind his. He dodges easily, scolding you with a swat of the flat of his blade to your back. “Fair enough,” he finally concedes. 

You aim your sword low, going for his ribs, but he easily parries, his blade knocking yours aside. No matter how long you train, you doubt you will ever best him. “Why are you worried for the girl?”

You scoff, jumping back as his blade arches toward your stomach. “Why do you think? They are roses. Aerion will pluck at her petals until nothing remains of her. And–” you’re cut off with a grunt as you narrowly dodge one of his blows. 

“And,” you continue, exasperated as you knock his blade aside. He offers a wry grin that you ignore. “I am worried for myself. It is clear enough his father dislikes my position here. He will be rid of me soon enough; I just don’t know how he’ll go about it.”

Crakehall pauses, and you could easily disarm him, but that would feel too much like cheating. Instead, you plant your blade in the dirt, a momentary truce. His eyes dart toward the balcony before flitting back to you. You quirk your brow, shrugging despite the worry that has burned in your throat since they announced the marriage. 

“He might be brusque and have a terribly short temper. But I can assure you, he would not get rid of you through any dishonorable means.”

You tilt your head. “You never truly know who you’re serving until they’re forced to make difficult decisions. If it comes to it, Maekar will do anything to cut my ties to his son. He knows I am a distraction and a crutch. A way for Aerion to slip around the prospect of marriage.”

Crakehall seems quite disturbed by your words, as if he had not once considered how truly desperate Maekar is to be rid of you. He pauses, shaking his head. His mouth opens to protest, but a cold voice cuts him off. 

“Ser Wyght!” Aerion calls from above. He needn't say anything else for you to understand you’re being summoned. 

As you pass by Crakehall, you lay a calloused hand on his shoulder. “Try not to mourn me yet,” you tease, eyeing that concerned tilt to his expression. 

He forces out an amused scoff and swats your hand away. “Off with you,” he orders, but his voice lacks any bite. 

You pass your training sword off to one of the squires as you walk by and have to bite back a laugh at the way they stumble under the weight. You slip into the barracks, quickly changing into your armor and strapping your true sword to your hip. 

You’re walking up the stairs, running a rag down your sweaty neck when Aerion appears before you. His expression gives away nothing, tongue stubbornly tucked into his cheek as he waits for you to stand beside him. 

“You did not return to my chambers,” he says icily. 

Your brows furrow as you glance down at him. “I was not aware I had to. I thought my prince might prefer to be alone with his thoughts.”

“Yes, well, don’t presume. It’s not for you to assume what I want. It is for you to do what I want.”

“And how am I meant to know what that is when you say nothing?” 

Aerion stops short, a humorless laugh escaping him. “I thought by now you would have learned better.”

You suck your teeth. “I am a knight, my prince. Not a prophet. You are a prince; if you want something, say it, and it is yours. Otherwise, expect nothing more from me than what you demand.”

Aerion pauses as the implications lie heavy between you. You are his only under his own orders. His own careful scheming to keep you leashed beside him.

For a moment there is genuine surprise in his eyes, and then he’s glaring, turning back around without a word and stalking off. 

“Brat,” you mutter, following behind him. Some day soon, you will be free from these bonds. You can feel the change coming in the air. Can see it in the rumbling clouds that grow ever closer to Summerhall. 

The peace that had been residing in your prince is gone. And now, the dragon walks before you. 

The Tyrell girl will be here any moment. Aerion has been unusually docile the last few days. His family has not seen much of him; he’s preferred to hole up in his chambers. Each night he invites you back to them, but you have not lain together since the night they’d told you he’d be married. 

For a moment, you had wondered if he was truly respecting the sanctity of his future marriage, but the thought had only made you laugh. 

Each night, he has you sit on his chaise while he reads, lounges, or drinks himself to sleep. Your purpose there is confusing, and you truly cannot get an understanding of what his intentions are. You understand that his family knows him well enough to be more disturbed by the silence than his outbursts.

Silence means planning, plotting, and only the Gods know what he has in store for this poor girl. 

Summerhall’s gates open and a finely ornamented carriage rolls in. Brambles and roses are carved from gold, twining around the curves of the carriage. You can certainly understand why Baelor would want his family tied to such wealth. Although you’ve always been of the mind that those who keep their riches quiet keep them longest. 

Aerion steps forward, and his family holds their collective breath. Maekar tenses, Baelor inches forward, and Valarr’s hand has not left the handle of his blade since you came out here. You stay a respectable distance away. Your job is to protect him, not to stop him from acting a fool. 

No one can stop that. 

A handful of Tyrell guards ride in behind their masters, and Crakehall steps forward to welcome them. Slowly, the carriage door opens. A large, booted foot makes its way out first, quickly followed by a belly that can only grow from the rich indulgence of too many tarts.

The Tyrell man who steps out is a jolly looking fellow, with long brown whiskers and thinning hair. His fingers are decorated with large, golden rings, one of them the Tyrell house crest. 

“My prince,” he greets, bowing lowly toward Baelor. Baelor inclines his head respectfully. He greets each royalty in order of importance (inheritance) before landing on Aerion. He pauses at him, shrinking back slightly at whatever look Aerion has in his eyes. 

“My lord,” he greets, tone amicable. Your eyes narrow in suspicion as the Tyrell man hastily nods back. 

“And my daughter, Adora,” he offers, holding his palm out toward the carriage. Slowly, a dainty hand finds its way into his, nails manicured and clean. You’re almost tempted to glance down at your own, chipped, neglected nails. But there’s no point. 

The girl who greets you all is a beauty to be sure. Long brown hair to her waist that curls softly. Sweet, wide brown eyes that remind you very much of a doe. Her painted lips tilt up into a beautifully polite smile. 

Your stomach drops when you hear her melodic voice as she greets them all.

Gods above, Aerion is going to eat her alive. 

Aerion steps forward, and you brace yourself as he reaches out. Slowly, she places her hand in his. He leans down, pressing his lips to the back of her hand and offering her a charming smile as he leans back. 

