mila

I wouldn't hand you in with a gun to my head.

“Even if they send you to jail?”

You smirked lightly, getting rid of your shoes, careful not to step on any piece of the broken mic. “I've got good lawyers. I'll take that deal and blame it on someone else.”

“On whom?” He raised an eyebrow, allowing you to push him to the bedroom.

The engines in your brain, the ones you use for everything but this, started their soft pace—then they stopped and hurled an answer.

“Trevor has a friend,” you murmured against Dex's lips, tracing the shape of his face, his scars, with a careful devotion, as if to memorize the silhouette you would later sketch—though you already knew his every curve and edge by heart—, that made him suppress the shiver of a reaction. “Seb, he's always had a thing for me.”

He kissed you, deep and desperate, then. “Hmm?”

“Yeah,” You broke the kiss and drove your mouth to whisper in his ear: “I say, we ran into each other the day before Trevor's murder. He was acting all sketchy and asking where Trevor would be the next night. I told him he said he'd be home, but then he wasn't. Whoever killed Trevor, it was under his orders.”

His entire body ached deliciously with your answer. Still, logistics were an obsession of his; polishes had to be made and he wouldn't have you do it alone.

“How are they supposed to discard me as a suspect?” Dex asked and pushed you against the wall, lips ghosting over yours, hand going to your neck, half cradling your jaw, half choking you almost gently.

How are they supposed to discard me as a suspect?

Even if they send you to jail?

“I'll say I lied because I was scared,” you continued, unbuttoning his jeans with determination and embracing his touch. “That we've been together for a while. You'd never hurt Trevor ‘cause you would never do something that would upset me. We didn't chat when you got home. We were doin’ what we're doin’ right now. We were together. Nothing else matters.”

Dex's hands then went to your thighs to lift you so your faces were on the same level, all the while he finished taking off his jeans, and let out a soft, fulfilled, amused chuckle. “Yeah?”

You hummed while you started taking off your t-shirt. “Of course, baby… I love you so much. I'd do anything for you. Anything.”

“I'd do anything for you, too,” Dex whispered, his breath blending with yours before crashing his lips with yours again, before touching the places the sun hasn't met, because that's the best he can do with honesty—express his devotion.

Saying he loves you as well, however, was an entirely different thing.

He knows nothing about love, or about feeling anything other than anger and unjustified infatuation, and you awoke both of them in him and a secret third thing he can't quite pinpoint and you are scared to jinx.

You understand well how Dex struggles with feeling like mostly everyone does, and you even know that if that weren't the case, he would have run away from you a long time ago because no man in his right mind would accept your highs and lows; only Dex.

It was a painful realization, that he might never love you like you love him, and you're not sure how you feel about that—or perhaps you do know how you feel, and are simply too afraid to show it. To show Dex your insecurities and uncertainty of him was to invite the one thing you could never bear: his abandonment.

And you love him just the way he is, you embrace his violent desires and brace for his violent endings—they're all part of him, and thus you belong between them both, in the hollow of his chest, where his beating heart pounded harder than a nightmare under your touch.

Is that not love? He isn't too sure.

“You can doubt the sun and the truth,” you said, words stroking his ear while your hips brushed his. “But don't you ever doubt me.”

Dex shuddered.

He couldn't help it.

He has worn a heavy mask all his life, and each time he took it off, for whatever reason, people abandoned him or took advantage of him.

You were doing neither. You took his mask in your hands and shattered it on the floor; not picking up the pieces, not caring about the well-designed porcelain disguise at all. If anything, you left them there and allowed yourself to step on the pieces, still reaching for him with bloody feet.

Is that love?

Is that why he's so hesitant? Does he need to decode his feelings before doing anything?

Would it be so embarrassing to ask you? “What is this?”

You frowned, hands leaving his now uncovered torso and going to cup his face. “What is what, baby?”

“This,” he murmured, leaving you on the floor and taking a step back. “I don't know—”

“You mean sex?” You raised an eyebrow.

Dex shook his head. “No, not that. I mean… Fuck, nevermind.”

“No, baby, you can ask me anything,” You reached out to him and took his right hand to place it above your breast where your heart is. “And you can feel it in my heart, Dex. Whatever you can't name, you can feel here.”

He hesitated, gloom and anticipation taking over his features slowly. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“I want you to see all of me,” you whispered, seduction dripping off your voice. “And I want you to treat me like a new place you set foot into—Take me in, map me, learn me, hold me…, touch me.”

Dex nodded and took a step forward and then another, being as close to you as physically possible. And then, he let it all out.

He kissed you with the violence of the sea, the passion of the sun, the certainty of a lover. He kissed you in a way that would have your lips feeling him in bruises and longing for days and days. Dex undressed you like a devotee and kneeled before you like a believer.

He took you in as if you could leave any minute, because you could. He would let you as a sign of respect, but he would beg you to stay with the loyalty of a dog that is about to be left in a faraway farm.

What Dex's brain failed to process, though, was the depth of your love and the length of your own devotion—What wouldn't you do for him?

You knew no qualm when it came to him, and you will make sure he knows that—you'll make sure Dex knows and feels your love tonight.

And he will try to please you like a man, looking you in the eye with that starved, almost malnourished hazel that begged for permission to do what would save him from fading into darkness.

“Take them off,” you conceded. “I'm yours tonight, Dex.”

He obeyed, hooking his fingers on the straps of your panties and lowering them torturously and painfully, leaving burning kisses all over your skin but neglecting you still.

Dex parted your legs and placed one of your thighs on his shoulders. Then, he dove in.

You whined as if he was hurting you when, in reality, he was everything but. If it weren't for the way you pulled his hair and the face you made, he would've believed you needed him to stop.

With measured intent, Dex used his tongue to taste you, feel you, please you. His middle and ring fingers entered you without warning, now going in and out of you while his mouth sucked your clit in a lazy pace.

You have always known he is a man to hit and never miss. You didn't think it would extend to such a different… context? Not like you're complaining, though.

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” you moaned, ignoring the suddenness of the question, hanging onto his hair while he ate you out like his own life depended on it. “With all that I am.”

“Tell me you know…,” he demanded, then, but you didn't know what. “That you are free to leave—”

“I would never leave you,” You held onto your bookshelf. “Even if you asked. I'll choose you everyday…”

“You'll choose me?”

You hummed, feeling overwhelmed and underwhelmed at the same time. How is that even possible?

“Always, Dex,” you confirmed and started grinding your hips against his mouth. “I love you. God, I love you so much, don't stop—”

He was enjoying himself too much to consider stopping, your arousal invading each of his senses and him not wanting it any other way. Your taste, so indescribably perfect; your smell, tentative and enticing; your core, so soft and delicate; your sounds, as lewd as they were beautiful; the sight of you, better than any landscape in the history of this cruel world.

Dex couldn't believe he could have you like this, in your most vulnerable and intimate self.

Right then and there, he thought he loved you. He wasn't too sure yet.

You deserved better than empty words, so he won't give you those. Instead, he pleased you with his mouth until you came, accompanied by numerous sharp whines of his name. With labored breath, you pulled him until he was standing again, your knees carelessly wobbling, and brought him close to kiss you.

God, he felt yours just like that, when he tasted like you.

Is there even a better way to claim a man?

“I need to—”

“I need you, Dex,” you murmured in his ear, pushing him softly until he was sitting on the edge of the bed and you could sit on top of him, straddling his lap. “Did you see what you caused in me?”

He exhaled, shaky, using his right hand for support on the bed and the left to pull you closer by your hip so you could feel in your core how incredibly hard he was. “See what you cause in me?”

You wrinkled your nose and pecked his lips. “I did that? Little ol’ me?”

“Yeah, you did,” he murmured and pulled you in to kiss you. “C'mere, don't start.”

“Start what, Dex?” You chuckled softly as if you weren't driving him crazy with hostile intend. Dex thinks he's never been harder. “Hmm?”

He gave up and instead held you and dragged you to the bed, where you landed in the blink of an eye, laughing at his desperation.

“What's so funny, huh?” he questioned, pinning you to the bed in a way you knew not even the Genie of the Lamp could free you from his grasp. “I'm gonna show you what's funny.”

“Show me what's funny, baby,” you taunted while wrapping your legs around him to bring him closer, and you felt him: hard and leaking pure anticipation, blending with yours. “Fuck, Dex.”

Dex was desperate, to be honest, and he didn't know how much more time it would pass before you noticed how uneasy he was. There's something so captivating yet unpredictable about you—something that drives him absolutely insane. He never wants to spend another second of his life where you aren't his.

You're all he needs.

So Dex pressed his forehead against yours, took his briefs off swiftly, and, before you knew it, he was buried deep inside you.

A loud gasp left your lips at the suddenness of him, and Dex swallowed your surprise with a bruising kiss.

You felt… perfect.

Benjamin Poindexter has had sex before, of course. Although, it was always something transactional, in a way.

His two high school girlfriends he had only because he had to fit in, one of which confessed her love to him first and there wasn't much he could do with everyone expecting him to be with her. The other one was just, once again, what was expected of him. Captain of the baseball team and cheerleader, whatever; he never really liked her, but it was his obligation, what he had to do to at least seem normal. Then, when he was in the army, one of his fellow soldiers insisted on hanging out one night. Dex didn't really like crowded places or loud places, but he went either way.

And the vessel—he'd always seen himself as such after all—met its purpose: he had sex, he had come, he had taken care of the girl, he had done everything by the books except enjoying himself. Automatic and performative was what that was, but this? Right here, right now? You?

You, being so good and perfect for him.

Seeing you under him, eyes closed shut, mouth agape in messy oh's, brows furrowed, hot and bothered and taking him so well, it made his chest flush in scarlet pride.

Seeing you like this, he thought he loved you.

Seeing you like this, Dex thought he would sell his soul to whoever it takes just to be able to tell you he loves you, too—to mean it.

Because you deserve it. You, with your hands buried in his hair and making those mesmerizing sounds while he left bites on your neck and fucked you, used you, oh, so relentlessly, deserve to be loved fully and truly.

“Please, don't stop, baby,” you whined, hands going to his back. “Don't stop…”

Dex felt your nails scratch his back, keeping his large scar enough company. “Not gonna,” he grunted. “You feel so good…”

“You, too,” you whimpered as he returned to your mouth to kiss you again. “You're so good to me, Dex. You're perfect, baby, never forget that—God…”

Only hearing you say that made him pound into you harder, heavier, with the aim of a mind made up. You felt the welcoming burn of him getting in and out of you with some careless devotion, but it felt much more as if he meant it more than any word of reassurance that could ever be said.

Love falls short, and maybe that is why he hasn't said it, you think.

“You're good to me, too,” he grunted against your mouth. “And you're mine, no one else's. If anybody dares look at you, they'll regret it, you should know that, fuck.”

You're mine.

They'll regret it.

You should know that.

You're mine.

You should know that.

You're mine.

No one else's.

You're mine.

You should know that.

If anybody dares look at you, they'll regret it.

They'll regret it.

You should know that.

You're mine.

No one else's—

You snapped out of it.

“And you're mine,” you replied, back on Earth, feeling agonizingly close to your release. “And if someone hurts you, I'll do what it takes to make sure they regret it, too. I don't care what I'd have to do, baby, I would, just for you.”

He rejoiced at the thought of you feeling just like him, understanding what it is like to be him, but there was also a sharp thought about you not being as good as he always thought you were.

Then he remembered everything you said before. No one in their right mind could love him, and that's why he needed someone like you—someone almost as damaged and broken as he is, all to gather each other in a mosaic and maybe then it all would make sense.

Still, he was in the dark about all the things you've done to have him, and you're not sure he would appreciate knowing that. Or maybe he will, and too much, at that.

But you need him in a way you can't explain. You need him like an infant needs to cry to live, like the world needs the sun to survive; it was primal and it didn't make enough sense, not even for a mind like yours and his or for a body like yours and his to bear.

Still, you reacted like humans and felt just as such, all in a wicked sense of self-awareness you can't quite make sense of.

Your bodies blend together like a force of habit, succumbing to everything destined to be eaten raw and then taken back to the start, but it might as well not be your fault.

The body does what the body does, yet the flesh craves all things the mind can't control.

The body.

The body does what the body does, breathes, pumps blood, gets fed, sleeps, fights, yearns.

Rinse and repeat.

The body does what the body does.

And the flesh.

The flesh craves.

The craving feels like hunger, neglect, hate, like some deeply rooted emotion he can't understand because he's never felt something nearly as intensely that isn't anger or fear. Dex, perhaps, fears you somehow.

The mind can't control.

You, he can't control.

He tries every day, but he can only do so much.

Dex can follow you around, protect you, do what you want, use you, have you like this, gaslight you, even, and he is content just like that. As long as he gets to keep you for himself, he is content.

But you? You can control him as if you were entitled to it. Like a pet snake you keep between four walls of glass.

But it's taken care of.

You take care of him.

And he doesn't need anyone else.

“What would you do for me?” he questioned, driving his hand to the aching place where you became just one and started rubbing your clit swiftly, back and forth.

“What wouldn't I do for you is the better question,” you mumbled and wrapped your arms around his neck to bring him close. “I'd frame someone else for murder just to keep you home. I'd commit every sin ever known and make up some more. I'll tell you I love you as many times as it takes for you to believe it, and then I'll love you even after my tongue rots and I can't say it anymore. Even if you don't love me back, I'll still love you. And as long as I love you, you should know my love acts and knows no limits.”

That was enough to make him come inside you, claiming your insides just like he has claimed your skin and your mind.

Dex knew what it was: tragic, unconditional love; the kind he knew he never deserved and never will, but that you do.

If that was the order of things, that he had to receive a love he doesn't deserve just so you could have your way, then so be it. It's selfish, he thinks, but the more he considers it, he starts seeing himself as a true, precious belonging instead of a parasite feeding off of you.

Instead, he spilled inside you without any disregard, years of pent-up need and yearning for you being returned to the one who caused said feelings of emptiness, and it kept building, building, and building, until…

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dex, oh, fuck…”

When he was done and then when you also were, he only plopped himself on top of you and stayed there, still inside you, while you both regained breath and composure.

You caressed his back, tracing the outline of his scar as if to memorize it, to paint his reliefs on your wall and your face on his skin. Wasn't that the only way to stay close? That that makes him unique living in your bedroom and him wearing your face wherever he goes… isn't that what love is all about? Having each other like this? In our bodies, in our homes, in us, and in what to us belongs?

Dex keeps thinking about it.

“I'm here,” you hushed in his ear. “To stay…” you continued, the stroke of your fingertips giving him goosebumps. “And if you ever need support, I am here so you can lean your weight on me. Whatever makes you feel lighter, better, I am here to do just that. I want you to be well, cared for, and here with me. Do you not wanna be here with me always?”

He nuzzled into you, content, holding onto you tighter, the grip on your waist growing sweetly. “Yes.”

You hummed and kissed the top of his head. “And you don’t need to say it back, baby. I can feel it, and that’s enough for us.”

“Is it?”

“You’re always enough.”

And he felt that. For the first time in his life, he felt in his bones that it was the truth.

It felt better than he had ever imagined, truly belonging, being reciprocated.

Being touched doesn’t necessarily translate to being hurt. You’re the first one to show him just that, and the realization had his body aching for more.

He couldn’t fight his urges, and Dex knew, in his aching heart and sick mind, that you needed him to be himself, not the version of him that lives under the guise of propriety. So he pressed his face against your skin in the valley between your breasts, trying to breathe you in like you could fill his lungs instead of oxygen. Then, his lips took a different path until his mouth latched on your nipple.

