giddy up, cowboy

which is honestly hilarious considering how much he pretended to complain in the beginning.

the thing about paul is that he runs hot—literally and emotionally.

his body temperature is always warmer than normal, making him the perfect person to cuddle with whether he'd admit it or not. over time, you start seeking him out automatically whenever you're cold, and paul secretly loves it.

there's something deeply satisfying to him about being the person you instinctively look for.

the person you want close.

the person you trust enough to relax around completely.

he won't say that out loud, obviously.

instead he'll roll his eyes when you crawl into his lap.

then immediately tighten his arms around you before anyone else can see.

and while he acts like you're the clingy one, the pack starts noticing something interesting.

paul is rarely the one initiating affection in public.

but he's always the one keeping it going.

you'll rest your head against his shoulder for a few minutes, and somehow an hour later he's still holding you there.

you'll reach for his hand, and suddenly he's the one refusing to let go.

you'll lean against him during a bonfire, and before long paul has an arm wrapped around your shoulders like he forgot there was ever another way to sit.

eventually, everyone realizes the truth before paul does.

he likes your clinginess because it gives him an excuse to be just as affectionate back.

because beneath all the sharp edges, quick tempers, and sarcastic remarks is someone who loves feeling wanted.

someone who loves knowing you're choosing him.

and on the nights when it's just the two of you, curled up together in the quiet, paul's favorite moments are the ones where you're practically wrapped around him.

your head tucked beneath his chin.

your arms around his middle.

your legs tangled together.

safe.

close.

his.

he'll never admit how much those moments mean to him.

but the way his arms automatically tighten around you whenever you settle against him says more than words ever could.

     taglist :

@unicorn-uee

@xxx-wounded-angel-xxx 

@rottenstyx

@fuzzyfawnnn

The first thing he noticed about you was that you never asked for anything.

Rides home after missions? Help carrying equipment? Never. Not even for something as simple as a charger when your laptop died halfway through a briefing.

You would rather spend three hours finding another solution than inconvenience someone for thirty seconds.

At first, he thought it was independence. You’re picky and liked to do things your own way. Then he realized it was something else.

Because every time somebody offered help, your shoulders tensed slightly.

Was it kindness that made you uncomfortable?

The second thing he noticed was that you never complained, which, in his opinion, was significantly worse.

The team often joked that you were part ghost. You spent most of your days tucked behind multiple monitors in the operations room, fingers flying across keyboards while surveillance footage, financial records, and security feeds reflected in your glasses.

You rarely spoke unless someone asked you a direct question. Even then, your answers were usually short.

Yes. No. Maybe. Okay.

Meanwhile, everyone else filled the silence for you. Especially him. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure why he kept talking to you.

Most of the time, you only responded with a nod. Occasionally, a hum.

Yet somehow, he kept finding reasons to stand beside your desk. One day he brought you coffee. Another day he started asking questions he already knew the answers to. He wanted to linger.

And every single time, you looked equally confused by it, which he found strangely adorable.

-

The mission had gone slightly off plan before noon. As discussed (or as he had strictly directed) you were supposed to stay inside the surveillance van.

Monitor cameras, track movement, feed information through the earpieces, and please stay safe.

Instead, the sound of shouting exploded through the comms, then gunfire, then silence.

You watched through a security camera feed as one of the team’s men got cornered in an alley with three attackers closing in.

Before anybody could stop you, you left the van.

Every few minutes previously, he checked in about your safety and location through the earpiece, to which you fed him your usual one-word responses.

“Yes.”

But by the nth time he checked in, he didn’t receive a reply from you. His anxiety immediately began to rise.

After making sure the rest of the team had the situation under control, he rushed back toward the area where the van was stationed.

By the time he arrived, two men were unconscious on the pavement, and a third was groaning beside a dumpster, while you stood nearby, breathing heavily.

You hadn’t even noticed he was standing behind you, stunned.

Instead, you were staring with disgust at the man sprawled on the ground who had tried choking you seconds earlier.

“Fucking asshole,” you muttered, wiping your bloodied knuckles against your jacket.

That was the first complete sentence he had ever heard from you, and to his surprise, it was a curse.

Surprise aside, he had been furious, because you had just thrown yourself into a fight you had no business being in.

When he looked at you afterward, he noticed something wasn’t right. Your movements were slower. But every time he asked if you were okay, you answered the same way.

“Yes.”

—

Three hours later, everyone returned to headquarters, and the mood was surprisingly good since the mission’s objective had been completed.

The rest of the team gathered together, debating what food and drinks to order, while you had silently removed yourself from the discussion and disappeared into the kitchen.

From the corner of the room, he watched you go, and something bothered him. Till he saw it.

A dark stain slowly spreading across the sleeve of your jacket. Blood.

His stomach dropped.

Without thinking, he excused himself from his conversation with the undercover policeman and followed you immediately.

You were reaching for a bottled drink when a hand suddenly wrapped around your wrist. The touch startled you, but before you could react, he was already pulling you down the hallway.

“Wha-”

“Come here.” His voice left absolutely no room for discussion.

You blinked in confusion as he guided you toward one of the spare bathrooms connected to his room, and the door shut behind you, then he finally turned around.

“What happened?”

You stared at him. “What?”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you don’t know.” Only then did his gaze drop toward your arm. You followed it.

The blood had soaked through the fabric completely now. “Oh.”

Oh. Like that was all it deserved.

His expression darkened immediately. “Take the jacket off.”

“It’s fine.”

“No.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“No.” The firmness in his voice surprised even you.

Slowly and reluctantly, you removed the jacket. The second it slid off your shoulder, both of you froze.

The cut running across your side was far deeper than either of you had expected, not life-threatening, but certainly not something a normal person would ignore for hours.

He stared at it. then stared at you, then back at the injury. “You’ve been walking around like this all afternoon?”

You shifted awkwardly, which was an enough answer.

Something hurt flashed across his face. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

You looked away. The question should have been easy. Instead, your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not true.” He crouched in front of the first-aid cabinet and began gathering supplies.

Eventually, he asked again, softer this time. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

You swallowed, then told the truth. “I didn’t think anyone would want to.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and the room went completely silent. Immediately, you wished you could take them back.

When you finally looked at him, his expression had changed completely. He didn’t say anything for several seconds. Then, quietly, “Don’t say that.”

Your eyes dropped to the floor. His voice broke your heart a little. Not because it was loud, because it wasn’t. He sounded devastated instead, and it hurt you to think you had disappointed him.

The rest of the treatment happened in silence, surrounded only by warm hands, antiseptic, bandages, and his careful movements.

Every now and then, he would ask if something hurt, and you always answered no. Every time, he gave you a look that clearly said he didn’t believe you.

Eventually, the wound was cleaned and wrapped, yet neither of you moved.

“You know,” he said eventually, “you’re allowed to need people.” You stared at your hands and gave no response.

“You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Something inside your chest cracked, and your vision blurred unexpectedly. One tear slipped down your cheek before you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You hated crying. Especially in front of people. And you certainly hated it more that you were crying in front of him now.

But suddenly, you felt so open, and so small.

You immediately tried turning away, but he noticed and gently repositioned you to face him again.

You tried covering your face, desperate to hide the embarrassment, and he quickly removed your hands.

Helpless, your head eventually dropped forward against his chest as you continued crying, and slowly, you wrapped your arms around him.

Your first hug. The first contact you had ever willingly initiated.

For a moment, he froze. He understood exactly how much it had cost you, and slowly and carefully, his arms came around you.

Neither of you spoke. Eventually, one of his hands came to rest on your head as he pulled you closer, giving you all the space you needed to let it out until your breathing finally steadied.

And for the first time in a very long time, you allowed yourself to stop carrying everything alone.

The first time it happened, weeks ago, you had spent the night in his room (courtesy of Beel destroying your door again). You had laid next to him, thinking about nothing but him - his gentle smile, the way his bodysuit hugged his frame, the forbidden fantasy of what lay beneath that angelic composure. You weren’t trying to get turned on, it just sort of happened - as it usually does when Simeon was on your mind.

He had asked you moments later if you needed anything. When you looked over to nod a ‘no’, his body was strained, nostrils flaring subtly, hands twisted into fists. You had just brushed it off as him being uncomfortable with you in his bed, choosing to spend the rest of the night as close to the edge as possible.

Ever since then, his demeanor around you shifted. You noticed the way he tensed when you got close, how he sniffed the air when you felt yourself getting wet. It had turned into something of a game for you when you caught on to his reactions, looking to see how flustered you could make him.

You shifted in your seat, crossing your legs as heat pooled low in your belly. The book in front of you might as well have been blank. Your mind wandered to darker places; Simeon’s mouth on your skin, his tongue tracing paths no angel should explore. A quiet sigh escaped you.

Simeon’s quill stilled. His gaze lifted slowly, locking onto yours. There it was - that flicker in his eyes, a storm of longing and conflict. His fingers tightened around the feather.

“You…” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, laced with something deeper, “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” you asked innocently, though the corner of your lips curved upward. This was the game now. You, the human who had somehow become the serpent in his garden, whispering temptations that chipped away at his divine resolve.

He inhaled sharply, eyes half-closing for a brief moment, “Your scent. It’s… overwhelming tonight.” His cheeks colored with shame, but he didn’t look away, “Sweet and heady, like forbidden fruit. You know I can sense these things.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, “You’ve been messing with me.” It wasn’t stated as an accusation, simply a fact.

You turned to face him fully, resting your chin on your hand. “And what does that do to you, Simeon?”

He swallowed hard, setting the quill down with deliberate care. The guilt was etched into every line of his perfect face - the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips pressed into a thin line, “It torments me. I long for you in ways I shouldn’t. I pray for strength, but every time you look at me like that, I feel myself slipping. Corrupted by a human’s touch… by your thoughts alone.” His voice dropped lower. “It’s wrong. I’m supposed to guide, to remain above such earthly urges. Yet here I am, aching for the very sin you’re offering.”

Your heart raced at his admission. You stood slowly, moving to stand in between his legs. He didn’t move away. Instead, his hand reached out almost unconsciously, fingers brushing the fabric of your skirt.

“Can I corrupt you a little more?” you whispered, placing your hand over his, “You’ve been holding back for so long. Let me show you how good it feels to fall.”

Simeon’s breath hitched as he squeezed his eyes shut. The longing in his veins was almost visible now - a deep, yearning hunger that warred with centuries of celestial duty, “You don’t understand what you’re asking. If I give in… if I taste you…” He trailed off, but his hand slid lower, gripping your thigh with surprising strength. Guilt flashed across his features again, but it was fading, drowned by desire. “Father forgive me,” he murmured, more to himself than you as his eyes flicked down to your waist.

You guided his hand further down, under your skirt, until his fingers brushed the damp fabric of your panties. He let out a soft, broken sound - half moan, half prayer.

“Here?” he asked, voice trembling. “Anyone could-”

“No one will,” you assured him, your own voice husky, “Just us. Just you and me.” Solomon had picked up on the growing tension days ago, and was kind enough to evacuate himself and Luke from the Hall when you arrived.

He rose from his chair with fluid grace, towering over you. His hands framed your face for a moment, thumbs stroking your cheeks with reverence, “You’re leading me astray, my dear. And I… I cannot find the will to resist any longer.” The confession carried both surrender and relief.

Simeon laid you down effortlessly on the couch, his movements gentle yet urgent as he knelt before you, pushing your skirt up to your waist. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of your arousal-soaked underwear, inhaling deeply. “Intoxicating. You call to something primal in me that I thought was long buried.”

You spread your legs wider, one hand threading through his soft brown hair, “Then answer it, Simeon. Taste me. Corrupt yourself on me.”

Guilt flickered one last time in his gaze as he hooked his fingers into your panties and slid them down your legs, pocketing them almost absently - like a trophy of his fall. Then his hands parted your thighs further, exposing you completely. He leaned in, breath hot against your sensitive flesh.

The first touch of his tongue was tentative, a slow, exploratory lick along your slit that made you gasp. Simeon groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against you. “So sweet,” he whispered, voice muffled. “Sweeter than any fruit in the Celestial Realm. Forgive me… but I need more.”

His guilt seemed to fuel him now, turning into fervent devotion. He licked again, firmer this time, dragging the flat of his tongue from your entrance up to your clit. He circled the swollen bud with precise, angelic patience, learning your reactions with every flick. You moaned, hips bucking slightly, and he pressed a hand to your stomach to hold you steady.

“Stay still for me,” he murmured, eyes glancing up at you. The sight of him - kneeling between your legs, silver hair disheveled, lips glistening with your wetness - was almost too much. “Let me worship you properly. Let me drown in this sin you’ve awakened.”

He delved deeper, his tongue pushing inside you, thrusting in shallow strokes that mimicked what you both knew he truly craved. The wet sounds filled the quiet library, obscene and beautiful. Simeon lost himself in it, long licks alternating with focused suction on your clit. His free hand slid up your thigh, two fingers teasing your entrance before sliding in slowly, curling to find that perfect spot.

“Oh- Simeon,” you breathed, tugging his hair. The pleasure built in waves, your body responding eagerly to his devoted attention.

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing your folds. “Say my name again. Please,” His voice was rough with lust, all traces of hesitation burned away in the heat of the moment.

Yet beneath it, you could still sense the undercurrent of guilt - the knowledge that he, a being of light, was defiling himself so eagerly on a human’s body. It made him more intense, more desperate.

“Simeon,” you moaned louder as he returned to his task, fingers pumping steadily while his tongue worked your clit in tight, relentless circles. He sucked gently, then harder, responding to every twitch and gasp you gave him. His senses were overwhelmed; you could tell by the way he ground his own hips against nothing, seeking friction for his evident arousal.

The pressure coiled tighter inside you, “I’m close - don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised fervently, voice vibrating through you. “I couldn’t even if the heavens demanded it. You’ve ruined me for anything else,” His fingers curled again, hitting that spot perfectly as his tongue flattened and lapped with renewed vigor.

Your orgasm crashed over you suddenly, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure pulsed through your core. Simeon didn’t pull away; he drank it all in, tongue slowing but never stopping, prolonging every aftershock until you were trembling and oversensitive.

Only then did he rise, face flushed and shining with evidence of your release. He pulled you into a deep kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The guilt returned in his eyes as the haze of lust cleared slightly, but so did the longing - deeper now, more permanent.

“What have you done to me?” he whispered against your lips, forehead resting against yours. His hands cradled you tenderly, as if afraid you’d vanish. “I crave you constantly. Your scent haunts my prayers. You’ve corrupted an angel, and… part of me rejoices in it.”

You smiled, kissing him again, slower this time, “Then fall a little more with me next time.”

Simeon chuckled softly, a mix of despair and delight in the sound, “Next time? There will be many next times, I’m afraid. You’ve ensured that.” He helped you up from the couch, adjusting your skirt with careful hands, though he kept your panties in his pocket like a secret sin.

As you both gathered the scattered papers, his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close. The room felt smaller, more intimate. In his embrace, you felt the weight of his internal battle - and the sweetness of his surrender. An angel’s longing, heavy with guilt, now bound to your touch.

- Gently: He may be a statuesque figure of pure muscle, but the touches that really take Gun Woo's breath away are the soft ones you provide. The gentle lingering of your fingertips against his bicep as you talk to him, the soft kisses you plant on his cheeks when it's time for you to say goodbye, the featherlight tap against his thigh to let him know you want his attention. Every time your skin meets his, it's like he's never been hit before, the care with which you touch him making his head spin like nothing else does.

- First: It doesn't matter if it's the first time you bring your hand to rest in his, or years into your relationship with Gun Woo; he needs you to initiate each touch. He's scared he'll be too strong, too forceful, that he wants too much of you, that his desires are a burden that only he should have to bear. His whole body could be alight with his burning need to kiss you, but all he can bring himself to do is stare desperately at your lips until finally you take mercy on him and give him what he so clearly needs. And when you've been teasing him all night with sweet compliments and loving smiles and you're sure the bulge in his sweatpants can't take much more, it's more than a little fun to see how much you can make Gun Woo squirm before you move from drawing gentle shapes on his trembling thighs to straddling them, the usually composed man immediately bucking up against you, his eyes glistening with aching apology. 

- Subtly: Gun Woo isn't one for public displays of affection, but that doesn't mean he doesn't crave your reassurance when the two of you are out in the world together. He worries that everyone you meet is better at talking to you than he is, that they're more interesting, that he can't be the person you deserve no matter how true to you he'll always be. When you notice him getting even quieter than usual, or withdrawing in on himself as you two explore together, please slip your hand in his and remind him that you're with him, no matter what. Your grounding touch is enough to pull him out of his thoughts and put a soft smile back on his face, focusing less on himself and more on being present and attentive to you. 

- Routinely: Gun Woo might not like to initiate affection, but that doesn't mean he isn't craving your touch. In fact, it's the opposite. He spends so much time thinking about the next time he gets to touch you, but feels like he can't do anything about it, which only makes him more desperate to feel your skin against his again. You can see the toll it takes on him to go without your touch when you have to be apart sometimes, so make sure that you kiss him slowly and often to keep his tank topped up, and so he always knows when he'll get to feel that spark again. When you wake up next to him, make sure you press yourself closer to his chest so he can loop his strong arms around your waist, hesitating until your lips find his and then he's pushing you onto your back so he can keep you pinned underneath him until he's sure he's ready to face the day. Punctuate every hello and goodbye with a kiss on his cheek, lingering close to the scar along his jaw so he never doubts the beauty you can see in it. Press your thigh against his when you're watching something together so he knows he can pull you onto his lap and spend the rest of the night with you draped against his chest. And finally lace your fingers through his when you drift off to sleep, so if he wakes up in a panic he can feel you right there, ready to shift your head against his chest until his pulse slows enough to sleep again. Your routine of affection is everything Gun Woo didn't know he needed, and now matters far more to him than any clock or calendar. 

