#c sand

He’s everywhere, at first. Local gangs, exposed drug rings, a city councilman with ties to sex-trafficking—the Punisher is all over the news cycle for a solid month after his escape from police custody at Metro General. It’s a shitstorm, but Karen wades through it the same way she always has. The city’s still rotten, still reeks of corruption and scandal and bad people doing bad things, so she follows her nose. Frank’s not the only one who has a job to do.

Time soldiers on. The steady deluge of news slows to a trickle, then stops altogether. The Globe tries to regenerate some of the hype by running a story that pins a string of uptown murders on Frank, but it’s a flimsy attempt at best. New York has moved on.

Karen tries to do the same. Her schedule is more flexible now that she’s freelancing full-time, so she doesn’t feel guilty saying yes when Matt and Foggy invite her out on the weekends. She digs for stories and chases leads, writes and investigates and writes some more. It’s hard work, less than stable—looking at her bank account makes her want to cry—but it’s good. For the first time since moving to the city, she feels free.

Frank’s in the wind, but he’s not really gone. He’s in every bouquet of flowers, each hole-in-the-wall diner she walks past on her way to meet with a source. She pictures him, bloodied knuckles and bruises smudged under his eyes, the low gravel of his voice when he tells her the war is what he wants. She hopes that no news is good news, that maybe he’s found some measure of peace and what it means if he hasn’t—

He’s been dead before. Karen blinks, and the diner is just a diner.

.

Winter hits the city hard. The temperature plunges to single digits in the week leading up to Christmas, with a few inches of snow in the forecast. Karen works from home as often as she can, trading her pencil skirts for fleece-lined leggings on the days she’s out running down sources. She just barely makes the submission deadline for a piece about embezzlement in the county tax collector’s office. 

Karen hasn’t really celebrated Christmas since Kevin died, but she makes a conscious effort this year. She digs her old tree out of storage and strings cheap lights around the window and spends the better part of an afternoon making eggnog and cookies for Foggy and Marci’s holiday party. It feels almost normal, until she starts thinking about Vermont and the gingersnaps Mom used to make. Karen remembers swiping a handful of them at a time and escaping to the hall closet, crunching them extra loudly to drown out her parents’ arguing. They always fought more around the holidays.

Christmas comes and goes, and Karen dives headfirst back into her work. The new year looms, equal parts uncertainty and possibility, but she keeps herself tethered in the present. Whatever happens, she’ll roll with it. She always does.

.

There’s a dog in the alley next to her apartment. 

It’s nosing through a couple of discarded take-out boxes, but snaps its head up when Karen steps onto the sidewalk. The dog—she, Karen’s gut says—is definitely a mutt, lean like a lab with a boxy pit bull face. Her coat is brown with grime, but there’s a smudge of white over one eye, like an upside down heart. 

“Hey, there,” Karen says, crouching. She holds a tentative hand out, freezing when the dog growls low in its throat. “Easy, it’s okay. I’m on my way out, but I’m gonna call someone to come get you, okay?” 

Animal control is swamped. There’s a high volume of calls coming in, typical for this time of year. The earliest they can come out is tomorrow morning, and Karen’s heart clenches thinking about how low the temperature’s been dropping at night. She glances sideways at the dog, making a mental checklist of all the food that’s currently upstairs in her apartment. No kibble, but anything she has is better than garbage. If she could just get the dog out of the cold—

Karen takes a step towards her building’s front door at the same time that the dog bolts, scrabbling down the alley in a blur of kicked-up snow and dirt. 

“Shit,” Karen hisses, watching the dog disappear around a corner. (“She’ll come back.” Kevin—he’s ten years old, cradling a stack of lost dog flyers under his arm. “Right, Kare? We’ll find her.”)

Karen stares down the length of the alley for another second. She’s already running late for a meeting with a volunteer at the regional VA office—her one and only lead so far on this new story she’s trying to crack open—but she makes a note to grab some treats on her way home. With any luck, the dog won’t go too far.

The meeting goes well. Her volunteer confirms the rumors of negligence in the treatment of veterans across the tri-county area—understaffed facilities, falsified intake records, and in one instance, a vet dying while on a hospital waitlist. Nothing overly shocking, but it still makes Karen sick to her stomach. The system is broken, and sometimes fixing it feels like an impossible task.

“I’ll be in touch,” she tells the volunteer as she’s getting ready to leave. “Thank you again for meeting with me, Curtis—”

“Curt,” he replies, cracking a grin. “My mom’s the only one who calls me Curtis. Hey—” he gestures to the folding chairs stacked in the corner. “I host a support group here for vets in the area, and our weekly meeting is tonight. You’re more than welcome to stay, maybe chat with a few of them about their experiences with the VA office.”

“I have to head out,” Karen says, “but maybe another time?”

“Absolutely. No pressure.” Curt reaches out to shake her hand. “Take care, Karen.” 

Take care. 

Two words. That’s all it takes, and she spends the rest of the day brushing away memories like cobwebs. He’s backlit in the frame of Schoonover’s shed, he’s standing by the water, he’s pressing his forehead to hers—she closes her eyes and all she sees is Frank. 

The thing is, even if she wanted to get in touch with him, she has no idea how to. The burner number he’d given her the last time he came back from the dead isn’t good anymore, and it’s not like she can just look him up in the phonebook. She could try Madani, but Karen has a hunch that even if the newly-minted CIA agent knew where Frank was, she wouldn’t be partial to sharing.

She has some dried flowers at home, leftover stems from a bouquet that her neighbor was making for her granddaughter. They’re the only flowers Karen has allowed herself to have in the apartment since she last saw Frank. As soon as she gets home, she sticks them in an empty vase and moves them to the windowsill. Not exactly white roses, but they’ll have to do. 

As the end of the year approaches, so do the deadlines. Karen has two major pieces that need to be submitted in order for them to run in January. She holes herself up in her apartment for the better part of two days to finish writing, stopping only to use the bathroom and refill her coffee mug. By the time she’s emailed both stories off, she’s utterly exhausted—it’s only mid-afternoon, but that doesn’t stop her from collapsing onto her bed and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She wakes up just past four in the morning, groggy and disoriented. After tossing and turning for a short while, she resigns herself to the fact that her body apparently wants to be awake and decides to check her phone. There’s a string of texts from Foggy asking if she’s dead, several unread emails, and a few voicemails from unknown numbers. That’s not unusual—she’s used to receiving calls from numbers she doesn’t recognize. She checks the first one.