“Oh,” she stutters, pressing a hand to her chest. “My prince.”

“My lady,” he greets in turn. Maekar is shooting him a look that you’re sure you’re sharing. A sort of confused horror as you wait for the sword to drop, Adora’s head to come tumbling down. But today, he seems to have-for once-found himself in a princely mood. 

As her gaze moves across the small gathering, they finally land on you. She lets out a sharp gasp that alarms her father and has him following her gaze. You stare down at both of them, face impassive as they marvel at you like some sort of giantess. 

“Oh my,” she whispers. “A woman knight?” she wonders aloud. 

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” her father observes, a slightly aggrieved bite to his tone. It takes every effort not to roll your eyes at the pair of them. 

“Yes, Ser Wyght.” Surprisingly, it is Valarr who begins to come to your defense. 

But Aerion cuts him off. “A prize I won during a tourney.” Your eyes sharpen, shoulders going taut as you turn your glare on him. It is brazen to look at him in such a way in front of his family. But you care little for that now. “Peculiar specimen, isn’t she?”

“Oh, to be sure,” Adora agrees as Aerion loops her arm through his own. “But quite impressive. You won her in a tourney, you say?” You take a step forward, mouth open, and a fire burning in your lungs. 

“Ser Wyght!” Crakehall calls from across the courtyard. “You’re needed.”

Your hands ball into fists at your side as Aerion brushes past you, sparing you no second look. When you remain still too long, he lets out a long, suffering sigh, barely turning to face you. “Well, you heard him, pet.”

Something inside you twists with an idngiant rage as Adora giggles, unaware of the game her betrothed has just started. 

As you turn to obey Crakehall, Valarr remains by the carriage. “I am sorry. That was cruel.”

“That was Aerion,” you dismiss, brushing past him with a rotten taste on your tongue. 

You’ve been spending more time in the barracks now that Aerion’s attention has been consumed with his betrothed. They spend the majority of their time in the estate, eating and lounging in the gardens. When you tried to follow him– to guard him– he had dismissed you coldly. 

“What will you do? Save me from a wasp?” He had sneered, and Adora, unaware of your true role, had giggled. 

You wonder how long this mask of his will last. How long can he play this new game he’s just made?

You still don’t know what his intentions are in humiliating you, dismissing you, and being so strangely kind to the Tyrell girl. Perhaps he is capable of being a prince.

Perhaps your own violence and grit have only ever brought out the worst in him. Maybe this is what he needed: someone soft and kind. A lady waiting for him with a kind word and a sweeter smile. 

His father seems pleased, but just as taken aback by Aerion’s behavior as you. 

You’re winning at a game of cards when Crakehall calls your name. With a sigh, you reveal your cards. The other men groan, reluctantly passing you their gold. “Men,” you dismiss with a nod. They jeer as you walk out of the room, muttering bitterly about cheating. 

Crakehall stands at the entrance to the barracks, a strange expression on his face. “Ser?” 

“Prince Aerion has summoned you. The Lady Tyrell wishes to explore the woods. You’re to accompany them. Her guard-" he nods over your shoulder, and you finally notice the man lurking in the shadows behind you. “Ser Donel will accompany you.”

“Ser,” you agree, with a nod. He shoots Donel a weary look before dismissing you. 

Ser Donel lingers just behind you, right where you can’t keep him in your eyeline. It bothers you to no end, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of voicing your irritation. “So,” his gruff voice catches you off guard as you walk to the entrance of the forest. 

“How long have you served the prince?”

You pause, forcing him to catch up and stand at your side. He has a beard that is unbecoming for a man of his station and scraggly black hair. For a family that values such opulence, their choice of guard is interesting. 

“I’ve only been sworn to him a few months. Hardly a season.”

You can see Aerion and Adora off in the distance. His head is tucked toward hers, hand resting loosely on the back of her neck. Something twists in your chest that you don’t wish to acknowledge. 

Donel lets out a low, rough laugh. “That’s not the type of service I meant,” he taunts. 

Your steps stagger, heart pounding a violent beat against your ribs as you turn your narrow glare onto him. But he keeps walking, uncaring of the offense he’s caused. You want to be angry, truly, to be reduced to a common whore rather than the knight you are. 

But how can you say that he is wrong?

Before Adora, you had warmed Aerion’s bed nearly every night since you arrived at Summerhall. He has even gone so far as to reduce you to nothing more than some fascinating creature he picked up at Ashford.

You are no longer a knight to him, nor a protector. He has whittled away your character and left nothing behind except the toy he’s made you into. 

Your heart seizes, eyes burning as you realize you've been played for a fool.

You look up and find Aerion staring back at you, smirk cruel as he waits for you to join him. You want to turn around and run back to the barracks. To take all that belongs to you and flee Summerhall. Feel the wind on your face and the ground beneath your feet as you sleep under an elm tree. 

You wish to be a hedge knight again. 

Because at least in the hedge, you were still a knight. 

Not some prince’s plaything. 

It takes every ounce of effort and remembrance of your oath to force yourself forward. To put the thoughts of freedom behind you as you stalk toward Aerion. Your prince.

As if he had ever once been in your grasp. 

“You certainly took your time,” Aerion chides, eyes raking over your form. 

“Apologies, my prince,” you respond stiffly. His eyes narrow ever so slightly. But he quickly laces Adora’s arm with his and turns her toward the forest’s path. Ser Donel spares no second glance as he follows closely behind his lady. 

Adora tilts her head toward you inquisitively, offering a soft smile. Your hand tightens around the handle of your sword, and you find that you cannot return it. She tilts her head, expression falling slightly. 

Aerion notices and clicks his tongue. “Is my sullen pet bothering you, my lady?” The knife digs deeper into your chest. 

She startles and rips her eyes from you. “Oh, of course not. It is just so interesting seeing a woman in armor.” Ser Donel snorts, and she shoots him a harsh look that surprises you. “It’s quite impressive.”