- Selfishly: Gun Woo loves to help. He is generous with his time and his strength and anything else he has to give you. He cares about everyone else around him more than himself, with you at the top of that list. So when you take control and focus on his pleasure, with no other agenda than wanting him to feel good, it's more than sweet Gun Woo can take. No one ever takes care of him the way you do, and you both know he'll return the favour happily anytime you let him, but god there's just something about seeing you shifting down his bedsheets until your lips are decorating his muscular thighs with glistening kisses than makes Gun Woo feel like he's the happiest man in the world. The second your tongue laps against his already leaking tip, his eyes are clenching shut and his jaw is falling open and his hands are clenching at his sides to try and fight back on this moment finishing too soon. He can feel tear pricking at the corner of his eyes as he blinks them only to take in the sight of you, smiling like you have all the time and power in the world as he watches you take his length between your lips, taking him deeper and deeper until he swears he's going to black out from how turned on he is. Whether you're waking him up by taking your time tasting every inch of him, or quickly relieving his tension after being apart too long, every time Gun Woo swears nothing has ever felt this good before, that there's no way he should get to feel like this, that someone as perfect as you can even exist. But you do, and so he's all yours. 

Woo Jin likes to be touched...

- Often: Woo Jin never realised how touch starved he was until he first met you. When your friendship blossoms and suddenly he gets greeted with a hug that he never wants to let go of, or your hand clasps his when he's telling you something exciting. Now every nerve in his body is on edge at the thought of touching you again, every place your skin has met his feels electrified and he can't stop trying to find excuses for you to touch him again. Offering you a hand when you step out of a vehicle, or his arm when you walk along a busy street, praying it rains so he can slide his arm around your waist while you share an umbrella. And when you finally kiss him, he swears he's never felt so much joy bubbling up inside him, the sweet moment feeling like honest to god magic to this sweet man. So now he needs you to kiss him every chance you get, because it doesn't matter how long you've been together, that magic never fades. In fact, Woo Jin thinks it somehow feels even better every time his lips meet yours, and every time your fingertips slip under his shirt to feel the firm skin there, and every time his chest meets yours with nothing between you so he can feel absolutely every part of you. He's a man starved, and you can be sure he's going to eat his fill now. 

- Without hesitation: Woo Jin doesn't want to feel any subtlety in your affections, any slight hesitation to lay your hands on him sending his insecure mind reeling with the idea you're having doubts about him. He likes that the way you touch him feels almost absentminded. Nonchalant. Like your every instinct draws you to him the same way he feels drawn to you. He wants every hug to be firm and drawn out and leave him lifting your feet up in the air with how much he wants to feel you close to him. For every kiss to have his hands clasping your cheeks as you tug him towards you by the edge of his jacket until you're both out of breath. That each night he lines himself up with your entrance, you're wrapping your legs around his waist, and nodding and pleading out his name with desperate desire. He wants you to feel how badly he needs you with every touch, and to feel just as wanted in return. 

- In Public: Woo Jin has had an unlucky run of falling just short of his goals. He's happy for those around him who excel, but it's always left him feeling a little bit like he isn't quite good enough for the people he surrounds himself with. So when you start to make him feel like maybe he IS good enough exactly as he is, he wants to make sure everyone else sees that too. So please hold his hand everywhere you go, and let him drape his jacket over your shoulders when the weather takes a turn, and stare shamelessly at him with a devoted smile whenever he's telling a story to a crowd. It's more than just letting the world know that the two of you are an item, it's about showing him how proud you are to be by his side, how completely and without hesitation you want everyone to know that he's your man. Just don't be surprised if after a few drinks Woo Jin starts insisting you sit on his lap in his friend's new club, the dark lighting giving him the perfect cover to show you just how much he appreciates the chance to show you off. Gun Woo has had to excuse himself from a table to stop watching Woo Jin making out with you more than once, happy for his friend but wishing he'd make less of a scene with how obsessed with you he is. 

- Teasingly: Woo Jin wants your relationship to be fun. Your dates with him are always fun, and he is full of hilarious stories and jokes that mean you're constantly smiling around him. He wants you to share silly nicknames and be able to make fun of each other without worrying about it, and he wants to be able to tease each other knowing that you're always going to get exactly what you want. So when he's desperate to kiss you, hover your lips just out of reach until he has to pounce on you and straddle your hips so you can't go anywhere until he's had his fill. And when you're sitting on the sofa together, let your fingertips trace gentle shapes across his thigh, and his stomach, slowly toying with the waistband of his sweatpants until he has no choice but to drag you into his lap, grabbing your ass to grind you against him for some sweet relief. You two can tease each other, and man-handle each other, and do anything you want because you are so at ease and comfortable together, and maybe that's just one of a dozen reasons everything about you gets Woo Jin going so easily. 

- Selflessly: You are Woo Jin's world. His north star. His home. He'd be a religious man if it just meant worshipping you, and so worship you does. It's not that he feels like he has something to prove to you, to overcome his insecurities by making you feel a way no other man ever could. He just fucking adores you, and nothing brings him more joy than making you feel incredible. He wants you to use him, to be selfish with your pleasure, to take everything he has to give you and then drive him to the edge to take even more. He wants you to start and end everyday with the feeling of sheer ecstasy washing over you, with his name as the only thought echoing through his mind. He needs you to know how perfect every inch of you is, charting a map of your body with his lips until he knows every spot that has your back arching and your thighs clenching. Every time you think you can't possibly feel any more pleasure, Woo Jin is going to take that as a challenge finding a new way to have you dripping on his tongue and clenching around him. It's his ultimate goal, the one thing no one will ever be able to beat him at, and when he sees your lovestruck gaze trace over him with sheer reverence as he sets your heart racing again, he knows it's a challenge he wants to take on for life. 

🖤 Want to support my writing? Treat yourself to my original romantic thriller: It's only $3 for the e-book or $9 for the paperback! Or if you want to support me another way - why not buy me a coffee or commission something special? 🖤

The black SUV behind you rammed into the side of the car hard enough to shake the entire vehicle.

“Left, LEFT-” Woo-jin shouted, gripping the handle above the door as Kim Gun-woo swerved violently through the narrow Seoul street, tires screeching against rain-slick pavement.

Gun-woo’s jaw tightened. “I know!”

Another gunshot shattered somewhere behind them. The rear windshield cracked instantly.

“Jesus Christ!” Woo-jin ducked.

The mission had collapsed twenty minutes ago.

What was supposed to be a clean intel pickup turned into a full pursuit after one of Baek Jeong’s men recognized you during the exchange. Now three SUVs chased your car through the city while bullets tore through signboards and alley walls behind you.

And somehow, Gun-woo was still driving frighteningly well. One hand gripped the steering wheel tightly while the other shifted gears sharply as he drifted around another corner. Streetlights flashed across his face in quick intervals, illuminating the focused tension sitting behind his eyes.

You steadied yourself from the backseat while loading another magazine into your sniper rifle.

“We need a cleaner angle,” you muttered.

“We need divine intervention,” Woo-jin corrected breathlessly.

Gun-woo glanced quickly toward the rearview mirror. “They’re getting closer.”

Another SUV appeared beside yours suddenly. It was too close, and one of the men leaned halfway out the window with a gun raised directly toward your car.

“Gun-woo,” you warned sharply.

“I see him.” Then the car drifted violently again.

The movement almost threw you sideways before instinct took over completely.

You climbed forward between the seats without thinking.

Woo-jin immediately reacted. “…Why are you moving like that?”

“I need a better shot.”

“There’s no spac-”

Then suddenly you were halfway over the center console, and directly on top of Gun-woo.

Everything froze for one catastrophic second. Especially Gun-woo.

Your knees planted on either side of his thighs while one hand braced against the seat behind him to steady yourself. Your chest pressed against his shoulder as you leaned across him toward the driver-side window, trying to position the rifle properly.

Gun-woo’s brain stopped functioning immediately because your body was suddenly everywhere.

Your hair brushing his neck. Your thigh against his lap. Your chest dangerously close to his face every time the car swerved.

And the worst part?

You smelled really good.

Woo-jin looked between both of you in disbelief.

“Oh my God.”

“Shut up,” Gun-woo muttered instantly, face burning.

“You’re BLUSHING? Right NOW?”

“I’m driving!”

“Your ears are red!” Another gunshot exploded beside the car.

You finally found your angle and leaned farther across Gun-woo’s lap, one hand gripping the roof handle while aiming through the shattered window.

“Keep the car steady.” you shouted orders at a very flustered Gun-woo, while he genuinely thought he might pass away.

Because steady? come on.

How was he supposed to keep anything steady right now?

Your stomach pressed against his shoulder every time he shifted gears, and the soft curve of your chest brushed his jaw during another sharp turn.

“If you want steadiness then remove your ass from his view! We’ll crash-“, Woo-jin complained worriedly, before another swerve got him silenced.

Meanwhile, you remained completely focused on shooting, a sniper by trade, and a menace by accident.

You fired once? The pursuing SUV swerved violently.

Twice? Its front tire exploded.

The vehicle spun hard across the road before crashing into a divider behind them.

Woo-jin screamed triumphantly. “LET’S GO!”

You smiled slightly while lowering the rifle, then finally noticed the silence beneath you.

Gun-woo had gone completely rigid as you looked down. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“…Gun-woo?”

“Please move.” he said immediately.

Woo-jin burst into laughter so violently he almost choked. “Oh this is unbelievable.”

“You’re heavy,” Gun-woo added quickly, clearly lying.

Your brows lifted. “You literally carry grown men for a living.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” Gun-woo’s face somehow reddened more.

Woo-jin looked seconds away from tears. “You’re making him nervous.”

“I AM NOT NERVOUS.” Another drift sent your body against him again.

Gun-woo visibly short-circuited, and Woo-jin completely lost it.

—

By the time the team regrouped near the abandoned warehouse safepoint outside the city, everyone immediately surrounded the car checking for injuries.

Mr. Moon shouted something about the damaged doors while he inspected the bullet holes near the trunk.

Woo-jin exited the car first, still laughing, then Gun-woo stepped out next, expression unreadable. But you noticed immediately, especially because he suddenly refused to look directly at you.

Interesting.

“You okay?” you asked casually while slinging the sniper rifle over your shoulder.

Gun-woo nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

Woo-jin snorted loudly beside him, so Gun-woo elbowed him hard enough to almost send him into another car.

“Ow-“

“Shut up.”

Unfortunately for Gun-woo, Woo-jin noticed everything, including the fact that Gun-woo kept glancing toward your waist every few seconds before aggressively looking away again like he was fighting demons internally. It was the first time he sees his friend flustered.

And honestly? You found it adorable.

The next route discussion happened quickly afterward around the warehouse tables. The team needed to split vehicles again to avoid being tracked further through the city.

Woo-jin opened his mouth immediately. “I’ll go with Gun-woo—”

“No.” Everyone looked up.

Gun-woo cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean… you should stay with Mr. Moon hyung.”

Woo-jin blinked slowly. “…Why?”

“You’re louder.”

“What does that even mean?” Gun-woo refused to elaborate.

Meanwhile you stood there pretending not to notice the fact that he was very obviously trying to get you alone, which got you smirking.

Man he was terrible at hiding it.

Eventually, the routes got finalized anyway: Two cars, split directions, and regroup later.

And exactly like Gun-woo wanted, you ended up alone with him in the final vehicle leaving the warehouse.

The second the last team car disappeared down the road, silence filled yours immediately. Rain tapped softly against the windshield while city lights streaked across the windows.

Gun-woo drove quietly at first while you leaned comfortably against the passenger seat, watching him from the corner of your eye.

“You survived earlier.”

“What?” Gun-woo frowned slightly.

“You almost had a heart attack while I was on top of you.”

His grip tightened around the steering wheel instantly. “So you did that on purpose?”

“I was trying to save our lives.”

“You could’ve warned me first.”

“Would you have said yes?” You smiled, then leaned towards him a bit teasingly.

“No.”

“Exactly.”

Gun-woo glanced at you briefly before looking back at the road. His ears were red again, and your chest tightened stupidly at the sight.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” you admitted softly.

The car nearly swerved. “I’m not flustered.”

“You almost stopped breathing.”

“You had a sniper rifle in my face!”

“And? forgetting something else?”

“And you were-” He stopped himself too late.

You tilted your head slightly. “I was what?”

Gun-woo stayed silent. You leaned closer slowly across the console, tilting your head even more against your rested palm, smirking now.

“What was I, Gun-woo?”

His jaw tightened. “You know.”

That answer sent heat straight into your stomach. The tension inside the car became unbearable after that, because now neither of you were joking anymore.

One glance at you and he decided he was done talking and bearing the teasing. He finally parked near an empty overlook outside the city, hands still gripping the steering wheel too tightly.

Rain continued softly outside while your shared breathing filled the car, as suddenly you climbed over the center console again.

This time intentionally.

Gun-woo looked up instantly, and whatever restraint remained between both of you finally snapped.

He grabbed your waist immediately, pulling you onto his lap while his mouth crashed against yours hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

The kiss felt hot and messy from the beginning, as everything exploded at once inside the cramped car.

Your hands tangled into his black shirt while he pushed the driver’s seat all the way back roughly enough to shake the vehicle.

You absent mindedly threw the sniper rifle as it clattered against the passenger seat beside you, while you kissed him harder.

Gun-woo answered instantly, one large hand gripping your waist while the other slid into your hair carefully, almost reverently despite how rough his breathing had become.

“Please stop driving me insane,” he asked shakily against your mouth.

A laugh escaped you breathlessly. “All because I sat on your lap?”

“You know that’s not all you did.” Your stomach flipped violently.

The windows fogged slowly around you while rainwater streaked down the glass outside. Gun-woo kissed down your jaw afterward, slower now, deeper, like he finally let himself enjoy this instead of resisting it.

You shivered when his forehead rested briefly against yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured quietly.

Instead, you pulled him back toward you by the collar, and that was it for him, as his kisses turned needier immediately.

His hands tightened against your thighs while your breathing became uneven against his neck. Every small sound you made seemed to affect him ten times harder.

Then suddenly, the positions shifted.

Within seconds, you found yourself pressed back against the driver’s seat instead, Gun-woo towering above you in the cramped space of the car. His chest rose heavily with every breath while his hands slid beneath your shirt, pushing the fabric upward slowly as his kisses trailed lower across your skin.

Your pulse nearly stopped.

Gun-woo’s hands moved over you carefully but possessively, like he still couldn’t believe he was finally allowed to touch you like this. His mouth brushed across your stomach before he crouched between your legs in the limited space left by the pushed-back seat.

Then he looked up at you, quietly asking for permission without words.

You didn’t even let him finish asking before helping him tug your jeans down desperately yourself, already too far gone to feel embarrassed anymore. The second the fabric disappeared, Gun-woo exhaled shakily beneath his breath like he was trying to control himself.

He hooked your legs carefully over his shoulders afterward, settling himself fully between them while his eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time.

And once he started, every coherent thought left your body instantly. Your head fell back hard against the seat while one of your hands searched blindly for something to hold onto, finally gripping the leather armrest beside you. Gun-woo noticed immediately and gently took your wrists instead, guiding your fingers into his soft hair.

“Here,” he murmured quietly against your skin.

The raspiness in his sound tipped it all. Because despite how intense he looked beneath you, despite the way he kissed and touched you like he had been starving for this for weeks, there was still something devastatingly soft about him.

And he was absolutely unbearable once he realized how sensitive you were for him. Every reaction pulled something cocky out of him.

His pace deepened whenever you gasped too loudly. His mouth lingered longer whenever your thighs trembled around his shoulders. And every time your fingers tugged helplessly at his hair, that stupid gorgeous smirk appeared briefly against your skin before he buried himself between your legs again like he wanted you completely ruined.

You were seeing stars.

The same man who got flustered because your chest brushed his face earlier was now looking up at you with dark, unwavering eye contact while completely undoing you beneath him.

And when he noticed you getting close, his restraint disappeared entirely, as his grip tightened against your thighs while his pace quickened just enough to send your breathing into chaos.

There he had you. On the exact same seat where you spent half the day teasing him.

Completely undone for him, by him.

The moment you finally fell apart beneath him, Gun-woo slowed immediately, breathing just as hard as you were by the time he lifted himself back up. His lips glistened faintly in the dim light.

And somehow, despite everything, he still looked shy underneath the confidence that had suddenly taken over him.

“Serves you right,” he muttered quietly, trying and failing to sound smug. You stared at him in disbelief.

He then pulled you back onto his lap again carefully, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while he rested back against the seat.

Something softer settled into his expression afterward as he looked at you. Maybe because seeing you like this affected him more than he expected.

The same woman who had been hanging halfway out of a moving car earlier shooting at armed men without hesitation was now melted against his chest, completely exhausted because of him alone.

Your forehead rested against his chest while both of you caught your breath slowly inside the dark car.

Outside, Seoul glowed faintly beneath the rain. Inside, Gun-woo looked at you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

Then suddenly he restarted the engine. You blinked. “…That’s it?”

Gun-woo’s mouth twitched slightly, “We still have a mission.”

You groaned dramatically before trying to climb back into your seat, but Gun-woo stopped you immediately.

One arm wrapped securely around your waist instead. “Stay.”

Your brows lifted slightly “Gun-woo, you’re driving.”

“I know.”

“And I’m on top of you.”

“I know.”

“You complained for thirty minutes earlier.”

“That was before.” Heat rushed into your face instantly.

He adjusted one hand back onto the steering wheel before pulling onto the empty road again, keeping you sprawled comfortably against his lap while the city lights blurred around the car.

Cold wind drifted through the cracked window beside you, sending your hair flying softly across both your faces while music played quietly through the speakers.

Gun-woo rested his chin briefly against your shoulder at the next red light, and for the first time that entire night, neither of you said anything at all.

when he finally agrees to meet you, it’s at night, in a place too public for honesty. a convenience store with buzzing lights and refrigerators humming like insects. you spot him immediately — tall, familiar, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

he doesn’t smile when he sees you. that’s when your chest tightens. he looks thinner. tired in a way sleep won’t fix. and then you see it — your breath catches before your brain does.

the scar. it cuts across his cheekbone in a rough, unmistakable line, pink and angry and still healing. it doesn’t look like an accident. it looks like a warning. you step closer without thinking, your hand lifting instinctively, stopping just short of touching him.

“gun-woo,” you whisper. “what happened?”

he flinches. not away from your hand — away from the question.

“it’s nothing,” he says too quickly, eyes sliding past you. “just a fight.”

“a fight?” your voice cracks in disbelief. “with who?”

he shrugs, like the effort costs him something. “some guys. it’s over.”

but it’s not over. you know it in your bones. you know it because he won’t meet your eyes, because his shoulders are tense like he’s bracing for impact even now.

“you didn’t tell me,” you say instead.

“i didn’t want to worry you.”

the lie sits between you, heavy and obvious. you want to push. you want to demand the truth, to remind him that love isn’t supposed to be filtered, that you’re not fragile glass to be protected from reality. but there’s something brittle in him tonight, something held together by will alone. so you soften instead.