You let out a soft gasp, feeling him suck you, kiss you, lick you, kiss you, distract you while he made space between you two so he could lay beside you and continue his job more comfortably.

Dex's hand went from playing with your other nipple to teasing all the way down and starting to doodle circles on your clit. You moaned and your hips mimicked his touch.

“Does that feel good?”

You nodded urgently. “Yes, baby, it's so good. You're so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, yes, oh…”

Dex went to your other breast and caught your hips moving more sloppily, indicating you were close. Then, he stopped suddenly, eliciting a mumbled complaint.

“What's wrong? Keep going!”

“No,” he said, cooing at you. “You think you can always control everything, but that's not the truth… You do as much as I let you, right?”

You knew it was a lie but, for the sake of both of you, you lied to him.

“Yes, baby,” You nodded. “You're the one in control.”

“That's how I like you…”

Whatever he wants to hear, you will say it.

That only showed that Dex had the upper hand. At the end of the day, no matter how controlling you come to be, he is what you most desire and you'll act accordingly.

It's a Catch-22 if you have ever seen one—lived one.

“Show me how to be the way you want,” you demanded, head thrown back, feeling Dex slowing down and then returning to his quick pace once again. “I want to be good for you.”

“You're great just like you are,” he whispered, and you felt the air of his voice coating your nipple. “I don't want you to change, I want you to be just mine. To stay here with me all the time.”

“I'll be with you all the time,” you replied, feeling yourself closer and hoping he'd let you come this time. “Always, always. We have each other, baby, no one and nothing else will ever be necessary, it's just the two of us—God, Dex, please, please, please.”

He let go of your nipple with an ill-mannered pop. “Hold it, baby.”

“I can't, Dex… Please…”

“First, tell me something,” He swirled his tongue on the skin of your breasts and left some love bites for you to remember him by whenever you touched yourself. “Something I don't know about us.”

Your mind raced, looking for whatever, until it landed on something you knew would have quite the effect on him. And bingo.

“Therapy,” you mumbled, following his fingers’ pace with your hips. “Years ago, when you were in therapy, I… I found out who your therapist was. Dr. Edie. I had some sessions with him, diagnosed me with some, oh, shit— with something called Borderline Personality Disorder. Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. Chronic Depersonalization. All bullshit. He was always looking for problems when there weren't any, baby… That's what they do. They tell us everything's wrong with us and we're supposed to just live with it. All they do is lie to keep us needing them, but Dr. Edie sure knew how to keep me…” you continued. “I saw he had all his notes on his patients on his laptop. I hacked him, read all about you… I found out about that Julie girl of yours sometime later—and I couldn't get any peace by knowing you loved her instead of me. Thanks to her, though, Fisk never found out about me. That's how we found each other again…”

He was… taken aback.

Those are the kinds of things he knows he would do if needed, but never in a million years believed someone would do that for him. It sent some foreign warmth that set his blood on fire, and it worked, oh, so well.

Dex locked in, mind rewiring to the place where his ego and obsession were. “You really are a wicked little thing, aren't you?” he noted, his fingers had fun touching you faster, sweeter, just perfect to keep you hooked. “All this time... you were following my every movement closely. You wanted me that badly, baby?”

​You didn't dare to look away. You couldn't. You pressed your thighs together around his hand to keep him trapped, bring as much friction to the table as you could, your heartbeat pounding so hard against your ribs that you thought it would break them. “I wanted you to see me,” you whispered, your breath blending with his. “Only me, Dex.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, but not kissing you just yet. He lingered there, teasing, annoyingly so, savoring the confession, the way you still tasted faintly of your own arousal, and how you kept track of his life and his routine and his sanity—not to mention how much he thinks he loves you for it.

“Hmm, my pretty twisted girl,” he murmured, lips kissing yours lightly. “You've done so much work to get us here. It would be a tragedy if I ever let you go now, wouldn't it?”

You caught onto it a second before you finally came.

You came harder than ever before, a flow of squirt landing on his waiting hand to congratulate him for his great job. Dex went to your lips, kissing you while spreading your squirt all over your core. “You're all I need in my life. You're my North Star.”

“Dex,” You leaned so your forehead could meet his. “You're my black hole, then.”

“Black hole?”

“Take all of me,” you told him to. “Feed off me. Make me the part of you I've always known I am.”

He was silent while he drove his fingers to his lips and sucked them like your arousal is the last bit of his Last Supper.

You were, perhaps.

Dex could die in peace now.

If you're gonna be inconsiderate and treat me like I told Dex to kill Trevor and now I'm protecting my secret boyfriend, then build that narrative in your mind, not in mine, and certainly not on paper. And have a nice day!

Foggy locked his cellphone and left it on the table after an exhausted sigh. “So? What do we think?”

“That she told Dex to kill the guy,” Matt shrugged. “It doesn't sit right with me yet.”

“I think what we heard in the eval isn't enough to say she's guilty,” Foggy countered. “She wouldn't have admitted to wishing he was dead if she was guilty, and… I just have a feeling she isn't. Just because Poindexter is in her life it doesn't mean he killed her boyfriend.”

“But it's too much of a coincidence,” his partner said. “According to the building's footage, Dex left the building at seven o'clock, a couple minutes before she did. Then returned an hour after her when she was receiving the delivery. It gives him enough time to have found out what happened between her and Trevor.”

Karen sighed. “There's nothing about him in the restaurant's footage or on Trevor's building. We have absolutely no proof of Poindexter being involved in the murder other than ‘we have a feeling’.”

“And… I think we're focusing too much on proving Dex is guilty instead of proving she's not.”

“Well, if that's really the case, that she didn't do it and neither did Dex, their relationship is still a little concerning.”

“She's too defensive for someone who doesn't know anything and too protective for someone who isn't involved with him,” Karen huffed. “I do think they have something, whether she is involved in Trevor's death or not, they must have a weird thing going on there.”

“We also have no idea how long Dex has been in the picture.” Foggy added. “It wouldn't make any sense that they got that close in a short time. Dex is… a lot. It would take him a long time to even talk with her, so him being so ‘close’ and her knowing his real name has only one meaning…”

“They don't ‘barely’ know each other. They've known each other for a long time,” Matt finished.

“We just have to figure out how long ago,” Karen nodded. “It could be from his FBI years, or else how would she know his real name?”

“Could be…”

Foggy looked at his associates. “Still, what we know is that even if she knew him from before, she probably doesn't know what he did. She defends him as though she knew for sure he was innocent. The psych evaluation shows some concerning stuff, but not enough to place her as a murderer or someone who would accept her boyfriend—even a cheating one—being dead just like that. Poindexter must have her in the dark about his record.”

“Plus, if they go way back, him moving into the apartment next to hers is too much of a coincidence.”

“But then it would be incredibly unlikely that she doesn't know about what he did.” Foggy told Karen.

“Or maybe she just doesn't care,” Matt turned his attention to the tick and the tock of the clock for a moment, and then spoke. “Should we call her to come here, then?”

Karen sighed “I'll make the call.”

That night, Dex knows, was the first one he has slept so soundly since his toddler years.

You fell asleep with your head resting in the crook of his neck, your arms wrapped around his chest and legs tangled with his. However, you woke up quite differently. At the end, at the very end, Dex was most comfortable between your legs, lying on top of you with his head on your chest using your breasts as pillows. His arms were hooked all around you, as if you would ever slip away, and yours were quietly resting on his hair.

You couldn't quite place the moment where Dex helped you get changed, but eventually you slept comfortably in your pajamas and him as a weighted blanket. As for him, despite the discomfort of his jeans, your heartbeat was enough to keep him grounded at night.

The first to wake up was you, your hungover headache not being enough to make you get up and exist anywhere that's not in the same bed as Dex. Your alarm failed to wake you up in time, but you wouldn't want it any other way. It's Saturday anyway.

The first light of day leaked hesitantly through your black-out curtains, the soft winter cold refreshed your bedroom, making the warmth of him and you so much sweeter; lying comfortably with Dex, stroking his shoulder blades with the tip of your fingers, and feeling his breath steadying on top of you was too much to convince you to be a functional human being and go eat or shower or do anything that is not being close to him, as close as humanly possible.

But nothing lasts forever, does it? He woke up soon enough, body stiff, not remembering being this close to you at all—not remembering how he got there, wherever he is.

“Morning,” you greeted him softly, and his body instantly relaxed at the sound of your voice. “Did you sleep well?”

Still, he didn't know what to do. The flashbacks of last night invaded his mind: you, so close to him, you, begging him to stay the night, you, kissing his hand, his jaw, writing your name on his skin, you, telling him you loved him, just you.

Before he could do anything, look up, say something, your phone vibrated on your nightstand.

You groaned softly and reached for it, not recognizing the number calling you. “Hello?”

“Uh, hello?” the woman on the other side greeted you and then asked for confirmation that she was speaking with you.

“Yes, that would be me,” you answered, digging your hands into Dex's hair softly. “Who is this?”

“Hi, this is Karen Page from Nelson, Murdock & Page,” she replied. “I, uh…, I'm calling because we would like to talk to you. Is it possible for you to come today to the firm?”

“You guys work on Saturdays?” you questioned.

She chuckled lightly. “Yes, when we have to. Like today.”

When we have to

Like today

“Is there a problem, Miss Page?”

Dex looked up at the mention of her name, slowly retrieving from you.

“Not a problem, just… there's something we need to figure out as soon as possible.”

You sighed. “Alright. I'll be there in an hour, is that okay?”

“Yes, that's perfect,” Karen answered. “Then see you in an hour.”

You hummed. “Of course, bye.”

Dex was now away from you, and the cold of the room felt ruthless against his absence. “Don't go.”

“It's a meeting with my lawyers,” you stated, sitting up to face him. “I gotta go.”

“Don't go, please.”

“What do you mean ‘don't go’?” you questioned, trying your hardest to ignore the pain in your temples. “They need to talk to me about something important.”

“You just don't know them,” Dex justified, hand reaching for yours hesitantly. “You don't know what they do. It's not safe for you to be out there with people who will just say anything.”

“Look, these lawyers are a necessary evil right now,” you said, leaning down to kiss his forehead to then stand up and go to the bathroom with him following you closely. “And I won't be gone for long, Dex. I'll be right back before you even consider you might miss me.”

“You don't know that, okay?” He shook his head, desperate and small and a secret third thing that filled your insides with worry. “Please. Just tell them you're sick. Tell them anything. I don't want you to get in any more trouble because of me. Please.”

You huffed lightly. “I am already in trouble and if I don't go, I probably won't get out of it.”

​“No, you don't understand,” he blurted out and made you turn around as you brushed your teeth, his voice taking a painful, desperate route. “Matt Murdock, Karen Page, Foggy Nelson, they don't... you don't know who they are. If you go, they'll turn you against me. They'll show you things, tell you things that I—” he stopped himself, his chest losing the battle against stability and the desperation turning into utter resignation. “You don't have to worry about anything, about the legal troubles, whatever, I— I will turn myself in; just don't go.”

You were quiet then.

It was not only the fact that he would go to jail to protect you, much more that he would leave you willingly for the sake of fairness. Who is that even fair for? Not for you or him, and the two of you are the only ones you give a damn about. Nothing else matters.

“No,” you said, firm, careful, careless. “What the fuck are you talking about? You're not turning yourself in, Dex! Are you not aware of what you're telling me?!”

“I was the one who killed Trevor, I must be the one paying the consequences of it.”

You shook your head, desperate and angry. “If you dare do that, if you dare leave me, Dex, you— don't you dare underestimate me, you hear me? Because I can't possibly live without you, and if you're not here, I have no reason to exist anymore, so I won't… And it's gonna be your fault.”

“Are you gonna hurt yourself? If I turn myself in, you're gonna do that?”

“Yes. You think you're doing me a favor, but you're killing me if you do that,” you spat. “The moment you go to jail, I die. I can't lose you or else I will make it everyone's problem, Dex, and then I'll have nothing left to live for. What do you want from me? To be here waiting for the rest of my life? To move on with my life and try to fix all this mess? Well, no, I won't do that, and you must know that before you dare make any decisions without me—decisions you will most likely regret.”

“I'll stay then,” he promised. “But please, don't go meet Karen.”

You were silent for a minute and then breathed heavily.

“Okay, what is this truly about, Dex? Are you afraid of me talking to them? That's the problem?”

“They're going to lie to you. They just want to break us apart, they will tell you things—”

You sat beside him again. “Be the one to tell me first, then.”

“I can't—” He shook his head, and in his eyes there was the kind of fear you see in a dog about to get hit, in a deer in the headlights.

Why would he fear you, of all people? You love him. You would never hurt him or abandon him for any reason, not ever again, so it pained you to know he would even consider you would.

You had to fix that.

“Yes, you can, but even if you don't, you must know… there is nothing they can say that will scare me away. Whatever they say, nothing will make me love you any less. I'm yours, Dex, they won't change that with absolutely anything. I'm here and I don't care about their lies or their truths, I only care about us.”

He frowned, resolution making his way through the fear in his hazel eyes. “You won't believe them?”

You hummed. “And even if it's the truth, and the truth is ugly, I'll stand by you.”

“You… will?”

“I should be the one to blame anyway, Dex,” You suppressed a slight pout. “I left that night. I left you here, vulnerable to others… If I had been here, I would've never let them touch you, baby, you hear me? I know what Fisk did to you, and he will never get to you again. No one will ever get to you and leave unharmed, not as long as I'm here, alright?” you continued, looking at the way he observed you so quietly and heavily. “Whatever they know, whatever they tell me, it means nothing to me, because I am the only one who truly knows you—and us. They don't know you, they think that you are what you did, but they don't know shit. Don't worry about them, because they can tell me two truths and one lie, and I'll still choose you.”

“Why did you leave me, then?” he asked, voice a thread embroidered in a fabric of uncertainty: or does he really want to know?

“Because I was a coward, okay? I was a coward who ran away from the only thing that ever mattered to her: you. I was scared you would leave me just like everyone else had, I was scared you would hurt me, too, if I let you in, but I was wrong,” you confessed, cupping his face. “Everyone said I should've gone: my three friends, my parents. For two years, Dex, I lived a dozen lives, and I was miserable in each and every one of them because I didn't have you. I went to so many places, saw so many wonders, and yet still, the only moments I felt full where those where I thought I'd seen your face. It all felt empty because you weren't there, Dex. Then I worked on myself, on understanding why I was having so many experiences and everything anyone else would kill to live, and still feel like something was missing. That something was you, and when I finally realized I had to come back to you, the Blip happened, and I was gone for so long, and then I came back and I couldn't have you; but now we're here. I'm here to make up for lost time and I will not let anybody get in the middle of us. Whatever it takes.”

Dex forgot what breathing was. The second thing we ever did, breathing, our most innate thing to do, it was all gone when faced with all that you are.

He wonders, though, why was he more scared of your motives to leave than to you leaving him at all? Is the bite that much harsher than the bark in reality? Since when? Why are your words stronger than your actions for him, for his ears, for his hands?

“And you don't have to say anything or promise anything,” you said, much more like an order. “I know there are things we can't recognize, understand, and much less explain. I'll wait for you all my life if that's what it takes, Dex. So don't leave me. Don't go to jail. Don't let my biggest fears become true for the sake of someone else's justice. I don't care about it and I know for sure you don't either, so let's not give ourselves to any of it.”

He nodded, taken aback by the acceptance he always craved for but never considered himself worthy of. He isn't. He doesn't deserve any of it, what is wrong with you? Why do you have him considering praying to someone else's God for you not to find your right mind?

How much more selfish could he be now?

“Great,” You smiled softly, leaving a soft kiss on his cheek, on his scar. “You are so good to me, Dex. Never forget that.”

