we are who we are 🌀

rarely was there anyone in the hallway, it was poorly lit with carpets the colour of a wet digestive that smelt like other peoples cooking, boxed in by walls painted that shade of magnolia that landlords chose because it photographed as neutral and aged an odd piss yellow. a single bulb swung slowly back and forth above the three of them, throwing shadows that moved like something restless across the walls and the carpets. a banister ran along the left side, wood painted over so many times it had lost whatever shape it started with, worn smooth in the places hands had gripped it over years of people coming home tired. the fire door at the bottom sat slightly open, letting a cold that embedded itself into the old brick walls.

she had walked this stairwell every night for four years, one hand on the banister, her body doing it without her brain, and she had never once thought about how narrow it was, how close the walls sat, how the single bulb overhead left the corners in a darkness that moved every time it swung, because now it highlighted the identical men’s faces, and the gun that was now held by the stranger.

the gun had caught it, the metal gleaming in short warm flashes every time his hand shifted even slightly, the barrel picking up the light and throwing it back in a way that made it look almost decorative and pretty. it was shinier than she expected, the metal caught the single bulb with a clean bright gleam that had nothing cinematic about it, and it was heavier looking too based on the way the tendons in his forearm ran slightly taut, but not straining, showing his comfort. in the films, the guns looked light as people waved them around like extensions of themselves, casual and effortless, and this gun looked like it would hit the floor hard if he dropped it, like it would leave a mark, like it was made of something real rather than something made up of resin or rubber.

there was a scuffle, the word clone thrown back and forth, accusations of trafficking and government experiments, the other man saying something flat and certain about the government being good for nothing and how he always knew they were out to get him, delivered with the conviction of someone who had some very extreme thoughts on institutional trust, and neither of them listening to the other, or her.

the man was now holding the gun to wade’s throat.

wade didnt dare move with a firearm pressed up beneath his jaw. 

she had never seen wade not moving; in the three days since he’d fallen out of the sky he had been in constant low-level motion, fixing things, following her, making eggs, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet at the top of the bus stairs, some restless current running through him at all times, and right now it had gone completely quiet with a muzzle of a gun pressed up under his jaw, the soft skin giving way to the hard metal.

the man held his gun the way wade held a wrench, completely unconscious but utterly competent. 

he was towering over wade in the thin light, and the two inches between them should not have felt like as much as they did, but something in the way he carried himself added to it, his shoulders set forward and slightly down with the posture of a man who had never once attempted to make himself smaller for another person's comfort. 

she had never seen wade look small before.

he was two inches taller than wade, the shoulders on him were broader, broad in the way that came from just the accumulated physical result of years of work that had required it, and his thighs where he stood planted on the carpet were thick and solid and he was not moving, or shifting his weight nor adjusting, comfortable to stand where he was. 

his hair had grey in it, at the temples and through the scruff on his jaw, heavier growth than she might have expected, and the lines at the corners of his eyes were deep, but it only seemed to add to this odd dangerous and rugged appeal that he had. the blood on his lip had dried to a thin dark line along the lower edge of it, caught in the scruff on his chin and jaw, and he had not touched it in the entire time she had been watching him, which was almost as uncomfortable to if he had smeared it into his teeth; the fact he was so use to blood and whatever else on his face that he no longer bothered with it seemed like a quiet testament to the kind of life he lived.

there was dirt on his jacket which she could see from where she was standing, dark smears across the left shoulder and down the front of it. he smelled of cold wind and stale beer, the cold wind smell carrying from outside, from whatever he had come through to get here, and the beer smell seemed to come from his skin, like he had beer thrown onto him rather than drinking it, and he had a scent of something earthy like pine maybe, or soil, something that wasn’t coming from the south london. 

she watched it happen, watched him twist and turn the muzzle into the soft skin beneath wade's jaw, demanding answers that neither of them had, his voice low and flat and entirely without the register of a man who expected to be refused, and wade answering in the careful measured drawl of someone buying time.

she had to do something.

so she turned around, creeping backwards and ignoring the wide eyed, confused look wade casted her and pressed her back into her apartment door, feeling it give under her weight and turning straight to the kitchen, the soft glint of the kitchen knife block catching her eye. her hand found the largest knife in the block without looking, the handle cold and heavy in her sweaty palms, and then she walked back into the hallway and came up behind him, pressing the tip of the blade into the small of his back, hard enough that he could feel it and wouldn't be able to arch away from it.

he went still, almost like wild animal reassessing its situation, and she kept the blade where it was, her voice coming out low and even, considerably steadier than the hand producing it had any right to be.

"let him go and i'll take this out of your back. don't, and i'll drive it straight through you and you'll buckle like a little bitch."

a beat of silence.

then he smiled; she could see the edge of it in his profile, the slow satisfied curl of it as the fat of his cheeks adjusted slightly. he dipped his head towards her, turned slightly away from wade, and when he spoke his voice was different to wade's in a way she registered immediately and viscerally. it was a similar american root but stripped of everything wade's voice did with it, all the warmth and the drawl and the long soft vowels that leaned into themselves, replaced by something clipped and flat and dry. 

"i can feel your hand shakin', sweetheart."

a ‘sweetheart’ from wade would have been warm and slightly insufferable and she would have told him to stop. ‘sweetheart’ from this man was a flat stone dropped into still water, the same word doing something entirely different in a different mouth, and she pressed the blade harder against his back until the jacket fabric gave way slightly under the pointed tip and still pressed harder.

there was a long and deliberate pause, him dragging out the moment to make them both uncomfortable like it was a special skill of his.

"alright." a single flat syllable said with a dry drawl, almost sounding amused, "i'll let the clone go."

the gun came up as both hands went up, palms opened with the gun loose between two fingers, and wade moved the second there was space, his hand coming out and closing around the gun at the man’s fingers, who surprisingly let it go with no resistance.

"turn around." she said with firm persistence.

he turned around and he was grinning; the slow satisfied grin of a man who was finding the situation considerably more entertaining than anyone else in the hallway. his back was against the wall now, and she stepped forward and pressed the tip of the knife to his stomach and glared at him, her thighs shaking against each other and her hands shaking around the handle with her jaw set in a way she hoped communicated more certainty than the rest of her was currently producing.

he looked down at the knife slowly, with an amused chuff before he looked back up at her with a single raised eyebrow.

“name?” she didn’t ask, just demanded his name as she started to pierce through the t-shirt, a faint grunt escaping his lips as he frowned. apparently he liked this shirt.

“shane maguire. whats it to you little miss?” he glared at her as she continued to press the knife into him, one hand dropping to hold her wrist before the knife was embedded into his abdomen, “careful, don’t damage the merchandise.”

"hey." wade's voice, from somewhere behind her left shoulder, soft and careful, the drawl coming in slower than usual the way it did when he was managing something. "hey, darlin', i need you to listen to me for a second."

she did not look away from shane’s face.

"i'm listenin'," she said, to him, still looking at shane.

"i need you to put the knife down." a pause, wade choosing his words with more care than usual. "i've got his gun. he ain't gonna do anythin', i promise you that. i just need you to back up and let me talk to him."

"he had a gun to your jaw, wade."

"i know he did," wade said. "i was there for that part. i'd just like to find out why before we do somethin' we can't take back. also, we are in the middle of the hallway."

shane’s grin shifted, the amusement in it acquiring something that might, in another face, have been respect, and he looked at her with his whole body, relaxed and loose, not at all threatened by herself or wade.

"smart," he said, flat and dry, the word directed somewhere between her and wade. "you might want to listen to your man."

"nobody asked you." she snapped, with considerably more venom than she knew was possible.

his grin widened, showing sharp canine teeth that almost glinted in the thin light, the bigger predator showing off his own soft belly in something that looked too comfortable to be submission, and it made something greedy curl low in her gut before wade's hand closed gently over hers and eased the knife away so they could have ‘a civil conversation’ in her flat.

and that led them to where they were now.

shane is manspreading on your sofa like he has sat on it every day of his life, taking up considerably more than his fair share of it. his hands together, wrists encased by two fuzzy pink handcuffs that clearly dug into his skin, ankle crossed over his knee, the gun on the coffee table between you where wade put it after a brief and pointed negotiation about where it was going to live for the duration of this conversation. you sat in the chair opposite with your laptop open on your knees and your legs crossed with your eyes moving between the screen and his face, prepared to point a very real and very heavy weapon between his eyes. 

wade is talking and he has been for several minutes, the soft unhurried drawl of him filling the flat the way it has filled it for three days, and he is explaining, as clearly and as patiently as he can manage, what happened to him before he fell through the sky and landed on your corridor carpet and did not, as it turns out, have amnesia. you watch shane's face while wade talks. the grin that has been sitting on it since you pressed the knife into his stomach is doing something, slowly, incrementally, in response to wade's account of events, the satisfaction draining out of it degree by degree, replaced by something that looks almost like recognition, and the losing of the grin is making you happier than you feel you can reasonably justify.

you look back at your laptop before either of them catch you grinning like a school girl.

you go straight to chrome and start to look through wilson bethel’s movies and shows and then there he is.

SHANE MAGUIRE. UNTAMED, 2025

behind the laptop screen wade is saying something about bluebell, the sky, the rammer jammer on a thursday night, the drawl of him unhurried and careful, laying it out for shane the way he laid it out for you three days ago except without the amnesia theory complicating the middle of it. of which you’ll have to apologise for later.

you go back to the search results.

‘shane maguire is a key character in the netflix limited series untamed, portrayed by actor wilson bethel. he is introduced as a rugged, solitary park wildlife management officer with a background as an army ranger: he becomes a primary suspect in the death of "jane doe" due to his interactions with her before her death. his tense, underlying history with federal park agent kyle turner ultimately boils over into a brutal shootout between the two. it is ultimately revealed that shane was hired by turner's wife, jill, to secretly murder a man named sean sanderson.’

you read it twice, and then again, and once more. because there is no dead man on her couch, no bullet wounds or anything fatal on him at all (what a shame,) no shift from side to side, no groans or grunts from pain to be heard.

the sky might have saved his life. 

you look up at shane over the top of the laptop screen, and then you look back down at the screen, and then back up at him and find you've been caught as the smugness on his face shifts slightly.

"something wrong there sweetheart?" he says, flat and dry.

"stop calling me that." you say as you go back to his google page and carry on your research.

wade and shane are both looking at you. wade with the expression of someone trying very hard not to ask, and shane with the flat assessment that he appears to apply to everything, his ankle still crossed over his knee, and the smugness sitting on his face at a slightly elevated level from its usual resting state, as though he has drawn a conclusion that he finds privately satisfying.

you ignore them both.

you open up a google document, and start a table with two columns of good vs evil. which is probably too black and white for space and time ripping apart but you found that you didn’t care because space and time had ripped apart.

you start typing.

behind the screen wade says something low and careful in that soft drawl of his and you hear shane respond, clipped and flat, the two of them still doing the careful wary thing, and you look up briefly because the quality of wade's voice has changed slightly, less careful now, something underneath it that sounds like the beginning of genuine irritation rather than managed patience, and wade is looking at shane with an expression you have not seen on him before, something that has run out of the diplomatic version of itself and is getting ready to say so.

"you hired yourself out," wade says, the drawl slower than usual, each word placed with deliberate weight. "to kill a man."

"i did what i was paid to do," shane says, like its completely understandable.

"that's not somethin' a person says like it's a reasonable answer."

"i'm not asking for your opinion on it."

"well you're sittin' on her sofa in her flat with your gun on her coffee table so i think you're gonna get it where you like it or not."

shane looks at him with the flat unhurried assessment that appears to be his only setting, then at you, then back at wade, and then he slaps both hands on his knees with the decisive energy of a man who has reached a conclusion and is done deliberating.

"right," he says, standing, the full height of him reasserting itself in the room. "so that crazy bitch just tried to stab me—"

"i did stab you," you say. "a little." 

"—and now you want me to stand here and believe i've been teleported out of the continent." he looks at wade with the flat assessment, waiting for something that resembles a reasonable explanation.

"technically you were already out of the continent," wade says, "yosemite's in—"

"i know where yosemite is," shane snaps. "i live there. i live there, which is the point, which is where i should currently be, not in–" he gestures at the window, at the orange-lit london skyline, at the whole situation. "whatever this is. with you." he points at wade. "who has my face." his gaze snaps to yours, "and you, who pulled a knife on me!"

"you pulled a gun first!" you say, ignoring what a childish argument it was.

"that's different."

"how is that different?"

"because," shane says, with the flat patience of a man explaining something he considers self evident, "i didn't know what you were."

"we're people," wade says, cocky and bright, arms crossing with the ease of a sassy man, "that's generally the first assumption."

"not where i'm from."

"yosemite," wade says, tilting his head, the drawl stretching the word out slightly, "it's a national park. there are families there. with children."

"and bears," shane says, without inflection, like this is a point he considers equally relevant, "and people who don't belong in places they've ended up in." he looks at wade with the meaning of that sitting very clearly in the sentence. "i saw your face and i made a call."

"you made a call…" wade repeats, slowly, his arms dropping, something flattening in his voice at the ridiculousness of the argument.

"yeah."

"to put a gun under my jaw?"

"it worked out." shane shrugs with the complete unbothered delivery of a man who genuinely believes this.

"it did not work out!" wade says, and he looks at you with the expression of a man inviting corroboration, before pointing in your direction, voice all high and accusatory, "she stabbed you."

"a little." you repeat from behind the laptop, without looking up.

"she stabbed you a little!" wade confirms, gesturing at you with open hands, presenting the evidence before he crossed his arms.

"you live alone." you repeat as you read off of his wiki.

he looks at you, the assessment shifting slightly.

"in yosemite," you say, looking at the screen. "no neighbours. no city. just the wilderness and whatever comes through it."

something moves in his face, barely, just a degree of recalibration around the fact that you know something about him he has not told you.

"yeah," he says, and the carefulness in it is new, eyes flickering from the laptop to your face and then his face drops into an annoyed expression as he realises you are very clearly reading all of this information on him.

"so now you're in a city," you say, bringing your fingers up to count off on them, "eight million people, buses, sirens, different accents, different gun laws." you pause, looking at him over the top of the laptop screen. "sounds like the old dog needs to learn new tricks."

something works behind the flat of his eyes for a long moment, and then the corner of his mouth moves, slow and deliberate, the amusement finding its way into the grin like it has decided to allow itself.

"be careful with me sweetheart, unlike your boyfriend here i dont find your attitude so amusing.”

"he's not my boyfriend," you say, without looking up from the laptop.

"sure." shane says with dry amusement, eyes rolling back so far you wished they stayed like that.

"and i'll be as careful as i like," you say, closing the laptop slightly so you can look at him properly, "given that you are currently in my flat, in my city, with no passport, no documentation, no money, no contacts, and genuinely no idea how a bus pass works." you tilt your head. "you're a very capable man in a forest, shane. this isn't a forest."

something tightens in his jaw.

"i'll figure it out," his gaze drops from you and wade, finding the right corner of your flat fascinating.

"with what?" you say. "you going to track your way to the nearest tesco? read the weather patterns to find the tube?" you gesture at the window, at the orange-lit london skyline doing its indifferent thing. 

wade makes a sound from the chair that is very carefully not a laugh and does not fool anyone.

shane’s head snaps at the noise, glaring venom through his eyes at wade.

wade pointedly doesnt meet his eyes.

"you need us," you say, simply, looking back at the laptop, "which i appreciate is deeply unpleasant information for a man who has spent however long living alone in a national park by choice, but there it is." you open the laptop again. "so you can either be difficult about it, which you are clearly very talented at, or you can accept that for the foreseeable future the two people you are most likely to need are two bartenders."

the room is quiet.

"the handcuffs are a bit much," shane says, eventually, huffing as he glares at the fluffy, pink handcuffs that bite into his wrist, giving you and wade a pointed look.

"i’m sure you’ve used a pair before.” you huff.

he looks back at the handcuffs, flexing his wrists against the material of them with the disgust of someone who has worn actual restraints before and doesn’t like the fluff against his skin, or the bright pink. 

he almost looks insulted.

"take them off," he says.

"no." you say, to the laptop.

"they're cutting into my wrists."

"they're fluffy."

"they're pink," he says, like this is a separate and more serious charge entirely.

"i'm aware of the colour."

"take them off."

"i've said no twice already."

"take them off." he says again, the same flat insistence with the complete absence of any acknowledgement that you have already answered it twice, the stubbornness of a man who thinks annoying you into complaisance will work.

wade plops himself back down on the sofa and swings an arm over his eyes.

"they're genuinely not that tight."

"they're pink," he says again.

"would you prefer purple?"

"i would prefer none."

"i know."

"then take them off."

"you’re a brat."

"take. them. off."

"oh my god.." wade says quietly, to no one.

"take them—"

"FINE!" you shout, huffing as you slam the laptop with more force than strictly necessary. you cross the room and stand between his thighs as you work the handcuffs free, giving him a pointedly look the second they are off of him. he rolls his wrists once when they come loose, a single clinical rotation, just assessing. you straighten up and step back from him, just about to sit back down on your chair when his hand moves.

not to his jacket, but to his boots.

the glint of silver catches the fairy lights for half a second and your body kicks into flight or fight. you take three steps across the living room, your hand closing around the gun on the coffee table, and you bring both hands up, pointing at him the way you had seen it done, ignoring the weight pulling immediately at your wrists and your biceps. 

but shane was quicker.

of course he was quicker, the gun from his boot already levelled at your chest with the same complete unconscious competence as the hallway, and the two of you stood in the amber light of the fairy lights with a gun pointed in each direction and wade somewhere behind you had gone very still and very quiet.

shane looked down at his own gun now pointed back at him, and something moved across his face, his  expression becoming one of a man trying very hard not to find something funny.

"you gonna shoot me, sweetheart?" he said, the gun in his hand tilting slightly toward the one trembling in yours.

you say nothing and instead reach down with your thumb and click the safety off, the small hard sound of it cutting through the quiet of the room, and you take three steps forward until the muzzle is pressed flat against his sternum, his own pressed flat against yours.

you’re close enough now to feel the heat coming off him and smell the pine, and the stale beer, you wrinkle your nose at him and his eye twitches in annoyance.

"you're not going to shoot me." his voice comes out flat and low, almost intimate as his head dips forward slightly.

"say that again," you say, pressing the gun harder into his chest, "and find out."

something shifts in his jaw and his gun presses back into yours, putting more pressure on your skin, and starting to twirl the muzzle; a grin lifting his lips when you wince.

"you're a bartender." the amount of judgment that he’s managed to put into one sentence is enough for you to kick at his knees, but all you manage to get out of him is a grunt.

"and you're in my flat with your gun pointed at you, so i'd think very carefully about finishing that sentence."

"you've never fired a gun in your life." he huffs, finishing his sentence anyway against your warnings.

"i stabbed you earlier." you say.

"a little," his town is mocking as he squints his eyes before he huffs and rolls his eyes, seemingly annoyed that he’s now included himself in yours and wade’s humour. "lower the gun, sweetness."

"you lower yours."

"i will put you on the floor," he says, quiet and very certain, the voice of a man who has done exactly that to people considerably more equipped for it than you and is not making an empty threat.

"you won't." you say, equally quiet, equally certain. 

the gun is so heavy your wrists are burning but you do not move them an inch.

"you're insane." he sounds almost breathless as he shakes his head.

"you broke into my building?”

"i didn't break in," he says, the gun pressing harder, "i was trying to find somewhere that wasn't—"

"i don't care," you say, pressing back just as hard, "you pulled a gun on my– wade! you have multiple guns on your person, you called me sweetheart four times, and you are currently pressing a loaded weapon into my chest in my own living room, so whatever you were about to say about your reasons, i genuinely, deeply, do not care."

his nostrils flare.

your hands are shaking and you will not let him see it.

"wade." he says, not looking away from you.

"yeah?" wade says, from somewhere behind you, very carefully, not daring to move an inch incase one of you pulls a gun on him, again.

"is she always like this?" 

a pause.

"not with me." wade sounds almost wistful as he speaks, a small smile echoed in his speech.

something crosses shane's face, fast and complicated, and then his jaw sets again and the gun stays exactly where it is and so does yours.

"lower. the. gun." you say again, each word separate and deliberate.

"together?" 

"together." 

neither of you moves.

"i'm serious." you push the gun further into his breast bone to emphasise your point.

"so am i," his voice is rough but flat as he glares into your eyes, annoyed that he has to restrain a grunt.

you stare at shane and shane stares back  at you, both of you too stubborn to lower the guns so they stay exactly where they are with  the fairy lights catching off of the barrels and throwing small warm flashes across both your faces.

"three."

"two," you say.

"one," you say together, and you both lower them at the same time, and you both step back and away from each other. 

"still got two." shane says, and sits back down on the sofa like nothing happened.

"take the guns." you say, turning away from shane and holding yours out to wade without looking at either of them, "or else i might shoot him in his sleep."

wade takes it from you with the careful hands of someone handling something he would very much like to not go off, and then looks at shane, and after a beat that is precisely long enough to make clear this isnt a choice. shane holds his out too, and wade takes that one as well, and stands there with a gun in each hand looking between the two of you with a very uncomfortable expression.

you turn and walk into the kitchen.

the bags from earlier are where wade had dropped them just inside the door, the shopping from what felt like a different day entirely, and you start unpacking them, fast and without deliberation, each item finding its place, bread in the bin, eggs in the fridge, butter next to them, the soup in the cupboard with the rest of the tins.

the kitchen is quiet.

from the living room wade says something low and shane says something back, clipped and flat, and then it goes quiet again.

you decide the americans need a cup of tea and stick the kettle on, pulling three mugs from the cupboard, and you put your own sugars in yours and wade's without thinking about it, the muscle memory of three days of making wade tea sitting in your hands before your brain has caught up with the fact that you are doing it, and then you look at the third mug for a moment.

black, you decide. the wilderness man drank black tea, or he was about to, because that was what he was getting and he could take it up with someone who had the energy to care about it, which was not you.

you put the teabags in and waited for the kettle.

from the living room there was another low exchange, wade's drawl and shane's flat clip, and then the specific quality of silence that had started to mean the two of them had reached a temporary ceasefire and were sitting in it without knowing what to do next.

you poured the water.

you are stirring the last mug when wade appears in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with the wood eating into his shoulder, his hip cocked and a small smile on his face.

"me and him'll take the living room tonight," he says, nodding towards shane where he sat in the living room.

"if that's what you want," you don’t look up as you speak, watching as the spoon catches the teabags and twirls it in the water.

"it's what makes sense," he sighs as he crosses the kitchen, using the doorway to push himself off of it as he reaches past you to pick up his mug from the counter and moves it by the sink.

then he steps back into you, the solid warmth of his chest presses against your back and both his arms come down to rest on the counter either side of you, caging you gently against the cabinets. he dips his head down until his nose brushes the outside of your ear, the warmth of his breath hitting the side of your neck.

goosebumps move up your arms immediately, breaking out across your skin fast enough that you are grateful he cannot see your face.

you stare at the twp mugs on the counter in front of you and you are acutely, overwhelmingly aware of every point of contact between you; his forearms bracketing yours on the counter, the broad solid warmth of his chest flush against your back, the heat of him coming through your clothes in slow steady waves, the specific proximity of his mouth to your ear, close enough that you can feel every warm exhale against your skin.

"i'll watch him the whole night," his voice at this distance is something different from the version of it you have been listening to for three days, the drawl stripped of all the grin and the performance, just the low quiet core of it settling at the side of your neck, "he's not going anywhere near your room and he's not leaving this flat. you've got my word on that."

you swallow.

"okay," you say, and your voice comes out steady, which under the current circumstances is the single greatest achievement of your entire week.

his chest stays right against your back with his breath warm against your neck as his fingers start to dance across the back of your hands, tracing the veins and bones and making shivers erupt from your hands and racing up the back of your neck and across your shoulders and down your spine. 

then he moves.

his head drops, just slightly, and his mouth finds the top of your cheekbone, his nose tracing your temple, his skin warm and his touches deliberate and unhurried, softly pressing his lips into the skin of your cheek and every nerve ending you have goes completely insane about it. your eyes close for one traitorous second, relaxing into his chest because wade has been here for three days; hes helpful, kind, warm, charming, funny and competent, and he’s the best thing you have in this shitty apartment. 

then all of a sudden you have a wave of ‘oh fuck,’ rush over you and spin around to slap him, tell him off, do something–

but he’s already danced off with a grin over his lips, winking when he catches your eye and the cold air of the kitchen rushes in to replace it and you feel the absence of him the way you felt the arrival of him, immediately and all at once, and he picks up his mug and shane's from the counter and he walks back into the living room without looking back.

you stand at the kitchen counter, both hands gripping onto the edge with goosebumps still moving across your skin. the ghost of his mouth still sitting warm on your cheek and you breathe in and you you breathe out.

you pick up your tea and you turn around to go to your room and you stop.

shane is watching you from the sofa.

one eyebrow raised, mug held loosely in both hands. the expression of a man who saw every second and finds it fascinating and will probably say something about it at the earliest possible opportunity and there is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent that.

you meet his eyes and glare at him.

he raises the eyebrow higher, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth pulling into the beginning of something insufferable.

you take a breath.

"right," you say, pulling yourself back into the room, back into the situation, back into the version of yourself that is managing things rather than standing in a kitchen being undone by a man's mouth on her cheek. "kitchen. both of you."

wade looks at you with the grin already starting. "both of us?"

"both of you," you say, with a flat authority and then point to the kitchen, "make dinner. everything’s been put away, wade knows where everything is." you look at shane. "you can chop things."

"i'm not chopping things.” shane says, shaking his head with an amused huff.

"you absolutely are," you say. "you need something to do with your hands that isn't a firearm and i need you on the other side of that wall, so." you gesture at the kitchen doorway with the flat authority of a woman who has made a decision and is not revisiting it. "in you go."

shane looks at you for a long moment with the flat assessment.

"i don't cook, honey." tutting like it was beneath him not to eat out of a damn can over a fire in the woods.

"wade does," you say with a tight little smile. "you can supervise!"

"i don't supervise either."

"then stand there and be quiet, i genuinely don't care, i just need you in a different room." you pick up the laptop. "you are like a dog that hasn't been socialised and wade is going to socialise you whether he wants to or not, and i am going to sit here and do something useful, so please," you look at him with the exhausted weight of the evening behind it, "go and be someone else's problem for twenty minutes."

something moves across shane's face, the assessment recalibrating, and then he stands, unhurried, with the energy of a man complying entirely on his own terms, and he looks at wade.

wade looks back at him with a flat expression of annoyance, huffing at the responsibility of babysitting a man who is older, bigger, stronger and annoying as fuck.

"c'mon then," wade says, with the resigned good humour of someone who has accepted the situation and is going to make the best of it, and he heads for the kitchen, and after a beat that is precisely long enough to make clear he is doing it because he wants to and not because anyone told him to, shane follows.

you hear the cupboard open. you hear wade say something low and practical about what is in the fridge. you hear shane make a sound of profound annoyance in response.

you sit on the sofa, pull the laptop open, and go back to the filmography.

DOC HOLLIDAY. WYATT EARP'S REVENGE, 2012

you pull up his wiki and comb through it, looking more any evil deeds that you might be saddled with if he shows up at your front door. doc holliday is a dentist, and he is dying of tuberculosis, late stage, the kind of dying that in 1878 was simply what happened to you and could not be helped, and underneath both of those things he is a gunslinger who has killed people, several people, with the same hands that pulled teeth. he is from 1878 which is not a learning curve it is a completely different civilisation. because how do you teach a man that women have rights and no one lives in the wild west anymore?

you put him in the good column, considering the time and his profession, because he wasnt a hired gun like shane maguire. you leave him there with a little add on that says: buy antibiotics 

and then moving onto the next.

RILEY DETAMORE. MATCH ME IF YOU CAN, 2023

a tech founder of a dating app in a romantic comedy. he is younger than both of the men sat in your living room, and based off the photos that come up, hes young and charming, the kind of person who built something from nothing and is now watching it come apart because of something he could not control. there is no murder, no guns, no psychological profile requiring its own subsection, just a man whose business is threatened and is trying to fix it.

you put him in good.

and you leave him there, because the worst thing the wiki has to say about riley detamore is that he made a dating app and someone wrote a bad blog about it, which is, relative to everything else on this list, practically saintly.

BENJAMIN ‘DEX’ POINDEXTER. DAREDEVIL, 2015

the first thing that comes up is bullseye. 

bullseye, the wiki explains, with the cheerful thoroughness of a page that does not know it is being read by someone with a vested interest in the answer, is the name associated with benjamin poindexter, psychopathic fbi agent turned assassin, a man with a neurological condition that gives him perfect aim, who can turn any object into a lethal weapon, who is recruited and psychologically manipulated by wilson fisk, who kills multiple people, who wears the daredevil suit, who ends the series in surgery having his spine reinforced with a metal alloy to restore his mobility after being nearly killed.

spine reinforced with metal alloy.

you find a image of him and you look at it for longer than is strictly necessary.

he is, the first thing you notice, not what you expected a psychopath to look like. you had a picture in your head, someone rougher, maybe a bruise here and there, scars, teeth missing without a tongue. but the face that arrives is not that. he is blond, going slightly grey at the edges in a way that has not yet committed to itself, and broad across the shoulders in the way that has become familiar to you over the course of this evening, and his jaw is set with a tension that looks like it has been there for a long time, the kind of tension that stops being something you notice you are carrying and starts being simply the way your face sits. 

but he is pretty like wade, still soft and handsome. you look at wade for a moment, and try to imagine him more hardened by the world, a bit rougher, less empathetic, more desperate, and feel a gut wrenching grief before you look away and back down to the wiki.

veteran, fbi, remarkable accuracy, mentally ill, needing structure and rules to maintain his sanity, who had built a functional life around the scaffolding of institution and routine and one woman's counselling sessions, and then the woman died. eileen mercer died and he stalked a coworker and then wilson fisk found him.

you read the rest of it, the convoy, the manipulation, the suit, the killing; a man manipulated into becoming someone's weapon and then discarded by the person who made him one, left on a hotel floor at a wedding, and you sit there for a moment with the weight of the whole arc of it, from structure and rules to maintain his sanity to having his spine reinforced with metal alloy.

you find a reddit thread without meaning to, by following one link too many, and the comments are clearly what happens when a character had gotten under enough people's skin that they could not stop talking about him.

the comments call him fbi dex, a nickname given from the fact he kept his job until the end of the show, a way to differentiate 2015 daredevil and 2025, born again daredevil.

you look at his face in the photograph again, at the jaw and the eyes and the pretty of him, still soft in the bone structure the way wade was soft, the same face worn into something tighter, more controlled, the damage sitting in him differently to the way it sat in shane, shane's damage being something he had metabolised and moved on from, and this being something that had not been metabolised, that was still very much present, still being managed, still requiring the structure and the rules and the careful calibration of a man who knew what happened when the scaffolding came down.

you type his name above the columns and then move on to daredevil: born again.

BENJAMIN ‘DEX’ POINDEXTER. DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN, 2025

you open the born again wiki.

he is bigger than the fbi version, that is the first thing, broader through the chest and the shoulders in a way that five years and an experimental spinal surgery involving a cogmium framework apparently produced, and the face is the same face but worn differently again, a scar across his cheek that the fbi version does not have, and he is in all dark blues and blacks, combat trousers, gun straps across his chest, the presentation of a man who has stopped pretending to be anything other than what he is, and there is something almost restful about that, the absence of the fbi suit, the institutional costume gone, just the thing underneath it dressed accordingly.

you read the wiki.

you read it slowly, the whole thing, the surgery, the cogmium spine, the institution, bullseye, acquitted, foggy nelson, rikers, fisk becoming mayor, the escape, the ball, hiding, the cia, and underneath all of it the thread of someone trying, in the specific way of a person who has very few options left, to balance the scales, to find something that looks like redemption even if it does not feel like it.

then you think about what episode he might come from. because the thing about the sky is that it just opens, and whatever it pulls through it pulls through from wherever it happens to be in the story at that moment. shane arrived with blood on his lip and a gun at his back and wade arrived mid-conversation in someone else's kitchen, and neither of them had any say in the timing of it.

what if it pulls this version through mid-surgery?

the cogmium framework, the broken spine, the surgery that the wiki describes as experimental, and you think about what mid-surgery looked like, about what arrived on your corridor carpet in that scenario, back ripped open, parts of his spine missing, under anaesthesia, probably very hurt and vulnerable, broken in ways you cant put back together with nail glue. you cant have a man with his spinal cavity open; because then you’d have to take him to the hopsital, you’d have to answer questions, his face would be all over the news and wilson bethel would have to answer some very difficult questions. 

then your chest does something that is not quite a panic attack but is heading in that direction, and you look around the flat, the living room, the kitchen doorway, and your eyes go to the knife block, which seems to be a repeated theme tonight, except this time they do not stop there.

any object.

the wiki said any object, both wikis, fbi and born again, any object becomes a lethal weapon with hi perfect aim. and you start to look around your flat with new eyes because the problem isnt just the knife block, the problem is everything; like the pen on the coffee table and the television remote and the coasters and the mug on the counter and the keys on the hook by the door and the fork that wade left on the draining board this morning and the straws in the glass on the windowsill and the actual physical contents of your flat which is, you are realising, essentially an arsenal if the person using it has perfect aim and no regard for the conventional definition of a weapon.

you close the laptop.

you open it again.

you close it again.

you put the laptop down on the cushion beside you and you look at the ceiling for a moment. wade had came through mid-conversation in a kitchen, shane had come through mid-crisis with blood already on his face. neither of them had any say in the timing and neither, by extension, will anyone else.

which means the version of benjamin poindexter who turns up at your address could be post-surgery, post-rikers, post-any number of things on that wiki, or he could be mid-surgery, which is a significantly more complicated situation than a man in a flannel shirt asking for bluebell or the rammer jammer.

you look around the flat.

you get up and then pick up the pen and put it in your bedroom underneath the wardrobe.

you move the keys into your bedroom.

you put the straws under the sink in your bathroom.

then you get up and you walk to the kitchen doorway.

wade is at the hob, actually cooking while shane is leaning against the counter with his arms crossed watching wade with the expression of a man who has been told to supervise and is doing it with the bare minimum of engagement. they both look up when you appear in the doorway.

"Shane?” you lean against the doorway, raising an eyebrow at him.

he raises his own at her, a grunt escaping him.

"hypothetically," you say, "if a man turned up here who was roughly your size, possibly broader, with a metal reinforced spine and perfect aim with any object in a room, could you get him into a dark room and keep him there?"

shane looks at you for a moment.

"yeah," he says, like this is a completely normal question.

"good," you say, turning to leave when wade’s voice stops you.

"what–" wade questions, from the hob, turning around with the spatula still in his hand. "what does that mean?! why does she need someone put in a dark room– who are we putting in a dark room?"

"nobody yet." you say, shrugging.

"yet?" wade repeats.

"potentially nobody ever," you say, "i'm just doing risk management."

"risk management.." wade says, in the tone of a man who has learned over the last three days that when you say things like risk management in that specific voice it means something significantly more alarming than the words suggest. "risk management for who exactly?"

"someone who might show up." you say.

“sweetheart.."

you look at shane. shane looks back at you with the flat assessment and something in it that is almost, almost, the beginning of professional interest.

"someone with perfect aim," you say. "with any object."

wade puts the spatula down on the counter. "any object?"

"any object."

wade looks at you, the spatula in his hand, the pan on the stove, the cutlery cupboard, the knife block and then looks back at you.

"hide the straws.." he says, voice solemn and serious.

"already done!" you nod, and you go back to the sofa and flick open the laptop.