“you can tell me things,” you assert quietly. “you know that, right?”

for a moment, something flickers in his expression — pain, maybe. regret. then it shutters closed. “i know.”

he doesn’t sound like he believes it. you walk together in silence after that, the distance between your shoulders wider than it used to be. when you reach your place, you turn to face him, heart pounding with words you don’t know how to arrange.

“stay,” you almost say. instead, he speaks first.

“i need some space.” the sentence lands wrong — too careful, too rehearsed. like he’s been practicing it alone.

“what?” you blink. “why?”

he exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath all day. “i just… i’ve got things to deal with. stuff you don’t need to be involved in.”

“gun-woo —”

“it’s better this way.”

better for who? you search his face, hoping to find reassurance, some promise hidden between the lines. but he’s already pulling back, already retreating behind something you can’t see past.

“this doesn’t mean i don’t care,” he adds, softer now. “it’s because i do.”

that hurts worse than if he’d said nothing at all. you nod, because arguing feels like it would shatter whatever fragile decision he’s clinging to. you let him go because you don’t yet understand that this is the beginning of a longer goodbye.

he doesn’t kiss you goodnight. he doesn’t touch you at all.

that night, you lie awake replaying the image of the scar over and over again, your fingers itching with the memory of stopping short. you imagine what it must have felt like — impact, pain, blood. you imagine him alone with it, choosing silence instead of you.

the next days blur. messages stay unread. calls go to voicemail. when you pass places he used to be — his gym, the kimbap stand — you feel like you’re circling a ghost. you tell yourself he just needs time. but deep down, something colder whispers that this isn’t distance — it’s defense. and whatever hurt him badly enough to leave that scar didn’t stop with his face.

it followed him home. it followed him away from you. and it’s already watching you, even if you don’t know it yet.

─────

you replay everything.

every word. every pause. every moment where you could have said something different, been softer, been sharper, been enough to keep him from pulling away. the conversations loop in your head when you’re brushing your teeth, when you’re staring at the ceiling at night, when your phone lights up with notifications that aren’t him.

you wonder when love became something you could lose by accident.

when you finally see gun-woo again, it’s because you corner him into it — standing outside the gym he used to drag you to, arms crossed against the evening chill. he freezes when he spots you, like he hadn’t considered the possibility that you might still be waiting. 

he looks the same and not at all. the scar has darkened, edges more defined now, a permanent line etched into his face. it draws your eyes, no matter how hard you try not to stare.

“hey,” you say softly.

“hey,” he answers, just as soft — but empty. you step closer. he steps back. the movement is subtle, almost polite, but it guts you all the same.

“can we talk?” you ask.

he hesitates, glancing around, then nods. “a minute.”

a minute is all he’s willing to give you now. you walk side by side, but not together. there’s a space between your arms where his hand used to fit so easily. you stop near the corner, under a flickering streetlight that makes everything look harsher than it is. 

you don’t ease into it. you can’t.

“the scar,” you say. “tell me the truth.”

his jaw tightens. “i already did.”

“no,” you reply, shaking your head. “you told me something. not the truth.”

he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s exhausted by the conversation before it’s even begun. “it was just a stupid fight. some guys mouthed off. i didn’t walk away fast enough.”

“that’s not how people get scars like that.”

silence stretches. you reach out without thinking, fingers hovering inches from his cheek. he catches your wrist midair — not rough, but firm enough to stop you.

“don’t,” he says. the word is quiet. final.

your chest aches. “why won’t you let me touch you?”

his grip loosens immediately, like he hadn’t meant to do that. he drops your hand as if it burns him. “it’s not about that.”

“then what is it about?”

he looks at you then — really looks at you  —and for a second, you think he might finally break. you see something dark and frightened behind his eyes, something he’s holding back with everything he has. but he doesn’t let it out.

“i don’t want you involved,” he says instead.

“in what?”

“in my life,” he almost says. the words hover, unspoken but loud. he swallows. “in things that aren’t your problem.”

you laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “i’m your girlfriend. when did that stop being my problem?”

he flinches at the word girlfriend, like it’s a blade pressed somewhere tender.

“this is exactly why,” he says quietly. “you shouldn’t be here.”

anger flickers through the fear, giving you something solid to stand on. “you don’t get to decide that for me.”

“i do if it keeps you safe.”

safe. the word chills you.

“from what?” you ask.

he shakes his head. “just… don’t come by the coffee shop anymore.”

the request lands heavier than anything else he’s said.

“what?”

“my eomma’s place,” he clarifies, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “if you’re looking for me, don’t go there.”

your pulse quickens. “why would you even say that?”

“because i’m asking you not to.”

the way he says it — careful, urgent, almost afraid — scrapes something raw inside you.

“gun-woo,” you whisper, your eyes burning. “what’s happening?”

for a moment, he looks like he might crumble. his hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening, like he’s holding himself in place.

“i can’t explain,” he says. “and even if i could, i wouldn’t.”

“why?”

“because you’d stay,” he answers honestly. “and i don’t want that.”

that hurts more than any lie could have. you step back, tears blurring the streetlight into a halo. “so that’s it?”

he nods once. “for now.”

for now is worse than goodbye. you turn away before he can see you cry. you don’t trust yourself not to reach for him again, and you already know he won’t reach back.

as you walk home, confusion hardens into something colder. fear. because scars don’t come from nothing. because men don’t pull away like this without a reason. because being told to stay away from the people you love feels less like a boundary and more like a warning. and as much as you want to believe he’s pushing you away for your own good, a quiet voice inside you whispers the truth.

whatever hurt him is still close. and it doesn’t want you anywhere near him. not because you don’t matter — but because you do.

─────

you tell yourself you’re only going to check.

just to make sure his mother is okay. just to quiet the tight knot in your chest that’s been there since gun-woo told you to stay away. you promise yourself you won’t linger, won’t ask questions you aren’t ready to hear. but the moment you turn onto the street, you know something is wrong.

the coffee shop looks smaller somehow, dimmer. the sign still hangs above the door, but it’s crooked, one corner cracked like a broken tooth. the windows are dark, blinds half-drawn in a way that feels less like closing for the day and more like hiding. you slow as you approach, unease crawling up your spine.

the door isn’t locked. it swings inward with a tired creak, and the smell hits you first — not coffee, not sugar, but dust and something sharp and metallic. your shoe crunches as you step inside. glass. broken shards scatter across the floor, glittering under the flickering overhead lights. every step sounds too loud, the echo of it bouncing around the empty space.

“hello?” you call softly. no answer.

the espresso machine sits behind the counter like a corpse. its metal casing is dented, wires exposed, the portafilter hanging uselessly from its side. coffee grounds are smeared across the counter like dirt, like someone knocked everything down just to prove they could.

your stomach twists. the walls are worse. deep scratches score the paint — long, violent marks that look deliberate. something dark has been smeared near the register, already dried, already brown. not paint. you don’t let yourself think about what it is.

“ah — sorry,” a voice says suddenly. you spin, heart slamming into your ribs. gun-woo’s mother stands near the back, a broom clutched too tightly in her hands. she smiles when she sees you, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. it trembles, like it might collapse at any second.

“i didn’t hear you come in,” she says. “we’re… closed today.”

“it’s okay,” you reply quickly, rushing toward her. “i just — are you alright?”

she laughs, light and brittle. “of course. just a little mess. kids these days, you know? no respect.”

but her hands are shaking. the broom rattles softly against the floor, the sound painfully loud in the quiet shop. she sets it aside and starts picking up glass with bare fingers, flinching when a shard bites into her skin.

“please,” you say, gently taking the pieces from her. “let me help.”

she hesitates, then nods. you clean in silence for a moment, the act grounding you even as your chest tightens. this place used to feel warm — steam rising from mugs, laughter in the corners, gun-woo behind the counter rolling his eyes when you teased him. now it feels violated. like something sacred has been broken.

“they came last week,” she says suddenly. your hands still.

“who?”

she swallows. “men.”

that’s all she says at first. then, slowly, the rest spills out in fragments, like she can’t bring herself to see the full picture all at once. money owed. deadlines missed. warnings given and ignored.

“they don’t like to repeat themselves,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the floor. “and they don’t like it when people think they can run.”

your throat goes dry. “is that… is that how gun-woo —?”

she shakes her head quickly. “no. he tried to stop them.” the words land heavy. “he told me he would handle it,” she continues. “he always does. he’s stubborn like that. he thinks if he takes enough hits, no one else will have to.”

your chest aches with understanding.

“that’s why he pushed you away,” she says softly, finally looking at you. “he didn’t want them to know you exist.”

the room seems to tilt. everything clicks into place — the scar, the distance, the warning to stay away. he wasn’t leaving because he didn’t love you. he was leaving because he did. tears blur your vision. “are you safe now?”

she hesitates.

“i don’t know,” she admits. that answer terrifies you more than anything else.

you stay a little longer, helping her clean, offering what comfort you can. when you finally step back outside, the daylight feels wrong — too bright for what you’ve just seen. you walk quickly, head down, thoughts racing. 

you don’t notice the car at first. it’s parked across the street, engine idling. dark windows. nothing unusual. but when you pass it, the engine hum deepens slightly, like it’s listening. you keep walking.

footsteps fall in behind you. not hurried. not careless. measured. your pulse spikes. you glance at a shop window, catching a reflection that doesn’t belong to you. a man, tall, walking just close enough to feel intentional.

fear blooms sharp and sudden. gun-woo was right. you should have stayed away. and as your steps quicken and the distance to safety feels impossibly far, one terrible truth settles in your chest. 

you weren’t supposed to see the damage. and now that you have — you’re part of it too.

it happens between one breath and the next. one moment you’re walking — heart racing, mind screaming at your legs to move faster — and the next, a hand clamps over your mouth from behind. the world tilts violently. your bag slips from your shoulder, hits the pavement with a dull thud you don’t have time to register.

you try to scream. nothing comes out. someone twists your arm behind your back, sharp pain flaring up your shoulder as you’re dragged sideways. you catch a flash of metal, dark paint, a door sliding open. then you’re shoved forward, hard, your knees hitting something unforgiving.

the door slams shut. sound disappears all at once, replaced by a thick, ringing silence. the air smells like leather and oil. before you can orient yourself, a hood is pulled over your head, rough fabric scraping against your skin, plunging you into darkness.

“hands,” a voice says calmly. they bind your wrists with practiced efficiency — tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to cut off circulation. someone pats you down, quick and impersonal, like inventory being checked. you’re breathing too fast. your chest aches with it.

“easy,” another voice says, almost bored. “we’re not animals.”

you don’t believe him. the car starts moving. you try to count turns. seconds. anything to anchor yourself. but panic makes time slippery, stretching and snapping back in ways you can’t control. every bump in the road sends a jolt through your body.

the men talk around you like you aren’t there. about traffic. about dinner. about how annoying it was to wait around all day. the casualness is what terrifies you most.

“you sure this is her?” one of them asks.

a pause. then a soft chuckle. “you think we’d grab the wrong one?”

your stomach drops.

“she came to the coffee shop,” another says. “after he told her not to.”

there it is. confirmation, cold and precise.

“people always think they’re special,” the first voice adds. “that rules don’t apply if you care enough.”

a hand grips your shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to remind you they’re real.

“you’re important,” he says lightly. “that’s good for you. means you’ll be treated carefully.”

you swallow hard beneath the hood.

“carefully,” he repeats. “as long as he listens.”

your pulse pounds in your ears. “he?” you croak before you can stop yourself. the car goes quiet. then someone laughs.

“oh,” the voice says gently, almost kindly. “she knows his name.”

another hand grabs your chin, tilting your head back despite the hood. you can feel the man close now, his breath warms against your cheek.

“gun-woo,” he says, testing the name like it tastes good. “that’s who you’re here for.”

your heart cracks open with fear. images flash through your mind — gun-woo’s scar, the way he stepped back from your touch, the way he told you to stay away. he knew. he knew this was possible. and he tried to stop it.

“you see,” the man continues, releasing you, “your boyfriend has been difficult. keeps disappearing. keeps thinking he can avoid us.”

the car slows. turns. stops. “but everyone has something they won’t run from.”

hands grab you again, rougher this time, pulling you out of the car. your feet scrape against concrete. a door creaks open somewhere nearby. you’re guided — dragged — inside. they sit you down on a chair. tape seals over your mouth, tight and suffocating. the hood stays on.

“don’t worry,” someone says as footsteps retreat. “we won’t hurt you.” a pause. “unless he makes us.”

the door closes. silence rushes in, heavy and absolute. your thoughts spiral. fear coils tight in your chest, but beneath it — clear and devastating — understanding settles in.

you were never invisible. they saw you every time you smiled at him in public. every time you waited outside for him. every time you walked into that coffee shop like you belonged there. you weren’t a secret. you were leverage.

and wherever gun-woo is right now, whatever hiding place he thought would keep you safe — it’s already too late. because loving him didn’t just make you vulnerable. it made you the target.

─────

gun-woo has learned how to disappear.

the room he’s hiding in is barely more than concrete and shadow — an old storage space above a closed-down boxing gym, dust thick enough to mute footsteps. the windows are blacked out. the lights stay off. he sleeps in bursts, never deeply, never long enough to dream.

hong woo-jin sits across from him, back against the wall, phone in hand. they don’t talk much anymore. there’s nothing left to say that hasn’t already been weighed and found wanting.

gun-woo’s phone buzzes. once. he freezes. woo-jin looks up immediately. “don’t,” he says. “let me check it first.”

gun-woo doesn’t hear him. he already knows. the phone buzzes again. then stops.

slowly, like moving underwater, gun-woo reaches for it. his fingers hesitate just above the screen, as if touching it will make something real that he’s been desperately pretending isn’t.

he unlocks it. the message opens without ceremony. a photo. your face fills the screen — blurred at the edges, poorly lit. there’s a hood crumbled around your neck, but not enough to hide the curve of your cheek, the familiar line of your mouth. your eyes are wide, shining with tears you didn’t get to wipe away.

you’re alive. the relief hits him so hard his knees almost give out. then the second file loads. audio. woo-jin’s already on his feet. “gun-woo—”

gun-woo presses play. your voice fills the room. small. shaking. terrified. you say your name when they tell you to. you try to sound steady and fail. there’s a tremor in your breath that gun-woo recognizes instantly — one he’s heard before, late at night when you thought he was asleep, when your fears slipped out unguarded.

something inside him goes perfectly still. the scar on his cheek burns like it’s been reopened. the message ends. for a long moment, there’s no sound except the hum of the building settling around them.

woo-jin watches him carefully. he’s seen gun-woo angry. he’s seen him hurt. he’s seen him take punishment meant for other people without making a sound. this is different. this isn’t fear. this is decision.

“they crossed the line,” woo-jin says quietly. gun-woo nods once. all the doubt drains out of him in an instant. all the careful calculations about survival, about staying hidden, about outlasting them. none of it matters anymore.

they took you. they said your name. he stands, already moving, already reaching for the jacket he hasn’t worn in weeks. his hands are steady. his breathing evens out, like he’s stepping into something he was always meant to do.

“they want me to come out,” he affirms.

woo-jin exhales through his nose. “they want you desperate.”

gun-woo’s eyes flick back to the frozen image on his phone.

“they already got that,” he says. “what they don’t have is what happens next.”

woo-jin doesn’t argue. he never does when gun-woo looks like this. instead, he pulls out his own phone, starts scrolling through maps, contacts, half-finished plans they’d hoped they wouldn’t need.

“there won’t be a clean way,” woo-jin warns. “and there might not be a way back.”

gun-woo doesn’t hesitate. “i’m not coming back without her.”

the words are simple. absolute. they plan without illusion after that. they mark locations, count men, trace the edges of a company that’s grown too comfortable hurting people who can’t fight back. they talk exits they may never use, injuries they might not survive.

neither of them says what they’re both thinking — that this might be the end. gun-woo doesn’t care. every choice he made before — every step back, every silence, every lie — was meant to keep you out of this world.

now that you’re in it, there’s nothing left to protect but you. he pockets his phone carefully, like it’s something fragile.

“hold on,” he murmurs, not sure if he’s speaking to you or to the memory of your voice still echoing in his head. then he looks at woo-jin, eyes clear, scar stark against his skin. “i’m done hiding.”

and for the first time since that night everything went wrong, gun-woo isn’t running anymore. he’s coming for you.

─────

the message arrives just after midnight. gun-woo feels the vibration through the concrete before he hears it — the low buzz of his phone against the floor where he set it down, screen face-up like it’s been waiting for this moment. the room is cold enough that his breath fogs faintly in the dark.

he doesn’t rush. he learned a long time ago that rushing is how men make mistakes. he picks up the phone, unlocks it, reads.

one chance. no police.

that’s it. no greeting. no threats. they don’t need to explain themselves anymore. they already have what they want. the address sits beneath the terms like a dare.

gun-woo knows the place. everyone does, even if they’ve never been there. a stretch of warehouses near the river, long abandoned except by people who prefer it when no one asks questions. the kind of place screams disappear into rust and water.

“they’re choosing ground they control,” woo-jin says from behind him.

gun-woo doesn’t turn. “they think i’ll come crawling.”

woo-jin snorts quietly. “they think you’ll come alone.”

gun-woo exhales slowly through his nose. he types with deliberate calm, thumbs steady despite the way his heart is beating too fast, too hard.

i’ll come alone. his thumb pauses. he adds a second line, not because he thinks it will change anything, but because he needs it said. let her go when i arrive.

he presses send. the response comes so quickly it almost feels like they were waiting with their fingers hovering over the screen.

we’ll see.

gun-woo stares at the words until they lose meaning. he doesn’t expect honesty from men like this. promises are just tools. leverage. delay tactics. they’ll keep you until the last possible second — until they’re sure they’ve wrung everything out of him they can.

behind him, woo-jin’s world is all light and angles. his laptop screen glows with layered maps, old municipal blueprints pulled from forgotten archives, satellite images marked in red and yellow. exit points circled. dead ends crossed out. lines drawn where men will likely stand with weapons they’ve grown too comfortable using.

“they’ve got at least fifteen on-site,” woo-jin says. “maybe more. two main entrances. one freight door in the back that looks sealed but isn’t. cameras on the east wall — cheap, outdated, probably running off a shared feed.”

gun-woo finally turns. “and her?”

woo-jin taps the screen, zooming in. “lower level. basement or subfloor. they’ll keep her where they think you can’t reach quickly.”

gun-woo nods once. there’s no hesitation in him now. no second-guessing. the moment he heard your voice, something in him aligned so cleanly it scared him. this is what he’s meant to do.