Aerion shrugs, not turning toward you. “I suppose. She’s more of a novelty than anything useful. The men— well, they take pity, let her best them for a good show.”

Your breath stutters as you glare down at his back. Adora looks unconvinced, brows furrowing as she takes in the distressed look on your face.

“She looks like she could put up a good fight.” Her eyes narrow as she turns back to Aerion. “I heard that a woman had bested a prince in Ashford. Is that how you acquired her, my prince?”

Aerion pauses for a moment, that thin veneer of gentility giving way to something harsher. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“Your cousin.”

Aerion scoffs and your eyes narrow in on the way his grip tightens around her arm. She grimaces and pushes slightly at his shoulder until he relents. Ser Donel makes no move to help his lady, and you scoff. 

“My cousin is a liar. Valarr is quite bitter that he has never beaten me with a blade. I would not take what he says with much severity.”

Adora hums; she looks as if she wants to push further. But her eyes soften, her smile falling slightly into something a little dumber. A little more prey-like. You tilt your head as you watch the shift in her face. She’s got a mask of her own. 

Smart little lady. 

“Of course, my love,” she relents. You see the way Aerion’s shoulders stiffen at the affectionate name. 

The walk continues, Adora pointing out her favorite flora as Aerion leads her along the path. You and Donel remain silent shadows. Occasionally, you catch Aerion watching you after a sharp barb or insult to your knighthood. 

A haze seems to fall over your eyes, the sound of rushing water in your ears as you drown him out. He grows more agitated the longer you walk. His grip tightens on Adora, pace speeding up as he tries to get back to Sumerhall under the guise of not missing supper. 

When you arrive back at the gates, you split off from the group. But Aerion's cruel voice calls your name. Not your title. Your name. “And where are you going?”

You pause, back stiffening as you slowly turn back to him. You keep your face carefully impassive, allowing no bitterness or resentment to shine through.

“My prince has made it clear that I am a pet. Are pets not meant to return to their kennels?” you demand, nodding toward the barracks. 

Aerion’s brows dip, a wrinkle forming between them as he tilts his head at you. “You will go when I dismiss you,” he says coolly. 

You lick your lips, sucking in a sharp breath as you stare down at him. “You know,” Adora cuts in, eyes darting between the pair of you. Aerion does not break his gaze. “I have been thinking. My father is so traditional. He’s not very happy about a woman being on your guard. Have you considered delegating her to another role?”

Aerion does not bother looking at her as he glares up at you. “She’s hardly a guard,” he bites out. “Be gone with you,” he snaps, waving his hand and turning his back to you. His arm slips from Adora’s as he storms into Summerhall. 

She lingers beside you a moment, sparing you a small glance before nodding her head and bidding goodnight. 

You stand there a minute longer before racing off to the barracks. You find an empty room and slam the door behind you. Your hands rip desperately at the heavy armor on your chest and shoulders. Something bubbles up in your eyes as the metal clangs against the floor. 

You refuse to acknowledge the warmth carving down your cheeks as you stare down at the abandoned remains of your time in Aerion’s service. 

You did not come here to be made a spectacle or a prince’s pet. You swore that no prince would break you, and you meant it. No matter what it took— you would find a way out of your oath. And you would not abandon your honor to do so.

He did not get to take that from you, as well. 

The opportunity comes sooner than you would think. 

You sit at a table in the barracks, armor stripped, in nothing more than trousers and a tunic. Crakehall sits across from you, nursing a mug of ale as you both stare into the fire. It burns at your eyes, but it’s better than the tears you had shed earlier. 

It feels shameful–not to have cried–but to have allowed a man to hurt you so. 

Crakehall sends you strange looks from the sides of his eyes. Leg bouncing as he waits for you to speak. But you have no interest in it. You’d prefer to listen to the bickering behind you. Tyrell and Targaryen guards fighting over a round of cards. 

You let the noise fill your head and drown out everything else. 

Sighing, you lean back, arms draped lazily across your chair as your legs fall open before you. Crakehall glances over at you and snorts. “What?” 

He shakes his head and shrugs, taking another draw of his ale. “You truly are not a lady,” he observes, nodding toward your spread legs. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, no real heat to your voice. That only makes his frown deepen. He reaches over and places his mug on the table beside you. Leaning forward, his elbows rest on his knees as he stares at you. 

“What happened in the forest today?” He asks, voice quiet, too gentle to feel comfortable. 

You blink rapidly, allowing yourself to pretend it's the flames irritating your eyes. “I am a novelty to him. And, apparently, to everyone else nothing more than a whore.” Crakehall’s expression hardens, his frown deepening as he straightens up. “Not only that, every man here has simply let me best them out of pity.”

“I have never let you best me,” he tells you, voice firm, cutting through the noise in your head. 

You blink, the film leaving your eyes as you finally, truly look at him. He is concerned. Not in the way a captain would be, but someone closer than that, a softer guiding hand that you don’t want to think about. “No. You haven’t.”

“‘Course he  ‘asn’t,” a rough voice interrupts. 

You stiffen, turning and finding Ser Donel standing in the doorway of the rooms. “Wouldn’t look good for the cap’in of the guard to be bested by a whore.”

“Captain,” you correct lazily. “If you’re going to be an ass, try not to sound like one, too.”

His cheeks flush red beneath his scruffy beard, and he pushes away from the wall. You hear the sounds of chairs scraping behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you see the Targaryen guards on their feet, eyes narrowed with intent. 

Crakehall himself stands, taking one step closer to Donel. Of course, the man cowers to him– shows him a modicum of respect. 

Your eyes drop to the sword at Donel’s hip, and a thought suddenly comes alive. A plan. A good way to keep your honor intact and your oath broken cleanly. You get to your feet and your hand lands on Crakehall’s shoulder. He stiffens, shooting you a wary look, but you shake your head and nod him back. 

He hesitates before falling back a step. “You think my fights are handed to me?” You ask Donel. 

