MI MASCOTA CABRA

The therapist flips a page in the file on his lap, pen tapping once against the margin before he looks up.

“How have you been, Dexter?”

A brief pause.

Dexter offers a small smile.

“Never been better.”

It comes easily. Smooth. Unforced.

The therapist studies him for a second, then nods.

“That’s good to hear. I understand there have been some recent developments. A promotion.”

Dexter nods once.

“Yeah.” He exhales lightly through his nose. “It’s been… good. Unexpected. I thought I was going to lose my job for a while there.”

He leans back slightly in his chair, shoulders easing just enough to suggest comfort.

“But it worked out,” he continues. “Everything just kind of… shifted. Fast. But—” a faint shrug “—good fast.”

The therapist’s pen stills.

“And I hear you’ve been doing more active field work.”

“Yeah.”

“How has that adjustment been?”

There’s a pause—not long, but noticeable.

Dexter’s gaze drifts slightly past the therapist, settling somewhere near the edge of the bookshelf behind him. Not unfocused. Just… redirected.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s still work.”

Simple. Contained.

He doesn’t elaborate.

Because explaining it would require something else entirely.

Before, the job gave him structure. Routine. A set of expectations he could follow. It was something he could perform correctly.

But it never felt like him.

With Fisk—

it’s different.

There’s no resistance between what he is and what he’s doing. No constant adjustment. No quiet correction running beneath every action.

He doesn’t have to suppress anything.

Doesn’t have to question it.

And when he puts on the suit—

he knows it isn’t his.

But that doesn’t seem to matter.

Something aligns anyway.

Clean. Precise.

Like stepping into something that was always meant to fit.

The therapist’s voice cuts through the silence, pulling him back.

“And how is your support system looking these days?”

Dexter’s eyes shift back to him.

“Support system?”

The therapist glances down briefly at his notes.

“Last time we spoke, you mentioned someone. Juli, I believe?”

A pause.

Small. Controlled.

For a split second, something else tries to surface—

a different name. a different face. someone sitting in a locked room, waiting where he left her.

His actual support system.

But he can’t say that.

Not here.

Not when her name is sitting somewhere in a report—typed up, filed, circulated. Missing. Searched for.

“Yeah,” Dexter says.

His gaze drops slightly—not to his hands, not in any obvious way.

Just off to the side. Toward the corner of the room where the light fades a little.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

The pen moves again.

“And how has that been going?”

Dexter inhales quietly.

“We’re… living together now.”

The words come out steady. Measured.

“I don’t know,” he adds, a faint smile forming. “It’s different.”

His thumb presses once against his index finger. Subtle. Grounding.

“But I like it.”

The smile lingers a moment longer.

“I actually look forward to going home now.”

There’s something quieter in that line. Less constructed.

“Knowing she’s there.”

The therapist nods slowly.

“That sounds like a positive development.”

Dexter nods.

“It is.”

“Any difficulties adjusting to the change?”

Another pause.

Brief.

Something flickers behind Dexter’s eyes—

a window forced open just enough to slip through. cold air rushing in thirteen floors up. your foot already on the ledge—too far, too fast—

his hand catching your ankle.

“It took some adjustment,” he says. “At first.”

Then another memory.

The front door. The soft, careful click of a lock being tested in the middle of the night. Metal shifting—too deliberate to be accidental.

Your hands.

Working at it.

The moment he caught you— you fought.

Not controlled. Not measured.

Always Wild.

Always Desperate.

“Some… resistance.”

And later—

the closet.

Dark. Tight. Contained.

Your body twisting against his grip as he dragged you toward it— feet catching against the floor, trying to find purchase— hands pulling back, resisting, slipping.

“No—please—”

Your voice breaking. Promises spilling too fast to hold shape.

“I won’t do it again—I won’t—I swear—”

It doesn’t change anything.

Doesn’t alter the outcome.

The door opens.

Space—small, suffocating.

He pushes you in anyway.

Your body folding in on itself, forced into the cramped dark— shoulders hitting the wall, knees pulled in without choice—

The door shuts with a slam.

The next time he opens it—

you recoil before he even touches you.