“I am good to you?” he asked as if he couldn't believe somebody would tell him that not once but twice.

“You're perfect, baby,” you swore. “And mine, all mine. Are you mine?”

Dex frowned, looked at your face like an instinct, and just… nodded.

And that was enough for you to leave in peace.

Yet he followed you to Nelson Murdock & Page without you realizing—because you always know, but not this once. And, whether you swear on your life you're gonna stay with him or not, he will never fully trust you.

Benjamin Poindexter is a man of routines, and being played, betrayed, and abandoned are part of his life.

So he kept that mic in your purse and that GPS in your coat and all the paranoia that will follow him to Hell or to his next life, whatever comes first, and followed you.

As soon as you arrived, you were welcomed in their meeting room, encountering Matt, Foggy, and Karen expecting you.

You greeted each other and then you took a seat, ready for whatever they would say.

Foggy cleared his throat. “Okay, so we have a some news for you.”

You sighed. “Should I be scared?”

“Well,” Matt began. “They're dropping the charges for first-degree murder.”

“Oh, finally,” you exhaled in relief but then kept your eyes on them, who were still showing signs of concern. “What?”

“However, they're now looking into conspiracy, which is just as bad in the eyes of the law,” Foggy added. “We have to be honest, it doesn't look so good.”

“Shit,” You covered your face with your hands. “As if being cheated on wasn't enough, now I'm being accused or having my boyfriend murdered.”

“So you're denying the allegations?” Matt asked.

You frowned. “Of course. I told you, guys, it wasn't me and I didn't tell anybody to commit it for me.”

“Are you sure? Because we can… if you tell us who did it, we can negotiate your sentence,” Foggy said. “You plead guilty and tell us wh—”

“No,” You huffed. “I didn't kill Trevor or tell anybody to kill him for me, okay? I don't know what you're looking for, but you won't find it with me.”

“We just want to look into every possible scenario so you can make an informed decision.”

“Mr. Nelson, there is no decision to make: I didn't kill Trevor and I am not involved in his murder in any way. If you don't believe me, I'll have to find a lawyer who does or at least pretends to do.”

“I believe you,” Matt said, the steadiness of your heartbeat convincing them at least that you had no idea about the murder until after it happened. “And we believe you will come forward if you have any novelties regarding the case.”

You nodded softly. “Is that all?”

Karen shook her head. “No, we would like to ask you one more thing.”

“Okay, yeah, anything.”

“Where were you in 2018?”

You frowned. “In Vienna. I was in an art program from 2018 to 2019, I was blipped there. I returned to New York in 2025.”

“Do you have any way to support that?” Foggy asked.

“Yes, of course. I can give you the scholarship documents, plane tickets, graduation certificate, diploma, pictures, whatever you want. I lived in Vienna from 2018 to 2019, then in 2023 until I finished the last semester of the program. I moved to Berlin later and returned in December 2025. I have my passport and everything.”

Foggy and Karen looked at Matt, and he nodded quietly.

“Okay.”

Then there was silence until Karen cleared her throat to get your attention.

“Do you know this man?” She handed you a paper with Dex's picture from his FBI years, one you saw on news articles before.

That drew an interesting reaction from you, heart doing a somersault Matt got impressed by.

“That's… Tony,” you answered, not put together anymore, the lie being caught by Matt instantly. “My neighbor.”

Karen sighed, playing the last part of the recording of your psychological evaluation, the part where Dex's name slipped without permission.

“His name is Benjamin Poindexter,” Matt said. “He was an FBI agent who betrayed his own under the instructions of Wilson Fisk, but perhaps you already knew that.”

“I— That's— He introduced himself as Tony but said his friends call him Dex.”

“How long has he been your neighbor?”

You shook your head. “Excuse me, what's going on here?”

“You tell us.”

“There's nothing to say…”

“We believe that's the building he has lived at for at least nine years, isn't it?”

“I wouldn't be too sure, we barely know each other and… I was blipped.”

“You barely know each other, yet you just said he told you how his friends call him?”

You sighed slowly, regaining composure again. “Okay, fine, I met him some time ago. At a wedding where I was a live artist. He was a guest and we were sitting next to each other and, well… we met again like two years later and went out like twice, but then I left for Vienna. When I came back, he was my neighbor. I started going out with Trevor soon after, so we didn't really talk much. I never said anything because I didn't want to involve him in it.”

You were honest, weren't you? Lies by omission do not count.

They don't.

Lies by omission don't count

Dex is safe

“How do you feel about what he did?”

Your heart jumped at Matt's question.

“What did he do?”

“You don't know?” He raised a brow. “Officially, homicide and conspiracy.”

“What?” Your heartbeat increased, terrified at the fact that they might figure it out because of his past. However, that very same reaction could be confused with one for fear of this person you thought you knew being something quite different.

Karen raised her brows. “And that's what's official.”

“Is there more?”

Your hands started sweating and you felt your blood drain from your face.

“You don't know?” Foggy asked.

Even if you did, you do not care. “Know what?”

“Okay, uhm… he…” Karen mumbled. “He tried to kill me. On several occasions. He committed a massacre in the New York Bulletin, killed a priest, he… killed a fellow agent, Ray Nadeem, he left a wife and two kids. Impersonated Daredevil—”

“I think I've heard enough,” you interrupted her as you nodded and attempted to stand up. What else were you fucking supposed to do? “Thank you for… all the information.”

“Wait,” Matt stopped you. “He killed Trevor. The technique, the knife thrown at him, that's Dex's specialty: a perfect shot.”

Foggy motioned you to take a seat again. “We have reasons to believe he has been stalking you for some time and killed Trevor because he heard you say you wanted him dead.”

“There's no way he knew, he— he has never been to Trevor's.”

“It's likely he had been following you the whole day,” Matt added. “We've been investigating for some time and have caught him stalking you.”

Well, shit.

“We know this is a lot to process,” Foggy sighed. “We are can talk to the DA's Assistant. We could get you a deal so they drop the charges if you help us bring Poindexter to justice.”

“You'll never have to worry about him again,” Karen mentioned. “We promise.”

“I'm sorry, I couldn't quite catch that; what do you mean by that?”

“You're facing twenty-five to life here, remember? Whether you threw the knife or not and whether you told Poindexter to kill Trevor or not, nothing we do is gonna be enough to convince the jury that you aren't involved in the murder, because you technically are—we found out he's working as a tactical asset for hire, so this is looking really bad on your end.”

Foggy continued Matt's explanation. “We know it's not fair, and we're sorry, but that's probably how it's gonna play out in court, so we have to try to avoid taking this to trial. The way we do that is by closing a deal where you hand him in to the feds and then plead guilty of some minor charge that will get you on probation for a few months at most. Compared to life. That's the best case scenario at this point.”

You nodded softly, standing up without looking at them. “I understand.”

“Are you going—”

“I need time for myself, please.”

“Of course.”

This is all your fault, a little voice said as you walked away. Now they're onto him and it's your fault.

And Dex? Dex heard all of it.

You were angry.

With your lawyers, with the world, but most of all with yourself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, st—

“—upid, stupid, stupid!” you yelled, desperation, sadness, frustration, everything bursting in a piercing scream you couldn't give more of a shit about. “Idiot!”

You threw your purse against the wall, contents landing on the floor, but you didn't care, not coming back to Earth even when Dex appeared in the living room, hair wet from the shower, expecting your arrival after walking to the building since you left the firm. Instead of going home directly, you made a stop at the grocery store and bought your comfort snack, thinking it would help you calm your nerves so you could greet Dex and try to hide the bad things your lawyers said about him.

You are painfully aware that he is capable of killing them—attempting to hurt Karen again, who has been nothing but nice to you.

And it would be your fault again.

You always fuck everything up.

No one really gives a damn about you.

Aren't you embarrassed that every single time we turn around you've found a new way to fuck things up?

No, you aren't.

Do you really think anyone sees anything but a burden in you? And that will never change, no matter how hard you try.

At least you were seen.

You're being seen now.

Scrutinized more than anything, but seen at the very least.

You hate to hear their voices in your head everytime you fuck up, because they were always right.

They were right when you dropped your soup on the new white carpet. It was the first time they paid real attention to you a few years.

There was a family dinner every night where they didn't acknowledge you. They never asked about your day in school or if you had done your homework yet, but you stood up to find your drawing from your art class and show it to them and accidentally knocked over the soup you hadn't eaten because you hated it; and just then, you were seen.

Your parents scolded you, yelled at you, but then, after you had cried for hours non-stop, your mother read you to sleep.

That's when you learned that the only way you felt your parents’ love was a consequence of being disruptive; now, you don't live with your parents anymore, you made peace with their neglect long ago, you found out you could be ‘seen’ without being disruptive, but loved? You have never been loved, not really, and not in the way you have always needed.

Dex was the exception.

You had to be disruptive, of course, but it was the total opposite with him.

Dex lives a rigid life of routines and control; he follows you around and you, who live one day at a time, do a different thing each day and at different times.

With them, you were a kid whose misery was a disruption to their hypocritical silence. With him, you're a woman whose entire self is disruptive: you don't have to do anything to get his attention, the mere act of existing and being yourself makes him react.

Dex won't read you to sleep, but he will accept the love your parents barely tolerated, because his biggest, most favorite disruption is being seen for himself, and you are the only person who has seen him in his life.

And he was about to lose it all.

He deserves it anyway, he believes.

“How did it go?”

You turned around, eyes puffy and nose leaking. “Dex?”

“What did they tell you?” he questioned, expecting you to lie, even by omission, but hoping to God you wouldn't.

You cried even more.

What about ‘hello’? What about asking you, who were sitting on the floor crying like an infant, how you were? Why would the one person who truly sees you ignore your feelings in such a way?

“I asked you a question.”

His tone was like a brusque finger turning a switch, making you change your humor in an instant.

You scoffed. “Any theories? Just look at me and tell me if you think it went alright.”

“I know it didn't go well, I just want you to look me in the eyes and admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That I was right. That they only had to tell you what I did and now you realize that that stupid idea of love that you spoke so much about was a farce,” he replied, heading to you. “Good thing I never made the mistake of believing you.”

You frowned and wiped your tears from your cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“I never believed you, not even for a second. I always knew you weren't worth the time, that all you do is fuck things up. You can't even make something as easy as loyalty work.”

That was… unexpected.

All the hope for his comfort, all the crave for his love, it all went to hell as he spoke to you using words that triggered a little something in you.

“Who do you think you are to talk to me that way, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, standing up and walking straight to him. “Who? Who do you think you are, Dex? You think you can afford being a dick with the only person in this world who gives a fuck about you?”

He huffed, bitter. “Yeah, so that attention was just something you could throw in my face if I actually cared about it, I see.”

You started laughing. You don't even know why and he much less. It was a reflex, maybe, one of the strange kind, one of those that comes to you when the conditions are right—or wrong, actually.

“Being an asshole is a luxury you're not entitled to, Benjamin, much less when it comes to me,” you spoke, threatening, and he felt the sting somehow. “You don't get to lie to my face and get away with it.”

The fact that he treated you like shit and not a single tear left your eyes confused him much more than he would like to admit.

Dex huffed mockingly instead. “What are you trying to do? Are you trying to threaten me? Don't be ridiculous.”

“And what's the worst thing you could do to me, huh? Kill me? I know you won't,” You smirked. “And even if you did, do you think I don't know it will haunt you forever? That you killed the only person who ever cared about you in your life? I won't even say love because you already know nobody's loved you and nobody will, only me. Cared works best, and you wanna know why? Because it's so basic, Dex, being cared for. And all those people, they all chose to ignore you. You know damn well you've only received that from me and that will never change.”

That hit a nerve.

Because you were right, and he knows that damn well indeed.

It took you guys so much to be where you are now, it took you finding out every single public place Dex was at so you could be there too; it took him a few trips to Vienna to make sure you thought you were hallucinating him, just so he could keep your obsession in place even when you were on the other side of the planet; it took you years and other people and isolation, but you are finally alone in the same room.

And he was ending it before you ended it by handing him to jail in exchange for your own freedom.

He is confused, though; he was more than willing to go to jail for you, so why does it bother him so much that you would finally agree to it? That's all he ever wanted, a good deed to balance the scales, a proof of his devotion…

What is going on, then?

So Dex's gaze hardened even more, the frustration of not understanding and of you leaving and lying to him, all of it making you believe he would kill you on the spot. “You think you're so—”

That doesn't mean you would let it go. He tries to push you away? That's fine, you can defy him and get away with it like you always do; but he tries to damage your image? The perception of you others have, the one you have of yourself, that is the second most important thing in your life, but the first one—Dex, of course—would never mess it up if you could help it.

Or is it that he isn't the one at the top of your list? Is your obsession with what others see bigger than your obsession with him? Because you would've never mistreated him in any way if that was the case.

Your pride occupies a high enough position too.

“Don't you finish that fucking sentence, Dex, don't you dare say anything else about me!” you spat, pushing him, knowing you wouldn't even cause a tickle. “You make me nauseous. You know all too well that I am the only person in this world who sees exactly what you are—and I don't even have to say it because you are incredibly aware of it, you know that, Dex! And despite it all, I still chose to love you. Everyone else in your miserable life? They want to fix you, or lock you away, or kill you. I'm the only one who didn't want to change you, Dex. I wanted to keep you, but you're ruining that for yourself and for me. You're ruining us with your cowardice.”

“Shut up,” he hissed, craddling your face almost aggressively. “You don't know a thi—”

“You're so pathetic,” you teased him in a whisper, through his grip on your cheeks, the cruelty in your eyes perfectly mirroring the hazel-colored one staring right back at you. “You think pushing me away makes you strong? It just makes you miserable. I know you're scared because you know that if I leave, you'll lose your mind for once and for all. You can't fool me, baby…”

Dex held you by your wrists, a bruising grip that did everything but actually hurt you. “You don't know anything about me!”

“On the contrary, Dex, I know everything about you!” you screamed. “I know you drool in your sleep, I know you keep using vintage things because they remind you of a time where everything was simpler, and I know you need me even if you try to convince yourself otherwise!”

“You know that's not the truth!”

“Then prove it!” you dared him, freeing your wrists from his grip. “Look me in the eyes and lie again. You know I would burn this world just to bring you heat, don't pretend you don't know, don't pretend you don't need it, and don't pretend you know who you are without it.”

His eyes were heavy and dark on yours, and you believe that's what his victims see right before losing the most basic of rights.

Was that the last thing Trevor ever saw?

Would those eyes be the last thing you ever see? Would all your own terror and all your love be the last thing you'll ever see?

Why doesn't that prospect scare you at all? Why—

You couldn't finish your train of thought due to the sharp, sweet collision of his lips on yours that interrupted the devotion burning red inside your skull.

A dense, surprised moan traveled from your mouth to his, and you buried your hands in his hair as he wrapped his around your waist to press you flat against him.

Fuck.

He bit your lip hard enough to make you gasp, breaking the kiss. Dex drove his mouth to your cheeks, your jawline, biting and kissing it better.

“What are you doin’ to me?” he questioned, hands lowering to your hips, and you felt him, hard and aching, angrily so, all for you.

“I should ask you the same thing,” You breathed, hands going to his neck to bring him as close as physically possible. “Do you at least know what you wanna do to me?”

“I know I don't want you away from me,” he confessed, bumping his forehead with yours and teasing your lips with his thumb until you received him in the soothing warmth of your mouth. “I know I need you to be.”

You sucked his finger harshly and then pulled away with a grotesque, obscenely loud pop. “You wanna know what I want?”

He exhaled and smirked lightly, almost imperceptively, and nodded.

