Rose

A few months earlier, through mutual contacts, he'd found her. From the very beginning, despite his rough exterior and the coldness he showed everyone, he'd always been grateful for everything she did for him—at least financially.

So why would she refuse such a small favor?

She always kept her distance. Their conversations were polite, but never personal or overly friendly.

She hated the fact that, little by little, she'd grown used to his visits. Deep down, there were moments when she actually found herself wanting to see him, wanting to brush her hand against his shoulder or the bruises hidden beneath his clothes under the excuse that she simply needed to patch him up.

She'd never admitted it.

At least not yet.

Need a haircut? She offered.

A complete change of appearance so no one would recognize him? That too.

She needed to clear her head. Become colder. More detached.

Just like him.

She reminded herself how badly things had ended the last few times she'd fallen for someone. Men who could ruin her.

She didn't know what to think when it came to Frank. Was he the kind of man who would ruin her too? Or was there another Frank hidden behind that façade—the real Frank?

Shaking her head, she pushed the thought away.

The wounds from her not-so-distant past were still far too fresh for her to believe in a future where she was in love with someone who truly loved her back. Someone who stayed. Someone who didn't lie. Someone who didn't mistake her innocent way of loving for being "too intense."

That was the problem.

Her ex used to call her too intense. Ridiculous over the smallest displays of affection—things that should've been completely normal between two people who supposedly loved each other.

Out of all the insecurities her failed relationships had left her with, that was the one that weighed on her the most: being too intense. Letting someone see who she really was when she was in love—fragile and innocent.

She was terrified of ever giving that part of herself to anyone again. Of letting her guard down before her rational mind could stop her and placing that fragile piece of herself into someone else's hands—someone who could shatter it into a thousand pieces in a matter of seconds.

She'd rather keep those feelings locked away. Love itself at arm's length.

Instead, she'd found another alternative: one-night stands. Perfect for satisfying her needs with whoever caught her eye, having fun for just long enough before they got tired of her or things became complicated. A way to feel wanted without getting hurt.

She loved that.

No more damage.

Or at least, that was what she'd thought until then.

The day before, like every Saturday, she'd gone out clubbing with her friends, this time to a place she'd never been before.

She'd drunk more than usual, and at some point during the night she'd wandered away from her friends to be alone with a guy.

Attractive. Blond. Blue-eyed. Tall.

That was the problem.

It was almost everything she could remember.

She did remember making out with him in a corner of the club before the two of them stepped outside for some fresh air while he took the chance to smoke a cigarette.

After that...

Nothing.

That morning, she'd woken up sore, covered in bruises she couldn't explain, with her phone full of missed calls and messages from her best friends. She had no idea how she'd gotten back to her apartment or who had brought her home.

The worst part was the pounding headache and the strange dizziness that refused to go away, as though she were still under the effects of some unknown substance.

Since it was Sunday and, thankfully, she didn't have to work, she'd spent the day trying to piece together what had happened the night before—with absolutely no success—while distracting herself with chores around the apartment.

As she reorganized her bathroom, she glanced at herself in the mirror and noticed something she hadn't seen before.

Dark marks on the side of her neck.

They looked disturbingly like fingerprints.

They were mostly hidden beneath her hair.

The uncertainty and the complete lack of answers slowly gave way to fear, so she decided to take a shower, hoping it would help clear her head. Unfortunately, she couldn't call her friends—they were all at work.

When she got out, she brushed her damp hair, threw on an oversized T-shirt and the pair of shorts she always wore around the apartment. She didn't even bother putting on a bra.

Still feeling dizzy, she sank onto the couch. Whatever was wrong with her body hadn't gone away, and she still felt awful.

Barely two seconds passed before someone knocked on her door.

With little enthusiasm, she got up and answered it, assuming it was probably a package.

Instead, it was Frank.

"Hey."

Caught off guard by his unexpected visit, she cleared her throat, tugged self-consciously at her shirt, and stepped aside to let him in.

God.