Smaller.

Quieter.

The way you learned.

The way you stopped trying—

at least for a while.

The images pass as quickly as they come.

A small shrug follows.

“But it’s fine now. She understands how things work.”

The phrasing lands cleanly.

Resolved.

“We’ve adjusted.”

The therapist watches him carefully. A beat longer than before.

Then he nods.

“Good. That’s important.”

Dexter nods back.

Silence settles between them for a moment.

Not uncomfortable.

Just quiet.

Dexter’s gaze shifts again—this time deliberately—to the clock on the wall.

4:55 PM.

His posture changes slightly. Not enough to draw attention. Just a subtle straightening, a tightening of focus.

The therapist notices.

“Need to be somewhere?”

Dexter looks back at him, that same faint smile returning.

“Just keeping track of time.”

A beat.

“Busy day.”

The therapist closes the file with a soft, final sound.

“Well, from what I’m seeing, you’re maintaining well. No immediate concerns.”

Dexter nods once.

Of course.

Everything is functioning.

Everything is under control.

“Let’s schedule a follow-up next week,” the therapist adds.

“Sounds good.”

They both stand.

Dexter’s movements are smooth, practiced. His hand meets the therapist’s in a brief, firm shake. Measured. Appropriate.

Then he turns toward the door.

Already thinking ahead.

Not about the session.

Not about Fisk.

About home.

A quiet space.

A closed door.

Someone waiting where he left them.

He wonders.

If you miss him like he does. 

You stare at the picture on the wall.

Black and white. A race car frozen mid-motion, the number 43 stamped against its side.

Nothing worth noting. Nothing worth seeing.

And yet—

lately, you keep finding yourself looking at it.

Longer than you should.

Long enough for the lines to blur. For the grain of the photograph to become something almost textured, almost meaningful.

Maybe it’s because there’s nothing else to look at.

Maybe it’s because of how many hours you’ve spent locked in that white-tiled bathroom while he’s at work. How the light there never changes. How the walls reflect everything back at you until even your own thoughts start to echo.

Maybe that’s why this— this dull, lifeless picture—

feels like something.

Or maybe—

you just don’t want to look at him.

A few feet away from you, he moves around the kitchen like everything is normal.

Like this is normal.

The soft clink of utensils. The low hum under his breath—tuneless, absent, casual. It drifts through the apartment like background noise in a life that doesn’t belong to you.

Your jaw tightens.

You used to like that sound.

That hum.

You used to like the way he smiled, too—soft, a little awkward, something that felt… safe.

Now—

it grates.

Every note of it.

Every second of it.

Because your arm still aches where his fingers dug in. Because your ribs still remember the pressure. Because you can still feel the dark, tight space of the closet pressed into your bones if you think about it for too long.

Eleven days.

Eleven days in this apartment.

Eleven days of him.

No radio. No television. No phone. No laptop.

No outside.

Just—

him.

His voice. His face. His hands.

Him. Him. Him.

“Y/N.”

The sound snaps through your thoughts like something cutting clean through water.

You flinch—just slightly.

You hadn’t even heard him come up behind you.

Your shoulders tense before you can stop them.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You don’t turn immediately.

“Yeah,” you say.

A beat.

“I’m fine.”

No, you think.

But it doesn’t matter.

Saying anything else would be like talking to a wall. A perfectly structured, well-meaning wall that listens and then rearranges your words into something else entirely.

He follows your gaze to the picture.

“Do you like it?”

You look at it again.

The race car. The number. The empty, frozen motion of it.

“Does it have a story?” you ask.

A small pause.

“Not really,” he says. “It came with the frame.”

Of course it did.

“It fits the apartment,” he adds. “So I left it be.”

You nod.

“…Interesting.”

It isn’t.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, your eyes drift—slowly, deliberately—away from the picture.

Across the apartment.

And without meaning to—

you start cataloging.

Couch 2009. Sleek black leather with wooden legs gives a homely structure. Price: 900 USD with tax.

Dining table set, 2011. Minimalist oak surface, paired chairs with reinforced backs. Designed for small spaces, practical elegance. Price: 1,200 USD.