“Karen, it’s—me.” 

She sits upright, hot adrenaline jolting her out of her haze. That’s Frank—she’d recognize his voice anywhere. 

He’s okay.

He’s alive.

She’s so absorbed in this thought that she doesn’t catch the rest of his message. She hits replay, and forces herself to listen. 

“Call me. Please.”

He saw the flowers. That’s the only reasonable explanation, after months of radio silence. Karen plays the voicemail again. He sounds shaken, and she can hear the urgency behind each word. He’s worried about her. 

Yeah, well. She knows the feeling.

There’s no way she’s calling him back at this hour. Even if he is awake, Karen doesn’t think she can summon the mental energy required for this particular phone call in her current state. A text seems less intimidating, something short and sweet to let him know she got his message.

Frank, it’s Karen. I’m okay. Thanks for calling.

She hits send before she can talk herself out of it, stares up at the ceiling and wills her pounding heart to settle. When her phone buzzes, she jumps.

Glad to hear it, his text reads. And then—You’re up early.

Deadlines for work. My sleep schedule is all messed up. Sorry if I woke you.

It’s a minute before he replies. I sleep light. Don’t worry about it. You sure you’re okay?

Karen’s not sure how to answer. Hearing his voice on her phone after all this time—of course she’s relieved, and grateful that he’s alive. But there’s another part of her that resents not knowing sooner. He’d made it clear that day in the hospital that he doesn’t want anything from her, so why can’t she move on? If she hadn’t put the flowers in the window—

Yeah, I’m fine, she taps out, then slides her phone onto her nightstand and curls back under the covers. She’s not sure she can do this again, reel him back into her life just for him to cut himself free the way he always does. 

Her phone buzzes. 

You free tomorrow to grab some coffee?

Coffee. Sounds innocent enough, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to see him. She does. Of course she does. It’s just—

She wants more. More than he’s able to give.

He must sense her hesitance, even over text, because her phone vibrates again. 

I’ll be at Cinco’s at noon, the one on the corner of 47th. No pressure either way. Take care, Karen.

He’s giving her a choice, giving her an out. It’s such a Frank thing to do that it makes her chest ache a little. She drags her thumb over her screen, imagining him tapping out each letter of her name. 

See you then, she types, and hits send.

.

When her alarm goes off a few hours later, Karen thinks that maybe she dreamt it all. Frank’s voicemail, the texts, all of it a product of her sleep-deprived subconscious—but when she rolls over and swipes at her lock screen, she sees the text thread. It happened. It’s real. 

She has a coffee date with the Punisher.

Her brain still feels too fuzzy to properly process that thought, so she peels her pajamas off and steps into the shower, lets the warmth drum down over her head and shoulders. When she emerges, she feels slightly more like a real person. 

As she’s heading out, Karen grabs a couple of bowls and a scoopful of the kibble she’d bought after her run-in with the stray dog. She hasn’t seen it again—when she followed-up with animal control, they informed her they hadn’t been out her way yet. She figures it won’t hurt to leave some food and water out. At the very least, she’ll be providing breakfast for the local raccoon family that frequents the alleyway.

Cinco’s is a three-block walk from her apartment. She halfway considers taking a cab—it’s a clear day, but cold, the kind that burns as soon as you step out into it—but she decides to brave the slush and salt. A cab would probably take longer anyways, given that it’s lunchtime on a weekday, and maybe the walk will help burn off some of the nervous energy that’s coiling up in her gut. 

Frank’s already there. She sees him as she approaches from the street, seated at a table by the window. He’s grown his hair out again, and Karen focuses on that, on the play of light and shadow across his face every time someone swings the door open. 

He looks good, but that’s nothing new. It’s more than that. It’s his hands, clasped loosely in front of him on the table, and how his eyes seem to scan the space out of curiosity rather than necessity. His gaze snaps to her when she slips inside.

Frank starts to stand, but stops when Karen raises a hand in greeting. She threads her way through the tables and winter coats slung over chairs until she’s sliding into the seat across from him. 

There’s a brief, swollen moment where she’s not sure what to say, but he breaks the silence first.

“Wasn’t sure you’d actually come.” His voice is different, too. Less grit, lighter, and Karen recalls a similar conversation after he came back the first time—wasn’t sure you’d still talk to me. He wasn’t, but he gambled on her anyways. He trusted that she would hear him out. 

“I don’t know if it was the right call,” she says, “but I’m here.”

He tilts his head to catch her gaze. “It means a lot, Karen. I’ve wanted to—reach out, talk to you. Couldn’t muster up the courage, I guess. I know that sounds like a line of bullshit, but it’s the truth. And the flowers in your window—”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“I’m glad you did,” he cuts in. “Though I gotta admit it scared the hell out of me. Thought maybe something had happened, something bad.”

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “I didn’t realize you still cared.”

Frank winces like she slapped him. Guilt floods through her, and she rapidly backtracks. “Shit, I’m sorry, Frank. That wasn’t fair. I’m just—confused. I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

“You don’t—” Frank’s hand spasms, like he’s resisting the urge to reach across the table. “You don’t owe me an apology, Karen. It’s the other way around. You told me once that I was honest. That I don’t lie to you. But the hospital—you asked me to start over, and I said I didn’t want that.” 

Karen sucks in a breath. Frank’s eyes are still on her, wide and bright. It’s the most vulnerable she’s ever seen him look. 

“I lied,” he says. “And I’m sorry I did. You deserve better.” 

Karen exhales, the sound rattling out of her. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Frank laughs dryly. “Because I’m a goddamn coward, that’s why.” He glances away, out the window. “I actually went to your place. I know how that sounds, but—I wasn’t sure if you were in trouble or not.” 

Karen’s stomach flips at the thought of Frank standing outside her door. “Did anyone see you?”

“Your neighbor. I was about two seconds away from picking your lock when she caught me outside your door. I fed her some bullshit about how I was just dropping by, but she didn’t buy it. Booked it outta there pretty quick after that.” 

He’s still not looking at her. Karen can see his fingers tapping rapid-fire against the side of his coffee cup, and she reaches out to rest a hand over his. “I didn’t mean to worry you, Frank. I just wanted to know if you were okay.” 