“once we move,” woo-jin says carefully, “there’s no clean ending. no version where this just… goes away.”

“i know.”

“and there’s a chance —” woo-jin stops himself, jaw tightening. “there’s a chance we don’t all walk out.”

gun-woo doesn’t look away from the screen. “i’m not walking out without her.”

the words are flat. certain. non-negotiable. woo-jin studies him for a long moment, then nods. loyalty settles over him like armor.

“okay,” he says. “then we plan like that.”

gun-woo steps aside, pulling his phone out again. this time, his fingers aren’t as steady. he calls his mother. she answers immediately, like she’s been holding the phone in her hand, afraid to put it down.

“gun-woo?” she says. “are you somewhere safe?”

the word safe almost makes him laugh.

“i’m okay,” he says instead. “i just wanted to hear your voice.”

she goes quiet. he can hear her breathing on the other end, controlled, careful.

“you sound like you’re saying goodbye,” she says softly.

“i’m not.”

a pause.

“you don’t have to carry everything alone,” she tells him. “you never did.”

“i know,” he says, and for the first time, he means it. “i’m sorry i made you worry.”

“you’re my son,” she replies. “worry is part of the job.”

his throat tightens.

“if anything happens —” he starts.

“gun-woo,” she interrupts gently. “come home. that’s all i want.”

“i will,” he says. “i promise.”

when the call ends, he stands there longer than necessary, phone pressed to his palm like it might anchor him. then his thumb moves — muscle memory, instinct — scrolling until your name fills the screen. he stops.

the thought of leaving you a message feels like admitting defeat. like accepting a world where he doesn’t get to see your face when this is over, doesn’t get to hear you yell at him for being an idiot, doesn’t get to feel your hands on his scar and know you’re real. he locks the screen.

“no goodbyes,” he mutters. “she’ll be there when i get to her.”

woo-jin glances over. doesn’t comment. they suit up in silence. jackets zipped. gloves pulled tight. weapons checked and rechecked. everything is utilitarian — nothing sentimental, nothing unnecessary.

gun-woo catches his reflection in the darkened window. the scar across his cheek looks harsher in the low light, a reminder carved into his skin of what happens when men like this decide you belong to them. he doesn’t flinch. pain is familiar.

losing you isn’t.

as they step into the night, the city stretches out around them, unaware, indifferent. cars pass. lights glow. people laugh somewhere far away. gun-woo doesn’t look back. the deal is set. but it was never real. because he isn’t going to trade himself for you.

he’s going to take you back.

─────

you hear it before you see it.

at first, it’s just noise — shouts muffled through walls, the echo of boots hitting concrete, something heavy crashing to the floor. it doesn’t make sense yet. your body is too tired, fear too constant, for hope to arrive cleanly. 

then a scream cuts short. then another. your heart stutters. you lift your head as much as the restraints allow, breath catching painfully behind the tape over your mouth. the room you’re in is small and windowless, lit by a single flickering bulb that hums like it’s about to die. your wrists ache. your legs are numb from sitting too long.

the sounds get closer. outside, the deal collapses. gun-woo moves like a man who has already accepted the worst and decided it doesn’t matter.

the first guard doesn’t even see him coming — just a flash of motion, a sharp impact, a body hitting the ground hard enough not to get back up. woo-jin is already moving, already clearing space, covering angles, shouting warnings that blur into the chaos.

someone yells gun-woo’s name. another man goes down. there’s no elegance to it. no choreography. this isn’t a fight meant to be watched. it’s survival.

blood smears across concrete floors. bones crack under force that doesn’t hesitate. orders turn into panic, voices overlapping until no one is listening anymore. gun-woo barely registers it.

he isn’t counting men. he isn’t thinking about exits. he’s thinking about you. every step forward is fueled by the image burned into his mind — your face in that photo, your voice shaking as you said your name. the scar on his cheek throbs like it remembers why it’s there.

he breaks through doors instead of opening them. he takes hits that would have slowed him before and keeps going. pain registers distantly, like weather. like something happening to someone else.

woo-jin shouts his name once — sharp, urgent — but gun-woo is already past him, already following instinct down a narrow stairwell that smells like damp concrete and rust. below. he knows you’re below.

the last door is locked. gun-woo doesn’t slow. the impact rattles the hinges. once. twice. the third time, the lock gives with a scream of metal.

the room beyond is small. and you’re there. for a split second, the world stops.

you’re tied to a chair, wrists bound, ankles secured, shoulders shaking with silent sobs you don’t even realize you’re making. your face is pale, eyes red and unfocused beneath the harsh light. you look smaller than he remembers. breakable in a way that twists something vicious and feral in his chest.

you’re alive. that’s all that matters. gun-woo is across the room in an instant, hands already working at your restraints, movements suddenly careful—gentle in a way that doesn’t match the blood on his knuckles.

“it’s me,” he says, voice rough. “i’ve got you.”

you don’t understand the words yet. not fully. your body reacts before your mind does — your breath hitching, a broken sound forcing its way past the tape. your eyes lock onto his face. the scar. the familiar line of his jaw. the way he’s looking at you like the world might end if he blinks.

gun-woo tears the tape away. you gasp, dragging air into your lungs like you’ve been underwater.

“gun-woo,” you choke. the sound of his name breaks something open in him.

“i’m here,” he says immediately. “you’re okay. i’m here.”

his hands shake as he cuts you free, like now that he’s reached you, the adrenaline has nowhere else to go. when the last restraint falls away, you pitch forward — and he catches you without thinking, arms wrapping around you tight enough to anchor you to him.

you cling to him, fingers curling into his jacket, face pressed against his chest. his heartbeat is wild beneath your ear. alive. real. around you, the noise fades — sirens in the distance, woo-jin shouting for him, the aftermath closing in.

none of it matters.

gun-woo presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes. “i’m so sorry.”

it doesn’t hit you all at once. at first, you’re just aware of your own breathing — too fast, too loud — of the way your hands won’t stop shaking even though you’re no longer tied down. gun-woo is right in front of you, solid and real, his hands still hovering like he’s afraid to touch you wrong.

then the adrenaline drains. and everything crashes in. you shove him.

not hard enough to move him, but hard enough to make your point. your palms hit his chest once, twice, three times, each impact fueled by something sharp and burning that’s been building since the moment he stepped away from you days ago.

“you left me,” you cry, voice breaking apart. “you just — you disappeared.”

he doesn’t stop you. he doesn’t even raise his hands. he just stands there, stunned, watching you unravel.

“you decided for me,” you continue, tears blinding you. “you decided i couldn’t handle the truth, that i wasn’t strong enough to stay. do you know what that felt like?”

your fists are useless against him, but you keep hitting him anyway, like if you stop, you might fall apart completely.

“i was so scared,” you sob. “i thought i’d lost you. and then i did lose you. and then they took me and i thought —” your voice gives out.

gun-woo catches your wrists gently, not to stop you, but to keep you from hurting yourself. his grip is warm. steady.

“i was trying to protect you,” he says hoarsely.

“that’s not protection!” you shout. “that’s abandonment.”

the word lands between you like something broken. his breath stutters. you sink against him, strength finally gone, forehead pressing into his chest as your body shakes with sobs you’ve been holding in for far too long.

“i waited,” you whisper. “i kept waiting for you to come back. and you never did.”

gun-woo swallows hard. he looks down at you like he’s seeing the damage for the first time — not the bruises, not the fear, but the way his absence carved something hollow into you.

“you were kidnapped,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “they tied you up. they hurt you.” his voice cracks. “and you still want to be with me?”

you lift your head, eyes red and swollen.

“yes,” you say immediately. then again, because he needs to hear it more than once. “yes.”

tears spill over, hot and unstoppable. you nod as you speak, desperate and unashamed.

“i don’t care about the danger,” you sob. “i don’t care about the scar or the debt or how bad it gets. i care about you. just — don’t leave me like that again. please.”

the word please shatters whatever he had left. gun-woo pulls you into him suddenly, fiercely, arms locking around you like he’s afraid the world might reach in and take you back if he loosens his grip. he buries his face in your hair, breath shaking, shoulders tense like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

“i thought leaving would hurt less,” he admits into your hair. “i thought if i stayed away, you’d be safe.”

you clutch at him, fingers digging into his jacket, anchoring yourself to his heartbeat.

“i wasn’t safe without you,” you whisper. “i was just alone.”

he stiffens. the truth settles into him slowly, heavily. leaving you didn’t protect you. it broke you. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears with a tenderness that almost undoes you.

“i won’t disappear again,” he promises, voice low and absolute. “i don’t care how ugly it gets. i don’t care who i have to face.”

his forehead rests against yours. “i’m staying.”

you collapse into him, sobbing in relief, in exhaustion, in love that never wavered even when everything else did. around you, the night hums with aftermath — the world trying to move on. but for this moment, wrapped in his arms, you finally feel it — you’re not alone anymore. and neither is he.

─────

the world feels muted after chaos.

hospitals smell the same everywhere — sterile, sharp, antiseptic that stings your nostrils and settles into your hair. the fluorescent lights hum above, cold and indifferent. you walk beside gun-woo, hand gripping his lightly, the scar on his arm freshly stitched, red and angry, a reminder of the night that almost took you both apart.

he moves carefully, slower than usual, every step measured as if his body still expects another threat around the corner. bruises line his arms and shoulders from the fight, but he hides them as best he can beneath his jacket. woo-jin, thankfully, is laughing already despite his own battered body, cracking jokes about the “worst coordinated rescue mission ever,” making comments about how those men clearly didn’t know who they were messing with.

his laughter is almost surreal against the quiet seriousness of the hospital hallways. you can’t help but smile despite yourself.

gun-woo’s mother meets you in the waiting area. her eyes are wide, hands clasped together, and they shake as if she’s trying to keep herself from collapsing. the second she sees you, the tension breaks. she runs forward, pulling you into a tight embrace, sobbing openly into your hair. you cling back, your own tears spilling freely as you realize how close you were to losing not just him — but the people you love most.

“i thought…” she starts, voice breaking, “…i thought i’d never see you again.”

you shake your head, whispering, “i’m here, it’s okay.”

gun-woo steps closer, chest tight, and finally speaks — the apology you’ve been aching to hear. not excuses. not deflections. truth.

“i… i should have told you everything,” he admits, voice low and rough. “i should have let you be part of it. i thought i could protect you by keeping you away. i was wrong. i left you alone when you needed me most, and i —” his voice falters, emotion raw and unpolished. he swallows, gathering the strength to continue. “i thought distance could save you. but it didn’t. you got caught anyway, and i couldn’t forgive myself.”

you reach up, touch his cheek, thumb fluttering over his scar. “gun-woo… you didn’t leave me. you fought. you came for me.”

he shakes his head. “i almost didn’t. i let fear — my own fear — make the choice for me. and that’s… that’s what i’m sorry for. i should have trusted you, trusted us.”

you swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “we’re here now. that’s what matters.”

woo-jin claps gun-woo on the shoulder, smirking even through a cut above his eyebrow. “see? told you we’d make it out. barely, but still.”

gun-woo gives a half-smile, half-grimace at his friend, before turning back to you. his eyes hold a tenderness that’s steady and absolute. “i won’t hide from you again. not ever.”

you rest your forehead against his, letting the antiseptic and hospital lights fade around you. here, in this quiet aftermath, you let yourself breathe. for the first time since this nightmare began, the world feels like it might start to right itself.

not because the danger is gone. not because the scars will ever fully fade. but because honesty, and trust, and love, have finally found their place among the ruins.

and for now, that’s enough.

─────

healing doesn’t arrive all at once.

it comes in fragments — uneven, frustrating, slow enough to make you doubt it’s happening at all. days blur into each other, stitched together by hospital follow-ups, quiet apartments, and the constant awareness of how easily everything could have gone wrong.

gun-woo carries his guilt like a second shadow. you see it in the way he watches you when he thinks you aren’t looking, like he’s memorizing the fact that you’re still here. in the way his hand hovers before touching you, careful, questioning, even though you’ve never once pulled away.

you carry yours at night. sleep comes in shallow waves. when it does, it drags you back into darkness — hands grabbing, fabric over your head, voices laughing too close to your ear. you wake up gasping, heart racing, the taste of fear sharp in your mouth.

the first time it happens, gun-woo bolts upright instantly, already reaching for you.

“it’s okay,” he whispers, pulling you against his chest, grounding you with warmth and weight. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”

he doesn’t ask what you saw. he doesn’t tell you to calm down. he just stays awake until your breathing slows, until your hands stop shaking in his shirt. 

that’s how it goes after that. together.

late one night, hunger finally breaks through the heaviness. you end up in the car with him, windows cracked, city lights blurring past as you drive nowhere in particular. you eat greasy food on the hood of the car, knees brushing, sharing fries without speaking.

it feels almost normal.

sometimes you walk side by side without talking, hands brushing accidentally — then intentionally. fingers lace together like muscle memory, like something your bodies never forgot even when everything else fell apart. he doesn’t let go first anymore. 

one evening, you’re sitting close on the couch, the room lit only by the television you aren’t watching. gun-woo’s scar catches the light, pale and raised against his skin. without thinking, you lift your hand and trace it gently with your thumb.

he stills. you pause, heart stuttering. “is this okay?”

he turns to you slowly, eyes searching your face for something — fear, maybe. disgust. regret. he doesn’t find it. so he nods.

your touch is careful but unflinching. you don’t look away. you don’t treat it like something ugly. to you, it’s just part of him now — evidence of survival, of choice, of love fierce enough to leave a mark. gun-woo exhales shakily, leaning into your touch.

“i thought you’d see it and think of everything that went wrong,” he admits quietly.

“i do,” you say honestly. “and i still see you.”

that’s when something finally eases in him. he takes your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, then rests his forehead against yours. there’s no rush. no panic. just the steady rhythm of two people learning how to exist in the same space again.

he doesn’t pull away when you cry anymore. you don’t brace yourself for him to disappear. staying, you’re learning, is an act of courage all its own. and this time, you’re both brave enough to try.

─────

time softens things — not enough to erase them, but enough to make them livable. the legal battles shrink into paperwork and waiting rooms. the debts are chipped away at slowly, responsibly, honestly. his mother’s coffee shop reopens with new paint and steadier locks. life moves forward in small, deliberate steps.

gun-woo’s scar fades. not completely. it never does. the line across his cheek lightens, smooths, but remains visible if you know where to look. you do. you always will. it becomes something familiar instead of frightening. a mark of what he survived. of what you survived together.

some nights, when the world is soft and dim and the air between you feels safe, you trace it again with your thumb. he doesn’t tense anymore.

one night, you’re lying together, tangled in sheets, city lights leaking in through the window. he’s quiet longer than usual, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s arguing with himself. finally, he exhales.

“i thought loving me would ruin you,” he says quietly. “that if you stayed, i’d destroy you just by existing.”

you turn toward him without thinking, propping yourself on your elbow so he has to look at you. his eyes flick to yours, uncertain, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows. you answer immediately. no hesitation. no doubt.

“loving you saved me.”

the words land between you, gentle but absolute. he swallows hard, something breaking open in his chest. “you really mean that?”

you lean in instead of answering. your kiss is slow and certain, your hand cupping his face, thumb resting over the scar he once hated. he lets out a shaky breath into your mouth, kisses you back like he’s still learning what it means to be chosen — like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

when you pull back, your foreheads rest together.

“this,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his, “is me staying.”

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

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

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

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

You only shrug in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort quietly. “Probably the second one.”

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

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

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

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

The rest of the morning passes quietly.

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

Normally, this monthly routine soothed you.

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

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

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

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

“I’m tired.”

“You reorganised the same shelf three times.”

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

The look Karen gives is filled with worry.

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

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

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

You nearly choke on a stolen fry.

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

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

Matt’s fork stops halfway on his plate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which you’re still confused by.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate how little it all unsettles you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The next day unusually sunny for New York.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t answer immediately.

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

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

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

Matt doesn’t respond again.

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

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

Anything that doesn’t remind you of him.

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

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

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

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

“It’s the same colour as your eyes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Dex did.

Your mouth slightly curves before you could stop it.

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

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

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

“It’s not much blood.”

“Say that to my sofa.”

“That was also not much blood.”

You snorted softly despite yourself.

Oh God. This was becoming dangerously normal.

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

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

"There," you murmured quietly.

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

Neither of you stepped away.

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

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

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

Your eyes fluttered closed as you sighed.

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

“The windows work,” he says, shrugging.

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

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

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

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

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your hands are shaking again.”

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

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

You frowned. “Were you following me?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

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

Dex blinked once. “… Mostly no.”

"Dex." You stared at him in disbelief.

“You looked happy.” He commented.

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

Like your happiness was important to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I notice more.”

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

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

“Are you hurt?” You ask instead.

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

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

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

You hate how right he was.

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

Heat immediately flushed your face.

“It’s just a rock.” You say. 

“It made you smile.” He smirked.

God, you wanted to punch him.

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

“You should probably go,” you uttered softly.

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

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

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

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

Then he disappeared out the window and into the rain.

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

“Asshole ate my strawberries as well.”

A/N: Part 2 of this series! It should hopefully have main 12 parts total if all goes well 🤞🏻. Like before feedback is welcome! 

“Hey,” you said, bright but not pushy. “You look like you could use one of these.”

Dex stopped. He blinked at you once, recalibrating. 

Oh?

The first thing he noticed was that he thought you were pretty. For a second, he didn’t process anything beyond that. 

Then the details followed: the faint dirt on your hands, the natural way you handled the stems, the open shop behind you breathing out the scent of fresh blooms. You had a bucket of red roses with you, probably giving it to everyone who would stop to listen. You were a florist, obviously. That was your shop, most likely. 

“Do I?” He managed to say. 

“I think so,” you admitted, tilting your head as you looked at him. “You’ve got the whole ‘I’d rather be literally anywhere else’ thing going on.”

Most people didn’t say things like that to him. Not casually. Not with that little hint of amusement in their voice, like you weren’t intimidated at all.

“I don’t celebrate this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around you.

“Mm,” you hummed, like that was fair. Then you lifted the flower a little higher, wiggling it slightly between your fingers. “Good news, you don’t have to participate. This one’s free.”

