“please,” he begs over the phone, “i’ll be good i swear. i’ll stop fighting just let me come home.”

from his tone you could tell he was just done crying and it just sounded pathetically beautiful.

“this is not your home. this is my house.” you coo as you stir your dinner. “stop calling me dex.”

you hang up without listening to the rest of his pleading. though less than 10 minutes later, he’s at your front door, begging again.

“baby,” eyes red and puffy, “i need you, i can’t breathe without you. please, please, don’t cut me off again, just—” he breathes as he ghosts his arm by your shoulders like he’s asking for permission. “can i please stay?”

you sigh and let him inside the house. he silently walks in, muttering a quiet thank you as he passes you. as soon as you close door and turn, dex is already on his knees.

“what the hell are you doing dex?”

dropping to his knees, his hands caress the backs of your thighs, dropping his head and burying it between them. gripping you tightly like he could bare letting go. “please take me back. nothing is good without you and it’s making me fucking sick, please,” practically blubbering at this point.

he was so strong and his biceps wrapped around you effortlessly. you could feel the strength just radiating off of him always, like an ever glowing essence.

you sigh, hand touching the nape of his neck and travelling up through his hair while he hums in contentment, “please stand up.”

the sound that he makes was teetering the line of desperation and relief. his lips press against the plush of your thigh while his hands rise to cup your ass. with your hand still buried in his hair, you pull him up with a slight tug, trying to get him to stand. though he keeps slowly rising, kissing up your side and dancing over your stomach, the fabric rising with every movement. a soft gasp escapes your lips and his touch slides up your spine, a shiver running through you. he stops just by your neck when you tug his hair harder and he hisses your name though one would argue it was a moan. you shove him gently and tell him to sit down, though you knew he could’ve stopped you.

you tend to his wounds and wipe his face and he watches you the whole time with puppy eyes. you share your dinner with him but you don’t touch again then, he only steals glances between bites.

within the span of an hour he’s inching closer to you on the couch and he’s watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. no one really cares about the news playing on the television as it repeats something about the AVTF.

his heavy hand rests just under your chest as he pulls you in and buries his nose in your hair, taking a long deep breath in. memorizing your scent like it gave him life.

by the end of night dex is situated between your legs, groaning like it hurts to part from you. he whispers soft thank you’s like he’s grateful for this meal you’ve provided. pushing your legs up higher over his head while you pant and squirm. but dex takes more control then, ignoring your pleas to slow down and dragging you closer to his mouth. maw slack and relentless as he laps and teases. his strong arms wrap and hook around your thighs. tongue teasing the sensitive bud for what felt like eternity. you’ll push his head away to no avail, weakly spent as you attempt it.

“dex, enough. i can’t,” you pant, voice bordering on barely concealed exhaustion and blissful satisfaction.

he shakes his head against you and that only makes you gasp again, throwing your head back.

“not until you promise hmm?” he says between his drunken moans, “you can’t leave me.”

crying out from overstimulating pleasure you nod, “okay, fuck— i won’t. you can stay.”

looking up at you through his hooded eyes, he smiles with them before kissing your inner thigh. he leaves gentle kisses to let you cool off, letting the feeling subside for barely a minute before diving right back into his ministrations. he lets you squeeze yours legs around his head and writhe as you say his name.

“now really try to suffocate me with these,” he says as he squeezes your thighs harder around his neck, turning his head to bite the plush of your thighs.

you know you’ll let him in again. you’ll always let him come back. maybe one day you’ll tell him how you follow him too.

The threshold of the small, one bedroom apartment felt less like a physical boundary and more like the precipice of an entire world. To anyone else, the compact square footage, open-concept kitchenette, and the isolated bathroom were simply standard urban housing. But to you, standing perfectly still with your palms flat against the cool frame of the doorway, it was everything. All that you had spent years praying for, laid out in front of you.

You took a single, heavy breath, inhaling the sharp, unfamiliar scents of fresh paint, old plaster, and the distant, metallic tang of the city outside. You made it here to your new life. You arrived despite everyone's prediction of your failure, every quiet doubt whispered in the dark, and every loud, toxic absolute hurled at your head before you left. You crossed an entire continent with nothing but five thousand dollars in your pocket and a beat-up car crammed to the ceiling with your entire life. Somehow, the fragile hope of your survival had held together, delivering you straight ownership of this apartment in New York.

Your feet moved on their own volition, carrying you across the space as you began to map your new home. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your weight, full of knots and individual character. Your gaze tracked the deep bay window that overlooked the elevated train tracks. Watching the late afternoon sun pierce through the glass, illuminating a slow, rhythmic dance of dust mites suspended in the air of your empty space. This was a life you could get used to loving, perhaps the life you should have been promised since the very beginning. One filled with serenity and the promise of stability within these walls. A life where you didn't have to balance on a tight rope on a daily basis, where home could foster growth and ambition rather than squander it. This is what it should have been like, not the terrible cards life had dealt you.

Suddenly triggered by the calm, an immense, suffocating sensation flooded the center of your chest. Your throat tightened to a painful knot, and your heart began to hammer against your ribs with a relentless, frantic tempo. It was a volatile, agonizing cocktail of pride and still resonating, white hot anger. Your fists clenched at your sides, your knuckles turning white as your eyes locked onto the pathetic, sparse collection of cardboard boxes sitting in the center of the empty room.

Fuck everybody.

The words echoed in your mind like a mantra. Fuck them all.

Your jaw locked so tightly your teeth ached. In the sudden silence of the room, the memory of your emotionally incompetent mother’s voice flooded back, louder and more invasive than the rumble of the subway outside the glass. Years of belittling, of being told you were useless, of being overlooked and treated not as a daughter, but as an unwanted burden. None of it held any leverage over you anymore. Because you were free. You were thousands of miles away, while they remained entirely stagnant, rotting back home, working themselves into an early grave at the same exact, unfulfilling job your mother had held for fifteen miserable years.

For over a decade, you had navigated the landmines of an emotionally abusive parent who viewed her own flesh and blood as direct, threatening competition. But the war was over. In a way it felt like victory. You won your freedom.

And that single realization should have been enough to calm the internal storm, but the peace felt incomplete as you stood there. Perhaps it was the empty space that left you wanting more. A deep, visceral part of you still craved violence. The quiet, dignified exit of the "being the bigger person" narrative society forced down your throat, felt unsatisfying compared to the scale of the damage. You felt a raw need to physically tear that woman apart with a knife, to make her feel the exact same pain she had inflicted upon your childhood. The concrete image of it flickered in your mind, vivid and bloody, because being better wasn't a currency that bought back the years that had been stolen from you.

Her lingering voice was still a tenant in your head, she was the internal structure that spoke and criticized every waking minute of your day. Yes you had gotten away but in some ways she was still here. The heaviness settled right back over your shoulders, bringing the anger and a deep, nameless starvation along with it. You couldn't even identify what you wanted at this moment as you stewed. Did you want validation? Did you want happiness? Or did you simply want the dark daydreams of shoving a cold knife into her body to finally become real? And were you regretting not doing it before you left…

"That's interesting," a voice muttered from the hallway.

The sound shattered your trance immediately, pulling you back from the depths. Your head snapped toward the doorway, your gaze averting to the apartment door you had left wide open. Cussing yourself out silently for it as you schooled your expression and kept the emotions at bay.

Standing across the narrow, dimly lit corridor was a man. He had been in the exact middle of unlocking his own door before your rigid posture caught his eye. His sharp brows parted slightly as his cold eyes took in the sight of your moving boxes, your tightly clenched fists, and the mean, hostile frown you didn't even realize you had been wearing as you zoned out.

Dex studied you for a fraction of a second. To his hyper acute mind, you were a sudden, unregulated pawn in his clean, quiet hallway. He made the deliberate decision to pocket his hands, leaving the keys dangling on his lock as he began to walk directly toward your open door.

Your mind scrambled to re-engage with reality, your feet carrying you forward to meet him halfway at the threshold. Dex's focal moved with precision, immediately logging the sparse contents of your life: exactly four small boxes and a half-disassembled mannequin laying on the bare hardwood. His focus honed in on the heavy packing tape sealing the cardboard shut, explicitly stamped with a small, red maple leaf.

"Hi, I'm your new neighbor," you said.

Dex’s internal wiring instantly analyzed the pitch. Your words were incredibly tense, the register high enough to suggest performance of pleasantries, but there was a distinct strain underlying the syllables. He tracked the rigid alignment of your shoulders, noting how the tension made your collarbones stand out sharply beneath your skin.

"Not from New York?" he asked, raising a single brow. He already knew the precise answer based on the tape, but his programming needed him to hear the confirmation roll off your tongue.

"No," you shook your head, your posture remaining stiff.

"You sew?" Dex nodded his chin down toward the dress form resting on the floor.

"Um... yeah," you offered, your response clipped and protective. You had absolutely no desire to delve into how that purpose was the singular anchor of your soul, or how you had abandoned the little shred of safety back home just to pursue it here.

"Hm. Keep the noise down past ten. Thin walls," he said plainly.

You eagerly, rapidly nodded your compliance. Dex lingered for a moment, his body weight shifting. By all accounts of his daily routine, he should have walked away. Conventional human interactions were a tedious, exhausting ordeal that rarely benefited him unless they served a specific purpose. But the absolute immediacy of your agreement, the way you submissively shrunk back under the order, made his mind pause. He sees people afraid on a daily basis as Bullseye, yet you, for some odd reason, were already on edge before he even made his presence known.

"I'm Tony," he quipped, the introduction sounding just a fraction too rehearsed, a carefully selected line from his mental archives. His eyes flicked back down to the foreign maple leaf on the box before a low, quiet intensity crept into his voice. "But my friends call me Dex."

"Dex," you tested the name, the word falling softly between you.

A faint hum of genuine satisfaction vibrated in his chest. It had been an exceptionally long time since he had heard his actual name spoken by someone who wasn't a target or a handler.

"Don't let Mrs. Smithers hear you call me that," he said, offering a sudden, sharp grin that didn't quite reach his dead, unblinking eyes. There was an invisible, dangerous undercurrent to the words, a hidden threat wrapped in domestic clothing. "I'm serious, or else she's gonna start thinking we're not as close."

His delivery possessed a sudden, calculated charisma, a charm that successfully baited a small, hesitant half-smile from your lips.

"Knock at my door if you need anything," he added, throwing in a brief, practiced wink before he turned on his heel. He didn't truly understand the psychological impulse that had driven him to offer the concession, but his research on human integration had taught him that these specific gestures effectively relaxed women. He had already decided you wouldn't be a problem for his daily structure.

In the weeks that followed, you went to extraordinary lengths to avoid apartment 20B. It wasn't that the initial interaction had been explicitly unpleasant, but an invasive, persistent nervousness had settled deep in your stomach whenever you heard his footsteps in the hall. Dex’s presence made you feel extremely anxious, exposing a raw, aching deprivation of basic social interaction that you weren't ready to face.

But the avoidance strategy completely collapsed on a Tuesday evening over a remarkably stubborn jar of marinara sauce.

You had spent twenty-five agonizing minutes exhausting every trick in your arsenal. You had sandwiched the thick glass between your thighs, twisting until your skin was raw; you had hammered the metal lid with the heavy handle of a butter knife, praying for the vacuum seal to pop. Nothing worked. Looking back at your tiny kitchenette one final time, at the pathetic pot of rapidly cooling noodles and the messy counter, your feet began to move toward the hallway before your brain could protest.

You stood before apartment 20B and knocked once.

The sound had barely dissipated before the door swung wide open. Dex stood beneath the frame, wearing a plain white muscle shirt and a pair of loose gray sweatpants. His broad, heavily muscled shoulders completely blocked the view of his interior. He raised a single, questioning brow.

You pathetically shook the glass jar once in front of his chest. "Open," fell from your lips in a flat, monotone whisper.

Dex blinked, his gaze dropping to the jar.

"I mean- um, can you please open this? Please?" you tried again, your voice cracking with embarrassment.

Without a word, his large, calloused hand reached out and took the glass from your grip. With one smooth, effortless twist of his wrist, the metal lid popped open with a loud snap. Your eyes involuntarily darted to the thick expanse of his bicep, watching the muscles flex and shift beneath the skin with the casual display of strength. A sudden, suffocating feeling of intrusion washed over you, making you feel entirely out of place.

You frantically snatched the opened jar back into your possession, attempting to execute a rapid speed-walk back to the safety of your home before he could engage.

Dex watched your skittish retreat, a faint flicker of amusement piercing through his usual apathy. Conventional neighbors were loud, unpredictable nuisances, but you were different. You stayed entirely within your perimeter, exactly how he preferred it. You made no noise, you never slammed your doors, and you never returned home late. In fact, Dex had realized he almost never saw you leave the building at all. You treated apartment 20A like a hiding hole, a sanctuary against the outside world.

Perhaps that was the exact reason his mind felt inclined to participate. To actively engage and solidify the illusion of "Tony" as a real breathing person that cares about others.

"What're you making?" he asked, his voice a low interrogation that stopped you in your tracks.

"Um, one-pot pasta?" you murmured over your shoulder.

Dex's sharp brows furrowed instantly, his gaze narrowing into a harsh, hyper-focused line. You instinctively clutched the marinara jar tighter against your ribs.

"What the fuck is that," he cussed out, the sheer lack of culinary skills genuinely offending his sense of order.