Coffee table, 2008. Low-set glass top with metal frame. Functional. Replaceable. Price: 300 USD.

TV stand, 2010. Flat, dark veneer. Hidden storage compartments. No visible clutter. Price: 450 USD.

Standing lamp, 2007. Warm light diffusion. Fabric shade. Meant to soften the room. Price: 120 USD.

Chandelier, 2012. Modern geometric design. Clean lines. Decorative without being personal. Price: 700 USD.

Overhead kitchen light, 2009. Bright. Clinical. Efficient. Price: 80 USD.

You’ve seen all of them.

Every single one.

In the catalogs he leaves you with.

In the bathroom.

Every morning when he locks the door.

At first, you read them just to pass time.

Then—

you turned it into a game.

Memorize.

Compare.

Match.

When he lets you out, you look around and try to find them. Spot the pieces you’ve seen. Confirm them. Like proof that the world still connects somewhere, somehow.

It keeps your mind moving.

Keeps it from sinking.

But it doesn’t fix the other part.

The part that notices—

none of this means anything to him.

Not really.

The couch isn’t worn in. The table doesn’t hold memories. The space doesn’t carry history.

No signs of visitors. No traces of shared moments. No evidence that anyone has ever lived here.

It’s all just—

arranged.

Placed.

Selected to look like something.

A home.

But without these things—

it would be empty.

A shell.

And even with them—

it still is.

Something shifts beside you.

Then—

his hand settles over your arm.

You go still.

Not dramatic. Not sudden.

Just—

still.

“Dinner’s ready,” he says, voice softer now.

Close.

Too close.

You nod.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Because that’s easier.

Because that’s safer.

Because right now—

that’s what works.

You sit at the dining table before he calls you.

Waiting.

The plate in front of you is still empty, the surface of it too clean, too pale under the overhead light. Your fingers rest loosely against the edge of the table, tracing nothing in particular—just something to do, something to anchor yourself to while the sound of movement carries faintly from the kitchen.

Cabinets opening.

Closing.

The soft scrape of a pan.

Normal sounds.

Domestic.

They don’t feel normal.

They never do.

Footsteps approach.

You straighten slightly without meaning to.

Dexter steps into view, carrying two plates—one in each hand. There’s something almost practiced in the way he moves, careful without looking like he’s trying to be.

He sets your plate down first.

Then his.

“Dinner,” he says, light—almost pleased with himself. “I added your favorite.”

Your eyes drop to the plate.

Carrots. Broccoli. Chicken.

Separated.

Not just casually—deliberately. Three neat portions, each kept from touching the other, arranged with a kind of quiet precision that feels… intentional.

Observed.

A small smile pulls at your lips.

You don’t think about it. It just happens.

Because it feels like you should.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He watches that—your reaction—closely. Not in a way that’s obvious, but enough. Something in his shoulders loosens when you smile, just slightly, like a tension you didn’t notice was there finally easing.

He sits across from you.

And that’s when you notice his plate.

Rice. Chicken. Vegetables.

All mixed together.

No separation. No order. Just… combined.

You don’t comment on it.

You don’t ask.

You pick up your fork instead and take a piece of chicken.

It’s warm.

Seasoned well—balanced in a way that feels almost frustrating, because—

He can cook.

That’s the one thing you’ll give him.

He really can.

A small hum escapes you before you can stop it.

You freeze for half a second after—like maybe you shouldn’t have made that sound at all.

But it’s already out.

Dexter catches it immediately.

“Is it good?” he asks, a little too quickly. There’s something expectant in it. Subtle—but there.

You nod.

“It’s really good.”

That does it.

He smiles.

Not the one you hate.

Not the one that unsettles you.

Something lighter. Almost relieved.

“Well,” he says, a small exhale slipping into it, “I try.”

“Don’t worry,” you add, quieter. “I like it.”

And that—more than anything—seems to settle him.

You keep eating.

Chicken first.

Then you move to the carrots.

Across from you, he starts talking.

About his day.

It begins normally enough—words slipping easily, like this is something he’s used to. Like this is what dinner is supposed to sound like.