EVAN STAFFORD. GENERATION KILL, 2008.

corporal, bravo company, first recon marines, iraq, 2003. you read through it all, pulling out the relevant details, and find that evan stafford is closer to your age than anyone else, hes young in the way that it sits badly next to the things that the wiki is describing; a marine in the invasion. you read about the war the way the wiki describes it, through the lens of men who were inside it, who had trained for something and been handed something different, who watched the decisions being made above them and had to keep moving anyway.

he killed people, he was a man who killed people because a government sent him somewhere and told him to but, there is a difference between a man who took money to put a bullet in someone specific, and a soldier. you decide that the difference matters, not because one is clean and the other is not, but because it tells you something about the architecture of a person, about what they are capable of choosing versus what they were put in the position of doing.

you stare at the wiki for a moment.

then you scroll back up to the top and notice a pattern in all of the characters that wilson bethel plays; the number of men on this list who have at some point been in the military or law enforcement or some combination of the two is significant, and you sit with that for a second.

"WADE!" you call towards the kitchen.

"YEAH?" he calls back, over the sound of something sizzling, far too loud for both yours and shane’s ears based on his little: “shut the fuck up!”

"were you in the military at any point, in any capacity?"

a pause.

"no, never got to" he calls back, something changing in his voice, "why?"

"wilson bethel plays a lot of soldiers," you say, to the living room, to nobody, to the general concept of your own life. "and assassins, and marines.” you look at the list.

there was no response from the kitchen.

"i'm just saying," you say, "that for a man with one face he has an extraordinary relationship with state sanctioned violence and i find that personally exhausting."

"she does this," wade says, pretending to talk quietly to shane from the kitchen,"she just says things to the room."

"i can hear you.”

"sorry sweetheart!” he calls back, a grin clearly on his face and all you can do is sigh and ignore him.

you look back at the laptop and you look at evan stafford's wiki and decide he’s good enough. 

you put him there and you move on, because you are against the war, have always been against the war, every war, and evan stafford did not choose iraq any more than wade chose your corridor carpet, and the flat moral clarity of the good and evil columns has never been less useful than it is right now.

onto the next.

MARK CALLAN. ALL RISE, 2019.

deputy district attorney in los angeles. you skim the wiki with the weary efficiency of someone who has been doing this for long enough that the categories have become automatic, and mark callan is, by the standards of this list, almost aggressively uncomplicated.

earnest about the law, genuinely invested in whether the system works rather than just whether he wins, no weapons, no murders, no spine surgery, no hired killings, no psychological profiles, no perfect aim with household objects.

you look at the good column and you feel something in your chest unclench by approximately one degree.

you put him there immediately.

you look at the full document, the good column and the evil column and the names above the columns. you look around your one bedroom flat with the shitty sofa, the kitchen where two grown ass men barely squeeze in and imagine five more, ten more and on, and on, and on.

you’re going to need a bigger flat.

Every night you come to bed flustered and soft, and he touches your arm, maybe kisses your shoulder, and you smile. But it’s distracted. Already somewhere else. Already back in your book.

Now that he’s thinking about it, when’s the last time you begged?

When’s the last time you blushed from something he said?

The thoughts have been gnawing at him all week, Sunday he finally breaks.

You leave for brunch in a breezy little dress and flats, muttering about bottomless mimosas and sending him a distracted kiss over your shoulder. He watches you go; tote bag slung over your arm, eyes bright and unaware.

He waits five seconds. Then moves. Straight to the bedroom.

The book is there. Of course it is. Nestled under your pillow like a secret.

He stares at it for a moment.

The cover’s pretty. That’s the first insult. He wasn’t expecting pretty.

It looks like a painting from a museum; all swirling brushstrokes and soft pastels, women in flowing gowns twirling under chandeliers, the air full of perfume and polite conversation. It’s pink and cream and delicate.

Lessons in Etiquette, the title reads in sweeping cursive.

“Christ,” Sonny mutters, pulling it free. It practically glows with sweetness.

Until he thumbs open to the dog-eared page, and everything curdles.

Page 213.

Yellow highlight. Thick. Messy. Like you did it in a rush.

You’re not good for anything but taking cock, baby. You’ll cry, you’ll beg, and you’ll cum on command, because that’s all you’re made for.

Sonny freezes.

His pulse stutters, then hammers.

He blinks, then reads it again. Out loud this time.

“You’re not good for anything but taking cock.” He scoffs. “Jesus Christ.”

There’s a note scribbled in the margin in your girly handwriting:

‘hooooottttt!’

He flips to the next page.

Look at you. Just a sloppy little fuckhole pretending she’s got class. Bet you get wet being told what a filthy whore you are.

That one’s starred. You drew a heart next to it.

Another passage is circled three times:

You’ll never be anything but mine. No man will ever want you after I’m done ruining you.

He stares at the page so long the letters blur.

Then he slams the book shut; paces the room, then opens it again.

Aren’t you tired of pretending you’re a good girl? You’re not. You’re just a pathetic little thing who needs to be owned.

Another underline. Another sticky note:

‘wow…’

His jaw ticks. Hard.

This is what’s got you up late at night? This is what makes your breath stutter in the dark? What has you clenching your thighs when you think he isn’t watching?

He thought you were drifting away because you were tired. Maybe stressed. He’d convinced himself you just weren’t in the mood lately.

But no. You’ve been here the whole time. Just not with him.

You’ve been highlighting your own betrayal with pink hearts and sticky notes, smiling to yourself while some fictional monster degraded you in all the ways Sonny never has.

Because he’s always held back.

Always softened his grip.

Always stopped himself when the words in his throat got too rough.

But apparently, you didn’t want soft. You wanted this.

You wanted to be ruined. You wanted it badly enough to dog-ear it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the book heavy in his hand.

There’s a heat blooming in his chest now; not just jealousy, but something deeper. Something possessive, cold, deliberate.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs to himself, thumb stroking the edge of page 213.

“If that’s what you want… I’ll give you better.”

Because no one, no one, talks to his girl like that.

Except him.

The lock clicks behind you with the familiar clunk of home.

You’re humming as you kick off your flats, sunglasses still perched on top of your head, lips sticky from peach gloss and cheap brunch mimosas. The apartment smells warm, Sonny must’ve made coffee while you were out. You smile to yourself, already picturing curling up beside him on the couch, book in your lap, legs draped over his.

If he’s in a good mood, maybe he’ll even sit with you and read too. You’d mentioned it once. He’d grumbled something about not being a “personal fucken’ audiobook,” but you’d caught the way he watched you over the rim of his mug after that, like maybe he liked the idea of knowing what got you so breathless.

You round the corner into the living room and freeze.

Sonny’s sitting on the edge of the armchair like a man carved from stone. Legs wide. Forearms resting on his thighs. Chin tucked low. That thick, unreadable expression on his face. In his hand? Your book. Open. At page 213.

Your stomach drops.

“Back so soon?” he asks, voice low and too calm. That rough Staten Island grit curling around the words like a noose.

You blink. Swallow. “I…uh… Ava cancelled dessert, she had a headache, so I just… came home early.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away from the page. Just drags a thumb down the spine like he’s been sitting there the whole time, memorising every filthy, humiliating sentence you ever highlighted.

The air turns thick. Heavy with dread.

“I been doin’ a little readin’ of my own,” he says finally, gaze flicking up; sharp, cold, unreadable. “Figured I oughta see what’s got my girl so fucken’ distracted every night.”

“Sonny…”

“You got a real fucken’ imagination on you, sweetheart.” His voice is calm. Measured. More terrifying than if he’d yelled. “Thought you liked it sweet. Thought you liked me treatin’ you like somethin’ soft. But here I find you huggin’ this little ballerina book to your chest every night, starin’ at lines like….”

He flips the page, eyes narrowing.

“… a sloppy little fuckhole pretending she’s got class.”

His mouth twists. Mocking.

“That the part that made your thighs clench, baby? That line right there?”

You go cold.

“I…”

He stands slowly, closing the book and holding it up in front of you like it’s a goddamn exhibit in court.

“You dog-eared it,” he says. “You highlighted it. You wrote ‘hot’ five ‘o’s, five ‘t’s, and an exclamation point all in that margin.”

He steps forward. You step back.

“You get off on this shit?” His voice sharpens. “Some made-up asshole calling you a filthy whore? Huh?”

You stammer, hands shaking slightly, but he doesn’t give you time to form a defence. He’s already cutting you off.

“You think I don’t see it?” he snaps. “You squirmin’ beside me in bed, touchin’ yourself under the covers while I’m tryin’ to fall asleep… while you’re readin’ this shit?”

His laugh is sharp, humourless. He tosses the book onto the coffee table. It lands with a smack.

“You couldn’t even ask for it, could you? Couldn’t say ‘Sonny, I wanna be talked to like I’m nothin’. I wanna be used.’ No, you just sat there pretendin’ you were all sweet while this trash rewired your fucken’ brain.”

He stalks closer.

You’re backed against the wall now, heart hammering.

“You wanna know the part that got me, though?” he murmurs, face suddenly inches from yours, voice dropping to something dangerously soft. “It wasn’t the cocksleeve line. It wasn’t the filthy mouth or the fuckhole or even that bit about beggin’.”

He lifts his hand and traces your jaw with the back of one finger.

“It was this…”

He opens the book one last time and reads, voice dripping venom:

“No one else will ever want you. Not after I’m done ruining you.”

He closes the book. Taps it once against your chest.

“That line?” he whispers. “That one’s true.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

You just stare up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes stinging, every breath catching in your throat.

Sonny leans in, breath hot at your ear.

“Go wait in the bedroom…”

A pause.

“… clothes off. Face down. And don’t even think about touchin’ yourself.”

He pulls back slowly, eyes trailing over your stunned expression.

“Let’s see if I can’t give you a chapter worth highlightin’.”

You’re shaking by the time you crawl onto the bed.

Hands trembling as you peel off your clothes. You fold them. Out of habit. Like it matters. Like it’s not going to end with them flung across the room, like it’s not already unravelling too fast to catch.

You lay down. Face down. Ass up. Just like he said.

Your cheek presses into the pillow, your breathing shallow, eyes wide in the quiet.

You wait, and wait, and wait, until you hear the slow creak of the bedroom door.

No words. Just the steady weight of his presence.

Then you feel him; his palm pressing lightly into the base of your spine, not to comfort, just to claim.

“Been thinkin’,” he rasps above you, “if you wanted a filthy fucken’ mouth so bad… all you had to do was ask.”

You shiver, fists curling in the sheets.

“But now?” His breath is close; hot at your ear, voice sharp and slow like a blade dragging across silk. “Now I’m gonna make sure every time you crack open one of those pretty little books, you remember exactly what you really are.”

His hand slaps the back of your thigh hard. Not playful. Punitive.

You jolt, breath stuttering, eyes stinging.

He chuckles low. “Look at you. Already twitchin’. Already a mess. Like you know you deserve this.”

You feel his hand drag down the back of your thigh, grip unforgiving.

“You really are just a dumb little whore with a library card, huh?” he sneers. “Dog-earin’ scenes about some made-up asshole wreckin’ you like it’s the fucken’ Bible.”

You choke on a gasp, shame flooding hot and fast.

“Bet you read it on your lunch break. Probably got off in some bathroom stall, whisperin’ that line to yourself like it meant something.”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a cracked sob.

He leans over you again, whispering like a confession through gritted teeth.

“Let me guess. You played it back in your head when you touched yourself, didn’t you? ‘You’re not good for anything but takin’ cock, baby’… isn’t that the one?”

You bury your face deeper in the sheets.

He huffs, like he’s almost amused. “Fucken’ pathetic.”

And then; his voice drops, softer but darker.

“Say it.”

You hesitate.

He doesn’t.

“Say it,” he growls, palm cracking across your ass again.

You whimper, ashamed. “Say what? Sonny… I don’t understand…”

“Say it,” he snaps. “say what you’re good for.”

Your heart thuds in your chest.

“You loved it so much on page 213, what’s wrong? Too shy to say it out loud now?”

Another pause. A long one.

Then, broken and humiliated: “I… I’m good for nothing but taking cock…”

He exhales like that’s the only answer he’s been waiting for.

“Damn right, and you deserve to be reminded sweet girl.”

He grabs your jaw, forces your face to turn just enough so you can hear him, feel every word like it’s pressed against your neck.

“But it ain’t gonna be some fucken’ paperback villain that reminds you.”

A pause.

“It’s gonna be me.”

You whimper again, throat raw.

He shifts behind you, the tension in the room sharpening into something almost unbearable.

“You’re not a good girl,” he murmurs. “You’re not some innocent little thing who just likes her fairy tales. You’re a mess. My mess. And now I’m gonna treat you like it.”

You start to cry from how much you wanted this and how much it’s unmaking you now that it’s real.

“Oh yeah. That’s it,” he growls. “Cry about it. Cry about how right I am. Cry ‘cause you need this filth like air.”

He looms over you, voice like thunder wrapped in silk.

“You’re mine, and no one else will ever fucken’ want you after this.”

You feel your whole body tense.

He leans down and speaks against the shell of your ear, soft but seething:

“Now thank me.”

You blink as you hear Sonny’s belt clink open as he lowers his pants.

“I…”

“Thank me for tellin’ you the truth. Thank me for sayin’ what you were too much of a coward to ask for. Thank me for makin’ you feel it.”

You sob as you whisper it.

“…Thank you.”

There’s nothing left of your voice but a sob when you whisper, “thank you.”

And even that shaky, breathless, half-choked whisper only earns you a cruel, amused scoff.

“Oh, don’t get shy now,” Sonny mutters behind you, palm dragging up your spine like a warning. “You weren’t shy when you were scribblin’ notes in the margins like a fucken’ groupie. You weren’t shy when you wrote ‘wow’ like you wanted someone to see it.”

His hand fists in your hair, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Well, guess what, sweetheart?” he hisses. “I saw it.”

He yanks your head back until your eyes meet his; his face shadowed with something vicious and gloating.

“And now I’m gonna make sure you never forget who really did it.”

He grips your cheeks and spreads you open, slow and deliberate, watching slick drip from your pussy to the sheets. Then he spits; hot, wet, and messy, right on your hole letting it slide down between your folds then smearing it in with two fingers.

“Can’t believe how fucken’ wet you are already,” he mutters. “From what? Just the thought of me treating you like trash?”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out, just a tremble. Just the sound of your own shame breaking in your throat.

“Speak up, slut.”

“Yes! Yes, Sonny. Please. I want it… need it…”

He laughs. Mean. Cruel. “Fucken’ look at you. You’re nothin’ but a nasty little toy.” he growls. “Face down, tears on the sheets, actin’ like you didn’t ask for this when your back is arched like a bitch in heat.”

You whimper.

“That’s what makes this so fucken’ pathetic,” he continues, louder now. “You think you can hide it. You think you can dog-ear a fantasy, suck it down behind some innocent little cover, and I won’t see you.”

Another pause.

“But I do.”

He leans down, mouth at your ear again.

“I see every dirty, broken, needy part of you… and I ain’t gonna pretend it’s cute anymore.”

He lets go of your hair, lets your head drop. You crumble against the bed.

“Tell me,” he growls.

You don’t respond.

He slaps the side of your thigh. “Tell me.”

“T-Tell you what?!”

“What you are.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Another slap.

“Tell me what you are, sweetheart. Out loud. Or I’ll keep goin’ ‘til you forget how to speak at all.”

You sob, fists clenched.

“I’m nothing.”

“No. Say it right.”

You swallow hard.

“I’m yours,” you whisper. “I’m yours, and I’m nothing without you.”

He exhales like you’ve just said something holy.

“There she is,” he breathes.

He doesn’t ease in. Doesn’t warn you. Just drives into you with one brutal thrust that has your whole body lurching forward.

You choke on a cry, trying to brace yourself, but his hand shoves your back down flat. Keeps your face mashed into the mattress. Keeps you helpless.

“Fuck yes,” he growls, hips pistoning. “This is what this hole was made for. To take cock. To take my cock. Just a fuckin’ sleeve for me to dump in.”

You’re moaning now; high, broken, and soaked.

“Can’t even talk, can you? Already dumb from getting fucked?”

You sob. “M’not dumb!”

He fists your hair, yanks your head back. “Then say what you are.”

“Sonny please…”

“Say it!”

“I’m your whore. Your fucktoy. Your cockdrunk, filthy little hole….”

He growls like an animal. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Tight little hole just clenching for it. You like being used like this, don’t you?”

You try to nod, try to answer, but the words get lost in a moan as his hips snap against your ass again and again. The sounds are obscene; skin against skin, the slick drag of your cunt already soaked for him, your throat catching on half-sobs that make him groan low.

“Just a body to ruin. A pussy to fill. That’s all you are right now.”

You cry out as he pulls your wrists behind your back, pins them there with one strong hand, your whole body folded beneath him now. Helpless. Owned.

“You feel that?” he pants, ramming deep, voice ragged against your ear. “You feel how I split you open? Like you’re nothing but a wet little sleeve for me to fuck?”

You can’t speak anymore.

You’re drooling onto the sheets, legs trembling, cunt twitching with every brutal thrust. You’re ruined. He knows it.

“Look at you,” he snarls, slamming into you so hard your thighs quake. “Cryin’ into the fucken’ mattress. Mascara smeared. Spit everywhere. And still begging for more.”

He lets go of your wrists only to grab a handful of your hair, wrenching your face to the side so he can see you. So he can see the mess he’s made of you.

“Gonna cum like this?” he hisses. “Face down like a little cumrag?”

You nod frantically, tears leaking from your lashes, moans bubbling in your throat.

“You better,” he growls. “Because when I’m done with you? You won’t be able to fucking walk.”

You’re not sure what makes him snap, but he’s growling now. Not moaning. Not panting.

Growling – low, feral and fucking jealous.

“Thought I wouldn’t notice, huh?” he rasps, his thrusts getting harder, deeper, meaner, slamming into you like it’s punishment. “You lying here all sweet, pretendin’ to be good, when your filthy little brain’s stuck on some fictional fucken’ pretty boy in that goddamn book.”

You sob into the sheets, shaking under him. Your arms are weak, legs splayed, slick running down your thighs. “It’s not like that… he’s not real…”

“Don’t give a fuck,” he snaps, tightening his grip in your hair. “You get wet for me. Not for some fantasy fuckwit with perfect lines and a big dick drawn by some bored divorcee in her mid-forties.”

You cry out as he buries himself deep, hips flush to your ass, the impact brutal. His other hand slips down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast and filthy.

“You think he could do this to you? Huh?” he hisses, lips hot at your ear. “You think your precious book boyfriend could fuck you like this? Own you like this? Nah baby, he’s all fucken’ talk…”

You shake your head, mouth open, whimpering, because you’re close. So close it burns.

“Useless,” he spits. “He may speak to you like the slut you are. But me? I make you scream. I make you cum. I fuck you dumb, don’t I?”

“Y-yes,” you cry. “Yes, yes, I’m yours!”

“Say it while you cum.” His voice is fire. “Let me hear who this pussy belongs to.”

“You! You, Sonny!” scream as you fall apart, walls clenching down so hard you see stars. Your entire body shakes, cunt spasming around his cock as he keeps fucking you through it. He doesn’t let up, won’t let go, chasing his own release with gritted teeth and snarling lips.

Then; with one guttural growl and a final, punishing thrust, he breaks.

He empties inside you in thick, hot spurts, so deep it feels like you can taste it. His hands bruise your hips. His breath is ragged at your ear.

“Gonna fuck him outta you,” he mutters. “Every scene. Every line. Gonna fill you so deep there won’t be room for anyone else.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just presses down harder, hips grinding slow now, cock still twitching inside you. Marking you. Claiming you.

“Mine,” he growls again, quieter this time. “All mine.”

He stays there for a second; deep inside you, pressed tight to your ass, breathing like he just survived a war.

You’re gasping too. Boneless. Used. Still twitching around him.

Then he exhales. One long, satisfied groan, pulling out.

A slow, wet drag of his softening cock from your ruined cunt, followed by the slick, obscene sound of everything he left behind starting to drip.

Your breath hitches. You feel it; hot, thick, leaking down the backs of your thighs.

You barely have the strength to lift your head, but he doesn’t need you to.

Because he’s already kneeling behind you, watching. Staring.

“Look at that,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Drippin’ all over the fuckin’ bed.”

You whimper.

“You hear that, baby?” His fingers slide between your thighs, catching the mess as it trails lower. “That’s mine. That’s me leaking outta you.”

He presses his soaked fingers back in, just a knuckle, making you jolt and gasp.

“Not done yet,” he mutters. “Can’t go wastin’ this. Not when I worked so hard fillin’ you up.”

Another drip escapes.

He watches it fall; one bead of cum rolling slowly down your inner thigh, before dragging his thumb through it and smearing it back up between your folds like he’s painting. Like your body’s the canvas and his cum’s the signature.

“You ever read about that in your little porn books?” he asks, voice dark, dirty. “Any of those pretty-boy fuckers make you leak like this? Leave you ruined, shaking, bred?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

So he answers for you.

“No,” he whispers. “Only I do that.”

You feel him crouch beside the bed now, one hand braced by your hip, the other cradling your chin, like he’s about to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

He stares at you like he’s finally looking at you for the first time. Like this; broken, stripped bare, humiliated, is the real version of you.

“Next time you get the urge to highlight some stranger’s filth in that stupid little book of yours?” he says, voice dangerously soft. “I want you to remember this moment.”

You nod, tears falling freely.

“I want you to remember what it actually feels like to be ruined. Not by some paperback fantasy.”

He leans in, lips brushing your temple.

“By me.”

He stays there for a moment. Breathing with you.

Letting you hear the possessiveness in every exhale.

Then, finally, he pulls away.

“You did good,” he mutters. “Now stay right where you are.”

The air feels heavier now. The sheets beneath you are damp with sweat and tears, your throat raw, your skin flushed and tight. You’re still on your stomach, face pressed into the pillow, body trembling like it forgot how to belong to itself.

You feel him leave the bed.

For a moment, there’s nothing but your own pulse ringing in your ears. Then the sound of the bathroom tap. A drawer opening. The soft snap of something being pulled loose.

And then, he’s back.

You flinch when the cloth touches your skin, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t soothe. Just wipes you down like he’s cleaning up a mess someone else made.

When he’s done, he throws the towel aside and sits on the edge of the bed. His weight dips the mattress behind you, but he doesn’t touch you again.

“You cryin’ ‘cause it was too much,” he says finally, voice low and unreadable, “or ‘cause it wasn’t enough?”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I don’t need a fucken’ answer.” He exhales through his nose. “I already know.”

Another long pause. The silence between you crackles with something unsaid.

“You don’t get to hide behind that book anymore.”

His words cut clean through the quiet. Sharper now.

“You hear me? That little fantasy, those underlined fucken’ lies you’ve been clingin’ to like they’re yours? They’re not.”

He leans in. You can feel the heat of his body hovering over your back.

“You don’t belong to some made-up prick who talks pretty while he degrades you. You don’t belong to anyone who signs his filth with a fountain pen and calls it poetry.”

His breath brushes your spine.

“You belong to me.”

You bite down on a sob.

“And I’m not gonna let you forget it just ‘cause you fold your pages neat.”

You feel the mattress shift again as he rises. You think maybe he’s done. That he’ll leave you there, spent and humiliated and shattered.

But he doesn’t.

He grabs the book off the nightstand.

Flips it open with one hand, like he already knows where to go.

Page 213.

“I oughta burn this,” he mutters. “But I think I’ll leave it. Leave it right where you can see it.”

“But if I catch you readin’ it again?” He turns to you. “If I see one more sticky note in the margins? One more little sigh when you think I’m not lookin’?”

His voice drops. Cruel. Final.

“I’ll remind you in a way you won’t like.”

He slams the book shut and drops it on the floor with a hollow thud.

He watches you for a moment longer before turning off the lamp, letting the room fall into darkness.

And as you lie there, skin still burning, throat still raw, you know one thing for certain:

“Sure ya could’ve, sweetheart.” He chuckles softly, pressing a teasing kiss to your shoulder. One long arm extends easily over your head; muscle flexing thick and firm right beside your face. He grabs the flour from the top shelf like it’s nothing. Doesn’t even stretch.

“This what you needed?”

The flour passes in front of your face, held out, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t back up. Doesn’t give you space to breathe. His other hand is on the counter now, trapping you in, his chest still warm against your spine.

“Y’look like a kitten tryin’ to reach a light switch. Kinda adorable, if I’m honest.”

You grab the container. But you don’t move either.

Your shirt’s ridden up a little, you realise. His skin is warm where it brushes yours. The humid scent of him; soap, salt, and raw heat clings to the air between you like a slow-building fever.

“What else you need, huh?”

His voice dips low, teasing.

“’Cause I got plenty to offer. Arms, back, thighs… other things.”

You glance sideways at him and make the mistake of locking eyes. His smirk grows slow and dangerous, eyes flicking downward as if just now noticing the way you’re squirming in place.

“Even your hands are tiny compared to mine.”

He catches one of your wrists gently, spreads his palm wide next to yours. The difference is ridiculous, yours practically disappear under the breadth of his.

“Hell, I could wrap this…”

He lifts your hand and brings it to his chest, pressing it flat over one pec, his pulse beating hot beneath your palm.

“… right here. Barely covers a quarter of me. Ain’t that somethin’?”

Your breath catches. His grin deepens.

“Y’real fucken’ cute when you get all flustered.”

He leans in now, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Gonna stop blushin’, sweetheart? Or you wanna ride that high horse a little longer and pretend you ain’t thinkin’ about climbin’ me like a jungle gym?”

Your knees nearly buckle. Sonny hums, pulling away slow, just enough to hook two fingers into your waistband. Tugging once. “C’mon, kitchen’s gettin’ steamy. Let’s see what else is too high for you to reach.”

He walks you out of the room with one hand on your lower back, the other casually flexing behind his neck, stretching out those thick arms like he doesn’t already know exactly what he’s doing. You trail behind, heart thudding, thighs pressing tight, gaze locked on the wide, sweat-damp stretch of muscle between his shoulders. When you finally pass the mirror in the hallway, he stops you short.

“Look at that,” he murmurs over your shoulder, spinning you slowly to face your reflection.

“Little thing, standin’ next to me. Practically pocket-sized.”

His hands find your waist again. Your shirt’s ridden up higher now. His fingers brush bare skin like they’ve done it a hundred times before and plan to do it a hundred more.

“You ever really look?”

He lifts one of your hands again, lays it over his.

“One of your thighs couldn’t even wrap around one of mine. You’re just so tiny, baby, everywhere. Even inside.”

His palm slides down your stomach, hovering just above the waistband of your shorts.

“You’re too fucken’ small to take it, sweetheart.”

A pause. Then a whisper, hot against your jaw:

“But I make you anyway, don’t I?”

He keeps you there a moment longer in front of the mirror; his palm heavy on your stomach, his breath skating over your neck, holding you there until you can’t tell if the trembling in your legs is from the stretch of his hand or the heat crawling up your spine.

“Too small for the shelf, too small for my hand… you think you’re big enough to take me, though, don’t you baby?”

You manage a shaky laugh, pushing weakly at his chest.

“Maybe,” you whisper, though the word barely makes it past your throat.

“Maybe?”

His smirk curves against your jaw. “Should we find out?”

He turns you, guides you backward with that same lazy, post‑workout strength, walking you down the hall until your knees meet the edge of the bed.  The whole way his fingers stay hooked at your waist, thumb dragging slow circles that leave your pulse hammering.

“C’mon, sweetheart.  You wanna stretch for somethin’? Stretch around this.”

He drops onto the mattress first, legs spread, sweat still drying along the cut of his chest.  The air smells of soap and salt and you.  You climb over him before you can think better of it, knees on either side of his thighs, heart pounding against the heat of his skin. Your knees hit the mattress like they always do; soft, compliant, ready. You hate how natural it feels, how easily he turns you into something needy. You’re still trying to blink the kitchen heat from your lashes, but he’s already peeled your clothes away like skin off fruit. Like you were never supposed to wear them in the first place.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Show me you can make it fit all on your own.”

He sits against the headboard; legs splayed wide, cock resting thick and flushed along his stomach, glistening at the tip. He leans back like it’s nothing. Like you’re not standing there trembling, staring down at him with your thighs pressed tight and your mouth half open.

“Well?”

His voice is velvet wrapped around smoke.

“You gonna ride it like you said, or just keep gawkin’ at it?”

Your cheeks burn, but your core throbs harder. He knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t give him the satisfaction of stalling. You brace your hands on his chest for support, staring down… fuck, he looks even thicker from this angle. You reach down, wrap a hand around him, and line him up. He hisses between his teeth.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it slow.”

You start to sink down, slow. Immediately, it’s too much. The pressure is dizzying, a stretch that pulls from the inside out. Your breath hitches, forehead falling to his shoulder as the tip finally pops in.

“F-fuck!” you gasp, voice already wrecked.

He chuckles, smug. Hands gripping your hips, guiding you lower. “Barely got the head in and you’re already cussin’. Thought you wanted to show me how much you could take?”

“I do! I can do it…” you snap, even though your voice trembles and your thighs are shaking like leaves. “Just, shut up a second.”

“Mouthy,” he grins, dragging a hand up your side, over your ribs. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

You breathe deep. Then lower again. It burns. Like splitting seams.

You choke on a gasp as your cunt stretches around him, tight, pulsing, trying to drag him in and push him out all at once. He groans low beneath you, fingers digging into the fat of your hips.

“Jesus Christ. You feel that?”

He presses a hand to your stomach, fingers splaying out just under your navel.

“You’re takin’ me so fucken’ deep, baby… can feel you stretchin’ around me.”

Your breath stutters. You nod quickly, eyes fluttering shut. “I… it’s so much…”

“You wanted it.”

He thrusts up gently and your body jolts.

“Said you could ride it. Thought you were gonna bounce like a good girl, huh?”

“I’m trying!”

“Then try harder.”

He grips your hips again, and this time, he drags you down the rest of the way with one smooth pull. You sob out his name, hands slapping against his chest, nails dragging half-moons into his damp skin.

“Oh my God, Sonny!” your voice breaks on the stretch, on the way your cunt flutters in protest, already trembling around him.

“That’s it.”

His voice is lower now. Breathless. Adoring.

“Takin’ all of me. Look at you, baby… fuck, you’re so full.”

You tip your head back, desperate to breathe, to move, but he catches your chin, tilts your face back toward the mirror just beside the bed.

“No. Look. Look at what you’re doin’ to yourself.”

And you see it. You see your body perched on top of his, thighs stretched wide, your cunt swallowing him whole. You see the strain in your own face, your mouth open, the wet slick smeared along your thighs, the faint bulge pressing in your belly where he’s buried so deep you can feel him in your throat. Your lips part.

“That’s…” you can’t finish. Can’t find the words. “I… can’t believe I… I made it fit,” you whimper softly.

“You did.”

He presses on your belly, gently.

“Took every fucken’ inch.”

Your legs shake. Your cunt clenches.

“Can I… can I move?”

“You think you’re ready to move?”

You nod. His grip tightens.

“Then ride, baby. Show me. Show me how this tight little hole was made to split open for me.”

You lift yourself slow. So slow it feels like dying. Then drop back down and see stars. You moan, loud, wanton, clawing at his shoulders for purchase.

“There she is,” Sonny murmurs, bucking up once in return. “There’s my girl.”

You gasp again and start to move; grinding, rocking, half-riding him with a rhythm that’s more whimper than pride. But you want to prove it. You have to prove it. You chase the rhythm even as your thighs twitch, even as the pressure builds and your muscles burn and your voice slips into gasps and curses and desperate, desperate need.

He lets you ride, lets you have the illusion of control, until you’re crying out again; high-pitched and breaking, your hands losing their grip.

“Okay.” His voice drops. “That’s enough show. Now I’m takin’ over.”

He flips you in one motion; pressing you to your back, cock still buried inside you, hips snapping once just to remind you who it belongs to.

“You rode it like a good girl.” He leans in, mouth ghosting over your lips. “Now I’m gonna fuck you like one.”

He doesn’t even give you a chance to catch your breath. The edge of your orgasm clings to your thighs; slick, pulsing, and raw when Sonny growls something low and unintelligible, grabs your wrists, and fucks back in to you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. Your body seizes, jerking under him, oversensitive and wide open.

“Sonny!”

It’s barely more than a gasp. You reach for something, anything; his forearm, the sheets, your sanity, but he pins your hands above your head in one easy grip. His palm swallows both wrists, pressing them into the mattress like a weight you were never strong enough to lift.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he pants, sweat dripping from his jaw. “We’re not done. Not even close.”

Your body burns. Your mind swims. You can still feel every inch of him inside you, still feel the bulge low in your belly where his cock stretches you too deep, too wide, too full. He draws back slowly, too slowly, his thick cock dragging along your tender walls, every ridge and vein sending another wave of tremors through your muscles. Then he slams in again, hard, you cry out.

“That’s right. That’s it. Got you open nice and wide f’me. You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You nod helplessly, breath stuttering.

“I… yeah… too deep… too much…” you whine, eyes rolling back in pleasure.

“Too much?”

He leans in close; forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning down into your soul.

“You were beggin’ to ride this dick twenty minutes ago. Now it’s too much?”

You whimper, words failing you. Your pussy pulses, spasming tight around him. He groans, deep in his chest, and you feel the vibration inside you.

“Shit. You’re grippin’ me like you’re scared I’ll leave, baby.”

He pulls out again, halfway, then pushes back in slower this time; savouring the stretch, watching your eyes roll back as your walls bloom open for him again.

“You’re not gonna let anyone else in after this, y’know that?” His voice is softer now, almost reverent.

“Not after me. Not after this cock. I’m gonna ruin you for every other man on the fucken’ planet.”

Your back arches off the bed as he starts to thrust in earnest. Slow, deep, heavy. Each stroke feels designed to leave marks.His hips grind with purpose, the head of his cock punching up into your sweet spot again and again until your brain starts to go soft.

“Sonny… Sonny, I can’t!” your voice cracks, a sob caught in your throat. “You’re too big!”

He smiles, chuckling darkly “Oh I know, baby.”

You blink up at him, dazed.

“Say it’s mine. Tell me that tight little pussy belongs to me.”

Your lip quivers. You try to hold it in. He sees the defiance; the last thread of pride you’re still clinging to.

“Say it, or I’ll fuck it outta you.”

Then he snaps his hips again. And again. Until your body breaks open; your climax hitting you; raw, unexpected, and violent. Your legs lock around him, your back arches off the sheets as a desperate whine escapes your throat. Your cunt flutters around him like it’s trying to beg for mercy.

“Yours… yours, yours, yours! Fuck, Sonny!”

He moans into your neck, breath hot and ragged.

“That’s it. That’s my girl.”

He fucks through it, never slowing down. Your whole body shakes, the stretch turning to sting, the sting turning to something molten, something terrifyingly good. You’re not just wet – you’re dripping. Slick runs down the insides of your thighs, pooling under the curve of your ass, making obscene sounds every time he slams back into you.

“Messy little thing,” he coos, reaching between your bodies to press his thumb back into the bulge in your belly. “Look at you, stretched all the way out around me. Bet you’re gonna leak for hours.”

You sob again, words incoherent. Your voice is gone, used up on gasps and cries and half-screamed curses. The bed rocks under the force of his thrusts. The headboard slams softly against the wall. His skin slaps against yours, heavy and unrelenting, like he’s marking time with your bones. His rhythm starts to stutter. His grip on your hips tightening, jaw locking.

“Gonna fill you up now,” he growls. “Gonna ruin this pretty little hole so good, you’ll feel me every time you fucken’ breathe.”

You beg without meaning to; please, yes, don’t stop… and when he cums, it’s with a groan so guttural you feel it echo in your cunt. He presses in deep, cock twitching as he spills inside you, warmth flooding your body from the inside out.

“Fuck! Fuck, there we go baby, take it all. That’s it. Let me stuff you full.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try. He collapses over you, his chest crushing yours, his cock still nestled deep where it belongs. You’re trembling, ruined, leaking around him.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Such a tight little thing. Barely made it.”

You whimper as his hips roll again, lazy now, slowly grinding back into your raw, stretched cunt.