“I want you to fuck me until you forget what you heard them say.”

He heard a crush, sharp and too strong for such a small thing, and looked down to the floor where the mic he had hidden in your purse lay completely shattered and useless.

“I wouldn't hand you in even with a gun to my head,” you swore. “And I'll make sure you don't ever forget that, baby.”

He stared at you as if you were the god he has been waiting to shine on him for his entire life.

“Excuse me, I'm pretty sure this is my seat.”

When Benjamin Poindexter looked up and locked his eyes with yours, he had no idea that that day would be a point of divergence in his life—greater than religion, that would be you.

But you? You knew from the moment you first saw him that you and him were meant to be.

That's why you changed the arrangement of the tables and put your name where Gilbert Duncan was supposed to sit, that's why you became the best version of yourself to catch his attention, that's why you accepted to stay for dinner instead of just leaving after finishing your job.

Dex cleared his throat and took the napkin he had left there so you could sit. “Hi, yes, take a seat.”

You grinned and told him your name, offering your hand. “I am the live painting artist of the wedding.”

“Okay,” In any other case, he would be unfazed, only nodding and turning around, not really caring about a random girl's line of work or whatever, but there was something about you. “I'm Dex. I'm a… friend of the groom.”

“Cool,” You nodded, heavily focusing on the glass of water when he stopped looking at you, trying to come up with a way to keep his attention. “He and Helen insisted I stay for dinner. I didn't have anything better to do anyway.”

Dex hummed, not looking at you yet. “I think you'll regret it.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”

“Vegan sucks,” he replied. “I'll have an emergency as soon as I see the waiters.”

A soft chuckle left your lips, thinking it was a joke. “Vegan doesn't always suck.”

“Keep tellin’ that to yourself, you might believe it,” Dex raised his brows. “I won't eat that eggplant lasagna crap they have goin’ on in that kitchen.”

You smirked. “Gun to your head: eggplant lasagna or seitan steak?”

The absurdity of the question took him back to Earth, but more than that, the fact that he was entertaining it dropped his brain to the ninth circle of hell—naively ignoring you were in the eighth.

So he just shrugged, nonchalant, and took the last sip of his drink. “Fire at will.”

“Your hatred for vegan food is strong, I admire that,” you commented. “And your lack of fear of guns to your head is a tad concerning, not gonna lie.”

“I'm an FBI agent,” Dex spoke. “I've been held at gunpoint a few times and somehow this is for a worse cause.”

You laughed. “Did you just make a joke?”

“Not my intention.”

“It was a good joke nonetheless,” You winked at him. “Are you really an FBI agent?”

“Yeah,” he hummed.

“That's so cool,” you replied. “Have you been an agent for a long time?”

“Around five years now,” Dex said, taking a glass of whiskey a waiter was offering. “Have you been a wedding artist for a long time?”

You cleared your throat. “I used to be just an artist before. It didn't pay much of the bills, though, so I had to change to this like a year ago.”

He nodded. “So it's recent.”

“The people who will pay enough for me to live out of art are the rich ones who only care about the names.”

“You don't have a name?” Dex raised an eyebrow.

“Nope.” You shook your head amusedly.

He huffed. “Weird.”

“I used to, though,” you added. “Back in art school, my pieces would always get a good spot in the department's gallery.”

“What changed?” he asked, feeling an interest of the strange kind take over his body.

“People only care about the story behind it all,” you replied. “I haven't lived enough to offer much to them.”

“You can't make it up?”

You snickered softly. “Well, my great grandfather made one in the 1940s and it was taken by the Gestapo. I finally retrieved it some years ago from an European art collector for like ten grand.”

“Credible enough,” Dex nodded quietly, playing with the napkin on his lap. “What was the painting like?”

“It was called Rabbit in a Snowstorm,” you answered. “It had enough shades of white for the least observant eye to pick up. You look at it, and you feel… what I felt back then.”

“Which was?”

“Emptiness.”

Emptiness.

He knows quite a bit about that feeling.

That was the first thing he thought you had in common.

The second thing was how much you frequented the same places.

The same café, the same pharmacy, the same gym.

Did he really never notice you and was now hyper-aware of your existence after spending such a nice time together? He was surprised he never saw you.

How was it even possible for you to be at the same place at the same time that he didn't notice earlier? Dex, who was built to notice, didn't.

You never saw him, though, and that drove him crazy.

He never said anything, which frustrated you to an extent you didn't know was even possible.

But soon enough, seeing you everywhere was something Dex happened to take for granted, so much so that the first Tuesday you didn't go to the gym, he started feeling like a part of him was missing—not just you.

You never missed a day. He even memorized your entire routine at the gym, he knew which days you went, including the ones where he didn't.

Dex can't really pinpoint the moment it all changed for him, but your kindness made you the perfect candidate for his obsession:

You always greeted and said goodbye to the gym staff with a kind smile on your lips, you gave Terry's daughter—whom he brings to the gym on Saturdays because he doesn't have anyone to take care of her—her favorite candies, you always smiled at the barista and left tips at the café, you paid for strangers’ orders when they were short on pennies, you let the elderly people take your turn even if you had been waiting in line at the pharmacy for too long, and he even saw you buy hot chocolate and a croissant for the homeless man across the street once. Dex, perhaps, was blinded by you letting the old lady in the restaurant use your portable battery to charge her phone, making random babies giggle at the grocery store, and feeding the birds in the park to notice when exactly you became his number one obsession—you just did.

So, when he saw you enter the café on Friday with someone else, his alarms rang like a fire emergency; and, as for you, you got bored of him not reaching out to you, and a replacement found you before you even considered it.

That was the first push and pull from you Dex was a victim of.

The second pull was that day, a little over a year later, after he had been told by his therapist to leave you alone because you were with somebody else after he failed to gather the guts to speak to you, where he saw you at his office. Apparently, your close friend worked there, and you stumbled upon him on your way to the restroom.

He stopped you, ‘reminded’ you who he was, and walked you to the bathroom.

Dex invited you for a coffee after you were done there, begging whoever he had to pray to for you to be single and say yes.

You successfully pretended it wasn't your intention from the start, that you didn't befriend Camille Lance only to get close to him.

Camille Lance.

He saw you greet her excitedly as soon as you entered the bar, just when you pretended to ignore he had been following you the entire day like a faithful dog.

You would like to say you loved the attention, but the truth is that it was only relevant when it came from him; and so you kept quiet and waited for the moment to come even if you had to orchestrate it yourself.

Fate is nothing without action, or so they say.

Or maybe nobody says that.

“I thought you wouldn't come!”

You grinned, breaking the embrace. “No way I would miss your birthday.”

“Thanks for that, but you didn't have to come,” She pouted, sympathetic. “And I'm sorry for your loss.”

I'm sorry for your loss.

“No worries, I'm still in… denial,” you lied, that being the most obvious answer to a grieving girlfriend whose boyfriend passed away a week ago. “Whatever I can do to distract myself and forget I'm being blamed for it, it is most welcomed.”

“Yeah, I bet that's awful,” She scoffed. “You wouldn't hurt the guy, I know you.”

And sure she does, because you would never hurt Trevor.

You, however, don't respect his memory enough—are you really supposed to? Does he even deserve it?—to bring justice to him and his family; not if it costs you Dex.

Special Agent Lance doesn't know that and never will.

The true question is now whether you're too good when it comes to your efforts to have Dex or if she sucks as an FBI agent.

Considering Dex still believes everything from your side was a coincidence, and he was the most observant person you've ever crossed paths with, you can say you are remarkable.

“Whoever did it chose the perfect moment to frame me for it,” You chuckled dryly and approached the guy in the bar, asking for your shot of choice. “I hired a lawyer, though. I'm not sure they believe me. They had me do a psych evaluation.”

Camille nodded. “Well, then they're being very thorough with your case if they're requesting it so early on. Lawyers do that so they can have your reactions on the record and be ready for whatever that comes. They can even use it to show you will have issues with the questioning and all that.”

You took your shot in an instant, the liquid burning its way to your stomach with a familiar ache. “It felt, like…, invasive. Like the doctor decided I was guilty before even seeing me.”

“That's their job,” She shrugged and passed you another drink. “And if you gave them a wrong impression, then your lawyers will figure it out. It's their job to believe you and do everything in their power to prove you're innocent until proven guilty.”

“What if they think I'm a psycho or something?”

She chuckled. “Then your lawyers will call people who know you that can attest to your character. We've been friends for years. You're not a psycho at all.”

You're not a psycho at all.

“Just relax, drink a bit…”

“Just a bit.”

Your ‘bit’ became enough to have you on the dancefloor, dancing with Camille and her friend Dana as if your brain wasn't rushing with the adrenaline brought by Dex's sight over you—or maybe with it dictating the weight of your movements and the loop of your hips and the way you touched them.

With eyes closed, you could only feel the coolness of his eyes slipping through the warmth of bodies together and the amount of people in the crowd.

Until you heard a voice beside you, three men there, asking the three of you to dance.

Dana and Camille agreed instantly, but you hesitated to even look at him.

“You seem to be having too much fun to let your friends’ absence ruin it for you,” he yelled so you could hear him. “Let me—”

“Walk away,” You flinched when you heard that voice, but you felt your body melt into his touch once he placed his hand on the small of your back. “She's with me.”

She's with me.

The unnamed guy didn't even hesitate, just nodded and walked away.

“You've been following me?”

“Don't you act as if you didn't know,” Dex spat, making your breath leave your lips, labored. “Were you doing this on purpose?”

You smirked. “I'd do anything if it leads you to me.”

His chest ached at that, as if you had cut him open and snatched his heart from its place.

“Let me take you home.” Dex shook his head.

You mimicked him. “Dance with me, Dex.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me,” you spoke and took a step closer. “Dance with me and then we can go home. I promise I won't make it hard for you. Or maybe I will.”

“Wha—” He cleared his throat. “Don't make those… jokes, alright? Let's just—”

“Why won't you dance with me, huh? Afraid of little old me?” you questioned, driving your hands to his shoulders. “I don't bite, unless you're into that.”

Under the colorful lights you wouldn't find out, but the heat that escaped his heart and took over his body was visible on his pale skin, a flustered exhale warming your forehead once you took another step forward. “I'm not good at it.”

You hummed, dragging your fingers from his shoulders to his hands to intertwine them until the grip of his fists loosened enough to let you drive his touch to your hips. “You'll learn. C'mon, baby…, dance with me.”

His breath hitched at the pet name, heart beating erratically enough for your own body to feel it when you pressed yourself against his chest.

“Love this song,” you mentioned, making him pay attention to the lyrics.

I'm your biggest fan I'll follow you until you love me

Promise I'll be kind, but I won't stop until that boy is mine

Baby, you'll be famous, chase you down until you love me…

Dex cleared his throat, focusing on you instead of the lyrics of the song that were so… incriminating.

Wasn't that what he did to you? Aren't you so attached to him now because he followed you for years?

You aren't sure he will ever know it was the other way around.

“Let's leave,” he spoke as he leaned down to say it in your ear, more like an order, but you didn't budge. “C'mon.”

The two of you have never been this close.

Despite orbiting one another and playing cat and mouse for so many years, nothing has ever happened.

You wanted to change that, seeing him like that; leather jacket, black t-shirt, dark jeans, messy hair, wide eyes. You knew he felt the same, you felt it in the way he buried his fingertips in the skin of your hips all throughout the fabric, in the unmistakable warmth his skin radiated, and in the way his body reacted to you pressing against him.

Dex has never been… attracted to someone, not really. Interested in? Maybe. But this moment, the way his body reacted to you? Completely unfamiliar. Well, not like his body has never acted like this, but the times he has been with someone else, it felt like it was just for them, not for himself. Sex was a thing, this thing, that was always a performance—something he would do just to fit in, not out of genuine desire.

He had never desired anything or anyone, yet he was never aware of it or considered it was something he was missing on, not until you and not until now.

Now Dex felt like his composure, like the foundations of everything that he is, were betraying him with no ounce of mercy. Or does he even deserve mercy anyway?

He deserves neither mercy nor relief, that he knows quite well.

And you, there? You were ruining it all for him.

Dex stopped you, his heavy hands pushing you an inch away. “That's enough, let me take you home.”

You smirked and left a soft kiss on his jaw. “Let me tell my friends I'm leaving.”

He exhaled heavily and watched you take a step back.

Dex felt empty now.

He stopped a cab to take the two of you to the building, feeling in his breath the calmness of someone who has saved you from returning home by yourself, facing whatever threat there could be for you outside the sanctuary of his presence.

You will never be exposed to any harm as long as he's there with you and you know it. You thrive in that knowledge while Dex believes you are barely aware of it. He doesn't know how much you love it that he is there, how much it soothes you to know he is next door, how much you need him—he has no idea you match each other so well.

Dex lives under the occasional misconception that he is the predator of you. Sometimes, he thinks he is protecting you and just keeping you close as a moral compass; some other times, he is painfully aware that what he does is not normal—following or anticipating your every step, killing your cheating boyfriend just because you said you wanted him gone in the heat of the moment, feeling so ironically bothered by your proximity, none of it is what a regular man would do for a regular woman.

Yet still, is he a regular man? Is he really the kind of man who lives by a standard code and plays by the rules? Is Benjamin Poindexter a man of ethical acts? And are you truly a regular woman? Are you now, above his North Star, the object of his desires? Aren't you the woman who has actively lied to her lawyers and everyone else in her life only to protect him? When speaking of regular, he is not and neither are you.

You are two drops left over by the same storm, two halves of the same twin.

He is yours and you are his, and the one thing you want from him is his touch, but he couldn't give you that, not now, not like this.

Not as an impulse, not when you aren't fully aware, not when he doesn't even know what he is supposed to do with you.

He has only ever known what to do in automatics, but what is supposed to happen when he actually wants it? When it's both a conscious choice and a subconscious need?

Would he even be good enough for you?

But when you trace the veins in the back of his hand with your fingertips, and when you smell like him, shielding from the outside from inside his clothes, and when you whisper in his ear that you are right where you're supposed to be—next to him, he struggles to look outside instead of at you.

Did you just become the one threat in his life he can't ever neutralize? Or worse: the one whose chaos and danger he wants to keep up close to watch and… love? Well, love is not something Dex believes he is capable of, but if there is something he has always been incredible at, that is finding a way to fit in.

In a way, you certainly act like you love him so he is free to show love the way he believes it to be: a neverending loop of obsession and yearning that doesn't falter even when the chains aren't there anymore to keep you apart.

So, yes, he can love you, at least in his own way, all the while you experience emotions in a raw, exceedingly human way. He has seen how your feelings are heightened, how your reactions are not close enough to the average, how you act when it comes to him—like the regular notions of love and goodness mean nothing to you when he is part of the equation.

And Dex feels it. He felt it when you trusted him to take you home, when you offered your closeness to him as if he deserved it, and every time you look at him.

If you think he does, who the fuck is he to disagree with you?

Is he even strong enough to ignore the need in his body and the inebriated sweet nothings crashing softly on his ear, on the scars in his skin?

Are you mine? ‘Cause I am yours. Can you feel me? Because I want to feel you. To touch you. To love you. Love me, too.

You said that too many times to count, so much so that he lost track of it as he took off your heels and helped you in your bed.

“Stay.”

“What?”

You hummed, driving his hand to your lips.

You kissed his knuckles.

“Stay with me tonight,” you added, ignoring the shortcircuit you just caused in Dex's brain. Could it lead to a fire? “I need to feel you close, if only for tonight. Lie to me, Dex. Just tell me you're mine.”

Dex exhaled heavily. “There is no need to lie.”