He didn’t take it.

“Why give them away?” he asked instead, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re losing money.”

You smiled, wider this time, like you liked the question. “Maybe I am.” Then you continued a little more playful, “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to cute strangers without it being weird.”

You thought he was cute? 

Dex almost laughed, but then decided that would probably be perceived as mean, regardless of his intentions. “That’s your strategy?”

“Hey, it’s working,” you said easily, nudging the flower a little closer to him. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

His eyes flicked from the flower back to your face, trying to find the catch, maybe some sign you didn’t mean it, some crack in the tone, but there wasn’t one. You just looked… sincere. 

“Do you say that to everyone?” he asked.

You shrugged, shoulders lifting just slightly. 

For whatever reason, he finally took the flower.

Your fingers brushed his, and you didn’t pull away quickly like most people would. You just let it happen, then eased back to take the next flower for the next person.

“See?” you said, satisfied, like you’d won a county fair grand prize. “Now you’ve got proof today wasn’t a total waste.”

Dex looked down at the flower in his hand, then back at you. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

You laughed, and he thought it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. “Take care of it,” you said, “Or don’t. It’s yours now.”

He didn’t react. He just awkwardly stood there for a couple of seconds, spinning the rose in his hand. 

“Dex,” he said instead, gesturing to himself like offering his name made sense here, like it belonged in this conversation.

Your expression brightened just a touch at that. “Dex,” you repeated, like you were testing it. “I’m guessing you don’t usually stop for random girls handing out flowers.”

“No.”

“Mm.” You smiled, just a little smug about it now. “Guess I got lucky, then.”

He stared at you for a second too long, because it didn’t feel like luck.

It felt deliberate. Like the world was pointing at you saying this one! This one is yours!

“Yeah,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Something like that.”

“Alright, Dex,” you said, stepping back slightly to let someone pass between you. “Try not to look so miserable, yeah? You’ve got a flower now. That’s a personality upgrade.”

He huffed a small smile.

And when he walked away this time, he didn’t throw the flower out. He held onto it, tighter than he needed to.

See, he’d been empty for a long time. Nothing ever held his attention for more than a passing second anymore. Everything just got reduced to patterns, targets, and white noise. So when his focus caught on you and didn’t immediately let go, it felt wrong, like his world slipped off-pattern.

Behind him, you were already smiling at someone else, giving someone another rose. But that didn’t make it feel less personal. 

It just made him want your attention back.

—

A week later, Dex stepped into your shop like he’d already memorized it, as if he’d been there a hundred times instead of zero. The bell chimed softly overhead, and you glanced up from trimming stems, fingers faintly dusted with green.

“Hi! What can I do for you today?” you asked, like he was any other customer.

For a second, he just looked at you.

“You don’t recognize me?” he said, and it came out more earnest than he intended. He sounded… disappointed.

You blinked, then leaned forward slightly, studying him. There was a moment where he could see your mind working, trying to place him, and then your eyes widened, recognition clicking into place.

“Oh! Dex, right?” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “From Valentine’s Day.”

The panic that had clawed in his chest eased immediately.

You glanced down then, noticing what he was holding in his calloused hands: A small glass vase. Inside it, the rose.

The rose you gave him. 

“How’s it doing?” you asked, going around the counter and stepping closer.

“I put it in water,” he said, watching you instead of the flower. “I did all I could.”

You leaned in slightly, examining it, your fingers hovering just short of touching the petals. “Mm,” you hummed, but you didn’t sound surprised. “It’s wilting.”

“It is,” he agreed, though his tone suggested that wasn’t the point.

You looked up at him then, a little apologetic. “Roses don’t last forever.”

He knew that. You knew he knew that, you weren’t stupid. But he wasn’t the first customer who was upset that a flower had the audacity to die. Living art has a way of turning sentimental to people, beyond logic or reason.

Dex’s grip on the vase tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing absently against the glass. “Can I keep it alive?” he asked.

The question wasn’t naive. Instead it was focused, as if he was asking, what else can we do? Are we exhausting all our options? 

“I mean… not really,” you admitted, “It’s just its time.”

He held your eyes, unwavering.

“I want it to last,” he said, and there was an absolution in the way he said it: stubborn, but not childish. He said it like it mattered more than it should because it was from you.

You, who he’d followed home for the past seven days without a second thought. You, who stopped at the corner supermarket to get your favourite blend of tea, who took the subway just to get coffee just because you liked how it was roasted better. You, who kept a herb garden on your kitchen windowsill meticulous and alive, and hung a suncatcher in your bedroom window so the light would break into colors across your room in the morning. You, who slept with the windows open because you like waking up to natural light. You, who slept in the cutest silk slips that barely leave anything to Dex’s imagination. And you, who had a rooftop garden hidden above your apartment, where you spent hours tending to things that grew because you cared. 

Oh, the garden.

Dex liked it most of all, because he found a high enough perch on a neighboring building to watch you without interruption, to stay still for hours at a time while you knelt among the plants and didn’t once look up, never once realizing your being followed, that your life was being studied by a very, very dangerous man. 

Your eyes flicked between him and the rose again, and then you let out a sigh, shifting closer to the counter. “Okay,” you said, thoughtful now. “I’ve got an idea.”

You reached for the vase and slid the wilting rose free. You handled it carefully, even in its fading state.

Then you turned, plucking a fresh rose from a nearby bundle, and held it out toward him with an encouraging smile. “You can take a new one,” you offered. “If you change the water every other day, it’ll stick around for longer.”

Dex didn’t even glance at it. His attention stayed on the original, now resting lightly in your hand.

“I don’t want a different one,” he said, smaller now, but no less firm.

You hesitated. “You… don’t?”

“I want that one.”

Your brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through. “The dying one?”

“…Yeah.”

There was a certain vulnerability in his eyes that made you pause. Was he… attached?

You looked down at the rose again, then back at him. The lines in your face lowered like you were starting to understand, at least a little.

“Okay,” you murmured, thinking it through. Then, when you got an idea, you said, a bit brighter, “I could press it for you.”

Dex’s eyes shifted back to you.

“It’ll at least preserve it,” you added, gesturing lightly with the stem. “Flatten it, dry it properly. I know it’s exactly the same, but…” you smiled faintly, “it’ll last.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“You could come back to pick it up at a later date,” you continued. “I was already planning to press some gerberas anyway, so it’s not a big deal to add one more.”

Dex was silent for a moment, weighing not the practicality, but also its implication. Then he nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

You smiled and turned to set the rose aside carefully.

Dex stayed exactly where he was, watching you move, already certain he’d be back long before the wait was over.

—

Twelve days later, Dex stood across the street from your shop for eight full minutes before going in.

He wasn’t pacing, not even fidgeting. He was just standing there, coffee in hand, watching the door like it might open on its own and solve the problem for him.

He had already timed how long you usually stayed behind the counter in the morning, how often you stepped out to rearrange the display, the pattern of customers drifting in and out, and when you disappeared into the back room for exactly three minutes and twenty seconds at a time.

Still, he stood there a second too long, staring through the glass at the familiar arrangement of flowers, the counter, at you.  

The coffee in his hand was still warm. Not hot anymore, but not cold either. He’d made sure of that.

Finally, he crossed the street.

The bell chimed when he pushed the door open.

You looked up and smiled. This time, you recognised him immediately. “Hi, Dex.”

And just like that, you made his day. Maybe his week. 

He stepped closer, more confident than he did before.

“Hi,” he said back. There was a second where he just stood there, looking at you like he’d forgotten why he came in at all.

Then, remembering, he held the coffee out. “This is for you.”

You blinked, surprised, but reached out to take it. “For me?” you echoed, turning the cup slightly in your hand. “You didn’t have to—”

You stopped to turn the cup slightly, reading the label, then glanced back up at him with a small tilt of your head.

“Oh my god,” you said, half-laughing already. “No way.”

Dex’s stomach dropped briefly before your smile widened.

“This is my coffee place,” you said, amused. “Like, my favourite cafe.”

He blinked, just feigning enough surprise to feel real. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you laughed, lifting the cup like evidence before you took a sip. “Dex...”

His shoulders tightened just slightly. “Yeah?”

“You got my order right.” There was a long second before you broke into a grin, bright and delighted. “That’s crazy.”

He let out a small, relieved breath through his nose. “I just guessed.”

“Insane guess,” you corrected, shaking your head as you took another sip, like you were still processing it. “You just nailed my entire personality in a cup.”

“I got lucky,” he said, shoving his hands in his pocket. 

You glanced back up at him, still smiling as you sat the cup down to clean up the leaves from the counter, leftover from conditioning your antirrhinums for an event in a few days. “Well,” you said, “your luck just made my morning significantly better, so...”

“That was the idea.” It slipped out before he could filter it.

Your face shifted from amused to warm, just a touch more focused on him. “Yeah?” 

Dex nodded once, like that was obvious.

A bout of silence settled, but it wasn’t empty. It stretched comfortably as you leaned a little against the counter, still holding the coffee between your hands.

“So,” you said, tilting your head, “what’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Dex answered, “Just… thought you’d like it.”

You shifted closer to the counter, resting your elbows there, facing him more fully now. “Do you do this a lot?” you asked. “Or am I just benefiting from a very specific moment of generosity?”

“Not a lot,” he admitted.

“Well,” you said, lifting the cup slightly toward him in appreciation. “I’m not complaining.”

Okay. Dex thought. This was the lull in the conversation he had been waiting for. It was a gap, a narrow, fleeting window, and he could feel it closing even as it formed. If he didn’t do it now, it would slip, reset, become another loop of almost. Ask her out. Now. 

His heartbeat had gotten loud in his ears, his focus narrowing down to you and the space between you, to the way your fingers rested around the coffee he’d brought, to the way your mouth had just barely parted.

If he didn’t ask you out on a date, then he would just be the creep, right? If nothing came of these small visits, then you would just be a florist and he would just be a customer, right?

He had the words in the back of his tongue, he had practiced in the mirror all fucking morning. It was there, just waiting for him to catch up and say it out loud—

“You’re different today,” you said, interrupting his train of thoughts before it derailed.

“I…” he struggled, but then decided to play along. “How?”

“Less intimidating,” you said, smiling. “Last time you had this whole… intense thing going on.”

“I wasn’t trying to be intimidating.”

“But you kind of were anyway.”

He considered that, then nodded once, like he’d accept it.

You watched him for a second, then laughed softly to yourself.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re just… not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

You glanced at him, smile tilting.

“I thought you’d be the type to take the flower and disappear forever,” you admitted. “Not appear with coffee and—” you gestured lightly toward him, “—actual conversation.”

Dex’s mouth shifted slightly at that.

“That’s a good thing, right?” he asked, almost proud of the achievement you pointed out. 

“It is,” you said. “Because I was hoping that wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

“It’s not,” he said instantly. 

You studied him for a second, then nodded, like you believed him. “Okay,” you said. “Then we should probably keep talking somewhere that isn’t my shop while I’m technically working.”

Oh. Were you asking him out on a date?

Dex’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Yeah,” he said.

You smiled, a little more playful again now that the words were out there. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You picked up your coffee again, almost absently.

“Dinner?” you suggested, like it was the most natural next step. “That feels like a reasonable escalation from coffee.”

“It does.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” You drank the coffee again, a little ahh when you finished your sip.

“How about Saturday?” you asked. “I’m working a wedding, but I’m free after seven.”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly, too excitedly. “I’ll pick you up if you… uh, text me your address.” 

As if he didn’t already know. 

Your smile widened just slightly, already scribbling your number on the back of a receipt. 

“Saturday it is,” you said, giving the paper to him. 

And just like that, a plan settled into place.

Dex stayed where he was for a second longer, amazed at how everything had worked out in his favour. 

He had planned this differently.

He thought it would take more. He thought he’d have to push it there himself.

But you… you had met him halfway without even making it feel like effort.

—

Saturday arrived quicker than you had expected. 

You just got back from the wedding cocktail hour, and you barely had time to change from your blazer to a flowier dress before the doorbell rang. You checked your reflection one last time before heading downstairs, adjusting your bag just to keep your hands busy. 

It was seven. Exactly seven. 

Not early enough to seem overeager. Definitely not late enough to feel careless. It just felt… precise.

When you opened the door, he was already standing there with his shoulders squared, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes finding you immediately. 

“Hi,” you smiled, closing the door behind you.

“Hi,” he replied. “You look…” he started, then hesitated.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He exhaled faintly through his nose, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “You look good,” he settled on, like it was the safest word he had to a much stronger reaction.

You laughed lightly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. 

“I was thinking we could walk,” he said. “The place I had in mind is just a couple blocks over.”

“Walking’s perfect,” you nodded. “Lead the way.”

He stepped into pace beside you easily, adjusting without thinking so you stayed in sync. Your arms brushed once, then again, and neither of you rushed to create distance.

It was comfortable. 

You pointed out a bakery you liked; he asked a few questions, just enough to keep you talking.

Then you turned the corner… and you froze in your steps. “Oh my god, wait.”

Dex halted immediately, “What?”

You looked up at the small restaurant in front of you, disbelief turning into a smile. “Dex,” you said, half-laughing, “this is my favourite Italian place.”

It was tiny. It had barely ten seats, warm light glowing through the windows. It was the kind of place you only found if someone told you about it or you got lucky wandering.

You looked back at him, still smiling. “How do you even know about this?”

“I’ve heard it’s good,” he simply lied.

He opened the door for you, his hand hovering near your back as you stepped inside.

The cozy warmth hit you immediately, along with the smell of garlic and tomato sauce. 

“Hey! Back again?” the owner called out.

“Of course,” you smiled, glancing back at Dex. “Couldn’t stay away.”

You slid into one of the tiny tables, knees brushing his under the narrow space. He didn’t pull away.

“This is such a good choice,” you said, leaning forward slightly.

Dex watched you for a moment before answering, “I’m glad you like it.”

You met his eyes, and for a second, everything felt like a very happy coincidence.

—

The date went… really well.

Like, unexpectedly well.

You stayed longer than either of you planned, the tiny restaurant slowly emptying around you until it felt like the two of you had the place to yourselves. 

And still, neither of you moved to leave.

You talked in that wandering way that only happens when you’re comfortable, jumping from one thing to another, doubling back, interrupting each other without apology. It didn’t feel like a “first date” anymore. It just felt like time spent together.

All that time, he couldn’t stop looking at you. It wasn’t too obvious, but everything kept circling back to the way your mouth moved when you talked about needing to check on bubbles when you got home or something (whatever that meant), the way your hands followed your thoughts like they couldn’t keep up, the way you leaned in like the space between you didn’t matter.

Dex had spent years studying people, reducing them to patterns, weaknesses, outcomes. You didn’t fit cleanly into any of it. You felt… brighter than that. So whatever you were, he already decided, it was something he wasn’t going to lose.

“Today was insane, by the way,” you said at one point. “The wedding I told you I was working today? Completely unhinged.”

“What was it?” Dex’s attention didn’t waver. “Bad planning?”

“Bad everything,” you huffed a laugh. “The bridesmaid was losing it over nothing, the timeline kept slipping, and the groom—” you paused, rolling your eyes slightly “—the groom was… a lot.”

Dex didn’t care about the groom, not really. He cared about the way your nose scrunched slightly when you said it, the faint irritation in your voice. Even when annoyed, you were still… perfect. It didn’t make sense to him, how consistent it was. Still, he would listen to you simply because it was you. So he tilted his head just slightly, as if telling you to go on.

You hesitated, not like you didn’t want to answer, but like you were deciding how honest to be.

“He was…,” you said finally. “Like, weirdly controlling. Not just with the schedule, but with her.”

“The bride?” he asked, picking up his glass of red, taking another sip. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, your mouth tightening just a fraction. “Everything had to be his way. The food, the layout, even the order people walked in. And if something wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, he’d just…” you made a small, snapping gesture with your hand “… shut it down in front of everyone. His mom was almost worse. She’s just enabling him all the way.”

Dex’s eyes narrowed, though his expression stayed neutral. Then, just as quickly, you shifted the topic.

“But the flowers looked amazing,” you added lightly, leaning back again. “So, you know. At least something went right.”

Dex nodded once, like he understood that more than you meant.

Then, your phone lit up again.

You glanced at it again, for the first time that night. Dex noticed.

“You expecting something?” he asked, casual enough.

You looked up, like you hadn’t realized he’d caught that. “Hm?”

“You’ve checked your phone a couple times.”

You shrugged easily. “I’m looking out for follow-up stuff from the wedding. People always need something after.”

“Even after it’s done?”

You shook you head. “Especially after it’s done.”

He didn’t question you. If anything, his instinct leaned the other way entirely. You had your reasons, you always would. Whatever you did, whatever you said, he trusted without needing to understand. 

A few minutes later, you stood up. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You said, then you added playfully, “don’t disappear.”

“I won’t,” he said. As if he would run out on the love of his life. 

He waited until you were out of sight, before absentmindedly reaching for his phone. He didn’t have much going on, just a police scanner app to track task force, a text thread with Mrs. Smithers in case her cat needed babysitting, and… you. 

So yeah, it was mostly out of habit. He was going to lock it and put it back in his pocket before you came back, but the news app gave him a notification he could ignore: 

Groom Dead at Wedding at The Plaza — Two Hospitalised.

His eyes moved over the words once. Then again, slower.

He looked at the name, the timing, the location. Everything aligned too… cleanly.

His thumb hovered for half a second before locking the screen.

When you came back, you slid into your seat like nothing had shifted.

“Okay,” you said, settling in. “What did I miss?”

Dex didn’t answer that. Instead, he turned his phone toward you. “Have you seen this?”

You leaned in slightly, your shoulder almost brushing the table as your eyes moved over the screen.

He expected you to be horrified. To gasp, to be shaken. But you didn’t react the way most people would.

You just leaned back, eyebrows furrowed.

For a while, Dex couldn’t get a read on you— and that was terrifying. Were you grieving? Were you in shock? There was nothing in your usually animated eyes that gave anything away. 

“Oh,” you said.

Dex watched you closely. “That’s the wedding you worked, right?”

Your fingers found your glass again. You rotated it once, before answering. “Yeah.”

He didn’t look away.

You glanced up at him, then back down, your voice lowering just slightly. 

“He did get sick during cocktail hour,” you said, as if it was a realisation. Your tone didn’t change, though. 

“Food poisoning?” Dex speculated, his mind running through all the possibilities. Somewhere along the lines, he was also relieved that even though you told him you ate the canapés at the wedding, you weren’t taken ill at all.