“I had to go on-site today,” he says. “Active duty.”

You don’t respond.

You listen.

Because you don’t know what else to do.

“I made a few arrests,” he continues. “Had to wear the suit even.”

Your hand pauses mid-motion.

Just for a second.

Then continues.

He doesn’t notice.

Or he does—and doesn’t care.

He keeps going.

Detail by detail.

Casual.

Too casual.

“One of them tried to run,” he says, almost casually—but there’s something under it now, something a little more awake. “Bolted the second he saw me.”

You chew.

Slow.

Measured.

“I didn’t feel like chasing him,” he continues, a faint edge of amusement slipping in. “There was a wrench on the ground. Close enough.”

A small breath—like the memory settles into him.

“So I threw it.”

Your fork pauses for half a second.

Then keeps moving.

“Hit him clean,” he adds. “Dropped him right there.”

You don’t look up.

Your stomach doesn’t twist the way it used to.

“Another one fought back, though,” he goes on, shifting slightly in his seat. There’s more energy in him now—subtle, but there. “Didn’t know when to stop.”

A quiet exhale leaves him.

“I had to break his arm.”

Your fork scrapes lightly against the plate.

You keep your gaze down.

“It wasn’t even the first hit,” he says, almost thoughtful now. “Took a couple tries. He kept swinging.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“I hit him a few more times after that.”

Not rushed.

Not apologetic.

Just… said.

“By the time we got him in,” he adds, quieter now, like he’s finishing a thought he’s been holding onto, “he wasn’t saying much of anything.”

Silence settles for a beat.

And for a moment—

it almost feels like he needed to say it.

Like it had been sitting in him all day,

and now—

it isn’t anymore.

You swallow.

You’ve gotten used to it.

That’s the worst part.

You’ve gotten used to it so much that the information of a guy being bashed in the head with a wrench and getting beat up, wasn’t so bad in your head anymore. 

You move on to the carrots.

“Doesn’t that get you in trouble?” you ask quietly.

It slips out before you can stop it.

He pauses.

Just slightly.

Like the question interrupts something.

“Upper management handles it,” he says, a bit sharper now. “I’m Fisk’s man. They’re not going to pull me out over something like that.”

You go still for a second.

Fisk.

The name settles heavy.

Your mind catches on it, turning it over.

Because—

That doesn’t make sense.

Not with what you know.

Not with what you were told.

Not with what your dad said.

Daredevil was supposed to be—

Your gaze lifts.

Just slightly.

He’s eating like nothing’s wrong.

Like this is normal.

Like he’s normal.

You look back down.

You don’t say anything.

Because you don’t know what to say.

Because you don’t know what’s real anymore.

“Oh,” he says suddenly.

You flinch—just a little.

“Your carrots are gone.”

You hadn’t even noticed.

“Do you want some of mine?”

You open your mouth—

But he doesn’t wait.

“Here,” he says, already moving.

He picks the carrots out from his plate—separating them from the rice, from everything else—and places them neatly onto yours.

Carefully.

Like it matters.

“Eat,” he adds, softer now.

You stare at the plate for a second.

At the carrots.

At the way he made sure they weren’t touching anything else.

Your chest tightens.

Just a little.

Because—

How does that make sense?

How can someone talk about hurting people like that—

And then do this?

You can’t fit it together.

It doesn’t align.

You glance at him.

He’s watching you again.

Not intensely.

Just… waiting.

And you hate it.

You hate these moments— the quiet expectation in them. The way he looks at you like there’s something you’re supposed to give back. Like there’s a right response. A correct answer.

As if you would know what that is.

You don’t.

You don’t know what he wants. You don’t know what satisfies him. You don’t know how to read him anymore—if you ever really did.

The man you thought you knew—

feels like something you made up.

Something distant. Something that doesn’t exist in front of you now.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.

Say something.

You pick it up again, forcing movement into your hands, into your body—anything to break the stillness pressing in on you.

“…Thank you,” you say.

It comes out wrong.

Too quick.

Too breathless.

Your voice trembles at the edges, a small shudder slipping through it before you can stop it.

You hear it.

You know he hears it too.