A quiet smile, one so domestic he felt he wasn't entitled to it, decorated your lips. “There is no need to lie,” you repeated out loud, like you always repeat in your mind. “Love me tonight, then.”

He exhaled, heavy. “I'm gonna take the couch. You rest.”

“No,” You shook your head lightly. “I need you close.”

Who the fuck was he to deny you?

Dex took off his leather jacket, his t-shirt, his belt, his shoes. The jeans weren't too comfortable, but he couldn't let their lack show how his body reacted to you tangling your legs with his, to you writing each letter of your name on his skin with a stroke of your nails, to the soft kisses you left on his jaw.

As for you, when his chest stayed stiff, tight in place, and his ragged breathing and violent heartbeat weren't even concealed, it made you flush in pride. Being the cause of his own, desperate treason brought all your love and devotion to life—only then, right when he could claim you however he wished and just the way you craved, when you were served to him in a silver platter and the cuttlery perfectly arranged and in plain sight, and he still didn't, you realized his restraint was just another act of devotion.

It was breathtaking, that you couldn't deny; just not… proper for a wedding.

That should have been the first sign.

The forest was eerily green and the sun leaked through the branches of the trees, everything giving you a fairytale atmosphere you would have loved painting.

Except that you didn't have enough shades of green for it, just… red.

Scarlet, blood, cherry, crimson… You had to do magic to get the painting finished.

And then you turned around.

Like you, there were more artists. You think the amount of attendees fell short, but apparently each one of you was tasked to paint one guest.

Yours was Trevor.

You didn't even blink at the sight of him, it was as if he were alive—just like he looked before you even met.

His portrait, however, was too uncanny to decipher.

Each stroke of your paintbrush made less sense, making the painting look as alive as it was unsettling and Trevor looked… like a dead man—despite sitting still, his eyes were wide open in fear; from his mouth, though closed, a drop of blood was falling slowly. Still, his body did not present any injuries or the deadly knife that took his life too soon.

You will never see him again, the little voice in your head told you. Act accordingly.

But how were you supposed to act? Now, your hands moved frantically on the canvas, trying to paint him like you saw him, but you couldn't.

In your canvas, he was safe and sound; behind it, he decomposed slowly but surely, until—

You screamed. Sharp and piercing like a banshee.

The knife landed on the canvas, right where Trevor was, right where his heart was supposed to be. Then you heard his voice.

Some get born and some get buried. They're finite. The only thing that lasts is retaliation.

And you felt him. His presence.

You couldn't see him, smell him, or physically perceive him in any manner whatsoever, yet you knew he was there.

He is always there, all for you.

And so you felt rough hands dancing on your cheeks and waking you from your slumber.

It was a dream.

There was no picture, no Trevor, no wedding, no canvas.

Only Dex hushing you, comforting you, Dex…

Dex?

“You're okay,” He hushed. “I'm here, it was just a bad dream.”

You exhaled, half asleep. “It was just a bad dream.”

“That's right,” Dex nodded. “And I'm here to protect you.”

“You are here…” you echoed and then looked at him. “How are you here?”

“That doesn't matter, okay? What matters is that you're okay.”

You laughed softly. “You broke into my apartment?”

“You were screaming in the middle of the night,” he justified himself. “I thought someone had broken in and—”

“Broken in like you just did?”

“Yeah, but, I— I didn't do it because I wanted to hurt you,” he excused himself. “I just wanted to protect you. That's all I've wanted since I met you.”

You hummed softly and caressed his cheek. Dex flinched slightly, but you did it again.

Had he never experienced a loving touch?

“I know that, Dex,” you replied. “And I appreciate it. You're so good for me, I don't deserve it.”

He got confused by your display of affection, his heart beating loud with an ache for more. More of you.

All of you.

“Of course you deserve it,” he countered, mirroring your touch. “You deserve everything.”

You chuckled. “Including you?”

He exhaled heavily.

All he ever wanted was here in front of him, and now that there was no distance, no jail, no Trevor, nothing to keep you apart, Dex was suddenly intimidated by you.

So he cleared his throat. “I'm going to install better locks for your door.”

“And I'm gonna give you the keys,” You buried your hands in his hair. “So you can come protect me more easily.”

“Okay.”

You wanted to kiss him more than anything in the world, but you couldn't.

You know how it goes and if you started this right now, there would be no going back after that.

“State your name for the recording, please.”

You cleared your throat and said it.

“Do you consent to being recorded for this evaluation?”

You nodded. “Yes, I consent.”

“Could you tell me what we're doing here?”

“We're doing a psychological evaluation to check my profile.”

Doctor Thorne hummed softly. “Are you ready?”

Are you ready?

“Yeah.”

“Okay, let's get started,” she answered. “Okay, uh… Let’s talk about your history with art. You're a live event painter, right? That requires a lot of... observing. When did you first realize you were better at watching people than participating with them?”

“Yes, I'm a live event artist. Weddings,” you answered. “I like observing them. They're happy and in love. It's nice to watch their dynamics, since I only ever knew mine. Every head is a different world, you know? I like knowing what there is to know about others’.”

Curious mind, probably difficult dynamics: family, relationships, she wrote down.

“That's an interesting way to put it, really. You, wanting to know what there is to know about others; it sounds kind of like an investigation, doesn't it? You spend your life capturing all these moments for strangers, but your own personal world has become... complicated lately,” she continued. ​“So tell me: When you were with Trevor, what version of him was there in your mind to paint, if you ever did, or were you looking for the world inside his head?”

The picture of Trevor Stone from your dream appeared before your eyes… Perfect, neat, charismatic, just like you paint others. All the while in the ‘reality’ of the dream, he was everything but.

So you pursed your lips. “I have never painted Trevor, not really. Maybe sketched him, but… the version of him that was in my mind was that of a kind, loyal, and sensible man. He always knew what to say and he was calm. We… complemented each other well.”

Half attachment. Drawn to complementary relationships.

​“Loyal is kind of a strong word to use for a man who, by all accounts of the investigation, was living a very divided life at the time of his passing, just like you told the detectives and your lawyers. It's quite interesting that you see him that way even after he was unfaithful,” She leaned in, head tilting slightly. ​“You also mentioned you complemented each other. That implies you filled his gaps and he, yours. If Trevor was calm, then were you the one providing the... let's say, storm?”

Was I the one providing the storm?

You noticed she was onto something.

What were you supposed to do or say now? You only said that because the opposites attract thing was as popular as it can get, it was relatively standard. What now?

In a way, you can't really remember what it was like before he cheated. You can't remember the calm, only the way you knew you never loved him, not truly.

Heavy questions = takes time to answer

“It wasn't like that,” you denied. “I tend to get lost in my thoughts sometimes, get a bit anxious. He was calm, he… offered me calm.”

​“Usually, when a person loses their loved ones, just like you did, and specially when they are the source of calm in our lives, our feelings are all over the place. We get anxious and sad. Yet, sitting here today, you don't seem lost at all. In fact, you seem... fine,” she noted. ​“If Trevor isn't here to offer you that calm you often need, what is, then?”

You cleared your throat, alarms ringing in your ears. Was it possible that your lawyers told her about Dex?

“I don't know,” you shook your head. “I guess nothing, maybe I'm in automatic or by force of habit. I don't want to be sad, so I'm trying my hardest not to. He cheated on me after all, he… broke my heart.”

“Acting in automatic is a common coping mechanism, but I also know that, when a heart breaks, it isn't quiet. It's heavy and loud and desperate like it was when you fought with him that night at his apartment,” Doctor Thorne sighed. “Why are you trying so hard not to be sad? It's a normal thing to feel when it comes to betrayal, unless you expected it or didn't care.”

“Of course I care, doctor, I just… I still can't believe it, and… I don't wanna hate him. He's gone now, there's nothing to do and nowhere to put my feelings, so it's best that I leave them where they are until it passes because I know it will. I loved him, no matter what others say. No one was there when it was just the two of us. No one knows our love for sure. No one can attest to it or the reasons I don't want to expose the cheating.”

Such a ruthless lie, you know, but it had to be done.

Possible deception through self victimization

​“If your love was so private and so calm, what was that that the neighbors heard? What about the screams Trevor's neighbors heard and what you told your lawyers you said? How could you be so calm today, barely three days later? Was there anything that calmed you down after all the chaos?”

“I told my lawyers I hung out with my neighbor for a while,” You shrugged. “He listened and maybe that helped me get over it, but… that's all. I haven't seen him again since that night, though. I think he travels for work a lot.”

Doctor Thorne raised her eyebrows. “What's your neighbor's name?”

“Tony,” you replied. “But I don't know his last name.”

“So you don't know him very well?” she inquired. You shook your head. “When someone goes through such a betrayal, they tend to become more defensive, to close their doors and hearts. Was that not the case with you?”

You frowned. You took a while.

“I don't know. He was passing by and there. I offered him to stay for dinner, he agreed, and we got to talking, that's all.”

“What did you talk about?”

What did you talk about?

“The weather that day. Donna across the hall. My… situation.”

“How was the weather?”

“Almost too cold. He loves it.”

Circles to 'Tony'. “What about Donna?”

“She's been complaining a lot about Mrs. Smith's cat on the building's groupchat.”

“And your situation?”

“I told him about Trevor.”

“Why?”

“I don't know, he was there. My friends were asleep, but he was there.”

She nodded. “So let me see if I got this right: You don't know Tony's last name or his work line, but still you told him about your breakup… You told a stranger the intimate details of a betrayal that you previously said was private enough so that no one else could understand it, is that not right?”

You stayed quiet, not knowing what to say.

Doctor Thorne narrowed her eyes.

Silent when questioned about the neighbor

“Did you tell him because you needed someone to listen, or did you tell him because you wanted to see how he would react to it?”

“He was there, doctor. That's all.”

“And what was his reaction? Did he offer advice, a solution, some much needed calm after your source of calm betrayed you?”

You cleared your throat. “He just… said he thought it was awful I went through that. That I deserve better and he was sorry to hear that.”

“Didn't you two barely know each other? How could he say you deserve better, then?”

You stopped for a moment. Blinked.

Continued.

“Is that not the standard thing to say? Like, no one deserves being cheated on.” you asked, defensive.

Defensive about 'Tony'

“And to die? Do people deserve to die sometimes? Like you said to Trevor?”

You felt sweat give away your nerves. You felt air struggling to meet your lungs.

“I didn't mean that when I said it, I— In the moment, I said it, but that doesn't mean I actually wanted him gone. I didn't want this to happen—”

Anxious response to confrontation about wishing death upon victim

She nodded. “Sometimes, when we say those things, we get impulses, don't we? Those impulses drive us to do things we wouldn't otherwise do. Do you think that could've happened to you?”

You frowned. “Doctor Thorne, I would never hurt him.”

“And I believe you, seriously, but, you know, like those things Tony said: that you deserved better. How did it make you feel? Did it make you feel better with yourself and the situation? Or did it make you feel... entitled?”

“Entitled to what exactly?” you questioned.

Defensive when neighbor is brought up

​“Entitled to a resolution,” she spoke calmly. “When Tony told you that you deserved better, did it feel like he was giving you permission to allow yourself to feel things and stop accepting a broken heart? Did it make you feel like retaliation was a justified ending?

You tilted your head, analyzing her and the answers she might be expecting from you.

So you proceeded.

“I am not the one to decide who lives or dies, nor the one who brings retaliation upon people,” you replied. “Why am I the primary suspect anyway? According to the timing I was told about, that was past curfew. Couldn't those fuckass AVTF guys be the ones who killed Trevor just for being out? And am I supposed to be the one to take the blame? Or even D—Tony whose only fault was accepting a pizza?”

Oof—

Doctor Thorne nodded.

Tony D?

AVTF?

Aggressive language

“I'm not the police, and I'm not the AVTF. My job isn't to assign blame, but to understand and help you,” she stated. “And I see you're quick to defend Tony. You're protective of a man you barely know, yet you seem very comfortable letting the AVTF take the blame for Trevor's murder. It suggests a very clear boundary in your mind, you know? There are people who deserve to be blamed, even if they're not the ones to blame.”

“You suggest I'm dropping the responsibility on the Task Force because I'm protecting a man who has seen Trevor once or twice at best, someone who offered me comfort for a couple hours and then returned to his home, someone innocent? I understand if I'm being blamed for it, and I understand if they want to ignore that there's no way I could've thrown a knife to my ex's heart from afar and be strong enough to break his ribs and kill him, but bringing Tony into this makes me feel bad. It's my fault that, too, then? That could bring him trouble he doesn't deserve!”

Doctor Thorne sighed, knowing that if she weren't a professional, she could've easily fallen into your manipulative trap. If there's something clear for her, that is that you have at least a deeper connection to this neighbor of yours that Matt and Foggy warned her about.

Manipulative tendencies and/or selective empathy

“You're right, and I'm not trying to upset you at all, but you have to keep a cool head right now, ‘cause look at the cost: You're currently a primary suspect in a murder investigation, and your first instinct isn't to save yourself—it's to protect Tony. And, as you said, the physics of the crime don't match your profile. It took someone with immense strength and lethal precision, and that isn't you. But how do you know that isn't Tony either?”

“I don't care about his profile, the thing here is that Tony wasn't there. He had no idea where to find Trevor or anything, I don't see why you're involving him in the murder of a man he barely saw, like, twice.”

Suspicious involvement w Tony

“Where was Tony before joining you for dinner?”

“At work.”

“Where does he work?”

“I don't know.”

“Where did he go after talking with you?”

“To his place.”

Quick to answer

“How are you so sure?”

“He wouldn't just lie. He would never hurt Trevor.”

Despite claims, she does know the neighbor's heart

“How are you so sure? Didn't you say you barely know Tony?”

“Maybe it's because he has no reason to get involved. Who am I even to him?”

Self deprecating as distraction

“You should ask him that.”

You sighed. “I don't think this conversation has much to do with my mental health.”

Constant deflection

“Except that it has everything to do,” Doctor Thorne countered. “Mental health is not only what happens in your mind when you're alone, but also what happens around the people you choose to surround yourself with. That includes Tony; so let me ask you this now, are you using your neighbor to deflect the anger and grief you're supposed to feel for Trevor, or are you involved with him in any other way?”

You froze.

She was being too straightforward for your liking, too sharp to treat you well.

Accusing you of things you never did, or rather… things you wouldn't admit with a gun to your head.

So you snapped.

“You know what, Doctor Thorne?” She raised her eyebrow as you spoke; harsh and too defensive for someone who isn't hiding anything. “I came here because I was told you were an expert in mental health and would help me prove to everyone that I'm not crazy. You are taking something and blowing it out of proportion only to point a finger at me, so I'm gonna say this and I'm gonna be clear: Tony is my neighbor, he was arriving home and saw me receiving the pizza, said hi, I asked if he had had dinner already, he said no, so I invited him in. Maybe I just didn't want to be alone and he was there and he listened” Just then, you realized you were screaming, so you cleared your throat, sighed, and continued in a lower volume—one more upsetting somehow. “But I didn't kill Trevor, neither did he, and I am not involved with him. I am not in love with my neighbor and it would be nice if you stopped pointing fingers at me, because… why would you even say that to me?! I had to see my boyfriend about to fuck another woman and then he was fucking murdered! It's two blows in less than a day and maybe, just maybe, I deserve to catch a break. Did I really do something so wrong that I can't even have a minute to process my thoughts?! Because— Trevor's family thinks I did it, my lawyers may too, and… I just need someone to believe me, not to come here and treat me like this! If you're gonna be inconsiderate and treat me like I told Dex to kill Trevor and now I'm protecting my secret boyfriend, then build that narrative in your mind, not in mine, and certainly not on paper. And have a nice day!”