“Might keep you like this,” he breathes. “Plugged full. All night. Every time you clench, I’ll still be there. Markin’ you from the inside.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

You’re too fucked out to realise it right away; your brain still syrup-slow, muscles twitching beneath him, every breath a shaky little flutter. But when your legs start to shift, when you instinctively try to squeeze your thighs closed or roll to one side, that’s when you feel the drag. The ache. The way his cock still sits inside you, heavy and thick, twitching every so often like it’s reminding you who won.

“Don’t move,” he mumbles, voice gravel-slick as he brushes your hair back from your forehead. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, breath sticky with afterglow and sin. “Wanna keep you like this for a while. Open. Leakin’. Full.”

Your body jolts at the word full. It’s not even a stretch; it’s a press, a pulse, a slow burn of too much in too small a space. He’s still fucking seated so deep, you swear if you coughed, you’d feel it in your throat.

“I- Sonny…” You try to speak, to protest, but it comes out in a moan instead. “Too… still too much…”

“You’re fine.” He kisses your temple, slow and sweet, hand roaming down your spine. His hips shift lazily causing your body to jerk, your overstimulated cunt fluttering helplessly around his cock.

“Just gotta stretch you out properly. Let you mould around me. Let your sweet little pussy learn who it belongs to.”

You bury your face into the crook of his neck, muffling another whine. He laughs, low and filthy.

“Oh baby… its alright, we’ll get there. Won’t we?”

His hips rock again, just an inch. Just enough to make you whimper.

“What’d I say earlier? Hmm? You’re too small for me.” He grins against your cheek. “I meant that. And now I proved it. Look at you… can’t even breathe right without this cock knockin’ around inside.”

Your entire body burns.

“I can feel you everywhere,” you whisper, voice hoarse, cheeks flushing with heat.

“Good.”

He kisses you again; your cheek, your throat, the corner of your mouth – so soft it makes the contrast even crueller.

“Wanna leave bruises on your insides, sweetheart. I want you to feel me every time you sit down. Every time you clench your thighs. Every time you think about touchin’ yourself… I want this ache right here.” He presses his palm to your belly again, slow and firm. “So you remember just how deep I was.”

You tremble. He licks a lazy stripe up your neck.

“Bet it’s still stretchin’ around me right now. Your little cunt still tryin’ to adjust… tryin’ to figure out how to keep me in without splitin’ open again.”

Your body throbs at his words. Your cunt clenches. And he feels it.

“Oh there she is,” he breathes, cock twitching inside you. “Still squeezin’ me. Still hungry.”

“Sonny,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice like molten honey.

“I’ll give you a break. Just wanna sit here. Keep it inside a while longer.”

Another slow thrust. You whine.

“That’s my good girl.” He brushes sweat-matted hair from your face, gazes down at you with that fucked-out, adoring smirk. “You’ve got no idea what it does to me, seein’ my cock buried in somethin’ so small. You shouldn’t be able to take it. Shouldn’t be able to ride it. But fuck, sweetheart… you did.”

Your heart stutters. You clench around him again. “You’re perfect like this,” he whispers.

You feel the aftershocks curl through your limbs; slow, warm, and endless.

A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍 trick or tease masterlist

Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.

Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.

It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.

People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.

Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.

That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...

The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.

The ease.

The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.

No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.

They belong somewhere.

Everyone belongs somewhere except him.

There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.

Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.

And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.

At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.

It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.

Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.

Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.

How long would it take before anyone noticed?

Longer than it should, probably.

Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.

Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.

The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.

And that would be it.

No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.

That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.

Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.

They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.

Perhaps that’s why he notices you.

At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.

Instead he finds himself lingering.

The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.

And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.

That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.

It reminds him of himself.

Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day. Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.

The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.

Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.

He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.

The city is still alive around him.

Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.

Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.

See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.

That’s when he sees you.

Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.

Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.

Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.

But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.

No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.

You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.

Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.

At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Tired of moving.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.

The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.

Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.

Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.

They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.

Dex’s eyes snap open.

You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.

You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.

It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.

Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.

“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.

The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.

Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.

His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.

Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.

When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.

You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.

He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.

By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.

“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.

The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.

He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.

Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.

The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.

When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.

The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.

If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.

There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.

The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.

Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.

One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.

A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.

Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.

That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.

Long story short, life carried on.

You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.

Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.

Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.

None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.

If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.

That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.

The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.

You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.

You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.

But something still feels off.

Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.

You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.

You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.

Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.

With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed. 

And then… the smell.

At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time. 

This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left. 

But you live alone...

From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.

That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.

Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.

There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.

One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid. 

A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.

A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.

You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.

Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.

But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.

The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted. 

“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery. 

There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.

“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”

Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.

Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.

“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.

The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.

When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.

The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.

Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.

There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.

A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.

Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.

You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.

Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.

And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.

You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.

The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.

A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.

The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.

He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.

A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.

“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.

You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.

There is nowhere else to go.

His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.

“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”

You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.

Another day.

Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.

“You need to drink some water.”

There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.

The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.

“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”

The room tilts again.

Forty-eight hours.

Your gaze snaps back to his face.

“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.

His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.

“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.

“You had me worried for a while.”

You had him worried.

As though he has any right to be worried about you.

As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.

It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.

Your apartment.

The smell that didn’t belong.

The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.

The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.

The overwhelming heaviness that followed.

Darkness.

Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.

The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.

You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.

The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.

His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away. 

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.

It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.

“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.

“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.

He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.

For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.

“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”

Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?

And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.

When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.

“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”

The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.

Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.

Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.

Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.

The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”

For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.

Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.

You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning. 

The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”

His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”

You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.

There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.

The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.

“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.

Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.

“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”

The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.

“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.

Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.

“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.

The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.

“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.

The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.

Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture. 

Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.

“We’ve met before.”

Your lips part uselessly, confused.

“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”

A particularly cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.

“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”

His face brightens, pleased that you do.

“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.

“You walked right past me at first.”

Your throat tightens at his quiet comment. 

“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes. 

“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”

The air changes with his expression.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.

“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”

A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.

“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.

“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.

“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”

His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.

“Dex—”

“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.

You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”

The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.

To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.

Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.

Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.

Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.

His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.

But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.

Right over your heartbeat.

The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.

He doesn’t speak anymore.

He just stays there, still, listening.

“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”

Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.

“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”

You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.

“Get off me.”

Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.

“Oh.”

He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.

The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.

“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”

He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.

“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”

Again that detached tone.

You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.

His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.

“You’re still afraid.”

A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?

His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.

His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.

“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”

Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.

“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists. 

“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”

His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.

“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”

That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.

“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.

“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”

The lump in your throat is suffocating you.

“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”

Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.

Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.

After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.

“What do you want from me?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor. “I can’t—” You choke on your next breath.

“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.

Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.

“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“Anything you want,” his words tighten again with urgency. “I’ll make it happen.”

His voice lowers.

“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”

Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.

And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.

He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”

He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.

When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.

“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.

“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not when you have me now.”

You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.

Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different. 

But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.

Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.

Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.

But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.

From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.

You should turn your head.

You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.

Instead, you remain perfectly still.

When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.

For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.

The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t know what to make of any of this.

The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.

You truly are pathetic.

Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.

Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.

“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat. 

A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.

With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.

It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.

These fucking creeps never learn their lesson…

Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state. 

Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.

Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”

When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.

You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go. 

Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”

Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.

Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face. 

“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.

He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.

“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.

“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.

“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.

A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.

Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.

“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.

“You’re my good girl.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”

“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.

His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him. 

Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Mark you forever as mine.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full. 

You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.

For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.

He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.

Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks. 

Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

the smell hits you before you are even fully out of your room, butter and something faintly burnt at the edges, and you come down the hall already half awake, already in yesterday's t-shirt with your hair doing something you have not yet confronted in a mirror, already entirely unprepared for whatever is producing that smell, and you stop completely in the doorway of your own kitchen because what is producing that smell is wade kinsella, standing at your stove with his back mostly to you, shirtless, making an omelette with the unhurried competence of a man who has done this exact thing in this exact way several thousand times in a kitchen that was not yours.

he is wearing yesterday's jeans and nothing else, and the grey november light coming through the window above the sink is doing him absolutely no disservice, catching along his shoulders and down the line of his back, the kind of light that should by all rights be unflattering at this hour and is, infuriatingly, not, and the flannel shirt is folded with surprising care over the back of the kitchen chair, which means at some point between last night and this morning he has also located and successfully operated your washing machine, a fact that registers somewhere in the back of your mind as a problem for later because right now your mind does not have room for anything except the immediate and overwhelming fact of him standing there, spatula in hand, entirely at ease, as though a half-dressed man cooking breakfast in a stranger's kitchen were the most unremarkable thing in the world.

"what are you doing?" comes out of you flatter than intended, more bewildered than the question probably warranted, because the actual answer is obvious, he is making an omelette, you can see that he is making an omelette, what you actually mean is something closer to why are you like this and why is this happening in my kitchen at whatever hour it currently is and why am i finding it so difficult to form a complete sentence.

he turns his head without turning the rest of him, unhurried, the spatula still moving in the pan with the casual competence of muscle memory, and the grin that arrives on his face is slow and warm and entirely unbothered, the grin of a man who has clearly never once in his life questioned whether being shirtless in someone's kitchen required an explanation.

"mornin'," he says. "there's coffee there for you."

you do not move from the doorway. you are aware that you are staring, properly staring, the kind of staring you would have judged a stranger for doing at your bar, and you cannot seem to make yourself stop or look away or do anything other than stand there processing the full and uninvited reality of him in your kitchen in this state at this hour with this much ease.

"there's coffee," you repeat, slowly, as though saying it back to him will somehow make the rest of the situation make more sense, "and you're not wearing a shirt."

"didn't want to get it dirty." he says, nodding toward the flannel folded over the chair with the easy logic of a man who has clearly thought this through exactly as much as he is going to and considers the matter closed, and he turns back to the pan, tilting it slightly, sliding the omelette toward the edge with the kind of small unconscious flourish that tells you this is not the first omelette he has ever made and will not be the last, and you remain in the doorway, coffee mug entirely forgotten on the counter, trying to locate the part of your brain that was supposed to be in charge of saying something normal back.

you make it as far as the counter, mostly because the coffee is there and you need something to do with your hands that is not standing in the doorway being visibly undone by a man making breakfast, and in the act of reaching for the mug you let your eyes do the thing you have been very deliberately not letting them do since you walked in, take the whole of him in properly, the broad set of his shoulders narrowing down into a back that moves easily with whatever he is doing to that pan, the kind of build that does not come from a gym membership and a routine but from actual physical work, years of it, lifting and hauling and fixing things with his hands the way he has been doing in your flat since the moment he arrived, and there is a faint old scar along one shoulder blade that you notice and then immediately tell yourself you did not notice, and his stomach, when he half turns toward the counter for the salt, is not the kind of stomach built for a magazine cover, it is just solidly, unselfconsciously there, the soft trail of hair leading down past the waistband of yesterday's jeans, the whole of him put together like someone who has spent his life doing rather than posing, and you are still looking, you realise, a beat too long, exactly the moment he turns properly and catches your wrist.

before you can pull back he has flattened your palm against his stomach, right against the warm solid plane of it, skin and muscle shifting slightly under your hand as he holds it there, and you have approximately one full second to register the heat of him, the actual physical fact of him, before your brain catches up with your dignity and you snatch your hand back so fast you nearly send the mug off the counter doing it.

"what," you say, "the hell."

he is laughing now, properly laughing, the kind that comes up out of him easy and unguarded, his whole chest moving with it, watching you stand there with your hand pulled back against yourself like it has been burned, and there is not a single ounce of remorse anywhere in his face.

"whaaat," he says, drawing it out, all wide-eyed innocence that fools absolutely nobody, "your hands looked cold. i was helpin'."

"you were not helping."

"i was bein' a gentleman."

"a gentleman does not grab a woman's hand and put it on his stomach at eight in the morning."

"a gentleman in bluebell does exactly that," he says, turning back to the stove with the deeply satisfied air of a man who has gotten precisely the reaction he was hoping for, the muscles along his back shifting easily as he tilts the pan, "if her hands are cold and there's a solution right there available to her."

"there is a heater," you say. "there is a kettle. there are several solutions in this flat that do not involve your stomach."

"none of 'em as effective," he says, sliding the omelette onto a plate with a small flourish, and he turns around holding it out toward you, the picture of innocence, shirtless and entirely unbothered by it, the grin not having dimmed even slightly, and you take the plate because you are hungry and because taking it means you do not have to look directly at him for a second, which you very much need.

"sit down," he says. "eat your breakfast."

"i'm not sitting anywhere near you."

"you're gonna have to eventually," he says, entirely unbothered, already turning back to crack two more eggs into the bowl for his own, the easy stretch of him reaching for the carton on the top shelf doing nothing whatsoever to help your case. "it's a small flat."

you take the plate to the table and sit down at the far end of it, putting as much distance between the two of you as the furniture will allow, and you can feel him grinning at your back the entire time without even having to turn around and check.

he finishes his own omelette in the pan with the same unhurried ease he did everything else this morning and then crosses the kitchen with his plate, and instead of taking the chair at the far end where you have very deliberately positioned yourself, he sits right beside you, close enough that the broadness of his shoulder fills the edge of your vision, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him in slow steady waves, the particular warmth of a body that runs hotter than yours and has spent the morning standing over a stove, and you have to actively resist the urge to shift your chair another six inches away because shifting your chair would mean admitting why you wanted to.

you huff, a short irritated breath through your nose, and you focus very hard on your eggs.

he eats beside you in comfortable silence for a few minutes, apparently unbothered by the amount of space he is taking up or the effect it is having, and you eat too, faster than necessary, the eggs disappearing in the specific determined way of someone trying to finish a task so they can leave the room it is happening in.

"i've got errands today," you say, eventually, mostly to the plate.

"yeah?" he says, immediately interested, turning slightly toward you, and you can feel the shift in his attention like a change in temperature. "what kind."

"shopping. you need clothes, you can't keep wearing the same shirt every day."

"i'm not arguin' with that," he says, and then, without any pause at all, with the immediate hopeful momentum of a man who has been waiting for exactly this opening, "i'll come with you."

"no."

"why not."

"because you're wilson bethel's exact double and i am not walking you through primark like a tourist attraction."

"i'll wear somethin'," he says. "a hat. you got a hat? i'll wear a hat."

"that is not the point."

"i'm goin' out of my mind in here," he says, and there is something underneath the cheerfulness now, something a little more honest, the same restlessness from yesterday morning, the man who told you he was not built for doing nothing and meant it. "i've fixed every loose thing in this flat twice over. i need to be somewhere that isn't these four walls for an hour, even if i've gotta wear a hat to do it."

he looks at you with the specific open hopefulness of someone who knows he is asking for something slightly unreasonable and is asking anyway, his whole face tilted toward you, easy and eager in a way that is almost, infuriatingly, like being looked at by a dog that has worked out exactly which look gets it taken on the walk, and you sit there with your fork halfway to your mouth and you think about the practical disaster of taking him anywhere in public, and you also think about the fact that he has not been outside in two days, and you put the fork down.

"fine," you say. "but you do exactly what i tell you."

the grin that breaks across his face is immediate and enormous, entirely undignified, nothing held back about it at all. "yes ma'am," he says, already pushing back from the table like the conversation might somehow be reversed if he does not move fast enough.

"sunglasses," you say. "a hat. and if anyone says anything to you, you smile and you keep walking."

you’re sure there is enough weirdo’s in london who are wearing sunglasses and a hat in november.

"yes ma'am," he says again, practically vibrating with it, and you watch him go to retrieve the flannel shirt from the back of the chair, and you think, not for the first time this morning, that you are going to regret this, and you eat the rest of your eggs anyway.

you go to your room to get ready properly, the actual getting ready rather than the thrown-together version from yesterday morning, and you are not three minutes into it before you hear the door push open and feel the dip of the mattress behind you, and you turn around to find wade sitting on the edge of your bed with his elbows braced behind him, completely at home, watching you with the unhurried interest of a man settling in for something.

"do you mind." you huff, holding the mascara wand an inch from your eye.

"not even a little." he says with a wide, toothy grin.

you decide it is not worth the argument and turn back to the mirror, tying your hair up first, the quick practiced motion of it, and then starting on your face, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole time, not invasive exactly, just present, steady, the attention of someone who has nowhere better to be and has decided this is where he wants to be instead.

like a determined and annoying dog.

you have the mascara wand halfway to your lashes when he says, easy and unprompted, "your eyes are real pretty."

your hand jerks and the wand catches you wrong, a black smear landing clean across your forehead instead of anywhere near your eye, and you stare at your own reflection in the mirror, mascara streaked above your eyebrow, and you whip around to look at him.

he is grinning. the full grin, unrepentant, watching you with a face that announces no remorse whatsoever and has quite a lot of satisfaction.

"you did that on purpose.” 

"i did not," he says, entirely too pleased with himself for that to be believable. "i just said a true thing at a inconvenient time. wasn't my fault your hand ain’t steady."

you wipe at your forehead with the back of your wrist, smearing it worse before you find a tissue and actually deal with it properly, glaring at him in the mirror the entire time, and he does not look even slightly chastened, just keeps watching you with his elbows on the mattress and his legs stretched out, settled in like the show is only just getting started.

you finish your face and grab your clothes off the chair and turn to face him properly, one eyebrow raised, the universal and unmistakable signal for get out so, and he doesn’t budge an inch..

"out." you say, pointing a finger at the door.

he settles back further onto his elbows instead, getting comfortable, and the grin tips into something slower, warmer, deliberately unbothered. "i got somethin' better to watch now, don't i."

"wade."

"just sayin'."

"i will burn your flannel shirt," you say, "and you will go outside today in nothing but a hat and sunglasses, and that will be entirely your own fault."

that gets him moving. he is up off the bed laughing, properly laughing, hands raised in surrender as he backs toward the door, "alright, alright, i'm goin'," and he is still laughing as he pulls the door shut behind him, and you stand there for a second with your clothes in your arms before letting out a heavy sigh, and then you get changed in something that might generously be called peace.

you go through to the bathroom afterward, toothbrush in hand, and you are not even halfway through wetting it before you hear the door open behind you and turn to find wade settling himself onto the closed toilet seat like it is the most natural perch in the world, elbows on his knees, watching you with the same unhurried attention as before.

"do you ever knock," you say, around the toothbrush.

"didn't see the point," he says. "door was open."

you decide, again, that the argument is not worth having, and you turn back to the mirror and start brushing, and you can feel him watching you do that too, which should not be as strange as it is, and you are halfway through when you hear him get up, and a moment later he is standing right behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back, and he reaches past your shoulder into the cup by the sink and pulls out the spare toothbrush, the one you keep for guests that has never actually been used by a guest until this exact moment.

he wets it. he puts toothpaste on it. and then he settles in next to you, shoulder to shoulder in the cramped little bathroom, and starts brushing his own teeth in the mirror right alongside you, like this is something the two of you do every morning, like it is not nearly as ridiculous as it objectively is.

you stop brushing for a second and just look at him in the mirror, toothbrush still in his mouth, completely unbothered, brushing away like he has done this in this exact bathroom a hundred times before.

"what are you doing," you say, the words coming out slightly garbled around your own toothbrush.

he takes his out for a second. "brushin' my teeth."

"i can see that. why are you doing it right now, right here, next to me."

"seemed like the thing to do," he says, with a shrug, and puts the toothbrush back in, and goes back to it, completely at ease, his bare shoulder bumping yours gently in the small space, the mirror showing the two of you standing there together like some kind of absurd domestic scene out of a film you would roll your eyes at if you saw it happen to anyone else.

you look at the two of you in the mirror for a long moment, him grinning around a mouthful of foam, you with the last traces of mascara cleaned off your forehead, and you think, not for the first time this morning, that this is deeply ridiculous, and you also do not move away, and you finish brushing your teeth standing exactly where you are.

you go to the cupboard for the hat and the sunglasses, already knowing without having to check that he has followed you, and sure enough by the time you turn around he has settled himself on the edge of your bed again, legs spread slightly, watching you with the same easy expectant patience he has had all morning.

you hold the hat out to him.

he looks at it like you have personally offended him.

"that's not gonna match my outfit," he says, gesturing down at himself, at the same flannel shirt he has now worn three days running, the single outfit he currently owns in its entirety.

"you don't have an outfit," you say. "you have one shirt and the jeans you arrived in."

"there's always an aesthetic to protect," he says, but he is grinning while he says it, clearly enjoying himself far more than the bit deserves, and he makes no move to take the hat from your outstretched hand, just looks at it, then at you, waiting.

you sigh, the long-suffering kind, and you step in between his knees because he is not going to take it himself and you do not have the patience to stand here negotiating with a grown man over a baseball cap, and you reach up and settle it onto his head properly, adjusting the brim with both hands, and he goes very still and very quiet while you do it, watching you with an expression that has lost some of its usual cheek, something steadier underneath it now that you are this close.

his hands come up, not to stop you, just to rest loosely on either side of you, and as you tug the brim down to a better angle you feel his fingers brush against the outside of your thigh, light, almost accidental, the kind of touch that could be nothing at all except for the way his hand stays there a half second longer than it needs to.

you step back the moment you register it, faster than the hat adjustment strictly required, and you hand him the sunglasses without quite meeting his eyes.

"there," you say. "put those on too."

he takes them, slower than before, and slides them on, and looks up at you from underneath the brim of the cap with an expression you cannot fully read behind the dark lenses, and he does not say anything clever this time, which is somehow more unsettling than if he had.

which only lasts for a moment.

"do i look pretty enough for the party?” wade’s grin couldn't be less cheesy and more proud as he looked up at you with his face covered.

"ridiculous," you shake your head as you walk out of your bedroom, grab your keys and wait for wade to follow after. "let's go."

the flat is quiet behind you as you lock up, and wade falls into step beside you on the stairs, the hat and the sunglasses sitting on him with all the subtlety of a man trying very hard not to look like he is trying very hard, and you decide, somewhere around the second flight, not to think too closely about how well it actually works, because right now it just needs to get the two of you out of the building without anyone stopping to ask questions.

outside, the cold hits properly, the kind that finds its way into your collar within the first ten seconds, and wade makes a small involuntary sound beside you, somewhere between a hiss and a complaint, his shoulders coming up toward his ears.

"it's cold," he says, like this is new information rather than the entire reason today's errand exists in the first place.

"it's november," you say. "in london."

"feels personal," he mutters, hunching further into the one flannel shirt he owns, and you start walking properly now, toward the main road, and you say, mostly to keep him oriented, "we're going into central. there's more choice there, more places that won't care who's browsing."

"central," he repeats. "how far's that."

"far enough that we're getting the bus."

he stops walking.

you notice after about three steps that he is no longer beside you and you turn around to find him standing stock still on the pavement, sunglasses slightly askew, staring at you with an expression of such pure, unguarded delight that you genuinely do not know what to do with it.

"a bus," he says. "a real one. like, a london bus."

"yes, wade. a bus. they're not exotic."

"i've seen 'em in films," he says, already moving again, faster now, falling back into step beside you with a new energy in it, something almost bouncing. "the red ones. double decker. is it gonna be a double decker."

"probably."

"can we sit on top."

"if you want."

"i wanna sit on top," he says, with the immediate decisive conviction of a much younger man, and you glance sideways at him, at the grin that has fully overtaken the careful neutral disguise face he was supposed to be wearing, and you think, not unkindly, that he currently looks less like a man trying not to be noticed and more like a child being taken somewhere good for the first time, which, you suppose, in his own way, he is.

you reach the stop and the board says four minutes and wade reads it twice, properly reads it, the little digital numbers ticking down, and he says "it knows when it's comin'" with the tone of a man encountering something genuinely impressive, and you do not have the heart to explain gps tracking to him right now, not on a freezing pavement at half ten in the morning, so you just say "yeah" and let him have it.

when the bus comes, red and looming and entirely ordinary to you and apparently spectacular to him, he goes up the steps to the top deck two at a time, and you follow him up to find him already settled at the very front, both hands flat on the glass like a kid pressed up against an aquarium tank, looking out at the road ahead like it is about to do something extraordinary.

"this is the best seat in the house," he says, as you sit down beside him.

"it's a bus, wade."

"it's a great bus," he says, with total sincerity, and the doors hiss shut below you, and the bus pulls away from the curb, and wade kinsella watches south london go by through the windscreen with the rapt, unembarrassed wonder of a man who has never once in his life pretended to be less impressed by something than he actually was, sunglasses sliding slowly down his nose, hat tipping backward, completely and helplessly delighted by all of it.

his excitement settles, slowly, the bus rolling on through streets he does not recognise, and after a few minutes he stops pointing things out and just looks instead, quieter now, taking it in without narrating it, and when he glances over and catches you watching him watch the window, something in his face goes a little sheepish.

"sorry," he says. "i know i'm bein' a lot."

"you're not being a lot."

"i am," he says, with the particular honesty he reaches for when the charm drops away on its own rather than being told to. "i can hear myself. it's just." he looks back out at the road, at the shopfronts going by, at a city that has never once needed his permission to exist. "there wasn't much like this in bluebell. nothin' moved that fast. nothin' knew when it was comin' before it got there. i've never seen half of what's outside this window and i don't really know how to not say somethin' about it."

you look at him for a moment, at the sunglasses pushed up into his hair now instead of on his face, at the hat sitting forgotten in his lap, and you reach over without entirely deciding to and rest your hand on his thigh, just for a second, just enough to say something you do not have better words for.

"i get it," you say. "it's a lot to take in all at once. you don't have to apologise for being excited about it."

he looks down at your hand, then back up at you, something quieter and more grateful settling into his face than the moment probably called for, and he does not say anything else about it, just nods once, and you leave your hand where it is a beat longer than necessary before settling back into your seat properly, shoulder against his, and the two of you ride the rest of the way into central like that, quiet, easy, watching the city go by together.

you get off the bus into the full sensory assault of central london on a saturday, the cold doing nothing to thin out the crowd, and the air hits you thick with the smell of roasted chestnuts from a cart on the corner mixed with exhaust fumes and someone's cigarette and, underneath all of it, the faint sweetness of pastry from a bakery doorway you pass, warm and buttery, gone again in three steps. the sound comes at you in layers, traffic and chatter and the distant tinny loop of christmas music already starting early from a shop with its doors propped open, a busker somewhere up ahead doing something with a guitar that is mostly drowned out by everything else, the specific roar of a city that never actually quietens, just shifts registers depending on the hour. you can taste the cold in the back of your throat, sharp and clean, and underneath it the ghost of someone's takeaway coffee as you pass close enough to catch the steam off the lid.

wade falls in close behind you almost immediately, the crowd doing what crowds do, pressing and shifting, and within a minute his chest is against your shoulder, his hand finding the small of your back, not gripping, just there and steady, the unconscious instinct of someone keeping track of you in a space too dense and too loud for him to fully read yet.

you reach back without looking and adjust his hat where it has started its now familiar drift, then check the sunglasses, nudging them back up his nose with two fingers, and he lets you do it without complaint, ducking his head slightly to make it easier, and you do this three more times in the space of two streets, the disguise apparently incapable of holding its position for longer than ninety seconds at a time.

"stop moving so much," you say, over your shoulder, mid-adjustment.

"i'm not movin'," he says. "everyone else is movin'."

"you're looking at everything."

"there's a lot to look at?!"

you are halfway through agreeing with him, mostly to yourself, when a man in a suit barrels past going the wrong way against the flow, shoulder catching yours hard enough to knock you half a step sideways, no apology, no glance back, already three strides on and reabsorbed into the crowd before you have even fully registered the impact.

wade's hand closes around yours before you have finished stumbling. it happens fast, no hesitation in it at all, his fingers lacing through yours and gripping tight, and he has already turned to glare after the man, jaw set in a way you have not seen on him yet, something sharp and immediate replacing the easy wonder from the bus.

"dick!" he says, loud enough that a woman nearby glances over.

"wade."

"he just walked straight into you and didn't even look back."

"it's london," you say. "people don't look back."

"that's stupid," he says, still glaring in the general direction the man went, even though he is long gone, swallowed by the crowd, and his hand has not loosened around yours at all, if anything it has tightened, and you go to pull free, mostly out of habit, the reflex of someone used to navigating crowds alone.

he does not let go.

"i'm fine–"

"i know you're fine," he says, finally looking back at you instead of the empty space where the man used to be, the sharpness in his face softening but the grip staying exactly where it is. "i'm still holdin' your hand."

"you don't need to hold my hand."

"didn't say i needed to," he says, already turning to keep walking, pulling you gently back into step beside him like the whole exchange settled something, "said i'm gonna anyway."

you sigh, the long-suffering kind, and you let him, because arguing about it in the middle of a packed pavement seems like a worse use of your energy than simply allowing it, and his hand stays wrapped around yours the rest of the way down the street, warm despite the cold, and you do not try again to take it back.

"right," you say, once the crowd thins out slightly and you can actually hear yourself think. "plan for today. clothes first, that's the priority, you cannot keep wearing one flannel shirt like it's a personality trait. then the chemist, you'll need basics, toothbrush that isn't borrowed from my emergency drawer, that sort of thing. then food shopping on the way back because the fridge is down to eggs and regret."

"sounds efficient," he says.

"it has to be. i'd like to get through all of it without anyone clocking you, which means we move, we don't linger, and you do not start a conversation with strangers."

"i don't start conversations with strangers."

"you started one with the bus driver."

"he asked where we were headed. that's just manners."

you do not get a chance to argue the point because a group of teenagers comes barrelling out of a shop doorway directly into your path, loud, phones up, entirely unaware that the pavement contains other people, and wade has you by the elbow and steered half a step sideways into a gap by a lamppost before you have even fully registered them as a threat.

"wade."

"they weren't lookin' where they were goin'."

"neither are you, currently, you're looking at me instead of where we're walking."

"i can do both," he says, already scanning the street ahead again, and sure enough two seconds later he tugs you gently the other way, around a woman with a pushchair who was never actually going to collide with you, threading you through a gap that did not strictly need threading through.

by the time you reach the first clothes shop you have been steered, diverted, and tucked out of the way of oncoming pedestrian traffic no fewer than six times, none of it strictly necessary, all of it done with the same unthinking instinct he used on the man who bumped you earlier, and you stop just outside the door and look at him properly.

"what are you doing," you say.

"what d'you mean."

"you keep pulling me out of the way of people who were never going to hit us."

he shrugs, a little sheepish about it now that it has been pointed out, the hat tipping slightly as he does it. "guess i'm used to keepin' an eye on things," he says. "crowded room, gotta know where everybody's headed. old habit."

"this isn't the rammer jammer on a friday night."

"feels about the same speed," he says, glancing back over his shoulder at the sheer density of the street behind you, the buses and the bikes and the wall of people moving in six different directions at once, and there is something almost a little overwhelmed underneath the joke, which you clock and decide not to push on right now, not in the middle of the pavement.

"clothes," you say instead, nodding at the door. "in. and let go of my hand for five minutes, you'll need both of yours to try things on."

he looks down at your joined hands like he had genuinely forgotten he was still holding it, and lets go, slow, almost reluctant about it, and follows you in.

the shop is one of the bigger ones, several floors, music too loud for a saturday morning, and you find a bench near the changing rooms and sit down with an armful of things you have already picked out, jeans, a couple of plain shirts, a jumper that will actually keep him warm, basic and unremarkable, exactly what you came in for.

wade disappears into the changing room with the whole pile and emerges roughly ninety seconds later in the first pair of jeans, doing a full turn in front of the mirror outside the cubicle, hand on his hip, head tilted, entirely too pleased with himself.

"what d'you think," he says.

"they're jeans, wade."

"but how do they look."

"fine. good. get the next one."

he disappears again. comes back in the jumper over a t-shirt, does another twirl, this one with an actual little flourish at the end, hip popped, grinning at himself in the mirror before he even looks at you for the verdict, and you have to physically stop yourself laughing because he looks, genuinely, like a teenager at a school formal trying on every option twice.

"it's nice," you say. "it suits you."

"i know," he says, far too smug about it, and disappears back in, and this happens four more times, four more outfits, four more twirls and hip-cocks and small delighted spins in front of the mirror, and by the fifth one you have started to just wave him through without fully looking up from your phone because the routine has become so predictable, the curtain, the swish, the twirl, the grin, the "well?"

"it all looks nice," you say, to the fifth one, without really checking. "they all look nice. you could wear a bin bag and it would probably work out fine for you, just pick the ones you actually like."

there is a pause, longer than the others, no immediate follow up twirl, and then his voice comes from behind the curtain, different in tone, a little uncertain.

"hey, uh." a beat. "i think i'm stuck."

you look up properly now. "stuck how."

"just. come here a second."

you get up, sighing, and you push the curtain aside without really thinking about it, already halfway through saying "what did you do" when you stop completely, the rest of the sentence dying somewhere in your throat.

he is not stuck in anything. he is standing there in nothing but a pair of plain black boxers, shirtless, the jeans he was supposed to be trying on discarded entirely on the floor of the cubicle, and he is looking at you with the most innocent expression he has produced all day, which is doing absolutely nothing to disguise what is actually happening here.

your jaw drops. you stand frozen in the gap of the curtain, eyes doing a full, helpless, entirely involuntary sweep of him before you can stop them, and for a solid two seconds you do not move, do not speak, do not do anything except stare.

then the grin breaks across his face, slow and victorious, the cat that got an entire dairy farm's worth of cream, and you come back to yourself all at once, stumbling half a step backward out of the cubicle so fast you nearly knock into a rail of jumpers, yanking the curtain shut behind you with considerably more force than necessary.

"wade kinsella," you say, to the closed curtain, voice somewhere between furious and strangled.

"yes ma'am," comes the entirely unrepentant reply from the other side of it, and you can hear, even through the fabric, that he is still grinning.

you stand there for a second longer, willing your face to stop doing whatever it is currently doing, and then you huff, loud and pointed enough that he can hear it through the curtain, and you reach in past the gap and grab the clothes he has actually decided on, the ones neatly hung back on their hangers, because of course he has hung them back up properly even mid-ambush, and you turn and walk off toward the rest of the store without waiting for whatever he is about to say next.

you find socks two aisles over, plain, sensible, a multipack because one man going through one pair a day is going to need several, and you grab underwear next, plain black, a size you guess at based on absolutely nothing reliable and decide is close enough, and you do not think about why you are blushing while doing it, you simply do not allow yourself to think about it, you just grab the pack and move on.

by the time you make it to the till he has wandered out of the changing room fully dressed again, mercifully, in the jeans and the jumper, and he is somewhere off to the side poking at a display of beanies with the open curiosity of a man who has never had the luxury of browsing for fun, and you leave him to it, joining the queue, putting everything on the counter, jeans and shirts and the jumper and the socks and the underwear, and the girl at the till rings it through without a flicker of interest, which you are deeply grateful for because that way she doesn't see the deeply pained expression on your poor face at the total.

you pay. you bag everything. you glance over once while it processes and he is now wearing one of the beanies, slightly too small, pushed back on his head, looking entirely delighted with himself in the little mirror on the display stand.

you collect him from the beanie display, peeling him away with a hand on his sleeve, and he comes easily enough, still wearing the too-small beanie until you point at it with a look and he takes it off, slightly reluctant about it, settling it back onto the display rack with something close to genuine regret, like he was already attached to the thing after thirty seconds of ownership.

"i need to pick up a prescription," you say, leading him back out into the cold and the noise. "chemist's two streets over, it won't take long."

he reaches over without asking and lifts the shopping bag straight out of your hand before you have even fully registered him doing it, the motion so smooth and unthinking that you do not catch it until it is already over, the bag already settled over his own shoulder instead of yours.

"i can carry my own bag, wade.” you say.

"didn't say you couldn't," he says, adjusting the strap, walking half a step ahead now to hold a gap in the crowd open for you the way he has been doing all morning, "just don't see why you'd need to when i'm right here and perfectly capable."

"that's not how that works. it's my bag. i bought the things in it."

"it's how it works in bluebell," he says, with the easy, unshakeable confidence of a man who has never once in his life questioned this particular point of etiquette and is not about to start now, "man don't make a lady carry her own bags if he's standin' right next to her with two good hands and nothin' better to do with 'em."

"i'm capable of carrying socks, wade."