His eyes dart toward the guards behind you, and he shrugs. “I do.”

“What would you wager?”

His eyes widen, and you can hear Crakehall shift uncomfortably behind you, his armor rattling. Donel lets out a disbelieving scoff and shakes his head. “No, no,” you shake your head. “If you truly believe my fights are handed to me, then what would you bet?”

“My life,” he bites out bitterly. “On my life, no woman toting a sword actually knows how to swing it. Just playing pretend while you wait for the prince to call you to his bed.”

“Enough–”

Crakehall tries to interrupt, but you just hold your hand up. “Alright,” you whisper, lips curling up in a slow, conniving baring of your teeth. “Our lives then,” you hold your hand out to him, and Donel glares down at it. 

Backing down now would be admitting he was wrong. Admitting that he could be defeated by a woman. And his pride would never allow that. So with a nasty curse under his breath, he claps his hand in yours and shakes. 

“The courtyard,” he bites out, and you nod. You move to follow him, but Crakehall grabs your arm, jerking you back. 

“What in the seven hells are you playing at? Wagering with a Tyrell guard like that?”

You glare down at his hand, and he pauses before slowly releasing you. “I’m cutting my leash,” you bite out, storming off after Donel. 

“Will you at least don your armor?”

You stop, turning to face him. “I got myself here as a hedge knight. That’s how I’ll get myself out,” you tell him.

No fancy armor, no noble-made shields. You and your sword. It’s all you’ve ever needed. 

The prince thrives on cruelty. He has made an art form of terrorizing those around him in the worst ways he can. And he is incredibly good at reading people, finding their weaknesses, and turning them into playthings for himself. 

Perhaps in your time here, you have learned from him. 

Donel’s pride trapped him into this wager just as Aerion had once trapped you into his oath. Donel, whether he’s realized it or not, will free you from the shackles of the dragons. 

You stand in the training yard; the setting sun casts an eerie, crimson glow across you all. Tyrell and Targaryen guards alike have gathered around the perimeter, watching as you and Donel circle each other. Your head or his, you will get what you want. 

Donel lunges forward, and you side-step him, kicking at his back. You’re lighter without your armor, more nimble; it's easier to dart around your opponent. But you’re also far more vulnerable to his blade. 

It’s a delicate line you walk, one you haven’t had to balance in a long while. Not since Aerion brought you here. Stuffed you full of delicacies and kind captains- let you get lazy like a fat cat. 

You lift your sword, aiming for his head, when a voice echoes across the yard. “What is going on here?”

You pause, head whipping over as you see Aerion storming into the courtyard. His father and uncle are behind him, the Tyrell nobles looking horrified as they take in the scene. Crakehall moves forward and holds out his arms. 

“A wager, my lords, they’ve both agreed.”

Aerion scoffs, “I have not–”

Fire races across your arm as you stumble back with a gasp. Donel had taken advantage of your distraction. Blood weeps down your arm, slickens your palms around your blade’s handle as you turn to meet him.

You raise your sword just as his bears down on you; the clash echoes through the sky. The sparks burn against your skin as you slide your blade against his, pushing him back and stepping around him. 

You can hear them, ordering you to stop. To obey your masters. But Donel is not stopping, and neither can you. Not with him bearing down on you. You duck under a particularly harsh swing and barrel forward. 

Your shoulder catches him in the gut; his armor bruises the bone violently. But you drop your sword, wrap your arms around his torso, and slam him into the ground. He’s disoriented, groaning as he tries to raise his sword. You knock his arm to the side. 

You hear them approaching, rushing to stop you. You slip the dagger from your waist and pierce it into his throat until the blade is touching the dirt beneath him. 

When you look up, it is Aerion staring down at you, eyes wide and face pale as he stares down at the Tyrell guard. Adora is just behind him, cheeks nearly green as she takes in the blood. Your other princes are staring at you from beside Crakehall, resigned expressions on each of their faces. 

“What have you done?” Aerion demands, voice a harsh whisper. 

Your eyes narrow as Donel’s blood pools into your hands. “Freed myself.”

Maekar paces before you, muttering angrily to himself. Baelor is seated in the grand chair that sits in the largest room of Summerhall. The Tyrell lord is beside him. Crakehall and Aerion stand behind you. 

“This is completely unacceptable!” Tyrell screeches, face a bloody red. “A woman–”

“Defeated your man.” It is Aerion who steps in. Sneering at the fat lord. It is not in your defense; rather, you are an extension of himself, and he must make sure he is never perceived as weak. 

“Killed a fucking lord’s son,” Maekar bites back, finally stopping his pacing. “And you,” he glares at Crakehall. “You let this happen! I ought to strip you of your titles and–”

“Brother,” Baelor calls calmly behind you. His voice is soft, commanding, but you can see the underlying disappointment in his expression. Maekar just barely holds himself back, shaking his head with a scoff. 

He turns his mismatched gaze to you, and you straighten. “What happened?”

“Ser Donel implied that no fight I had won had been won honorably. I asked what he would wager. He offered his life.” A long, cruel smile curls on your lips.

“He lost,” you bite out, the blood still warm on your skin. 

“I want her head!” Tyrell demands, stomping his foot. Adora flushes at her father’s behavior. 

“Father, perhaps–”

“No,” he bellows, storming toward you. Crakehall takes a step forward and glares down at the man. Tyrell flounders until he’s whirling back around on Baelor. “I want her bloody head.”

Baelor’s fingers find his temple, and he rubs slowly, grimacing at the headache you’re sure this is causing. “It was an agreed-upon wager, my lord. You would have me execute her for winning?”

Tyrell nods eagerly. “She must have cheated in some way. Must have—”

“Ser Wyght does not need to cheat to win,” Aerion steps in. His tone is cold, his head tilting as he slinks closer toward Tyrell.

The little lord quiets down, floundering as he backs up. “She beat your man because he was not good enough. You do not get to take her head for that. But, perhaps, I should take your tongue,” his voice a hiss, threat heavy in every step he takes. 