This was embarrassing.

She looked like a mess.

He greeted her back. She couldn't help noticing that he seemed to be looking at her a little longer than usual, but she shied away from his gaze, turned her back on him, and headed toward the bathroom to grab the medical bag where she kept everything she used to treat his wounds.

"No need. I'm not hurt."

She heard him behind her just as she bent down to pick it up.

Confused, she straightened up, only for the room to spin around her so violently that she had to grab the edge of the sink to keep herself from falling.

Frank crossed the bathroom in two quick strides and caught her before she hit the floor.

It was the first time he'd ever touched her without her touching him first.

"Then why are you here?" she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

His silence unsettled her. Before she could say anything else, he reached up and gently brushed part of her hair away from her neck, exposing the bruise she'd noticed that morning.

"And this?"

"What?"

Forcing a nervous smile, she instinctively tried to pull her hair back over the mark, but he stopped her.

"Oh, come on," he said with an ironic sigh. "You're dizzy, your eyes are bloodshot, and you're covered in bruises. I'm not an idiot."

She was about to answer, but instead she stepped back, deliberately putting more distance between the two of them.

"You still haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"

Half annoyed, she glanced at herself in the mirror to see if what he'd said was true.

Damn.

Her eyes really were bloodshot.

Through the reflection, she caught his gaze. His brows were still drawn together, somewhere between confusion and... concern.

Crossing his arms, he leaned against the bathroom doorframe. Not coming any closer, but not leaving either.

"Your friends asked me to come and check on you," he said quietly. "Now I understand why."

She let out an embarrassed sigh.

"I don't need your help, Frank. You can leave."

"Why are you so determined to get rid of me?"

"Because I don't want you to feel like you have to help me just because someone else asked you to."

"I could say the exact same thing about you."

She hadn't been expecting that answer.

She turned to face him, finally meeting his eyes.

"It's... different. And you know it," she replied, her tone firm, almost as if she were scolding him.

Silence settled between them again.

Typical.

The two of them had always been like that—reserved, quiet, and never particularly talkative whenever tension hung in the air.

But this time, seeing how stubborn she was being and how determined she was to avoid the subject, Frank decided to break the silence.

"Who brought you home last night?"

Right.

Her friends—probably Kylie—must've told him.

She understood why they'd gone to him. They'd been worried, and they'd wanted someone to check on her.

Still...

Why hadn't they waited and talked to her first?

"Are you interrogating me now?" she asked with a disbelieving smile, shaking her head.

"Don't push it too far. You know I'm only trying to help."

She was about to argue with him again, but instead, a few seconds later, she pressed a hand against her forehead as another sharp, unbearable stab of pain shot through her head.

"Fuck..."

The word slipped out beneath her breath.

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed not only by the awkwardness of the moment but by everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours. Her thoughts felt tangled, her body tense, her mind completely exhausted.

Even with her eyes closed, she heard the soft sound of his boots crossing the bathroom floor.

Careful.

Measured.

A stark contrast to the rough, intimidating man everyone else saw.

"Have you taken any medicine?" he asked, gently moving her hand away from her forehead so he could check her temperature.

The moment his palm touched her skin, his expression hardened.

"Jesus... you're hot."

She couldn't help smiling.

"Oh, for God's sake. Grow up," Frank muttered, clearly having caught that tiny smile. From the corner of her eye, though, she noticed the corners of his own mouth threatening to lift.

"Have you taken anything?"

"No." She sighed. "I thought it'd go away on its own, but I've felt like this all day."

What she didn't tell him was that, unless the pain became unbearable, she usually avoided taking pills.

Mostly because she'd never learned how to swallow them properly.

"Stubborn," he murmured, taking his hand away and putting a little distance between them again. "Where do you keep the medicine?"

"In the kitchen."

She walked past him, heading toward the kitchen while he followed a couple of steps behind. The apartment fell silent again, save for the sound of the cupboard door opening as she pointed him toward the cabinet above the counter.