"never said you weren't," he says, grinning sideways at you, clearly enjoying himself far more than the argument warrants, "i'm just better at it."

you give up, mostly because the alternative is wrestling a grown man for a bag of underwear on a public street, and you roll your eyes instead and keep walking, and he falls into step beside you again, content, the bag swinging easily from his shoulder like it weighs nothing at all.

"you're a southern gentleman," you say, half mocking, the words coming out warmer than you intend them to.

"i prefer 'raised right,'" he says, "but i'll take what i can get."

the chemist is busier than you expect for a saturday morning, the queue snaking back from the counter past the cough syrup and into the aisle with the plasters and bandages, and you join the end of it with wade close behind you, the bag still over his shoulder, and the line moves at the particular crawl of a chemist queue, slow and shuffling, everyone clutching their little baskets or their boxes or their prescription slips with the patient resignation of people who know there is no faster version of this experience available to them.

wade does not seem bothered by the wait. he never really does, you have noticed, something about him settles into queues and slow moments the way some people settle into a chair, easy, unhurried, using the dead time to look at things instead of resenting it, and he drifts slightly to one side to inspect the shelf of cold remedies, picking up a box, turning it over, reading the back with the same careful attention he gave the coffee machine and the phone and every other small piece of this decade he has encountered so far.

"what's a, uh." he squints at the box. "antihistamine."

"for allergies."

"huh," he says, and puts it back, and picks up another one instead, and you let him browse, glancing occasionally toward the front of the queue to track how close you are getting, three people now, then two.

it is somewhere around the two-people mark that you notice the woman just ahead of you turn slightly in line, the small idle movement of someone whose attention has wandered off her own basket, and her eyes land on the back of wade's head and stay there, lingering a beat longer than a stranger's gaze usually does, the particular hovering quality of someone trying to place a face without quite admitting to themselves that they are doing it.

she leans down to the little girl beside her, says something low you cannot catch, and the two of them dissolve into a fit of poorly disguised giggling, the daughter peeking around her mother's leg to get a better look, both of them clearly delighted by something neither is bothering to hide particularly well.

wade notices. of course he notices, he has noticed everything today, every glance and every gap in the crowd and every stranger who has looked twice, and he turns, easy and unbothered, full warmth, and gives the two of them a smile, the same unguarded one he has been handing out since the corridor, and the woman goes faintly pink at being caught and turns back around sharply, murmuring something else to her daughter that makes the girl giggle harder, and wade looks back ahead like nothing at all happened, already reaching for a third box of something on the shelf.

you hear it a moment later, low, not quite careful enough to stay private, drifting from somewhere behind you in the queue.

"hot ass blind guy. like that lawyer from that one show."

you close your eyes for exactly one second and let out a slow, exhausted breath through your nose, the particular sigh reserved for standing in a chemist queue with a man who apparently cannot exist in public for longer than ten minutes without being mistaken for somebody else entirely, and beside you wade glances over, missing the comment completely, catching only the sigh.

"you alright?" he says, the box of cold remedy still in his hand.

"fine," you say. "just queues."

"queues are the worst part of any errand," he agrees, with total sincerity, and puts the box back on the shelf, and the line shuffles forward another step, and you are, mercifully, almost at the counter.

wade's hand finds yours again as the queue shuffles forward, easy and unthinking, lacing through your fingers the way it has done all day, and he leans down slightly toward your ear, voice low, curious rather than nosy.

"what's the prescription for," he says.

"anxiety stuff," you say. "and whatnot."

he just hums at that, low in his chest, no follow up question, no comment, just an acknowledgement that settles something in you more than you expect it to, and he tugs you a half step closer instead, the bag still over his shoulder, and then huffs, short and irritated, as the sunglasses slide down his nose for what feels like the fortieth time today and the hat slips down low enough to catch in his eyelashes.

"this thing's got a vendetta against me." he mutters, tipping his head back to try and shake it loose without using his hands, which does not work, and you sigh, the long-suffering kind, and reach up and pull the hat off his head entirely, holding it up between you.

"it does look ridiculous." you admit.

"thank you."

"the glasses stay on though," you say, tucking the hat into the shopping bag instead, "your face is the issue, not your hairline."

"my hairline's never been an issue in its life," he says, but he is already pushing the sunglasses back up properly with one finger, nodding along, almost too eagerly, the nodding slightly erratic in its enthusiasm. "i'll behave. promise. no more hats, no more grinnin' at strangers, model citizen, that's me."

"you grinned at a woman and her daughter ten minutes ago."

"that was politeness."

"that was you showing off."

"can't it be both?" he asks, and you do not get the chance to answer because the queue has finally delivered you to the counter, and you step forward, letting go of his hand to dig your prescription slip out of your coat pocket, and you rattle off your details to the pharmacist on autopilot, name, date of birth, address, the same sequence you have given a hundred times before without ever once thinking about it.

it is only afterward, stepping back from the counter to wait for the box, that you notice wade's lips moving slightly beside you, quiet, almost to himself, and you catch the tail end of it, your street name, repeated once, low, like he is fixing it somewhere in his memory.

"what are you doing," you say.

"nothin'," he says, too quickly.

"you were saying my address."

"was i?"

"you were."

he has the decency to look slightly caught out, though not particularly sorry about it, and he shrugs one shoulder, easy, like it is the most reasonable thing in the world. "figured i should know it," he says. "in case i ever lose you in all this." he nods vaguely at the shop, the street outside, the whole sprawling unfamiliar size of the city beyond it. "this way i'd know where home is. how to get back to you."

you look at him for a second, the sunglasses slightly crooked again already, his expression doing the thing it does when the charm drops away on its own rather than being switched off, and you do not have a clever response ready for that one, so you just say:

"that's– okay" and turn back toward the counter as your prescription comes through, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere other than directly at him for a few seconds and swallow around the pit in your throat at the thought of wade being lost.

you take the box from the pharmacist and tuck it into your coat pocket, and wade falls back into step beside you as you head for the door, already reaching for the shopping bag again before you can stop him, settling it back over his shoulder like it never left.

"right, essentials next. there's a place a few doors down, cheap, but it'll have everything you actually need."

he follows you in, and you grab a basket at the entrance and start working through it efficiently, a toothbrush that is actually his own rather than borrowed from your emergency drawer, deodorant, a bar of soap, a face wash that promises everything and costs almost nothing, and a bottle of cologne so cheap the label sits slightly crooked on the bottle, and you load it all in without much ceremony because this is not the part of the day that requires deliberation, this is just the practical work of making sure a grown man has the basic things a grown man needs.

you turn around at some point to find he has wandered off.

you find him crouched at the back of the shop in front of a small fridge unit tucked into the corner you had not even clocked on the way in, the kind that sells sad little sandwiches at a markup that is somehow still cheaper than anywhere proper, and he straightens up with two of them in hand and drops them into your basket before you have the chance to object.

"no," you say, reaching to take them straight back out. "i'll sort dinner, you don't need to—"

"i'm not lettin' you," he says, easy, shifting the basket slightly out of your reach without making a show of it.

"wade, i've already spent—"

"i know what you've already spent," he says. "i was there for all of it. that's exactly why i'm not lettin' you add a proper dinner on top of it tonight." he nods at the sandwiches like the matter is settled. "eat the cheap sandwich with me now, and i'll cook you somethin' decent later, with what's already in your fridge, which costs you nothin' extra, on account of the cookin' bein' free and me bein' the one doin' it."

"that's not really how—"

"i'm already costin' you enough," he says, quieter now, the easy tone dropping into something a little more honest. "the clothes, the chemist, the bus fare, all of it. let me do this one small thing without you fightin' me on it. it's a two doll- pound sandwich. it's not gonna bankrupt either of us."

you look at him, at the basket, at the slightly squashed sandwiches sitting on top of the toothbrush and the cologne, and you think about the pit still lodged in your throat from the pharmacy, from this way i'd know how to get back to you, and you decide this particular battle is not worth fighting in the middle of a discount shop with a queue starting to form behind you.

"fine," you say. "but you're cooking."

"already said i would."

you pay at the till, the total barely registering against the morning's spending, and you step back out into the cold with the bags multiplying steadily in his grip.

"supermarket next," you say, checking the time. "actual food. the kind that doesn't live in a fridge by the till."

he falls into step beside you immediately, easy, already asking what you're planning on eating for the rest of the week like it is the most natural question in the world, and you walk on, the pit in your throat finally starting to loosen, just slightly, with every ordinary thing he says and his determination to hold all three bags.

you find the supermarket two streets over, bigger than the corner shop near your flat, properly stocked, and you grab a trolley because the basket would not survive a full week's worth of groceries for two people, and you work through it the way you always do, fast, efficient, the mental arithmetic running constantly in the background, price per portion, what is on offer, what will stretch furthest, the specific calculation of someone who has been doing this on a bartender's wage for four years and has it down to muscle memory.

wade trails along beside you, helpfully if somewhat randomly useful, reaching things off high shelves without being asked, reading labels with the same careful attention he gives everything, occasionally holding something up and asking "this any good" about products he has clearly never encountered before, and you answer most of them on autopilot while doing the actual work of meal planning in your head. 

you work your way down the aisles, the trolley filling slowly, and somewhere near the toiletries section your hand drifts toward a face cream you have walked past a hundred times before, the kind with the nice packaging and the nicer smell, and you actually pick it up this time, turn it over, read the label properly, something in you genuinely wanting it for a second before you check the price tag and put it straight back on the shelf without a second thought, the whole motion so practiced it barely registers as a decision at all.

wade, beside you, watches the whole exchange with visible confusion.

"you liked that one," he says.

"i did."

"you put it back."

"i did that too."

he frowns slightly, looking between you and the shelf like he is missing some crucial piece of information. "why."

"because i can't always buy whatever i want just because i like it," you say, already moving on to the next aisle, the explanation coming out plain and unbothered, just a fact of your life rather than anything worth dwelling on. "you like things all the time. liking something isn't the same as it making financial sense."

he is quiet for a second, processing that, and then he nods, slow, something settling into understanding. "yeah," he says. "i get that. plenty of things i wanted growin' up that just weren't in the cards." he says it simply, no self pity in it, just an acknowledgment, and you glance at him and find him looking thoughtful rather than upset, and you move on to the next thing on your list.

it happens again near the end of the trip, in the aisle with the wine and the nicer spirits, a particular bottle you always look at and never buy, sitting there with its proper label and its proper price, and you stop in front of it, the small huff escaping you when you check and find it is not on any kind of offer this week, the way it never seems to be exactly when you happen to want it, and you put it back on the shelf with the same practiced lack of ceremony as the face cream and keep walking, already moving on to the next item on your mental list.

you do not notice, immediately, that wade has stopped walking.

it is only a few aisles later, reaching for something on a higher shelf, that you realise he is not beside you anymore, and you glance back the way you came and do not see him, and you decide, after a beat, not to go looking, because he has spent the entire day wandering off to inspect things and reappearing a few minutes later none the worse for it, and you carry on with the list, crossing things off, working steadily toward the end of it.

he reappears a few minutes later, falling back into step beside you with the trolley, and there is something faintly, unmistakably pleased about him, a small private satisfaction sitting in his face which you do not ask about. you are too busy double checking the list, and he does not offer anything either, just falls into the easy rhythm beside you, and the two of you finish the last few items and head for the till.

the trolley is reasonably full by the time you get there, not extravagant, but properly stocked, bread and eggs and pasta and vegetables and the bits and pieces that will get the two of you through the week without him having to subsist on toast and whatever he can improvise, and the cashier starts scanning it through, and you watch the little display tick upward, the running total climbing item by item.

wade watches it too, leaning slightly to see the screen, doing the same mental tally you are, and when the cashier finishes and the final total appears he frowns slightly.

"that's it?" he says.

"that's it."

"that's the whole amount."

"yes, wade, that's the total."

he looks at the screen a second longer, something working behind his eyes, and you assume, mostly, that he is just doing the conversion in his head, dollars to pounds, the same way he has been quietly recalculating prices all day, muttering things like "that's near on ten dollars for a sandwich" under his breath at the chemist.

you tap your card, the payment goes through, and you start loading bags, and it is only once you are halfway through bagging the second one that he says, slowly, like he is working through something out loud, "so there's no tax added on after."

you pause, a tin of tomatoes halfway into the bag. "what?"

"the tax," he says. "back home it gets added on at the register, after the price on the shelf. you don't know what you're really payin' till the very end. but that—" he nods at the receipt the cashier is holding out, "that's just what it said on the shelf. the whole way through."

you take the receipt, glance at it, and realise, properly, what he means. "vat's already included in the price here," you say. "what you see on the shelf is what you pay. there's no surprise at the till."

he looks almost personally affronted by this information, blinking at the receipt like it has wronged him somehow. "that's it? that's the whole system? you just see a number and that's the actual number?"

"that's the whole system."

"that's the most sensible thing i've heard all day," he says, with real feeling, shaking his head slightly as you finish loading the last bag, "and i watched a video this mornin' about a phone that folds in half."

"you're only realising this now? we've bought things three separate times today."

"i wasn't payin' that close attention at the chemist," he admits. "i was more concerned with the glasses fallin' off my face." he takes the heaviest bags off you without asking, settling them over both shoulders along with everything else he has been carrying since the changing room, entirely unbothered by the weight of it. "but i gotta say, ma'am, not gettin' surprised at the register is a genuine improvement on my whole life experience so far today."

"glad london's impressing you," you say, dry, heading for the door.

"it's growin' on me," he says, falling into step beside you, "real slow, but it's growin'."

you head back out into the cold with the bags distributed between you, wade carrying the bulk of it without complaint, and you cut back through the busier part of central, the crowd thinner now than it was this morning, the day having mellowed into early afternoon, and somewhere along the route you pass a souvenir shop with its window display spilling out onto the pavement, postcards and union jack mugs and a whole shelf of stuffed animals wearing tiny coats.

wade stops dead in front of it.

"who's this little fella?" he says, already crouching slightly to get a better look at one in particular, a small bear in a blue duffle coat and a red hat, sitting there with its painted, faintly hopeful expression, and he picks it up before you can answer, turning it over in his hands with the same careful attention he gives everything new.

"that's paddington bear.”

"and what's paddington bear's whole deal?"

you find yourself explaining it without really meaning to, the bear from darkest peru, found at a train station with a label around his neck that says please look after this bear, taken in by a family who did not know him from anywhere, a stranger who turns out to belong somewhere after all, who just needed someone to give him a chance and a coat and somewhere to sleep, and wade listens to the whole thing with his eyes on the little plush bear in his hands, quiet, absorbing it properly, the way he absorbs most things when nobody is asking him to perform a reaction to them.

when you finish he is quiet for a second longer.

"sounds like the fella's goin' through the same thing as me," he says, eventually, soft, not a joke this time, no grin attached to it, just a plain observation made with a kind of gentle surprise at finding himself reflected in a children's stuffed toy on a london pavement.

you laugh, short and a little caught off guard by how accurate it is. "i'll show you the film when we get home," you say. "it's better than it sounds. you'll like it."

he puts the bear back on the shelf carefully, gives it one last look, and falls back into step beside you, the bags shifting on his shoulders, and you keep walking, the conversation already moving on to something else, the cold biting at your hands, the bus stop not far ahead now.

it is only a few minutes later, crossing at the lights, that he says it, easy, unplanned, slotted into the middle of an unrelated sentence about something else entirely.

"when we get home," he says, "i'll start on that dinner i promised you."

you do not say anything about it. you do not need to. but he catches himself a half second after saying it, catches the word sitting there between you, home, said so simply, so without hesitation, like it had always belonged to both of you and not just you, and when he glances over to see if you noticed, you find him already looking at you with something softer than the grin, something quieter, almost careful, waiting to see what you make of it.

you do not make anything of it out loud. you just keep walking, and he falls back into step, and the smile he gives you a moment later is small and warm and entirely unguarded, the kind he has not quite shown you before today, and neither of you mentions the word again the rest of the way to the bus stop.

you reach the bus stop with a few minutes to spare before the next one, according to the little screen wade is once again faintly delighted by, and you set the bags down at your feet and check the time, settling in for the wait, the cold immediately more noticeable now that you have stopped moving, the heat of walking fading fast in the kind of damp november wind that does not care how many layers you are wearing.

you shiver, properly, your shoulders coming up toward your ears the same way his did this morning, and you do not even fully register it happening until wade is already moving behind you, stepping in close enough that his chest presses against your back, solid and warm, blocking the worst of the wind without making any particular announcement of doing it.

"you're freezin'," he says, close to your ear.

"i'm fine."

"you're shiverin'."

"it's november."

"i know what month it is," he says, and you feel him shrug something off his shoulders, the flannel, the one he has worn every single day since the corridor, and he settles it around you from behind, draping it over your shoulders properly, tugging it slightly so it actually sits right instead of just hanging there.

"wade, you don't have to—"

"already done it," he says, simply, settling back in behind you, close again, his chest at your back, his arms coming to rest loosely either side of you, not quite holding you, just there, a wall against the wind that the flannel alone was not built to be. "you can give it back when the bus comes."

you pull the flannel tighter around yourself without really deciding to, the warmth of it immediate, smelling faintly of him now, of the cheap cologne from the chemist and something underneath it that is just him, and you do not say anything else about it, just stand there at the bus stop with his chest against your back and his shirt around your shoulders and the cold mostly held at bay, the two of you watching the little screen count down the minutes together in silence.

"better?" he says, after a moment.

"better," you admit.

he hums, satisfied, and neither of you moves apart for the rest of the wait.

the bus pulls up and wade goes to head for the stairs automatically, already half turned toward the upper deck out of pure habit from the journey in, and you catch his sleeve before he gets there, a small uneasy feeling settling low in your stomach that you cannot immediately explain, just a flicker of wrongness, the kind of instinct you have learned to trust after enough late nights walking home through streets that occasionally gave you a reason not to ignore it.

"not up there," you say. "let's stay down here."

he looks at you, reading something in your face, and does not argue, just follows you onto the lower deck instead, and you find seats in the middle, tucked in, facing forward, and you take the window side without really thinking about why, and he settles into the aisle beside you, the bags stacked on top of each other at your feet, boxing you in slightly, deliberately, though you do not consciously register doing that either.

the bus pulls away from the curb and you sit there, watching the street go by, and the uneasy feeling does not go away, just sits there, low and persistent, nothing you can point to, no specific face or sound or moment, just the particular tightness behind your sternum that means something in you is paying attention even though the rest of you cannot say to what.

wade notices.

he always notices, you are starting to realise, some instinct in him tuned to exactly this kind of thing, and he goes still beside you, the easy loose posture from the rest of the day tightening into something else entirely, his shoulders setting, his eyes starting to move methodically around the bus, the other passengers, the doors, the windows, the quiet efficient scan of someone checking a room for whatever it is that has made you tense.

"hey," he says, low, just for you. "what's wrong."

"nothing," you say, automatically, the reflex answer.

"you went stiff the second we got on," he says. "and you don't want to sit upstairs. somethin's wrong."

"i don't know," you admit, after a second, because lying to him about it does not seem to be working and also feels, suddenly, like a waste of the energy you do not currently have to spare. "it's nothing i can point to. just a feeling."

he does not dismiss it. that is the thing you notice immediately, the thing that settles slightly against the unease rather than adding to it, he does not tell you it is probably nothing, does not tell you to relax, just nods once, slow, and keeps scanning the bus anyway, methodical, patient, treating the feeling as data rather than nonsense, the same way you imagine he has treated a hundred uneasy feelings in a hundred bars on a hundred friday nights that turned out to mean something.

"okay," he says, quiet. "we'll just sit tight, then." his arm settles along the back of your seat, not quite around you, just there and present.

the bus rolls on through three more stops, ordinary stops, people getting on with shopping bags and headphones in and the particular blank patience of saturday afternoon travel, and nothing happens, and you start to wonder, somewhere around the fourth stop, whether the feeling was nothing after all, whether four years of closing up alone after midnight has simply trained a permanent low hum of vigilance into you that occasionally fires for no reason at all.

then it starts in your feet.

a frequency so low it does not register as sound, not at first, just a vibration that comes up through the floor of the bus and into the soles of your shoes, into your ankles, your shins, settling somewhere behind your sternum before your conscious mind has caught up with what it is, and wade's arm goes rigid against the back of the seat at the exact same instant, his whole body changing beside you, the loose easy weight of him hardening into something braced, which tells you immediately, with a kind of sick certainty, that he recognises this, that his body knew it before either of your minds did.

"that's—" he starts, low, urgent.

the windows rattle in their frames, every one of them at once, a sound like something vast shifting its full weight against the chassis, and the overhead lights flicker, once, twice, hold on a wrong quality of light, dimmer and somehow colder, draining every face in the bus of its proper colour, and the bus itself hesitates beneath you, the driver's foot visibly coming off the accelerator through the gap in the partition, his head turning, confusion already arriving on his face before the actual reason for it does.

the bus tips.

not a crash, not an impact, just the entire frame rolling hard onto its left wheels, the suspension groaning under a weight distribution it was never built to survive, and every body on board goes sideways at once, bags sliding from the overhead racks, a woman three rows up thrown into the aisle with a cry, someone's drink skidding the length of the floor and spraying across several seats in a long dark stain. wade's arm clamps around you before you can brace yourself, hauling you bodily into him, his shoulder absorbing the worst of the tilt as the two of you slide hard into the seat in front, and at the same moment, somehow, impossibly, his feet shoot out and pin the bags at the base of your seat against the metal leg bolted to the floor, holding them in place even as half the bus rearranges itself around you, some deep unconscious instinct in him apparently still tracking the groceries even now.

outside the windows, the buildings along the street are doing something they should not be doing.

cracks race across the glass fronts of the shops in fine branching lines, one pane after another, and then a window gives entirely, bursting outward onto the pavement in a wide glittering spray that catches the impossible white light pouring down from the widening seam directly overhead, and a second window goes after the first, then a third, the sharp percussive sound of it layering over the deeper structural groan of the bus and the rolling thunder that arrives with no lightning to explain it.

the rain comes all at once, no warning, no gradual build, just suddenly and completely there, hard and horizontal, hammering the windows, hammering the street outside, and through the open stairwell at the front you can see it falling in full sheets, lit a stark unnatural white by whatever is tearing open above, and the wind that comes with it rocks the bus again, harder this time, a gust that makes the whole vehicle creak along its length.

someone near the front is screaming, a high continuous sound that does not stop for breath, and the child a few rows back is properly wailing now, a sound that climbs above everything else in the bus, raw and frightened, and the woman who had her phone out has dropped it entirely, both hands locked around the seat in front of her, shouting something at the driver that gets swallowed whole by the noise. the driver himself has abandoned the wheel and is standing half in the stairwell shouting into his radio, every trace of professional calm gone from his voice, and further back a man is yelling at everyone to stay calm in a voice that is doing the precise opposite of that.

wade does not yell.

wade goes still in the way you are starting to recognise as entirely specific to him, the same contained stillness from the corridor two nights ago, his arm locked fully around you now, his feet still braced hard against the bags, his body angled slightly to put himself between you and the window, and when he speaks again his voice is low and even and pitched directly into your ear, deliberately calm in a way that is clearly costing him something to maintain.

"i've got you," he says. "i'm not lettin' go. just hold on."

the bus rocks once more and then settles, properly this time, all four wheels finding the road again with a final heavy groan through the frame, though it does not stop the screaming, does not stop the rain, does not stop the crack overhead from continuing its slow terrible widening, the white light sweeping across every face on board in long shifting bars, and wade kinsella holds onto you in the middle of it with both arms now, steady and immovable, the only still point on a bus full of people who have just discovered, all at once, that the world does not reliably follow its own rules.

then the windows go.

not one, not the slow branching crack from the shopfronts outside, but every pane on the bus at once, a single violent shattering that fills the air with glass, and you duck instinctively into wade's chest as he turns his shoulder into the spray of it, taking the brunt across his back, and you feel small fragments catch in your hair and along the back of your hand where it is not fully shielded, sharp little stings that you will not properly register as cuts until later, and the wind that comes through the empty frames is not like any wind you have felt before, it has weight to it, a physical pressure that pushes papers and loose belongings the length of the bus and out through the gaps where the glass used to be.

the road outside starts to crack.

you can see it through the ruined window, past wade's shoulder, the tarmac splitting in a long jagged seam that runs the length of the street, widening as you watch, dust and grit kicking up from the edges of it like something enormous is moving directly beneath the surface, tunneling, displacing, and a parked car near the crack tips sideways into the new gap with a grinding metal shriek before its fuel line catches and it goes up in a sudden orange bloom of flame that throws heat you can feel even through the broken window, acrid and chemical, the smell of melting plastic and scorched rubber rolling into the bus on the wind.

people are running now, abandoning the bus entirely, spilling out through the doors and the gaps where windows used to be, scrambling over each other in the aisle, the screaming continuous and layered now, dozens of voices instead of one, and somewhere close by a second car catches, then a third, the orange light of it flickering against the white tear in the sky overhead in a combination that makes no visual sense, that your eyes cannot quite process as a single coherent scene.

sirens arrive from several directions at once, the layered overlapping wail of multiple services converging, and through the gap in the door you can see the first ambulance mounting the curb, paramedics already moving before it has fully stopped, and a police car skids in behind it at an angle, blue light strobing across the wet road and catching in the falling rain like something underwater, and further down the street more lights are arriving, more sirens, more uniformed shapes moving fast through the chaos with the particular urgent choreography of people trained for exactly this and still visibly unprepared for the scale of it.

you can taste copper at the back of your throat, the specific metallic tang of adrenaline, and you can smell the rain itself now underneath everything else, the ozone sharpness of it mixed with smoke and melted plastic and the wet stone smell of broken pavement, and your hands are shaking against wade's chest, properly shaking, and you realise you are gasping, short fast breaths that are not quite getting you enough air, your whole body trying to process too much input at once, glass in your hair, his heartbeat slamming under your palm, the heat of the burning cars reaching you even through the broken window, the screaming, the sirens, the impossible white light still pouring down from the crack overhead onto all of it.

"hey." wade's voice, close, steady, cutting through. his hand comes up to the back of your head, careful of the glass, holding you against him. "breathe. i need you breathin'. we're gonna move when it's safe and not before, you hear me."

you nod against his chest, not trusting your own voice yet, and outside the bus the road keeps splitting, the cars keep burning, the sirens keep multiplying, and the sky overhead keeps tearing itself open wider, raining its terrible white light down over the whole catastrophic length of the street.

"we need to move," wade says, close to your ear, the only way to be heard over the screaming and the sirens and the rain hammering what is left of the bus, and he is already shifting you toward the nearest broken window, glass cleared from the frame as best he can manage with one sweep of his sleeve, his hand under your arm, lifting more than guiding.

"climb out," he says. "now. i've got you, just climb."

you go, your legs barely cooperating, your hands finding the frame and your knees scraping against the metal edge as you scramble through, and you land hard on the wet tarmac outside, the heat from the burning cars further down the street reaching you even from this distance, and you turn back just in time to see wade grab the bags from where they have been pinned against the seat leg this entire time, hauling all of them out through the window in one motion before vaulting through himself, landing beside you in a low crouch that he comes up out of in a single fluid movement, already reaching for your hand.

"this way," he says, and you do not ask why that way and not another, you just go, his hand wrapped tight around yours, the bags somehow still slung over his shoulders despite everything, and you start walking, fast, weaving around the wreckage and the people and the wet shattered glass scattered across the pavement, and your legs do not feel like your own legs, wobbling under you with every step, adrenaline burning through whatever was holding you upright a minute ago and leaving something shaky and unreliable in its place.

the sirens do not stop. they layer over each other, closer ones and further ones, a wall of sound that makes it impossible to hear anything else properly, your own footsteps swallowed by it, wade's voice when he says something to you arriving distant and flattened, like you are hearing it through water, and you do not try to answer, you just keep walking, his hand the only fixed point in a world that has gone loud and wrong and entirely unsteady beneath your feet.

the walk takes longer than it should and also somehow no time at all, the two of you moving on something that is not quite conscious decision anymore, just forward motion, street after street, the sirens fading slightly behind you and then not fading at all, and you do not really register arriving at your building until you are already in the lobby, the heavy front door swinging shut and cutting the worst of the noise down to something muffled instead of immediate.

wade drops the bags right there, all of them, the thuds barely registering against the ringing still happening in your ears, and then his hands are on your face, both of them, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so you are looking at him properly, and his mouth is moving, he is saying something, his eyes wide and searching yours, but the sound arrives muffled and underwater, distant, wrong, like the volume on the entire world has been turned down to almost nothing.

you blink at him. you cannot make out the words. you can see the shape of his concern, the tightness around his eyes, the way his thumbs are moving slightly against your cheekbones, but none of it has sound attached to it, and the fear of that, of not being able to hear him when he is right in front of you saying something that clearly matters, starts to climb up your throat alongside everything else.

then your ears pop.

it happens all at once, a pressure releasing somewhere deep in your skull, and the world rushes back in, the sirens still faint now through the heavy door, the sound of your own breathing, the sound of him.

"wade," you say, the word coming out cracked, and you focus properly on his face for the first time since the bus, on the cut along his jaw you had not noticed before, a thin line of blood there, dried at the edges, and your hands come up to grab his wrists where they are still holding your face. "are you okay. oh my god, you're bleeding, are you—"

he pulls you in instead of answering, both arms wrapping around you properly now, tight, his chin coming down against the top of your head, right there in the lobby with the bags forgotten at your feet, and you feel the breath go out of him in a long unsteady exhale against your hair.

"are you hurt," he says, finally, his voice rough, ignoring the question you just asked him entirely in favour of asking his own. "anywhere. tell me."

"i don't know," you say, into his chest, your hands still gripping his wrists, "i don't know, i think i'm fine, i just—"

he pulls back enough to look at you again, his hand tightening around yours to hold you in place beside him, and you turn to look at him, confused, your legs still shaking, wanting nothing more than the stairs and the door and the inside of your own flat, and he is looking at you properly now in the dim lobby light, his eyes moving over your face, your hands, the front of your coat, a slow careful sweep that you recognise from the bus, the same instinct that scanned the aisle and the doors and the windows now turned entirely onto you.

"hold on," he says, his voice still rough but clearer now, the worst of the underwater quality fading from your hearing the further you get from the street. "just. hold on a second. let me look at you."

"wade, i'm fine, we need to—"

"you're shakin'," he says, cutting you off, gentle but immovable, and he sets the bags down against the wall properly, all of them, freeing both hands, and he takes your face again, the same gesture from a moment ago except slower this time, more deliberate, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones, checking, searching, his own breathing still not fully settled. "i need a second. i need to know you're alright before we go up there and i stop bein' able to think straight about anythin' else."

the muffled sound of the world is still going on somewhere behind the door, sirens and shouting and the distant smell of smoke that has followed you both the entire way home, and you let him look at you, let his hands move over your arms, your shoulders, checking for the things he cannot ask about properly yet

you stand there with him in the lobby, the bags forgotten against the wall, his heartbeat slamming under your palm where your hand has come to rest flat against his chest without you quite deciding to put it there, and you let him have his minute, and you take one of your own too, the two of you holding each other up in the quiet, ordinary, mercifully intact little lobby of your building, while somewhere out there the city continues to fall apart.

you both go up the stairs eventually, slow, quiet, neither of you in any hurry to rejoin the noise of the world outside, wade's hand still wrapped around yours and the bags balanced again over his shoulder, and you are three steps from the top of the final flight when he stops dead, his whole body going rigid in a way that has nothing to do with the bus or the street or anything that just happened to either of you.

"you've gotta be kiddin' me," he says, low, flat, disbelieving in a way that is somehow worse than panic.

you look past him.

there is a man standing outside your front door.

he is crouched slightly, working at the lock with something you cannot quite identify from this angle, and when he straightens to his full height at the sound of you on the stairs, he is taller than wade, properly taller, a couple of inches at least, enough that it registers immediately even from a distance, his shoulders set with a different kind of weight to them, broader through the frame in a way that speaks to a body built for endurance rather than charm. his hair is darker than wade's, damp and roughly pushed back from his face, threaded through with grey at the temples that wade does not have, and there is scruff along his jaw and cheeks, not the careful day-or-two stubble wade tends to wear but something heavier, unkempt, the look of a man who has not seen a mirror or cared to in some time. fine lines fan out from the corners of his eyes when he narrows them at you, the particular weathering of someone who has spent years squinting into actual sunlight rather than studio lighting, and there is blood at the corner of his mouth, dried dark, that he does not seem especially bothered by.

it is the same face as wade's underneath all of it, the exact same bones, the same jaw, but worn differently, harder, settled into something that has none of wade's easy warmth in it at all. where wade's stillness invites you in, this man's stillness does the opposite, a guarded watchful quality that assesses you both on the stairs with open suspicion rather than confusion, his eyes moving from you to wade and back again, calculating, the look of someone deciding whether the two of you are a threat before deciding anything else.

"who are you." he says, low, rough at the edges, no softness in it anywhere, his hand still resting on the door handle like he has not yet decided whether to let go of it.

beside you wade has gone rigid, his jaw locked tight, his whole face caught somewhere between recognition and dread, and you stand there on your own staircase between the two of them, your eyes moving from one face to the other, the same bones worn into two entirely different men, and the floor of everything you have spent the last three days convincing yourself drops out from under you all at once.

it was never amnesia. there is no wilson bethel underneath any of this, no actor waiting to be coaxed back out with a laptop and a gentle theory over coffee. wade kinsella has been exactly who he said he was since the very first sentence in the corridor, and the sky did not retrieve a confused actor and hand him a costume.

it has been opening, and it has been letting more of them through.

You ignore him anyway, because you always do when it’s your apartment and your life, and you can hear him struggling to keep somebody upright. You move down the hall barefoot, the hardwood cool under your feet, and you catch the shape of him in the living room by the dim kitchen light. He’s still in his suit, mask off, shoulders rising and falling too hard. One of his hands is clamped around an arm that doesn’t belong to him, hauling a second man forward like he’s refusing to let him hit the floor.

The second man stumbles, catches himself at the wall with a palm, then tilts his head toward you with a lazy kind of confidence that doesn’t match how unsteady he is. He’s dressed in blue gear that looks expensive and ruined at the same time, and the second his eyes land on you, his mouth curls like he just found something amusing. “Well,” he says, drawing it out like he’s tasting the word. “Hi.”

You stare at him, then back at Matt, and you don’t bother lowering your voice. “Why is there a stranger in my apartment, and why does he look like he crawled out of a fire?”

Matt’s head turns in your direction with that pinpoint focus he always has when he’s tracking your voice. “He’s not a stranger to me,” he says, and you can hear how carefully controlled he’s being. “He’s hurt and I didn’t have another choice.”

Dex laughs under his breath like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week. “You make it sound like you rescued a kitten. I’m touched.”

Matt’s grip tightens on Dex’s arm, and Dex hisses like it actually hurts. “Watch your mouth,” Matt snaps, then forces his voice back down when he speaks to you again. “We ran into each other on a call. There was a lab. Something broke. There were… containers.”

“Containers,” you repeat, flat, because it’s absurd and vague and you can see the way Matt’s suit is flecked with something that might be dust or dried chemical residue. “You’re bleeding?”

“I’m fine,” Matt says too fast, which is how you know he isn’t, and his shoulders hunch like he’s bracing against heat or pain. “It’s not bad.”

Dex slides down the wall like he’s trying to sit without admitting he needs to, then he looks at you again with that same sharp interest that makes your skin crawl. His gaze drags, slow and deliberate, from your face to the thin fabric of your nightgown and back up, and he doesn’t even pretend he’s being subtle.

You fold your arms over your chest and let your expression go cold. “Can I help you?”

His smile widens a fraction. “You’re prettier than I pictured.”

Matt’s head snaps toward Dex so sharply it’s almost violent, and for a second you see the exact moment his restraint threatens to split. “Don’t,” Matt says, low and dangerous.

Dex’s eyes flick up, mocking. “Don’t what? Look? Talk? Breathe in her general direction?”