“Aerion!” Maekar barks; he rushes forward and jerks him away from Lord Tyrell. 

“Her hand then,” Tyrell orders, and you stiffen; that hadn’t been a possibility you’d considered. “So she might never kill one of her betters again.” 

Baelor looks over at you, and you can see him consider it. A way to keep everyone happy.

Everyone except the low-born it affects.

“Your grace,” you step forward. “I beg you not to take my hand. What life would I be able to lead as a cripple? Surely naught but a vile one. Instead, I beg that you strip me of my titles.”

“What?” Aerion snaps, whirling around on you. 

You fall into a kneeling position before Baelor. “I no longer deserve to be on the prince’s guard. I am not worthy of it. Banish me from hearth and hall, my lord. It is what I deserve.”

Baelor looks over to lord Tyrell, who slowly narrows his eyes at you. “No,” Aerion’s voice is loud; it cracks through the hall as he stalks toward you. “Get up,” he orders. “Now.”

“Very well,” his uncle interrupts. “Ser Wyght, you have dishonored House Targaryen and House Tyrell through your brazen actions tonight. You are to be removed from the prince’s guard, banished from Summerhall, and lose all rights and privileges associated with your former title.”

Aerion is frozen beside you, glaring up at his uncle as he rises from his seat. “And her knighthood?” Tyrell demands. 

Baelor shoots him a weary look. “I believe I have satisfied you quite enough, tonight, Lord Tyrell. Do not test the limits of my hospitality.”

Tyrell’s jaw snaps shut at that. He hesitates beside you, as if he wants to strike you. You remain kneeling until the royals have all filed out of the hall.

Only Aerion remains beside you. When you finally stand, his eyes are red, sharp teeth bared in fury. 

“Is this what you wanted? You would sacrifice a roof over your head, a purpose, a place at my side just to go back to your elm trees… just to be free of me?” You stare down at him, that knife he’d buried in your chest finally falling to the floor. 

“No,” you tell him softly. “I am a hedge knight, my prince. And you may dress me in your fine armor and decadent embellishments, but that does not change who I am. I did not do this for you. I did this for myself.”

Aerion stares up at you, his hands balled at his sides. After a moment, he just steps back, his glare burning nothing but hatred into you as he storms from the hall. Your shoulders go lax with relief as you finally let yourself take a breath. 

“So,” you jump, having forgotten Crakehall was still there. “This was your plan, then?”

You nod, turning toward him. “Free of my oath and kept my honor,” you tell him. He nods, smiling, but there is something softer in his eyes. Something tired. 

“You are my only decent opponent here. I will miss sparring with you.” He holds out his arm, and you offer a small smile. 

“And I you,” you tell him, clapping your hand around his arm. He holds it there for a moment before stepping back. 

“Collect your things, Ser. You’re to be free of Summerhall before dawn.” You give him a firm nod before brushing past him. 

“Ready to stretch your legs, girl?” You whisper, smoothing your hand over your mare’s mane. She huffs impatiently, nudging at you. You let out a small laugh, tightening the straps of her saddle. 

“You have surprised me.” You jump, heart pounding as you turn. Maekar stands behind you, hands tucked behind his back, nose wrinkled at the smell of the stables. “I thought you to be nothing more than a stupid hedge knight.”

Your brows furrow as you frown. “I’ve been trying to think of ways to rid you from my son’s side. I failed to realize we had such similar goals,” he admits. He takes one step forward, and you step back, shoulder pressing into your mare’s side. Her hoof kicks impatiently at the hay. 

“When you first ordered me here… I told you. I told you that Aerion did not have me; I did not wish to stay. Regardless of my relations to your son, that has never changed.”

He pauses, eyes narrowing. “I see that, now. I also see you still haven’t learned how to address your betters.” You almost smile at that, but his expression remains severe. “Leave Summerhall, cease haunting my son’s door, go live the life of a hedge knight. If he comes looking,” he holds out a pouch, gold clinking inside, “do not come back.”

You stare down at the gold. It would be good to have something to give you a running start on the road. But your stomach burns at the thought of being forced into another Targaryen’s debt.

“You have my word,” you swear, ignoring the gold as you swing your leg over the saddle. “The hedge calls me, my prince. I hope to never see you again.”

He scoffs and tucks away the gold. “You’re going to have your fucking tongue taken one of these days.” You don’t bother responding, merely leading your mare out of her stall. The moment she’s free of the stables, she takes off at a run. 

You race through the courtyard, leaning forward and letting the wind bite at your cheeks as the long, open road stands just before you. 

Just over your shoulder, standing behind the window of the chambers you had once lain in, Aerion watches. He watches as your mare leaves her hoof marks buried deep in the grass as she takes you away. He can see the smile on your face as you turn from the stables and out the gate of Summerhall. 

This was not supposed to happen. 

You were supposed to fight him. Bite back at him. Each insult was meant to stoke the fire between you, not quell it completely. Aerion glares through the window, ignoring the way his heart is racing, the strange feeling squeezing his chest. 

This was not over. 

“–Of course I told her what a foolish endeavor that would be. A velvet headpiece- can you imagine?” Adora laughs, but it trails off as she turns toward Aerion. His gaze is distant, fingers spinning his blade on the table as his leg jumps up and down. 

His jaw is gritted so tightly, she’s surprised she doesn’t hear a crack. Adora lets out a low sigh and sinks back into her chair. She props her head in her hand, just watching him. He has been like this since that knight of his left. 

The woman-knight was a clever one, Adora could admit. Admirable, even. She brushed through the men of Summerhall and wove her threads until she had them giving her exactly what she had wanted. 

She remains a knight and is now free from the prince. Adora had not met a woman like that before– one who could simply use brute force to get what she wanted and still know how to dig her nails into a man. 

Adora had always been good at giving men what they wanted. The face they wanted to see. The soft, innocent look that made a man want to protect her. It was boring, irritating, and tiring, but she did it anyway. 