"It's... pasta you make in one pot," you shrugged, your voice defensive.

The concept thoroughly grated on his compulsive need for proper sequencing. Before you could offer a verbal protest, Dex stepped over the boundaries of his apartment, his tall frame moving right past you and directly into your private space. You stood frozen for a second before silently trailing behind him.

His linear, tracking eyes scanned your apartment, and a cold weight settled into his chest. My god, it was sad.

In the center of the kitchenette sat the offending, solitary pot, filled with starch and water. Your bed wasn't even a proper piece of furniture; it was merely a single mattress dumped onto the floor, heavily dressed up in expensive duvets and a mountain of pillows to overcompensate for the lack of a frame. A small lap-table sat on top of the blankets instead of a proper dining set. Five long, perfectly level shelves lined the walls, crammed with meticulously folded fabrics. By the bay window sat an ancient, cast-iron sewing machine that looked at least a century old, positioned next to the dress form wearing a stunning, intricate gown that looked entirely too beautiful to exist within this depressing space.

"You're not okay," Dex deduced immediately, turning his rigid frame around to face you.

A nervous, fractured laugh broke from your throat. "What?"

"You're not okay," he repeated, stating it not as an insult, but as an absolute fact as he walked back over to the stove to inspect the cursed pot.

"I'm fine," you muttered, peaking through the kitchen archway, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. Jar forgotten beside you, a bystander in this weird conversation.

"Then why do you live like this?" His tone was sharp, accusatory, mildly insulted that any functional human being would willingly subject themselves to such a lack of domestic structure. It bothered him. It bothered him an extraordinary amount. Too much for him to resume his usual disregard of others personal business.

"Um, for the record, I live fine," you raised a single finger to defend yourself.

"Your bed is on the floor," he countered, his expression entirely unamused.

"There's a rug! And it's cozy!" you pointed down to the plush pink faux-fur rug stretching beneath the mattress.

"It's sad," Dex noted flatly. He deeply disliked the specific deregulation this room was forcing onto him. Without asking permission, his hands began to move, instantly taking ownership of the kitchen, determined to fix the failure of your meal. And you could only do nothing but watch in bewilderment as your next door neighbor moved with clear certainty in your home.

"What's that about," he asked after a moment, jerking his sharp chin toward the elaborate gown by the window.

"Someone's paying me to make it," you offered softly.

"So you're a designer?" he questioned, his large hands efficiently raiding the contents of your refrigerator. You tried your absolute best to ignore the terrifying reality that an exceptionally attractive, intimidating man was currently taking control of your life.

"No. Designers get people to buy their clothes because of their name. I just... I just make clothes." You clarified, shifting your weight on your feet.

"You have people buying your clothes for how they look. How's that any different?" Dex questioned, because truthfully your logic made no sense.

"It just is, okay!" your voice finally spiked, a sudden rush of raw, defensive emotion breaking through your shy exterior. "They have degrees, and money, and connections, and I just have a bed on the floor!" You pointed a trembling finger at the mattress.

Dex stared at you for a long second before a low, genuine laugh slipped past his lips. He bit down a smile, turning back to the stove to completely salvage your atrocious food. You amused him. Your strange, combative nature hidden beneath your meek form was fascinating enough to make him stay. So he kept cooking in the silence, letting you calm down from your outburst. For a while the only sound echoing the room was rhythmic cutting as he minced garlic with efficient speed.

"How'd you get that scar?" you blurted out suddenly when you decided to speak again, your eyes tracking the pale line slicing through his features. It was a brave question to ask, perhaps the wrong one, but it'd been the only thing you could focus on since the minute you met him. And you decided on impulse, that if he got to invade your life, you at least earned the right to ask an equally invasive question.

Dex’s muscles tensed for a solitary second, his fingers tightening around the kitchen knife. His mind instantly executed recalibration, regulating his breathing just as he had rehearsed a thousand times in institutional therapy. He locked the bloody, violent memories away in a vault, forcing a normal, charismatic mask over his face.

"It's New York," he said plainly as if that was enough of an explanation, which in a way it was. "What I wanna know is why you chose here over Canada?" He turned his head, his gaze drilling straight into your eyes.

"I didn't like it there anymore..." your voice dropped into a hushed, incredibly heavy register. The sheer, concentrated depression radiating from your small form filled the room like dense fog. It irritated him. It irritated him because a creature with your specific, meticulous talent shouldn't be radiating the scent of a wounded animal. He hated the lack of coordination between what you were capable of creating and how you viewed your own worth.

"Taste," he ordered softly, lifting the wooden spoon directly to your mouth.

Your lips parted in a slight hesitation, your eyes locking onto his as you slowly leaned forward. Dex watched with a hyper-focused intensity as your mouth closed over the wood, taking in the rich, perfectly balanced sauce.

"That's really good," you nodded, your cheeks flushing a fierce warmth as you stepped back, suddenly shy.

“Isn't it," he murmured in that attractive, playful lilt of his. The gesture and tones of his voice are a characteristic you'd come to associate with your odd neighbor. Without a hint of hesitation, Dex slid the exact same spoon into his own mouth, tasting the leftover sauce, his eyes never leaving yours.

That night he left you standing there in the center of the kitchen with a perfectly prepared plate of fresh food, not even bothering to sit down or have a meal with you. His mission for the day had been executed, leaving you thoroughly confused and breathless in his wake.

The confusion only deepened when the exact same sequence repeated itself the following morning. You opened your door at nine o'clock, only to be firmly pushed aside as Dex hauled a heavy canvas bag of groceries directly into your space.

"What're you making for breakfast now?" His voice carried a dry, biting edge as he interrogated you.

"I don't normally eat breakfast," you muttered, leaning against the counter.

Dex’s brows furrowed deeply. Wrong. That was incorrect in every preferable scenario to him. The human brain required proper nutritional fuel the precise moment it transitioned into an awake state in order to function throughout the day. And yet you skipped breakfast regularly.

"I brought proper food," he noted, emphasizing the word proper. Safe, balanced foods that didn't emerge from an aluminum can.

You paused, staring at the broad expanse of his chest, then down to the fresh produce, and then back up to his sharp features. "Why?" you asked, your voice small, genuinely confused why this terrifying neighbor cared enough about your life. Maybe he did care, or maybe the sheer lack of order in your existence simply violated his internal programming in an incomprehensible way. It didn't take much for you to realize that Dex most likely had OCD, judging by what you've observed from him, he was a very one track minded man.

"Why're you doing this shit," he countered, his hand gesturing vaguely to the fabrics, the mattress, the entirety of your isolated world.

Your brows knit together, trying to parse the exact thing he was attacking. You made an educated guess that he was referring to the fundamental reality of all of you.

"I moved here because I believed in myself," you said, trying to sound firm.

But the delivery was a far cry from actual conviction. To Dex’s tracking eyes, you looked like a frail, hyper-vigilant thing that was merely surviving the days rather than actively living them. It didn't look like belief; it looked like an escape. But Dex could respect the raw, stubborn determination underlying the performance. He had recognized your immense talent within the first sixty seconds of entering your apartment. You were a creature of singular focus, prioritizing the creation of a beautiful dress over basic human comfort. He wasn't one to judge an obsession. You possessed the spark required to carve your name into the stone of the city; you simply weren't fully convinced of your own gravity yet.

It reminded him entirely of his old, fractured self, desperately searching for a script to prove he was allowed to exist. Maybe that was the exact reason he couldn't just let you go. He tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as you visibly squirmed under the pressure of his gaze.

"But you still sleep on the floor," he said slowly, taking a deliberate step into your orbit.

"But I still sleep on the floor..." you confirmed, your voice hitching as you took a small step backward. He continued to advance, completely abandoning the grocery bags on the kitchen island.

"You should be sleeping in a bed made for royalty. Not that," he noted, a faint trace of dark amusement in his voice as he watched you try everything in your power to avoid his proximity.

"That requires princess money," you countered with your chin held high, your heel catching slightly on the edge of the faux-fur rug.

"That's not how the story goes. Isn't the fairytale answer to marry a king?" He crossed his massive arms over his broad chest, blocking out the light from the window with his form.

You stopped moving, taking a long, deliberate look at the rigid picture of his features. "Are you mocking me?" you asked after a heavy silence. "Is this a joke to you?"

"What? No,” he spat out with equal conviction.

“You are not a joke," the concept genuinely offended the man. You were everything but.

"I don't need help, Dex," your voice suddenly cracked, an exasperated, rushing tide of buried rage spilling through the seams of your composure. He had unknowingly poked at a raw, unhealed wound you didn't even know you had. "I don't need anybody. I've made it this far entirely on my own, and I-"

"I didn't say you needed it," the words rolled off his tongue like velvet, cutting through your fervor. "I'm offering it."

"Why?" your eyes narrowed into suspicious, defensive slits. You were a guarded little thing.

"Because you're alone. In a dangerous city," he pointed it out as if it were a fundamental law.

Truthfully, his conscious mind didn't fully comprehend the psychological reasonings driving his desire to intervene; he simply knew that his system demanded it. Perhaps it was merely basic human nature to seek out a companion. Or perhaps he decided that for "Tony" to maintain his flawless civilian disguise, he required a friend. Tony was a good citizen. Tony helped his neighbors; Tony fed the old lady's cat on the third floor; Tony fixed the plumbing for the single mother upstairs. Tony was a pillar of the community. Though it wasn't just that. Dex knew you had resonated with him, with your awkward self and unpredictable outbursts hooking him. Despite how it looked, he wasn't trying to fix you, he was in no position to be handling another person, instead he felt the urge to provide you with the support he never had.

"Sit down," he ordered simply, turning his back to you as he began to masterfully prepare the fresh ingredients he'd brought.

"You have talent," he said twenty minutes later after the silence got too heavy, his hands efficiently wiping down the counter space while you consumed the meal he made. You sat up a fraction straighter at the validation. "But talent without exposure doesn't mean anything."

You almost flinched at the sharp accuracy of the statement.

"You should be out there. Not locked in here all the time," he continued. By now, Dex’s surveillance of your habits had mapped your highly dysfunctional sleeping patterns. You remained awake through the entire night, whenever he left for an assignment or returned in the pre-dawn hours, the golden light from your windows were always visible. You spent the daylight hours sleeping, unless you were forced to leave for your underappreciated assistant position at the Daily Prophet.

He turned his head to look at you, tracking the way your soft lips parted slightly as you absorbed his assessment.

"You're a pretty woman. Here in New York, that's enough to open most doors," he said. The words weren't delivered as a compliment or a cheap attempt at flattery; it was simply a cold, structural fact.

A fact that caused you to violently choke on your eggs, a brilliant crimson blush detonating across your cheeks.

"You okay there?" he asked, his hand pausing its polishing over the mug in his hand. You urgently nodded your head, frantically reaching for a glass of water. Dex kept wiping the porcelain clean, a dark, thoroughly amused smirk settling onto his features.

Life with a man in your orbit was an entirely surreal reality, especially when that man was a massive, hyper-stabilizing force looming permanently in your background.

Dex had helped you source a proper, high-backed "princess bed" frame, assembling the heavy wood with a silent, terrifying efficiency. In return, you began to prepare your meals with his specific caloric needs in mind. You found yourself dressing in the mornings with the absolute certainty that you would be looking into the cold watchful eyes of your neighbor before the day concluded. No longer donning old sweats with thread stuck onto them, instead you chose more curated lounge wear. Nothing that suggested you were trying too hard but cotton sets and satin shorts that helped remind you that you were a girl. A girl with a very attractive man coming to her apartment on a daily basis. By the third month of this unspoken arrangement, Dex possessed a key to your apartment. You couldn't recall the exact moment he acquired it, nor did you feel any concern that he had it. Dex had proven himself to be so utterly dependable, so fiercely protective of your sanctuary, that you never once questioned the breach.

You simply allowed him to appear. Sometimes you would open your eyes in the morning to find him silently reading by your bed; other times, he wouldn't slip through the door until the dead of night. He had informed you, in his flat register, that his operational hours were highly dysfunctional as well due to his past employment with the FBI and his current status as a private contractor. It was the explanation that perfectly accounted for the jagged, violent scars lining his well maintained body.

The routine fractured slightly on a stormy Thursday evening. A violent thunderstorm had completely knocked out the power grid across your section of Brooklyn, leaving your apartment illuminated by the flickering, amber glow of a dozen candles. You sat across from him at the small table, the ambient silence magnifying the heavy, intrusive thoughts you normally managed to suppress. Without the distraction of your sewing machine or the television, the ghosts of your past were entirely too loud to ignore. It was better with Dex around, but tonight it was oppressing.

"You still with me?" His quiet, gravelly voice sliced through the dark.

"Yeah. I'm sorry," you nodded quickly, your shoulders drawing inward.

Dex’s eyes tracked the movement. He often wondered why that specific word, sorry, dropped from your lips with such automatic frequency, even when you committed nothing wrong. He had analyzed the way your entire system would shut down, retreating into a silent, unreadable fortress whenever you perceived even a flash of tension in his tone. He had logged it during his first critique of your mattress, and again when he regulated your breakfast habits. You would instantly succumb, allowing him to rewrite your parameters without an ounce of resistance.