You step closer without thinking, because you hate the way Dex is taking up space in your living room like he belongs here, and you hate even more that Matt is shaking with something that looks like exhaustion mixed with anger. Up close you can see the sweat at Matt’s temples, the damp hair stuck to his forehead, and the way his chest rises like he’s struggling to pull air deep enough.

“Matt,” you say, softer now, because whatever this is, it’s making him feel wrong in his own body. “Talk to me. What happened?”

Matt swallows, and his jaw flexes. “We fought,” he admits, like it costs him to say it with you standing there. “He showed up where he shouldn’t have been. We went through a glass enclosure, and there were test tubes inside it. They shattered.”

Dex shifts, his voice turning conversational like he’s discussing the weather instead of the aftermath of a fight. “You should’ve seen his face when the thing popped. Real dramatic. Whole room went sparkly.”

“You’re enjoying this,” you say, and you don’t bother hiding how much you dislike him.

Dex tips his head. “I enjoy most things.”

Matt exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to say something that would turn this into an even bigger disaster. “There was a chemical. I don’t know what it was. I just know the heat hit fast, and then we both went down for a minute.”

He shifts his grip, reaches into his suit with his free hand, and you instinctively lean forward because the motion looks clumsy, like his hands don’t want to cooperate. When he pulls his fist back out, he’s holding a broken length of glass, the snapped end jagged and cloudy like something coated the inside.

“I kept a piece,” Matt says, and his voice is tight with the kind of practicality that always kicks in when he’s scared. “I didn’t want to leave without something. If we can figure out what it was—”

“Matt,” you cut in, because the glass makes your stomach drop. “Why are you holding that with your bare hand?”

“I’m not cut,” he says, and you can tell he’s telling the truth, because his voice doesn’t hitch the way it does when he lies to you. “It’s not sharp on this end.”

Dex snorts. “Sure. He’s very careful, your boyfriend. Extremely careful. That’s why he dragged his enemy into your apartment at midnight, wearing his murder pajamas.”

Your eyes cut to Dex. “Stop talking.”

Dex’s grin turns delighted. “Aw. You tell him what to do too? That’s cute.”

Matt’s patience finally cracks in a way that has nothing to do with you. He yanks Dex’s arm up, not enough to dislocate anything, but enough to remind Dex who’s stronger, then he shoves him toward the couch with a controlled kind of force. Dex stumbles, catches himself on the back cushion, and laughs again like it’s foreplay.

“Sit,” Matt says, clipped. “And if you say one more thing about her, I’m putting you through the wall.”

Dex settles onto the couch with exaggerated ease, stretching his legs out like he’s in a waiting room. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Matt turns back to you, and the aggression falls away from his face like it was never there, replaced by something strained and urgent. He holds the broken tube out in your direction, and you take it because you don’t want it in his hand anymore, even though you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with it.

The glass is warm, warmer than it should be, and the cloudy residue inside catches the light faintly. You angle it away from your body on instinct, then look up at Matt. “Okay. You brought me… a dirty shard of a test tube.”

“I know,” Matt says, and he sounds frustrated with himself, like he can hear how ridiculous it is. “I didn’t think. I just—I wanted it here. Safe.”

“You couldn’t have put it in a bag?” you say, and you can’t help it, because your nerves are trying to get relief through sarcasm. “Or a sock? Or literally anything that isn’t my bare hands?”

Matt’s mouth twitches, but it’s not a smile, not really. “I’ll clean up after. I just need you to—” He cuts himself off, breath stuttering like the heat is spiking again. “I need you to help me keep a clear head.”

You don’t say what you’re thinking, which is that he doesn’t look like he has one right now. Instead, you lift your chin toward the bathroom. “Both of you need to change, shower if you can. At least get those suits off, because whatever this was, it’s on you.”

Dex’s voice floats over, bright with amusement. “Oh, yeah. Tell him to take it off.”

Your eyes flick to him again, and you don’t bother masking the disgust. “You can shut up and do as you’re told too.”

Dex raises an eyebrow. “Bossy. I like it.”

Matt takes a step toward him like he’s about to make good on the wall threat, but you touch Matt’s forearm before he can. “Matt,” you say, grounding him, and his head turns back to you immediately. “Bathroom. Now.”

His throat works, and he nods once, sharp and obedient, because he trusts you. “Dex first. I’m not letting him wander.”

Dex pushes himself up with a lazy stretch, then pauses just long enough to look you up and down again, slow as he pleases. “Your nightgown’s a nice touch,” he murmurs.

Matt’s hand shoots out and clamps on Dex’s shoulder, and Dex makes a sound that’s half laugh, half choke. “Move,” Matt growls.

Dex lifts both hands like he’s surrendering, but the grin never leaves. “Okay, okay. Lead the way.”

You step back to give them space, holding the broken glass out away from your body like it’s something that might bite you. Matt herds Dex down the hall, and you watch them disappear into the bathroom, the door shutting with a firm click that sounds like Matt trying to lock his temper away in the same place.

For a second, the apartment is quieter, except for the muffled sound of water turning on and the rough edge of Matt’s breathing bleeding through the door. You look down at the test tube shard in your hand, then at your nightgown, then toward the kitchen where you keep plastic bags and gloves under the sink, and you mutter to yourself because you can’t believe this is your life. “Okay,” you say under your breath, moving toward the kitchen. “Cold water. Towels. Gloves. Something to cool them down. Then we figure out what the hell you two brought home.”

From the bathroom, Dex’s voice carries, too clear, too smug. “So, this is the girlfriend.”

Matt’s reply is low and sharp enough that even through the door you hear the warning. “Don’t.”

Dex laughs again, softer this time, like he’s savoring it. “God, you’re fun.”

You grab a roll of paper towels with one hand, dig for a plastic bag with the other, and you tell yourself you’re not going to let Dex get under your skin, because you’ve dealt with Matt’s stubbornness, his bruises, his secrets, and the way he tries to carry the whole city alone, and you can handle one sarcastic asshole on your couch.

Then the warmth hits you, subtle at first, like your apartment suddenly got too hot even though the thermostat hasn’t changed, and you pause with your fingers still in the cabinet because your skin prickles in a way that makes no sense.

You take a breath, then another, and the air feels thick in your lungs, not choking, just… heavy, like it’s carrying something you didn’t notice before. “Matt,” you call, raising your voice toward the bathroom. “How sure are you that stuff wasn’t airborne?”

There’s a pause, water still running, and then his voice comes back through the door, tight with a kind of grim certainty. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “But I think it was.”

Your stomach drops, and you stare down at the glass shard in your hand like it just turned into a live wire. You shove it carefully into the plastic bag, seal it with shaking fingers, and tell yourself you’re being dramatic, because you’re fine, you’re just warm, it’s probably stress, it’s probably adrenaline—

Except your nightgown suddenly feels too soft and too clingy, and your thighs press together on instinct like you’re trying to get friction from nothing. You swallow hard, forcing your hands to keep moving, forcing your brain to stay on the list of practical tasks you can control.

Cold packs. Water. Clothes. Get them out of the contaminated suits.

You grab two bottles of water from the fridge, then a third, because Dex can suffer but dehydration is still dehydration, and you yank the freezer open for ice packs. The cold air hits your face, and it should feel good, but it only makes the heat under your skin feel sharper by contrast.

You stand there longer than you mean to, letting the freezer’s cold wash over you while your pulse kicks harder for no reason you want to name. Your nipples tighten under the nightgown, your stomach flips, and you force your mouth into a hard line because this cannot be happening, not tonight, not with Dex in your living room and Matt barely holding himself together.

The water shuts off and then there are two sets of footsteps. One steady, one dragging with theatrical exaggeration.

You straighten up, slam the freezer closed, and turn with the water bottles in hand like you’re about to run a triage station, because if you keep moving, you can pretend your body isn’t suddenly acting like you’re the one who came home from a fight covered in whatever the hell was in that lab.

You hand them the water bottles like you’re running a field hospital out of your kitchen, and the second Matt’s fingers brush yours you feel how hot he is, like his skin is holding heat instead of just warming you the way it normally does. Dex takes his bottle without a thank you, of course, twisting the cap with a lazy flick and drinking like he’s trying to look unbothered, even though sweat is still beading at his hairline.

“Sit,” you tell them, nodding toward the couch and the armchair like you’re assigning stations. “Both of you. If either of you falls over, I’m not catching you.”

“I’m not going to fall,” Matt says, and he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. He’s in a dark t-shirt and sweatpants now, hair damp from the quick rinse, suit shoved somewhere in the bathroom, and he’s still breathing like his lungs are running behind his body. He stands there for a second, head slightly tilted, listening to the room like he’s trying to find the chemical in the air by sound alone.

Dex drops onto the couch and sprawls like he lives there, one arm slung over the back cushion. Matt doesn’t sit, not yet, and you can tell he’s vibrating with it, the need to keep moving, to keep control, to not let his body win.

“You said you don’t know what it was,” you say, and you keep your voice even because if you let yourself sound scared, you’ll make Matt spiral. “Did you see labels? Any markings? Anything at all?”

Dex snorts into his water bottle. “He didn’t see shit.”

Matt’s jaw tightens hard enough that you can see it. “There were racks. Glass. It was like a display enclosure more than storage. Maybe a demonstration.” He pauses, then adds like he hates the words, “there was a sweet smell. Like… hot metal and sugar.”

“That’s helpful,” you say automatically, even though it isn’t, and you can feel your own skin prickling again, that wrong warmth spreading across your chest and down your stomach. You shift your weight, trying to ignore it, trying to treat it like the apartment just got stuffy because two overheated men dragged themselves in and your adrenaline is still high.

Dex’s gaze drifts to you again, and this time it lingers longer, sharper. “You’re sweating,” he says, like it’s an observation and a victory at the same time.

“I’m fine,” you snap without thinking, and it comes out too fast, too defensive, which is annoying because it makes it sound like you aren’t fine.

Matt’s head turns toward you immediately, and his voice drops into that careful calm he uses when he’s trying not to panic. “You’re sweating?”

“Matt,” you say, trying to laugh it off, but it sounds thin. “It’s late, my boyfriend came home half-dead with a lunatic, I’m running on caffeine and anxiety. I’m allowed to sweat.”

Dex’s mouth curls. “He’s not your boyfriend right now. He’s a furnace.”

“Okay,” you say, too bright, already done with him. You point toward the hallway. “No more commentary from the peanut gallery. You’re sitting there, you’re drinking water, and you’re shutting up.”

Dex lifts his hands in fake surrender again, then settles back with an obnoxiously pleased look on his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

Matt finally lowers himself into the armchair, but he doesn’t relax into it. His hands stay on his thighs like he’s bracing, and when he exhales it’s rough, like the air drags. You set the ice packs on the coffee table and slide one toward him, and another toward Dex, trying to keep this practical because practical means you’re not thinking about the heat crawling under your nightgown.

“Put those on your neck,” you tell them. “Or your wrists. Something.”

Dex picks his up, presses it to his throat, and groans like he’s being dramatic on purpose. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Matt takes his, but he doesn’t immediately put it on. He lifts it, then pauses like he’s listening again, and his head tilts toward you in a way that makes your stomach drop because he’s noticed something, and Matt noticing something is never casual. “You’re breathing differently,” he says.

You stare at him. “What?”

“You’re breathing differently,” he repeats, steady, like he’s trying to keep it neutral. “It’s… faster.”

Dex’s eyes flick between you and Matt, and his smile turns sharp, like he’s watching a show start. “Uh-oh.”

“I’m fine,” you insist again, and you hate how your voice shakes at the end, because it makes Matt’s posture go even tighter.

Matt’s hands curl around the ice pack, and he forces himself to stay seated. “Tell me if you feel anything,” he says, and there’s a hard edge beneath the calm. “If it’s airborne, you’re exposed too.”

“I know,” you say, and you hate that the admission makes the warmth in your body flare like it’s responding to being acknowledged. You swallow and shift again, rubbing your thighs together without meaning to, then stopping when you realize you did it. “I’m going to look it up. Something has to match those symptoms.”

Dex’s gaze drops to your legs like he’s cataloging the movement, and your cheeks go hot in a way that isn’t just temperature. You pick up your phone before you can think too hard about that, because thinking too hard about Dex watching you is a problem you don’t want tonight.

You walk into the kitchen with your phone in hand, because if you stay in the living room with both of them staring at you in different ways, you’re going to lose your mind. You type fast, thumbs slipping a little because your hands feel clammy.

You stare at the results like they’re in another language, and you scroll anyway, because you’re stubborn and you need something concrete. Your mind keeps snagging on the words sweet smell, heat, exposure, and every time you try to force it back onto “poison” or “irritant” your body does something else entirely, like it’s dragging you toward a different conclusion. Your nipples ache against the thin fabric of your nightgown, your stomach tightens low, and the slick heat between your thighs becomes impossible to pretend is stress.

You type again, more frantic.

Your phone gives you a bunch of useless articles, clickbait and vague warnings and the word aphrodisiac showing up in places that make your pulse jump. You read half a sentence, then realize you’re not reading at all because the heat in your body is swallowing your attention. You grip the counter and try to breathe slowly like that will fix it, but the second you inhale, the air feels thick again, and the warmth in your lungs makes your thighs clench.

From the living room, you hear Dex’s voice carrying, casual and taunting. “So, how long you think before she starts climbing you like a tree?”

Matt’s voice is low, dangerous. “Don’t talk about her.”

Dex laughs, and you hate that the sound makes something flutter in your stomach, like your body is reacting to the idea before your brain can slam the door on it. You squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to think about anything else. Cold water. Ice packs. Gloves. Cleaning supplies. Bag the glass shard. Call someone. Call—

You realize you’re holding your breath, and when you exhale it trembles.

Your nightgown clings to your stomach and thighs, damp where you’re sweating, and the sensation is suddenly unbearable, too soft, too much. You tug at the fabric like it’s suffocating you, then stop because your hands shake, and you’re not sure if it’s fear or need. Your phone is still in your hand, screen glowing with the word arousal, and you want to throw it across the room.

Instead, you set it down on the counter, hard, like you can punish it into giving you a better answer. “Okay,” you mutter to yourself, voice tight. “Okay. I’m not doing this. I’m not—”

You walk out of the kitchen, meaning to go back to the living room, meaning to keep control of the situation, meaning to tell Matt what you found and keep Dex from running his mouth. Halfway down the hall, the heat spikes again, sharper, and you stop like you ran into a wall.

Your skin feels too sensitive, like every brush of air is a touch. Your panties suddenly feel like a cruel joke, a thin strip of fabric that’s rubbing exactly where you can’t stand it, and you press your thighs together hard enough that it almost hurts. You try to keep walking, you really do, but your knees go a little weak and your breath catches, and you end up turning into the bedroom without making the decision out loud.

The room is dim and familiar and smells like you and Matt, clean sheets and laundry detergent and something warm underneath, and that makes it worse, because it makes the need feel safe enough to bloom.

You shut the door halfway behind you, not all the way because you don’t want to look suspicious, and you stand against the wall with your back against it like you’re steadying yourself. Your nightgown rides up when you shift, and the cool air hits your thighs, and your body reacts so hard you actually gasp.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

You try to be rational again, you try to talk yourself down like you’ve never been turned on before in your life, like this is just horny and not chemical and not dangerous. You tell yourself you can take a cold shower, you can drink water, you can breathe it out, and then your fingers slide under the hem of your nightgown anyway, because your body is done waiting for your permission.

Your hand slips into your panties, and the second your fingertips find your slick pussy you go still, eyes squeezed shut, because the relief is immediate and dizzying. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, because the sound that wants to come out of you is not something you can let Dex hear from your bedroom, not when he’s sitting on your couch like a smug parasite.

You circle your clit carefully at first, trying to keep it quiet, trying to keep it controlled, and it doesn’t work. Your hips rock into your hand without you telling them to, and the wet sound of your fingers moving makes your cheeks burn. You press your head against the wall, breathing through your nose, trying to keep your mouth shut, but the heat keeps climbing, building like pressure under your skin.

“Come on,” you whisper to yourself, harsh and frustrated, like you can bully your body into settling down. “Just—just calm down.”

You don’t calm down. Your fingers slide lower, two of them pushing into your cunt with a slow, shaking thrust, and you have to clamp your other hand over your mouth momentarily because the moan nearly spills out anyway. The stretch makes your stomach flip, makes your thighs tremble, and you can’t decide which is worse: the relief or the fact that it’s making you want more instead of fixing anything.

You pull your fingers out, then push them back in again, deeper this time, and your knees flex like you’re about to sink to the floor. You grip the fabric of your nightgown at your waist with your free hand, bunching it up so you can spread your legs wider, because you’re chasing friction now, chasing anything that makes the burning need feel like it has a direction.

The thought of Matt flashes through your head, automatic, grounding and devastating. Matt’s hands. Matt’s mouth. Matt’s voice telling you what to do when you can’t think straight.

Then Dex’s voice flashes too, the way he looked at you, the way he said you’re sweating, the way he keeps pressing at Matt like he wants a reaction. The idea of Dex hearing you through the wall makes your stomach clench again, and it’s not all disgust, and that realization pisses you off so much that you shove your fingers in deeper like you can punish yourself back into sense.

You’re panting now, sweat slick on your back, nightgown twisted up around your ribs, and you can’t get enough air. Your clit throbs under your thumb, oversensitive, and you move faster even though you’re trying not to. The sound of your own wetness fills your ears, and you tilt your head back like you’re trying to keep your mouth away from the urge to moan.

From the living room, you hear a muffled sound, probably Dex shifting, maybe Matt saying something sharp, and you freeze for half a second, panic jolting through you. You listen hard, holding your breath, fingers still buried in your cunt.

No footsteps yet.

You swallow, shaky, and start moving again because stopping feels like dying. You bite your lip again, harder, and the sting makes your eyes water, but it keeps you quiet. Your body builds toward the edge anyway, tightening and tightening until it feels like your skin is going to split open with it.

“Fuck,” you breathe, almost silent, and you chase the pressure harder because you need it to break. Right as you feel your orgasm start to crest, the sound of footsteps hits the hallway, steady and purposeful, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been caught doing something criminal.

Matt’s footsteps.

They’re careful, controlled, and they stop outside your bedroom door for half a beat like he’s listening, like he already knows exactly what you’re doing, because he always knows. Matt’s footsteps stay outside the door for a beat too long, and you can feel him there the way you always can when he’s focused, like the air in the room shifts around his attention. You freeze with your hand still in your panties, fingers slick, thighs trembling, breath coming in shallow, broken pulls that you’re trying to force quieter.

The door nudges open, not hard, just enough that it moves on its hinges with a soft click, and Matt’s voice follows immediately, low and careful like he’s holding himself back by the teeth. “Sweetheart… are you okay?”

You swallow, throat tight, and you try to make your face normal even though you can’t stop shaking. Your fingers twitch against your cunt, and the tiny movement shoots a hot jolt straight up your spine. “Yeah,” you say too fast, and it comes out wrecked anyway, breathy and cracked like you’re already begging. “I’m fine. I just—I’m hot. I’m just—”

Matt steps in and closes the door behind him with the gentlest touch, like he doesn’t want the sound to carry, and then he stops again, head tilted, listening to you the way he listens to everything. You know he can hear your pulse slamming in your throat, can hear how wet you are, can hear the way you’re trying to keep your breathing from turning into moans.

“You’re not fine,” he says, and it isn’t accusing, it’s steady, like he’s naming a fact. “Talk to me.”

You laugh once, short and sharp, because it’s either that or cry. “I tried to look it up. I tried to be normal about it. I—” You cut yourself off when your hips rock into your own hand again, helpless, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Matt, I can’t—I can’t think.”

He crosses the room fast, but not frantic, and the difference matters because it’s Matt; even when he’s losing control, he tries to make you feel safe first. His hand finds your wrist unerringly, gentle but firm, stopping your movement for a second, not taking it away, just holding you still long enough that you have to breathe.

“Hey,” he murmurs, closer now, and his other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s checking if you’re real. “Look at me.”

You do, because you always do, and the sight of him in the dim light makes something inside you twist. He looks wrecked too, sweat still at his temples, hair damp, t-shirt clinging to his chest, and his mouth is set in this tight line like he’s trying to be your anchor while his own body is on fire.

“You don’t have to lie,” he says softly, and his thumb drags across your lower lip, slow and grounding. “Do you want help?”

Your throat bobs, and you try to answer like a normal person instead of somebody with their panties soaked through, but it comes out raw. “Yes.”

Matt doesn’t move right away. He holds your face, keeps his thumb at your lip like he’s keeping you from spinning out, and his voice drops even lower. “Say it again.”

Your breath shudders, and you nod even though you know he doesn’t need the nod, he needs the words. “Yes, Matt. I want help.”

His jaw flexes. His shoulders rise and fall once like he’s pulling himself together on purpose, and then he asks you the question that always matters more than anything else, even now, even like this. “Tell me what you want,” he says, and his voice is steady enough that it makes your eyes sting. “Use words.”

You wet your lips, and your cheeks burn because it feels too explicit to say out loud when he can already hear it, when he already knows, but he makes you do it anyway because that’s how he keeps you safe in the middle of chaos. “I want your fingers,” you manage, breath shaking. “I want you to make it stop—or make it better, I don’t know, just… please.”

Matt makes a sound in the back of his throat like the words hit him in the gut, and then his grip on your wrist loosens. He slides your hand out of your panties and brings it up, pressing your slick fingers to his mouth in a way that makes your stomach flip so hard you almost lose your balance.

He kisses your fingertips, slow and wet, and then he licks them, once, deliberate, like he’s tasting exactly what you need. His breath is hot against your skin, and he exhales through his nose like it hurts. “Okay,” he says against your fingers, voice rougher now. “I’ve got you.”

You barely have time to nod before his hand replaces yours, sliding down into your panties like he belongs there, like he owns the space because you gave it to him. He moves slow at first, two fingers brushing through your wetness, spreading it, teasing your entrance like he’s forcing himself to be careful even though your hips buck toward him immediately.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and it’s tiny, but Matt hears it anyway. His mouth finds yours, messy and hungry, like he’s starving and trying not to scare you with it. The kiss turns into something hot and open-mouthed almost instantly, your lips parting because you can’t do anything else, your hands grabbing at his shoulders to keep yourself upright.

Matt’s fingers sink into you, steady and deep, curling just right, and you make a strangled sound into his mouth because it’s too much relief and not enough at the same time. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to swallow your noises, and the way he breathes tells you his control is fraying too, his exhale stuttering against your cheek.

“Good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, then kissing you again before you can answer. “That’s it. Let me.”

You whine, hips chasing his hand, and your back hits the wall harder as you try to grind into him. Matt adjusts instantly, stepping closer, pinning you with his body without crushing you, and it’s the best kind of pressure because it keeps you from sliding apart.

Your hands are everywhere, grabbing at him like you need proof he’s here, and then your palms find the front of his sweatpants and you can feel him through them, hard and thick, and it makes you gasp into his mouth.

“Matt,” you breathe, half warning, half plea, and you rub him without thinking, dragging your hand over his cock through the fabric because the friction makes your whole body light up. He shudders, and his fingers thrust deeper like his restraint slipped a notch.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing hard enough that you feel it. “Jesus,” he mutters, and it’s the closest you’ve ever heard him come to sounding undone. “You’re soaked.”

“I can’t—” you start, and your voice breaks when his thumb finds your clit and presses in firm, circling just right. “I can’t, I’m gonna—”

“Go on,” Matt says, and his tone turns quietly possessive, not harsh, just certain. “Come for me.”

Your body snaps tight, knees shaking, and you clamp a hand over your mouth too late because the sound still leaks, broken and desperate. You grind into his hand, rubbing his cock harder because you can’t help it, and Matt’s breath turns ragged as he holds you steady and keeps working you through it.

You come fast, like your body was right at the edge already and he just pushed you over, shaking so hard your shoulders hit the wall again. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, wet and tight, and you moan his name into your palm like it’s a prayer and a plea all at once.

Matt doesn’t stop when you finish. He slows down, but he keeps moving, stroking you through the aftershocks with a tenderness that’s almost cruel because it drags the sensation out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, hips twitching away and then back again because you don’t want it to end.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, mouth at your cheek, kissing the corner of your jaw, then the side of your throat. “That’s my girl. Breathe.”

You try to, but every breath comes out shaky, and you can feel him shaking too. His chest rises hard against yours, his heart hammering so loud you can feel it through the thin fabric of his shirt, and his hand at your clit presses a little firmer like he’s fighting his own need by pouring it into you instead.

“Matt,” you whisper, voice ruined, and you tug him closer by the shirt like you need him to anchor you. “You’re… you’re not okay either.”

“I’m fine,” he lies automatically, and then exhales like he hates himself for it. His thumb keeps circling your clit, his fingers still inside you, and his hips jerk once when you brush his cock again through his sweats. “I’m managing.”

“You’re breathing like you ran a marathon,” you say, a shaky attempt at normal that falls apart when his hand hits a spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back. “And you’re hard.”

Matt lets out a rough laugh that doesn’t sound amused. “Yeah,” he admits, and his voice goes lower, tighter. “I noticed.”

You slide your hand over him again, slower this time, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, and Matt’s fingers stutter inside you like he lost the rhythm for a second. He pulls his mouth away from yours just enough to speak, and the words come out controlled only by force.

“Tell me you want me to keep going,” he says, because even now he needs it said. “Tell me.”

Your stomach flips, your cunt clenches around his fingers, and you nod too hard before you remember he wants words.

“I want you to keep going,” you say, breathless and shameless. “Don’t stop. Please, Matt, don’t stop.”

His hand flexes inside you again, and you feel him shudder against you like the fever is chewing through his restraint. He kisses you hard, messy, and keeps fingering you like he’s trying to chase the chemical out of both your bodies one orgasm at a time, even though you can hear it in his breath that he’s right on the edge of losing control too.

“You guys gonna do that all night, or are we sharing?”

Dex’s voice carries through the door like he’s leaning right up against it, like he wants you to know he’s listening on purpose, and it makes your whole body clench around Matt’s fingers.

Matt doesn’t flinch the way a normal person would. He goes still in that specific way he does when he’s deciding whether to be a man or a weapon, and his hand doesn’t stop moving even while his head turns toward the sound like he can see Dex perfectly through the wood. “Get out,” Matt says, and his voice is calm enough to be terrifying.

The doorknob turns anyway, and then the door opens just enough for light from the hallway to cut across the room, and Dex fills the gap with a grin and a body language that screams entitlement. He’s in Matt’s clothes like it’s a joke he’s telling with his whole presence, sweat darkening the collar of the t-shirt, hair damp, cheeks flushed. His eyes flick right to Matt’s hand between your thighs, then slide up your body, lingering on your bunched nightgown and your bare legs like he’s taking inventory.

“Wow,” Dex drawls. “And here I was thinking we were gonna be civilized about it.”

Matt’s hand tightens at your jaw, thumb still at your lip like he’s anchoring you there, and his other hand stays inside your panties like it belongs. “I said get out,” he repeats, and it’s not louder, it’s just sharper.

Dex leans on the doorframe like he lives there, like this is his apartment too and he’s just wandered into the room for a snack. “What, you gonna hit me? You gonna throw me out with your big righteousness routine?”

“Dex,” Matt says, and the warning in his tone is the same one you’ve heard on rooftops when he’s cornered someone and hasn’t decided yet how merciful he’s feeling. “Leave.”

You should say it—you should tell Dex to fuck off. You should tell Matt to shut the door, lock it, and keep taking care of you like he was. You can feel your body screaming for that simple outcome, begging for just Matt’s hand and his mouth and no complications.

Instead you hear yourself say, breathless and wrecked, “don’t leave.”

The words hang in the air for a beat, and it’s so quiet you can hear your own pulse thundering. Matt freezes like somebody stabbed him with the sentence, and Dex’s expression changes instantly, the grin turning sharp and delighted like you just handed him a key.

Matt’s head turns back to you, and his thumb presses at your lower lip, a soft demand. “Sweetheart,” he says carefully, “tell me what you mean.”

Your throat works, and your cheeks burn because you know how it sounds, you know how this looks, you know you’re standing here with Matt’s fingers inside you and your panties soaked and your nightgown twisted up like you got caught doing something you shouldn’t. You still say it anyway because the heat in your body doesn’t care about dignity, and because Matt asked you for words.

“I mean,” you manage, voice shaking, “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to stop. I don’t want him—” You swallow hard, and your hips twitch against Matt’s hand like your body is trying to talk for you. “I don’t want him to leave either.”

Matt’s jaw flexes, and his fingers don’t move for a second, like he’s forcing himself to prioritize the conversation over the way you’re clenching around him, and then he speaks like he’s laying down law in his own bedroom.

“You don’t touch her,” Matt says to Dex, voice flat. “You don’t come near her unless she says so again while you’re standing right here and I can hear her say it. You understand me?”

Dex’s smile turns almost polite, which is somehow worse. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Consent. Boundaries. Gold star, counselor.”

Matt doesn’t look at him, but his hand at your jaw tightens a fraction. “Tell me,” Matt says to you, slow and steady, “if you want him involved right now. Say it clearly.”

Your lungs pull in a shaky breath. You can feel Dex’s eyes on you like a physical pressure, and you can feel Matt’s body heat pressed close, the steady weight of him holding you upright. You don’t want Dex to have power over this, you want it to be yours. You nod, then force the words out because Matt needs the words. “I want him,” you say, and it comes out filthy in a way that makes you shiver. “I want… both of you. I want it to feel good. I want it to stop feeling like I’m gonna crawl out of my skin.”

Matt inhales through his nose, the sound tight. “Okay,” he says, like he’s agreeing to something dangerous because you asked. “Then it happens my way.”

Dex pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room like he’s been invited to a party he already planned to crash. “Your way,” Dex repeats, amused, and his gaze drops again to your thighs, to the wet line at the edge of your panties. “Sure. I’m flexible.”

Matt’s hand slips out of your panties, and you make a small, involuntary sound because the sudden emptiness is almost painful. He immediately replaces it with his palm over your cunt through the fabric, pressing firm enough to keep you from chasing him, and he leans in close to your ear. “We’re moving,” he murmurs. “Bed. Hold onto me.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, and Matt lifts you like it’s nothing, like your body is just another thing he knows by weight and balance and memory. He carries you the few steps to the bed, guiding you down onto the mattress with a gentleness that doesn’t match the heat burning through the room. The sheets are cool for half a second before your skin turns them warm.

Dex circles closer, eyes bright. “This is adorable,” he says, and the sarcasm doesn’t hide the hunger in his voice.

“Shut up,” you tell him, and it comes out breathless, half a laugh and half a warning, because your body is already arching for touch again.

Dex’s grin widens. “Yes, ma’am.”

Matt kneels on the bed beside you, then over you, and the way he positions himself is so Matt it almost makes you dizzy. His palm slides up your thigh, fingers splaying like he’s mapping you, grounding you. He hooks a finger under the strap of your nightgown and drags it down your shoulder just to kiss the skin there, slow and possessive, like he’s reminding you whose mouth you’re about to be moaning into.

Dex reaches for you, and Matt catches his wrist without even looking, grip iron. “Ask,” Matt says.

Dex holds your gaze, and his voice drops just enough to feel more real. “Can I?”

You swallow. You’re still trembling, still slick, still aching in a way that feels endless, and you nod once before forcing it into words, because Matt made you do that, and it matters. “Yes,” you say.

Dex exhales like that was the only permission he needed, and then he’s climbing onto the mattress like he belongs there, pushing your knees apart with hands that are firm and unashamed. His grip isn’t rough enough to hurt, but it’s controlling, pinning you open like you’re something he’s been hungry for since the moment he saw you.

“You’re gonna hate how much you like this,” Dex murmurs, and then he tugs once, hard, and your panties tear with a quick rip that makes you gasp.

“Dex!” you start, half shocked, half turned on by the audacity, and Matt’s hand slides up your throat at the same time, not choking, just holding you steady, thumb under your jaw like he’s keeping you anchored in your own body.

“Breathe,” Matt says against your mouth, then kisses you before you can say anything else.

Dex doesn’t waste a second, he grabs your thighs and drags you closer, burying his face between your legs like he’s trying to inhale you. His mouth is hot and wet and mean about it, tongue flattening and pressing hard against your clit like he wants you to break fast. The sound is obscene immediately, loud enough that you jerk and try to clamp your legs shut on instinct.

Dex’s hands tighten on your thighs and hold you open. “Nah,” he mutters into you, voice vibrating against your pussy. “Not running.”

Your back arches off the bed with a strangled noise, and Matt is there instantly, crowding your space above, one hand still at your throat and the other sliding up under your nightgown to cup your breast. His thumb circles your nipple slow at first, then harder when you whimper, and he kisses you like he’s stealing your breath on purpose.

“Put your hand on me,” Matt says, guiding your wrist down to the front of his sweatpants. His cock is hard and heavy under the fabric, and the second your fingers curl around him you moan into Matt’s mouth like you can’t help it. “Slow,” Matt warns, voice rough. “Touch me slow. Keep breathing.”

Dex hears Matt directing you, and he gets worse on purpose. His tongue pushes deeper, his mouth noisier, suction turning brutal on your clit until your hips buck hard enough you nearly slide up the bed. Dex holds you in place like he’s built for restraint, palms on your hips now, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel it.

Matt makes a sound in his throat that you feel against your lips more than you hear, and his hand at your breast squeezes like he’s fighting the urge to grab Dex by the hair and drag him off you. Instead he uses it, and the fact that he uses it makes your stomach flip.

“What do you think it is?” Matt asks, voice low against your mouth.

You try to answer, you really do, but Dex sucks harder on your clit like he’s punishing you for even attempting to talk, and Matt kisses you again like he doesn’t want the words out of you either. You break the kiss with a gasp, trying to speak, and Dex shifts his mouth just enough to drag his tongue along you in a slow, vicious stroke that makes your eyes roll back.

“Matt,” you choke out, voice fractured, “I—I don’t—”

Matt’s thumb presses under your jaw, steadying your head. “Use your words,” he says, and his tone turns gentle in the middle of all this like he’s still your anchor. “Tell me.”

Dex’s mouth goes back to your clit, relentless, and you clutch at Matt’s shoulder and stroke his cock through his sweats harder just to keep yourself from losing it. Matt’s hips jerk once into your hand, and his breath turns ragged, but he doesn’t stop you. He wants you to feel how much you’re getting to him.

You force your eyes open, force your brain to drag itself back from the edge. “It’s—it’s gotta be an aphrodisiac,” you gasp, and Dex growls into your thigh like he approves. “Airborne. It’s—it’s making us… like this.”

Matt hums like he already knew, mouth brushing your cheek. “And?”

You swallow, shaking, because your orgasm is building again, fast and merciless, and Dex is not giving you a single second to calm down. “And I think—” you try, then choke when Dex’s tongue hits exactly right and your whole body jolts. “I think it needs… multiple… releases. To burn off. To… feel normal.”

Dex mutters something into your thigh, words you feel more than hear, and his grip tightens like he’s proud and furious at the same time. Matt’s hand slides from your breast down your stomach, then between your legs, and for a second you think he’s going to push Dex away.

He doesn’t—Matt’s fingers slide into you from above while Dex keeps working your clit, and the double sensation is so sharp you make a broken sound that you can’t hide. Matt’s palm presses to your lower belly like he’s holding you in place, and his other hand returns to your throat, steady, not choking, just making you feel owned and safe in the same breath.

“That’s it,” Matt says, mouth at your ear now, voice so low it feels like a secret. “Let it happen. I’ve got you.”

Dex’s mouth doesn’t let up, and you can’t stop your hips from bucking against him. Your hand clenches around Matt through his sweats, stroking him in short, desperate movements, and Matt’s breath stutters like he’s right there with you, trying to hold control and failing.

You come hard, the orgasm ripping through you so fast your vision goes white at the edges. Your cunt tightens around Matt’s fingers, your thighs shake against Dex’s hands, and the sound that finally comes out of you is loud and wrecked and absolutely not quiet enough for anyone to pretend this isn’t happening.