You shrugged lightly. “That’s what they’ll say.”

Oh. Interesting. 

Not that’s what it is. You said, That’s what they’ll say.

“And you don’t think that’s what it was?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheeks. 

You looked at him then, properly. There was no panic in your expression, fear of saying the wrong thing. 

“I think,” you said, dragging out the words, “that sometimes people end up exactly where they were always heading.”

You picked up your glass again, taking a small sip before continuing, almost as an afterthought. “I mean… She wanted to call it off.”

It was clear that you were talking about the Bride. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you now with a different kind of focus.

“She wasn’t going to get out on her own,” you continued, “and now…” you gave him the faintest shrug, “…she doesn’t have to.”

—

You saw him again a week later, when he came by the shop.

The bell chimed, and you glanced up out of habit, shears still in hand, a stem caught mid-trim between your fingers.

You didn’t expect it to be him.

But the second realised, your eyes lit up. “Hi, Dex.”

His shoulders eased, just slightly, like he’d been waiting for that reaction. “Hi.”

As he stepped further inside, his eyes moved over the shop. He studied the in the buckets lined along the walls, the arrangements you’d spent hours shaping, the little details most people skipped over entirely.

He was cataloguing it, learning it. Or, at the very least, he was pretending to.

You leaned lightly against the counter, watching him with a gentle smile. “Looking for something specific?”

“Maybe,” he said.

It wasn’t the most helpful thing a customer would say, but you chuckled anyway.

He moved toward a small arrangement near the front, a small spring bouquet you’d put together that morning, filled with yellow and whites and eucalyptus foliage. It wasn’t flashy, but it was balanced. It was thoughtful. 

Dex picked it up, turning it slightly in his hand, ever so carefully, as if it required inspection.

You tilted your head. “That one?”

“It’ll do,” he said.

It’ll do.

You let out a huff of laughter at that, setting your shears down with a clink before stepping around the counter. “Wow. Glowing review. I should put that on a sign.”

He glanced at you, as if to say I didn’t mean it that way. “I need more decorations.”

You didn’t push as you reached for the wrapping paper and cellophane. You didn’t ask why a man who didn’t even know what to do with a rose suddenly cared about daisies and carnations and violet-tinted gypsophilas.

You just nodded and got to work, wrapping the stems neatly, your fingers moving with practiced precision.

He watched the way you tucked the stems in, the way your thumb pressed the fold flat. The tiny, unconscious movements that made everything you did feel trained and deliberate.

You had a feeling he didn’t really get flowers, it was pretty evident after your first date. He didn't seem to know what to do with them. He didn’t seem to care about arrangements or meaning or seasonal choices.

But he kept coming back.

And if flowers were the excuse he used just to see you, then you weren’t complaining. 

The rustle of paper filled the room, followed by the faint drip of water somewhere in the back. When you finished tying it off, you lifted the bouquet and held it out toward him, a flicker of playfulness returning to your voice.

“So,” you said, “is this one going to need preserving too?”

His eyes dropped to the flowers, then back to you.

“Maybe,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a joke. And if it was, he didn’t deliver it like one.

Your smile softened anyway. “Good to know. I’ll start preparing.”

He took the bouquet from you and paid, sliding the money across without looking away for long, then gathered the bouquet carefully, holding it like it mattered more than he’d ever admit out loud.

But he didn’t leave right away.

Before you could say anything, he shifted the bouquet slightly in his hand, and then, almost absently, plucked a single daisy from it.

Your brows lifted, a quiet “hey” forming before you could stop it, maybe to playfully remind him that you worked hard on that arrangement, but you didn’t actually protest.

He stepped closer.

His hand came up to reach over the counter. Gently, he brushed a strand of your hair back behind your ear.

He did it so carefully, as if you were made of a million little crystals and might break at the wrong frequency.

Your breath hitched, only slightly.

Then he tucked the daisy there. His thumb lingered, rubbing a single slow circle under your ear. His hand dropped a little, only to rise again, this time under your chin.

He tilted your face up, just enough to catch the light properly.

His thumb rested lightly against your jaw, his pointer finger locking his hold. His gaze was fixed entirely on you now— on the flower, on your face, on the way both fit together like you’d been sculpted by the gods for his enjoyment, and that alone. 

Then he smiled, lips pulling at the edges of his mouth just enough to draw toward the scar on his cheek. “Beautiful,” he muttered under his breath.

You weren’t sure if he meant you. Or the flower. Or both. You weren’t even sure if he meant to say it out loud, or if he meant for you to hear it.

Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest anyway.

“…thanks,” you said softly, suddenly very aware of the way he was looking at you.

His hand dropped, but not abruptly. He looked… satisfied. 

“We’ll start planning a second date, yeah?” The way he said it wasn’t really a question. It was more like a conclusion he’d already reached, a decision you were simply being informed of.

You should’ve pushed back. Maybe teased him for it, made him work a little harder to get you.

But instead, you just smiled.

Because you didn’t feel the need to argue with it. Not even a little.

—

The second date came on a Friday, and it felt nothing like the first.

There was no careful planning, or buildup inside a restaurant, no structured beginning or end. It just happened.

It started late, later than most people would bother going out, when the city had already begun to be less crowded, less performative. 

You met him with the same familiarity that had been settling between you.

You ended up just walking with no destination in mind; though he did steer you to a less crowded route. Before you knew it, you found yourself by the Hudson River, the air cooler there, touched with that faint edge of water and wind. The city lights stretched across the surface in long, shimmering lines, breaking and reforming with every ripple.

You walked side by side, close enough that you were always aware of him, his pace adjusting subtly to yours.

The conversation came without effort, drifting between small observations and half-finished thoughts, the kind of talking that didn’t need to impress or prove anything. You even talked about your personal life— mostly your flower pressing. You did mention, again, what he now assumed was a pet: “I need to feed Bubbles as soon as I get home!” Which was weird, because he was yet to see any signs of animal life in the apartment. 

Before he could ask, you darted to a different topic. 

But whatever. How could he focus on something so trivial when his girl was right in front of him? 

At some point during the night, he stopped at a street vendor.

You didn’t even realize you were hungry until he came back to you with a sweet and sugary smelling food. 

“Wait, what is this?” you laughed, peeking into the paper tray.

“Churros,” he said simply, then also pointed at the chocolate pot, like an offering. 

You looked up at him, smiling. There was no point really, in telling him you loved churros. He seemed to always know what you were craving and what you wanted, that he was always somehow one step ahead of you. It’s as if he knew you better than you knew yourself. “You’re just making executive decisions now?”

“You didn’t object.”

Of course you didn’t.

You took a bite instead, the crisp sugar coating your mouth. You immediately let out a small, pleased sound before you could stop yourself.

“Good?” he asked.

“Very,” you admitted, already going in for another bite of your favourite dessert. “You’ve set a very high standard for future dates, just so you know.”

“I can keep up,” he said again, like that was the easiest promise in the world.

You walked and ate and talked, and you can’t help but feel like you’d skipped awkward and landed straight into comfortable.

You were out for hours, and it flew by as if it was just minutes. 

By the time you circled back toward your place, the city had lulled even more. There were fewer people, quieter sounds. The only significant noise was the distant hum of traffic and the echo of your footsteps on the pavement.

You slowed as your building came into view.

Dex stopped just short of the door again, like last time, like there was an invisible line he was still choosing not to cross without permission.

You turned toward him, still holding the half-empty paper tray in one hand.

You looked at him, at the way his attention was always so focused when it landed on you, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. 

Then your eyes dropped, just slightly, to his lips. “You’ve got something there,” you said, you pointed out.

He tilted his head. “Where?”

You stepped closer before he could overthink it.

“Here.” Your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw, guiding his face just enough. Then, before you could think any better of it, you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, tongue brushing his skin just enough to take pry sweet liquid off.

Dex went completely still.

You pulled away just quickly, thumb swiping the little wet patch you’d accidentally left behind, and Dex leaned into your touch without a second thought. 

You smiled a little too casually for what you’d just done.

“Chocolate sauce,” you explained, tapping your own lip like that was the only reason. “Couldn’t just leave it there.”

“I…,” he said finally, almost stumbling over his words. “…right.”

You smiled wider, like you knew he had a soft spot for you, like you knew you would get away with it if you committed hard enough.

“Goodnight, Dex.”

And just like last time, you slipped inside before he could stop you.

—

He stood there for a while, longer than necessary.

His hand lifted briefly, brushing the corner of his mouth where yours had been, like he could still feel it there.

After a few seconds, he forced himself to snap out of it. He had somewhere to be, of course. 

Not home, but it was somewhere he had grown to like more than home.

See, there was only ever one place he could go after a night like this.

He walked across the street, then around the corner, then up the stairwell he already knew too well. His body moved through it like routine, but his mind stayed exactly where you’d left it—

At your door, your lips. At that fleeting kiss that had lasted barely a second and somehow rewired the rest of his night.

See, he knew what you did on Fridays. You would go up to the rooftop and tend to your plants. You would check on them, do some maintenance, and sometimes, you’d even harvest them and put them in a mortar and pestle, crushing and storing them in a little bottle. Herbal remedies, Dex had assumed. It was adorable, how much care you put into your cute little garden.

When you were done with your plants, he would watch you through your naively opened bedroom window as you got ready for bed. 

After your last date, he had even watched you lay there as you ever so slowly reached your fingers under your cotton panties. It wasn’t long before he realised you were touching yourself while mouthing his name. 

If he was lucky, he’d get to witness that again today.  

—

Dex had been watching from his perch for fifteen minutes.

You had changed into a comfortable black hoodie that swallowed your frame— he saw that much through the glow of your bedroom window. 

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against the cold concrete.

You always went up to the rooftop after you changed. It was a pretty reliable pattern.

So when you didn’t appear on there, when five minutes stretched past where you should’ve been stepping into the open air, his chest tightened.

Dex didn’t move, but his focus heightened instantly, attention narrowing as he recalibrated. His eyes flicked once more to your window… and then the front door of your building opened.

You stepped out.

The hood was down, your hands tucked briefly into the pocket before you pulled one free, adjusting your sleeve as you moved.

Dex’s head tilted just slightly.

That… wasn’t part of your routine.

You wouldn’t go out at this hour alone. Especially not after a night like this.

“What are you doing?” he murmured under his breath, more observation than question.

He pushed off the ledge, already deciding he would follow. 

After all, he had to keep his girl safe. 

—

Distance was easy to maintain when you understood movement, when you could predict the rhythm of someone’s steps before they took them.

He stayed behind you, offset just enough to disappear into reflections, into shadows, into the gaps people never noticed. Your figure stayed in his line of sight the entire time, framed between streetlights and reflected storefront glass.

You didn’t look back.

You turned down a smaller street, then another, the noise of the city thinning out until it became distant. Your footsteps echoed here.

You were more exposed.

Dex adjusted accordingly, his own steps falling soundlessly into place.

Then you turned into an alley. He slowed down immediately, slipping to the edge before you disappeared fully from view.

When he shifted just enough to see, he realised… you weren’t alone.

A man stood waiting in the shadows, wearing a dark grey jacket. What was more interesting, though, was that he was wearing thick black rubber gloves. 

Dex’s eyes narrowed as you walked straight to this stranger without hesitation.

What the hell?

You reached into your pocket and pulled an envelope out. The man handed you a small and unmarked box in return.

Dex’s mind ran through possibilities fast, each one worse than the last. A deal. This was a deal. A drug deal?

His grip tightened slightly against the brick beside him.

No. No, that didn’t fit. Not you. You weren’t…were you? His girl didn’t deal in things like this.

Did she?

The thought sat wrong in his chest, and he was starting to get irritated. 

You took the box without a word, and left. Dex didn’t follow you this time.

The man was still there, and Dex had questions.

So he watched him from the shadows, counted the seconds, and waited for an opening. 

Stupidly, the man decided to check the cash right then and there.  That was when Dex reached down to a bit of rusted metal (probably fallen off someone’s fire escape).

He prepared for a precise throw… 

And it drove straight into the man’s leg.

The sound that came out of him wasn’t a full scream at first, more like a strangled choke. It was horrifically cut off as his body folded, collapsing hard against the wall. His hands scrambled, one reaching instinctively for the bar buried in his thigh, the other bracing uselessly against the ground.

“What the…fuck—!”

Dex was already on him, closing the distance before panic could turn into a fight or flight response. He crouched just enough to bring himself into view.

“Don’t,” Dex said quietly, nodding once toward the bar when the man’s fingers twitched again. “You’ll make it worse.”

The man froze. “Who the hell are you—” he started, breath hitching.

Dex grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, bones cracking within seconds.

This time, the scream came out full.

It echoed off the brick walls, cut short only when Dex tightened his grip just enough to keep him grounded in it.

“You’re going to tell me about the deal you just made,” Dex said.

The man’s breathing turned ragged, eyes wide, darting like he was trying to find a way out that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

Dex tilted his head slightly, then pressed down, just enough on the broken arm.

The man choked on the next sound, panic flooding in properly now. “Okay, okay! Fuck—okay!” he gasped. “I’ll talk, j-just stop—”

Dex eased the pressure. Not out of mercy, but out of efficiency.

“Talk,” he repeated.

“I’m just a courier,” the man rushed, words tripping over each other. “That’s it, I don’t make the deals, I don’t ask questions, I just move shit from point A to point B—”

“A courier,” Dex echoed, unimpressed. His grip didn’t loosen. “For what?”

“I don’t know everything, I-I swear!” The man’s voice cracked, eyes glassy now, pain bleeding into fear. “I just get told where to go, what to hand over—what to pick up—”

Dex didn’t blink as he listened to the man breaking under pressure.

“I think it’s plants, okay?” he blurted. “Restricted ones—imported shit, hard to get, I d-don’t… know! That’s all I know, I don’t grow it, I don’t sell it, I just carry it—please—”

Dex studied him, weighing the truth the way he always did, not through words, but through the way they came out. 

Then, he let go.

The man dropped fully to the ground this time, clutching at his arm, his leg, his whole body curling in on itself like it might hold him together.

Dex stood and looked down at him, unmoved. Whether he bled out or crawled his way to help didn’t matter.

He’d already given Dex what he needed.

—

Even nearly two weeks after that, he had been thinking about the alley more than he cared to admit.

About the man. The deal. The box. But mostly about you.

He had turned it over in his head enough times to sand down the edges. Right, so it was restricted plants, rare imports, probably something you just liked. That tracked. You liked things that grew, things that needed care. It was… harmless. Endearing, even, that you would inconvenience yourself to a fault to satisfy a hobby. 

Cute, That’s what he settled on. Your apparent hobby of collecting rare plants was cute. 

So when your text came—come by the shop after closing?— thoughts shifted immediately, like a switch being flipped.

How could he say no to his girl?

By the time he stepped inside, the lights were already dimmed. It smelled stronger at night, but still faintly distinctly sweet underneath.

You were already there, waiting behind the counter.

“Hi,” you said, softer than usual, like the hour demanded it.

“Hi,” he echoed.

The second thing Dex noticed after you, were the chocolates. 

It was a heart-shaped velvet red box, and it was open, ribbon pushed aside, a couple already missing. 

It was a gift chocolate, not one you would buy for yourself. That alone was enough to get his chest hot with anger or jealousy, maybe both. It didn’t help that you were casually picking one up, inspecting it like it deserved your full attention.

You followed his line of sight, then smiled knowingly. “Oh.” You picked one up, turning it between your fingers. “These?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” you hummed, popping it into your mouth without breaking eye contact. “They’re actually really good.”

It felt as if a rope had been pulled around his heart.

You chewed thoughtfully, completely unbothered. “Hazelnut, I think.”

Dex stepped closer, slower this time. “Who is it from?”

“From Daniel Harper,” you said, reaching for another one. “He’s the crypto guy who got flowers for Mother’s Day once and wouldn’t stop asking me out. But I think…” you tilted your head carefully, “I think he got the point now.”

“You’re eating them,” he pointed out, the entire world blurring into a haze. All he could think was that another man brought you gifts. Another man wanted you. Another man had the audacity to fucking try.

“I’m not wasting perfectly good chocolate,” you said, like it was obvious. Then you tilted your head, studying him as you unwrapped another. “Fuck, you’re so obvious right now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you smiled, like you were enjoying it. “You hate this.”

“I don’t hate it.” What a fucking lie. 

“You do, a little,” you said, stepping around the counter, closing the distance between you. “Which is funny, because—” you held the chocolate up between your fingers “—you’re the one I invited here.”

Dex’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand then back to you. 

“C’mon,” you said, voice turning playful again, nudging it closer to his mouth. “Spoils of war.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “War?” He echoed. Still, as much as he hated all of this, he couldn’t help but find your attempt to feed him endearing.

“Harper is a man who tried and failed to get me,” you grinned. “You’re benefiting from his loss. You’re welcome.”

He didn’t take it, mostly because he was stubborn— but so were you. You nudged it closer. “C’mon Dex,” you pouted, remembering how much he liked the chocolate sauce on the churros. “I know you like it. Don’t be difficult.”

Dex leaned in slightly, and instead of just taking the chocolate, his mouth closed around your fingers.

Your breath hitched.

His tongue brushed against your skin as he pulled away, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then he took the chocolate between his teeth, like nothing had happened.

You stared at him.

“I…,” you said after a beat, a little breathless now despite yourself. “That was—”

He didn’t respond. He watched you, an arrogant grin now playing on his face. If his sweet girl wanted to tease and taunt, he had to show you two can play at that game. 

Your composure came back quickly, but your smile had changed. It was less teasing, more charged.

“Right,” you cleared your throat lightly. “Actually—” You turned, gathering your thoughts and reached under the counter. “I didn’t ask you here just to steal Harper’s dignity,” you added, glancing back at him. “I have something for you.”

You waited until he was close, closer than necessary, before you said, “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” you shot back immediately, “don’t be so suspicious. It’s a flower shop, not a crime scene.”

His mouth twitched. “Is it?

“Dex.”

He sighed, quiet, but obedient, and let his eyes fall shut.

He heard you move closer, the shuffle of your steps, the faint clink of something being set down. There was a pause, like you were checking and adjusting your secret prize.

Then, you said, “Okay. Open.”

He did.

Oh.

It was the rose.

Maybe he had expected just a dried, pressed flower, but definitely not… this. 

It was preserved and framed in a gold-planted wood, intricately carved. The petals were darker now, fragile-looking but perfectly intact, held in place.