A pause, then—“I hung up the vest, Karen. I’m done.”

Her pulse is in her ears, rushing like tidewater. “What changed?”

Frank sighs. “I was exhausted. So goddamn tired of swimming through the same shit day after day, putting the same assholes down. Nothing ever changed, so I guess—I guess I did.”

Karen is quiet for a moment. She gives Frank’s hand a gentle squeeze, then starts to pull away—but he catches her wrist, his fingertips grazing her pulse point. When she looks up at him, he’s looking back. 

“I’m not sure I deserve a normal life, Karen, not if it means dragging you down with my bullshit, but—I want it. I do. I know it’s selfish, and I don’t—if you’re not”—his jaw works around the words for a second—“if you’re not looking for anything from me, I get it. You don’t owe me anything. I just—needed you to hear it from me, just once.”

His fingers burn where they’re pressed to her wrist. Karen swallows past the lump wedged in her throat, and gently turns her hand until her fingers are threaded through his.  

“You’ve punished yourself long enough, Frank,” she says. “I know that much. I’ve always wanted more for you than that life. You deserve more.” 

“Karen Page,” he says softly. His thumb is moving, tracing gentle circles against hers. “All heart.”

Karen laughs, easy and free. “Not all heart. Coffee’s on you, right?”

.

They spend the next hour catching up. He tells her about his construction job and takes a friendly jab at the amount of sugar she takes with her coffee; she talks about her latest VA piece and quips back about the length of his hipster haircut. There’s still so much they aren’t saying—Karen feels the tenuous threads of maybe and what if strung between the two of them, words held behind teeth or swallowed altogether—but for now, it’s enough. It’s more than she thought they’d ever have again. 

She’s so absorbed in all of it—Frank, in front of her, here—that she misses the sound of her phone alarm going off.

“I think that’s you,” Frank says, nodding in the direction of her bag. 

It’s a work alarm for a meeting she set up last week. Karen briefly considers calling to reschedule, but this particular source is already gun-shy about talking to a reporter—they’ll likely go to ground if she cancels. 

“I have to go,” she says, and she can hear the disappointment in her voice. “One of the many joys of freelance—I’m always on-call.”

“Occupational hazard,” Frank says with a smile. 

“Yeah.” She shrugs into her coat, then hesitates, hand lingering on the back of her chair. It seems impossible that the man in front of her is the same one she sat beside months ago in the hospital, who looked her dead in the eye and told her he wanted the war. She scans his face, the fullness of his cheeks and how smooth his skin looks when it’s not covered in bruises. 

“Frank—” she starts, at the same time that Frank says, “I’d really—”

Karen waves in his direction. “You first.”

“I’d, uh—really like to see you again,” Frank says. His fingers are working nervously at the lid on his drink. “Maybe I could call you sometime?”

Karen laughs softly. “You mean I won’t have to summon you with flowers?”

She says it lightly enough, but she doesn’t miss the frown that flickers across his face, there and gone the next moment. She reads the nonverbal cue like a neon sign—frustration with himself for not reaching out sooner, guilt that he kept her in the dark for so long. Abruptly, all of the hurt and anger she’s been harboring since the hospital bleeds away. She’d meant it when she said he’d punished himself enough. It’s time for them both to heal.

“I’d like that,” she says. “If you called me, I mean.” 

His face relaxes. “Okay. Uh, you were—you were saying something—”

“Oh.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s just really good to see you, Frank. Good to see you happy. It’s a nice look, goes well with the hipster vibe.”

She’s hoping the jab will pull a laugh from him, and it does. She’s momentarily suspended in the moment, the way his mouth crinkles at the corners and how effortless the sound is. Frank Castle, happy. She could get used to that. 

“Remind me to find a new place to get my hair cut,” he says.

It’s her turn to chuckle as she swings her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee. Talk to you soon?”

He meets her eyes. “Okay,” he says, voice cracking slightly on the word.

“Okay,” she echoes. 

It is. It really is.

.

The dog is in the alleyway by the time she makes it back. Karen slows to a halt, watching from a short distance as it crunches up the kibble she’d left out earlier. She can see a few more of its ribs from this angle, and a wave of fury washes over her. Screw animal control—she’s going to solve this problem herself. 

She’d stashed a couple of Milk-Bones in her bag as soon as she bought them, just in case this very scenario ever came up, and she retrieves one now. The dog’s head swivels in her direction, and Karen freezes. She waits until it resumes eating to squat down and hold the treat out.  

“That’s a good girl,” she murmurs as the dog lifts its head again, sniffing the air. Karen averts her eyes as it ambles towards her. It seems less anxious than the last time she saw it, but still cautious. By the time the dog makes its way over to her, she’s started to lose feeling in her legs. 

Karen holds her breath as the dog sniffs her hand. It gently chews the treat into bites over her open palm. When she chances a glance at it, she sees the familiar upside down heart marking over its eye. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” she whispers. The dog peers up at her, now licking her hand. Aside from the obvious malnutrition, it doesn’t appear to be injured. It’s lucky to have made it this far, especially in winter—or maybe not. Karen knows what it means to fight for her life, fight to survive. Maybe luck had nothing to do with it at all. 

Karen curls two fingers under the dog’s chin, scratching softly at the scruff of fur there. The dog stiffens but doesn’t move. With her other hand, Karen grabs another treat from her bag and offers it up. The dog devours it in seconds, tail wagging. When it’s finished, it sits back on its haunches and looks at Karen expectantly, mouth parted slightly in a classic pit bull smile. 

Karen’s heart pangs as she pets the dog, working from its chin up to the soft bit of skin behind its ears. Her landlord has a strict no-pets policy, but she wonders if he’d make an exception for a stray, as long as it was temporary. She could set up a makeshift bed in the living room, get it out of the cold for a couple days before taking it to a local shelter. The dog isn’t wearing a collar, but she could put signs up on her block in case someone comes looking for it, she could—

Her phone alarm trills, and the dog skitters away from her. 

“I’m sorry—” she swipes the alarm off. The dog is watching her warily. “It’s okay, girl, it’s okay, c’mon—”

The dog barks low in its throat, then turns and starts off towards the alley. Karen slowly gets to her feet. She knows better than to push—at least now she knows it’s staying close to her apartment. If she keeps leaving food and water out, maybe coaxes it with a few more treats, she can probably get it up to her apartment, and from there, find it a home.