It didn't align with the true matrix of who you were. It didn't fit the woman who possessed the fierce, unyielding determination to cross a continent alone for her art. You had been systematically programmed by someone else to react this way. It was a defect in your confidence, and it bothered him. He wanted to understand the code, but his lack of conventional empathy made the vocabulary invasive. He didn't know how to ask how you had been broken. He only knew that over the past five months, his motivation for being around you had completely evolved from a selfish need for a civilian disguise into an undeniable reality: he thoroughly enjoyed your company. You were awkward in a specific, quiet manner that made his own internal fractures feel normal. It was almost funny.

He searched his mental archives, selecting a play designed to foster emotional trust. Because he wanted you to trust him, he needed you to.

"You say that a lot. You okay there?" he asked, his chin gesturing toward your tense form. He worried the phrasing was either too forward or completely off the mark.

"Um, yeah. Sorry. It's just that..." You took a long, ragged breath, the amber candlelight catching the wet sheen of your eyes. "I grew up in a reactive home… and quietness kinda makes me uncomfortable" You nodded to yourself, tasting the bitter, familiar poison on your tongue as your throat tightened. Growing up was like navigating an active minefield. You were always criticized rather than praised. Everything you did was wrong. At some point, you just learn that it's safer if you shut down completely and don't engage.

Even now, miles away from the source, the conditioning remains a permanent tenant in your nervous system. It was an agonizing process trying to dismantle years of trauma; when you were raised by a monster, accepting genuine care or praise felt like a trap. You would hyper-fixate on every single micro-mistake you made throughout the day until isolation felt like the only true sanctuary available to you.

Dex offered a slow, deliberate nod. He lacked the capacity for conventional comfort, but he forced himself to try.

"My parents weren't really that involved," he offered, his voice a flat line of history.

Before he could expand on his own dark childhood, you cut through the quiet. "It was just me and my mom." You paused, your fingers tightening around the edge of your napkin. "But sometimes... I really wished it was just me."

Dex’s brow raised a fraction, a sudden spark of intense interest flaring in his irises. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean... I've definitely imagined pulling the trigger on her fucking head more times than I've said 'I love you,'" you said, a sharp, dark laugh breaking from your lips.

Dex’s jaw involuntarily ticked, smile flicking though his eyes remained ever dead.

Huh.

He never once suspected that you possessed such a beautifully morbid, violent architecture within your mind. You were laughing, your head tilted back, but Dex’s hyper-calibrated focus recognized the truth instantly: you were only partially joking. He knew that specific, cold look in a human eye; he had seen it in the mirror, and he had seen it in the field. He knew with absolute certainty that if a weapon were placed in your hand in that exact moment, you would have executed the directive without an ounce of hesitation.

This was an extraordinary development.

"Was she that bad?" he tested, his voice dropping into a low, predatory register.

You took the bait instantly, your fingers wrapping around the handle of your silver dinner knife with a white-knuckled, bruising grip. "She's an emotionally immature woman who never accomplished a single thing with her life, and she chose to take her anger onto me. She's a fucking bitch who was entirely content being the other woman to some married man rather than-"

You cut yourself off abruptly, your chest heaving as you realized you had allowed the floodgates to open entirely too wide. But Dex didn't pull back in horror. Instead, his focus was completely locked onto the violent, white-knuckled grip you maintained on the knife handle.

"Sorry," you whispered, trying to force your features back into a polite, submissive mask. "That was too much."

"It's alright," Dex murmured, his voice incredibly steady as he leaned across the small table, his shadow completely enveloping your form. "I wanna hear whatever's bothering my woman."

The phrase fell from his lips with an absolute, seamless finality. Your entire body locked up, your breath catching in your throat, but you didn't offer a single word of protest. My woman. You didn't argue the timeline; you didn't ask when the boundary had shifted. Instead, you slowly lowered the knife, took another quiet bite of your dinner, and tried your absolute best to suppress the small, genuine smile forming at the corners of your lips. You were somebody's woman!

To Dex, the word girlfriend was inadequate. It belonged to the fragile narrative of normal society, and absolutely nothing about Benjamin Poindexter was normal. He had initially categorized you as a necessary component of his disguise, but you had evolved into something infinite. The transition into ownership had been effortless, occurring somewhere between the hours he spent selecting your furniture and the quiet moments he spent watching you create. Girlfriend was a childish title. His woman possessed posture. It possessed permanence. His woman was a creature he took exquisite care of; his woman was an asset he would dismantle the entire world to protect if she asked. And now, he realized with a sick surge of adrenaline, that his shy but explosive woman might actually possess the exact same dark, violent streak that lived inside his own ribs.

He made the decision to test that thought on a violent, rain-slicked Saturday night.

The window to your fire escape rattled violently before swinging wide open, and Dex tumbled into your bedroom, his broad frame covered in dark fabric, heavily smeared with fresh, steaming blood.

"Oh my god! Dex!" You instantly bolted from your sewing machine, rushing across the hardwood without a single second of hesitation. You didn't scream; you didn't question the firearm strapped to his chest or the array of lethal tactical knives lining his thighs. Your system immediately engaged in operational mode. "What can I do? Tell me what to do."

"Need those hands of yours," he groaned through his teeth, his face pale as he collapsed onto the edge of the bay window, his large fingers frantically tugging the heavy curtains shut to kill the view. "My girl's amazing at sewing, yeah?" It was a desperate, raw plea masked as a casual question as he violently yanked his dark shirt upward. "Need you to deal with this for me."

Your eyes locked onto the jagged, deep gash splitting the skin over his ribs, the blood welling rapidly. You offered a sharp nod, your voice entirely steady. "I'm gonna clean it first, okay? I need to see exactly what I'm fixing up."

"Do what you gotta do, baby," he sighed, his head falling back heavily against the covered glass pane as his eyes closed.

Your small, nimble fingers moved with an extraordinary, professional efficiency. You didn't have medical-grade thread, but you swore by the integrity of your heavy-duty Guterman spool. You guided the needle through his flesh, weaving a series of incredibly precise, perfectly spaced navy-blue stitches to seal the breach. Dex remained entirely silent, watching your face through a haze of acute physical pain. His compulsive mind felt an immense, soothing wave of gratification at the perfect symmetry of your stitches. He found it incredibly, beautifully intimate that you had chosen a deep navy thread to match his clothes.

"So," you whispered, your fingers snipping the excess nylon. "Is this a common occurrence for a private contractor?"

"It's not normally this bad," he graveled out, his breath hitching. "But I ran into the devil tonight."

"And did you leave him looking worse?" you asked as you peered up at him, wiping the remaining copper from his skin.

Dex let out a low, ragged laugh, a fierce surge of pride warming his chest. It was an extraordinary response; a normal person would have demanded an explanation, but his woman's primary concern was the dominance of his performance.

"Mhm," he hummed in deep satisfaction.

From that exact night onward, you became a non-negotiable axiom in his existence. You were the absolute anchor of Dex's reality. Your domestic skills were remarkably useful, but more than that, he liked you. He liked you in a manner he had never experienced with another living entity. It boarded on enamored infatuation now. You remained your quiet, skittish self during the daylight hours, but Dex noted that your defenses dropped significantly whenever he returned bloody and damaged. You became infinitely more generous with your physical touch when he was vulnerable.

Yet, the conditioning of your childhood still dictated your movements. Whenever you sat on the velvet sofa together to watch the news, you automatically maintained a strict, ten-inch barrier between your bodies. Whenever you walked down the crowded concrete stretches of Brooklyn, you never reached for his hand; it was always Dex who had to reach out, wrap his massive arm around your shoulders, and physically drag your frame against his side to close the distance.

Dex began to wonder if your mind truly comprehended what it meant to be his woman. You didn't have to exist on the defensive; you didn't have to carry the weight of the world in isolation because his weapon was entirely at your disposal. But your broken programming prevented you from understanding intimacy. Reading your desires was like parsing ancient hieroglyphics, he was forced to rely entirely on your micro-expressions. Because apparently you would rather die than verbally articulate what you wanted. But at the same time you'd get silently pouty whenever he couldn't read your mind, which was almost never but it has happened once or twice. And that was more than enough times for Dex to start picking through your preferences.

Dex knew with absolute certainty that you liked his hands; your eyes would track their movement whenever he was using a blade to prepare food. And his hyper-calibrated focus had noted the way your demeanor changed when he altered his training regimen to bulk rather than cut. You liked his size. You liked the security of his weight.

The realization reached its zenith on a quiet Monday evening. You were hand-sewing an intricate, embroidered bodice, completely ignoring his repeated words, that strayed too closely to whines, to abandon the work and rest with him while he cooled down from the high adrenaline of a recent assignment. Your nimble fingers reached across the coffee table, casually grabbing one of his tactical throwing knives to cleanly slice your thread.

Dex watched the interaction with an intense, quiet focus. You were comfortable with the weapon. Though you had always been unbothered by his brutality.

"Have you ever used one before?" he asked, his voice a low vibration in the silence.

"No," you hummed, your eyes never leaving the fabric in your lap.

"Ever wanted to?" he pushed, a split second later.

"Yes," you answered truthfully, the syllable rolling off your tongue without a hint of hesitation.

A profound, intoxicating wave of pleasure flooded Dex’s chest at the confirmation.

"Stand up. I'll show you how," he ordered, his body instantly shifting into motion.

The command broke your creative trance, but your body automatically complied with his authority. You watched as he stalked into the kitchenette, his large fingers fishing an empty soda can out of the recycling box. He placed the aluminum on the far edge of the island, turning to trail back to you.

Dex stepped directly behind your frame, guiding your body to stand perfectly parallel to the target, exactly twelve feet away. The moment his large palms settled firmly onto the soft skin of your hips, your entire spine went completely rigid. With a hitched breath, your focus momentarily shatters as he holds out the cold steel.

"Hold it like this," he whispered against your ear, his large fingers wrapping over yours to adjust your grip on the hilt. The metal was ice-cold, perfectly balanced, and terrifyingly thin.

You didn't wait for the final instruction. Driven by a sudden, volatile surge of adrenaline and need to please, your arm snapped forward, hurling the blade across the room with a terrifying amount of force. The knife sliced through the air, striking the exact center of the aluminum can, knocking it to roll tarnished on the floor. If Dex had been satisfied before, his cerebrum was now operating at absolute capacity. A low, feral sound of pure delight escaped his lips as he prowled across the hardwood, inspecting the absolute ruin of the can before plucking the blade from its body. He turned, his whirlpool eyes raking over your flushed, trembling form.

"Impulsive," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, heavy register as he slowly stalked back toward your position. "I bet if I gave you a gun, you'd be a trigger-happy little thing..."

You didn't utter a word. You stood completely frozen, your chest heaving as you stared up into the dangerous, unblinking intensity of his face. There was nothing left to say. Without a doubt, he enjoyed what you had done, it was evident in the way the corner of his mouth threatened to pull.

"Should I?" Dex asked softly, stepping into your immediate personal space. He lifted the throwing knife, using the flat, ice-cold plane of the steel blade to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The contrast of the freezing metal against your hot skin sent a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine.

"Should you what?" you breathed out, your posture straightening in raw anticipation.

"Give you a gun," he nodded, his gaze tracking the frantic pulse fluttering in your throat. "You're my girl now. You have to know how to handle yourself." He tilted your chin upward with the spine of the knife, forcing your eyes to lock onto his. "What if someone takes you when I'm not here?"

The question was heavy with an invasive paranoia that constantly plagued his mind. The mere possibility of an external threat having access to your sanctuary was enough to deregulate his entire system. His breathing grew ragged, his self-control straining at the seams as you stepped back against the wall. He feared for a microsecond that his darkness had finally shattered your views on him.

But you didn't look terrified. Your eyes were wide, dark, and obviously earnest. You wanted more, but didn't know how to ask for it.

The knife in his hand moved with instantaneous precision. Before your brain could process the movement, the razor-sharp edge sliced cleanly through the left strap of your tank top, the fabric snapping away from your shoulder. You let out a sharp, gasping breath. With a flick of his wrist, Dex flipped the blade within his palm, the steel flashing once more as he severed the right strap, letting the material pool at your waist.

Your hands immediately moved to cover the view, only to stutter hesitantly when Dex decided that he didn't like that. Brows knitting in disdain like you had offended every fiber of his being. His armed body moved, tapping the blade once over the shield of your hands before guiding it back down with the weapon. Hunger invaded his irises as his pupils dilated, taking in the portrait of you in a baby blue bra, top irrelevant and ruined around your waist. You watched as his head imperceptibly weighed side to side, as if he was conversing with the devil and angel on his shoulders.

And as always, the side that benefited him the most won.

In a blink, the knife had slipped beneath the center of your bra and with a firm grip Bullseye had sliced it in half. An audible sound of shock broke from your lips as you stammered back slightly. At that he took a moment to observe you, looking for the silent cues of your discomfort and was pleased to find none. Though the wide eyed expression on your face didn't distract him from the way your thighs pressed together, and how your stomach clenched in flutters to try and suppress the butterflies panicking.

A melodic hum escapes him as he uses that damned blade to push the scraps of your bra aside to expose and show off your skin. His focal trained on the bare swell of your chest, sharp metal purposefully grazing over one hardened nipple and your breathing sucked in. Dex’s eyes snapped back to your face, taking in the way you refused to look at him or down at yourself, instead paying very close attention to the overhead light. He watched your parted lips exhale with baited breaths, how your shoulders caved in an attempt to shrink into yourself and disappear.