"There."

Frank opened it and immediately frowned.

"This is all you've got?"

She shrugged.

"I don't really get sick."

He scanned the shelf before pulling out a box of painkillers.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"...Yesterday." She had to think about it.

His head snapped toward her.

"What?"

"I had something before going out."

"And today?"

She avoided his eyes.

"I wasn't hungry."

"You've had nothing to eat all day?"

She didn't answer.

Frank let out a slow breath through his nose, pinching the bridge of it as though he were trying very hard not to lose his patience.

"Sit down."

"I'm fine."

"Sit."

His tone left no room for argument.

Rolling her eyes, she dragged one of the kitchen chairs back and sat down.

He placed the box of painkillers on the counter before opening the fridge.

She blinked.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm making sure you don't pass out after taking this."

While he was turned away from her, she took the opportunity to watch him.

As always, he was dressed in black, wearing a fitted T-shirt that left his biceps on full display.

As he worked on the food—she thought he was making burgers—she couldn't help but notice the way the muscles in his arms tensed and relaxed with every movement.

She got up for a moment to grab the TV remote and switched it on, just to avoid the awkward silence. Like always, she put on the news channel.

"So... what else did Kylie tell you about last night?" she asked, genuinely curious as she sat back down where she'd been before.

Now that the pan was sizzling and the burgers were beginning to cook, she could tell how focused he was.

"About the guy, obviously," he replied. "How you got carried away."

"Excuse me?" She frowned. "I didn't get carried away. And as for the guy, I only walked away from my friends because we wanted to smoke a cigarette."

"You smoke?"

"No, but he talked me into it."

"Were you sure it was only tobacco?"

She swallowed hard.

She didn't know.

It hadn't made her feel strange at the time, so she'd assumed it was nothing unusual.

"What else could it have been?"

With the burgers finished, Frank placed the patties inside the buns before carrying both plates over to the table where she was sitting.

They looked surprisingly good.

She'd had no idea he could cook.

"Any kind of drug," he said seriously, setting a plate down in front of her.

"Thanks." She took a small, almost timid bite. Trying not to think about what Frank just said. "It's... surprisingly good."

"You thought I was useless in the kitchen?"

"Yeah."

A quiet scoff escaped him.

"Figured."

There was no offense in his voice. If anything, it almost sounded amused.

She hid another bite behind her hand, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her smile.

"I just didn't picture you cooking."

"What did you picture me doing?"

"Shooting people."

He glanced up at her.

"...Fair."

She snorted before she could stop herself.

The sound surprised both of them.

For a split second, something shifted between them—something lighter than the silence they were both so used to carrying around.

It didn't last.

Frank sat across from her, finally taking a bite of his own burger. He was quiet while he ate, but she caught him looking at her every few seconds, making sure she was actually finishing hers.

It was irritating.

Mostly because she knew exactly why he was doing it.

"I'm eating," she muttered.

"I can see that."

"You don't have to stare."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm making sure you don't pass out."

"I wasn't going to pass out."

"You almost did in the bathroom."

She sighed dramatically.

It felt so strange seeing the role she'd always been the one to play reversed that she didn't know how to feel about it. He was taking care of her in his own way, and all she wanted was to prove she was fine so he'd stop. Yet, at the same time, she didn't want him to stop at all.

Once she'd finished eating, it was time to take the painkiller.

She fidgeted with the pill for a moment, all too aware of her long history with them.

"Why aren't you taking it?"

"I'm about to. If you'd stop staring at me so much," she grumbled, bringing the glass of water to her lips and opening her mouth to place the tiny pill on her tongue.

She swallowed a mouthful of water, trying to force the pill down her throat as well.

It didn't work.

Typical.

She coughed and tried again.

"Everything okay?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

"Shut up."

"You still got it?"

"I have trouble swallowing, okay?" she admitted, her face turning bright red.

"Swallowing?" he echoed, unable to resist teasing her.