Karen watches it walk away. Just hold on, she thinks, hold on a little longer—

Sometimes, Frank wonders if he ever really came home from the desert.

The thing is, killing feels the same here as it did over there. Less chaotic, but the muscle memory sticks. He remembers the first time he killed someone, how quick and precise it was. Finger to trigger, the pop-pop-pop staccato of gunfire, and it was over. (He’d been sick, afterwards, vomit on his boots and in the sand. It’ll get easier, Schoonover had said, clapping him on the back.)

He wasn’t wrong.

After losing his family, Frank thought he’d never get his fill of it. No matter how many shitbags he put down, it was never enough. Even later—after taking out the gangs, killing Agent Orange with his bare hands, Bill, Billy fuckin’ Russo—even after all of that, he was running on fumes, still empty.

Frank tells himself that’s why he falls back into it. The city’s retching up scumbags left and right, and he likes it that way. Down in the filth, he knows who he is.

So why does he feel so goddamn tired?

.

It doesn’t happen overnight. There are parts of this lifestyle set too deep, things that make his fingers itch for a trigger. He still comes home a couple magazines lighter, still has to scrub to get the blood out from under his nails.

Pete Castiglione’s right where Frank left him, so it’s not difficult to slide back into his skin. He snags a part-time construction job and finds an apartment that leases longer than month-to-month. Still doesn’t sleep through the night, but he dreams less. A small, twisted part of him misses the nightmares. It’s the only way he can see his family now.

One month ticks by, then two. He’s got a mental list going of the people he needs to make things right with, everyone who got caught up in his shitstorm. Curt, the Liebermans, Amy, Madani.

Karen.

Bare minimum, he owes her an apology. Owes her a hell of a lot more than that, if he’s being really honest with himself, but this—building an after from scratch—it’s a work in progress. He’s starting small, working his way from there. It’s all he can do.

So he does it. He works his way through his list. Grabs lunch with Curt a few times, goes to one of his meetings. The Liebermans invite him over for dinner, just the two of them. David says the kids are spending the weekend with their grandparents, but Frank suspects that’s not the whole truth. He’s not offended—if anything, he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to face Zach and Leo, not after all the shit they’ve probably heard and seen about him on the news.

Madani offers him a job every goddamn time he calls her, and the kid—she seems happy, doing who the hell knows what down in Florida. She sends a photo the next time she writes, and he almost doesn’t recognize her with short hair and a beach tan.

He still doesn’t reach out to Karen. He knows he’s being a chickenshit about it, but there’s just too much he wants and needs to say. It’s an unspoken deal he makes with himself—soon, but not yet.

Not yet.

.

Frank starts jogging on the mornings he’s not working. It helps to ease some of the tension that winds up, all the shit he’s not able to work out with a sledgehammer. He carves out a nice route that goes along the water, runs until his legs start to ache. There’s a winter market on the weekends that he likes to hit on his way home—he grabs fresh produce some days, breakfast and coffee on others, like today, when there’s a shorter line than usual at his favorite breakfast burrito stand. He finds a nearby bench overlooking the harbor and tucks in.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s being watched. There’s a familiar sensation, the nape of his neck prickling. Frank swallows the bite he’d been chewing and glances to the side, grabbing the napkin he’d set beside him on the bench to mask the movement—

It’s a dog. A dog is watching him.

Frank blows out a breath, shaking his head as relief floods through him. The dog is several feet away, twitching its nose tentatively in his direction. Frank doesn’t have to guess at what it wants. He can see the poor thing’s ribs from here, jutting up between patches of scruff. It’s a pit bull mix, judging from the shape of its face, and Frank has a sudden image of a family turning it away because their apartment complex has breed restrictions, another image of some faceless thug pulling it into a dog-fighting ring. He digs his nails into his palm, once, twice, working out the simmering anger that’s building in his chest.

The dog has turned its head towards the market. Taking care to move slowly, Frank kneels on the ground and holds out the last of his burrito palm-up. He doesn’t have a lot of experience with abused animals, but he knows enough. He knows what it’s like to be alone and hurting.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground and stays very still. A minute passes—then there’s movement in his periphery, paws crunching in snow. Another long pause before he feels the dog nose his hand, its tongue warm and wet as it devours the burrito in one bite and licks his palm clean.

“You liked that, huh?” Frank asks, and he feels the dog tense at the sound of his voice. “I know, shh, shh. You don’t know me, I get it. But I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The dog makes a low, rumbling sound in its throat, but it doesn’t move. Neither does Frank. He’s still looking away, still holding his hand open when the dog finally walks away. Frank watches it go, tail between its legs as it slinks off down the sidewalk. Another block, and it’ll be out of sight.

Frank gets to his feet. Maybe he could try to get it to a vet, see if it’s been micro-chipped or if anyone’s been on the lookout for a lost dog. It’s not like he has anything better to do, and more importantly, he wants to. He wants to help.

Frank keeps a reasonable distance as he follows. The dog cuts a haphazard path through the neighborhood, down alleys and little side streets that take them away from the press of people. Frank rubs his arms as he walks—his long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants are enough to ward off the biting cold when he’s jogging, but now he’s starting to feel it. Just a bit longer, he tells himself. How he plans to coax the dog when he has no more food, he has no idea. He’s operating on instinct here. A few more minutes, and then he’ll call it.

But he doesn’t get a few more minutes. Frank turns a corner, follows the dog back onto a main road, and very abruptly realizes where he is.

Her apartment building looks the same. A little more festive—someone’s strung lights on their balcony a few floors up, and there’s a large wreath hanging on the doors leading to the lobby—but still the same, squat brick building she’d brought him to all those months ago.

He knows, because there are flowers in her window.

He shouldn’t read anything into it, even though his heart’s kicking and there’s a fresh layer of sweat slicking his palms. The roses were a one-time thing, a way for her to contact him when he still thought David was a threat. After the way things went down at the hospital, everything he said—and didn’t say—to her—

No. Sometimes flowers are just flowers.

Still, he remains rooted where he stands. What if this is something else? Karen has no other means of tracking him down—she’s a damn good investigator, but he knows how to bury his head in the sand. Maybe something’s happened and this was the only way she could get his attention, maybe she’s in trouble—

It’s not a choice, not when it comes to her. Frank surveys the building. He doesn’t want to chance going up the fire escape in broad daylight, so he heads through the front doors and takes the stairs to her floor.