Though, contrary to your demeanor, your core gave you away. Direct in the way your hips angle towards his, pressing into him despite how very hard you tried to avoid acknowledging the situation. Dex knew you'd never outwardly say what you wanted due to your own personal struggles expressing your needs. You two weren't there yet, not until he builds consistent intimacy to disassemble your preconceived notions.

So instead of teasing you, his lips moved forward, peppering affection on the skin beneath your ear before claiming your lips. Kissing was not a thing between Dex and his woman. A flaw in the architecture that he eagerly wanted to change the very moment he decided you were his. It was extremely grating in ways that he didn't understand. Poindexter had never been interested in the idea of sharing saliva with another human being, sure he's kissed women before, not many, but enough for him to decide that kissing was pointless. Yet when you became his, it was all that he could think of. Being near you wasn't enough, he needed to be on you, in you. All over, everywhere, connected in every possible way.

An invasive need that grew tenfolds when you melted because of his touch, reciprocating in a skittish dance of squirming away and pressing back onto his lips. His large hands held you in place by your waist, forcing you still as his kisses migrated. Your body was electric, writhing from him and anxiety, mind desperate to form any thoughts that weren't: my man, my man, my man. But his next action only made it worse and an actual, involuntary, moan echoed out of you as his hot tongue licked a slow path up your neck. Your head anchored back against the wall, biting down the sounds that threatened to sing again. With eyes blurred and focused on the surroundings as you tried to compose yourself, only for you forced them shut as Dex does it again.

“Stop doing that,” he whispered with no conviction, the words dancing the thin line between a plea and playful attempt at banter. Though his easy tone did little to calm the building anxiety. Stop doing what? Stop being so fucking needy and desperate and–

“Stop denying yourself,” he clarified.

“I know, it's new, I know you feel weird. And I know your brains talking” Dex rasped out into your ear, pressing himself impossibly closer to you as his hand reached to adore one breast. He didn't offer any following words of reassurance, and you silently thanked him for it. God, you couldn't handle the embarrassment from being comforted because of your own inability to express yourself.

“I'll make it feel good.” He nodded a promise as he stared into your unsure eyes. “So good that it all shuts up.”

With certainty in his tone, Dex gently tugs you towards the bed, brushing the remnants of your bra off your shoulders before tearing the fabric of your disgraced tank top off your body. Your eyes immediately locked onto his biceps as he exuded force, yet with the gentleness of a true man, he laid your body down as if you were fragile. Large hands roaming your body, tugging at your shorts till they were stolen from you. Every ounce of security you had now gone with them.

He noticed almost immediately the crease settling home in your brows and he moved to balance out the scale. Removing his own shirt to display equal vulnerability in the hopes that it'll calm you. Your fingers at your side twitched once, unsure and hesitant, before your open hand raised, heel of your palm still planted on the mattress but you were indicating that you wanted touch. Dex complied, pushing your thighs apart to settle between them. The broad form of this man comfortably laid over you, chin resting on your abdomen as he laced his hand with yours.

He stayed like that for a moment, breathing with you. The analytical voice in the cortex of his mind knew that he was asking a lot from you, to be so open and bare when all your body had ever known was to hide and shrink. Dex wanted to make sure that your nervous system had calmed down enough to embrace what he gave you without fear of overthinking. In a rare human moment of easy sentiment, he brought your intertwined hands closer, planting a small kiss over the back of yours. The gesture soothed the tempest wake of your internal storm and you subconsciously parted your legs around his laid form wider. It was a barely there action but an entirely unavoidable movement for Dex as he took it as a welcome.

With firmness embedded in his bones, his other hand crept up to your inner thigh. Two fingers sliding up barely an inch beneath the elastic of your underwear. A raw, strangled exhale forced its way out of you as glossed irises darted down to meet him. Watching as he just laid there, playing wth your underwear as his fingers glided along the thin elastic. Up and then back down, too close to your soaked entrance but never touching, when he'd get too close his rhythm would change and you tried to ignore the way his knuckles brushing against your pelvis made you go insane.

Dex’s eyes watched you, rapt as the war on your face played out. Maybe he was doing this to try and soothe you, but he knew it in his heart that he wasn't that pure. He was absolutely doing this to fuck with you. He wanted to see if you were capable of getting over yourself, if that explosive nature of yours would finally appear if you were frustrated enough. And judging by the way you looked at the ceiling like it was the sinner, he knew he was getting close.

You blinked once at the myriad of thoughts, chewing on your bottom lip. The monster that he was, grew green with jealousy when he decided that your attention strayed far enough. Fingers drawing back to snap the elastic of your cotton blue panties against your inner skin where thigh met heat. A fraction of a second was all it took for you to pin the smug image of him with your gaze and the dam broke the self conscious overthinking.

“Oh for fucks sake!” You groaned, ripping your hand out of his and burying your face in your palms. Frustration and something you don't dare to name blossoming in your soul.

A sinister laugh corrupted the air, insidious and dark. “You gotta tell me what you want.” He shook his head, his fingers still doing that criminal trail. For a man who had such little regard for your clothing earlier, he sure treated your underwear like some sacred thing to devout himself to.

You huffed, eyes avoiding him. “I want you… but I feel terrible being naked,” Dex tried to suppress how absolutely adorable he found you right now, stubborn and pouty, like voicing your wants was such a painful task.

Maybe he should've thought the moment out some more, pick apart your statement and the context clues of your precise wording. But instead he found himself crawling over your body before his hand moved on its own accord, pushing his sweatpants down, along with his restrictive boxers. Hearing you say that you wanted him was the only incentive his veins needed.

“You don’t have to be naked,” A purr invades your ears as your jaw slacks when you feel him. The hard tip of his length pushing up against your entrance, through the barrier of your drenched underwear.

Your gaze travels down finally, watching as he rubbed his hard length on your clothed cunt. Blinking in an attempt to regain focus, you never thought about that… You didn't have to be completely bare. And secretly you thought the sight of Dex playing with you like that was the most erotic thing you've ever witnessed. For a man as condemned as yours was, God was certainly very generous with all of him, and his cock was no exception. Solid with intimidating girth that made you equally nervous as you were excited.

Your hips responded to the pleasing revelation, moving to match him despite your anxiety.

“There she is, that's it….” He groaned out as he rutted onto the soaked fabric, your lustfilled eyes darting to lock onto the scar on his cheek. It was one of the things you found so devastatingly attractive about Dex, save for his broad shoulders. Maybe you were drunk off the liquor of your own pleasure induced stupor. Hive mind calming as you reigned control over the tempest anxiety. Whatever had become of you was needy, leading with your chest as your tongue darts out to lick at his marred cheek. Copying the same sanctified ardor he had with your neck.

The sound that left him was barely restrained, if at all. Your focus is drawn to the way his biceps strained around your form and how his large palms gripped at the pillow beside your head. It was honest, an uncontrolled groan as his hips staggered once, followed by one hard grind before that incisive obsession in his genes demanded more. Ears perking at the curse he spat, and you saw it there, barely a second appeared that pensive expression that came when he weighed out the consequences of his actions. That one you'd come to know as Tony , Tony was good, Dex was questionable. As he once worded it, Tony was the structure whereas Dex was the wild card. It was a never ending impulse for him to switch between the two.

Before you could question who had won, Dex’s volatile, steadfast precision tipped the scales, pulling back away from you. And as concern began to take its hold on your features, his deadly hands took what they wanted, ripping the drenched fabric and security of your panties apart. You gasped, a startled wail that blurred the lines between fright and thrill, gaping at the torn scraps around your thighs. Peering up at the heaving man but his attention was locked onto your gleaming cunt, exposed and waiting for him. No longer hidden as the last bit of safety you had was reduced to a sorry excuse of a shield, torn hole evidence of his ferocity.

Dex’s calloused hand moved, palm pushing one thigh back as his thumb stroked your clit once. With starved gentleness that wasn't there before, he touched you with fondness. Preening at the pretty sight as he took note of how your thighs would flutter when he applied a certain amount of pressure.

Despite your debilitating infrastructure that had deduced you into a stubborn woman, you could only handle so much of his analyzing gaze. You knew he meant well, taking in the image of you and committing it to flesh till it was root memorization but fuck it was insanity.

“Dex….” A shy request that made him focus on you.

“Please…. Just…… fuck me already…” Muffled in embarrassment as a heat kissed your cheeks, he didn't say anything more, knowing that it'll only make things worse for you. He didn't dwell on the adorable mess that you were for too long. Not when his woman had given him an order.

He sat back on his knees, hand knowingly fishing into the pocket of the forgotten sweatpants loose on his thighs. Pulling out the condom wrapper Dex made sure to carry with him all times when he entered your apartment. A little thing that had earned its way on the check list of items he required on his body along with his knives. The act was fueled by preparation rather than the perverse idea that sex was his intention every time he crossed the threshold. Although sex was nice it was never his mission, you were. He rolled the rubber on, hands stilling half way when he took in that forming expression he categorized was your pout. It was a mean scowl but so fucking cute in a way that made him admit weakness. With your brows pulled, gaze narrowed and bottom lips so inviting, he raised a brow in question.

“Why do you need that?”

You said it with such distaste in your tone that the sheer vigor of it made Dex blink. Society had instilled in him that a condom was expected, it was the right course of action when you're with a woman to be a gentleman and always protect her body. But your words indicated absolute certainty that you didn't want him to use protection.

“I'm on birth control,” you nodded.

He blinked again. Dex didn't know that, and he knew everything about you, he had made sure to learn all that there is to. And yet he was unaware of this very important knowledge.

“Since when?.” He asked slowly.

“It doesn't matter, fuck me….” You let out a bold whine and his gaze turned piercing. It did matter. If it was a fact he didn't know thoroughly well about you, it mattered more than anything.

“It does, when?”

He repeated firmer, his mind wondering when you'd managed to slip pass your shared schedule long enough to maintain it. Wondering if there were gaps in the day or if he wasn't paying close enough attention to you.

“3 years ago, I have an IUD,” you murmured under your breath, arms crossing over your bare chest and Dex's eyes momentarily drop down to your cleavage.

Okay, that was a much better answer. He wasn't neglectful or blind, and relief dispelled his nerves. Though the calm was cut short when your nimble fingers suddenly found its way on his cock, pulling at the rubber with deliberate slowness causing his head to lull to the side. He'd never seen that look on your face in the kaleidoscope of pretty expressions he'd cataloged.

Your eyes were pinned up, defiant and dead in a way that almost mirrored his own. The ones he's come to intimately know, only ever seeing that assertiveness in the throne of the mirror, never on you. Dex's internal world halted as a groan rumbled in his chest caused by whatever the hell you were doing with your hand. Looking down to watch you pull at the condom, only to roll it back up when you stroked him. Again and again, for minutes too long.

Fucking hell you were vengeful.

Stubborn and shy, harboring immense emotions in your little body, and now you wanted revenge for his game earlier. Dex tries to suppress the smile that threatened to break free because my god weren't you just perfect.

You pulled the condom off with a snap, throwing the useless thing for him to catch mid air before he was on you again. Peppering kisses along your cheeks, causing you to squirm and laugh at the attack.

Though the sweetness of the moment only lasted half a second as a sharp audible gasped that sounded remarkably too close to a moan escapes you. Mouth parted wide with your head thrown back as Dex fucked into you with no warning. His face morphs into something unrestrained as he buries himself to the hilt, deep and unforgiving. Eyes locked onto the sight of your tight cunt fluttering around him, soft fabric still framing your skin.

“Dex….” You whined out a plea.

“What? You wanted me to fuck you raw and now you can't handle it?”

His hips moved, accentuating his spat words with thrusts so leisurely that it all but melted and ruined you. The heat between your legs intensifies at the feeling of him. Maybe he should have given you a warning, eased himself into you inch by inch till you got used to the stretch of him. But Dex was so far gone pleasantries at this point, not when you asked him so earnestly to fuck you raw.

And God did the thought stroke something greedy inside him. All he ever wanted was to be close to you in every possible way, and to know that you wanted that as well fed something insatiable in him.

Your moans were a hiccup of an orchestra as Dex maintained a bruising pace, fucking into you with a hungry force, expertly angled to dismantle your body. His thrusts were harsh and drawn out, almost pulling out all the way save for his tip kissing at your entrance before sliding back into you again. The sheer duress of his movements filled the room with lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and your thighs quivered.

Dex forces them to stay put, large hands gripping at the torn fabric of your underwear and using them to pull your cunt close, forcing you to meet his thrusts. You were a mess. A beautiful, vocal mess that struggled against the sheets. Hands trying to find anything to stabilize yourself as you writhe beneath him. He didn't know which sight pleased him more, your tits bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts or your leaking sex.

You were far beyond drenched, your slick spreading with every thrust in a way that was shockingly satisfying. Dex was a man that prided himself in strict cleanliness, evident in his spotless apartment, but in this moment he wanted nothing more than to make a heap of you. He didn't really understand it, this revelation that fueled his avaricious hands as they gripped at the fabric tighter. A covetous need that called to him like a siren song to see your cunt painted with his cum. As if somehow, someway, it laid his claim over you. He groaned out at the thought, picturing it as he watches you swallow his length whole. Strings of your liquor sticking to his pelvis with every movement back and the obscenity of it only made him want to fuck you harder, if that was even feasible.

“D-Dex….”