And for a second, your chest tightens—waiting for the shift.

For irritation.

For correction.

For something.

But instead—

he smiles.

Soft.

Almost pleased.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

Like it’s simple.

Like it’s normal.

And that—

somehow—

makes it worse.

You sit on the edge of his bed.

Waiting.

The sound of running water fills the small space beyond the open bathroom door—steady, constant. You can see him from where you are. Just his back. Shoulders slightly hunched toward the sink as he brushes his teeth, movements precise, repetitive.

Familiar.

You look away before he can turn.

You don’t feel like looking at him.

At Ken.

Plastic. Polished. Something shaped to resemble a person without ever quite becoming one.

Your gaze drifts instead—to the window.

One knee pulls up to your chest, your arm wrapped loosely around it, grounding yourself in the position. Your other hand moves without thought, nails dragging lightly over the skin just above your chest. Back and forth. Back and forth. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to feel something.

The room is dim.

The bathroom light spills out behind him, but everything else is shadowed—washed in the cool blue glow of the city outside. Streetlights filter through the blinds in thin lines, striping the walls, the bed, your legs.

Across from you—

another window.

Parallel to yours.

You can see it through the narrow gaps in the blinds.

Warm.

Soft orange light.

There are plants lined along the sill. Small ones. Ceramic pots.

Not plain.

One shaped like a strawberry. Another—something rounded, maybe a gnome. There’s a cactus too, planted in a tiny sculpted pot of a cactus. They look almost decorative rather than practical.

It’s a little… corny.

The kind of thing you’d pause over in a store. Pick up. Turn over in your hands. Maybe even buy, just because it feels oddly charming.

You stare at it a little longer than you should.

You wonder who lives there.

An old lady, maybe.

Quiet. Collecting little things like that over time.

Or—

maybe not.

Maybe it’s a couple.

The thought forms slowly, slipping into place without effort.

A girl—bright in a way that fills space. An Artist. An enthusiastic one. The kind who leaves things around without thinking, who decorates not for symmetry but because it feels right. Trinkets. Small objects. Things that don’t match but somehow belong together.

And a boy.

A writer, maybe.

Someone who says he’s going to be something one day. A reporter. Someone important. Someone who’ll make it into places like the New York Bulletin.

You can almost see it.

Time moving forward.

The way things settle.

He falls in love with her—no, not all of her. A part of her. Something small. Something fleeting. A way she laughs, maybe. Or the way she looks at things like they matter more than they should.

And he holds onto that part.

Builds something around it.

He asks her to marry him because of it.

And she will resent him for it. For the rest of her life. 

Because love doesn’t prevent you from blaming one another.

He gets older. The beginnings of a receding hairline he doesn’t quite notice yet. They have a daughter—small, bright, looking just like her mother.

And the mother—

she loves her.

Too much.

In a way that turns something soft into something… tighter.

Like the child is something to hold onto.

Something to keep.

A doll.

A throw pillow.

Something that belongs.

Your hand stills.

Just for a second.

The thought lingers longer than it should.

Then—

the water stops.

The sudden quiet snaps something in you.

You blink, the image slipping away as the bathroom light cuts off and the door opens. Dexter steps out, the room dimming again into that soft blue.

“Ready for bed?” he asks.

You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” you say.

He moves around the room like this is normal.

Like this is routine.

The mattress dips as he climbs in beside you.

And your body tenses before you can stop it.

You remember.

How much you used to hate this.

Still do.

The way he pulls you in.

The weight of his arm around you—heavy, firm, impossible to ignore. The way your back presses against his chest, your movement, restricted without him even trying.

The closeness.

His breath against the back of your neck.

His body so near it blurs the line between space and absence of it.

It could almost be mistaken for comfort.

And you hate that.

You hate it most of all.

Because sometimes—

it does feel like that.

And you don’t want it to.

But it’s this—

or the closet.

Dark, tight, airless space that leaves your body aching by the morning.

So you choose this.

Every time.

His hand moves before you notice it. Closing around your wrist.

Not rough.

But firm enough to stop you.

“You’re going to hurt your skin,” he says.

You blink, looking down.