Your smile wavered just slightly. “Okay, that silence is… concerning. Say something.”

He blinked once, like he was catching up to the moment.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“Well,” you huffed a small laugh, folding your arms loosely. “That was kind of the whole point of you leaving it with me.”

“No,” he shook his head once, stepping closer. “You… you didn’t have to do all this for me.”

Your eyes softened at that. He said it as if he truly believed he didn’t deserve it. 

“I wanted to,” you reassured. 

He reached for it slowly, like it might fall apart if he wasn’t careful. His fingers brushed the edge of the frame, then traced it.

“It’s better,” he said simple.

“Better than a fresh one?” you teased, tilting your head.

“Yes.”

“That’s bold.” You raised an eyebrow. “Florists everywhere just felt personally attacked.”

“I don’t care about them.”

You laughed a little, and his chest tightened in a familiar way. It wasn’t entirely jealousy anymore.

“I’m glad,” you said. “Would be awkward if you were secretly seeing other florists behind my back.”

His eyes flicked to yours, as if the implications were laughable. “I’m not.”

“I know,” you grinned. “You don’t seem the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The ‘casually shops around’ type,” you said, gesturing vaguely between him and the shop. “But… you actually like it, right?” you asked at the frame, smaller this time, just to be sure. As if you were anxious that you put so much effort in something he wouldn’t care about.

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Your smile came back, like that answer meant more than you were letting on.

You were still standing so close.

Dex noticed that neither of you had stepped back from the frame, like the space between you had just… disappeared.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth.

“I know.”

That should’ve made you pull away.

Instead, your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the frame still on the table. “If you break that," you teased. “I’m not making you another one.”

“I won’t break it.”

“You say that,” you said, glancing up at him through your lashes, “but you’ve got kind of a… destructive vibe.”

He frowned. “You think that about me?”

“I think,” you stepped just a fraction closer, “that you get intense about things you like.”

His eyes locked onto yours. And you could tell that hit a lot closer to home than he intended. 

“And you like this,” you added, tapping the frame once more.

“Yes.”

“And you like… flowers?” you pushed, clearly enjoying yourself.

“No.”

You chuckled, almost a sweet giggle. “So it’s just me, then?”

He didn’t answer. That was your answer.

“Good,” you said under your breath.

Your hand slid off the frame, brushing against his fingers on the way down. Your eyes dropped, just briefly, to his mouth.

Dex noticed.

His grip on the frame loosened, setting it aside without looking, his attention already back on you like it had nowhere else to go.

“You’re still staring,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

Your breath hitched, slightly. Then, before you could think twice, you issued a challenge, “Do something about it, then.”

That was all it took for all pleasantries and manners to fall apart. Not that it ever had any leg to stand on.

Dex closed the distance immediately, his hand finding your waist as his mouth met yours, like he’d already done this a hundred times before.

You didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. 

Your hands were on him, gripping his jacket, pulling him closer as you kissed him back just as hard, just as certain. You were quick to match his intensity, biting a bit of his lip just to drag him back to the real world. You could tell he was spiraling, that he had been all consumed by the gesture. 

When you broke for air, it barely lasted a second. “Dex—”

He kissed you again. 

And this time, it deepened, slower but heavier, like he was learning you in real time and refusing to let go. Like if he could, he would fuse his bones into you. 

You laughed softly into it, breathless. “Okay… okay—”

But you didn’t stop him. Whatever you were about to say got lost when his hands tightened at your waist and he lifted you like it was nothing, setting you back onto the workbench behind you.

The tools rattled softly, a pack of floral tape rolling off to the side, but neither of you cared.

Your legs shifted instinctively, pulling him closer by hooking it around his hips, and the kiss didn’t slow. It only got more insistent, like neither of you had any interest in stopping now that you’d started.

“Still think I’m intense?” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled against his lips. “A little.”

He kissed you again like that was the wrong answer, and you let him.

When your fingers tangled in his hair, he let a sweet moan against your mouth. Interesting, you thought, as his grip tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, like there wasn’t enough distance in the world to satisfy him.

It was messy and overwhelming in the way neither of you tried to control.

His hand slid up your side, under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing skin…

….and you snapped out of it.

“Dex—”

He hummed, trailing a kiss down your cheek, latching on your neck….

But then you pulled away softly, slow enough to not be abrupt, but out of place enough that he felt… confused.

What had he done wrong? 

Your breath was uneven when breathed out. Gently, you pushed his hand from under your shirt. You were met with no resistance as his big palms splayed on your lap, kneading anxiously, as if he was itching to touch you again, to kiss you, to take you. 

Then, you gently pressed your forehead to his. “I… we shouldn’t.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. 

“Oh,” he said quietly. His thoughts were spiralling, you could tell. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, playing over and over again in his head. 

“No, hey, hey,” you rushed, hands coming up to his face, cupping his jaw. “Not like that. Not… not because I don’t want to.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“I do want to,” you said, more certain. “I just… I’ve got to work a baby shower early tomorrow, and I still need to finish a couple arrangements tonight, and if we—” you huffed a small, breathless laugh, “—if we keep going, I’m not getting anything done.”

Dex stared at you, processing.

“I…” he started but could not finish, as if he needed to say something, anything, to stop himself from falling off the deep end. 

“I’m sorry,” you smiled sadly, a little apologetic. 

He exhaled slowly, trying to recover, trying to place where you were in his mind.

“I like you, I really do.” Your thumb brushed lightly along his lower lip, where a string of moisture had collected. Dex’s eyes darted away, simply because like was not what he felt for you. What he felt was obsession, devotion, perhaps love that grew in such a short time. Still you reassured him. “I like you. I want you. Just… not right now, not here.”

Dex looked at your lips, almost still in a daze. 

Then you added, a little more playful again, “Come over tomorrow? We can… continue this. Properly.”

And just like that, his brain rearranging itself, making space for a schedule. 

It's okay. It’s okay. It's not the end of the world. She wants you, she still wants you… 

Then, to quiet the storm in his mind, he leaned in again, kissing you once, shorter this time, but just as certain.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you smiled against him.

“Yeah,” he said, breathless, discreetly wiping a tear from his eyes. “Yeah.”

—

That night, Dex didn’t go straight home. He found himself outside Daniel Harper’s building, hoping he could finish the job for you. 

It wasn’t hard. The door wasn’t even locked. 

Inside, Daniel sprawled on the couch, body slack, mouth parted with a thin line of foam dried at the corner, eyes glassy and gone. 

He was already dead. He had been for a while, by the looks of it. 

Dex stood there for a moment, taking it in: the stillness, the lack of struggle, the timing of it all, and tilted his head slightly, almost thoughtful. 

“Huh,” he murmured to no one, cataloguing what mattered and what didn’t. 

How weird.

—

Dex couldn’t wait for tomorrow. He spent the night thinking about you, and then the morning, and then the entire day in that same tight loop of fixation, until even the idea of distance felt like a grenade swallowed and exploding from the inside. 

It wasn’t just want. It was compulsion, an itch under the skin he couldn’t stop scratching at no matter how much it bled. 

So he did the only thing that still made sense: he went hunting for Task Force from the break of dawn, anything to keep his mind from turning fully toward you. Because when it did, he was just turned into a pathetic little puddle of emotions.

When it came down to going to your apartment, his nerves were practically buzzing off the roof. 

The second you opened the door, he was already moving, one hand bracing the frame as he stepped in, the other finding your waist and then he kissed you, like the space between seeing you and touching you had been unbearable.

You laughed into it, surprised but not resisting, your hands catching on his jacket. “Dex—”

“I missed you,” he said against your mouth, already walking you backward as he nudged the door shut with his foot, his grip tightening just slightly at your side.

“You saw me last night,” you teased, breath catching as his lips found yours again.

“Hmm,” he dismissed, picking you up slightly at your feet.

“Careful—careful!” you suddenly laughed, twisting slightly in his hold.

Dex stopped instantly, setting you down like you’d burned him. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Watch out for Bubbles.” You were still smiling, a little breathless, pointing past him. “Don't wanna wreck her enclosure.”

“Bubbles?” He’s heard you say that name once or twice before. A pet, he assumed. A cat, maybe a small dog? Though he never saw anything through the window, so in the back of his mind, he had chalked it off to being a carnivorous plant.

But when he turned… he saw a small tank he didn’t recognise. After all, he had never been able see this part of your apartment from his perch. 

Dex stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.

An… octopus. 

It was small, beige and yellow, though the second it clocked him, it flashed aggressive blue rings. Its limbs curled slowly against the glass. It had a maze in its enclosure, an enrichment of some kind, perhaps? 

“Oh,” he said. That was the last thing he ever expected. 

“She’s cute, right?” you beamed, coming up beside him like this was completely normal. 

Dex watched it for a second longer than necessary. “…yeah.”

It blinked, beady eyes looking straight into his eyes. He blinked back.

“Okay. Come on,” you grabbed his hand, tugging him away with a grin. “I don’t want Bubbles to watch.”

He let himself be pulled, though his eyes flicked once more over his shoulder before following you down the short hall.

You passed a door, and heknew where it must go: the rooftop. Your rooftop— idle and calming. In all its domesticity, you were your happiest there. “Where does this go?” He feigned innocence. 

You didn’t miss a beat. “Junk closet.”

He looked at you, and you smiled too quickly. “…right,” he said.

Why would you lie?

The thought barely had time to settle before you pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him, straddling his thighs like it was second nature.

That distracted him immediately. He didn’t even have the time to take in the bedroom he had spent so long looking through. 

Your hands found the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it off without hesitation, tossing it somewhere behind you like it didn’t matter.

Dex’s attention snapped back into place like a puzzle piece. Whatever question he had dissolved under his tunnel vision, his focus now on you. 

“You think too much,” you murmured, leaning down, your hands braced on either side of him.

“I don’t.”

“You do,” you smiled, your nose brushing his. “Good thing I know how to fix that.”

His hands came back to your waist like they’d never left.

And this time, neither of you stopped.

—

Dex had been overwhelmed in the best way possible way

Not just by the way you’d pulled him apart piece by piece, with your hands, mouth, all of it; but by how easily you’d met him there. 

How easily you matched him, pushed back. There had been nothing hesitant about you, nothing uncertain; every touch had felt intentional, every sinful sound felt like it belonged to him. The touch of your tongue lingered even now, under his skin. His body still felt too warm, too aware, even as the room cooled down.

He could still feel the faint press of your nails at his shoulders, how you had traced the scar on his back and not even question where it came from. He could still feel the heat of your breath against his throat, where it dragged down to his chest, then his stomach, then between his legs. You’d pulled him closer like you didn’t want even an inch of distance between you. 

When he helped you chase each others’ bliss, it didn't feel casual, or even just physical. It had felt all-consuming, addicting, euphoric. And he would change a thing. 

The shower hadn’t helped the nerves, though.

If anything, it had made it worse. It was your idea to clean up together, your hands sliding over him beneath the water, slower this time, exploratory, like you were learning him just as much as he was memorizing you. The steam had wrapped around both of you, turning everything hazy. Even now, lying beside you, he could still feel it, the imprint of your palm on his bare skin and his on yours. 

Now, you were asleep.

You were curled into him, your leg draped over his like you’d claimed him without thinking. Your breathing was steady, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the way he was looking at you.

Dex didn’t even try to drift off. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

His hand hovered just above your waist, then settled there lightly. His thumb moved once, almost absentmindedly, like he was testing if you were real, making sure you weren’t a fragment of his broken mind it made as a coping mechanism. 

You shifted closer in your sleep.

Mine.

The thought came into his mind uninvited, but he didn’t push it away.

But still… like a weed going through cracks, he couldn’t help but think about the door. 

Junk closet, you said. 

His teeth clenched. No. That wasn’t right.

He knew the building— found the layout and structure long before he ever stepped foot in it. He knew exactly how space worked, how things connected. There wasn’t room for a “junk closet” there. 

Which meant… you lied.  Why would you lie to him?

The thought didn’t sit right. It didn’t settle, didn’t smooth over the way everything else about you seemed to.

You didn’t lie. Not really. Not about things that mattered. So why this?

His back tightened slightly, his thumb pausing where it rested against your waist. His eyes darted, involuntarily, toward the direction of the door again. Junk closet.

No.

His mind ran it again, as if to double and triple check. He could see it clearly, like a blueprint burned into the back of his skull. There was no space for that.

You had lied. You must’ve.

Why? To keep him out? To hide something? From him?

His chest tightened at that, a bitterness threading through his mind previously touched by your warmth.

Check it.

The thought popped up in his mind, clear as day.

Check it.

His eyes dropped back to you immediately. You, still curled into him, your breathing even, your face relaxed. You trusted him enough to sleep like that.

His hand shifted slightly against you, fingers pressing just a fraction deeper, like he could fuse himself to you.

Stay.

That was his next thought. After all, it felt stupid to leave you alone, in bed, defenseless, in favour of a theoretically imaginary junk closet.

Don’t move.

You looked… safe. Happy. Like having him here was enough to solve all his problems.

Check it.

Fuck, that thought came back unannounced, and it came back louder.

Check it. Check it.

His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, like he could shut it out.

You lied. Why would you lie? Check it.

His fingers flexed once against your side, restless now.

Check it.

His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. He opened his eyes again, staring down at you like the answer might be written somewhere in the shape of your face. Still, he found nothing.

Check it.

His head tilted slightly, the thought settling in deeper this time: He needed to know.

A quiet sigh left him as he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek. 

You stirred faintly, an adorable little snore slipping from you, but you didn’t wake.

Dex slid out from under you carefully, easing your leg back onto the mattress, making sure you stayed comfortable before he stood. He paused for a second, just watching you again, like it physically hurt to look away.

Then he turned, moving through the apartment soundlessly. As he wandered into the living room, he caught a bit of movement. 

His head snapped toward the motion, and then relaxed when he realised it was just Bubbles, moving in her tank.

The small octopus had shifted the second she saw him, her body tightening, skin rippling. Suddenly, blue rings flashed brightly on her skin again.

Dex could’ve sworn, that for a second, they stared at each other. 

There was something unnerving about the way her eyes locked onto his, unblinking, aware in a way that didn’t feel like an animal should be. Like she knew he was dangerous. Like she perceived him as a threat. 

His head tilted slightly, studying her right back. “Hi, Bubbles,” he murmured under his breath.

Her color pulsed again, blue agitation flickering through her small body. For a second, he saw himself in her. For a second, he wondered if her blue rings were a sign of anger.

Dex’s mouth twitched, almost amused and a little irritated that he let an octopus the size of a golf ball get to him. “Relax,” he said quietly.

She didn’t, but he decided to look away anyway.

He reached for the door, hand resting on the handle. For a second, he didn’t move.

Then…

He opened it.

Part of him hoped he was wrong, that he had simply been mistaken somehow, that you had told him the truth.

But… all he saw was stairs.

Of course.

“Don’t judge me,” he muttered to Bubbles, letting obsessive certainty take over as he moved upward, each step soundless.

The door at the top gave way with barely a push. As he suspected, it was your rooftop.

It was… beautiful.

Bright moonlight spilled across the space, reflected on leaves and petals and glass, turning everything silver-edged and almost ethereal. Rows of plants, carefully arranged, meticulously kept, thrived under your attention. Vines curled where they were meant to. Blooms opened toward the sky. 

Dex stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning, taking it all in with a kind of reverence he didn’t usually allow himself.

You spent time here. You cared about this.

So why?

Why wouldn’t you show him this? Why wouldn’t you tell him? Didn’t you trust him?

He would’ve listened. He would’ve understood— well no, maybe not understood, but he would’ve learned. For you.

You didn’t have to hide things from him. You didn’t have to keep parts of yourself away.

His eyes landed on the workbench to see a box, the same unmarked one he’d seen exchanged in that alley.

So it was that.

Next to it was a small juvenile plant, carefully potted. You had even given a handwritten label to it: Rosary pea.

Dex frowned slightly. He didn’t recognize the name. It sounded… almost gentle. Like everything else here.

Just a plant, right? Just you, collecting things that grew, things that needed care.

That’s all. That’s all it had to be.

He let out a sigh, tension still sitting tight on his shoulders. His eyes drifted again, unfocused now, thoughts spiraling faster.

Why didn’t you trust him? What did he do wrong?

He tried. He did everything right. He showed up. He listened. He gave you what you wanted, what you liked…  Didn’t he?

His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. It was tight.

His attention snagged on something else nearby, this time it was a spire of flowers. The plant was tall and slender, violet bells hanging delicately from thin stems, catching the moonlight like they were almost glowing.

Dex stepped closer without thinking.

His fingers reached out, brushing one of the petals. It was pretty, like you. 

His chest tightened, and nothing could push his thoughts away:Why didn’t you tell him?

It looped, faster now, louder.

Why did you lie?

“Huh…?” he murmured under his breath, voice barely there now, strained.

His fingers lingered against the flower, tracing it absently. But something felt… off. First, he felt as if his fingers, the ones that touched the petals, were going numb.

Then, he felt a strange heaviness in his chest. He frowned slightly as his heart stuttered once, hard enough to make his breath catch.

Dex went still. “…what—”

The word barely formed before his vision shifted. The edges blurred, the rooftop tilting just slightly out of place.

Dex blinked hard, trying to steady it, but it didn’t stop. His breathing hitched, his hand gripping the edge of the workbench.

His heart skipped a beat again.

No. No, no—

His knees weakened without warning, his body suddenly too heavy, too slow to respond.

The world tilted harder this time.

The last thing he saw was your garden, blurring into streaks of green and violet under the moonlight.

—

Dex woke up slowly, like he was being pulled up from the darkest depths of his mind, his body reluctant to follow. The first thing he registered wasn’t the room, or the fading light of dusk bleeding through your windows. Instead, it was you.

Even half-conscious, disoriented, his senses found you first.

Then his eyes opened fully.

Where was he?

He was no longer in your garden. Instead, he saw your coffee table, a TV, and a couple of harmless houseplants. Oh. He was in your living room, on your couch. 

As he got a better look at you, he realised you were slumped in the armchair across from him, unconscious, your head tilted slightly to the side, your arm stretched toward him.

You looked smaller like this, folded in on yourself. It didn’t match the version of you he remembered in his head— the one that laughed behind the counter, that handled petals like they might bruise under the wrong touch. 

That’s when he saw an IV tube connected to a needle in his arm. He followed it… to you. It was a makeshift transfusion.