You mewled out and his focus was on your face instantly, only to snap back down to where you both connected. Your heat clenching around him in beats.

“I know baby, I know,” he breathed out, heart pounding in his ears as he readjust his angle, your body involuntarily arching as a loud whimper left your lips. You were close, the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap and he wasn't far behind either. Fuck he should've just done this from the start instead of wasting time teasing you, maybe if he had the pretty sight of your pussy would've been covered in his cum by now before he even got the chance to fill you.

His hands migrate from the makeshift handles of your ripped panties, finding home on your hips as he leans down to take one nipple in his mouth. You cried out, arching into him, hands finding place on his shoulders as he nibbled and sucked. That action was the last bit your self restrain needed to devastate. Ecstasy floods you in white-hot waves as you came without warning around him, your hips moving on their own accord to meet his movements. Your muscles tensed as your nails dug into his skin, baiting a loud groan from Dex. His hips stilling deep inside as his cock twitched, mouth still on you as he watched you get lost in your own pleasure. Hips locked against each other as ropes of his cum filled you.

Only when your breathing calmed did he decide to pull out gently. The serenity that had taken hold of you shattering when Dex groans, opening your eyes in alert. Though his attention was only onyour heat, wet and abused with his cum spilling out of you. His hands moved, thumbs caressing your folds once before he pushed the dripping mess back into you. Body giving out in exhaustion at this point as you collapsed back down onto the pillow, letting him do whatever his hyper acute mind demanded of him. Even if it meant lazily finger fucking his cum back into you.

Poindexter delivered a heavy, velvet-lined case to your kitchen island the next afternoon. Still motivated by the absolute high that came with being with you, his gaze was a fond sentiment as he waited for you to approach. Inside rested a custom, matte-black semi-automatic firearm, its weight perfectly balanced for you. Engraved into the reinforced steel of the handle, rendered in a brilliant, metallic pink that perfectly matched your sewing spools, were two distinct words: My Woman.

You took the weapon into your hands, feeling the cold, lethal weight of his protection settling permanently into your palm. You liked the feeling infinitely more than you were ever willing to admit. Smiling up at him as you got on your tip toes to shyly press a kiss over his scarred cheek.

That evening, the apartment was quiet once again, save for the rhythmic, comforting click of your ancient sewing machine. Dex sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his broad shoulders relaxed, one large hand resting flat on his knee as he watched you work. The other however, was outstretched and playing with your hair, lazily twirling a strand around his finger. Since yesterday, a new habit of his began to form, embedding itself deep in his bones, flooding him with the need to constantly be touching you. You were not so different as you found yourself craving for his touch since the very first second you woke up this morning.

You stopped your machine for a brief moment, your eyes drifting over to the vanity where the matte-black firearm rested directly beside your pastel spools of thread. You looked at the weapon, then turned your head to meet the unblinking, intensely possessive depth of Dex's gaze.

"Thank you, Dex," you murmured softly.

"Anything for you" he replied, his voice a low, steady register that filled every corner of your empire.

You smiled, turning back to your fabric, completely filled with a profound, unyielding sense of safety. Gleaming that you had found a beautiful, eccentric savior, a man who simply loved you enough to build a fortress around your dreams. You sat in the warm, golden light of your home, entirely unaware of the psychological reality of the danger beginning to form between you. Because Bullseye had found himself his twin moon, no longer a north star galaxies away, but rather a beautiful equal that orbited together. You didn't know that he didn't view your love as a choice, but as a permanent assignment. And that gun was the first promise of many, the first test as he knew instantly that you liked it, unaware of what you could become.

You didn't know that he had already cataloged every exit of your building, or that his mind had already mapped out the exact tragedies required to execute anyone that ever dared to come near you. You were his sanctuary, his absolute identity, and as Dex watched your nimble hands guide the thread through the needle, his dark smile widened in the shadows. You were completely free, entirely safe with him, and he was never, ever going to let you go.

but you made it hard. he would have to hold your mouth hostage with his hand, securing your back against his chest to hide from the fleet of avtf agents below you.

"would you quit your yappin'?" he whispered against your ear, his breath sending shivers up your spine.

and he had to hold his own tongue when you bit his palm, his hand now fastened within your hair, craning your head to look up at him. you had that familiar sparkle in your eye, your brain daring your body to act out. to piss him off. it brought you satisfaction, especially since you would ultimately be the one paying the price later on.

"keep fuckin' around, i beg you."

and of course, you did. succeeding your nightly duties, taking down clumps of agents and being carried home over dex's shoulder. to make it up to him, to stay on your knees and prove just how sorry you were for acting out.

the lessons never stuck. you would move recklessly, growing impatient and bothered by dex's plan of action.

"why do we have to wait?" you huffed, arms crossed with your forehead against his back in boredom. dex fiddled with the holster of his knives, securing it to his hips.

"killing multiple birds with one stone, baby." he spoke softly, as he so often did with you.

"but there's three down there. right now! so out in the open, so vulnerable. they're practically asking to be killed." you exclaimed, voice at a lower tone than it usually would be. you weren't totally void of survival instinct.

"patience." he spoke, eyes still fixed on his belt. so in tune with gearing up for the fight, that he hadn't heard you secure your grapple to the edge of the building, he hadn't heard you descend from the roof. it was only when he heard the manly grunts below, your limbs flying between each of them.

using their weapons against them and rifle butting the last to the ground. though not without a few scrapes of your own, hissing when dex had unknowingly taken firm grip on the bullet graze on your arm.

"what did i tell you?" he vexed, dragging you away from the roaring of the engines approaching. "jus' can't listen, can you?"

you giggled, despite the pain. "not when your plans are so boring."

"but efficient." he added.

though his temper never lasted, when you would be sat on his lap on the couch a few hours later. delicately tending to your bullet graze, having to stop to wipe your tears after every stitch.

"you're a real piece of work, hm?" he huffed, glancing up at you for a moment once he pulled the needle through. "such a goddamn brat."

"sorry." you cried.

"oh, you're sorry, huh?" his tone was mocking, but of course beneath it, he cared. "real sorry now, hm?"

And you weren't for the next few hours.

Not when he finally woke you with his mouth on your throat, his hips already rolling against you, his cock a relentless brand against your ass. Not when his teeth grazed your earlobe and a broken, needy sound tore from his chest—“Please, baby… let me love you again.” His sideburns, salted with grey, scraped against your skin as he nuzzled you, his voice rough with want. “I won’t make it last long and I’ll make breakfast after. Or—” His hips jerked forward, the wet tip of his cock dragging against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail of precum in its wake. “Or I’ll give you a massage before work. Just—just let me have you one more time.”

You tried to squirm free. “Dex…” His name was a plea, a protest, but his arms only locked around you tighter. "I'm still a bit sore..."

“Aw did I stretch you too thin, sweetheart?” His voice was a dark chuckle against your skin, his fingers digging into your hips like he was trying to brand you from the inside out. The thought of him fucking you raw—of filling you so full your thighs would be slick with his cum all damn day, marking you in the most primal way—had his cock twitching violently. Dex was addicted. And he knew with a sickening certainty that it was going to ruin you both.

“Just—fuck—let me wreck you one more time,” he groaned, already lifting your leg, angling you just right. His cock, thick and heavy with need, pressed against your entrance, the head nudging past your folds before you could even gasp. “Don’t you want me inside you, baby?”

A broken moan tore from your throat as he stretched you without warning, forcing you to take him in one half-way thrust. Your body resisted—Oh, he was too much—but the pain twisted into something else, something filthy, and you whined, your nails digging into the sheets as he slowly pressed forth before bottoming out inside you.

Dex’s eyes rolled back. "That’s it. That’s my good girl." His voice was a rasp, his hips already rolling, testing, claiming. “Don't I make you feel good?”

His hands were everywhere—one wrapped around your throat, keeping you pinned, the other gripping your thigh like a vice as he started to fuck you in earnest. You’d never known anyone like him. Hungry. Obsessed. And when you cried out, when you begged him to stop because it was too much—when the tears started to fall, silent and helpless, because he’d hit some deep, primal spot inside you that made you feel owned—he knew.

You’d never been fucked like this before.

Not like this.

Not like him.

His insecurity from yesterday—the fear that you’d think him mediocre, that you’d pull away in disappointment—had been for nothing. Because when you sobbed his name, when your body clenched around him like you were trying to milk him dry, when you came apart so completely you were nothing but trembling, trembling pleasure—he knew.

You were made for this.

Made for him.

Your body was the perfect fit—small enough to take him deep, tight enough to make him lose his mind. This was destiny. Fate. You were built for eachother plain and simple—that was the only answer. Why else was your skin the perfect shade for him, your hair the perfect smell and texture and colour and your pussy the perfect mold for his cock?

Of course Dex was a... well, a bit big— but you'd get used to it, in time? Otherwise he'd just have to teach you to take him well. To take him right.

To take him like the good girl he knew you were.

The room was thick with the sound of wet flesh slapping, your desperate whimpers, the obscene squelch of him pulling out just to slam back in.

Dex buried his face in your hair, his breath hot and ragged against your scalp, his teeth grazing your neck as he fucked you from behind with a relentless, punishing rhythm. Strings of precum trailed from his cock every time he pulled back, glistening in the dim light before he drove into you again. “Does it still hurt, baby?” His voice was wrecked, his hips stuttering as if he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you slower or harder. “I’m so sorry—fuck—I just—need you so much—”

His fingers tightened around your throat, not enough to choke, just enough to make your vision blur as he pistoned into you, his cock swelling inside you with every thrust.

“You’re gonna make me come so fast—” His voice broke, his rhythm faltering as your walls clamped down around him, your orgasm tearing through you in silent, shuddering waves. “Fuck—fuck—I—I can’t—”

“You feel amazing...” you gasped, your voice breaking. “Dex I love you—I'm all yours.”

Mine?

His thoughts turned dark, possessive, obsessive.

Mine.

His hips rolled forward, just a little, just enough to make you gasp as he sank impossibly deep. His cock twitched and his stomach twisted with the need to own every inch of you. To keep you.

I want to fill you up with my DNA.

The thought was a heavy, possessive ache in his chest, his fingers splaying over your hips like he could already feel you changing—like he could already feel his seed taking root inside you, binding you to him in the most primal way possible. He wanted to see his mark inside you. Wanted to know that no matter where you went, no matter who you talked to, part of him would always be a part of you. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, his cock pulsing inside you as he imagined it—imagined giving you what he wanted. Imagined keeping you pregnant, keeping you his, until there was no part of you left that wasn’t tangled up in him.

No more rules. No more anyone but us.

Dex wanted to keep you locked away with him. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one could touch you. Somewhere he could fuck you raw every day, fill you up with his cum, and watch as his DNA took hold inside you—as you'd become with child—his child — making you his in a way no one could ever undo. And he'd make it all worth it. He'd do anything for you, make up for what he'd taken away— your social life, your family, oh it would all be okay because he would be your social life and he would be your family and he would give you a family.

Just you. Just me. Just a life where you’re mine and I’m yours and no one can ever take that away.

His grip on your throat tightened just a little, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind himself who you belonged to. His hips rolled, fast but deliberate, his cock dragging against that sensitive spot inside you that made your breath hitch— and when you moaned and said a bunch of sweet nothings he became undone.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! I—you're gonna make me fill you up so fast..." He cried out, losing rhythm and grip around your throat making your vision double and head go numb. "You're mine—! fuck, fucking mine, mine, mine... mmm... mine..."

His orgasm tore through him like a storm, his body shuddering against yours as he emptied himself inside you, his cum flooding you in thick, hot pulses. His breath was a ragged mess against your skin, his voice a broken whisper as he collapsed over you, his cock still twitching, still inside you, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You kissed, caressed and giggled, holding him until his orgasm blew over.

...

Dex had insisted breakfast shouldn't be spent across eachother at the table.

You sat on his lap, turning your fork with fluffy american pancakes behind you so that he could grab it off with his mouth. His hands would pat your thigh praisingly everytime you'd take a bite yourself.

"So Dex..." you began, stabbing the pancake onto the fork before twisting to give him a bite. "Do you... want to come over after work again? I'd really like to make you dinner tonight." You paused, eyes fixated on the plate in thought. "Or you can pick me up after work so we can do the groceries together? And uh, so we can see eachother sooner."

Dex smiled, eyes full of adoration. He couldn't believe it. This was all so perfect. For the first time in his life, Dex didn't feel like that orphaned boy. The one who didn't belong anywhere, the one who had a house but never a home to go to.

"I'd love to."

-------

5 hours later, 12PM.

Dex sat in the lunchroom, swirling the rim of his white coffee mug against his lower lip, a smug, filthy grin curling his mouth.

A familiar man rounded the corner, a box of donuts in one hand, keys jingling in the other.

"Want one?"

"No I'm good on this, thanks Ray."

Agent Ray Nadeem shrugged and stuffed a pink donut with frosting into his mouth, unlocking his bag and putting his laptop on the table. He chewed roughly, the amount of donut too much to eat in one go. An inquisitive hum came from the dark haired agent, and he turned his laptop around to show footage of the ongoing case to Dex.

The bulletin thing. Again.

The blonde agent didn't enjoy watching the footage of himself in the red daredevil suit walking up to Karen Page and having to put up some front about how it was "nice to see her again." He'd seen the footage twenty-times already, and the more the bureau would replay it, the higher the chance of someone successfully lining up the similarity in the voices of this mystery masked man and the FBI agent.