And you left as suddenly as you entered.

Goodness gracious.

You didn't even notice the name that slipped from your lips.

But Doctor Rose Thorne certainly did.

Self image above all: Trevor's family, lawyers

Overexplanation

Victimization

Desperation

Accidental confession (?)

Who is Dex?

Passive aggressive

Rude

As the door closed shut, she made the call.

“Hello, Mr. Nelson. Yes, yes, she just left. Uh, in my professional opinion, she is… She might be guilty in a way, I would say indirectly. Do the names Tony or Dex ring a bell?”

Nelson Murdock & Page.

You gave one last quick glance at the sign beside the front door, Nelson Murdock & Page, and then got inside.

The first thing you saw was a counter—empty, almost unprofessionally so.

It made you question whether you made the right choice or not by resorting to them, but what other alternative did you really have anyway? Those guys, you remember, were known for working on difficult cases, for helping the good guys, and for not being too abusive with their fees. You could afford them that way.

You sure as hell need someone who believes you after the kind visit Detective Miranda and her partner paid you, where she informed you of your ex's death and then took you to the fifteenth precinct to interrogate you. It was distant at first—she and Detective Fairchild asked you about your relationship with Trevor, when did you last see him and where, if you knew whether or not he had ‘enemies’, all that in a safe territory where you acted neutral and stable until the questions and their tones shifted.

Were you and Mr. Stone fighting the last time you saw him? Where were you that evening after he left? Did you attempt to contact him anytime after your last encounter?

How were you supposed to act when they started treating you like the primary suspect?

Calmly? Calm would be the most logical possibility, that is how you were: calm, because you did nothing wrong…, or did you?

You aren't too sure at this point.

“Hi! How can I help you?”

The blonde woman took you from your trance back to the present, welcoming you into the firm.

You told her your name and mentioned you needed to talk to a lawyer urgently and, before you knew it, you, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page were sitting in what you assume is the briefing room.

“Uhm, firstly, I would like to tell you I am so sorry for your loss,” Matt began, a smoky and soothing voice that was telling enough.

You nodded. “It's okay. Thanks.”

Matt tilted his head slightly, a curious expression hidden behind maroon lenses. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“Yeah, uhm…” You cleared your throat. “Trevor Stone, my ex boyfriend, was found dead last night in an alley near his building. A knife to his heart, or so they said. I was the last one to see him alive, so I was called to testify. There is no footage, weapon, or any proof that I was there—nor that I wasn't.”

“Okay…” Matt nodded. “How long had you two known each other?”

“Huh, like a year? And dating for about seven months.”

“Okay,” He hummed softly. “Do you think the detectives have any valid reason to believe you were responsible for his death?”

“Yes, actually,” you replied. “He cheated on me. I went to a restaurant with some friends and saw him with someone else, so, naturally, I went to his place and waited for him there. Then, they arrived and I was there, I had to watch them make out…”

Matt nodded, and Karen cleared her throat.

“Could you describe the person he was with?”

“It was a girl, her name was Leigh or so she said. I would say she was barely legal, to be honest,” You shrugged. “Eighteen or nineteen; twenty if we're being generous… Actually, can I borrow your—? Yeah, I can draw her.”

“Uh, yeah, of course.”

You received Karen's legal pad. “She resembles me a lot, to be honest. Trevor seems to have a type. Seemed, sorry.”

Matt almost winced at your way of speaking about your deceased ex—contempt, indifferent, almost psychopathicly so. He had to continue, though, because you were a client, because there was something in you that urged him to get the truth, and because he wasn't sure how you truly felt about Trevor's death.

That, he wanted to know.

“What happened when Trevor and Leigh arrived, then?”

“We fought. It was quite the spectacle,” You scoffed lightly. “I called a cab for Leigh first, and it was all silent until she left. Trevor and I started fighting then. Apparently, they had been seeing each other for a little over a month. He seemed apologetic, and I will be honest with you: I was mad. Livid, even. I said things I shouldn't have, and if I had known that would be the last time we spoke, I probably would've been… I don't know, I would've asked him more questions.”

“Things you shouldn't have? Like what?”

“That he was an asshole, of course. A coward and a jerk and the world would be a better place without him. That I wished he were dead and all that, you know? The standard for when your boyfriend cheats on you and all that.”

Matt cleared his throat. “I haven't been cheated on, so I wouldn't know, to be honest.”

You chuckled softly. “I can see why.”

He was taken aback by your answer.

Didn't you just lose your boyfriend of almost a year last night? Why would you be flirting with him, and so naturally, too?

The standard, he believes, is being upset and sad and wishing he never loves again, not… wishing death upon him… or flirting with your lawyer not even a whole day after your boyfriend's death.

Wouldn't that mean that your wishes did come true and now you're finally free? Why would you feel that way if your relationship was normal and everything was fine until he cheated, as you so claimed.

The catholic in Matt didn't really like you and your way of thinking, and the man he is that had him desperately searching for signs in your body that could tell him what your words masked liked you even less.

“That's flattering, thank you.”

“I was just saying,” You raised your brows. “Anyway, what I said was what I felt,” you said, honestly, and then pressed your lips together. “Last night, I mean.”

“And what do you feel now?” Karen inquired.

“I don't know.”

“Let me rephrase that a bit: Do you feel guilty for saying those things to him?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected question—you believed this would be more factual, but Miss Page was interested in your feelings more than you had anticipated, as you thought the whole appealing to emotions thing was reserved for court. “Yes. I shouldn't have said that.”

In hindsight, you are well aware that shouldn't have. You don't really mean it, especially not now. Not now that he's actually dead.

That got you thinking and you finally dimensioned the situation at hand:

His mother, Lily. You know her. She must be devastated, and the thought of her finding out you wished death upon him made your stomach leak shameful acid. His little brother, Porter, who thought the world of him, was also in the picture. You don't want him finding out Trevor was a cheater or thinking you were capable of hurting them. And his father? Jeremiah showed you what a father truly is; he made you envy Trevor and Porter just a bit. He welcomed you into his home and accepted you as his own, and you just lost that because Trevor is gone and they might think it's your fault.

All that dawned on you and a mute sob managed to escape your throat.

Karen was focused on the way your hands moved, how the ink stuck to your skin and stained the paper, ruining the drawing because of the sweat leaving your palms: making a mess on a face she could recognize instantly even if plastered on the ultimate level of a Where's Waldo? book.

So she didn't notice your sudden glitch, but Matt sure did.

His senses caught the sour of your sweat, the sound of the pen moving frantically like a maniacal display of sheer panic, the quiet sadness in the salt a thousand seeing eyes would miss, but not him.

Matt noticed, and then whether you killed Trevor Stone or not became the greatest enigma of the week.

He pressed his lips together, trying to find a breach in your words to find out “Why?”

“Because it makes it look like I might hurt him.”

And so you said it, further baffling Matt.

Were you scared of people suspecting you because you did it or because you would never want them to know that you could do something like that?

“And did you?”

Did you?

“Is that… Leigh?” Karen questioned before you could speak, a distraught tension in her posture Matt didn't fail to notice and that almost made him forgive her for snatching you from the answers he so much needed.

So you looked down at the sketch in front of you, noticing the ink staining the very tip of your fingers and nails before the grand reveal of your sketch.

Is that Leigh?

No, that's…

Your breath hitched at the sight.

“Is that not Leigh?” Matt asked Karen.

“No, that's… some—it's…” she stammered in response.

“Uhm, that's… I apologize, I got distracted and drew someone else. Could I use another sheet? I promise it'll be Leigh this time.”

Karen nodded, but first… “Can I see it? Your drawing.”

“Sure,” You nodded and handed her the sketch. “Sorry again.”

“It's… beautiful,” the blonde said, though she didn't truly mean it—not that your drawing wasn't well done, just that… beauty is the last thing the man in the sketch inspired in her. “Who is this?”

“That's just the guy next door.”

Benjamin Poindexter, unfortunately, was too much or a menace to be simply called the guy next door.

“Are you two close?”

You looked up from the arrow pointing at Leigh's eyes and the name of the exact shade of her eyes on the other end. “Is that relevant to the case?”

“It depends.” Matt said without knowing who was in the drawing, only having certain clues by Karen's worry—which upset him almost as much.

“What happened, Karen? She was gonna tell us the truth.”

She gulped. “The man she was drawing, he… God, I don't even know how to say this—”

“Who was in the drawing, Karen?”

“Hey, guys,” Foggy appeared with a smile. “Why the face, Kare?”

“Our client was supposed to draw someone we asked her to describe, but she apparently drew someone else entirely,” Matt replied. “Karen is…”

Karen cleared her throat and looked up. “It was Poindexter.”

Foggy huffed. “Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was,” she added. “He's her neighbor, or so she said. She drew him unconsciously.”

Matt rubbed his temples. “So? Do you think he did it?”

“Well, we have to find out more about the case to be sure, but I wouldn't rule that out,” Karen sighed. “I'll call Brett, ask him about the case.”

“Do you guys think she might be guilty?”

“I'm not sure she did it, but I'm almost certain she would.”

“Why?”

“I couldn't read her very well, but she never lied,” he told Foggy. “She was unfazed when talking about Trevor, so I believed she just didn't care, like he and all those months together didn't mean anything to her, but then I asked if she felt guilty. I thought she was lying at first, but then she was sweaty, and she started drawing more frantically, and she almost sobbed, and then she said she was worried people thought she'd do something. It's others that worry her, not Trevor or herself, per se. She wasn't lying, she was anxious and maybe in denial until she wasn't.”

Foggy sighed. “So what now?”

“I don't know,” Matt said truthfully. “I go back and try to find the truth. Wanna come with me while Karen is busy?”

“Sure,” his partner replied. “Would you consider asking for a psychological evaluation?”

He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke. “I'm pretty sure we'll need it eventually; maybe even more for us than for the case.”

“I think Kirsten knows someone.”

“I'll call her.”

“Hi again,” Matt curved his lips softly, motioning at Foggy beside him. “This is my associate, Foggy Nelson, and he will join us on your case.”

You nodded. “Hi, Mr. Nelson, it's a pleasure to meet you,” You offered your hand and then said your name. “Thanks for being here, I just… Thanks for believing me. No one else does.”

The heartbeat was steady, not showing any signs of deceit or anything that could indicate it wasn't a pleasure to meet Foggy, or that you weren't thankful, or that someone does believe in you. However, after your first encounter, none of this is enough for Matt.

“Don't worry about it. It's our job,” Foggy smiled, soothing. “I'm sorry for your loss, and… we're gonna do everything in our power to get the best possible outcome from this situation.”

“Wait, does that mean I could go to jail?” you questioned, a sincere worry that got Matt's attention, especially considering that you seemed to be more at ease and honest with Foggy there.

“Unfortunately, unless you can provide a reliable alibi, you're gonna stay a suspect,” Matt explained. “And if they have evidence that you did it and we can't prove otherwise, jail is a possibility.”

You frowned, heartbeat increasing in fear. “What's the… worst case scenario?”

“Twenty-five years to life, but if the DA decides to make an example of you, you might never walk out of a prison gate again.”

Foggy sighed. “That's right, but let's not focus on that, okay? What if you help us navigate that night? What happened after your fight with Trevor?”

“I left and he followed me,” you replied, shifting in your seat. “But he lost me halfway through and then I made it home and tried to… relax. I took a bath and then got outside when I remembered I hadn't had dinner—I left the restaurant as soon as I saw Trevor with Leigh, before even seeing the menu. So at home I ordered pizza, one big enough to reheat it for lunch the next day. Today. When the delivery guy was about to leave, my neighbor was arriving. We chatted for a bit and I invited him over to share the pizza since he hadn't had dinner either,” You shrugged. “We talked for some time and then he left.”

Matt frowned. “Is the neighbor the man you were drawing earlier?”

You hummed in affirmation. “Yeah.”

“Do you think he'd be willing to testify under oath that you were together at the time of Trevor's death?”

“I can't see why not,” you replied, not failing to realize how their faces had shifted to discomfort at the thought of Dex, hiding successfully the fact that you knew exactly why it was a bad idea for him to testify. “Are you guys alright? I'll talk to him today and ask him. I guess I can bring him here tomorrow?”

Matt and Foggy faced each other.

You were utterly calm, as if the man you were planning on bringing to their office hadn't tried to kill them a few times, as if you had no idea who Dex was.

But, oh, no one in this world knows who Benjamin Poindexter is better than you do.

Still, there is a question not even you could truly answer:

Would Dex agree to see them or would he make something up to avoid getting involved? If it comes to you, he probably would, but that you don't know for sure. Not under this pressure.

“Are you and your neighbor friendly?”

At that, your heartbeat raised significantly and your skin glowed warmer, but you lied.

“Barely.”

Matt wasn't sure if your body's response was because you had feelings for Dex or if you were lying about your true bond.

Or both.

Maybe the realization of the consequences of Trevor's death was catching onto you and that's why you are displaying the response they and the detectives initially expected from you—the one anybody would expect from someone whose partner of almost a year had died the day before.

The question now was whether you felt truly affected by the situation or your mind was trained to manifest what was expected in your body.

Did you have a conscience, the kind that suffers at the acknowledgement of a sin, or didn't you? Would your true punishment come from your guilt or the imprisonment itself?

“Give us a call when you talk to him,” Foggy gave you a business card with the firm's contact information. “Then we'll figure out the details.”

You nodded, a kind curve on your lips Matt and Karen never earned—Matt believed you were mirroring Foggy instead. “Okay, I will.”

“And…,” Matt cleared his throat. “I hope this doesn't offend you, that is not our intention at all, but… would you be willing to take a psychological evaluation? It could be requested later, and maybe it's best if we're ready for that before they bring their own doctor to intimidate you. A… drill, if you will.”

You thought about it.

It did offend you—quietly, but it did. Still, what other choice did you even have? If they need that evaluation to trust that you aren't unstable enough to commit a crime of passion, then so be it.

You would do whatever it takes to get out of this mess.

“Why would I be asked for one?”

“Because we're talking about an alleged crime of passion,” Foggy began. “They will look for answers or patterns that could give away the fact that you're responsible for the murder, or at the very least that you show signs of being capable of doing so. Whatever they can cling to to find someone to blame.”

“I will,” You nodded. “Thank you.”

Foggy smiled softly. “Our pleasure.”

And once you left, both of them let out a heavy, sharp exhale.

You sighed, gripping the bouquet of white carnations and baby's breaths in your hand more with each step you took closer to Trevor's family's home.

There were people outside, some of them you recognized as members of his extended family and friends you once met.

And then there was Porter, Trevor's eleven year-old brother. Despite the age gap, they were thick as thieves, and Porter adored his brother and looked up to him like a whole community would for an icon; Trevor saw Porter as the best part of himself, a bond you admired deeply and craved for, even developing a sibling bond with the child as if he were your own brother. You loved him, too, and the thought of him hurting broke your heart in a million little pieces.

The commotion over his brother's death seemed to be enough to have him sway from a football on a Thursday after 4 PM.

And you locked eyes with Porter and greeted him from afar, expecting—Actually, no, you didn't know what you were expecting from him, but it certainly wasn't for him to run to your car across the street like his life depended on it and hold onto you like a sloth to a tree.

“You can't be here,” he said instead of greeting or grieving, face where you couldn't see his teary eyes. “They think you did it.”

“Who? Your parents?” you asked, a sad frown in your brows.

Porter nodded. “Everyone is saying it and my parents told Aunt Callie not to let you in, I'm sorry, I— but I know you didn't do it.”

“Thank you. I think even my lawyers believe that I did it,” You sighed. “It means a lot that you trust me.”