For a second, he just stared, his brain lagging behind the image, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of why you were connected to him like that, why your blood was in him, why you looked so… still.

His stomach dropped. This was desperate. This was you cutting into yourself, giving a part of yourself away just to keep him breathing.

Why were you so still? 

It felt wrong. His body recognized it before his mind could catch up. Still meant a part of you had gone. And his chest tightened, rejecting the possibility before it could fully form.

“Hey—” his voice came out rough, barely formed.

You stirred awake. 

Your lashes fluttered, eyes opening slowly, and the second they landed on his face, on the fact that he was awake, relief flooded your eyes.

“Oh,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”

Dex moved too fast as adrenaline slammed into him, panic overriding everything else as he ripped the needle from his arm with no hesitation. Blood followed immediately, a thin line down his skin, but he barely noticed. 

After all, he wasn’t thinking. Thinking was slower than fear, and fear had already taken over. All he knew was that something had been done to you—or because of him—and that was unacceptable.

You jolted upright. “Whoa, hey! Relax, relax—”

He was already pushing himself up, unsteady but determined. He needed to make sure you were real, that you were okay.

“What happened?” he demanded, breath uneven, voice tight

You blinked at him once, then twice, grounding yourself before answering. “You went into my rooftop,” you said, almost resigned, save for the hint of affection in your time. “Full of poisonous plants.”

Rooftop.

His jaw twitched at the confirmation that you had hidden it. 

Dex frowned, trying to latch onto the memory. “What—”

“You touched my wolfsbane.”

He blinked, piecing memories together: The garden. The flowers. The dizziness.

You leaned back slightly, already reaching to remove the needle from your own arm, wincing faintly as you pulled it free, wiping the blood away like it didn’t matter.

“I’ve been selectively breeding them for five years,” you continued, almost absently. “That one’s about seven times more lethal than standard wolfsbane. Contact alone is enough.”

Dex stared at you.

“Most of the plants up there can kill you, actually,” you added, gentler this time. “That’s why I told you it was a junk closet.”

You said it so easily, like it hadn’t mattered, like it had just been a small, harmless deflection. But it wasn’t harmless. At least not to him.

“You lied,” he said, but it didn’t come out accusing. It came out… hurt and confused. Like he couldn’t reconcile it with everything else he knew about you.

You didn’t flinch, ambient interrupt. 

“But I’ve seen you,” he pushed, stepping closer without realizing it, drawn in like he always was. “You touch them without gloves. I—I don’t—”

You laughed, but it wasn’t dismissive.

“I should’ve known you were watching me,” you said, glancing at him through your lashes.

And there it was again—that pleasure in your voice. This time it had reason for concern. You weren’t afraid, or disgusted at this newfound knowledge. If anything, you looked… flattered. It was as if you had suspected it, and just like the garden, you had lied through your teeth. 

Dex’s chest tightened.

“If I almost died from touching one,” he said, rubbing his trail of blood away with tissues on your coffee table, “then you—” he choked at the words, as if he couldn’t physically say it. He tried again. “Then you should—“

“I should be dead?” you finished for him, noticing his struggle. 

He swallowed hard. How could you even say it, when he couldn’t even let the idea sit in his mouth?

The image formed in his mind anyway, uninvited: You, collapsed the way he had been. You, unmoving in that chair, permanently gone. His mind rejected it so violently it made his lungs feel like it was collapsing.

Your eyes softened. “I’m… immune.”

“What?”

It didn’t quite make sense to him. It felt disconnected from everything he understood about you. About the girl who laughed behind a counter, who fed him chocolates, who pressed flowers into frames simply because she wanted to.

You shifted in your seat, like this part of you was just… a fact. 

“My dad was a cocaine dealer,” you started, almost casually. “When I was five, I got into his stash. I ingested enough to kill little ol’ me twelve times over.”

Dex’s stomach dropped.

“But I was…,” you continued, “unaffected.”

Your fingers absentmindedly brushed over the velvet fabric of your chair.

“Doctors said I’ve got some kind of mutant gene. Means nothing really sticks in my system. I can’t get drunk. I can’t get high. Toxins don’t work the way they should.”

Dex didn’t look away from you once.

“When I was a teenager, I broke my arm,” you added an example, a faint grimace crossing your face. “They had to put pins in while I was awake. Anesthesia doesn’t work either.” You managed a sarcastic laugh. “That wasn’t fun.”

You said it lightly, like it was nothing, But he could see it anyway a younger you pinned down, awake, forced to feel everything. 

You were different. A mutant, that’s the term you used. You were… oh, fuck.

You were more capable than he ever deemed you to be. 

And that realization didn’t push him away the way it should have. It rooted him deeper. Because if you had always been this untouchable, then what he felt wasn’t built on fragility. You wouldn’t disappear under pressure. And he couldn’t seem to step away from you, no matter how much sense it would make to try.

Dex stepped closer again without thinking, like gravity pulled him there. Even confused, overwhelmed, heart still not fully steady, he needed to be near you.

“I… I didn’t know,” he said, as if he felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. There was even a shame in admitting it. In his mind, he had placed you in a gilded cage, easier to understand, easier to protect. But you had never belonged there at all.

You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

Across the room, Bubbles shifted in her tank, the faint glow of her skin calm now, her earlier agitation gone now that you were here. Her limbs curled slowly, as if the fact that you were awake meant that there was nothing to worry about.

Dex barely spared her a glance. The room, the hum of life continuing outside these walls all flattened into background noise. His mind had already narrowed its focus down to one fixed point, and it was you. It had been you for longer than he wanted to admit.

“How did I live?” Dex asked, but it didn’t come out demanding. It came out raspy and rough. 

His hand found your wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over the place where the needle had been, where a faint smear of blood still lingered. He wiped it away, almost reverently, like it mattered more than his own safety that you weren’t hurt. 

He didn’t think about it. His hands just… adjusted in a way they never did anywhere else, like he understood, on a level deeper than thought, that you should not be handled carelessly, no matter how strong you turned out to be.

“You have a Cogmium steel spine,” you said, like you were reminding him of the obvious.

His brow furrowed slightly, confusion threading through the lines on his face. “How do you know that?”

Slowly, you smiled, almost shy. 

“Oh, please,” you murmured, leaning back just enough to look at him properly, though your fingers came up to loosely curl in the hem of his shirt like you hadn’t quite decided to let him go either. “I knew who you were since after the second date, Benjamin Poindexter.”

That was… new information. At least to him. 

“My rare plant dealer complained that his courier turned up dead,” you continued, almost idly. “I got curious and looked into it. It wasn’t long till I put two and two together.”

Dex exhaled faintly, a small ah leaving past his lips. It was not quite relief, but acceptance. Because of course you had figured it out. Of course you had seen through him, the way only you could.

And you were still here, as if nothing had changed. You were still looking at him like he hung the moon for you, regardless of how many people he had killed, how many mistakes he had made.

People usually changed the second they understood. He had seen it happen too many times, the mind recalibrating upon the realisation of how dangerous he was. But you… you were still looking at him like nothing in him needed to be feared. Like nothing in him needed to be fixed.

Your hand lifted then, resting lightly against his chest, right over his sternum, where his heart was still finding its rhythm again. “Your spine, I—” you went on, your voice dipping more intimately. “It bonds to you.”

Dex didn’t interrupt. He just watched you like every word mattered simply because it came from you. He didn’t follow every word—not the science, not the mechanics—but he followed you. You spoke about him like he was worth understanding.

“Blood cells are made in the bone marrow,” you said, your fingers tracing absent patterns over his shirt, “That’s your immune system, your oxygen transport, everything. The aconitine would’ve disrupted the entire process.” You tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was one of your raw poisonous plants. “But yours isn’t normal anymore.”

His hand came up to your wrist again, grounding himself in you as you spoke.

“The steel fused with your spine,” you continued, almost fond in the way you explained it. “So the blood you produce now is… stronger.”

Dex’s eyes didn’t waver as he rubbed absentminded circles on your skin. 

“When you touched the wolfsbane, the toxin should’ve shut everything down almost instantly,” you said. “But it didn’t. Your modified cells slowed it down,” you said. “And while you’re not immune, it bought you time.”

Your thumb brushed lightly against his chest, like you were feeling the heart, measuring it.

“I didn’t have an antidote,” you admitted. “So I used what I had.”

His eyes flicked briefly to your arm again, to the faint mark. You shifted closer without thinking, your knees brushing his.

“I hooked us together,” you said, quieter now. “Your blood was slowing down, so I had to pump mine manually for the first couple of hours to keep the flow going.”

Dex’s hand slid from your wrist to your arm, fingers curling there. It was as if he needed to hold onto you to fully understand what you were saying.

“My blood doesn’t process things the way it should,” you continued. “It breaks them down and neutralises them. So once it got into your system…” You gave a small, almost playful shrug. “It did the rest.”

You smiled at him then, pride lighting your face.

“Ta-da,” you said lightly, kissing the corner of his mouth just to make sure his lips had warmed back up, “You’re alive.”

Dex didn’t pull away from you even when he was still processing everything. If anything, he leaned closer. His hands slid upward, as if he needed to map you again now that he understood what you were capable of. What you had done. What you had survived.

And suddenly, all the puzzle pieces started to fall into place— why death seemed to follow you, why you always seemed in control when you looked like you had so little power. 

“The groom?” he asked, not accusing. He was just trying to understand. 

When you nodded, his shoulders softened. That was the strange, almost painful thing about Dex. Every revelation, no matter how dark, only seemed to pull him deeper under your gravity.

“Foxglove tea,” you explained, your voice clinical. “His mother and brother getting sick were… collateral. But the bride came to me the night before, crying. She….” You paused. “She had marks.”

Dex brushed his absently over your skin, like he was grounding himself in your heart. Coming to terms that you were untouchable in ways he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Harper?” he asked next.

You nodded again, and there was the faintest flicker of irritation in your expression. “Oleander cake. He… tried to touch me.”

That set him off. Dex’s brows furrowed in anger, but still wounded and earnest and almost unbearably tender, over the fact that you didn’t go to him for answers. His hands moved to your face then, clumsy and urgent, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His thumbs hovered at your cheeks before pressing in gently, as if you might disappear if he didn’t hold you there.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, and an almost boyish hurt threaded through. 

You didn’t flinch under his touch. You leaned into it, your fingers gently circling around his back. “Because I can take care of it,” you said simply. “I did take care of it.”

That answer hurt him more than anything else you’d confessed.

“I know you can,” he said, and there was no doubt in it. His forehead dipped to yours. “But you don’t have to," he added, barely above a whisper.

You could feel the way he held on to control, as if the word letting go didn’t exist for him when it came to you. It was in the way his fingers lingered at your jawline, the way his breath mixed with yours, the way his entire body seemed angled toward you like you were the only point of gravity in the room.

You, who needed no one. And him who needed you, so openly it almost hurt to look at.

His eyes searched yours then, and he wasn’t searching for danger anymore. That part of him had already settled. What he was looking for now was some indication that he still had a place here, that he wasn’t just… incidental to you.

His voice dropped, fragile in a way he never was anywhere else. “Is it because you don’t trust me?”

You sighed, pulling away completely until his fingertips were bare and cold where your skin used to be. 

His chest tightened, a familiar spiral already coiling. Silence had never meant anything good in his life. Silence meant distance. And distance was always the beginning of the end. Before he knew it, everyone would slip just far enough out of reach that he couldn’t pull it back, no matter how tightly he held on.

But you didn’t leave him. You just stood up.

He watched you walk across the room as you approached the tank. The glow of it lit your face in shifting blue, and for a Dex stood up, caught between following you and giving you space.

You reached into the water without hesitation, lifting Bubbles from the tank, water slipping through your fingers as easily as breath.

You turned back to him, and Bubbles curled in your palm, deceptively cute and delicate, until she noticed him.

The second she saw him, the same electric blue rings from last pulsed across her body. 

Dex tilted his head. The warning was immediate, and honest in a way people never were. He wondered, briefly, if that was what he looked like to the rest of the world.

“She feels… threatened by you,” you chuckled, like it was amusing, your lips curving up. “She thinks you’re going to take me away from her.”

Dex stared at the tiny creature, at the warning written so clearly across her skin. And yet, she stayed in your hand. She didn’t flee, nor did she strike.

“But you two are more alike than you think,” you continued, softer now.

You held Bubbles closer, and she curled into you. Dex knew that feeling— the feeling of needing you, the feeling of wanting to be close to you because you felt safe.

“She’s a blue-ringed octopus. One of the most dangerous creatures alive. Their venom has no antidote.” Your fingers shifted slightly, letting the little creature settle against your skin. “I rescued her from a lab. She was… experimented on. They wanted to use her, to extract her as a biochemical weapon. As a result, her venom’s thirty times more potent now. She can thrive out of water for hours. Her species’ average lifespan is 6 months, but she...” you gently rubbed a finger over one of her tentacles as naturally as you would rub the belly of a puppy. That's when he noticed that one tentacle was marked— almost as if acid was poured over it in the quest of making her a living weapon. The poor thing had a scar, one not unlike his own, “…is turning two years old soon.”

Dex swallowed. Everything you said felt too familiar.

“I’m the only handler she didn’t kill. I’m the only handler she has never stung,” you added, almost absently. “Not just because she can’t. But because she trusts me.”

Dex had a feeling you meant more than just her. 

“Just because I can use her venom to kill for me,” you went on, your voice lowering, as you ran your hand through her squishy body, “just because she’s more dangerous than anything I grow upstairs… doesn’t mean I want to use her that way.” You exhaled. “She’s suffered enough.”

Dex watched intently as you leaned forward and returned Bubbles to the tank. She drifted for a moment, then settled against a rock, her colors fading, her body going docile again, simply because you were here.

Dex saw it then: the kinship, the invisible bond, the mirror that he had when he looked at the little creature that you cared so much about. 

Like Bubbles, he was already dangerous before. But now, he could fall off buildings. He could take a hit. He could survive beyond the constraints of his species. 

And like Bubbles, for the better part of the last decade, he had been manipulated, taken advantage of, and used as a weapon for agendas of more powerful men, a solution, a last resort. People didn’t want him. They wanted what he could do, what he could survive, what he could destroy.

You had never asked that of him. You hadn’t handed him your problems like weapons to solve. You had handled them yourself.

That feeling was… foreign and disorienting in all its kindness. It didn’t slot neatly into what he understood. There was no place to file it, no rule to attach it to. It left him… exposed.

Dex stepped towards you before he fully thought about it. He was close again, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His hands found you desperately, one at your waist, the other sliding up your arm like he needed to make sure you were still here.

“You didn’t…” His voice caught. “You didn’t want to use me.”

It wasn’t really a question.

His forehead dipped toward yours again, his breath uneven. Dex had never known what it meant to be wanted without purpose. And it terrified him a little, because if there was no function or role, then there was nothing to hide behind. There was nothing to blame when it inevitably went wrong. He concluded, then, that you didn’t even think this could go wrong. It was the only plausible explanation.

His voice dropped, “you just wanted me.”

Dex stayed close. After all, distance had become unnatural to him where you were concerned. His grip on your waist had changed. It was less desperate now, more certain, like he was learning how to hang on instead of bracing for loss.

He looked at you like he was still catching up. Like every piece of you he uncovered only made him want to understand more, not recoil.

“You still could,” he said, eyes glistening in awe. His thumb moved in slow circles against your side, like he needed repetition. “I still would.”

You knew that. You knew he would burn the world down for you if you just asked. 

You reached for his hand, not to steady it, but to hold. 

Your fingers laced through his, almost disarmingly. His hand tightened around yours in a reflex.

“I don’t want to,” you said.

Dex’s breath stuttered out of him. Of all the things he’d expected, all the ways this could have gone… this was the one thing he didn’t know how to defend against: Care, without cost.

He shifted closer again, until there was no space left between you, your joined hands pressed lightly between your bodies. His forehead found your shoulder this time. He wasn’t collapsing. He wasn’t even breaking. He was just resting, letting himself exist in your orbit, without needing to prove anything.

It was almost shy.

“I don’t… know what to do with that,” he admitted, voice muffled against you, smaller than you’d ever heard it. 

Your free hand came up, and settled at the back of his head. Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair, answering a question he didn’t know how to ask, “You don’t have to do anything.”

But how? 

He had always been something done with. A weapon pointed, used, unleashed. An arrow for a stronger master to wield, and more recently, a servant to his own broken mind, searching for purpose in the world. 

He didn’t know how to simply exist without rules or confines or borders or expectations of how he was supposed to be. 

You, on the other hand, made it look easy. Effortless, even. It's as if that after spending a lifetime being a mutant, you had decided that being violent and gentle were not opposites, but two sides of the same coin.

Dex didn’t know how to do that yet, but he knew, that he wanted to learn.

He turned his head slightly then, not pulling away, just enough that his temple rested against you instead. His fingers shifted in yours, tracing lightly over your knuckles.

“I think I like this better,” he murmured, almost to himself.

And for once, there was no tension in him. No trigger to pull, no violent tendency waiting to be called on.

Maybe you had always been drawn to dangerous things because you could handle them. Or maybe, it was because you were one of them.

Both Dex and Bubbles, in all their blue-ringed, lethal glory, were remade weapons too strange, too deadly for anyone else to hold. But not for you.

They didn’t have to make themselves smaller in your hands. They didn’t have to be hidden or used.

They could just… be.

In Dex’s mind, it couldn’t simply be luck. You were a mutant, you had explained, your body had never had to adapt or learn anything— you were born already ahead of them. You were built to survive them. You were made by the powers that be to endure what should have killed anyone else.

And Dex latched onto that divine intervention with frightening certainty. You were a design, not a coincidence. It was different from the way Bubbles had been remade, different from the way he had been reshaped and reinforced. You hadn’t been altered. In Dex’s mind, you had been made perfect because you were born different.

It was as if the universe had accounted for him and then, carefully, built you around that problem. You were made to love him. It was written in the stars, he was sure of it, as sure as he was that the sky was blue.

It might not be the healthiest way to think, but at least it was his own.

And as if she understood his thoughts unfolding, Bubbles moved closer to the glass, seeing Dex in a new light now. She raised her marred tentacle like a wave, then drifted once more, almost languid now, like a reluctant concession:

You’re fine, I guess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

Not your brothers.

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

Not Matt.

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

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

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me see it,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

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

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

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

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

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

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

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

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

“You’re drained.” He states.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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