At first, she thought it was working with the prince. He was gentle, decent enough, and would guide her through the gardens with a soft touch on her arm. His hand had tightened of late, words clipped and temper flaring at every little thing. 

He’d thrown steaming soup at a maid the night before for serving him wine from his right side rather than his left. 

The poor girl’s screech still hadn’t left Adora’s head, nor had the smell of her flesh burning. 

Aerion had not apologized nor explained himself. She was not even sure why he had agreed to join her for a light lunch in the gardens. He had not heard a word she’d said since they’d sat down together. 

No, his hand just kept spinning that blade of his, sharp eyes boring into the hedge like he wanted to set it on fire.

Perhaps all hedges were an insult to him now. 

Adora let out a bored sigh, gaze drifting to the roses. The gardens at Highgarden were far more impressive and better kept than Summerhall. The gardeners tried, of course, but nothing could ever beat the beauty of a Tyrell spring. 

“What were you prattling on about?” Aerion suddenly snaps, eyes ripping from the hedge to Adora. 

She bites back a scowl at his brusqueness and paints on the soft smile instead. But that only seems to make him angrier, knuckles going white around the blade. Her heart races just a little as she glances down at it. 

“Nothing of import, my prince. Did you have anything you wanted to share?”

Aerion’s eyes narrow before he slumps back into his chair, releasing the blade. “No,” he bites out sullenly. 

Ah, so he wants a fight. He wants a woman who is just as rough and cruel as he is. Well, it is not a mask Adora has ever tried. She doesn’t have much interest in it, either. He could go fetch his knight for that if he wanted a fight so badly. 

Adora highly doubted the woman would ever come back to this cursed hall again. 

At least, if she had gotten one thing out of this dreaded visit, that woman-knight got rid of Donel for her. She was growing tired of his stench, and acquiring Tears of Lys was such an effort to rid herself of one guard. 

Aerion rises suddenly to his feet, chair teetering behind him. Adora watches him with wide eyes, but he says nothing, simply stalks back inside. Crakehall, his temporary guard, follows behind him. There’s a hollowness to the older man’s eyes that has been present since the night of the wager. 

A pet, Aerion had called the knight. Laughable, truly, for all the pain she left behind in pursuit of her freedom. 

Adora turned toward one of the maids flitting about, “Some wine?” she requested, planning to drink the rest of this horrid afternoon away. 

“Fuck off with the flowers,” Maekar snaps, sending one of the maids scurrying off. Baelor chuckles behind him, and it makes his shoulders rise with irritation. 

“Do weddings not make you feel festive, brother?” He asks, coming up beside him. Of course, ever the better brother, he offers each passing servant a nod of acknowledgement. They’re the fucking help; what does it matter if he’s aware of their existence? 

“What do you think?” Maekar bites out, shooting Baelor a glare. 

Baelor nods his head in understanding before his expression turns more solemn. Maekar knows what he’s thinking about. Who he’s thinking about. Weddings always make the brothers think of them. The wives lost. 

Maekar should’ve gone before Dyanna. She would have done a better job with their children; that’s for certain. 

His lips curl as he looks over at Aerion. They’re in the bloody sept, preparing for his wedding, and he’s just sulking. Playing with that damn dagger of his and glaring at the floor. “I could kill him,” Maekar grumbles. 

“He’s your son,” Baelor chides. 

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Maekar snaps. “He’s never once listened unless it’s suited him. Never done what I told him to without putting up a fight.” Maekar shakes his head, trying and failing to reconcile the cruel man in front of him with the boy who’d once loved fishing with his brothers. Who’d once followed right behind Maekar, always stepping on his heels and smiling up at him. 

“He’s a prince, and a Targaryen. Rare is it that our men are bred to be reasonable,” Baelor explains away. 

Maekar shakes his head. For a while, he was reminded of that boy. Aerion was cruel; he had been for a long time. But when that woman had been here, he’d been calmer. Just enough not to have a maid crying out every few minutes because Aerion’s temper had flared. They’d managed to get through dinners without vying for each other’s throats. 

“It was a stupid idea.”

“What?” Baelor asks, peering curiously at Maekar. “The engagement?”

Maekar shakes his head, watching as Aerion pushes his foot out, tripping a servant passing by. They slam hard into the stone ground; blood gushes from their nose. Even that does not get a smile from Aerion. 

“Sending her away.”

Baelor stiffens at the mention of the knight. He’d been irritated that night by that idiot Tyrell’s audacity to demand something of a prince.

And because they all realized they’d been played for a fool.

Every one of them had fallen right where she wanted, and they hadn’t punished her but handed her what she’d demanded on a silver platter. 

“Tyrell would not have let her leave without something being stripped from her. Better her title than her head.”

“Should have told him to fuck off,” Maekar bites out, and Baelor lets out an amused scoff. “Or, taken her hand and kept her here. Maybe he wouldn’t be so foul.”

Baelor finally looked over at Aerion, frowning at the boy’s sullen disposition— the unusual sink to his shoulders. Where there should have been a cruel fire in his eyes, there was ice. Something cold and lonely, lashing out at anyone who got too close. 

“You’d told me you were concerned about his attachment to her. That it was better–”

“I know what I fucking said,” Maekar interrupts. “I was wrong.”

Baelor goes still, slowly turning and giving Maekar a disbelieving look. “Say that again?”

Maekar shoots him a sharp glare. “Fuck off.”

Baelor shakes his head with a huff. “Rare it is to hear you admit that you’re not all-knowing.”

Maekar just frowns, eyes not leaving Aerion. It was hard enough dealing with Daeron. His son that was a year away from drinking himself into an early grave. Now, Aerion was miserable, lashing out at everyone and everything. His last hope had been Aegon. And then that hedge knight had stolen him. 

Fucking hedge knights. 

“Stand up straight,” his father hisses at him. Aerion is obstinately deaf, not sparing his father a look as he stands before the septon. 