Matt keeps you steady through it, hand firm at your throat, mouth on yours, kissing you messy while you shake. Dex stays between your legs like he’s starving, licking you through the aftershocks with a stubborn, hungry intensity that makes you twitch and try to squirm away.

“Don’t,” Matt warns softly, and the word isn’t a reprimand, it’s an instruction. “Breathe. Stay with me.”

Dex lifts his head just enough to look up at you, lips wet, chin shining, eyes bright with something sharp and satisfied. He smirks like he’s won a round, then glances toward Matt like he wants a fight. “See?” Dex says, voice rough. “Sharing. We can all be adults about it.”

Matt’s hand tightens on your throat just a fraction, enough that you feel the threat and the control. “Don’t push it,” he says, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes people smarter.

Dex’s smirk only widens, because of course it does, but Matt doesn’t let Dex’s little victory sit in the air for long. His hand stays firm at your throat as you ride out the aftershocks, thumb resting under your jaw like a reminder that you’re still right here with him, still safe, still his responsibility even when you’re begging for things that make him grit his teeth. “Up,” Matt says, voice low, and his palm slides over your hip, guiding you before your legs can decide to give out. “Come here.”

Dex makes a sound like he wants to argue, like he wants to make a joke about being ordered around in another man’s bedroom, but Matt doesn’t give him the space. Matt doesn’t look at him, he doesn’t have to, and the stillness in his posture makes Dex go quieter in the way predators do when they realize they’re not the only one in the room.

Matt shifts back against the pillows, bracing himself with one hand behind him while the other finds your waist again. He pulls you up by feel, thumbs digging in just enough that it grounds you, and you end up straddling him before you can overthink it. Your nightgown is still bunched up around your hips, your thighs are slick from Dex, your pussy is swollen and oversensitive, and Matt’s sweatpants are a problem you can’t ignore.

Dex stays close, kneeling behind you on the mattress, crowding your back without touching yet, like he’s waiting to see what Matt allows. He’s breathing hard too, the heat in the room making everything feel too close, too intimate, too dangerous.

Matt’s hands map you like he’s memorizing all over again. He starts at your hips, then your waist, then slides up your spine with a slow drag of his fingertips that makes you shiver. He cups the back of your head, and he angles your face down so he can take your mouth the way he wants, slow at first, then deeper when you whimper into him. “Tell me you’re with me,” he murmurs against your lips, and it isn’t poetic, it’s practical. It’s Matt making sure you’re still choosing.

“I’m with you,” you breathe, and your voice shakes because the need keeps pulsing through you like a fever.

“Good,” Matt says, and his thumbs press into your hips, guiding you forward. “Now take it.”

He tugs his sweatpants down just enough, and you do the same motion with clumsy fingers, because your hands don’t feel coordinated anymore. His cock is hot in your palm, heavy and hard, and the second you brush the head you feel him flinch under you like he’s been holding back since the moment he walked into the apartment.

You line yourself up and sink down, slow because your body is already wrecked, but you still gasp when he fills you. Matt’s hands lock in on your hips, steadying you, and he exhales like it hurts and feels good at the same time.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and your forehead drops to his shoulder, because the stretch is perfect and too much, your cunt fluttering around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper.

Matt kisses the side of your head, mouth rough and greedy now that he’s inside you. “That’s it. Slow. Let me feel you.”

You rock your hips on instinct, searching for the angle that makes your nerves light up, and Matt gives it to you without you even having to ask. He shifts his grip, thumbs digging in, guiding you into a steady rhythm, easing you up and down on him like he’s taking control so you don’t have to.

Dex leans closer behind you, breath hot at your ear. “Jesus,” he mutters, voice thick, and you can hear the way he’s trying not to sound needy. “He gets to sit there and you just… slide right onto him.”

Matt’s head turns slightly, attention flicking toward Dex without his face changing. “Keep your mouth under control,” Matt says, quiet and deadly. “Or I’ll remind you whose bed you’re kneeling on.”

Dex lets out a low laugh, but it comes out strained, like the chemical has him by the throat too. “Yeah, yeah. Big scary—”

You gasp because Matt’s hips buck up, suddenly deeper, catching a spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble and your pussy clamp around him. Matt’s hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you down so he can kiss you again, messy and hungry, like he’s using your mouth to keep himself from snapping at Dex with his fists.

Dex’s fingers sneak around your front like he can’t help himself. His hand slides between your thighs, finding your clit with a practiced ease that makes you jerk. His touch is rougher than Matt’s, more impatient, rubbing hard enough that it makes your nerves spark and your stomach tighten.

“Dex—” you start, voice breaking, and your hips stutter.

Matt’s grip tightens on your hips, keeping you steady on his cock. “Breathe,” he tells you, and he says it like an order because your body needs one. “Stay on me.”

Dex’s fingers keep going, rubbing your clit faster, and he presses his mouth to your shoulder like he wants to bite but settles for breathing you in. “You’re gonna come again,” Dex whispers, too pleased with himself. “You’re gonna come on his cock and he’s gonna feel it, and I’m gonna—”

“Dex,” Matt says, and the warning in his voice makes the air feel sharper.

Dex doesn’t stop, he can’t. He’s too much of a problem, too much of a little shit, and the heat is making him reckless. “What?” he taunts, rubbing your clit harder like he’s trying to make you cry. “You want her to beg? She’s already—”

Matt’s hand slides up from your hip to your jaw, and he tilts your face toward his, kissing you hard enough that it steals your breath. When he pulls back, his voice is low, controlled, and it lands like a line drawn in ink. “Shut him up.”

You blink, dazed, and your lips part on a shaky inhale. “Matt…”

Matt’s thumb presses at your chin, guiding, not forcing, and the look on his face—tight, heated, possessive—makes your whole body clench around him. “If you want him here,” Matt says, “then you listen. Shut him up.”

Dex makes a pleased, ugly sound behind you, like he’s thrilled to be included and furious that it’s on Matt’s terms. “Go on,” Dex murmurs, leaning in closer. “Do what he says.”

You reach back with shaking hands and grab Dex by the collar, yanking him forward. His breath hits your mouth, and then you kiss him, rough and immediate, because you’re too hot for hesitation and because Matt told you to.

Dex melts into it in a way that’s almost shocking, mouth opening for you like he’s starving, kissing you like he wants to prove something with his tongue. There’s anger in it, too, a bitter edge that feels like he’s biting down on his own resentment just to keep kissing you anyway.

Matt fucks up into you while you’re kissing Dex, slow at first, then harder when you whimper into Dex’s mouth. The movement jolts your whole body, makes you cling to Dex’s collar tighter to keep from falling forward, and Matt’s hands keep you anchored on his cock like he refuses to let you slip away into the haze.

Dex’s fingers never stop rubbing your clit. He’s using you and being used at the same time, and you can feel him shaking behind you like he hates how much he wants it.

Matt’s mouth finds your throat, kissing the skin there, and his voice drops against you. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Who do you belong to?”

Dex goes still for half a second behind you, like the words hit him in a place he didn’t want exposed. His kiss turns sharper, almost punishing, like he wants to keep you from answering.

Matt’s hand cups your skull, steady, guiding you through it. “Say it,” he repeats, and it’s quiet, certain.

You pull back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes unfocused. Dex’s hand keeps rubbing your clit like he’s trying to make you forget language entirely, but you force it out anyway because the control in Matt’s voice is grounding in the middle of all this.

“I belong to you,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Matt. I belong to you.”

Dex shudders behind you like it physically hurts, and the sound he makes is torn between a growl and a laugh. He kisses you again anyway, swallowing the words like he’s furious you said them and even more furious he liked hearing you say them.

Matt’s hips snap up, deeper, harder, and you cry out into Dex’s mouth because the pressure hits perfectly. Your cunt clenches around Matt, slick and tight, and Dex’s fingers press your clit in relentless circles until your nerves feel like they’re sparking.

You break the kiss with a gasp, head falling back onto Dex’s shoulder, and Dex grabs your jaw, possessive and mean, forcing you to look at him while Matt keeps thrusting up into you.

“You hear her?” Dex mutters, voice low and rough. “She said it. She’s yours. Doesn’t mean I can’t make her come, though.”

Matt’s hands clamp on your hips, and he takes control of the pace fully now, rocking up into you in a steady, relentless rhythm that makes your breath stutter. His mouth is at your ear, and you can hear the strain in his control finally cracking.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs. “Hold on. Don’t you dare stop.”

Dex’s fingers go faster, brutal on your clit, and your body tightens like it’s being drawn into a knot. You grab at Matt’s shoulders, nails digging through his t-shirt, and you feel your orgasm build fast, almost too fast, the chemical making it sharp and unavoidable.

“I’m gonna—” you gasp, and you don’t even finish the sentence because your body does it for you.

You come hard on Matt’s cock, shaking, pussy clenching tight around him, and the way Matt groans is low and wrecked, like your orgasm pulled him right to the edge. Dex’s hand stays on your clit through it, not letting you escape the sensation, and you cry out again, broken and breathy, head tipped back against Dex’s shoulder.

Matt keeps thrusting through your orgasm, chasing his own, breath turning ragged. His hands hold you in place like he refuses to let you slide off him, and his mouth finds your throat, biting lightly, then kissing the spot like an apology he doesn’t have time for.

“Fuck,” Matt groans, and then his whole body tenses under you. His hips snap up once more, deep, and he comes hard, spilling inside you with a rough sound that turns into your name against your skin.

He doesn’t collapse afterward. He stays braced, arms around you, holding you chest-to-chest like he needs to keep you there, keep you claimed, keep you safe while the heat still burns. His breathing is too fast, his hands still tight on you, and you can feel the way his body is already refusing to settle, like one release didn’t fix anything.

Dex’s fingers finally slow on your clit, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays behind you, crowding your back, mouth at your shoulder, and when he speaks his voice is low with something sharp and pleased. “Damn,” Dex murmurs. “He came in you. That’s… cute.”

Matt’s head turns toward him, and the calm in his expression is the kind that makes your skin prickle for a different reason. “Don’t,” Matt says, voice even. “Not right now.”

Dex smiles against your shoulder like he can’t help himself, like he’s already planning the next push, and your body is still too hot, still too needy, still trembling on the edge of another want you haven’t even named yet. Dex’s fingers hook under the hem of your nightgown, and he doesn’t ask permission with words this time because he already did, because you already told him yes, but he still looks at you first anyway, eyes bright and sharp. “Still want it?” he murmurs, voice rough. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you manage, and it comes out small and wrecked, because you’re still trembling on Matt’s cock and everything feels too sensitive. “I want it.”

Dex yanks the nightgown up and off in one impatient motion, tugging it over your head like it’s in his way, then tosses it somewhere behind him. The air hits your bare skin and you shiver hard, goosebumps rising and then flattening instantly under the heat. Matt’s hands spread over your ribs and stomach like he’s making sure you’re steady, like he’s keeping track of you the way he always does, and then he shifts you carefully off his lap because he isn’t going to let you fall in the middle of this.

“Easy,” Matt murmurs against your jaw, kissing you once, slow and grounding. “I’ve got you.”

Dex doesn’t wait for you to fully settle before he’s pulling you back into him, knees on the mattress behind yours, his chest pressed to your back. He loops an arm around your neck in a headlock hold that’s controlled, not crushing, forearm across your collarbone, hand braced at your shoulder so he can keep you upright and close. The position is meant to make you feel pinned, meant to make you feel owned, and your body answers with a violent clench that makes you gasp.

Matt’s head turns toward the sound immediately, like the gasp is a flare he can’t ignore. His hand slides to your hip and stays there, thumb rubbing slow circles into the skin like a quiet claim. “Breathe,” he says, calm and firm. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” you breathe, and your voice shakes anyway. “It’s not too much.”

Dex laughs softly against your ear, the sound more bite than humor. “Of course it isn’t,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking soaked.”

He frees himself from his sweatpants with a quick, impatient shove, and you feel the blunt heat of him press against your ass, then slide down between your thighs. The second his cock drags through your slickness, you whimper and your knees flex like you’re going to collapse forward, but Dex tightens his arm and holds you in place. He doesn’t thrust in right away; he grinds against you first, spreading you open, pushing the mess around, making it obscene on purpose, like he needs you to feel exactly what’s still inside you.

“You feel that?” Dex whispers, mouth brushing your ear, and his tone turns mean in a way that makes your stomach flip. “That’s him. Still in you. Still there, even when it’s me.”

Matt’s thumb stops for a second against your hip, then starts again, slow and steady like he refuses to react the way Dex wants. “Dex,” Matt says quietly, warning without raising his voice. “Don’t.”

Dex ignores him, because of course he does, because he can’t help digging for the bruise. He lines himself up and pushes in with one hard, deliberate thrust that knocks the breath out of you. You cry out, sharp and broken, and Dex’s arm around your neck keeps you upright while his hips press tight to your ass, burying himself deep like he’s trying to overwrite what Matt just did.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, hands scrabbling for something to hold, and Matt’s hand catches yours immediately, fingers lacing with yours so you don’t have to search. The touch is steady and warm, anchoring you even while your body is being pulled in two directions.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs, lips near your cheek, voice close enough that you feel the air of it. “Take what you need. Keep breathing.”

Dex starts to move, slow at first, grinding deeper on every thrust, making sure you feel the drag of him against your swollen cunt. The mess inside you turns it slicker, filthier, and you can feel it in the obscene sound of it, the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the way your body takes him like it’s desperate for anything that pushes back against the heat.

Dex’s mouth finds your shoulder and he bites down, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to make you gasp again. “Listen to you,” he mutters, voice low and sharp. “You sound like a fucking slut when you’re full.”

Matt’s hand tightens around yours, and his other hand slides up your side to your jaw, tilting your chin slightly like he’s guiding you back from the edge. “Hey,” Matt says, calm and deadly at the same time. “Watch your mouth.”

Dex’s thrusts get harder, like the warning turned him on or pissed him off or both. He keeps talking anyway, because he wants Matt to hear it, wants Matt to hate it, wants to provoke something ugly. “She’s taking me so fucking easy,” Dex whispers, breath ragged at your ear. “Like she’s made for it. Like she wants it dirty.”

You try to pull air in through your nose, but every time Dex drives into you your breath breaks, the sound spilling out of you in helpless little moans. Your cunt clamps around him, slick and tight, and Dex makes a rough noise like he’s losing control faster than he wants to admit.

Matt doesn’t insult him, he doesn’t even rise to it with words. He corrects Dex with touch, the way he always does when he’s angry and refusing to show it. His fingers slide to your chin and guide your face toward him, and his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s slow and possessive, claiming without needing to look at Dex at all. His lips are warm, firm, steady, and it makes you melt even while Dex is fucking you hard from behind. “Say my name,” Matt murmurs into your mouth, barely audible. “Let me hear you.”

Dex’s arm around your neck tightens just enough to remind you he’s there, and he thrusts harder like he’s punishing you for obeying. The sensation spikes sharp, makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your pussy clench around him so hard he stutters.

“Matt,” you moan, the name spilling out as a broken sound against Matt’s lips.

Matt kisses you deeper, like he’s swallowing it, like he’s keeping it. “Good,” he murmurs, and his thumb strokes your jawline, calming and possessive all at once. “That’s it.”

Dex makes a furious, ragged sound behind you and snaps his hips faster, chasing his own relief in hard, brutal thrusts. “Say it again,” Dex growls into your shoulder, and you can hear the ugly need in it, like he wants you to say his name and hates that Matt’s making you say something else.

Matt doesn’t change his tone. He doesn’t have to. “Breathe,” he tells you, then kisses your mouth again, slower, and it makes your whole body soften into him even while Dex is trying to wreck you from behind. “Stay with me.”

Dex’s thrusts turn frantic, the heat and the jealousy and the chemical all smashing together into something that makes him reckless. His arm holds you pinned upright, cock driving deep, and the mess inside you makes every shove obscene, slick and loud. Your legs start to tremble, not from fear, but from overload, your cunt tightening and fluttering like it’s trying to drag both men into the same spiral.

Dex bites your shoulder again, harder this time, and you hiss at the sting. “Fuck,” Dex mutters, voice shaking. “You feel so good it makes me fucking mad.”

Matt’s hand slides down to your hip again, thumb rubbing slow circles, calm and steady, and you hate how much you love the contrast. Dex is all sharp edges and spite, Matt is quiet control, and your body is greedy enough to want both.

Dex’s breathing goes ragged, and his thrusts turn brutal for a few seconds like he’s trying to force his orgasm out of himself. He jerks once, then again, hips stuttering, and you feel him go rigid behind you. He clamps his teeth into your shoulder, not as a threat this time but as a way to stop himself from making a sound he’d hate, and his whole body shakes as he comes hard inside you, hot and thick, filling you in messy pulses that make you gasp.

He stays buried for a second, trembling, arm still around your neck, forehead pressed to the side of your head like he can’t pull away yet. Matt’s hand remains on your hip, thumb still moving, and his lips brush your cheek in a kiss that feels like reassurance and possession at the same time.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs in your ear, steady. “Good. Breathe.”

Dex finally loosens his hold, just enough that you can take a fuller breath, but he doesn’t move away. He’s still behind you, still crowding your back, still panting like he ran a mile. When he lifts his head, his eyes flick to Matt with something sharp and furious, like he hates that Matt is still calm, still in control, still close.

Dex swallows, voice rough and bitter when he finally speaks. “Happy now?” he mutters, not really to you, not really to Matt, just to the room.

Matt’s hand stays on your hip, thumb still moving in slow circles like he’s keeping you anchored while your body tries to float right out of itself. Dex is still inside you, still trembling from his release, still crowding your back like he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he got what he wanted and it didn’t fix the burn.

Matt shifts first, practical even when he’s wrecked. He eases Dex out of you with a controlled pull of your hips, not yanking, not careless, and you whine at the empty feeling because your cunt is greedy and overstimulated and already angry about losing the pressure. Dex makes a sharp sound behind you, half frustration, half hunger, and he starts to reach like he’s going to drag you back.

“On your back,” Matt tells him, and it’s not a suggestion.

Dex laughs breathlessly, but he listens, because even he can hear the edge in Matt’s voice. He drops onto the pillows with a rough exhale, legs spreading a little like he’s trying to pretend it’s his idea, cock already hard again and shiny with slick. His eyes track you the whole time, bright and feral, like he’s daring either of you to deny him.

Matt guides you forward with both hands on your waist, turning you and pushing you down until your knees sink into the mattress. He nudges you back so you’re over Dex, straddling him, your pussy hovering over his cock. You’re slick enough that the slide of your cunt over him feels obscene even before you take him, wetness smearing over his shaft with every tiny shift.

Dex’s hands clamp onto your hips immediately, grip firm, thumbs digging into the soft skin like he’s marking where you belong right now. “Yeah,” Dex mutters, voice rough. “Right there. Don’t be shy.”

You try to roll your hips, trying to find friction, and Dex helps, guiding you in short, grinding strokes so his cock drags against your clit and the swollen lips of your cunt. You’re not fully taking him yet, just teasing, just rubbing, and it still makes you gasp because everything is too sensitive. Your thighs tremble as the wet, hot slide keeps building pressure that you can’t relieve.

Matt kneels behind you, close enough that you feel his heat at your back before he touches you. His hands land on your hips over Dex’s, and the difference between them makes you shiver. Dex is possessive and impatient, Matt is steady and precise, and you’re trapped between them like a bad decision you can’t stop making.

“Stay right there,” Matt murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “I’m going to fuck you from behind.”

Your breath stutters, and you nod too fast. “Please,” you whisper, because you’ve lost any ability to pretend you’re in control.

Matt lines himself up behind you, guiding you back onto him. The first press of his cock at your entrance makes your whole body clench, and Dex’s grip tightens like he’s furious that Matt is taking what Dex wants. Matt doesn’t rush. He slides in slow, inch by inch, making you take him fully, making you feel him again after Dex, and the stretch turns sharp and perfect.

“Fuck,” you choke, hands flying to Dex’s chest because you need something to hold. Dex’s skin is hot under your palms, his heartbeat too fast. He glares up at you like he wants to bite, like he wants to pull you down and ruin you, but he stays still because Matt’s hands are on your hips and Matt is in charge.

Matt sinks all the way in and stills for a beat, pressed tight to your ass. He leans forward until his chest meets your back, his mouth at your ear again, voice low and commanding. “Moan my name,” Matt says. “Right there. Into his shoulder.”

You make a helpless sound, and your body obeys before your brain catches up. You lean forward, mouth landing against Dex’s shoulder, and the next breath that leaves you is Matt’s name, broken and desperate like you’re confessing something you can’t take back.

Dex snarls, half-laughing, half-livid. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Matt starts to move, slow at first, deep thrusts that use the angle of your body to hit exactly where you’re already trembling. Every push drives you forward onto Dex, and every pull drags Matt’s cock through your soaked cunt in a way that makes your vision blur.

Dex’s hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bruise later. “You’re using me as furniture,” he growls, then his voice goes strained because the grind of your pussy over his cock is driving him insane. “And it’s—fuck—it’s working.”

Matt leans over you more, pressing his weight into your back, pushing your chest closer to Dex until your back arches. His hands slide from your hips up your sides, then one of them reaches forward and clamps around Dex’s throat. Not choking him out, not cutting off air, just holding him there, forcing him to stay still and feel it.

Dex’s eyes widen, then narrow, the rage and the thrill mixing into something ugly. “Touchy,” he spits, but his cock jumps under you anyway.

“Shut up,” Matt murmurs, calm as sin. “Take it.”

Your hips stop grinding on their own because Matt’s hold and the arch of your back locks you into the position he wants. Now all you can do is take Matt’s thrusts from behind, feel the deep roll of him in your cunt, and feel Dex under you getting more desperate with every movement.

“Matt—” you gasp, cheek pressed to Dex’s shoulder now, lips dragging over the skin because you need something to do with your mouth besides scream.

Matt’s pace picks up, still deep, still controlled, and his breath turns rough against your ear. “Good,” he says, like he’s praising you for falling apart exactly the way he wants. “That’s it. Stay open.”

Dex’s hands shift, one sliding down your thigh like he’s about to pull you down onto him properly, and Matt’s grip at his throat tightens just enough to stop him.

“You get what I give you,” Matt says softly, and it’s the kind of possessive that makes your cunt clench hard around him.

Dex laughs through his teeth, breathless and furious. “You’re insane.”

Matt doesn’t argue, he just fucks you harder, using you like you’re his, and every thrust makes your pussy flutter and drip, wetness smearing over Dex’s cock underneath you. The sound is filthy, slick and loud, and it makes Dex jerk under you like he’s about to lose it again.

Your hand moves between your bodies and you push two fingers into Dex’s mouth, because you need leverage and because the idea hits you like a spark. Dex’s lips part instantly, tongue sliding over your fingers with a hungry, spiteful eagerness. He sucks like he’s trying to prove a point, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on yours as if daring you to flinch.

You pull your fingers out shining with spit and use it to stroke Dex, slow and cruel, palm sliding down his shaft, thumb smearing over the head. Dex’s head falls back into the pillow with a broken sound, eyes rolling, hands tightening on your hips like he’s trying not to buck.

“Fuck,” Dex breathes. “You’re—you’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yeah,” you manage, voice shaking, because Matt’s cock keeps hitting that spot inside you and you can’t think straight. “Shut up.”

Dex’s gaze snaps back to you, bright and pissed and turned on. He drags you down by the hips just enough to steal your mouth, grabbing your jaw with one hand and forcing a messy tongue kiss that tastes like heat and spit and something too sharp to be sweet. You whimper into it, and the sound gets swallowed between you.

Behind you, Matt’s breath catches like the sight and the sound hits him somewhere deep. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you from behind, hand still around Dex’s throat, using the hold to keep Dex right where he wants him while you fall apart on top of him.

“Eyes on me,” Dex mutters against your mouth, possessive and mean.

Matt’s mouth brushes your ear again, and his voice is quieter, steadier, like a blade. “Say my name.”

Your body clenches hard, and the next moan that spills out is Matt’s name again, muffled into Dex’s mouth. Dex shudders like it hurts, like it makes him want to bite, and he kisses you harder anyway. Matt’s thrusts turn relentless, hips snapping in tighter rhythm, and you feel his control thinning. His hand at Dex’s throat tightens, then loosens, then tightens again like he’s gripping the last thread of restraint.

You stroke Dex faster now, spit making it slick, your fist sliding up and down his cock while your cunt takes Matt from behind. Dex’s breath turns ragged, hips twitching under you, and his hands clamp down like he’s trying not to shove you down and take what he wants.

“Jesus—” Dex gasps. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Not yet,” Matt says, and it isn’t loud, but it lands like a command anyway. “Hold it.”

Dex’s eyes flash, furious, and he trembles through it. “Go to hell.”

Matt’s answer is a hard thrust that makes you cry out and clench around him so tight his breath breaks. You feel his cock pulse, feel his whole body go rigid behind you, and then Matt groans low against your back as he comes again, deep and hot, holding you still with both hands while he rides it out. One hand stays on your hip, the other keeps Dex pinned by the throat, and the control in it makes your whole body melt even while you shake.

Matt doesn’t collapse afterward. He stays pressed to you, chest to your back, breathing hard, lips at your shoulder like he needs to keep contact. His grip loosens slowly, like he’s easing himself back from the edge by inches.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs, voice rough, thumb stroking your hip again. “Breathe. Stay with me.”

Dex is staring up at you like he wants to kill someone and kiss you at the same time, cock twitching in your hand, frustration and need making his jaw clench. He swallows, then drags his thumb across your lower belly like he’s claiming a piece of you he doesn’t have the right to claim.

“You two are disgusting,” Dex mutters.

Dex doesn’t wait for Matt to answer, because Dex isn’t actually asking. He’s already moving, already reaching, already turning that restless, hungry energy into action like he can’t stand sitting in the aftermath for even one more second.

He hooks an arm under your thigh and drags you off him with a sharp pull, flipping you onto your back in one quick motion that knocks the air out of you. The mattress dips hard, sheets bunching under your shoulders, and your head ends up near the edge of the bed, slightly hanging off. Dex climbs over you immediately, sweat shining on his throat, eyes wild and focused like you just became his target.

“You think you’re done?” Dex mutters, and his hands clamp down on your thighs, spreading you open like he owns the right to. “You’re not done. I’m not done.”

Matt is close enough that you can feel him shift, and you can hear his breathing change, sharper, more controlled. He doesn’t grab Dex off you, but his hand lands on your ankle for a second, thumb pressing into your skin like a quiet check-in. It’s Matt’s way of asking without interrupting, and you answer the same way, flexing your foot gently against his touch because you’re too wrecked to form a full sentence without it turning into a moan.

Dex lines himself up and pushes back into you with a rough thrust that makes your whole body jolt. Your cunt takes him easily because you’re soaked and overstimulated, and the obscene slick sound that comes with it makes Dex’s mouth twist like he’s pleased and pissed at the same time.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders because you need something to hold while he starts moving. Dex doesn’t build slowly, he drives into you like he’s determined to make you forget how Matt felt, like he’s trying to pound the comparison out of your body with brute force.

Matt moves to your head, not away, not sulking, just repositioning like he’s doing damage control the way he always does. He sits beside you on the bed and cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, then your lower lip. His voice is low and steady, close enough to be private even with Dex right there.

“Breathe,” Matt murmurs. “You’re okay. You tell me if you need anything.”

Dex hears it and gets worse on purpose. He leans down and kisses you mid-thrust, mouth hot and messy, swallowing the sounds you can’t keep back. His tongue pushes in like he’s trying to claim your mouth the same way he’s claiming your cunt, and you whine into it because the pace is brutal and the heat in your blood makes it feel too good.

When Dex pulls back for air, he keeps one hand on your jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make you look at him. “Look at me,” Dex demands, voice rough. “Say it. Say my name.”

Your eyes flutter, unfocused, and you try to glare at him because he’s being an asshole, but your body betrays you immediately. Dex thrusts deep again, hitting a spot that makes your thighs shake, and the sound that breaks out of you is helpless. “Dex,” you gasp, and his grin turns sharp and satisfied like he just scored a hit.

“Again,” he says, and he thrusts harder, making the bed creak, making your breath break. “Come on. Louder. I want him to hear it.”

Matt’s hand slides down to your shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle like he’s keeping you grounded. He doesn’t argue with Dex, he just stays there, close, letting you hold onto him, letting you decide what comes out of your mouth.

Dex keeps driving into you, rhythm turning relentless, and you grab Matt’s wrist with shaking fingers because you need something solid. Matt’s palm flips and catches your hand, squeezing once, and you feel your stomach flip because even with Dex fucking you like he’s trying to win, Matt’s touch still feels like home.

Dex’s eyes flick to Matt’s hand holding yours, and something mean flashes across his face. He leans down again, kissing you hard, swallowing your moans, then breaks the kiss just to speak right at your mouth. “You like me?” Dex spits, like it’s an insult. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me.”

“Fuck, yes,” you choke out, because you’re too hot to lie and too far gone to be polite. Dex’s thrusts stutter for half a beat like the answer hit him hard, then he snaps back into a faster pace that makes you see stars.

Matt shifts slightly, moving closer to your head, and you turn into him automatically. His mouth brushes your forehead, then the corner of your lips, and you can tell he’s holding his restraint by force, breathing too hard for someone who’s “fine.”

“You can hold onto me,” Matt murmurs, voice rougher now. “Do what you need.”

Dex hears that too, and it makes him furious. He grabs your thigh and hikes it higher over his hip, angling you so he can go deeper, harder. The change punches a sharp moan out of you, and Dex makes a satisfied sound like he’s collecting it. “There,” Dex says, grinning. “There you go. That’s what I want. That’s mine.”

Matt’s thumb slides along your cheek again, and his voice stays calm even if the tension in it is obvious. “Don’t,” he warns quietly, like he’s reminding Dex he’s allowed to be here but not allowed to claim.

Dex doesn’t care, he leans down and kisses you again, filthy and hungry, and the way he thrusts turns almost frantic. He’s chasing something now, not just relief, but proof, and he wants it so badly it’s making him reckless.

Your hand slips down between your bodies, reaching for Dex’s wrist like you’re trying to steady him, and he catches it, pins it above your head with one hand while the other stays on your jaw. You’re spread wide, legs shaking around his hips, pussy clenching and fluttering around him like you’re teetering on the edge of another orgasm you can’t control.

“Say it,” Dex demands again, breath ragged. “Say my name. Please me. Come on.”

“Dex,” you moan, and then it turns into a breathless string of it because he won’t stop hitting that spot. “Dex—fuck—Dex—please—”

Dex’s eyes blow wide, and his mouth twists like he hates how good it feels to hear you beg. He thrusts harder, faster, the slick sound turning obscene, and you feel his control shredding.

Matt’s hand tightens around yours at your side, a steady squeeze that keeps you from floating away completely. He doesn’t interrupt, but his mouth brushes your temple, and his voice is low enough that only you can catch it. “I’m here,” Matt murmurs. “Stay with me.”

Dex’s breath turns jagged, and he makes a harsh sound like a laugh that got twisted into a groan. “Yeah, yeah,” he grits out, then thrusts deep and holds it there, shaking. “Fuck—”

Dex comes hard, angry and shaking, cock pulsing inside you in thick, hot spurts that make your body clench around him. He squeezes your jaw, then releases it like he just realized he was holding too tight, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder with a rough exhale that sounds like he wants to scream and refuses to give anyone the satisfaction.

He stays there for a second, still buried, breathing like he’s furious at his own body. Then he lets out a low, bitter laugh under his breath, the kind that doesn’t sound happy at all. “God,” Dex mutters, voice shaking. “That felt… so fucking good.”

Matt doesn’t let the silence after Dex’s last laugh turn into another round of posturing. He’s breathing hard, his palm still warm against your skin, and you can feel the difference now that the worst of the chemical spike isn’t clawing at your throat anymore. The heat is still there, still sticky under your ribs, but it isn’t as sharp as it was ten minutes ago, and that almost makes it worse because you can think again just enough to realize how fucking wrung out you are.

Dex shifts off you with a rough exhale, rolling onto his side like he’s trying to hide how shaky he feels. He looks at you like he wants to say something clever, something mean, something that puts him back on top of the moment, but the words don’t come as easily now. He settles for a tight smile and a hand on your thigh, thumb pressing into your skin like he’s reminding you he’s still here.

Matt’s voice cuts in, low and steady. “We’re close.”

Dex scoffs, but it’s weak. “Close to what, the end of your little domestic nightmare?”

“Close to it wearing off,” Matt says, and he shifts closer by sound and feel, his hand finding your hip like it always does. His fingers spread, grounding, and his thumb starts that slow circle that’s become the rhythm of the whole night. “You’re not shaking as much. Your breathing’s different.”

You swallow and nod even though he can’t see it, then force the words out because that’s how you’ve stayed sane through all of this. “It’s not gone,” you say, voice raw. “It’s still there. It’s just… not screaming.”

Matt hums once, like he agrees. Dex drags the back of his hand across his mouth, eyes flicking between you and Matt like he’s trying to decide if he hates the idea of it ending more than he hates the fact that Matt’s right about it.

“We finish it,” Matt says, simple as that.

Dex’s smile sharpens. “We?”

Matt turns his head slightly toward him, and even without eye contact it’s obvious who’s in control. “You’ve been in my apartment for hours,” Matt says, tone flat. “You can handle ten more minutes without trying to start a fight.”

Dex opens his mouth and then closes it again, jaw working like he’s biting down on the urge to run it. His gaze drops to you, then to Matt’s hand on you, then back up to your face like he’s looking for the crack he can wedge himself into.

You breathe in, slow, then say it before Dex can poison the moment. “If it’s fading, I want the last part to… end. Like, actually end.”

Matt’s hand slides from your hip up your side, his palm flattening over your stomach for a second like he’s checking you’re steady, then he kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and grounding. “Alright,” Matt says, and his voice drops into that calm command that makes your body settle even while it’s on fire. “Dex. On your back. Head on the pillow. Hands where I can find them.”

Dex stares at him for a beat, then smirks like he’s about to refuse on principle, but he doesn’t. He flops back onto the pillows with exaggerated ease, arms spreading out like he’s presenting himself for inspection, cock already half-hard again and twitching like the chemical is refusing to fully let go. “Bossy,” Dex mutters. “Thought you were the Catholic one.”

Matt’s answer is quiet. “Keep talking and you don’t get anything.”

Dex shuts up immediately, which would be hilarious if it wasn’t also obscene. Matt guides you by your waist, turning you carefully, helping you get your knees under you again because your legs are still shaky from everything. He doesn’t look at Dex to place you, he doesn’t need to; he uses touch the way he always does, hands firm on your hips, moving you inch by inch until you’re positioned over Dex’s face.

Dex’s eyes go bright, and his hands lift like he can’t help himself, then he freezes when Matt’s fingers press into his wrist as a reminder. Dex’s mouth opens slightly, tongue visible, and he looks up at you like he’s about to ruin you just to prove he can. “Sit,” Dex murmurs, voice rough. “C’mon.”

Matt’s hands tighten on your hips. “Slow,” he tells you, close to your ear. “You tell me if you get dizzy. You tell me if you can’t breathe.”

“I can breathe,” you manage, and you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, because the position alone makes your cunt throb. “I’m good.”

Matt helps you lower, guiding you down until you’re hovering right above Dex’s mouth, then another inch, until Dex’s lips brush your slick skin and you jerk with a gasp. Dex’s hands clamp onto your thighs immediately, holding you open, and he moans into you like he’s been denied air for hours.

“Fuck,” Dex breathes against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs tremble. “That’s—yeah. That’s it.”

He starts eating you out like he’s making a point. His tongue is flat and heavy, pressure too much and perfect, and you have to grab Matt’s forearm to keep from collapsing forward. Matt steadies you instantly, one hand on your waist, the other sliding up your back, holding you upright while Dex’s mouth works you open and greedy.

Your head ends up near Dex’s cock, and the sight of it—hard and flushed, twitching—makes your stomach flip. Dex notices, of course he notices, and his fingers squeeze your thighs like he’s trying to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Go on,” Dex says, voice muffled against your cunt. “Use your mouth.”