And somehow, she liked this side of him. She'd always assumed she was the only one in the room whose mind jumped to double meanings.

"Asshole."

He let out a quiet huff that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh before reaching over and taking the glass from her hand.

"Give me that."

"What are you doing?"

Without answering, he opened one of the kitchen cupboards, scanned the shelves for a second, then grabbed the pack of crackers she'd forgotten she even had. He set it down in front of her before placing the pill back on the table.

"Take a bite first."

"...I know how to take a pill."

He looked at her, then at the pill still sitting on the table.

"...Do you?"

She shot him an offended look.

"You're insufferable."

"I'm practical."

Muttering something under her breath that he definitely wasn't supposed to hear, she broke off a small piece of the cracker and chewed it. Once she'd swallowed, she tried again, taking the pill with another sip of water.

This time, it went down.

"...Happy?"

"Thrilled."

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind the gesture anymore. If anything, she was embarrassed.

It was ridiculous.

She'd stitched him back together more times than she could count, cleaned bullet wounds without her hands shaking, yet a tiny painkiller had managed to make her look completely helpless.

Frank leaned back in his chair, studying her for a moment before reaching for his own plate again.

"You should've called someone."

She frowned.

"For a headache?"

"For waking up covered in bruises with no memory of how you got home."

The lightness disappeared from the room almost instantly.

She looked down at her hands, absentmindedly rubbing the faint bruise around her wrist.

It still didn't make any sense.

The missing hours.

The marks on her neck.

The pounding headache that refused to leave.

Something bad had happened.

She just wasn't sure she wanted to dig into it yet.

Everything was still too recent, and the last thing she wanted was to spiral into panic before she even knew what had happened.

"Hey, Frank." She pushed her chair back slowly, waiting for the dizziness to settle before standing. "Thanks for the food... and everything, but do you mind if I lie down on the couch for a bit? Everything still hurts, and I'm... a little overwhelmed."

"Not at all."

Whatever teasing had slipped between them over dinner vanished immediately.

Frank was beside her before she'd even taken a full step.

"Easy."

One hand settled carefully against her lower back, steady enough to support her without making her feel like he was carrying her. She hated how weak she felt, but her body betrayed her the moment another wave of dizziness washed over her.

"...I've got you."

She didn't argue.

Together, they crossed the short distance to the living room. As soon as her legs reached the couch, she practically collapsed onto it, letting out a tired, pained sigh as every muscle in her body protested.

Frank remained standing for a moment, watching her.

"...Can I take a look at your bruises?"

She looked up at him, instinctively wrapping an arm around herself.

"They're probably nothing."

"Probably?"

She sighed.

"...I don't know."

That answer alone was enough for him.

He crouched down in front of the couch so he wouldn't be towering over her, resting his forearms on his knees as he searched her face.

"I'm not asking because I'm curious," he said quietly. "I need to know if you should be at a hospital."

The word alone made her stomach tighten.

"A hospital?" She let out a nervous laugh. "Frank, don't be ridiculous."

"Am I?"

His voice remained calm, almost frustratingly so.

"You don't remember getting home. You've got bruises you can't explain, marks around your neck, you've been dizzy all day, you've barely eaten, and you've got a fever."

He paused, his eyes never leaving hers.

"...Tell me why I shouldn't be taking this seriously."

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because, for the first time since she'd woken up that morning...

She couldn't.

So she let him examine her.

He started with her neck.

Moving closer, he rested one hand beneath her chin, gently tilting her head to the side. With the fingertips of his other hand, he carefully traced the outline of the dark bruise, as though trying to figure out exactly what had left it there.

"You don't remember anyone grabbing you here?" he asked quietly, his voice rough, almost afraid of hurting her if he pressed too hard.

"No." She swallowed hard. "I don't remember anything."

A knot tightened in her throat, but somehow the warmth of his touch made it loosen, if only a little.

His thumb lingered for a brief second before he let his hand fall away.

"Do you have any herbal cream?" he asked. "Aloe vera, maybe?"