"Real tragedy." Dex puffed, setting down his mug of coffee. "Can't believe we still haven't caught this smug bastard."

"Yeah. It's just... isn't it weird that the journalist, uh what's her name—Karen Page was so afraid of daredevil? I mean they're supposed to be accomplices, friends even. Why would you shudder in fear at someone you're so well acquainted with? Just don't make any sense..."

"—Well maybe it's because daredevil killed ten people right outside her office, Ray. Let's say it happens to you. Someone from the bureau stops by your office—shoots your family and then comes over to say hi." Dex took a breath. This case had been hanging over his head like a cloud and threatening his position at work. He should've never accepted Fisk's order. "—would you not have the same response as she did in the footage?"

Ray nodded and drew his lips in out of frustration. "Yeah 'suppose you're right." He closed the laptop and looked his coworker in the eye. "Tell me what you woulda done though."

Silence.

Dex took another sip of his coffee, smiling innocently before answering.

"Isn't it obvious?"

--------------

Two weeks had passed, and life was better than Dex ever thought possible.

Every evening after work, he’d climb into his car, the scent of you still lingering in the air, and drive to your office. The second you slid into the passenger seat, your hand would find his thigh—warm, loving, grounding. You’d caress him as he drove, your fingers tracing idle patterns over the denim, and Dex would feel something in his chest shift, like the pieces of him were finally clicking into place.

Soft jazzy blues would drift from the speakers—Marvin Gaye, Sade, Bobby Caldwell. Dex still couldn’t believe it: he’d started to like music. Before you, it was just noise. Instruments being strummed or “ploinked,” people singing about things he couldn’t relate to. But now? Now he felt it. The ache in a singer’s voice when they crooned about love slipping away, about being too late, about never being together again. Dex would clench his jaw, his eyebrows drawing together, because the thought of that ever happening between you two was unfathomable. If he couldn’t fix it, he decided, he’d bleed into the next life trying.

Dinner dates became a ritual. Movie nights at the cinema, where you’d talk to him—really talk—and ask him to share things too. It made him feel wanted in a way he hadn’t known before. Known. He memorized what you ordered, tucking the details away like treasures, already planning to recreate your favorite meals at home. In the dark of the theater, he’d turn his head just enough to watch you—the way your lips parted at a particularly emotional scene, the way your eyes widened at a twist, the way you’d bite your lip when something unsettled you. He wanted to learn your morality, your limits, how far you’d let a character’s means justify their ends. On the drive home, you’d dissect the movie together. Dex would start with a safe opinion, but you’d always push him: “Be honest.” And so he’d peel back another layer, revealing more of himself with each word. Sometimes, your reactions shocked him—your willingness to understand, even when his thoughts veered into darker territory. But you tried. You always tried. And that shocked him more than anything.

At home, you’d make dessert for him—chocolate ice cream with banana slices, his favorite. He’d sprawl on the couch, legs widening just enough to let you slip between them, your head resting on his stomach. Kitchen Nightmares would play in the background because Dex insisted. He liked the show. It was where it all began—the first time you’d willingly invited him into your personal space, the first time he’d eaten dinner on a sleazy couch instead of the wooden chair at his sterile kitchen table. He’d laugh a little harder at the employees’ misery, the dramatic camera angles and horrifying violin screeches making it all the funnier. You’d laugh with him, and the sound would make him hold you tighter, like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against him.

Later, in bed, he’d slide beneath the sheets, his hands parting your thighs with his head before he set to work—licking, sucking, swallowing, groaning against you as he ground into the mattress. Hours could pass like that, your slickness dripping down his throat, his hips rolling in time with his movements. When he finally fucked you, it was with a desperation that bordered on worship. He twisted you into positions that hit just right, his hands gripping your hips, your thighs, your waist—anything to make you cum. Five times a night wasn’t enough. By the third orgasm, you’d be a trembling, whimpering mess, your fingers tangled in his ash-blond hair as his hips kept rolling, his thumb circling, relentless. “I’ll clean it all up for you tomorrow, honey,” he’d murmur, his voice rough. “I’ll stay home, okay? Fuck—you can’t even speak anymore, can you?”

In the mornings, you’d wake to the sound of the vacuum in the living room, the washing machine and dryer tumbling, the dishwasher humming. Dex took care of everything. His OCD demanded order, and so your home was always immaculate before you even opened your eyes—empty laundry pile, spotless floors, military-folded clothes sorted by color and season, a neatly stacked makeup table, a bathroom so clean it gleamed. He told you there would be new toothbrushes every three weeks and that he'd replace your mascara every month. Five of each shampoo, conditioner, scrub, and toothpaste lined up beneath the cabinet, ready for use. The list went on.

You’d drag yourself out of bed, hair a mess, clothes rumpled, and Dex would immediately turn off the vacuum, nearly tripping over the cord in his haste to pull you into his arms. “Hey, honey.” He’d breathe you in, his grip tight, like he was afraid you’d slip away. “I tried making dinner for you, but I just… kept messing up the eggs. Don’t look in the bin, okay?”

You’d shake your head and laugh, turning in a slow circle to take in the pristine house. No matter how many times he’d done it—no matter how many mornings you’d woken up to this—it still amazed you. The way he cared so much. The way he remembered everything. You’d thank him, pressing kisses to his face and neck until he turned red, before reminding him that you loved cooking for him anyway. Breakfast was something you wanted to do for him before work.

And so you’d eat on the balcony together, sipping tea or coffee, blowing on the steam before taking a bite. The crisp morning air would wake you up, the quiet between you comfortable, easy.

He’d drive you to work, of course. There was no arguing with him about it.

----------------

After work, 6PM.

Rain had settled over the city hours ago. It drummed across the roof of Dex's car in an uneven rhythm, tapping the metal above his head like nervous fingers against a tabletop. Every so often a heavier drop splattered against the windshield before being swept aside by the lazy arc of the wipers.

Left. Right.

Left. Right.

The parking spaces lining the street had become little mirrors, reflecting red brake lights and glowing storefront signs. Umbrellas bloomed and disappeared along the pavement—black, navy, the occasional bright yellow—tilting against the wind as office workers hurried toward buses, train stations, or the promise of dry apartments. Shoes slapped against wet concrete. Someone laughed across the street before disappearing beneath an awning. A cyclist cursed after skidding through a puddle.

Dex had been parked outside your building for almost fifteen minutes. Five of those minutes had passed since your last text.

I'll be down in five minutes 🥰💙

The blue heart glowed on his phone screen.

His favorite color.

His knees buckled together and he couldn't stop himself from biting his lip—which already curled into a soft smile before he could stop himself. Dex was so gone for you. God, two weeks.

Only two weeks together, and you'd somehow learned him so completely it scared him.

The blue heart wasn't random. You remembered he'd once admitted blue made him feel calm. You'd started calling him baby after he'd jokingly complained nobody had ever used pet names for him. You kissed him goodbye every morning like it was a promise instead of a routine.

Nobody had ever loved him like that.

Nobody had ever made him feel... chosen.

His knee bounced beneath the steering wheel. Dinner tonight? There was that little Italian place you'd pointed at last weekend. Or maybe takeout. You liked eating on the couch with terrible movies playing in the background, your legs tangled together while you stole bites from his plate despite ordering something different.

He smiled wider.

He'd buy something nice.

Maybe flowers.

No...

Flowers died.

Something that lasted longer.

His fingers absentmindedly rolled the tiny sun charm hanging from his keys. It spun back and forth, catching flashes of grey afternoon light. He'd bought it yesterday because it reminded him of you. Even when it rains, I've still got my sunshine. Corny, he knew that—but you'd laugh and kiss him regardless.

The lobby doors slid open and his entire face lit up before his brain had time to catch up.

There you were.

Your jacket hugged your shoulders against the cold, droplets clinging to the loose strands of hair around your face. Your work bag bounced lightly against your hip as you stepped beneath the building's awning, squinting at the rain with the tiny frown you always wore whenever you realized you'd forgotten an umbrella.

Cute.

So unbelievably—

Someone stepped out behind you.

Mark?!

Dex's smile disappeared.

The man adjusted the strap of his laptop bag as if he belonged beside you. Black hair neatly combed back. Glasses slipping halfway down his nose. The kind of smile that looked practiced enough to survive board meetings and office politics. He said something and you laughed and it wasn't the polite one, no it was the real one— the one where your eyes narrowed into crescents and your teeth bared. Mark laughed too, shaking his head before reaching into his bag.

Dex leaned forward without realizing it, his fingers curling tighter around the steering wheel. "Oh what the fuck..."

Mark pulled out a lollipop. Green wrapper. Green apple? He held it toward you with an easy grin, long fingertips brushing your sleeve.

Dex felt all the warmth drain from his hands.

His pulse, so calm only moments before, slammed against his ribs hard enough that he could hear it over the rain.

No.

No.

No.

Dex knew you liked sweets. Dex didn't know if you liked lollipops. Did Mark know before he did? Did you tell Mark more about yourself then Dex knew? Did Mark know what made you so you moreso than Dex did? Did he know the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy? The way your voice softened when you were tired? Did he know more? Did he know the way you hummed when you were tired? The way your nose scrunched when you were annoyed? Had he memorized the cadence of your voice better than Dex had? The paranoia hit like a freight train, causing his fingers to curl into fists.

When Mark peeled back the green wrapper and lifted the apple-flavored lollipop toward your mouth—

RAGE.

The car door flew open before he'd even realized he'd reached for the handle. Cold rain immediately soaked the sleeve of his jacket, but he barely felt it. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs so violently it drowned out the city around him. The buzzing began. The world spun around him, jealousy twisting his stomach into horrible shapes— fear an paranoia causing all warmth to retract from his fingers, as if it could sense the damage they were about to do.

A man Dex hated walked next to you. A man who wanted you. A man who had the audacity to touch you, to know you, to feed you candy like some kind of fucking parody of intimacy.

"Dex!"

You waved enthusiastically, abandoning the shelter of the awning as you hurried across the rain-slick pavement. Your heels clicked against the concrete, splashing through shallow puddles as droplets clung to your hair and jacket. Behind you, Mark followed at an easy pace, his laptop bag swinging against his hip, that infuriatingly relaxed smile still plastered across his face.

"There you are." Dex reached you in two strides before he pulled you into his arms. Not like a man desperate for a kiss—but like a man making a point. His hands cradled your face, tilting it up to his, and he kissed you with a slow, possessive thoroughness. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, and you melted against him, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Mmm, I missed you sunshine."

"Me too." You looked up at him with that hopelessly fond expression that made his chest ache before your eyes drifted over your shoulder. "Oh—sorry." You laughed softly. "Mark, this is my boyfriend, Dex."

"Oh shoot, you guys have nicknames for eachother already?" Mark’s grin was infuriatingly bright, his hand outstretched like some kind of corporate shill. “Hey, nice to meet you formally, man.”

The blonde didn't speak, his upper lip raising in subtle disgust.

“Uh…” You glanced between them, your brow furrowing. “Do you guys know each other?”

"—Yeah." Mark began,

“—Never seen him." Dex finished.

"Oookay...?"

The rain picked up, a cold, relentless sheet of water that seemed to notify it was best to let this moment be for now.

"Oh hey." Dex jingled his keys, flashing the new sun-shaped hanger on his keychain. “Now I’ve got you even on the rainiest of days,” he murmured, pulling you close again for another kiss before shamefully turning it into an erotic open mouthed one. You pulled back, flustered and embarrassed, but Dex forced one last peck onto your lips. “You taste just like cherries, how's that possible huh?” His eyes flicked down to Mark, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across his face. “Just so good.”

Mark’s fingers whitened around the green apple lollipop in his hand, his smile faltering for just a second. "Right."

“—Oh, is that apple flavor?” Dex’s voice was sickly sweet, dripping with false innocence. “Oh, that’s my favorite.” He held out his hand. “Can I?”

“—Dex?—”

“Sure.” Mark’s voice was tight, resigned, as he handed it over.

Dex didn’t hesitate. He took the lollipop, swirled it in his mouth with deliberate slowness, and then—with a smirk that could curdle blood—pressed it to your lips. “Open up.” You hesitated, eyes widening in shock, but Dex’s fingers curled around your chin, forcing your jaw loose before sliding the candy between your teeth and onto your tongue.

“Oh, man, jesus— do that at home.” Mark’s voice was raw, strained, as he rubbed his face like he was trying to erase the memory.

“Taste good, right?” Dex grinned, triumphant, and yanked open the passenger door with one hand, shielding you from the rain with the other. “Go on, honey. Get in before you catch a cold.”

“Uh. Thank you.” You slipped into the car, the lollipop still in your mouth, shooting Dex a puzzled, almost betrayed look before settling into the seat. “Bye, Mark—”

“Yayyy, bye Mark!” Dex slammed the door shut behind you, cutting off the rest before turning to face the dark-haired man.

The smile vanished.

Rain hammered down, drumming against the pavement hard enough to blur the street beyond them, water rushing into the gutters like a river of filth.

Dex took a step forward.

Then another.

His voice was quiet.

Deadly calm.

“You listen to me.”

Mark scoffed, but Dex didn’t react.

“My patience with you is getting real fucking thin.”

Mark’s smirk wavered.

“Oh, please.”