“I know you.”

“Sure you do,” You smiled and gave him the bouquet. “They're your mom's favorites. Tell her you just found them.”

“No, she'll know it's you,” Porter widened his eyes. “And she'll be pissed!”

“She'll also know, deep in her heart, that I didn't hurt her son, Porter. Just like you do.”

That you would never hurt him, not like this.

“I'll miss being your friend.”

You smiled, nostalgic. “I'll miss you, too, honey.”

It's safe to say you cried like a baby as soon as you entered your apartment.

When the night fell, you knocked on his door as if the wood could burn.

And he opened it because he knew it was you.

Dex tends to follow you from the moment you leave your apartment to the second you return, though this time he left when you entered the law firm. He had to do something to pay the bills after all. Plus, he didn't want Murdock sensing him near you in any way.

So, right after doing his thing, he was now back home, he had already finished cleaning the blood—probably not his—off himself, tidying himself and his home for you, hoping to receive you sooner or later—thankfully it was soon enough.

Seeing your face always made him make it through the day, and it showed.

“Hi,” he greeted you, eyes bright but an awkward smile, a duality you have grown accustomed to by now.

“Hi,” you said once you saw him, took him in, white tank top and gray sweatpants looking criminally good on him. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Dex nodded, taking a step back for you to enter his apartment and then closed the door. “What brings you here?”

You cleared your throat. “You and I were together last night.”

“We were, yes.”

“Can you attest to it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “To…?”

“Trevor is dead, they think I did it, I need an alibi. You.”

“But we weren't together when he died.” Dex tilted his head slightly, brows furrowing.

“We wer— what?”

“We weren't together,” He shrugged, matter-of-factly. “You were in your place already.”

You widened your eyes. “And where were you?”

“Protecting you.”

“Protecting me? From Trevor?”

Dex nodded. “He was following you, you don't know what he could've done to you if he had reached you or entered your home.”

You chuckled bitterly. “Dex, what would he even do to me?”

“Nothing as long as I'm here.”

“Dex, you son of a bitch, did you kill my ex-boyfriend?” you questioned, upset with him for the first time since you ever met him; because what the hell do you mean that you're a murder suspect thanks to him?

Dex took a step backwards, an unreadable look in his eyes that lied somewhere between regret and fear of your rejection and of upsetting you in any way. “I… did.”

I did.

Dex killed Trevor.

The true question here is how do you feel about it? You, perhaps, wandered in a vague spot between a rock and a hard place; did you feel horrified because Dex killed your boyfriend and it was your fault? Or is it that you feel a horrifying surge of power at the fact that a man like him, unbothered by morals and the mundane of other people, would kill someone for you? That he found you worthy of his attention just like you've had with him since you first saw him?

It made your heart beat faster, your blood run more violently, bringing warmth to your body in a mix of shame, and guilt, and… power, and excitement…

“Because you thought he'd harm me?”

“Because you wanted him dead. You said it.”

You blinked once.

Twice.

What?

“Dex, what the actual fuck are you talking about?!”

He winced at your tone, but tried not to show his reaction too much.

So he sighed, confusing you even further. “I heard you: you said you wanted him dead, I did just that.”

“How would you even know that?! You've been… following me?” you questioned, suddenly catching onto it: you bump into each other every once in a while here and there, but you? You see his face everywhere, but when you blink, then he's gone.

You've always thought you were too infatuated with him that you could see him in the dark when you fall asleep, so much so that you can't escape him even in your dreams, but now you know better; you know that he was there all those times, and it feels—

He was quick to defend himself. “It's not what you think, I—”

But you, unaware of your true feelings, were quicker. “Why?”

“It's not like… that. I'm just trying to protect you.”

“I don't particularly need protection,” you said. “Trevor was as harmless as an ant, Dex. Yes, he betrayed me, but… he wouldn't hurt me, not like that.”

Not like that, your most favorite expression lately. His, too.

“How are you so sure?”

You frowned. “Because he loved me…?”

“And did you love him?”

Let there be silence.

His eyes scrutinized you in an anxious stare because he was afraid he had crossed a line by asking that, but more than that, he was scared of you telling him you actually loved Trevor and leaving him.

You expressed your feelings for Dex instead, though in an implicit way that meant more than enough for him.

“You cannot tell anybody you did it,” You shook your head. “I won't either. Someone else will be blamed or maybe they won't have any proof, whatever. There's no way of linking you to the crime because we were here, so…”

Is he hearing well? Did you just say you would rather see an innocent person take the blame if it means he wouldn't?

Dex can't even imagine the lengths you would go for him… He didn't know you would blame it on Captain America if it ever came to it.

Either way, he had to make sure you understood him and the magnitude of his attachment. “I don't care if I have to go to jail for killing him,” he countered, further baffling you. “I did what you wanted and now you're okay. If they're trying to condemn you for it, I'll take the blame.”

I did what you wanted.

What you wanted.

Now you're okay.

I'll take the blame.

I don't care if I have to go to jail.

“Or was I not good for you? Did I go too far?”

All the air escaped your lungs at his questions.

Did I go too far?

Was I not good for you?

Was he scared you wouldn't want him anymore now? Goodness, he had no idea.

You, hesitantly, reached for his hand, and he let you.

“You were good for me, you always are,” you assured him, partially unsure yourself. “But we can't… talk until this ends. They're gonna blame us for his death and I can't go to jail and let them think I stabbed Trevor.”

It confused you, the fact that you and Dex were both on the same page at the same time after all these years, but couldn't do anything.

“You are special to me,” he muttered, the cold of his hand matching the cold of the room. “I won't let anybody hurt you.”

You're special to me.

Just then, an inexplicable amount of warmth burst from your heart to the rest of your body.

I won't let anybody hurt you.

“I won't let anybody hurt you either, Dex,” you vowed. “You're always good to me, you must know.”

Is this how it feels when someone cares about you?, Dex asked himself, holding your hand more tightly. Does she truly care about me, or am I one of those things she pulls now and pushes later like I've seen her do?

“They will not say anything,” Anthony assured you, considerably far from you taking into account how… close you were to one another shortly before. “Please, everything will be just fine.”

“For you!” you exclaimed, putting your sleeping garments on. “I am absolutely mortified, Anthony! How am I even going to look them in the eyes after this?”

He sighed and nodded. “I understand. I shall speak to them about this.”

“You must.”

“I must.”

You both sighed, and he approached you again.

“Do you regret this?” he asked, and you stayed silent for a second. “If you do, tell me at once.”

“No,” you answered. “But—”

“That is enough for me, you… you must know.”

“What does that even mean for me?” you questioned,

“Tell me to run. Tell me what to do.”

“I cannot ask that of you,” You shook your head. “You have a family to take care of. A mother and seven siblings who would be devastated by your absence, not to mention possibly ruined by your decision of marrying a governess who works for you.”

“I am the eldest of eight children—four sons, at that. I am fairly certain that at least two of them are qualified to replace me.”

“And what? Drive your family to ruin? You have three unmarried sisters, Anthony! Being a Bridgerton means something, and I don't intend on taking that away from you.”

“Today, everybody met the real you—this changes things!”

“No, Anthony, that was not the real me! I am the governess, nothing more. I wish this were easier, I wish there was a way for us to be together, but there isn't… You have responsibilities, a name, a family, things I cannot—”

“And I am sick of all of it! I love you. None of that matters to me, not anymore, not when it comes to you.”

“I love you, too.” You sighed and took a step forward. “But that is the only thing uniting us?”

“No.” Anthony shook his head. “You are the only person on this Earth who truly understands me. No one knows how it feels like to be me—carrying the reputation of my family all by myself, being a father when I only ever needed to be a brother, taking care of a family that takes me for granted, being reduced to duty after duty, and when there is finally something I want—someone I love… I cannot have that. All of that, you understand. One of the most influential families of Manchester has fallen from grace and it is you who has had to deal with the consequences while your mother and sisters continue living the life they have always lived at your expense. You have sacrificed your future, dreams, and aspirations, all so your sisters can live that life for themselves. What does your mother do? What does she say? Does she ever thank you? Have you read an ‘I love you’, regardless of its sincerity, in the letters she sends? How often do you ask yourself if all that you have done for them is worth it? Because I ask myself that most nights, Y/N, and I know you do as well. Do not try to convince yourself that this is not real when you are the only thing in my life that makes me go to sleep every night without hoping this is all a bad dream and I am to wake up and break the fast with my father just like I did the last day I felt like I was my own person.”

You let out a shaky breath. “What are we supposed to do other than make these feelings pass, then?”

He cleared his throat. “If I try to let them pass—let you pass, we would go back to our lives and spend every passing day hoping for our agony to end, but it never will. We will look each other in the eye and tell ourselves it was for the best, but every night I will fall asleep and pray to dream of you. Is that what you want for ourselves?”

“Of course it is not!” You exclaimed, only then realizing you were crying. “I want nothing but a life where you and I can love each other freely, because you are in me, Anthony. I can feel you here…” You put your hand on your chest right where your heart beats. “When you look at me. When you look at me like you love me, too… And— and I feel you here…” Then, your hand went to your throat. “When you talk to me and swear to me just that. And then I feel you here.” Your hand went to your belly. “When I remember you are not mine and I only want to puke all my love out. And you haunt me every night in my slumber, every day from sunrise to sunset and from dusk to dawn. This is the love I was once told about, the one I yearned for my entire life, and now it is my damnation, Anthony… I cannot sleep, I cannot breathe, I cannot exist in peace knowing you are out there about to marry someone who only loves the fantasy of you, not you you. I wish I could ask you not to marry her. I wish I could admit that this love is bigger than us and bigger than everything I have ever known, but I can't. We cannot afford ruin and I cannot be at fault for yet another one. Much less yours and your family's after everything you have done for me.”

“Then what is it that you propose we do?” he questioned you. “Drown in misery?”

You looked away until you felt his hands land on your waist.

“I will figure this out,” he vowed. “I swear to you, even if it's the last thing I ever do…, I will figure this out.”

“How can you promise such a thing?”

“Because I love you… I have never loved anyone before and I promised myself I never would, but then I met you and you crumbled all my defenses and every single thing I thought I ever knew.” Anthony pressed his forehead to yours. “And loving you, it might be a punishment for all my faults and for my belief that I am entitled to appreciation, but I will take it—take you willingly each and every day. Y/N, I… need you to be.”

You shook your head. “We must stop saying these things,” you spoke. “I do not think we will survive much more of this.”

“So be it.”

And so Anthony left your room while fixing his suit to return to the Valentine's Ball as if he hadn't just turned your world upside down.

“What were you thinking?!” Benedict questioned, closing the door of his older brother's study. “Actually, I do not think you were thinking at all!”

Anthony groaned. “Do not tell me that you, of all people, are here to admonish me, Benedict, for chastise is the last thing I need right now.” He covered his face with his hands, tired. “I just need my brother.”

Benedict stood still, all outrage leaving his body in a sympathetic sigh. “Well, I was.”

“Come. Take a seat.” The eldest motioned to the couch in his study so his brother joined him. “I know how this might look.”

“Terrible, yes, Anthony! She is our sister's governess, she is my friend,” he noted. “How long has this been going on?”

How long has this been going on?

Anthony can say he loved you from that January morning when you arrived in a dress too nice for a governess and a smile too genuine for someone who had just lost it all.

You introduced yourself, impeccable manners, still struggling with lowering yourself to a commoner's lifestyle—Anthony prides himself knowing he tried his best so you didn't have to go through such a class shock; or at least that it was as smooth as possible.

“Since I first saw her.”

Benedict widened his eyes. “Have you had an affair for two years and you kept it from everyone? From me?!”

“No. No!” He cleared his throat. “And it is not an affair. I love her.”

“You love her?”

“I do,” Anthony confirmed. “And she does as well. And I do not know what to do because I do not want to lose her, but we cannot be together, and… I am—”

“Exhausted from society's demands?” Benedict finished for him, a soft smirk on his lips. His brother nodded, exhausted indeed. “Welcome to the land of the disillusioned, Brother. I have been holding a seat for you for quite some time, I must admit.”

The Viscount huffed out a chuckle. “You are not helping much.”

“How do you expect I help you? I have never loved another, I can only tell you what I have read in poetry, I— I have only experienced the superficial, the physical, not the love you swear upon.”

“I believed you knew a thing or two about love, in all honesty; aren't you the artistic one? Do you not read… or something of the sorts?”

Benedict snorted. “I have read poetry, yes, but that does not make me an expert in love. I only know of what I have heard from others’ mouths and read from others’ ink. I cannot say I will help you make an informed decision on what to do about your love for Miss Y/L/N.”

“What does poetry suggest about love, Brother? What do you know of it, then?”

“What is it truly to admire a woman, Anthony?”

He frowned. “You want me to answer that question?”

“Partly, yes.” Benedict nodded. “Do you even know how to? Are you certain that is what you feel?”

“You think I don't love her?”

“I think you must be certain before you do something you will later regret,” he countered. “She is a friend, I do not want her ruined by your hand. With all due respect, of course.”

Anthony glared at his brother and exhaled heavily. “I am not a man of poetry, I do not see love as something ornamental like you do.”

“It is not ornamental to me either, Brother, I am rather unconscious of it,” he countered. “Look, she is not the opera singer, she is a lady despite her new rank… She has no way of knowing any better, and I believe it is not right for you to take advantage of that.”

“I know who she is and who she is not and I assure you I do not intend on taking advantage of her in any way.”

“Eloise and I, we witnessed something else entirely last night,” Benedict reminded him. “Noble or not, she is a woman and you have compromised her, Anthony. You must be grateful it was us and not our mother, or the help, or God forbid, someone Lady Whistledown could have access to.”

“Since when are you the one talking sense into me in such a way? I am telling you because I need the brother who understands me and—”

“I am the brother who understands you, and that is why I must know whether or not what you feel for her is love, simply being able to relate to each other, or if she is a whim.”

Anthony sighed. “How can I tell you? How do you even see loving a woman as?”

There was silence, then; one that neither had the guts to break.

Or maybe they didn't know how.

Anthony wanted to say something, to put it into words so his brother could understand. Or acknowledge it, at the very least, but he simply could not.

Because when he thought of love, he didn't hear words whispered to his ears, no.

He saw your face.

“Is it to look at her and feel inspiration?” Benedict began. “To delight in her beauty, so much so that all your defenses crumble… That you would willingly take on any pain, any burden for her. To honor her being with your deeds and words… Is that how you feel about her?”

He was about to nod, to confirm, to add something to it, but the sound of the door opening and revealing their mother broke his train of thoughts.

“Anthony, you must see this.”

The mere sight of the Whistledown Society Papers made his heart break before he could even read anything.

Dearest gentle reader,

​It seems the Valentine's Ball has left more than just a trail of wilted roses and broken hearts. It has left a mystery solved—and a new, more troubling one, in its wake. All of Mayfair was captivated by the presence of a new debutante, Manchester's own Diamond of the Season, who danced with the grace of a woman born to die in the poise of nobility. Suitors have been clamoring at this author's door to know where one might call upon the enchanting Miss Y/L/N.

But, dear readers, it has been said that the most dangerous secrets are not those kept in locked chests, but those hidden in plain sight. For quite some time, Mayfair has looked upon the house of Bridgerton as the pinnacle of respectability despite certain… indiscretions. Yet, it seems the Viscount has been keeping a secret that would make even this author gasp.

Miss Y/N Y/L/N, a lady of undeniable grace and peerless education, is not a visiting guest at all. She is, in fact, a Bridgerton regular… Miss Hyacinth and Mr. Gregory Bridgerton's governess.