Only then do you notice the red streaks across your chest where your nails have dragged over and over again.

You hadn’t realized.

“I—” you start, then stop.

You don’t even know why you were doing it.

You just… were.

He turns your wrist slightly, examining it, then lets it go. His fingers travel to brush briefly against the fabric of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt.

Old.

Worn.

“Is it the shirt?” he asks. “Too rough?”

You shake your head faintly.

“No.”

A pause.

“I think it’s the soap,” you say instead. “It might be too harsh.”

He considers that.

Then nods.

“Okay. I’ll get something milder tomorrow.”

There’s a small shift in his tone. Thoughtful. Practical.

“Maybe I can go by your place too,” he adds. “Pick up some of your clothes.”

You turn your head toward him.

That—

you didn’t expect.

“You would… do that?” you ask, a little quieter.

He looks at you like the answer is obvious.

His hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of your hair back behind your ear. The gesture is gentle. Careful.

“Of course,” he says. “I’d do anything for you.”

Your chest tightens.

You know that’s not true.

Not really.

He’d do anything—

as long as it keeps you here.

Inside this space.

Inside something that looks like care but feels like a cage.

Still—

you take what he offers.

“…It would make me really happy,” you say softly, “if you could bring some of my things.”

He nods immediately.

“Okay. Tomorrow after work.”

A pause.

“I’ll get them for you.”

“Okay,” you murmur.

And this time—

when the smile comes—

it’s real.

Small.

But real.

Because for a moment—

you imagine something of yours

back in your hands.

Morning comes in thin, pale light.

You’re already awake.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, sheets rumpled beneath you—untouched, unmended. He hasn’t made them. Not today. Not yesterday either.

He used to.

Every crease smoothed out. Every corner pulled tight. Precise. Controlled.

Now—

they stay like this.

Because of you.

Dexter stands across the room, already dressed for work. Shirt buttoned. Belt fastened. Everything in place. The routine is still there—just… shifted.

Adjusted around you.

The closet door is open.

You hear it before you really look—the soft click of something unlocking.

A safe.

You don’t move.

Don’t lean.

Don’t make it obvious.

From where you sit, you can’t see inside it. Not clearly. Just the angle of his body, slightly turned away, blocking most of it.

You keep your eyes elsewhere.

On your hands.

On the floor.

Talking—because talking feels safer than watching.

“My clothes,” you say, voice still a little quiet from sleep. “The ones I wear at home… they’re in the middle section of my closet.”

A pause.

“And my books if you could bring them too. The ones on my bedside table—I haven’t finished them yet.”

You hear the faint shift of metal in front of him. In the safe, maybe. Something being moved.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies easily.

There’s something light in it.

Playful.

It catches you off guard.

A small smile slips onto your face before you can stop it.

Then—

he steps back.

And that’s when you see it.

Your bag.

Your shoulder bag.

In his hands.

Your breath catches.

You thought—

You thought he left it.

At the stairwell. That night. Dropped somewhere in the chaos of it.

But it’s here.

It’s been here.

The whole time.

You go still without meaning to.

Dexter doesn’t notice.

He unzips it without hesitation. Familiar. Easy. Like he’s already done this before.

Like he knows what’s inside.

Your chest tightens.

He reaches in—

and pulls out your keys.

Your house keys.

Metal glints briefly in the morning light.

He turns to you like it’s nothing.

“Which floor?” he asks.

Just like that.

Like this is normal.

Like this is a favor.

You stare at him for a second too long.

Your brain catching up.

“Oh—um,” you say, a beat late. “Fourth floor, room 406. Building number is 18/04—I think. It’s—the only red brick building on the street.”

He nods once.

“Got it.”

Simple.

He tucks the keys into his pocket, then zips your bag back up—neatly, efficiently—and places it back into the safe.

For a second—

your eyes catch what’s inside.

Just a glimpse.

But enough.

Metal.

Black.

Cold shapes stacked too close together.

Guns.

More than one.

More than a few.

Your stomach drops.

You know he’s a fed.

You know he’s—Daredevil or something else.

But this—

this is different.

The safe shuts with a quiet, final click.