“You’ve got a wife.” Dex took one slow, measured step forward. “And kids.”

Another.

“So why don’t you go home and spend your attention on them instead of following my girlfriend around?”

Mark’s grin slipped.

Dex smiled.

“There it is,” he said softly. “That look.” Another step. “So you do know exactly what you’re doing.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Dex’s smile widened, almost pleasantly.

“If you ever make her uncomfortable…” He tilted his head, voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t bother calling the cops first. Because I think you’ll be bleeding out on your kitchen floor before they even pick up.”

Mark’s face went slack. His composure shattered.

“Marble tiles, yeah.” Dex’s voice was a blade. “I know where you live.”

Silence.

The rain hammered against the roofs of the parked cars. Somewhere down the street, a horn blared, lost in the storm.

Neither man looked away.

After a long, tense moment, Dex stepped close—close enough to smell the fear on him—and raised his hand.

Then he slammed it into Mark’s shoulder with enough force to make him stagger.

He leaned in, close enough for only Mark to hear.

“You think very carefully about where you stand around her next time.” His voice was a promise. “Because if you don’t—you’ll be eating through a plastic tube for the rest of your life. And I’ll want you to remember this moment.” He gave Mark’s shoulder one final, punishing pat. “Okay?”

Dex stepped back, then back again, before finally opening his driver’s seat door. He paused, one hand on the roof, rain dripping from his jaw like tears.

“Nice meeting you formally, Mark.”

...

He slammed the door shut and squeezed his eyes shut so hard he almost saw stars.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Why couldn't he just have something good for once?! Why did fate have to claw at him like this, to dangle a cockroach in front of him and then blame him for killing it?! Mark should die! If he died this would all go away. The rage, the fury, the paranoia— it could all be solved if he'd just remove your coworker permanently... putting him in a ditch, underground, somewhere in the dessert plains. How would he plan it? Lure him over to the apartment? No the walls were too thin and he'd have to carry him down, fuck, shit. Raid his home and put him in jail? No you'd know, you'd find out eventually, there's only so many strings he could pull before jeopardizing his position at the FBI. You wouldn't want him to kill. You wouldn't allow Dex in your life willingly if you'd find out he killed your co-worker— fuck.

“I don’t like him either.” Your voice cut through the storm in his head, soft but steady. You tilted your head, making eye contact. “But he’s the manager, so I kinda have to act like we’re all good, you know? It’s awkward because I used to serve him, and now he’s got this higher position over me. As a customer I could handle him, but as my manager? He’s been… more confident.”

Dex’s jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.

“—Did he touch you?”

“—No! Not at all. It’s not like that. He’s just… I guess he’s bored and likes the attention.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, the rain outside turning the world into a blur behind the glass.

“Dex, what’s going on?” You put a hand on his thigh, squeezing lightly. “You obviously know him. I’m not stupid. Just tell me what’s up.”

He swallowed hard, his throat raw. “He’s got a family.” The words tore out of him, his voice cracking. Pink spots flared in his neck as his breathing turned ragged, his chest heaving. “Kids. A wife. A perfect fucking family.”

“How do you know that?”

“—Listen.” His fingers dug into the steering wheel, knuckles white. “He used to talk to me about you. In very… inappropriate ways. Said he’d been waiting for you to give him a chance. Wanted you in ways that weren’t his to want.” A shudder ran through him. “You need to find another job.”

The rain slammed against the roof, falling from the sky with such ferocity it blurred the windows entirely. You had to raise your voice just to be heard.

“Another job?” Your eyes widened, disbelief flashing across your face. You shook your head, crossing your arms in defiance. “What do you mean, ‘need’? I don’t need to do anything, Dex. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself just fine.” You turned to look out the window, your voice dropping to a brittle whisper. “Maybe we should talk about this later.”

“No. We talk about it now.” His voice was a whipcrack, his chest heaving with paranoia. “Sorry. I just—I’m not sorry. I’m trying to help you. You can’t work with someone like that. He’s a fucking psychopath.”

“A psychopath?” Your eyebrows shot up. “What makes you think that?”

“Because he’s crazy!” The words exploded out of him. “He stalks you. He showed up at your café every single time for one reason only. And he’s got kids, for Christ’s sake! Two of them!”

“You showed up at my café too,” you shot back, voice trembling. “You wanted me from the moment you saw me. That’s what you said.”

“It’s different!” His voice broke. “I love you!”

“I love you too!” Tears welled in your eyes, your voice cracking. “But you’re not ordering me to quit because some guy makes you nervous!”

“I’m not ordering you—”

“Yes, you did!” You threw your hands up, your voice rising. “Just stop. Please. I need this job. I can’t depend on you—”

“Baby. Baby, I can provide!” His voice was desperate, pleading. “You know that. You know how much I want to work for you? I’d double my hours just so you could stay home!”

“Dex, you have a life. I have a life.” Your voice was raw, exhausted. “If you work double, we won’t even see each other anymore. What’s your logic? We’ve been together for two weeks. I—it’s—just let’s go home. Okay?”

The blonde looked at you like you’d just shattered his world.

“Two weeks isn’t enough for you?” His voice was hollow, broken. He jammed his keys into the ignition, the engine roaring to life. “W-what, am I too much for you now?”

“I think you’re tired.” You sank deeper into your seat, your eyes glued to the windshield as the wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour. “I think I’m tired. I love you. Let’s keep it at that, okay? I want to go home and relax.”

Dex stared at you, his heart shattering. You were disappointed. And it broke him.

“I’ll—I can order takeout tonight?” His voice cracked, his hands trembling on the wheel. “What do you want? Chinese? Mexican? Italian—” His breath hitched. “What do you—what do you want?”

He melted into your touch when you cupped his face, massaging his scalp before pressing a kiss to his temple.

“We’re still… eating dinner together, right?” His voice was small, fragile. “It’s Friday. We always eat together on Fridays.”

“Yes, baby. We’re still eating together.” You stroked his hair, your voice softening. “Take a deep breath, okay? I’m quiet because I’m a little upset. Don’t worry.”

"A little upset, okay." He took a deep breath before softly pressing down on the gas pedal. "Okay, that's— that's okay, you're allowed to feel sad that's fine, baby, that's totally fine." He shudderingly exhaled, making his way onto the main road as the windwipers moved back and forth.

The rain blurred the neon lights of the city as you drove.

You reached forward and pressed play on the DVD player.

'Bobby Caldwell — What You Won’t Do for Love'

The soft jazz filled the car, the melody wrapping around the tension like a vice. Dex’s breathing steadied as he flicked his gaze between the road, the radio, and you. Over and over, until the rhythm of the song and the drumbeat of the rain finally soothed the storm inside him.

Rain mixed with the melody, the song’s ache softened by the relentless downpour. The car moved through the neon-lit streets, the changing lights painting your faces in hues of red and blue.

'Got a thing for you, and I cant let go.'

♪♪♪

'And though I only want the best is true~'

'I can't believe the things—I do for you...'

-------------

Dex didn’t return to himself after that night in the car.

Work became an extension of his obsession. Reports were filed early, flawlessly. Cases that had languished for months were closed in weeks. His superiors praised his dedication; his colleagues whispered about his sudden, unnerving efficiency. He didn’t just meet expectations—he erased them. The FBI, for all its rigid structures, couldn’t contain the force of his devotion to you.

His paycheck raised in accordance.

And with it he took you to dinners that stretched into late-night conversations, your laughter the only currency he valued. He bought you clothes not because you needed them, but because the thought of you wearing something he’d chosen made his chest swell. The receipts piled up, but the numbers didn’t matter—no, only the way your eyes lit up when he presented them to you.

Dex now insisted on driving and picking you up on his sick days. Every morning. Every evening. Rain or shine, sleet or snow, his car was there, idling at the curb like a loyal sentinel.

You protested at first—“But you're coughing and your temperature is so high. Oh Dex, let me take the bus today, okay? I'll bring you some cough syrup.”—but he’d only press a kiss to your temple and murmur, “Let me.”

When he wasn’t ferrying you to and from your office, he was at your apartment.

Always.

His toothbrush lived in your bathroom. His hoodies hung in your closet. His shoes stood at your entryway. The landlord eyed him with growing unease as Dex’s presence became less guest and more fixture. “He’s here again,” the old man grumbled to you one, jerking his thumb toward the living room where Dex sat on the couch, meticulously folding laundry like a man possessed. “You two serious or somethin’? Rent'll go up if he switches to your apartment and moves out of his own here. Don't think you youngin's are outsmarting me cuz' ya aint.” You smiled, because it was easier to close the door on him that way.

It was all going well.

Until it wasn't.

He pulled up to your office as always— and there he was, walking behind you. The man who had, just weeks ago, made Dex’s blood boil with the mere thought of him.

His grip on the wheel whitened and the world narrowed to a single, suffocating point: Mark’s fingers lingering just a second too long when he handed you a file. Mark’s smile, that sickening, knowing smile, as he walked beside you like he hadn't been threathened a month ago.

Dex’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. His vision tunneled. He didn’t remember parking. Didn’t remember killing the engine. He only remembered the way his fingers curled into fists, the way his teeth ground together until his jaw ached.

And then you were there, opening the passenger door, your smile faltering when you saw his face.

“Dex?” Your voice was hesitant. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The sight of Mark—alive, breathing, next to you—was a knife twist in his ribs.

“Dex?” You repeated, louder this time.

“—Oh, hey sweetie." he managed, voice raw "oh, I was just thinking about, uhm. Work. Here, get in."

The drive home was a blur of white-knuckled steering and clenched teeth. He didn’t trust himself to speak and plastered a very happy smile on his face as he listened to you speak.

That night, Dex begged you. “Call in sick tomorrow.” His voice was a rasp, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled you close. “You're not feeling well. I’ll handle everything.”

"Are you sure?" You frowned. “Let me at least make your favorite tomorrow. Pasta?"

“Yes, yes great—" He fumbled in his pocket, handing you over a copy of his apartment key. "Okay and take this, and give me a copy of yours."

You wanted to inquire about his sudden haste, but the look in his eyes—desperate, fearful—made you refrain. He struggled with anxiety so much you didn't want to spike it.

“And your location,” he added, pulling out his phone. “Turn it on. Always.”

You stared at him. “Dex, that’s—”

“Non-negotiable.” His jaw was set, his eyes dark with something unreadable. “I need to know where you are. All the time. This is a dangerous city you know how many cases I get shoved in front of me. Kidnappings, trafficking— just, do it. For me.”

You did it because you loved him.

The perfect life was still perfect.

But it was cracking.

-----------------

Two weeks later, 5:30PM.

(.....)'s POV

You forgot to charge your phone.

One minute, it was buzzing in your bag. The next—silence.

Dex wasn't there to wake you today. He hadn't been home the past two days, but kept sending messages about some FBI S.W.A.T meeting he had to be present for. He told you not to worry and that he'd see you tonight.

You left home in a rush. Your phone at around 50%— usually enough to last you throughout the day.

Your headset was clamped over your ears, the microphone dangling like a dead thing as you slumped in your chair.

The office was a spam of fluorescent lights and it's dull ceaseless drone of corporate monotony. A place where time stretched like taffy; suffocatingly long— and the only thing that moved with any rhythm being the hum of the air conditioning, a mechanical whir keeping the corpse of this workplace just barely animated.

Work had been a real slog today. You'd been picking up phone calls from worried customers about their annual plan, how they wanted to change it, and how their wifi suddenly stopped working; they had plugged it out of the outlet.

"Have you tried turning your computer on and off again, Miss Hunnington?" You spoke into the microphone attached to your cheap headset, softly launching yourself from the table edge to spin. "Oh, really?" You gasped—eyebrows drawing up from exhaustion. This had been the eleventh call tonight where after an hour of troubleshooting it appeared the customer didn't have their computer on in the first place. "Oh well, if you ever think: 'help my computer is not working aahhh!' " your chair spun to a halt. "—it might be a good idea to check if the power button is on? There's a little light to notify you when this is the case, or just soft whirring from the machine itself. Yes. Thank you so much for contacting All-Safe. Goodbye."

You slid your headset off and sighed.

"Hey, just wanted to let you know you're doing great." Mark said, eyes peering over your cubicle across from you.

"Jesus Mark—" Your headset neaely clattered to the ground at the sight of it. "Hey don't do that."

He reclined out of his cubicle, now facing you with a smile so gross it made you itch.

You got up from your seat in response, dusting off your skirt to look around; your gaze darting around the office like a trapped animal searching for an exit—anywhere but him—but everyone else was hunched over their screens, their faces bathed in the cold blue glow of Excel spreadsheets and endless emails, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and the faint metallic tang of recycled air, dark circles under eyes—yours included—painting the room in shades of exhaustion.

“I’m gonna get some coffee.”

“Aw, without me?” Mark’s laugh was a wet mocking sound, the clasp on his belt jingling as he pushed himself up, his movements exaggerated, performative, as if he was trying his best to show you how attractive he was. “Hey, why don’t I treat you to something today? Your man hasn’t been picking you up lately, so I was thinking I could take you to a proper company meal. Somewhere nice.”

You blinked at him dryly.

“Uh, I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of work and—”

“Korean barbecue is really good.” His smirk was instant, the words dripping with false sincerity as he leaned against your cubicle wall, the scent of his cologne—cheap, cloying, overpowering the air between you. “It’d be a disappointment if you declined my culture like that. Trust me, it’s really good. They’ve got this marinated beef that’s just… perfect.” He tilted his head, his grin widening as if he’d just offered you a gift instead of a demand wrapped in politeness. “What do you say?”