A dry run for the real day. Servants are still flitting around, setting up flowers and banners of Targaryen and Tyrell colors between the columns of the sept. Aerion sneers at that; it should just be the Targaryen dragon flying high. What does it matter who the woman was before she was married?

But it’s clear that Lord Tyrell is inclined to fits when he does not get what he wants, so neither his father nor uncle objected to it. A cowardly move, in his opinion. It’s unbecoming of prospective leaders to give in so quickly to little lords’ demands. 

Aerion shifts impatiently on his feet and glances over his shoulder. Looking for someone to share in his misery with. Or just a pretty face to look up at. But she’s not there. It’s not her staring back at him but Crakehall. The old bastard who’d been more than happy to help send her off. 

He’d nearly taken his head for it, only his father had stopped him. And then his uncle’s threat of what would happen should he continue to threaten the captain of his guard. No real promise had been given, but Aerion hadn’t been entertained enough to continue. 

After months of her standing just behind him, it’s still jarring to see someone else. And the irritation still hasn’t eased. She had run, abandoned her oath, left him for a life on the road like some…. 

Like she was nothing more than small folk, a hedge knight. She had reduced herself back to the dirt.

He could have given her more than that. He would have made her more than that. But it doesn’t matter how much you train or groom a mutt. They’ll always lack pedigree, always go back to scrounging in alleys for scraps of someone else’s food. 

Aerion sucks his teeth. He’s better off without her. Skilled fighter or not, she had been far too obstinate. And he had only let her get away with it because of what she provided in his bedroom. Even then, he could find any common wench to replace her. 

The sept doors open and Adora enters on her father’s arm. 

Or… he supposes his wife could replace that. 

His lips curl at the thought. Adora has no bite. She’s all softness and quiet words. Each look into her wide eyes makes him sick to his stomach and long for a bow. Since he’s met her, he’s had the inexplicable urge to go hunting for does. 

His throat tightens the closer she gets. The Targaryen cloak weighs heavy on his shoulders as he shifts on his feet. She smiles up at him and his brow furrows, imagining someone else scowling down at him instead. 

The septon is speaking, nothing more than empty words as they rehearse. Adora stands before him, and he reaches forward, unclasping the Tyrell cloak from her dress. Without thinking, Aerion removes the cloak from his shoulders; Adora turns, waits patiently. 

His hands freeze as the cloak hangs just above her. He stands there too long, and she gives him a curious look. “What are you doing?” Maekar hisses. “Put the damn thing on her.”

The cloak slips from his fingers, and Adora frowns down at it. No, he would not be forced into this marriage he did not want. He would not allow his father to dictate his life as he saw fit. He was a prince. He was a dragon; he did not have to marry Tyrell filth if he did not want to. 

Aerion glared down at the cloak and stormed past her. His father called his name behind him, but he did not stop. He needed out of the sept, away from the flowers and jolly festivities. He did not want Adora. Did not want her for a wife or even as someone to warm his bed. 

There was a looming shadow behind him, a taller woman with a colder gaze that was stuck in his head. He would never marry her, of course not. She was nothing more than common filth. But she had been so brazen as to think she could leave behind a dragon. As if she had any say in the arrangement. 

Left him, his side, his luxuries for…. Dirt. Mud. To sleep under fucking Elm trees. 

He hated her for thinking she could leave. But he truly hated her for leaving him. 

Aerion sat at his desk, glaring at the chaise where she had spent most of her nights with him. His hand tightened around his Valyrian dagger. He thought of what it had felt like the first time she had fought him. That animalistic anger on her face, the brute strength as she had thrown him to the ground. 

The warmth of her blood pooling down his hand when he had stabbed her. 

A part of him ached for that warmth. Perhaps the part of him that wished to take her head for finding such a clever way out of her oath to him. He had won her, without having to cheat like she always accused him. And then she had cheated her way out. 

The hypocrisy of it all makes him want to feel the dagger sinking into her flesh once more. He lets out a huff, slamming the tip of his blade into the desk. 

The room to his door creaked open, and he stood. Who would be brazen enough to walk into his chambers?

A head of brown hair peeked around the edge of the door, and Aerion let out an annoyed sigh. He would let his dagger find its home in Adora’s heart if he were not saving it for someone else. 

“Out,” he snapped, voice cold as he picked up his dagger once more. 

Adora let out a sharp scoff and made her way into the room. She’d removed the bridal gown and was back in her typical Tyrell attire. Entirely too exposing and lacking enough protection from the elements for his taste. Though it’s not as if she could don some armor, she’d fall beneath the weight. 

“I am afraid you have no power to command me,” she mutters, eyes roving over his chambers. Her lips curl at the mess of wine and bread on the floor from where he’d thrown it at a maid. 

Aerion’s brows turn in, and his head shoots up. “I am your prince and–”

“And my nothing,” she cut in. Her smile was sharp, almost cruel. Aerion reared back; there was no wide look to her eyes now. Nothing soft about her as she let her hatred become increasingly clear. Obstinate little–

“I have discussed matters with my father and your uncle. You leaving me, even while rehearsing, was humiliating. An insult to House Tyrell,” her words are hollow, not her own. Just a script she’s pushing forth to get what she wants. “The engagement is off, you are free of me and I of you.”

Aerion sneers at that. Why was everyone trying to be free of him?

Adora turns on her heel, and he surges to his feet. Her brow raises impatiently as rage burns hot in his chest. At her obstinance and disrespect, at everyone being so eager to escape his presence. They did not get to leave until he decided that they could. 

When he does not find anything to truly voice his anger, she casts her eyes to the sky. “I pray that you find another knight, soon enough. Though I doubt anyone will be able to replace her. I, for my part, will not spend the rest of my life standing in another woman’s shadow. Goodbye, my prince.”

She flicked her hair over her shoulder and stalked from his room, the smell of roses trailing behind her. Aerion revolted against the scent, longing for something more earthy, something metallic and rough. 