Dexter turns back toward you.

He sees it.

The shift in your expression.

The tension you didn’t hide fast enough.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Don’t worry about it.”

A small shrug follows.

“Just gear. Comes with the job.”

You nod.

Because what else are you supposed to do?

“Right.”

But it doesn’t sit right.

It doesn’t feel like just that.

And somewhere, quietly—

a thought settles in your mind.

You need to get into that safe.

“Actually,” he says suddenly.

Your attention snaps back to him.

“I got you something yesterday.”

You blink.

Confused.

“I forgot to bring it up,” he continues, already moving toward the door. “Didn’t want to… ruin the mood.”

The word feels strange in this space.

Mood.

Like last night was something normal. Something shared.

He disappears into the kitchen.

And you’re left sitting there—

watching the empty doorway,

your thoughts catching up too slowly to everything that just happened.

Dexter returns sooner than you expect.

You hear it first—the soft shift of his steps in the hall—then he’s there in the doorway again, something coiled in his hands.

Metal.

The moment you register it, your body reacts before your mind does.

You pull back on the bed, shoulders tightening, breath catching.

Chains.

Heavy. Cold-looking even from a distance.

“Hey—hey,” he says quickly, noticing the way you recoil. His tone softens, almost careful. “It’s not— it’s not anything bad. Really.”

He steps closer anyway.

Too close.

Close enough that you can see it properly now.

The weight of it. The dull sheen of metal links. And at the end—

a cuff.

Your stomach drops.

“I thought,” he starts, almost… hopeful, “you might be tired of being in the bathroom all the time.”

Your eyes flick up to him.

Then back to the chain.

“So I got you these.”

Got you.

Like it’s a gift.

Your fingers curl into the bedsheet.

“…Where did you even find that?” you ask, voice quieter than you intend.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Storage at the station,” he says easily. “Old evidence.”

A beat.

“I checked it. It’s clean.”

He adds that part like it matters.

Like that fixes anything.

“I even washed it at the station,” he continues, a small note of pride slipping in. “Didn’t want you to think it was… you know.”

Dirty.

Used.

Your chest tightens.

Used for what?

Your gaze drags back to the chain, and suddenly your mind fills in the blanks whether you want it to or not—

a room,

someone else,

Hands or legs that aren’t yours,

fear that doesn’t belong to you—but feels close enough to touch.

“Here,” Dexter says.

He holds it out.

“Take it.”

You hesitate.

For a second too long.

His expression flickers—not anger, not yet, but something that edges toward expectation.

So you move.

Slowly.

Your hands lift, and when the metal settles into your palms—

it’s heavier than you thought.

Solid.

Real.

Not hypothetical. Not symbolic.

Real enough that it makes your stomach twist.

What the hell?

Dexter smiles.

Actually smiles.

Excited in a way that doesn’t match what you’re holding.

“I figured it’s better than locking you in,” he says. “You can move around more with these on.”

Move around.

With a chain attached to you.

Your grip tightens slightly.

“…Did someone die in this?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

The question slips out—raw, unfiltered.

He blinks.

“What? No,” he says, almost dismissive. “I don’t think so.”

A pause.

“Not that I know of. It’s from a really old case.”

That doesn’t help.

At all.

Your imagination fills in everything he doesn’t say.

You can see it.

Someone chained.

Someone waiting.

Someone not leaving.

Your stomach turns.

“No—” you shake your head quickly, pushing the chain back toward him. “No, it’s okay. I’ll just stay in the bathroom.”

The words come out faster now.

Safer option.

Safer than this.

But Dexter doesn’t take it.

“Come on,” he says, tone still light—but firmer now. “You haven’t even tried it.”

“I don’t want to try it,” you reply, a little sharper, panic edging in. “Dexter, what if—what if someone actually—”

“Look,” he cuts in.

Not loud.

But enough to stop you.

A breath.

Then softer again.

“Just try it for a day.”

There’s something underneath his voice now.

Not anger.

Not quite.

Control.

“And if you don’t like it,” he continues, “you can go back to the bathroom. Okay?”

A beat.

Then—

“I know they are a bit heavy but you’ll have more freedom with these.”