You lean forward and wrap your lips around him, and Dex makes a harsh sound that turns into another groan into your pussy. The combination is instantly overwhelming: Dex’s mouth on your clit, your mouth on his cock, and Matt behind you, hands steady on your hips like he’s preparing to do the last thing your body needs to finally stop buzzing.

Matt shifts behind you, and you feel him press in close, his breath hot at your shoulder. His fingers slide down your spine, then to your hips again, and he nudges you forward just enough to get the angle he wants.

“Breathe,” Matt murmurs, and he kisses your shoulder once, slow.

You moan around Dex’s cock, the sound vibrating, and Dex’s hands tighten on your thighs like he’s losing patience. Matt pushes in slowly, stretching you in a way that makes your eyes water, and the moment he’s inside you, the world narrows down to sensation again. It’s not the frantic, desperate edge from earlier; it’s heavy and deep, like you’re so sensitive that every inch feels doubled.

Dex’s tongue goes meaner the second he feels Matt moving inside you. He sucks hard at your clit like he’s trying to pull your orgasm out of you first, like he’s trying to prove he can still win something even in a setup Matt arranged.

You pull off Dex’s cock just long enough to gasp, “fuck—Dex,” then you take him again, because the heat is still there and the only way through it is more. Dex’s cock jerks in your mouth, and his groan turns into another muffled sound against your pussy as he eats you out harder.

Matt sets a pace behind you, steady and controlled. His hands stay on your hips, guiding the motion when your body tries to squirm away from the overstimulation, and every time you wobble, he corrects you with touch instead of words, keeping you upright, keeping you open, keeping you from falling apart too early.

Dex tries to talk again, of course he does, and it comes out broken between breaths. “You taste—fuck—you taste so good,” he mutters against your cunt, loud enough that Matt can hear it. “You’re gonna—yeah, you’re gonna come all over my mouth.”

Matt leans closer and his mouth brushes your ear. “Stay with me,” he says, and his voice is calm even though his thrusts get a little deeper, a little firmer. “Don’t rush it. Let it build.”

Dex’s hands slide up your thighs like he wants to drag you down harder onto his face. Matt’s grip on your hips tightens, and he pushes you down just enough that Dex’s mouth is fully buried, your pussy pressed into his face. Dex groans into you like he’s in heaven and hell at the same time, and the vibration nearly makes you lose your grip on his cock.

You gag slightly when Dex twitches hard in your mouth, and you pull back for air, spit shining on your lips. Matt’s hand slides to the back of your head immediately, not forcing, just guiding, and his voice turns low and firm. “Back on him,” Matt murmurs. “Just like that. Take what you need.”

You do it because you can’t not, because the structure is the only thing keeping you from going dizzy. You take Dex again, sucking him slow and deep, and Dex makes a strangled noise that turns into a growl into your pussy. His tongue keeps working your clit with brutal, perfect pressure, and his fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying to hold you still while his whole body wants to buck.

Matt’s thrusts deepen, steady and relentless, and the way his cock hits inside you makes your entire body tighten. You moan around Dex’s cock, the sound wet and obscene, and Dex shudders under you like that noise just tipped him closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” Dex gasps into you. “Matt—stop—she’s—”

Matt doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even acknowledge the plea with words. He simply changes the angle, lifting your hips slightly with his hands and driving into you a little harder, and the shift makes Dex choke on a groan because your pussy grinds down on his tongue in a way that feels like punishment and reward at the same time.

You can’t keep quiet anymore. The orgasm builds fast and heavy, not the sharp frantic spike from earlier, but a thick wave that keeps rising, and you’re trapped between them—Matt filling you, Dex swallowing you—until your whole body starts trembling.

“Matt,” you gasp, pulling off Dex’s cock just long enough to say it, voice broken. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” Matt says immediately, and his voice turns softer even while he keeps thrusting. “Let it happen. Breathe.”

Dex doesn’t give you time to breathe. He sucks hard at your clit like he’s trying to make you black out, and your thighs shake around his head as your orgasm hits. You come hard, cunt clenching around Matt, hips jerking downward onto Dex’s face, and the sound you make is messy and loud and completely uncontrolled.

Matt holds you through it, hands locked on your hips to keep you from collapsing. His thrusts turn shorter and tighter, chasing his own edge as your pussy clamps around him, and you feel him go rigid behind you. His breath breaks against your shoulder, and he groans low as he comes, deep and hot, holding you still while he rides it out.

Dex’s cock twitches in your hand as he hears Matt lose control, and Dex makes a furious, needy sound like he hates that it turns him on. You take him back into your mouth without thinking, sucking him through it, and Dex’s hands squeeze your thighs hard enough to leave marks.

“Don’t stop,” Dex grits out, voice shaking. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

You don’t. You keep sucking him, spit slick, rhythm steady even while your body is still shaking from your orgasm. Dex’s mouth is still on your pussy, tongue slower now but stubborn, like he refuses to give up the contact. The chemical is fading, but Dex is greedy and spiteful and desperate to get his last release before it fully lets him go.

Dex bucks once under you, hard, and Matt’s hands tighten on your hips again to keep you balanced. Dex’s cock throbs in your mouth, and he comes with a rough, broken groan that he tries to swallow, but fails. His orgasm makes him tremble under you, hands clamping down like he’s trying to hold onto something while it slips away.

For a few seconds none of you move. You’re panting, slick, shaking, and the heat in your body finally starts to ebb in a way that feels real, like the pressure is draining out instead of building again.

Matt stays behind you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your shoulder, breathing hard but slower now. His hands soften on your hips, turning from control into support.

Dex lies under you with his eyes half-lidded, still flushed, lips wet, chin shining, and he looks up at you like he wants to say something cruel just to prove he can. What comes out is a rough exhale and a bitter, shaky laugh. “Holy shit,” Dex mutters, and he sounds like he hates that he means it. “I think it’s actually… wearing off.”

Matt’s hands stay on you for a while after, not gripping anymore, just steadying, like he’s making sure you’re actually present and not drifting. He shifts carefully to get you off Dex, guiding you by the waist and shoulders so you don’t topple on shaky legs. The second your feet touch the floor your knees threaten to give, and Matt catches you like he’s done it a thousand times, one hand at the back of your neck, the other braced at your hip.

“Slow,” Matt murmurs, mouth near your temple. “Breathe for me. In and out, don’t rush it.”

“I’m breathing,” you rasp, then immediately prove you’re not by sucking in a short, shaky inhale that turns into a laugh because it’s either that or cry. Your skin feels too warm, tacky with sweat, and the air in the room feels thick even though the worst of the fever is finally fading.

Matt steers you to the edge of the bed and sits you down, then disappears for a second. You hear the faucet run, cabinets opening, the muted clink of a glass, and then he’s back with water and a cold washcloth. He presses the cloth to the back of your neck first, then your forehead, then your cheeks, gentle and methodical.

“Drink,” he says, and he guides the glass into your hands like he’s worried you’ll spill it.

You take a few sips and immediately realize how dry your throat is. “Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing again. “I feel like I ran a marathon.”

“You kind of did,” Matt says, dry but not teasing. His thumb drags over your pulse point at your wrist in a small check, then his palm settles there like he wants to feel you steady. “Any dizziness? Any nausea?”

“No,” you say, then pause because your stomach flips once as the room tilts slightly. “Okay, maybe a little dizzy.”

Matt’s hand tightens lightly on the back of your neck. “Then you sit,” he says, calm and firm. “You don’t try to be brave right now.”

Across the bed, Dex is quieter than he has been all night, which is almost unsettling. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the mattress, head tipped back, forearm over his eyes like he’s trying to hide the fact that he needs a minute. His breathing is still too fast, but it’s not frantic anymore, and the sharp edge of him looks blunted, like somebody finally turned the volume down.

He lifts his arm just enough to peer at you and Matt, and even now he can’t help himself. “You always this domesticated?” he asks, voice rough. The line is clearly meant to be snarky, but it lands thin, like he didn’t have the energy to sharpen it.

Matt doesn’t take the bait. He wipes your cheek with the cloth again, then sets it on your shoulder and keeps his hand there. “You’re leaving as soon as you can stand without falling,” he says, like he’s reading a grocery list.

Dex’s mouth quirks. “So romantic.”

“You’re still in my apartment,” Matt replies, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes the room feel smaller. “Don’t make me regret letting you walk out instead of dragging you.”

Dex’s eyes flick up toward Matt’s face, then down to Matt’s hand on your shoulder like he’s cataloging the claim again, even if he’s too wrung out to argue with it. “Relax,” he mutters. “I’m not staying for brunch.”

You take another sip of water, then set the glass down on the nightstand with a careful clink. Your muscles feel heavy, and your skin feels too sensitive in that post-overload way that makes the idea of putting on clothes feel like work. You grab the sheet and pull it over your lap because you need one normal human action to latch onto. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier now. “We’re not doing the ‘stand around and glare at each other’ thing. We need to clean. We need air. And we need to get rid of anything that might still have that chemical on it.”

Dex makes a noncommittal sound, but he pushes himself upright with a small wince, like his body is protesting. Matt’s head turns toward you immediately, attentive. “You want windows?” Matt asks.

“Yes,” you say. “All of them. Bedroom, living room. And we need trash bags. Gloves. Anything that touched your suits needs to get bagged.”

Matt nods once and stands, moving with that careful efficiency he slips into when he’s trying not to think about what just happened. You hear the bedroom window slide up, then the living room windows. Air drifts in, cool and city-dirty, and it helps. It doesn’t erase the heat in your blood, but it takes the edge off the room.

Dex gets to his feet and stretches like he’s trying to shake out the last of the chemical from his bones. He looks steadier now, but his gaze keeps drifting to you like he’s trying to memorize the situation and file it away for later. You point at him. “Bathroom. Wash your hands. Like, actually wash them.”

Dex’s brows lift. “Bossy.”

“Not negotiable,” you shoot back, and you’re proud your voice doesn’t wobble.

Dex’s smile twitches, then he actually goes, disappearing down the hall. You hear the faucet turn on and, shockingly, soap.

Matt comes back in with trash bags and a roll of paper towels. “I’ll bag the suits,” he says, and you can hear him trying to keep it neutral, trying to turn it into a task so he doesn’t have to sit in the reality of having Dex here at all.

“I’ll wipe down surfaces,” you say, already standing carefully, sheet clutched at your waist. “Coffee table, counters, doorknobs. Anything you two touched.”

Matt’s hand finds your elbow immediately, steadying you without smothering. “If you start to sway, you sit,” he says quietly.

“I will,” you promise, then add, because you know he needs to hear it, “I’m okay.”

He pauses like he’s listening to your heartbeat, then leans in and presses his forehead lightly to yours. “Okay,” he says back, softer than he’s been all night.

You move into the kitchen and find the plastic bag with the broken test tube shard where you left it. Seeing it again makes your stomach tighten, because it’s a stupid little piece of glass that caused all of this, and it feels unreal that it’s still sitting there like any other mess.

Dex comes back from the bathroom wiping his hands on a towel he definitely didn’t ask permission to use. He stops when he sees the bag on the counter, eyes narrowing slightly like his brain is finally catching up to the mission part of the night.

“That the souvenir?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, and you keep your tone flat. “And you’re not touching it.”

Dex gives you a look that says he’s annoyed you clocked him so easily. “Wasn’t going to.”

Matt’s voice comes from the hallway, calm and cold. “You were.”

Dex turns his head toward the sound with a sharp little grin. “You can’t prove that.”

Matt doesn’t move closer, doesn’t raise his voice. “Try it,” he says simply.

For a second the room feels like it’s on the edge of snapping again, not chemical this time, just old hatred and pride and the fact that Dex is Dex. You step between it before it can happen, because you’re done with men trying to make your apartment a battleground.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” you say, and you make your voice firm enough that it cuts through both of them. “Dex, you’re leaving. Not later when you feel like it—when you can walk straight, which looks like it’s basically now. You don’t take anything from this apartment. You don’t touch that bag. And you do not come back.”

Dex’s eyes flick to you, then soften into something sharper. “Aw,” he says, quiet and ugly-sweet. “You’re making rules.”

“Yes,” you say. “Because you clearly don’t know how to exist without someone making them for you.”

Dex’s jaw flexes, and you can see the irritation, the spite, the obsession all mixing behind his eyes. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something cutting, then his gaze flicks past you to Matt. “You hear that?” Dex says, voice low. “Your girl’s got a spine. I like that.”

Matt’s answer is immediate and controlled. “Leave.”

Dex takes a step backward toward the door, then pauses like he can’t help himself. “This isn’t over,” he says, and it’s not even a threat that’s trying to sound cool. It’s just a fact in his tone, like he’s already decided he gets to stay in your orbit.

You stare at him, letting your expression go flat. “It is for me.”

Dex’s smile twitches like you slapped him. He looks at you too long, then turns and walks out. He doesn’t slam the door; he lets it click shut behind him like he’s leaving on purpose instead of being thrown out.

Matt locks it immediately. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home is the first thing all night that makes your shoulders drop. Matt stands there for a second with his hand still on the lock, head bowed slightly like he’s listening for Dex’s footsteps in the hall, for the elevator, for proof he’s actually gone.

Then Matt turns and comes back to you, and the moment he reaches you he cups the back of your neck and leans his forehead to yours again, breathing like he’s finally allowing his lungs to work.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“You can apologize later,” you murmur, and you squeeze his wrist. “Right now, I want a shower and clean sheets and, ideally, a world where nobody ever breaks a glass cage full of mystery chemicals again.”

Matt lets out a strained laugh that sounds like relief more than humor. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

---

Two weeks later, the apartment feels normal again in the way it always does after something violent tries to stain it. The sheets are clean, the couch has been scrubbed, the trash bags are long gone, and you’ve managed to file the whole night into that mental drawer labeled “never talk about this unless you absolutely have to.”

Matt comes home with groceries and bruises and a tired kiss that makes you feel like your body belongs to you again. You make dinner, you argue about whether he needs more sleep, and you pretend you don’t flinch when you hear sirens outside.

On a Tuesday afternoon, you bring the mail upstairs in a messy stack, flipping through the usual junk with your thumb. Matt’s at the kitchen counter, rinsing fruit, head tilted toward you like he’s listening for the tone of your voice more than the words.

“Bills,” you mutter. “Ads. Something for you from the bar association.” You pause, because one envelope doesn’t match the rest. It’s a plain envelope with no return address, and your name printed neatly on the front like somebody took their time. “Matt,” you call, trying to keep your voice casual and failing.

“What is it?” He asks, turning off the faucet.

“There’s… a letter,” you say, and you pick it up carefully, like it might bite. “No return address.”

Matt’s footsteps are quiet, controlled, and he stops close enough that you can feel him beside you. “Don’t open it yet,” he says, and his voice goes tight in that way it does when his instincts are screaming.

You don’t, not until he’s right there, one hand hovering near your wrist like he’s ready to pull you back if something goes wrong. You slide a finger under the flap and open it slowly, trying not to tear the paper. Inside is a single card, thick and clean, like it came from a nice stationery shop.

There’s no long message; no rant, no explanation. Just a small circle drawn in black ink, and inside it, a clean bullseye.

Your stomach drops.

Matt’s hand closes around your wrist gently but firmly. “What is it?” he asks, already knowing it’s bad from your breathing.

You swallow and slide the card toward him even though he can’t see it. “It’s… a symbol,” you say, voice tight. “A bullseye.”

Matt goes very still. His jaw clenches. His thumb presses once at your pulse point, not to calm you, but like he’s grounding himself too. “Is there anything written?” he asks, voice low.

You flip the card over with shaking fingers. There’s one line in the same neat print as the envelope: Thanks for the hospitality.

You look at Matt, and his face is calm in the way it gets right before violence, right before he turns into Daredevil instead of your boyfriend.

“Was he here?” you whisper.

Matt’s hand slides from your wrist to your cheek, warm and steady. “No,” he says quietly. “He wants us to think he was.”

You stare at the stupid little card, anger and fear twisting together in your chest. “He’s not done.”

Matt’s mouth tightens, and he leans in until his forehead touches yours again, voice low enough that it feels like a promise. “Neither am I.”

extra notes: look, all i'm gonna say is, i prob will come back to this as my horny release, lol. mostly because i feel betrayed by myself and really want to write a dexmatt kiss. like could you imagine them fucking you from each end while kissing over you?????? yeah can't believe i didn't write that

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo @demiebarnes

matt murdock: @ultimatewolverine @steviebbboi @crowleythesexydemon @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @hawke1917 @hexedangelx

dex poindexter: @ultimatewolverine @nightmerzer @hexedangelx @avidreader73

A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍 trick or tease masterlist

Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.

Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.

It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.

People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.

Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.

That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...

The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.

The ease.

The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.

No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.

They belong somewhere.

Everyone belongs somewhere except him.

There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.

Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.

And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.

At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.

It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.

Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.

Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.

How long would it take before anyone noticed?

Longer than it should, probably.

Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.

Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.

The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.

And that would be it.

No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.

That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.

Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.

They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.

Perhaps that’s why he notices you.

At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.

Instead he finds himself lingering.

The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.

And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.

That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.

It reminds him of himself.

Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day. Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.

The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.

Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.

He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.

The city is still alive around him.

Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.

Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.

See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.

That’s when he sees you.

Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.

Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.

Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.

But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.

No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.

You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.

Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.

At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Tired of moving.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.

The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.

Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.

Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.

They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.

Dex’s eyes snap open.

You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.

You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.

It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.

Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.

“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.

The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.

Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.

His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.

Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.

When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.

You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.

He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.

By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.

“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.

The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.

He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.

Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.

The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.

When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.

The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.

If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.

There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.

The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.

Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.

One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.

A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.

Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.

That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.

Long story short, life carried on.

You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.

Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.

Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.

None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.

If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.

That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.

The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.

You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.

You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.

But something still feels off.

Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.

You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.

You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.

Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.

With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed. 

And then… the smell.

At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time. 

This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left. 

But you live alone...

From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.

That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.

Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.

There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.

One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid. 

A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.

A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.

You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.

Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.

But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.

The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted. 

“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery. 

There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.

“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”

Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.

Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.

“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.

The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.

When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.

The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.

Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.

There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.

A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.

Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.

You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.

Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.

And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.

You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.

The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.

A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.

The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.

He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.

A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.

“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.

You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.

There is nowhere else to go.

His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.

“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”

You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.

Another day.

Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.

“You need to drink some water.”

There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.

The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.

“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”

The room tilts again.

Forty-eight hours.

Your gaze snaps back to his face.

“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.

His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.

“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.

“You had me worried for a while.”

You had him worried.

As though he has any right to be worried about you.

As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.

It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.

Your apartment.

The smell that didn’t belong.

The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.

The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.

The overwhelming heaviness that followed.

Darkness.

Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.

The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.

You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.

The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.

His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away. 

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.

It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.

“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.

“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.

He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.

For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.

“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”

Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?

And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.

When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.

“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”

The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.

Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.

Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.

Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.

The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”

For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.

Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.

You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning. 

The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”

His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”

You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.

There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.

The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.

“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.

Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.

“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”

The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.

“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.

Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.

“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.

The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.

“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.

The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.

Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture. 

Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.

“We’ve met before.”

Your lips part uselessly, confused.

“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”

A particularly cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.

“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”

His face brightens, pleased that you do.

“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.

“You walked right past me at first.”

Your throat tightens at his quiet comment. 

“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes. 

“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”

The air changes with his expression.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.

“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”

A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.

“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.

“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.

“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”

His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.

“Dex—”

“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.

You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”

The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.

To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.

Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.

Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.

Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.

His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.

But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.

Right over your heartbeat.

The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.

He doesn’t speak anymore.

He just stays there, still, listening.

“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”

Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.

“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”

You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.

“Get off me.”

Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.

“Oh.”

He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.

The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.

“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”

He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.

“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”

Again that detached tone.

You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.

His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.

“You’re still afraid.”

A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?

His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.

His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.

“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”

Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.

“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists. 

“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”

His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.

“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”

That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.

“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.

“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”

The lump in your throat is suffocating you.

“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”

Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.

Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.

After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.

“What do you want from me?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor. “I can’t—” You choke on your next breath.

“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.

Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.

“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“Anything you want,” his words tighten again with urgency. “I’ll make it happen.”

His voice lowers.

“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”

Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.

And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.

He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”

He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.

When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.

“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.

“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not when you have me now.”

You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.

Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different. 

But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.

Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.

Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.

But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.

From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.

You should turn your head.

You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.

Instead, you remain perfectly still.

When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.

For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.

The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t know what to make of any of this.

The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.

You truly are pathetic.

Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.

Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.

“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat. 

A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.

With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.

It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.

These fucking creeps never learn their lesson…

Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state. 

Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.

Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”

When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.

You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go. 

Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”

Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.

Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face. 

“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.

He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.

“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.

“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.

“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.

A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.

Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.

“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.

“You’re my good girl.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”

“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.

His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him. 

Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Mark you forever as mine.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full. 

You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.

For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.

He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.

Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks. 

Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

After your first date, Dex committed himself to becoming the perfect partner. Like all things he excelled at, he approached it with an alarming amount of discipline and research. Advice columns, psychology blogs, old nineties rom-coms, classic romantic novels– he consumed every piece of information he could get his hands on to learn how he could make you stay. 

The morning after your first date, he had caught you (as usual) in the elevator. You had shyly given him your number, like  you didn’t give him the most transcendental moment of his life the night before by kissing him outside apartment 416. Like Dex hadn’t been on his way to the jewelry store on 12th Street to buy you a diamond ring and claim you forever. 

“Maybe we can go out again?” you had asked quietly, batting your eyelashes as you finished typing your number into his embarrassingly empty contacts and handed his phone back. Maybe? Dex would’ve thrown himself off the roof if you didn’t go out with him again. 

“Yeah,” he stuttered. “Of course. I mean– definitely." 

He already had your number memorized, of course. Alongside a plethora of other information, including your social security number. But you giving it to him willingly? Dex still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. Then again, he couldn’t comprehend most things about you. How kind you were, how perfect you were, how beautiful you were, how real you were. What remained most incomprehensible, however, was the fact that you seemed to want him, too. 

Dex did whatever he could to keep you wanting him. He read online that women liked good morning texts, so he texted you good morning. He learned that they liked compliments, but didn't want to be overwhelmed by them or for them to be insincere, so he chose carefully. He complimented your hair if you wore it differently, or told you he liked your earrings, or the color of a dress or skirt you wore. Specific compliments were better, he had learned, because they show attentiveness. Dex was nothing but attentive. 

He knew that women liked it when men took initiative, too, so he planned your next dates and told you what time he would pick you up from across the hall. You liked that. You especially seemed to like when he paid for the dates, even though you would pretend to argue with him about it. 

“Dex, seriously,” you had attempted to complain on your third date. Dex had seen you post on your Instagram about wanting to see a new sci-fi movie that had just come out, so he suggested it as nonchalantly as he could possibly manage two days later. 

You both stood at the box office, and Dex was pulling out his wallet while you frowned at him. “You paid for dinner the first time, then coffee on our last date. I seriously can’t let you pay for this. My friends are going to start saying you’re my sugar daddy.”

Dex didn’t know what a “sugar daddy” was. He looked it up afterwards; shouldn’t a man want to pay for everything a woman needed if he loved her? Wasn’t that the point? To make sure she never had to ask anyone else for anything? To make sure she never needed anyone else?

He only shrugged and swiped his card. “It’s no problem. I like taking you out.”

Your only response was to roll your eyes and thread your fingers through his as you walked towards the theater.

There were things about being a good partner that were harder for him, though. The first was trying to appear less eager than he actually was. On the same relationship forum where Dex had read about the good morning texts, he also learned that he shouldn’t respond too quickly. That was easier said than done. Sometimes, after hearing his phone ping with a message from you, he would have to literally set a timer to keep himself from answering. Fifteen minutes, usually. Enough time to seem attentive. Enough time to seem like he was doing something other than waiting pathetically by his phone, pacing until the timer went off. 

The worst was the ring. Dex had bought it the morning after your first date. A perfectly symmetrical two-carat diamond perched delicately atop a thin gold band. Beautiful. Permanent. The black velvet ring box sat in the coffee table drawer next to the old Mercer tapes, both of them untouched. He would’ve proposed that very morning. He wanted to, desperately. And if God had any mercy on his mottled soul and you said yes, he would’ve marched you straight to city hall and made it official right then and there. 

Apparently, though, it was not considered “socially acceptable” to propose after the first date. That was “too soon”. Dex disagreed. Because what was “too soon”, really? Your relationship? To Dex, whatever the two of you had did not start when you asked him to dinner in the lobby that fateful morning. It began when he opened the door to you holding that frog-colored plate of chocolate chip cookies. Or maybe, it began before that. Maybe it began when you moved into apartment 416 and rearranged his mundane, miserable, structured world. Maybe it was before then, too. Maybe you both had always been connected, somehow, someway. 

So, Dex told himself he would wait. But as much discipline as he had, Dex knew that when it came to you, he wouldn’t be able to wait forever. 

Physical intimacy between the two of you was a whole different matter. The two of you had kissed since that first night. Several times, in fact. Sometimes outside your apartment door after a night out, inside the elevator in the morning, on street corners after dinner when you looked at him with your lips stained from whatever bottle of wine you two had shared. Sometimes the kisses were quick and sweet. Sometimes, they were not. 

Sometimes you would lean into Dex until your breasts were pressed against his chest, your fingers curling into the edge of his shirt collar while his hands spanned the small of your back and dipped lower and lower until they met soft flesh, and Dex would have to remind himself of every single discussion thread he had read about patience. About not pressuring a woman, even though every single fiber of his being was made from pulverizing pressure. 

He tried his best to wait for you. 

But tonight, Dex knew it would be different. 

Dinner had gone well, as it usually did these days. You laughed whenever he attempted a joke, complained about lesson plans, asked about the field office even though Dex would have much preferred to talk about you, and, after your second glass of wine, you spent the entirety of the meal staring at his mouth like you thought he wouldn’t notice. Dex noticed everything. 

By the time you both stood outside your apartment door, he could feel the shift. You had been quieter on the walk home, holding his hand tighter than usual, your hand squeezing him again and again like you were trying to work up the nerve to say something.

His pulse had steadied into something strong and restless as he watched you fish your keys out of your purse. You unlocked the door, and then paused with your hand on the knob. 

You looked at him. “Do you…want to come in?”

Dex had been in your apartment before. Many times, though you didn’t know it, of course. As a matter of fact, he had been inside it only nineteen hours ago, sitting in his favorite chair in the corner of your room as he watched you softly snore. 

But beyond your request for him to water the fern in your living room, never had he been invited in. 

Dex felt his mouth go dry. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

You stepped to the side and let him in. 

When the door closed behind Dex, he realized how different it felt to be inside your apartment as a wanted guest. Everything felt warmer, softer this way. From the lamps by your couch to the scent of the vanilla candle you kept by the stove, it was like Dex had all the pieces to the puzzle of your life spread before him, arranged perfectly, but only on your invitation had he been able to connect them and see the whole picture. And the whole picture was even better than he imagined, because he was in it. 

You brushed by him, toeing off your heels as you stepped into the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink? Water? Wine?”

Dex suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands as he followed you into the kitchen he had paced so many times before. He shoved them in his pockets. “Uh, wine is fine.”

“Would you get the glasses?” you asked, opening your fridge and peering inside. “They’re in the–”

Before you could finish speaking, Dex was already opening the cabinet above your sink. The one with the wine glasses. You blinked at him, bottle of Pinot Grigio in hand. 

“Oh. You found them.”

Dex froze with his hand around the stem of a glass. Fuck. “I…I keep mine there, too.”

You raised an eyebrow. 

Fucking fuck. He tried for an easy side smile and hoped it landed. “FBI intuition, I guess.”

For one horrible second, you only stared at him. Then you giggled. It worked. 

“I guess I should be careful dating an agent,” you teased as you took the glass from him and poured wine into it. “I’m never going to be able to hide anything from you.”

Dex laughed. You were right. 

Wine poured, you nodded towards the soft velvet couch in the living room. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” 

Dex walked behind you and tried not to stare at the bare line of your calves under your dress as you settled onto the couch and tucked a leg under yourself. Stiffly, he sat beside you at what he believed was an appropriate amount of space between your bodies. You looked at the space with what seemed like annoyance, then at him, and shifted closer until your knee brushed his thigh. Dex took a long sip of wine and hoped his face was arranged normally. 

You fidgeted with the stem of your glass, eyes moving from his face to the dark television screen across the room. Dex realized you were nervous.

“Do you, um–” you gestured towards the screen. “Should we put something on?”

“Sure,” Dex said, though he had no idea how he was supposed to watch anything when you were sitting close enough for him to feel the heat radiating off your body. Close enough to smell that intoxicating citrus shampoo. The same kind he had bought for his own shower.

You grabbed the remote from the coffee table and clicked the TV on. 

“...and in Hell’s Kitchen tonight, locals are reporting new sightings of a masked vigilante some are claiming may be Daredevil–”

You frowned as the grainy news broadcast footage showed a blurry, dark shape on a rooftop. “I thought that guy was dead.”

Dex’s eye twitched as he watched the screen. “Even if he is, there’s always going to be some idiot trying to copy him. Half of the shit he does is illegal but because he’s wearing a mask, everyone thinks he’s a hero.” 

You raised an eyebrow and flipped the channel. “I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about him.”

“It’s just…” Dex paused. For some reason, the conversation made his skin feel tight. He didn’t know why. “Guys at the field office complain about it a lot. People like him make our jobs a lot harder.” 

“Hmm.” You changed the channel again until you landed on some mindless standup comedy special. “Hopefully the FBI doesn’t have strong feelings about comedians, too.”

Dex huffed out something close to a laugh because that felt like the right response, and felt you ease yourself into his side. The laugh track filled the room but he didn’t register a single joke. All he could hear was your breathing. Dex watched as you took a sip from your wine glass, the tip of your tongue darting out to catch a stray droplet on your lip. He couldn’t stop staring. 

Surely, the heat of his gaze had bored into the side of your face, and finally you tipped your head up to look at him. The blue light from the screen moved softly over your face, catching on the little crease between your brows.

“I can feel you staring, you know.” 

Dex felt like a hand was around his throat. “I am.”

Your voice had gone hushed when you spoke again. “Why?”

There were hundreds of answers Dex could’ve given you. Because I love you. Because I’ve been watching you sleep every night for the last two months. Because I never stop thinking about you. Because there’s a ring waiting for you just across the hall. Because I wish I could crawl into your skin and live with you forever. Because you belong to me. 

All were the truth, but each answer felt too big. Instead, he gave you a small amount of honesty, though it was the most genuine Dex had ever been with you.

“I just…I can’t believe you’re real.”

The crease between your brows smoothed as your expression changed. Your eyes darted away, and then came back to meet his. “Well, last time I checked… I’m real.”

“I know you are.”

You looked at him for another moment, like you were trying to decide whether he was joking. He wasn’t. Slowly, like you were trying not to startle a skittish animal, you leaned forward and set your wine glass on the coffee table. Then you settled back on the couch, but this time your body was twisted to face him. Your hand came to rest against his chest, right over his thumping heart. 

“I’m…not always good at this stuff, but– I really like you, Dex,” you whispered. 

Something inside him shattered. All at once, the discipline in him– the articles, the forums, all the research into how to be a man you stayed with– left him. Every breath scraped like sandpaper through his ribs. Every organ was twisting in on itself until the only thing that would make the ache stop was touching you. 

This time, though, he didn’t want to wait. He couldn’t wait. 

So, Dex touched you.

His mouth crashed onto yours, all urgency and need and no hesitation. You moaned against him, lips parting so his tongue could slip inside to meet yours. Dex could taste the white wine clearly, like he was drinking it straight from you, licking it off the enamel of your teeth. Your hand had migrated from over his rapidly swelling heart to the side of his neck, fingers sliding into the coarse blond hair on the nape of his neck. He wanted you to pull it, to yank it out of his scalp. But in order to ask you to do that you would have to stop kissing him, and Dex couldn’t risk that. 

Grabbing the soft flesh at your waist, he pulled you until both of your legs framed his hips and you straddled him on the couch. As you settled over his crotch and let your weight sink onto him, Dex suddenly understood with terrifying clarity that tonight would be different from the sweet little kisses you two had shared before. He would finally, finally have you. He would have something no one else had ever taken from him and give it to the only person he had ever wanted to receive it: you. 

And in return, you would give yourself to him. No matter what happened after tonight, you would never be able to rid yourself of the proof that he had been here. 

Dex would give his virginity to you. 

“Dex,” your breathless whine brought him out of his stupor. In his haze, he had moved his mouth from your lips to your collarbone, sucking and biting hard enough he knew with all prideful certainty it would leave marks the next morning. “Can you…please…”

He felt you grind your clothed cunt helplessly against the tent that had formed against his jeans. Dex was already so hard, so aching, he felt like any movement from you would send him over the edge. He stilled your moving hips with his grip. 

“What?” His lips ghosted over where your shoulder met your neck. “What do you need?”

Dex would do anything for you. You should’ve known that.

Your face was flushed. You dipped your head down so your lips skimmed the shell of his ear. “My room. Take me there.”

Dex stood immediately. One arm around your back and the other under your ass, he lifted you like you weighed nothing. Your mouth was already on him again, pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, his cheek, the crinkle of his eye, any patch of skin you could find. 

You didn’t tell him where to go, because he didn’t need you to. Still holding your writhing form against him, Dex moved down the short hallway, past the framed photos of your life before him, past the bathroom door, straight to your bedroom– the same path he had taken silently in the dark more times than he could count. 

You were too busy acting like a bitch in heat to notice. 

Dex nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder and stepped inside. Your room was the same as it had been nineteen hours before. But never had he allowed himself to fully, truly imagine it in the light of all that was to happen. With a single invitation, the room had mutated. No longer was it a sanctuary; it was an altar. 

Reverently, Dex lowered you onto your mattress, holding himself up above you on his hands. You stared up under him, hair spread wildly against the pillow, mouth swollen and red from him. You were more beautiful than anything he had ever thought possible. 

Both of your hands came to frame his face and he nuzzled into your touch like a neglected animal. 

“Maybe this is embarrassing to admit, but– I’ve thought about this before,” you murmured, tracing your fingers across his brow bone. “I’ve thought about it so much.”

Dex could feel his breathing go ragged. He wanted to die. He buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

“W-what…what did you think about?” he asked shakily, voice muffled against you. Dex knew what you were going to say and still didn’t know if he could survive hearing it aloud.

Your fingers carded back into his hair. “... What you would feel like. On me. In me.”

He could only groan in response. You tugged on him, ever so slightly but enough it stung so fucking good, guiding his face back to yours. Dex followed helplessly, mouth finding you again, sloppy and uncoordinated before he forced himself to slow down.

Your hands slipped from his hair to your dress, fingers searching blindly for the zipper at your side. Instinctively, Dex caught your wrist before you could find it. 

You pulled back from his mouth, confusion flickering through your wild eyes. 

Dex stared at your smaller hand in his, then at your dress clinging to your body like a second skin. His voice was thin when he finally managed to speak. 

“...can I?”

Your expression softened for just a second before a flash of something he hadn’t seen before passed. “Can you…what?”

He wanted to light himself on fire. “T-take it off. Of you.”

You waited patiently. He wanted to light himself on fire and then stab himself. 

“Your dress,” Dex clarified, voice breaking. “... please.”

Your lips curved. “Yeah, Dex. You can.”

His fingers scrambled for the zipper, fumbling with it because he couldn’t stop shaking. Finally, he caught it, and moved it down the track, each tooth giving way, inch by inch by tortuous inch. 

Dex watched the fabric loosen around you, watched as the dress began to fall open beneath his hands. Finally, it was loose enough he could pull the straps down off your shoulder, then down, down, down until it bunched at your hips. You lifted them, and Dex slid the dress the rest of the way off and tossed it somewhere behind him, forgotten before it hit the floor. Only then did he allow himself to sit back on his heels and look at you fully.