The hallway is empty, and quiet. There’s no answer when he knocks on her door, and his pulse jackhammers a little quicker. He digs in the pockets of his sweatpants, gaze scouring the floor for anything he could use to pick the lock.

“Can I help you?”

Frank startles a bit at the sound, but covers by running a hand over his head. Jesus, he’s rusty. He turns to see a young woman—Amy’s age, maybe—coming out of the apartment across the hall. She has a friendly face, but her eyes are narrowed slightly in suspicion. He’s forgotten what it feels like to be looked at that way, like he’s something to be feared. It’s like pulling on a pair of old jeans and discovering they still fit.

“Hey, how’s it going,” he says, cranking his lips into a smile. “I’m a friend of Karen’s, thought I’d drop by since I was in the neighborhood.”

It’s a piss-poor explanation, and by the look on the woman’s face, she thinks so too. He really can’t blame her for not buying it. Strange man acting twitchy and lurking outside a single woman’s apartment—he knows exactly what this looks like.

“I think she’s out,” the woman says slowly. “I can tell her you came by—”

“Nah, you know what, I’ll just swing by some other time.” Frank’s already moving down the hall towards the stairwell. “Thanks.”

He ducks down the stairs without a backwards glance. Christ, that was a goddamn disaster. He really has been out of the thick of it for awhile.

Once he’s back on the street, he slows his pace. Still moves quick enough to put some distance between himself and Karen’s building, but not so fast as to attract attention.

He’s halfway down the block when he remembers—the dog. Shit. He throws a glance over his shoulder, but there’s no sign of it. Even if there were, he’s overstayed his welcome. Karen’s neighbor seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops on someone suspicious hanging around the area.

His stomach twists at the thought of the dog spending another night on the streets, hungry and cold, but he can’t look for it now. Karen and her safety are his sole focus. There’s still a way to know for sure if the flowers in her window are for decoration or not.

Frank fishes his phone from his pocket, scrolls until he gets to her name. His thumb hovers over the call button for a second before he punches it. It rings and rings and then goes to voicemail.

“Karen, it’s—me. Call me when you get this.” He rattles off his number. “Just—call me. Please.”

Frank spends the next day and a half in a daze. His reunion with Karen feels like a dream, a kaleidoscope of moments he replays over and over in his head like he’s afraid he’ll lose them if he doesn’t. He expected her to be angry—hell, he would’ve deserved it—and instead she held his hand, told him he was worth more than a life of punishment and war. Frank knows he sure as shit isn’t, he knows that—but the thing is, when Karen was saying it, he believed her. As long as he’s known her, she’s always had the uncanny ability to look at someone, truly look at them, peel all the bullshit away until what’s left is what’s real.

But this—this is what’s real: He thinks about his last words to her at the hospital, how callously he’d pushed her aside, and he feels sick to his core. The usual excuses he makes for himself—I was protecting her, I was protecting myself—fall away, until all that’s left is shame. He hurt her, and meant to. He did that. 

“So you were an asshole,” Curt says the next time they meet for lunch. “Wasn’t the first time, probably won’t be the last.” 

“That your expert opinion, Dr. Phil?” Frank snarks, swiping a hand over his jaw to hide his smile. 

Curt smirks at him over his french dip. “Deflection. Classic. Look, Frank—self-awareness is half the battle. You know you messed up. What matters now is how you choose to fix it.”

“Yeah? What if it can’t be fixed?”

Curt stares at him for a moment. “Nah,” he finally says, shaking his head, “nah, man, I’m not buying it. That sounds like an excuse to me, an easy way out. The Frank Castle I knew wasn’t a chickenshit, but hey, first time for everything, I guess—”

Frank shakes his head. “Unbelievable, man.” 

“Hey, you brought it up,” Curt says. “I’m just here for the food.” 

They eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Frank polishes off his sandwich and orders a second cup of coffee, trying his best to ignore the swell of gratitude rising in his chest. He and Curt take the piss out of each other, but the man is family. He’s always been there, always had Frank’s back when others wouldn’t. Even before he hung up the vest, Frank knew that Curt’s was the first bridge he needed to mend. 

It’s not just Curt, though. Everyone he’s reached out to—David and Sarah, Madani, the kid, Karen—they’ve all taken him back, and it knocks the wind out of him each time. Their kindness, their willingness to forgive—it’s staggering. It’s more than he deserves. 

He says as much to Curt, who laughs in between bites of his potato salad. 

“You know, for a smart guy, you’re pretty stupid, Frank. You’ve got people who care about you here, and you’re trying to—what, balance the scales? That’s not how friendship works, brother. You don’t keep score.” 

Frank grips his coffee cup to keep his fingers still. “So, what—it’s all good, now? Everything I’ve done, all the shit I’ve put you through—boom, forgiven, just like that?”

“It’s not all about you, Frank,” Curt says. “No one but you gives two shits about what you think you deserve. That’s not your call. It’s mine, and Karen’s, and anyone else who decides to make the same call. We chose to give you another shot.”

Frank swigs his coffee, more to hide his face than anything. Bastard’s too damn good at his job. 

“You know, I met her,” Curt says, pushing back from the table slightly. 

Frank’s heart kicks. “Who—Karen?” 

“Yep. She reached out to talk to me about all the shit that’s been going down at the VA office. I didn’t put two and two together until later—looked up some of her other articles, and that’s when I recognized the name.” He fixes Frank with a knowing stare. “She’s one hell of a reporter. I can see why you like her.”

“Christ’s sake, Curt, we in high school again?”

“I don’t know, man, you tell me.” 

Frank turns his words over in his head before responding. “After I lost Maria—that was it, you know? She was everything—I never thought about anyone else. Didn’t want to. And now—it feels like part of me’s buried in the ground with her and the other part’s sitting right here. I don’t know what to do with that, Curt.”

“You said it yourself—this is you, now. This is how it is. And Karen has her own shit, like we all do. We’re all just pieces, Frank. That’s all life is. You just gotta figure out how your pieces fit with hers.”

Frank snorts. “You come up with that yourself?”

“Swiped it from a book I’m reading. Pretty good, right? Just the right amount of bullshit.” Curt leans forward, elbows on the table. “It’s simple, Frank—do you want to be with Karen or not?”