He sank onto the chaise, feeling the indent of where she had been. He threw his dagger blindly and watched as it buried itself in the wall above the hearth. Someday soon, it would be finding its home. 

You were filthy and smelled worse than a pigsty– and you couldn’t get the smile from your face if you tried. 

Your hair was in knotted braids as you leaned back against the rough bark of an Elm tree. Your mare stood at your side, lightly grazing the grass as you took a break. Dirt had caked itself onto you as a second skin after a week of sleeping in fields and forests. 

You would find a stream soon enough, bathe yourself, and allow yourself to be marginally less filthy. But you still had not found yourself missing the hot, lavender-oiled baths of Summerhall. Or the warmth of someone else’s hearth or presence beside you. 

The quiet was, perhaps, one of the best sounds you’d ever heard. Nothing but birds in the trees, the wind in your hair, and your mare huffing at you when you stopped for too long. The Targaryens had kept her locked up for as long as you were at Summerhall. You did not get to leave the halls, and neither did she. Standing still for too long made both of your legs itch. 

Reaching down into your satchel, you pull out two apples. You sink your teeth in, let the juice run down your hand, as you hold out the other one to her. She lets out a little huff before you feel her soft nose brushing against your palm. Her teeth barely graze your skin as she takes it from you. 

The sound of her chewing beside you is infinitely better than listening to royal silverware clink against porcelain. 

When you both finish your brief and too-small lunch, you get to your feet with a low groan. There is an ache forming in your back from too many nights sleeping in the dirt. Had you the money for it, you would find yourself a decent enough inn to stay at for a night. 

As it was, you had rejected Targaryen gold and found yourself with a lighter purse than you’d ever had before the Targaryens stole you away. Perhaps you could find a farmer to do some work for, just for a few nights. 

It’s rare that the men are eager to let a woman do their jobs. Occasionally, though, you find the rare widow whose husband is long dead. They’re oft eager for a pair of strong hands that doesn’t come attached to a night of reckless abandon with her body. 

With a sigh, you mount your mare and motion her forward. She takes off at an eager cantor, huffing beneath you. You’d stopped too long for her liking, apparently. Misty never had taken well to the life of a lazy royal’s show horse. She was just as eager for the rough and tumble road as you were. 

You take care to watch out for any modest homesteads that look as if they might need an extra hand. But the road before you will be empty for many miles. Your best hope will simply be hunting some hare for your dinner until you can find a little more civilization. 

Doesn’t sound so bad. 

With a small grin, you urge Misty forward once more, and she takes off at a gallop, eager beneath you. It only takes a day more of riding for you to find anything of import. A smaller lord celebrating his first son’s name day with a tourney. 

When you go to enlist, you’re, of course, stopped by the typical sneer and sharp “A woman is no knight.” Which is when the letter Lyonel had once given you comes in handy. With the Baratheons’ seal on the edge, no snivelling man could deny your knighthood nor your entrance. 

“Off with you,” the man mutters, motioning you toward the keep. You nod, making your way through the tents of grander men with finer armor, before you find yourself a decent enough oak to sleep under for the night. You do not have to win the tourney– just one tilt will be enough for you to pad your pockets and fetch some more supplies. 

You tie Misty to the branch of the oak, ignoring her sharp snorting. “You will have plenty of fun tomorrow, girl,” you chide her. “Save some energy.”

With a low sigh, you throw down your threadbare blanket and lie back against the roots of the oak. Above you, the stars are shining so bright you feel as if you could touch them. They’re nearly blinding, a far better sight than the arched roofs of Summerhall. 

A small smile curls on your face as you let your eyes flutter shut, the promise of tomorrow easing you to sleep. 

The joust goes well the next day. You manage to make it through two tilts before being unseated. From that, you earn just enough to start heading toward your next stop. It has been far too long since you have enjoyed the Laughing Storm’s presence. 

Those damnable Targaryens are covetous and greedy with their toys. You had not even been allowed to get a raven to him. Aerion said it was simply an assurance of confidence– that you were not giving away royal secrets. 

You suspect it is because he knows that Lyonel gets to see a part of you that Aerion never has. But Aerion has never given you the reason or confidence to be vulnerable around him. Especially at the end of your time with him. 

If anything, he’d only ever proven Lyonel right about his distaste toward the royals. 

It will be a long, hard ride to see him again; hopefully your winnings will be enough to see you through. 

The week passes by quickly enough. You spend most days riding until you fear for Misty’s constitution. She would push herself to exhaustion if you didn’t stop her. Soon the roads shift from packed dirt to a softer silt. 

She seems to become more energized when she smells the salt of the sea on the wind. You, yourself, start to feel like a person again rather than some creature slinking through the wilderness. 

The closer you get to Lyonel’s towering fortress, the faster Misty gets. She’s practically racing forth as you come across the gate to his ancestral home. 

When you had first started visiting Lyonel, the guards had not been kind. You do not blame them, of course. Their lord’s safety is paramount. But by this point in your life, the moment they see a bedraggled hedge knight riding up, they’re shouting “Open the gates!”

You nod to each of them in turn as you ride forth. “I’ll send word of your arrival ahead to Lord Baratheon,” one of the guards says. He leaves his post for a moment to catch the attention of a page and send him scurrying ahead of you. 

You let out a small chuckle at the boy’s haste to comply. Lyonel certainly brings up much more passionate, disciplined charges than the Targaryens’ little noble boys. 

Misty is eager beneath you, huffing and fighting against your hold on her lead. “Calm, girl,” you mutter, running your hand across her mane. It would not do well for her to go bolting through Storm’s End courtyard and barrel over a lady. 

As you reach the inner yard of the fortress, the page is rushing back, face flushed and chest heaving. “I will take your mare, my lady,” he offers with a hand shaking from exertion. 

You send him a flat glare that has him swallowing roughly. “Apologies, Ser. Please allow me to take your mount?” He asks, voice rising in pitch as he cowers.