That word lands differently.

Your thoughts stutter.

Freedom.

Your eyes flick down to the chain again.

Then, without meaning to—

your mind shifts.

Bathroom.

Door.

Locked.

Hours.

Days.

Nothing but white tile and silence.

Then—

this.

The apartment.

The living room.

The hallway.

Closer to the closet.

Closer to the safe.

Closer to—

anything.

Your pulse quickens.

Not from fear this time.

From calculation.

You look back up at him.

He’s watching you.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

For the right answer.

You swallow.

Then nod.

Slow.

Reluctant.

“…Okay.”

The word feels heavy in your mouth.

Dexter’s face softens immediately.

Relief.

Satisfaction.

“Good,” he says.

Like you made the right choice.

Your gaze drops back to the chain in your hands.

It doesn’t look any less menacing.

Doesn’t feel any lighter.

But now—

it means something else, too.

Not just restraint.

Opportunity.

And that—

is enough for you to accept it.

You sit at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight.

Dexter kneels in front of you.

The position feels wrong—intimate in a way it shouldn’t be. Too close. Too deliberate. His head bowed just enough as he works, his hands steady around your ankle.

Cold metal closes around your skin with a sharp click.

You flinch anyway.

The chain drapes between you, heavy, real. It settles against the floor with a soft, dragging sound that seems louder than it should be.

Dexter tugs it once. Testing.

“Does that hurt?” he asks, like the answer would matter.

You look down at him.

“No,” you say.

It comes out flat.

He glances up at you then, still on his knees, eyes searching your face like he’s checking for something more than your words.

“Good,” he murmurs.

His hand lingers for a second longer than necessary before he lets go.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, softer now. “It won’t be long. I’ll be back after work.”

After work.

Like this is temporary. Like this is something normal people say to each other before they leave.

You nod.

Small. Automatic.

It’s enough.

It always seems to be enough.

He smiles at that—something warm flickering across his face, pleased in a quiet, almost boyish way.

“Good girl,” he says.

The words land wrong.

Too gentle for what they mean.

Too easy.

He pushes himself to his feet, already shifting away, reaching for his bag like the moment has passed—as if locking you in place is just another step in his routine.

“I’ve got to go,” he adds. “So behave, okay?”

Another nod.

You don’t even think about it this time.

He’s already halfway out of the room when he pauses.

“Hey.”

You look up.

He’s standing at the edge of the hallway now, one hand resting lightly against the wall. Watching you.

Waiting.

For a second, you don’t know what he wants.

Then—

he lifts his hand.

A small wave.

Bright. Almost… playful.

It catches you off guard.

Something about it is so normal it feels absurd.

And before you can stop it—

your hand lifts too.

A small, hesitant wave back.

Your lips twitch.

Just barely.

But it’s there.

That’s all it takes.

His smile widens—genuine, satisfied in a way that feels… earned.

He lingers for a second longer, eyes on you like he’s committing the image to memory.

Then he turns.

The front door opens.

Closes.

Locks.

Silence settles in after him.

You stay still for a moment.

Then—

you exhale.

Long. Heavy.

And let yourself fall back onto the bed.

The chain shifts with you, dragging, reminding.

Your arm comes up over your eyes.

A bitter huff escapes you.

“Have I actually lost my mind?”

You turn your head slightly, staring up at the ceiling.

Waving.

Smiling.

At the man who just chained you to his bed.

Your gaze drifts.

To the window.

Still locked.

Of course it is.

You don’t even bother checking.

The drawers—probably the same.

Everything controlled.

Everything accounted for.

Except—

your eyes shift.

Slowly.

To the closet.

The door sits slightly ajar.

Just enough.

A thin sliver of darkness visible through the gap.

Your stomach tightens.

He forgot.

The thought lands sharp. Electric.

You push yourself up slowly, the chain pulling taut as you move, reminding you of its limits—but not stopping you.

Not completely.

Your eyes don’t leave the closet.

Your pulse picks up.

There.

Inside.

The safe.

His safe.

Your way out.

Your golden ticket to freedom.

Word limit Part 2 here<<<<<