Thus, while the tragic fall of the House of Y/L/N in Manchester is well known, the mystery lies in why our distinguished Viscount has kept a lady as such in the shadows of his schoolroom.

​Is it a case of extraordinary charity, or a more... selfish infatuation? Lord Bridgerton has been seen as of late prioritizing the “needs of the household” over calls to his intended, Miss Edwina Sharma. One must ask: To treat a Lady as a servant —or perhaps, to treat a servant as a Lady— is a moral dilemma that even the honorable Lord Anthony Bridgerton might struggle to explain, or why else would he have given Miss Y/L/N his very first dance of the night?

​Does the Viscount care so much for her image that he kept her hidden to protect her, or was he merely ensuring that his most precious treasure remained for his eyes only?

Anthony read each and every word, every single one cutting deeper than the last.

You couldn't read that, it would devastate you.

“My Lord,” John, the footman, interrupted his thoughts. “Lady Danbury, Lady Mary, Miss Sharma, and Miss Edwina Sharma are here. They want to speak with you.”

He nodded, tired, and looked at Lady Bridgerton.

“Brother, find Y/N and keep her occupied so she doesn't read Whistledown,” Anthony told Benedict to then turn to his mother. “And Mother, make sure every copy of the paper inside this house is gone. And talk to Mrs. Wilson. I want every maid, every footman, every cook, everyone questioned. If someone in this house spoke, I want them out of here by six.”

“Anthony—”

“Now,” he snapped and left the study without a care in the world.

On the other side of the house, in the schoolroom, you were giving Gregory and Hyacinth Greek lessons.

To no one's surprise, the younger Bridgertons had grown annoyed after just an hour, forcing you to listen to their —Gregory's, to be more precise— complaints about how everyone should speak the same language.

“Well, no.” Hyacinth shook her head. “I personally find it fascinating to speak several languages. Do you, Miss Y/L/N?”

“I do, too.” You squinted amusedly at both children. “Above being something to boast about, knowing about languages makes us bond with people who are unlike us by understanding and embracing their culture, history, and customs. We get to communicate with others and be receptive and sympathetic towards them. It shows we respect them, appreciate our differences, and value connection.”

Gregory frowned. “If you put it like that, I assume it is important.”

“And how were languages invented, Miss Y/L/N?”

“You know, there is a story about the Tower of Babel… A long time ago, everyone spoke the same language. We could understand each other, thus bonding and connecting was easier, yet still, it cut both ways,” you began, a soft smile dedicated to the curious, interested children. “Humans would share not only a language, but also values—both positive and negative ones, like it is the case of greed. They grew greedy and began building a tall tower that could help them reach the heavens… Whatever that could make them a superior community. God, upon seeing this, realized men would grow capable of greater, but worse things, as well as become wary and outraged by their arrogance and defiance; so he decided to punish humanity by breaking this bond and have each of them speak a different language so they could not communicate and share their beliefs and ambitions any longer.”

“So you mean we should not learn any more languages?”

You chuckled at Gregory. “I mean we should respect the rules upon us, even if we do not agree with them. We do not have a choice all that oft—”

“I think we should challenge what keeps us from being happy.” Hyacinth shrugged. “Like the rules of society that get in the way of true love.”

“You believe that?” Your expression softened, and she nodded. “You find love more important than duty?”

“I think we should be allowed to love whoever we want, or do you not?”

Gregory huffed out a laugh. “And I think you are too young to worry about those matters.”

“Mr. Gregory, I fear we all wish to be loved like in the fairytales,” you commented. “Or do you wish to marry someone just because you are expected to, no matter her personality?”

“I fear not,” he admitted with a smile.

“Are you in love, Miss Y/L/N?”

You pressed your lips together, forced to change the topic as abruptly as you could. “Or maybe there are many languages because the world is too big for only one community to exist. There are many communities with different necessities and traditions, from different backgrounds and places, and we all have evolved differently—that must be why there are too many languages to count.”

The girl squinted. “You are trying to deceive us!”

“Good day!” a loud greeting from Benedict interrupted—or, more accurately, saved you from the conversation. “Is this not a beautiful day to study nonstop?”

“I am starving,” Gregory mentioned. “Miss Y/L/N, can we go to the drawing room for biscuits?”

“No!” The older Bridgerton shook his head. “I think we should stay here and learn… Greek for a very... long time.”

“Until it is no longer spoken like Latin?”

You rolled your eyes. “You do know what a dead language is?”

“I do indeed.” Gregory grinned. “It is one no longer spoken. Mr. Greenworth taught me.”

“It is spoken, just not natively,” you explained. “And it has evolved into other languages. Romance languages.”

“And you speak all of them?” He raised an eyebrow.

You smirked. “Only four out of five, plus Latin itself and Greek, as I am expected to and you should as well.”

“So that means Benedict does as well.”

“Well, of course I—”

“Have you heard your brother's French?” You raised an eyebrow. “With all due respect, it is pretty deficient, not to mention his Latin.”

Benedict gasped, offended. “What?! That is not true, my French and Latin are impeccable!”

“Prove it!” Hyacinth raised an eyebrow. “Say something in French.”

“Nous pouvons parler en Français si vous préférez,” he replied in the most English accent in existence. “See?”

“That is horrendous,” you muttered, hiding a smirk.

“Hey!” Benedict complained.

You shook your head. “I sure hope neither of you takes that as an example.”

“If Benedict does not speak French, I do not see why I must,” Gregory commented. “He is doing pretty well with English only.”

You squinted. “Is he, though?”

“Had I known today's lesson was Fundamentals of Offending Benedict, I would have skipped it!” He rolled his eyes playfully.

“I have grown rather fond of this class,” Hyacinth said with a grin. “You may continue, Miss Y/L/N.”

“Actually, now that Mr. Bridgerton is here, I believe we can finally practice the waltz: I play the pianoforte, and he will show you two how to dance.”

Gregory groaned, Benedict nodded resigned, and Hyacinth grinned.

You rushed to the pianoforte and urged them to take their corresponding positions to then start gliding your hands along the keys of the piano.

The melody began, a captivating start for a composition destined to be danced plainly, the waltz your old governess first taught you to dance—one you knew better than your own body only you and Anthony had seen in totality.

It was a sweet and genuine moment.

Benedict showed Hyacinth, who quickly caught the pace, and then used her support to show Gregory, who tended to take longer to learn a dance.

Everything was music and laughter until the door opened and Eloise's urgent steps died when she sat beside you and ended your song.

Everyone in the Bridgerton household had something for opening doors without knocking and interrupting, or so it seems.

“Miss Y/L/N, you need to see this!”

Once the Whistledown issue was in your hands, your name was impossible not to be the first thing to see.

It was too late for Benedict to stop her, as even his youngest siblings joined you and Eloise in reading the papers exposing you entirely to the Ton.

Every word read was a piece of a bust statue crumbling and coming alive as it hit the floor; not hurting while falling, just living in pieces you cannot save and return to one ever again.

And not only for yourself, but for Anthony as well.

​Is it a case of extraordinary charity, or a more... selfish infatuation?

Was he merely ensuring that his most precious treasure remained for his eyes only?

The exposure of your secret affected the Bridgertons more than you—either way, you know you can find a job somewhere else and provide for your family, fix the issues that affect you; but them? The family that has received you with open arms is facing a crisis like no other—another, all because of you.

You will never be able to forgive yourself for causing damage to them.

You must leave as soon as the night falls, before Anthony has the chance to change your mind.

Still, the only thing you thought of doing was acting as if nothing had happened.

“Should you like for me to start the waltz over again? Remember, there are still seventeen minutes left of our day.”

Once you got to dismiss Gregory and Hyacinth and managed to convince Benedict and Eloise to leave you alone—along with begging them not to let Anthony ‘disturb’ you with the excuse of needing to think things through by yourself—, you went to your room quickly, ignoring everyone that tried to approach you until you finally locked the wooden door and sat on the floor.

You hugged your legs and hid your head in the void between your breasts and your knees, wetting your skirts with salty devastation.

And you asked yourself, what did I do to deserve this?

You believe you have done everything right. Perhaps that was it: you cannot see where you went wrong.

Is it because you love him?

As for that, you wondered how life could be so unfair as to condemn something as natural as love—treat it as a Capital Sin when everything happening felt so… meant to be.

Like written on the stars or in the book of life.

Is it because it might break Miss Edwina's heart?

Yet still, has anybody cared about your heart?

Only Anthony.

The day he first saw you, you knew it—that you had no choice but to love him, and while it is breaking you, you would still go through it all for him over and over again.

With your father gone, your mother and sisters away, and going through this chaos, you know you would relive this as many times as it takes to feel his love.

That is who you are, and perhaps that is what has cursed you with such an unkind fate.

And then it dawned on you: How different from Edwina Sharma are you really?

Her mother, Lady Mary, was cast aside by her parents for loving a commoner. Her father, the only one who could make her the heir of any title, lacked it. She is in London, sponsored by Lady Danbury, who had provided for them all this time. You both had impeccable education, you both were suited to find a good husband, yet she was the only one with the opportunity to.

There is nothing you could do about it except to stop fighting the inevitable: the doom of yours and Anthony's love. Because, despite your feelings, you couldn't be together, so it was better to kill the naive hope you had and leave.

If you left, the Bridgertons could say they fired you and restore their dignity. Anthony could go back to courting Miss Edwina as he intended to from the start.

You wouldn't be a burden for them, you wouldn't inconvenience Anthony with those feelings anymore.

And you might spend a little too much time trying to understand why the things you want keep running away from you, but at least the only family you have had in years will be fine.

Is that not the least you can do?

So you stood up, gathered your things, and flinched at the violent knocks on your door.

“Let me in.” he demanded, breathless, desperate.

It was him, undeniably so.

“I know you are in there,” Anthony spoke, the knocking falling softer, heavier. “And I know what you are doing.”

You sighed, knowing that if he caught you before you finished packing, you would lose all your will and do as he asked.

You would stay, face the world, all for Anthony Bridgerton.

“Do not leave me.”

Your heart ached in a million pieces at that, which was enough for your feet to take you to the threshold.

“This cannot be,” you muttered against the door. “I can't do this to you and your family. It is best that I leave.”

“Best for whom?” he questioned from the other side of the door. “For the Ton? Or for our image? Or for something else I could not care less about?”

“For your family.”

“Let me in.”

“Anthony…”

“Let me in or so help me God I will break this door with my bare hands…” Anthony swore, eerily calm, and so you opened the door.

He walked inside and closed it behind him to then hold your hands in his. “We can endure it,” he assured you. “And no one will say the opposite, but I will leave everything behind and run away with you if that is what it takes.”

“It would be selfish of us—”

“To choose ourselves?”

You bit your lip and averted your gaze, looking anywhere but at him.

“I have lived the better part of my life for my family, not only out of duty but out of affection as well. I have lost the privilege of making mistakes, of living for myself. I do not intend on doing it any longer, not at the expense of us—and I know none of them would resent me for it… I never knew what I wanted, I was raised to be the Viscount and the Viscount only. Benedict is allowed to be an artist, Colin can travel, Eloise can… stay unmarried if she so desires. They all live comfortably while I have not been allowed a second to know who I am outside it all, except for every second I spend by your side. You have made me feel as though there are more things to aspire to, things for ourselves we can learn together, Y/N… So choose this. Choose us. Choose me. Marry me.”

You gasped. “I beg your pardon?”

Oh, dear…

Being able to make that decision was not easy, but once he was there, asking you to marry him was incredibly simple.

Why make it harder than it has already been?

Dealing with the Sharmas wasn't easy, much less withdrawing his addresses, disguising it as something he was doing for their sake when in reality, he was doing it all for you.

And for him.

The questions came first.

“Tell me, my Lord, is Lady Whistledown telling the truth? Have you been courting my sister while looking at another?”

He could not deny a thing, so he did not. “I apologize… for the troubles this recent scandal has brought to you. What happened with Miss Y/L/N at the ball was not something done out of mockery for anybody in attendance, much less for any of you, but a show of gratitude for her orchestrated by my mother and sisters and, of course, me. I take full accountability, and as so I believe it would be best to… withdraw my addresses.”

Kate rolled her eyes, annoyed, but said nothing as her sister spoke first.

“What?” Edwina frowned. “My Lord, we— I do not care about that!”

“But I do n—”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Kate interrupted Anthony before he could defend himself of whatever he was trying to do. “You have been set on courting my sister the past month despite my every objection, may I add, and now after a single hardship, you decide not to pay your addresses anymore? Why does this scandal that, mind you, my sister says she does not care about even though we all know she does, suddenly makes you care about what is acceptable or not? Are you not the one who only ever worries about his future wife being suited for having heirs, fairly tolerable, and well educated? Is my sister not that? Or is that not enough for you anymore? Not like you should be entitled to the luxury of pretense considering you cannot offer love and affection to her or anything of the sorts, which all ladies care about but pretend they do not!”

“My family has thrived through several scandals in the past couple years, but I fear that luck has run out. After Eloise's just past week and this one today that even had Miss Edwina name-dropped, I deem it unfair to drag her with us. I understand what happened with Lady Mary…, and I do not want for the story to be repeated, not when I—” He sighed heavily to then look at Edwina and continue. “I admit I cannot offer you the love and affection you desire and I highly doubt that will ever change. I never intended to marry for love, which I may have not made clear enough, but it is best that I do now. I believed you would find the life and comforts this arrangement could bring you enough but I have realized you deserve better than a man who can't give you the one thing you truly want. I cannot condemn you to a life you would eventually fall unsatisfied of, and that is why this suit needs to end.”

“Oh, enough foolery, Lord Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury spoke, firm. “Are you or are you not in love with your sister's governess?”

Violet Bridgerton's expression at that was nothing short of taken aback, but she took action immediately at the sight of her son in distress.

No one was intending on asking him about your background, that was irrelevant for them. What they truly cared about was that he loved you and did not have the guts admit it.

Not like his every attempt to deviate the attention of the conversation from you to him and from the lack of proprietary of the alleged love affair to his deficiency of chivalry, decency, and honesty.

And despite being crucified right there, Anthony was grateful he managed to keep your name from being dropped for as much as he did—even if that made it all the more obvious that he loved you than an explicit ‘I love her’.

After more than an hour of scrutiny in which Anthony confirmed he was doing the right thing by breaking things off with Edwina, it was finally over.

As soon as the Sharmas and Lady Danbury were gone, Mrs. Wilson joined the pair to inform them that that the footmen had heard Lady Cowper tell Lady Featherington and Lord and Lady Smythe-Smith about you possibly being the daughter of Lord Y/L/N; the nobleman whose estate was claimed by a distant nephew who left the six daughters and the wife to fend for themselves when he found himself a bride of his own.

“You have been the man of this house for more than a decade, Anthony.” His mother took his hand in his. “Now it is time you go be a man for yourself.”

Just then, he realized something: he didn't need to be the Viscount who saves face to save you, he just had to be… The Viscount who loves you.

Anthony thanked her and ran to your chambers, both adrenaline and fear in full display, to ask you such an important question, the one burning the tip of his tongue since he first saw you.

So he repeated it: “Will you marry me?”

You blinked. “I marry you? How?”

“I told you I would figure it out,” he reminded you. “I broke things off with Miss Edwina; that was the first step. I cannot promise you it will be easy, but if there is something I can give you is my word that I will do whatever it takes to make us work.”

“Are you… sure?”

“More than ever in my life.” Anthony nodded. “Just say yes.”

The very last breath of hurt and hesitation in your body left your lungs.

And you smiled.

“Yes.”

Anthony looked at you and suddenly, he didn't see his future as a duty to fulfill anymore.