“I—” Frank sputters. 

“C’mon, man, answer the question.”

“What do you—” Frank’s jaw clenches, and he swallows hard before continuing. “What do you want me to say, Curt? What about what Karen wants? You think she wants—this? All my baggage and bullshit, how is that fair to her—”

“Don’t do that,” Curt says. “Don’t put this on her. She’s a grown-ass woman, she can make her own decisions. This is about you. What do you want?”

For as long as Frank can remember, the answer was this—to make those responsible for his suffering pay. He never thought beyond that. The city needed a punisher, so that’s what he became.

But now—he thinks about the first time he met Karen, handcuffed to a hospital bed, how she shoved the photo of his family in his face and told him they both wanted the same thing. He knew right then that she was different. She was the first person who saw him, and not a pile of crime-scene photos, or a dead family. Not a monster. She saw him. 

“I want to be with her,” Frank says, and the confession leaves him feeling lighter than he has in years. 

Curt smiles wide. “Then go get her, man.” 

.

He calls her on his way home. It rings three or four times before she picks up, her voice light and warm even over the phone.

“Hi, Frank.” 

His stomach twists. “Hey. Didn’t think you’d recognize the number.” 

“You’re in my phone as Pete. I figured I’d put you in my contacts now that you have a real cell.”

Frank grins. “Yeah, guess it was about time for me to graduate from the burners.”

“About time,” she agrees, and he thinks he can her the smile in her voice. 

“Hey,” he says, “I won’t keep you, but—are you free tonight?”

“Oh, tonight? Um—” she pauses. “Foggy invited me to a New Year’s party, but I was kind of on the fence about going. I can definitely get out of it.”

Embarrassment surges through him, hot and fast. Since losing his family, he hasn’t paid much attention to holidays—this time of year just dredges up painful memories, things he’d much rather stay buried. He didn’t even realize that today was New Year’s Eve. Of course Karen has plans—she has a life, friends, a constellation of things that don’t involve him.  

“Frank?” Karen’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You still there?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I’m here. Listen, if you’re busy, that’s fine. I don’t want to pull you away from anything—”

“Trust me, you’d be doing me a favor. I love Foggy and Marci, but their parties can be over-the-top. Like I said, I was already thinking about not going. I’ll just tell Foggy I’m coming down with something. He’s a huge germaphobe.” 

Frank’s clutching the phone so hard to his ear that his fingers are starting to ache. “If you’re sure—”

“More than sure. What did you have in mind?” 

.

He shows up at Karen’s place a little after eight. He feels more than a little conspicuous walking down the length of her hallway—what if her suspicious neighbor is home?—but all of that dissolves as soon as Karen opens her door. 

“Any luck?” she says.

He hefts a brown paper sack. “That Thai place on 7th was open. I also brought booze.” 

“In that case—” Karen swings the door wide, smiling.

Her apartment is exactly the same. Maybe a bit more lived in, but that’s good. He pictures his own place, sparsely furnished but functional, and wonders what Karen would think of it. 

“Bottle opener’s on the counter,” she says, closing the door shut behind him and moving towards the kitchen. She says it so casually, like this isn’t only the second time he’s ever been in her apartment. It stirs something up in his gut.

He opens the beers while Karen digs into the takeout bag. They settle onto her couch to eat, and she turns the TV on, flipping through the channels until she gets to the live broadcast of the ball drop. 

“I know it’s stupid,” she says, hitting the mute button, “but we always used to watch it when I was growing up. Just one of those family traditions I can’t seem to shake.” 

He’s not sure what to say to that. Even though he’s known her for a while, Frank still feels like he doesn’t really—know her. She knows his story, got down in the guts of it, everything that happened to him and his family. But he’s never asked her about hers. Not once. 

“Is your family in the city?” he asks, and instantly knows he’s said the wrong thing. Her face darkens, eyes darting to her hands.  

“No,” she says quietly. “My dad’s back in Vermont. That’s where I grew up. I came to New York after my brother died.” 

Frank feels the breath swoop from his lungs, like he’s been kicked in the chest. All this time—all this time he’s been dragging his ghosts around, leaning on her for support, unloading all of his shit onto her, and he never considered she might have ghosts of her own. He remembers standing by the water with her, the ache in her voice when she told him that life is just people fighting not to be alone. She hadn’t just been talking about him. 

Their conversation in the hospital echoes in his ears—What if there’s a better way, what if you and I figure it out together? You could choose to love someone else, instead of another war.

I don’t want that. 

For a second, just a second, Frank lets the shame wash over him like the tide, all-consuming. He lets himself drown in it. 

You know you messed up, Frank. What matters now is how you choose to fix it.

“Karen, hey—” he shifts so he’s facing her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“I never told you,” she says softly. 

“I never asked,” he corrects. 

“Frank—”

“No, Karen—” he sets his beer on the coffee table and gathers her hands in his. “You’ve been in my corner from the beginning, you’ve been there with me through—all of it. I was so wrapped up in my own shit, I never asked you about yours. I’m sorry.”

Karen squeezes his hands. “I appreciate that. But we were in each other’s corners, Frank. You saved my life—twice. That’s not nothing.”

“Still. I never asked.” 

She sighs. “What do you want to know? I can’t say my life story makes for very good holiday conversation—”

“Anything,” he says. “Or nothing, whatever you want. Either way, I’m here.”  

.

They eat their takeout, and Karen talks. She tells him what it was like growing up in Vermont, how easy everything was before her mom got sick, then the diner, and her dad losing himself in it. She talks about the first time she used, skipping class with her boyfriend at the time to do a line under the bleachers.  

There’s so much he wants to ask, but he lets her talk without interrupting. The picture she’s painting is helping to fill in some gaps, like puzzle pieces slotting together. He never doubted who she was at her core, strong and stubborn and unflinchingly fearless—now he knows why.

When she tells him about Kevin, her voice changes. He was an honor roll student, he taught himself to play guitar, he was the only one at the diner who could make the burgers taste like something other than cardboard—there’s sadness there beneath the surface, but it’s not bitter, not like when she spoke about her dad. All Frank can hear is a sister who misses her brother.  

They’re both on their third beer by the time Karen gets to the accident. 

“I was high,” she says, her voice flat. “And I’d been drinking. I flipped the car. I killed him.” 