Like a figure from a painting, you lay back on the pillow, arms twitching at your sides like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to cover yourself or let him see you. Your bare breasts rose and fell with each breath, full and soft with peaked nipples beginning to stiffen in the cool air. Dex forced his eyes down, over the dip of your sternum, the softness of your stomach, and lower still. There was still one barrier between you– a pair of lace panties the color of the morning sky. He knew them. He had seen them folded neatly in your drawers before, had skimmed his hand over the fabric. He always wondered what it would be like to feel them warm and damp from your arousal, or to smell your scent on them, or to taste you through them. To be honest, he had thought about taking them with him many times. But now, Dex was glad he didn’t. Because no stolen relic would be able to come anywhere close to the honor of doing what he was about to do. 

A sound more animal than human left him, and instinct forced him to lean down, hands opening your thighs. Before you could even register what was happening, he placed a kiss on your clothed cunt. 

“Ooh, shit–” you gasped, hips bucking against him. 

Dex did it again, sloppier this time, needier. Like he was thanking you. Each kiss wetting the fabric, each kiss a gesture. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

You were close to trembling as you put your hands on each side of his face, practically having to pull him back. 

“Dex, please…” your eyes met his, nearly black with want. “No more teasing. Take them off, now.”

A command. He was familiar with them. Words barked across a firing range, across a battlefield, across a rooftop with his scope trained on a life he was about to end with one clean pull of the trigger. But never had Dex wanted to obey an order as badly as this one. 

His hands moved from holding your thighs open to slipping under the band of lace. Once he slid that final piece of fabric off you, there was no more script. Technically, he knew what happened next. Dex was a man and had seen what men like to see; he wasn’t a prude and he certainly wasn’t stupid. He had been in the Army, for fuck’s sake. He had been there when men opened their phones in the barracks and played videos of women pretending to find pleasure beneath men with comedically long penises. He had watched them pass around half-naked pictures of girls back home and brag about what they could do with their mouths.

Dex knew where to put his hands, his fingers, his tongue, his cock. But knowing how to do something isn’t the same as wanting to do it. Dex had never had the desire. What was the point of doing any of that to someone he didn’t care about? What was the point of pushing himself inside a body that meant nothing to him? A body that wasn’t yours? A body that didn’t belong to his North Star? Maybe that’s why he waited all this time– because in his whole thirty-three years on this planet, you were the only person who had ever made desire feel like it was worth obeying.

Dex hooked his fingers beneath the lace and pulled. He tried to be slow, but the starving, caged animal in him was screaming at him to just rip them off, bury his face in your cunt, and finally learn if you tasted the way you smelled: sweet and oh-so human. But his hands shook too badly for that, so he watched in agony as the lace made its slow descent down the curve of your hips. Dex eased the panties down your thighs, over your knees, past your calves, until they slipped free around your ankles and landed in his hand. 

You whispered his name.

He looked up, and you were bare. Completely. Your flushed thighs had fallen back open, exposing your wet, swollen pussy to him, the soft curls between your legs damp and glistening with arousal.

Dex wanted to cry. Instead, he dipped his head back to you and brushed his nose against the soft crease where your thigh met your pelvis. He inhaled deeply, letting the heady musk of you infiltrate his senses, and groaned aloud. 

Maybe he should’ve felt humiliated, scenting you like a dog. But this was the holiest experience he had ever had. His lips pressed a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. Then again, higher. Then another. Until finally, his lips hovered over the swollen nub at the top of your cunt. 

The tip of his tongue darted out, placing a careful lick directly to your clit. 

“Fuck!” you cried out, hand flying over to cover your eyes like you couldn’t bear it. 

Dex did it again, and then again. And then again, and again, and again, until your hand had moved from over your eyes to clutch at his hair. Dex lifted his gaze to see your eyes rolling into the back of your head, the whites of them showing like you had become possessed. 

He didn’t know if he was doing it right. Dex knew how to study, though, and how to become accurate. He had built his life around noticing and correcting until he found that exact target. He could execute. Dex could, would do the same for you. 

He moved from those small, careful licks to longer ones, slowly dragging his tongue from your dripping entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves above it. Softer, then faster. Slower, then with more pressure. Adjusting, correcting, narrowing in. He learned what you liked. Your moans became louder when he circled your clit with the edge of his tongue, so he did that. Your thighs trembled when he sealed his mouth over you and hummed, so he did that. Your body spoke, and Dex listened. 

“Oh my– Jesus fucking Christ, Dex,” you gasped. Your moans had become garbled and near incoherent at this point. 

He lifted his gaze again and met your eyes as he continued drawing tight, slow circles over your swollen clit. Your face was twisted in what could only be described as pleasure and agony, mouth open, brows pinched, tits heaving with every labored breath. Dex couldn’t look away. 

“Mmm… I’m gonna–” your thighs tightened around his face, trembling against his ears. “Fuck, how are you doing that?”

He only hummed in response, and your back arched off the mattress. 

“Dex,” you cried, hand fisting at his hair, pulling so hard it sent a shock through him. “Please, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna– oooh, fuck–”

Dex felt your cunt pulse underneath his tongue, your whole body spasming as you came with a broken sob. He held you still through it, mouth never stopping as much as you seized. He tried to watch you as much as he could to memorize this very moment, the trembling in your muscles, your eyes fluttering, the shape your mouth made as his name left it over and over. 

Dex, Dex, Dex. 

He could have stayed, face buried into your pussy, for days. Weeks. Months, even. Hell, Dex would have happily died of suffocation if it meant never having to take his mouth off of your still-convulsing cunt. 

You, though, did not seem ready to kill him yet. Oversensitive and still twitching with aftershocks, you pried his pussy-drunk face away from you with trembling hands until he reluctantly released your cunt from the suction of his mouth. He kissed a trail back up your body, stopping to press his mouth in a grateful kiss to each peak of your breasts before finally reaching your mouth again. The second your lips met, you let out a quiet gasp at the taste of yourself on his tongue. 

“Dex,” you mewled against his lips. Your breath was still shallow, though the fact that he kept sucking softly at your lower lip probably did very little to help you recover. “I think that was…shit. That was definitely the best orgasm I’ve had. Like, in my entire life. Where the fuck did you learn that?”

Dex paused only briefly, his hand stopping on its way from your waist to paw at the soft flesh of your tit. “I, uh– practice. And I pay attention. I guess.” 

Apparently, you found that answer sufficient, because you gave only a girlish giggle and pulled him back down into another kiss. Your hand moved from his jaw to the cords of his neck, then lower still, over his chest, his stomach, until your fingers paused at his belt.

“Hmm,” you looped one finger through the leather. “I think we’re a little unbalanced here.”

You were right. You were bare, as naked as the day you entered this world and were bound to him. Dex, hovering above you, was still fully clothed from head to toe. 

You tugged once at the belt. “Off.”

Another command he was more than happy to oblige. He sat back on his heels, first wiping the mess of your arousal off his chin before grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it over his head before tossing it to join your dress on the floor. You sucked in a quiet intake of breath at that, though Dex wasn’t sure exactly why. 

His hands moved to his buckle, and Dex could feel your eyes on him as he worked the leather free. They were everywhere, the dusting of dirty blond hair on his pectorals, the trail of darker hair that extended from his stomach to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. It felt like you were cataloging every single piece of him. 

Dex shoved his jeans down his hips, kicking them off once they pooled around his ankles. 

It should have made him nervous. Dex had spent his whole life finding ways to hide, behind roles, structures, masks, anything to avoid truly being seen. But this didn’t feel like exposure. It felt like…recognition. Like his body was already yours. A part of you. You two were equal, but opposite. The same soul in  different skins. 

His North Star. 

The thought alone made his cock throb. 

As if you sensed it, your eyes dropped to the bulge beneath his black briefs, and your lips parted into a small “o”. He was so hard it hurt, the fabric stretched tight. Dex had been hard because of you before. Alone in his apartment, the blue light of his laptop illuminating the screen that showed a smiling picture of you stolen from one of your social media accounts. In the shower, sniffing the exact citrus shampoo he had bought after finding the bottle in your bathroom. Sitting in this very bedroom, watching you toss and turn under the covers. 

But never had he touched himself to you. 

Dex wasn’t a saint, obviously. He would lay there, every fiber of his being aching for some sort, any sort of relief to the coil building low in his gut. He could never do it, though. Every time his hand would hover lower, even graze his pulsing member, a wave of disgust would come over him so strongly it forced his hand back. It would have been…false. Blasphemous. Like kicking dirt over an act of salvation. 

He saved himself for this exact moment. Once he took off his briefs there was absolutely no going back. There would be before, and then there would be after. Nothing in between.

You pushed yourself up, folding your knees underneath you, rising until you were level with him again. You put your hand on his chest, delicate fingers trailing across his chest, brushing his nipples, and then lower. His abdomen braced as you skimmed your fingertips past the hard ridges, until finally, you placed your palm over his cock. 

He gasped your name, head dropping to your shoulder. He hadn’t touched himself in months. No one, no one had touched him like that. Ever. 

Your hand moved again, fingers closing around him through the fabric, and his hips jerked forward before he could stop them. Dex was so far gone from the taste of you and the sight of you and the knowledge that you wanted him like he wanted you that the light pressure shot through him like a bullet.

Your face turned into his, lips slotting into each other again before Dex could collapse against you. It was slower than before, your tongue exploring his mouth like you had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t seconds away from spurting ropes of cum into his briefs when you hadn’t even actually touched him yet. 

Dex kissed you back desperately, one hand fisting your hair to hold you close, the other grabbing at your waist. He could feel your hardened nipples brushing against his chest, your hand stroking him softly. He was going to cum. Just from that. 

“Wait.”

With what seemed like great effort, you pulled back from Dex’s mouth. A thin, translucent string of your mingled saliva followed you until it snapped, landing against your chin. Dex resisted the urge to lick it up. Your palm still cupped the twitching length of him through the fabric of his briefs. 

“Do you…” Your eyes flicked briefly away from his. “Do you have…protection?”

Dex stared at you in silence. You huffed, though your cheeks were already beginning to burn. Were you…embarrassed? Even after all he just did to you? For you?

“What?” Dex asked. He knew what you meant. 

“A condom. Do you…have one?”

Technically speaking, no. Not on him, at least. There was, however, a small box of unopened condoms under his bathroom sink. He bought it exactly four weeks ago, on the afternoon before your first date. Not the thought something was going to happen that night, obviously. But Dex was always, always prepared. He had thought maybe, eventually, something like this could happen. But now…it was happening. And the idea of something stopping this, something coming in between the two of you, it was unbearable. Disgusting, even. 

After everything that had already kept him from you, after all the doors and walls and locks and rules that had made him stand on the other side, waiting and waiting and fucking waiting, did he really want another barrier?

Absolutely not. 

Dex leaned in and placed a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Uh, n-no. No, I don’t.”

You chewed on your lip, eyes darting down to where you still held him. You were considering something. 

“I…I don’t think we have to use one, if you don’t want to,” you began slowly. “I’m on birth control.”

He knew that. Dex had found the little foil packet of pink pills in your bedside drawer weeks ago. He stared at it, and it stared back at him like it had a personal vendetta. That would be dealt with another time. 

“And…I’m not seeing anyone else.”

Of course you weren’t. If you had been, Dex would’ve taken care of that, too. You wouldn’t need to worry yourself with the details. 

You looked back up at him, eyes wide and cautious. “Unless…you’re seeing someone else?”

Dex felt genuinely offended. He would have rather disemboweled himself and let vultures pick at his organs than even think of someone other than you. He genuinely didn’t think he was physically capable of wanting anyone else. 

“What? I– no, no, of course not,” he sputtered, his grip on your waist tightening before he could stop it. Did you think so low of him? “Do you think I am?”

You shook your head quickly. “Dex, no. I didn’t think you were. I just meant…obviously, it would be okay if you were, I just–”

“I’m not seeing anyone else. I won’t be seeing anyone else.” Just like you won’t be seeing anyone else, he wanted to add. 

Something in his tone made you go quiet. After a few seconds, you blushed and nodded your head. “Okay. I believe you.”

You placed one tender kiss on his lips, as if that was the final confirmation you needed, and then slipped your hand into the band of his briefs. 

This was it. The final wall between the two of you. 

Your fingers paused, brushing the coarse hair on his pubic bone. “...can I?”

Dex didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded. 

You pulled the briefs down slowly, and Dex had to steady himself with against you. His cock sprang free, veined and girthy, and slapped against his stomach, head red and drooling with precum just below his navel. 

Your eyes bulged. “I don’t…I don’t think that’s going to fit.”

His whole body pulsed at your words. He knew he was…big. Solders had made jokes of it in locker rooms. He felt it. But he had never cared before. Now, he did. And he was going to make himself fit, one way or another. 

Dex kicked the briefs the rest of the way down, and your hand wrapped back around him before he had a chance to prepare himself. Your fist moved up, thumb tracing the vein underneath the head, before it moved back down the silky shaft, all the way to the base, and then back up–

Quickly, he put his hand over yours. “I–you should probably stop.”

You raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t…I don’t think I’ll last,” he admitted sheepishly. “If you keep doing that.”

Your expression softened, which only made the humiliation worse. 

“Oh,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his jaw. “That’s okay. We can go slow.”

Dex nodded weakly, and guided you back down onto the mattress with blood rushing in his ears. Your thighs opened once more, this time wrapping around his hips, heels pressing into the dimples of his back. 

Slowly, shakily, he lowered himself down. The heat from your cunt was radiating. Only a few centimeters of air lay between your sexes. Only a few centimeters of air before he would be forever changed. A part of him would be inside you, and even after he left, even after you washed him from your skin, Dex would know the truth. 

It had to be perfect.

Dex wrapped a trembling hand around himself and guided the sensitive head of his cock slowly to your entrance. The first touch made his whole body seize. You were so hot, so wet. He wasn’t going to last. He had to control himself.

Dex's eyes squeezed shut, face twisting. He needed to breathe. In…and out. 

“...Dex?” you asked, breath hitching. You looked genuinely concerned. “Are you–”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, I just–” What was he supposed to say? I’m about to lose my virginity? My life is going to be forever changed? For the first time in my life, I’m scared?

Dex roughly exhaled through his nose, then regrouped himself. It would be perfect. He brought his leaking head back to your pussy lips, dragging himself through your slick. The tip bumped your clit, and you moaned. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he mumbled, though he didn’t know anything anymore. 

Finally, Dex lined himself up with your entrance, jaw clenched so hard he thought it might shatter. The head of his cock pressed against you, and stars swam in his vision. 

Dex could have researched, read, and studied all he wanted, but absolutely nothing could have prepared him for this. 

He pushed forward, and the world ceased around him. 

“Oh my God,” you whined as the head of his cock slipped inside you. 

He barely had an inch of his cock in you, and already it was too much. Your cunt was tighter than he could have ever imagined, so much so that he started to think maybe you hadn’t been lying when you said he wasn’t going to fit. 

Dex’s forehead, beaded with sweat, dropped to yours. He couldn’t think. Nothing existed anymore. 

“You’re so…tight,” he panted. “I… I don’t think I can–”

“Please, Dex,” Your voice was shaking, your hips bucking like you could draw him deeper by sheer force. “Want you to fuck me. Want it so bad, Dex. Keep…keep going. Please.”

He obeyed. Dex pushed forward a little further, easing another inch of his cock into you. Your mouth fell open, brows pinching together as your nails dug into the muscles of his back. 

It took every ounce of self-control he had to not give in to every primal instinct ingrained within him slam himself forward. He didn’t want to hurt you. Every inch, every shift, you would whimper, head tossing against the pillow while you adjusted. And Dex wanted to last. Patience, he reminded himself, teeth gritted. He would be patient with you. 

Finally, after minutes of feeding you one inch after another while you whined and whimpered and begged for more, while Dex nearly bit his tongue off to keep from losing control, it was done. 

One small thrust forward, and Dex bottomed out with a groan. He was buried deep inside you, the pulsing head of his cock brushing your cervix. 

It didn’t feel real. 

“I’m…I’m inside you.”

“OhmyfuckingGod,” you slurred, raising your head off the pillow to peer down at the obscene sight of him fully sheathed inside you, slick smeared across both your thighs, your bodies joined completely. With one trembling hand, you pressed below your navel. “I can feel you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. 

In disbelief, Dex raised his hand and placed it over yours. There it was-- the long shape of him evident even under your skin. Him. Where he would live forever. 

“P-please, Dex,” you dug your nails again into his back, dragging him back to reality. “Fuck me.”

He obeyed. 

Dex drew his hips back an inch, terrified of leaving you completely, then pushed back in. Your head fell back onto the pillow, eyes closing in total ecstasy. 

He eased himself out, a little further this time, then slowly back in. Again, then again. Again. Again. Again. 

On one of his thrusts, Dex felt something spongy drag against the sensitive ridge near the head of his cock, and your eyes rolled back.

“Oooh, shit, Dex,” you whimpered, hands moving to claw at his shoulders. “Dex, right there, again, again, please…”

Dex braced his forearm beside your head and angled his hips slightly until he felt that spongy muscle once more. Your moans were getting louder, more high-pitched, with every perfect thrust.  Even like this, even with his body threatening to come apart too soon, Dex could still learn you. 

You were close, he could tell. Dex slipped a hand between your bodies, the pad of his thumb finding the swollen pearl he already knew was key to your pleasure. At the same time, he dipped his head and captured one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking it between his lips and rolling his tongue over the tight bud. He rubbed tight circles over your clit, trying to match the rhythm of his hips, the rhythm of how you liked his tongue only minutes earlier. 

“That’s– oh, God. It's so good. You’re gonna make me come again,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come–”   

“Yeah? You’re gonna come on my cock?” He raised his eyes, releasing your breast from his mouth with a soft pop. His voice was strangled, panicked and relieved at the same time. For the first time in his life, it was Dex’s turn to command. “Come for me.”

Your body began to convulse, back arching off the mattress, muscles of your perfect cunt clamping down around him so tightly his vision went white at the edges. It was like all language had left you, and the only thing you still knew was his name. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, thrusts becoming uneven as the erratic spasms of your pussy pulled him deeper, dragging him closer to the edge. His body was winding up, the coil in his gut bracing for what he now knew was inevitable. Dex wasn’t going to last. It was too perfect. You were too perfect. “I’m close, I’m–”

Your hand shot from his shoulder to the back of his neck, dragging his face down closer to yours. Even with tears brimming at your lower lids, your eyes were clear. Focused. 

“Come in me, Dex,” you whispered, world narrowing to only the slap of flesh against flesh and your hushed voice. “Do it.”

Your final wish, your final command. It was over. Every practiced act of self-restraint, of control, of trying to restrain himself, had vanished. 

His hips stuttered as he tried to bury himself deeper into your organs, deep enough to leave an imprint. His mind had gone blank, feral. Dex grabbed at your chin, squishing your face between his fingers because he needed you. Needed to see you. Needed you to know. 

“I love you.”

With his final utterance, the only truth he could ever fully tell you, Dex came. 

His hips pushed forward, shuddering as he spilled his seed into you. He couldn’t stop the words. 

“I love you,” Dex gasped again, grip tightening on your face. He couldn’t stop coming, couldn’t stop saying it, couldn’t stop the truth from pouring out of him and into you. “I love you, I love you, I– fuck–”

He collapsed onto you. 

In…and out. 

Dex smelled your shampoo, your sweat. 

In…and out. 

He felt the cool cotton of your twisted sheets, your sweat-slick breasts against his chest. His cock still twitching inside you, the warmth of his release beginning to leak out around him in a pearly track.

In…and out. 

In…and… 

With sudden clarity, he remembered all that he said. 

Fuck. 

Dex’s eyes shot open. He scrambled backwards on the bed, his softening cock slipping out of you as panic tore through him.

“I’m– I don’t know why I said that, I–” His heart rate was beginning to climb frantically, splotches of red blooming on his chest. He dragged a shaking hand down his face. “Fuck, I’m…I’m so sorry, I just–”

You followed after him, pushing yourself up on the bed from where you lay, limbs heavy and still shivering. 

“Hey, hey. Dex,” You took his face in your hands, thumbs smoothing across his cheekbones. Soothing him. “Dex, it’s okay. Look at me.”

Eyes bleary with tears, he met your gaze. He fucked it up. He hadn’t done what he practiced. He was too eager. Too quick. Too honest. Too himself. It would be over now. You would send him out of your room, laugh at him, do what everyone else had done to him his whole life and abandon him. 

There was no point in continuing if you did that. No purpose for Dex. No point in living if you weren’t his North Star. 

He would end it all. 

“Dex,” you said his name again. Dex managed to blink the hot tears from his eyes, and he saw you clearly. You were…smiling. 

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice soft and sweet. “I feel the same.”

He stilled. 

Did you– no. No, surely he hadn’t heard you correctly. Surely the blood was still rushing throughout his body so loudly that he misunderstood. 

“I…I don’t…” He stumbled over his words, throat tight. “What?”

Your smile grew wider. The same smile you gave him when he first opened his apartment door and found you standing there. The same smile that made him feel like his eyes had finally opened for the first time in his life.

“I love you, too, Dex.”

His breath, which he hadn’t realized he had been holding, left him in a shaky exhale. You loved him. You wanted him. You needed him. You felt what he had been feeling this entire time. 

Your thumbs moved on his cheeks again, this time wiping away tears Dex hadn’t realized had fallen. 

“I know it’s early,” You paused, and then laughed softly, like you couldn’t believe what you were saying. “It’s probably insane. And maybe it’s partially the life-changing orgasm still talking, but…”

You bit your lip bashfully, but looked deep into his eyes. “I mean it. Seriously. I care about you, and I just… I like what we have.”

Dex opened his mouth, but no sound came out. You seemed to understand anyway. 

You pressed one tired, affectionate kiss to his cheek, then two to his lips, before patting his chest. “So…stop freaking out and get back into the bed so we can sleep, okay? And hopefully I can still walk in the morning.”

Dex tried to laugh. The two of you moved clumsily back beneath the sheets, bodies sticky with sex. You turned onto your side, snuggling into him and guiding his arm around your waist. You placed one last kiss to his chest, just above his heart, and closed your eyes with a sigh. 

The room fell into silence. 

You loved him. 

Dex had been in this room so many times before, had seen the moonlight move slowly over your sleeping face with every hour that he watched over you. He had often wondered what it would feel like to finally cross the distance between you, to climb under the covers. To hold you.

Now, he was finally here. 

Dex’s hand crawled from your waist to splay over your ribcage, feeling your breath begin to even out. 

In…and out. 

The rhythm that had once belonged to him had transferred to you. 

He didn’t know what he had done to deserve this. Dex had lied, he had murdered, he had felt nothing but emptiness in spaces he should feel empathy. He had spent years convincing himself there was nothing in him but flesh and bones. No soul. Nothing worthy of mercy.

And yet, here you were. Holding onto him, sleeping like you trusted him…because you did. More than that, even. You loved him. 

Dex would do whatever he could to keep you. Nothing would take you from him. Even if the world separated you, he would remain in your life. You would never be rid of him. Ever. 

He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to your shoulder. His hand drifted from your chest to rest over your belly. 

For the first time in his life, he prayed. 

Please, God, he thought. 

Please let it stick. 

Your eyes light up and suddenly your apron is the least important thing you’ve ever seen and it gets discarded quickly in a bin underneath the register. Your head is whipping from side to side as customers and coworkers alike are telling you goodbye and you keep looking at him through the window excitedly and - a hand.

His brain doesn’t compute it for a second. Cause why, in any situation would a hand be touching you that’s not his? It doesn’t make any sense.

And the fingers are leaving indents against your flesh, and they’re big and there’s dark hair on the knuckles.

A man is touching you.

He swallows hard, because you don’t immediately do something about it and his muscles start to tense so bad he’s afraid he’s gonna cramp.

You drag your arm away in seconds so he can’t be too upset because it’s not your fault, but this guy was grabbing you like it was normal. You quickly scoop your bag up and whoosh out the door to bound over to his parked vehicle.

A precious smile on your face like you don’t have a worry in the world.

Your dress gets caught in the wind, and he almost forgets about that nasty, white hot feeling in his stomach when you press your hand to your lap to keep it from exposing your panties.

You tend to rotate between pairs, he knows you have those white ones on today with a little bow over your mound cause he kissed it this morning.

He smiles to himself, hops out to open the car door for you. You’re eager to get out of the breeze so you don’t greet him physically quite yet, just an excited “Baby, hey!” and he pretends not to be hurt about it cause he knows you don’t mean anything by it.

He places a protective hand over your bum when you climb into the vehicle to make sure the wind doesn’t betray you again.

He looks around like a guard dog just to make sure no one’s looking, anyways.

Your scent fills his car, makes him a little dizzy with euphoria. You’re all sweet energy and soft chapstick covered lips when you wrap your arms around the side of his neck and press a big, sticky kiss to his scruffy cheek.

He’s stiff as a rock, an immovable force against your soft body no matter how intensely he’s melting from it on the inside. Immediately your eyebrows furrow, plush lips downturned into a frown. Your arms stay around his neck and shoulders, the angle awkward since you’re in the passengers seat but you’ve never not touched him after a whole day of being without him.

“Hey, he was like eighty five Dex.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, cocks one eyebrow up and finally turns his head to look at you with something close to a snarl. Like he can’t believe you saw him watching that closely.

You keep your amusement under control.

“I don’t - I didn’t see what he looked like,” he acts like you don’t know him well enough to read every expression he could possibly make.

He wipes a big hand over his jaw, sighing. He missed you, badly. He can’t help that his mind reels like this, and you know that so you listen.

“Jus’ saw someone touching you.” He admits, bites the slurry of words that threaten to leave his mouth about how he could be dangerous he’s never seen this guy and doesn’t know who he is and what if he tries to corner you when I’m not there and -?

You stroke his face with your knuckles, so doting and loving and gentle. You can see him fighting the intense urge to lean into it, to surrender.

“Well, Mr. Grandivere is really nice and all, but there’s only one old man I want.”

Your smile blossoms now, fully. And you see the red creeping up on his neck, spreading to his handsome face like a wildfire. His chest uncoils a little bit, body relaxes when you grab his heavy calloused hands and bring one up to your mouth.

A kiss that lingers too long to be chaste, but is tender in intention.

“I should go back in there and tell him something, it’s inappropriate, y’know? You’re a young woman just tryin’ to do her job and h-he just grabbed you. It’s disgusting.”

He’s doing too much. He knows it. But if he didn’t say it out loud the thought would linger for too long, drive him mad.

And you know it’s fucked up. Seeing him like this, and yeah, it tends to piss you off but you also tend to talk him down from thoughts like this so you have all of the right things in your artillery to do so - but it always makes something deep and primal and filthy start to ache in the very bottom of your belly.

He keeps looking at you, and then at the window, and back at you while gnawing on his bottom lip. You plant a firm hand on his broad chest, feel the throbbing of his heart there and the rapid rise and fall of his breath.

“And that would do nothing but jeopardize my job, which I love, which is why you can’t do that, right?” You say it lovingly, calm and collected. You start rubbing in slow circles, soothing that rapid heartbeat.

His response is immediate, and you almost gasp when he turns his head towards you completely. It’s all encompassing, easy to get swept into his intense and menacing stare. It’s not directed towards you, per say, but nonetheless.

“You know I take care of you. I’ll give you anything - everything you want. You know I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you,”

He gets closer, trails his thick fingers up your forearm.

“Can you say it for me?”

Now it’s your heart hammering, and fuck, the ache has spread between your thighs. It’s incredibly intoxicating to have someone devote themselves so wholly to you, for a man to truly mean what he says, when he says it and although it’s extreme - that’s almost what makes it so earnest. So raw. He just can’t help it.

“You take care of me. And you’d give me anything I want, Dex. Anything. And you always protect me, always always always.”

Finally he comes back down to earth. Finally, he takes a real and genuine exhale and he starts leaning in to you with a jutted chin and low fanning lashes.

“Good, yeah,”

His breath is as warm and sweet when it fans against your face, as his voice is low and rough and relieved. He gets so close your noses are brushing and his broad mouth is hovering over yours. His hand cups your face, fingers just behind your ear and thumb on your bottom lip.

“Give your old man a kiss, hmm? C’mere sweetheart.”

You don’t hesitate, not when he talks to you like this because it does something inhuman to your body and brain. Like he clicks an on button and you’re hot all over, dizzy and bleary eyed.

Your mouths meet and his tongue licks the inside of your mouth, possessive and wanting and hungry. It’s slow and intentional, like he wants to spell it all out for you with a suckle on your bottom lip and then your top and then your tongue completely in his mouth.

He parts, cause his manhood is swelling and he has to adjust himself. It’s not easy, even the string of split that he wipes off with his thumb turns him on, makes him want to hold you against him until you sink into his skin.

“No one can take care of you like I can, mm one more.”

He can’t resist, pulls you in for another and another and another.

He takes a deep breath this time, focuses. Your sweet voice takes all the malice out of him like an antidote.

“No one, Dex, ever. Just you, always you.”

He grabs your hand, holds it firm and close on his big lap while the other puts his truck in drive.

He kisses your knuckles.

dex was protective, that was something you'd grown used to throughout your relationship. it was fine, honestly you found it charming and endearing. but protection tends to lead to a slippery slope of possession and you've never done particularly well at being told what you can and can't do.

a few of your friends from work had invited you out tonight for someone's birthday, and normally you would've passed but they begged and pleaded.

'come on, you're such a homebody!'

'it'll be fun, we promise.'

'you need to let loose once in a while!'

so, reluctantly, you'd agreed. when you got home that evening you were antsy with something akin to excitement, practically radiating off your skin in anticipation to go do something you don't typically do. of course, your loving boyfriend noticed this change in you immediately.

"what's got you so excited?" he asks you from behind the kitchen island, his eyes cutting up to you from where he's meticulously measuring ingredients for dinner. dex had always been precise. you'd catalogued all the little ways he needed things to be done just right, and cooking is one of them.

you take a seat at one of the leather barstools across from him, a smile tilting your lips. "it's felicia's birthday tonight, so the group from work invited me out with them." to you, it isn't a big deal — i mean, you're an adult, you're allowed to go out with your friends. so why would it be?

dex's hand stills. "go out where?" his voice goes flat, losing all inflection of emotion.

"to cherries over in brooklyn, apparently that's her favor—"

"no."

he cuts you off immediately, setting down the measuring cup he'd been using, and places his hands flat against the countertop. you stare at him, jaw slack, eyes wide, shocked that he'd just completely shut you down on something that certainly wasn't a question.

"what do you mean, no? i wasn't asking permission." you bristle slightly, sitting up straighter as you narrow your eyes at dex.

and from there the argument began and spiralled out of control. dex told you that there was no point in going out to some cheap grimy club where people are just going to be stupid and you could get hurt. you'd scoffed and reminded him you are plenty capable of taking care of yourself. eventually both your voices began to rise, and you'd gotten so irritated you'd slipped off the stool and made your way to the bedroom to begin getting ready, and he was arguing with you every step of the way.

at some point you'd practically tuned him out, silently finishing up your makeup, already having neatly styled your hair and slipped into some tiny black dress you'd never actually worn in public before. it was only when dex put his hand through the drywall behind you that your surroundings rushed back in.

"what is your fucking problem?" you'd hissed at him, tossing your tube of mascara onto the vanity, rising to your feet so you could turn and glare at him.

his chest was heaving as his breaths came out uneven and his eyes were wild, the pupils beginning to swallow the pretty hazel irises you loved so much. you frowned, reaching down to snatch your purse from the bed, hitching it over your shoulder. you shake your head and begin to head towards the bedroom door, but his hand shot out, grabbing you by your wrist, his grip tight enough to leave a bruise.

"you are not stepping out of this apartment." his voice is slightly hoarse and has an edge to it that you can feel in the pit of your stomach. he's towering over you, and in the moment you're reminded of just how broad and massive he is, with the way his jaw clenches and the muscles in his arms ripple.

but you've never been particularly good at backing down, even when you probably should. "you don't fucking own me." you wrench your wrist free and shoulder past him, heels clicking against the wooden apartment floors. "if you call or text me, i'll shut my phone off." then you slipped out of the apartment and didn't look back, now plenty in the mood to get plastered and throw yourself into forgetting about the argument.

that's how you wound up in a crowd of people you don't know, your friends nowhere to be found somewhere around your fourth drink, but you couldn't care less. the liquor loosened the knot in your chest and filled you with a flushing warmth from the tips of your toes to the apples of your cheeks. you're swaying in the center of the room, hands reaching above your head as you tip it back towards the ceiling, letting the music flow through you.

"wow," you hear a husky voice in the shell of your ear and a warm body slots right against your back. alarm bells begin to blare in your head but your reaction time is significantly slower due to the alcohol in your system. "what's a girl like you doing out here all alone, hm?" large hands find home on your hips, fingertips digging into the fabric and kneading at the flesh beneath.

you feel yourself go rigid, and the warmth you'd been feeling becomes unbearable and sweltering now, as if you're being burned alive. "i have a boyfriend," you manage to get out, trying to wiggle out of the man's hold. but his grip is firm, and you can't seem to shake him.

"you girls love to play hard to get," he chuckles in your ear and it sends a sense of dread trickling down your spine. "come on, dance a little for me. i'll even buy you a drink after."

"no, i told you i have a boyfriend." your voice is a bit firmer, and you're looking around now trying to spot one of your friends, but it's a sea of endless strangers, not a single familiar face in sight.

"well, then he doesn't have to know, yeah?" the man leans further into your space, his lips ghosting along the side of your throat. bile begins to rise from your stomach and you're still trying to get out of his hold and fuck, now you really wish you'd just listened to your controlling ass boyfriend — the world tilts for a moment, and the warmth from behind you is wrenched sideways.

you stagger forward, breaths coming out in uneven spurts. you're blinking rapidly as you regain your footing and whirl around, a bit unsteady, to see the offending man crouched on the club floor, on his knees clutching his nose. you can faintly make out a trickle of red running down his fingertips. he's livid, glaring up at someone off to the side. "what the fuck is your problem, man?"

then you glance over and you see dex, shaking his hand out casually, his face carefully blank. even beneath the glow of the colorful lights you can see the way his pupils dilate. "she clearly said she had a boyfriend." his voice is void of emotion, and even through your liquor-induced haze you can see the warning signs practically flashing before you.

despite that, you can't help but feel annoyed that he followed you here. you step towards him, wobbling only slightly, and dig your nails into his arm. he doesn't even flinch, still staring at the other man, waiting for him to try something. the man looks between the two of you and seems to come to the conclusion that one pretty girl is not worth dealing with whoever this psycho is, and he pushes himself up and retreats back into the crowd.

"dex," you say just loud enough for him to hear. he finally glances down at you, something softening just a fraction in his gaze. "what are you doing here."

"protecting you."

you loosen a breath through your nose and squeeze your eyes shut. "i had that handled."

"it didn't look handled to me. he had his lips on your neck."

you open your eyes enough to peer at him through your lashes. "and i would've stomped on his foot with my heels if you didn't—"

"you couldn't get out of his hold. i saw you."

"dammit, dex!" you growl, releasing your grip on his arm, shoving against him. "can't i just fucking breathe for once? you don't need to play knight in armor all the time."

he smiles down at you now, watching with some sort of amusement at the way you're getting worked up. "sweetheart, i've always watched out for you, ever since we met. that isn't going to change." he slips a large palm against the edge of your jaw. "i won't let anyone take you from me."

and dammit if he isn't endearing even like this, after he'd most likely just broken a guy's nose in a club for you. "fine, let's just — go home," you mutter, deflating as the indignant anger seeps out of you like a waterfall.

dex's eyes seem to regain a bit more of their color as you fold yourself into him, leaning heavily into his side. his arm comes up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against himself. he leans down and drops a kiss to the top of your head. "let's go, sweetheart." he says it like it was inevitable that you'd give in and head home with him.

which you should probably be more upset about. but nobody has ever made you feel more loved and desired than benjamin poindexter, and maybe dealing with his borderline psychotic tendencies is worth it.

just a little snippet i had in my mind,,,while i work on my long one-shot and begin plotting my long-fic for dex <33 not my best work tbh but enjoy !!