She blinked up at him.

"...Yeah." A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips despite everything. "Since when did you learn about medicinal herbs?"

He shrugged as though it were obvious.

"From you."

"Me?"

"You talked about them all the time."

She couldn't hide her surprise.

"...You actually listened?"

Frank glanced at her for a moment before looking away again, clearing his throat as if he'd accidentally admitted something he hadn't meant to.

"Hard not to."

The answer was so simple that it caught her completely off guard.

She'd always assumed half the things she rambled about while patching him up went in one ear and out the other. Yet somehow, he'd remembered something as insignificant as her habit of recommending arnica, calendula, or aloe vera for every bruise and scrape he walked through her door with.

For someone who spoke so little...

He noticed far more than he let on.

He stood up and headed toward the bathroom cabinet.

"Top shelf?"

"Second drawer."

She watched him disappear down the hallway, still processing what he'd just admitted without realizing it. For someone who barely spoke, Frank remembered an alarming amount about her.

A minute later, he returned holding the tube of arnica gel.

"This one?"

She nodded.

"That'll do."

He sat down beside her on the couch, close enough that their knees almost brushed. Unscrewing the cap, he squeezed a small amount onto his fingertips before glancing at her.

"...May I?"

The question caught her off guard.

She gave a small nod.

"Go ahead."

His fingertips were cool against her skin as he spread the gel over the dark marks on her neck with slow, careful movements. There was no rush to them. No unnecessary pressure. Just enough to cover the bruises without making them ache.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

It was... different.

She found herself watching him instead of the television. His brows were slightly furrowed, completely focused on what he was doing, as though the bruises were some kind of puzzle he couldn't solve.

"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly.

"Not as much as it did this morning."

His fingers paused over one particular mark.

"...This one?"

She winced before she could stop herself.

The movement was almost imperceptible, but he noticed.

Of course he did.

His jaw tightened.

"Someone grabbed you hard enough to leave fingerprints," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

"I never thought something like this could happen to me." She sighed softly. "I go out all the time, and nothing ever happens."

Frank didn't answer.

He simply squeezed a little more arnica onto his fingertips before his gaze settled on another bruise just beneath the hem of her T-shirt.

"...There's one here too."

She nodded, absentmindedly lifting the fabric a few inches.

He shifted closer, resting one hand lightly against her waist so he could keep the skin steady while he applied the cream.

The gel was cool.

His fingers weren't.

She swallowed.

It was ridiculous.

He was only helping her.

Yet every slow movement of his fingertips seemed to linger just a little longer than it probably did, making her painfully aware of how close he was.

"...Too much pressure?" he asked, noticing the way her breathing had changed.

She blinked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

"No."

She couldn't help arching her back ever so slightly as his hand brushed gently against the side of her waist, steadying her while the other held the hem of her T-shirt just high enough to reach the bruise.

No higher.

She wasn't sure if he'd noticed she wasn't wearing a bra...

Or if he was deliberately making sure not to.

Either way, the unexpected consideration only made her cheeks grow warmer.

"...When was the last time you actually went out?" she asked, trying to distract herself from the warmth creeping up her neck. "I can't exactly picture Frank Castle dancing in the middle of a club."

A quiet scoff escaped him.

"That's because I don't."

"Not even once?"

"No."

"Come on. You're telling me you've never danced?"

He spread the last of the cream over the bruise before finally letting her shirt fall back into place.

"...I'm telling you I'd rather get shot."

"Weirdo," she muttered, still able to feel the warmth of his hands lingering where he'd spread the cream.

The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

"I've been called worse."

He screwed the cap back onto the tube of arnica and set it down on the coffee table. For a moment, his gaze remained fixed on the bruises peeking out from beneath the collar of her T-shirt.

"...I'm going to find him."

She frowned.

"Frank..."

"The guy from the club."

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

Dangerous.

"Someone knows who he is."

"You don't have to get involved."

He looked at her then, his expression unreadable.