Frank’s heart is in his throat. He wants to reach out and hold her, take all the hurt and anguish that’s radiating off her and ball it up tight, absorb it from her skin like blood from a wound. He’s not sure he trusts himself to speak, but he forces the words out anyways. “You were a kid, Karen.”

She blinks. “I killed him. God, Frank—” she sinks her fingers into her hair, hands bracketing her face. “I sometimes think I’ve come to terms with it, but I haven’t. Shit like that—you’re not supposed to come back from it. You’re supposed to live with it.” 

“Look, I get it,” he says. “I do. I’d rather live with the pain than work through it. Because I don’t deserve that, right? I don’t deserve to heal and move on. But—a friend told me recently that it’s not up to us to decide what we deserve. Life’s a shitstorm, yeah? Make a mess, clean it up—that’s all you can do.” He gives her arm a gentle squeeze. “It doesn’t define who you are, Karen. It doesn’t.”

Karen smiles sadly. “I’d like to believe that. I really would.” She stares at the TV for a few moments, the light from the screen flickering across her face. Then she shakes her head a little and turns to look at him. “So, that’s me. I’ve never really talked about all of that before. I mean, there are people who know bits and pieces, but—you’re the first to get the extended version. Thanks for listening, Frank.”

“Thanks for trusting me to,” he replies.

Karen’s mouth twists into a smirk. “Well, that got heavy. I’m sure this is exactly what you had in mind when you asked if I was free tonight.” 

The pressure in his chest eases a bit. “What, reliving trauma on a first date? Yeah, definitely. I know how to show a woman a good time.”

Karen quirks an eyebrow. “A date, huh?” 

Frank’s cheeks flush with a warmth that has nothing to do with his drink, but Karen just laughs. “I’m messing with you,” she says. “But technically, the coffee house was our first date.” 

Frank feels his mouth tilt into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Coffee, a public place, neither one of us was injured or bleeding—sounds like a date to me.” 

There’s something loosening up in his chest, something buoyant and warm. Yeah, maybe it’s the two and a half beers, but he doesn’t think so. This feels like something else. 

“Wait—” Karen’s eyes narrow, glancing at something above his head—the clock, he registers, as he follows her gaze. “Wow, it’s midnight already? How long have we been talking?”

He was thinking the same thing. It feels like he just got here.

Karen’s head swivels back to the TV—but the ball has already dropped. The camera is panning over the crowd, confetti and streamers and people wearing oversized 2020 glasses. “We missed it,” she says, but she doesn’t sound disappointed. “That’s okay, I have a better idea. Follow me.” 

She leads him up to her building’s roof. It’s chilly, but she’d snagged the blanket from her couch—she wraps it around her shoulders now, staring out at the city. The sound of cheap firecrackers being set off hits them from every direction, and Frank can see some kids waving sparklers in the street. 

“Hey,” he says, and Karen looks at him. “Sorry again for pulling you away from your friends tonight. Nelson, he’s—he’s a good guy. Underneath all that corporate lawyer bullshit, I mean. Seems like a good friend.”

“He is.” Karen angles towards him. “I’m happy here, though.”

“What, freezing your ass off?” 

She rolls her eyes, and Frank grins. He knows what she actually means. She’s not talking about not her apartment, or the rooftop. She’s talking about here, as in—the two of them, now. This exact moment in time. I’m happy here, with you.

They’ve moved even closer together—Karen’s arm brushes against his, and that simple touch enough to send sparks skittering up his spine. Her gaze softens, slips down to his mouth and then up again. She reaches out to rest a hand on his arm, lips curving like a new moon.

“Happy New Year, Frank,” she says, soft and low. She’s close enough for him to see the birthmark on her cheek, to feel her breath against his skin as she exhales. 

Frank is very aware of his own breathing, his heartbeat thundering under his ribs. Every nerve ending in his body aches to close the distance between them, and he wants to. Fuck, he wants to. But he’s also scared out of his goddamn mind. They’ve crossed a lot of lines together, but not this. Never this. As long as he’s known her, they’ve had snapshots, a slew of moments that never added up to anything, but now—

Now, there’s time. Frank wants to savor every second of it.

“Happy New Year,” he breathes. 

.

They make their way back to the stairwell that leads down to her building, hands threaded together. He feels every point of contact like his skin’s a live wire. They walk in comfortable silence, stealing furtive glances at each other—Frank’s amazed he makes it down the stairs without falling on his face. 

Karen hesitates when they reach her door. There’s a weight to her gaze that wasn’t there before, uncertainty tinged with hope. She opens her mouth to say something, but falters as Frank pulls her into a hug, his arms sliding around her waist. He dips his face into the crook of her shoulder, breathing her in. 

“Thanks, Karen,” he says. 

She cinches her arms around his shoulders, squeezing tight before letting him go. “See you soon?”

He bobs his head. “Night, Karen.”

He walks away down the hall, only daring to breathe when he hears the scrape of her door shutting behind him. The building is full of sound, music and people laughing and those cheap poppers going off, and then he’s outside. He lingers by the front doors, cranes his neck to look up at her apartment. Warm light glows behind her window, framing the flowers like a painting. 

It’s almost painful to pull his gaze away, but he does. He shoves his hands into his pockets and steps onto the sidewalk.

That’s when he hears it—a low whine. 

Frank freezes where he stands, tilting his head as he strains to listen. Fireworks crack a short distance away, and then there’s silence. He stays still for a moment. Then—

Another whine, coming from the alley next to Karen’s building. Frank peers down it. The length of the alleyway is tangled in light and shadow from the nearby streetlight, but if he squints he can just make out something huddled by the dumpster. He moves towards it.

It’s a dog. Its face is tucked under one paw, but at the sound of Frank’s footsteps, it lifts its head. 

Frank knows that face. It’s the dog, the one he followed on the day he’d seen Karen’s flowers. He recognizes the marking over its eye. 

“Hey, you,” he says, squatting. The dog doesn’t growl or make any effort to move away from him, which is how he knows something is wrong. He narrows his eyes, doing a swift visual inspection. The dog’s shaking like a leaf, whether from the cold or something else, he can’t tell. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, you’re not gonna like this, but I’m gonna check you out, yeah? It’s okay—” he reaches out slowly. The dog’s eyes flick nervously from his hand to his face, until he’s resting his palm flat against its flank. “Easy, easy. That’s a good dog.” 

He keeps his hand there for a second. The dog’s eyes never leave his face, and he feels something crack apart inside him. No half-measures, this time. He’s going to do whatever he has to do to make sure it gets out of this okay. 

Frank gives the dog a gentle pat, lifting his fingers lightly. Then he slides his hand over its back, down its sides and up towards the shoulders, checking for any sign of injury. Its fur is matted and dirty, but there aren’t any obvious wounds. Frank’s hand drops to the dog’s leg—and that’s when it nips at him, letting out a yelping bark. 

Frank doesn’t see any bones jutting out, so he’s reasonably sure nothing’s broken. He stretches his hand again towards the leg in question, and this time, the dog bares its teeth in a warning. 

So. Definitely injured. Maybe the bone is fractured, or there’s a torn ligament.

Frank considers his options. Even if it wasn’t a holiday, vet clinics aren’t open this late. There are emergency clinics, but he’d have to somehow get the dog into a cab, and transporting it when he doesn’t know the full extent of the injury might make things worse. 

Frank digs for his phone, and punches Karen’s number.

She picks up almost immediately. “Frank?”

“Hey,” he says, looking down at the dog. “I’m sorry to ask but—I need a favor.”

.

It only takes a few minutes after he hangs up. He’s working out how he’s going to lift the dog without making its pain worse when he hears the sound of a door swinging open behind him.

Karen’s half-jogging towards him, her hair trailing behind her in the thin breeze that’s kicked up. She crouches next to him, and he can see her brandishing a Milk-Bone in one hand. 

“Hey, girl,” she says fondly. The dog whimpers in response.

“You sure it’s the same one?” Frank asks, watching as she holds out the treat. The dog licks at her hand, then gingerly bites into the bone. 

Karen scratches the dog under its chin as it chews. “I’m sure. She has such distinct markings. I first saw her maybe half a week ago, right here in the alley. I called animal control, but I don’t think they ever came. Then I saw her again the same day we met for coffee.” 

Frank’s thoughts turn to the first time he’d met the dog, and what transpired afterwards. “Yeah?”

Karen pivots to look at him, hearing something in his tone of voice. “Why?”

“You’re not gonna believe this, but—the day I called you, when I saw the flowers—this dog showed up on my jogging route. I decided to follow it, see if I could maybe get it to a vet, and—it led me here. To your place.” 

Karen hums thoughtfully, rubbing the dog’s ears. “You are a lucky dog, huh?” She shifts on her feet. “Okay, we’d better get her upstairs.” 

It takes a few attempts, but Frank is finally able to slide his arms under the dog’s belly and lift it without jostling the injured leg too badly. Karen offers up treats as a distraction and talks gently to it the whole way up to her floor. They move as a unit, slow but steady. 

“I set up a bed here,” Karen says as soon as they’re in the apartment, gesturing to a hastily arranged nest of blankets and pillows by the couch. “It’s not ideal, but it’s the best I could do.” 

Frank meets her eyes. “That’ll work fine. Thanks, Karen.”

They work together to gingerly lower the dog onto the makeshift bed. It whimpers when its bad leg brushes against one of the pillows, but otherwise settles. It looks exhausted, casting a half-hearted glance around the room before dropping its head to its paw. 

“My first aid kit is pretty basic,” Karen says, moving into the kitchen. “There’s some bandages in there, though.”

“That’s perfect.” 

Karen returns with the supplies and a bowl of kibble. The dog licks at her fingers when she sets the bowl by its head. 

“She likes you,” Frank observes.

Karen shrugs. “The Milk-Bones helped.” 

“That’ll get you in the front door, but dogs can smell bullshit a mile away. They know when someone’s heart is good, yeah? This one—she knows.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad we finally got her out of the cold.” Karen’s knuckles brush the dog’s nose. “Do you think anyone’s looking for her?”

Frank starts to unravel one of the bandages. “Hard to say. Figured we—I—could take her to a clinic tomorrow, see if she’s chipped. They’ll find a shelter for her if she isn’t.”

“I can go with you,” Karen says. “I mean—I’d like to go with you. I did see her first.” 

Frank huffs a laugh. “Deal.” 

Karen stabilizes the dog while Frank attends to its leg. It makes a rumbling noise in its throat when he gently runs a finger down the length of bone. There’s some slight inflammation around the elbow joint, but he doesn’t want to risk applying an ice compress when the dog is already hypothermic. He settles for wrapping the limb, and Karen helps him lift the leg so that it’s slightly elevated on one of the pillows.

“Think that’s about all we can do for now,” he says. “I can stay up with her for a bit if you want to get some sleep.”

Karen fixes him with a knowing stare. “You know what I’m going to say to that.”

Frank smirks. “Yeah, I know. Thought I’d try anyways.” 

They stay like that for a moment, and then Karen stands, tugging lightly at Frank’s arm to pull him up with her. “Since we’re in for a long night,” she says, “you want some coffee?” 

“You gonna put that sugary crap in it?”

Karen smiles, her teeth flashing. “Extra, just because you said that.” She turns towards the kitchen—

It’s a reflex. In one swift movement, he’s reaching out to stop her, fingers snagging on her sleeve as he pulls her in and presses his lips to hers. She makes a soft sound of surprise against his mouth, and for a second, he thinks she might pull away—but then her hands are cupping his face, sliding around the nape of his neck, and she’s kissing him back. The world slides out of focus, narrows like a scope until it’s just him and Karen and his hands at her waist and the press of their hips and her mouth moving softly against his. 

She pulls away first, breathless. “I was wondering when you were going to do that.” 

Frank tips his forehead to rest against hers. “Wanted to, earlier. I just—I don’t want to mess this up, Karen. Don’t want you thinking I’m here for some reason that I’m not—”

“Frank.” Her fingers are moving in slow circles at the base of his neck, tangling in the hair that’s curled there. He thinks he’ll never get tired of this—how gentle her voice sounds, the feeling of her hands on him. “I want you here. You get that, right? I want this.” 

His hand comes up, thumb dragging along the edge of Karen’s jaw. Lucky, she’d called the dog, but maybe luck has nothing to do with it. They’ve been in each other’s orbit ever since she crossed that red hospital tape. He thinks he knew, even then—

Wherever this woman is, that’s where he’s supposed to be.

“Okay,” he says, lips grazing hers. He feels her shudder, and warmth unspools in the pit of his stomach.