You looked around, the office a labyrinth of gray cubicles and tired faces, no one meeting your eyes, no one daring to look up from their screens, as if acknowledging your discomfort would somehow make them complicit in whatever game Mark is playing.

Dex offered you a life of comfort. He'd provide for you both, yes, you heard that many times before from other men and it never worked out the way you thought. Depending on someone financially was nice until they slowly inched back the funds, it was nice until they refused to bring groceries home after a fight. You didn't want to put word-of-mouth and bad experiences against your partner— but you simply didn't know him that well yet. You'd been dating for a few months and he still struggled a lot with anxiety attacks. You were worried that when times would be tough, that when shit hit the fan— he'd possibly crumble and need someone to depend on too. And when that time came you wanted to be able to carry him financially, as well.

“Look, I appreciate you." Mark began, words laced with the unspoken threat of leverage, “but you’ve gotta be a team player if we’re gonna make this work. You’re still on a temporary contract.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, his eyes boring into you, waiting, his smile never wavering, as if he’d already decided how this conversation would end and was just savoring the moment before the kill.

“So…”

“So you say the word.” His voice was a purr, a threat disguised as kindness, his fingers tapping against the cubicle wall. “You just say the word.”

“—I’m gonna get my coffee first, if that’s alright—”

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, his grin never wavering. “Oh yeah! Sure, of course. Go ahead.”

You walked away, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. What an asshole. If he really had a wife and kids, like Dex had mentioned in passing, he was hiding them scarily well, the kind of well that made you wonder if they existed at all.

The coffee machine hummed to life as you approached, its digital display glowing like a beacon in the gray void of the office. You tapped in your preffered strength of bean, milk, and sugar.

It was a good idea to start looking for other places—but getting a job in hell's kitchen had become near impossible...

The dark stream of coffee began filling up your cup, steam blowing up.

Mark probably saw your name and picture and decided he'd take you in. Of course he did. You didn’t know enough about computers to work at an IT firm this elite. You were just the intern. The temporary fix. The one who could be replaced without a second thought, the one who didn’t dare complain when the workload piled up or the hours stretched on, because what were you going to do? Quit? In this economy? In this job market?

A jarring, overplayed tune blared from the machine—some corporate-designed melody, a cartoon cat dancing with a coffee cup, its movements stiff and unnatural, like a marionette on strings. It was disturbing that this dancing cat was the only semblance of life in this place. A reminder that even joy here is manufactured, shipped overseas in bulk, and spat out by a machine that doesn’t care if you drink it or not, doesn’t care if it’s good or bad, doesn’t care about you. But...thank god for the dance, right?

You took your cup and trudged back to your cubicle. This place was turning you as miserable as Friedrich Nietzsche.

Mark was gone. Thank god for that.

You sank into your chair, rolling back into the dim glow of your monitor, the screen flickering to life as you start typing, your fingers moving on autopilot, the words blurring together—numbers, complaints, the same question, the same solution, over and over, until your vision swims and your head pounds and you wonder if this is what drowning feels like.

A notification popped up, glaring at you like a warning, the words stark against the screen:

“This computer has been blacklisted. Please refer to your office manager for permission.”

Of course.

Your shoulders tensed when his long fingers curled around them from behind, Mark’s cologne—cheap, cloying, familiar—filling your nose as he loomed over you.

"Need help?" Mark moved in front of you and typed in the security code, successfully unlocking the computer with a taintful ding. "Can't have our intern skipping out on work now can we." His smile was hostile. "Okay so..."

You sighed and bit your lip, looking up at him with a gaze so empty it made him pause.

He leaned against your desk, legs too close to your chair. "Have you made up your mind yet?"

This was to keep your job. Just to keep your job.

You opened your mouth. "Yes."

----------

Dex’s POV.

The apartment door slammed behind him so hard the wood splintered at the frame. Dex didn’t feel it. Didn’t feel the cold air biting at his exposed wrists where his sleeves had ridden up. Didn’t feel the weight of his gun holster digging into his hip. He only felt the hollow in his chest, the one that had been widening with every unanswered call, every ignored text:

Where are you? 5:23PM

Answer me. 5:38PM

Are you okay? 5:55PM

——

Silence.

His hands shook as he jammed his feet into his boots, not bothering with the laces. The leather was still damp from the rain earlier, but he didn’t care. He yanked his coat on, the fabric swallowing him whole, petrichor clinging to the fibers. Keys jingled in his grip, the sound grating against the silence like nails on glass.

The stairs were a wooden blur beneath his boots, each step faster than the last. The damp night air hit him like a wall as he burst outside, the city’s neon glow reflecting off the wet pavement.

His car was still parked crookedly in the spot he’d left it in, the passenger door still ajar from his last frantic exit; he didn’t remember leaving it like that.

The engine roared to life, tires screeching as he peeled out of the parking space, the rear end fishtailing before he corrected and slammed his foot down. The speedometer climbed—60, 80, 100—past every speed limit, past every rational thought. The city lights became streaks of color, the buildings bending into smudges of light.

What if something happened?

What if you were hurt?

The questions were knives, twisting deeper with every mile.

He didn’t remember parking.

Didn’t remember flashing his badge at the security guard, the man’s startled blink before Dex was already past him, storming toward the elevators. Didn’t remember the elevator ride up, the numbers on the panel blurring into one continuous streak of light, his reflection in the stainless steel warped and distorted.

The hallway stretched before him, a gauntlet of fluorescent tubes flickering like dying stars. The buzz of the lights was a swarm in his ears. His pulse roared, a freight train barreling down tracks he couldn’t see.

Then—your cubicle.

And there you were.

Alive.

Laughing.

Mark leaned over your shoulder, his fingers brushing against your keyboard, his voice too low, too intimate. You laughed, the sound bright and carefree, and Dex’s vision whited out for a second.

Something inside him snapped.

He moved without control.

In three strides, he was there, his hand clamping down on your shoulder like a vice. The warmth of your body seared through his gloves, but he barely felt it.

“We’re leaving.”

You jumped, spinning toward him with wide, startled eyes. “Dex?! Hey, what are you doing here—?”

Mark straightened, his smirk faltering when he saw Dex’s face. The air between them crackled, thick with something ugly, something possessive. “Whoa, man. Chill.”

Dex ignored him, his hand squeezing around your shoulder in warning.

You halted, confusion and concern pulling your brows together. “Dex, what’s wrong? My phone died, I was just—”

“Get your shit.” His grip on your arm was bruising, his fingers digging in like he wanted to communicate this was about to get out of hand. He wrenched you up out of your chair. "Come on, don't make me repeat myself—"

"Hey." Mark scoffed, stepping closer, his voice dripping with false amusement. “Back off, man. She’s fine.”

"Fine?"

One second, Mark was standing there—smug, self-satisfied, his stupid smirk in place like a brand on his face.

The next, Dex’s fist crashed into his jaw.

The sound was deafening—bone on bone, a wet, sickening crack that echoed through the office like a gunshot. Mark’s head snapped sideways, his body following in slow motion before he crumpled onto the carpet in a heap, his limbs twisting unnaturally.

A gasp rippled through the room. Chairs scraped back. Phones appeared, their flashes blinding, recording every second of Dex’s unraveling.

“What the fuck is the matter with you smart-mouthing me?!” Dex’s voice was a snarl, raw and trembling with fury, the words tearing from his throat like a physical force. “I’ve been calling her for an hour!”

Mark gasped, his hands flying to Dex’s wrist, fingers clawing at the iron grip around his throat. “Dex, man—I—”

“Was it you that made her ignore me?!” His grip tightened, lifting Mark slightly off the ground, his entire body trembling with the effort of restraint. “Is it because of you?!” He shook Mark like a ragdoll, his voice cracking. “Answer me!”

"No!" Mark shot back. "Her phone died, you fucking lunatic!"

“Dex!” You grabbed his arm, your fingers digging into his bicep like claws. “Calm down! It’s okay—he's right! Let me explain—”

For a split second, he hesitated.

Okay.

His grip loosened, his breathing hitched.

But then Mark laughed.

A wet, bitter sound through bloodied teeth.

Mark coughed, struggling onto an elbow, his breath ragged. “Jesus…” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of red across his skin. “She really picked a psycho.”

The comment stung and twisted his control out of shape. It was over now.

Dex grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed the him against the cubicle wall, his forearm pressing into Mark's throat. “You don’t get to talk to her. You don’t get to look at her.”

Mark’s face turned purple, his legs kicking weakly against the floor. “You're crazy—”

"Stop it, please!"

Dex flung him around—sending him crashing into a row of filing cabinets. The metal groaned under the impact, the sound ringing through the office like a death knell. Mark slumped against the bureau, blood trickling over his eyebrow and down his mouth.

The office was in chaos now—chairs scraping, voices rising in a cacophony of shock. Coworkers stood frozen in their cubicles, jaws slack, eyes darting everywhere— their faces alight with the thrill of disaster.

“Fucking snake—I gave you a chance—”

“Dex, stop! What are you doing?!”

“Someone call security!?” an elder lady shrieked.

"Look at his jacket—FBI S.W.A.T— he is the security!"

Mark spat a tuft of blood onto the linoleum. “F-fuck you, man.”

Dex’s face relaxed. His shoulder turned before his hips did, and his boot slammed into Mark’s ribs. The crack was wet, sickening. Mark groaned, curling in on himself as he rolled onto his side, his body trembling.

“Ah— fuck!”

“Oh my god!” Your hands flew to your mouth, your voice breaking. “You fool!”

Dex was hyperventilating, his hands still clenched into fists, his entire body coiled like a spring, ready to snap. Then he turned to you.

"Someone call an ambulance!" A younger man yelled. "Cops have gone mad ever since Fisk got hold of that hotel—"

Dex's grip on your arm was firm enough to ache, his fingers tightening reflexively before snarling— "Told you, we're leaving." He guided you toward the exit with quick, purposeful strides, every muscle in his body wound painfully tight.

The office dissolved into little more than noise around him—raised voices, hurried footsteps, the unmistakable click of phone cameras. He registered all of it.

Dex simply refused to look.

The only thing he allowed himself to focus on was you. The heat of your arm beneath his hand, the steady rhythm of your footsteps beside him.

Proof that you were here.

Safe.

The weight of dozens of eyes followed you through the office. Conversations died as you passed, replaced by hushed whispers that clung to the air long after you walked by.

Dex kept moving.

His jaw flexed once.

Twice.

He never looked back.

If he did, he wasn't entirely sure he'd keep walking.

...

Outside, the rain had started—a slow, steady patter against the pavement, the drops fat and heavy, like the world itself was weeping. The air smelled of wet asphalt and ozone, the scent sharp and clean.

He finally let you go.

“Why?!” You spat the words as soon as the lobby door's disappeared behind you, your voice trembling with fury. “I was about to secure my position, and you ruined it!”

“Oh yeah?” Dex’s voice was a growl, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, his hands gripping his keys like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling. “And what do you think he’d have done after you joined his freak-company dinner, huh? Give you a contract?” He opened the door and sat down in the driver seat— turning the key in the ignition with a sharp twist, the engine roaring to life. “Get in,” he barked, yanking the passenger door open. “Now!”

“You can’t act like this,” you snapped, your own temper flaring, your arms crossing over your chest like a shield. “You can’t just shove people! You can’t beat them up and put your job at risk—you can’t make decisions for me!”

“I said get in.” His voice was a low, dangerous growl, his control slipping like a frayed rope. “Please.”

“Last time you’re pulling this.” You got in and slammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the confined space. “Last time.”

Rain tapped against the roof, a steady rhythm that filled the silence between you, thick and suffocating, a living thing coiled tight in the space between your seats. Dex sat there for a long moment, his hands gripping the wheel, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, his knuckles white.

“I’m sorry, okay? But there was no other way—this had to be fixed! I fixed it and now you can work without him bothering you."

"My job might be gone tomorrow!"

"Which I told you to quit anyway—!" The words tumbled out before he even started the engine. "I'm sorry I freaked out. I'm sorry. Fuck, please just… let me fix this, okay?”

The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white as he merged onto the highway, the wipers a steady rhythm against the storm, the tension in the car a physical weight pressing down on your chests. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you looked at each other.

Then he pulled into a drive-in, the neon sign flickering in the rain, its glow casting eerie reflections on the wet pavement.

“Stay here,” Dex muttered, killing the engine. You watched as he left, your arms crossed and muttering something beneath your breath, your shoulders hunched.

Dex came back with a bag of food, the scent of burgers and fries filling the car, warm and familiar, a stark contrast to the cold anger still lingering between you. He handed you a drink without a word, his movements stiff, his eyes avoiding yours.

The drive continued.

He didn’t stop until he found what he was looking for—a secluded lake, its surface dark and still under the rain, the water’s edge illuminated by the car’s headlights cutting through the gloom like twin spotlights in the night. He killed the engine, the sudden silence deafening after the hum of the road.

“Okay, so I got you curly fries and uh… a burger with the Oreo sundae you liked last time?” His voice was hesitant, like he was walking on eggshells, his fingers already unpacking the bag. “Oh, and chocolate brownies.”

“Dex…” Your voice broke, the single word laced with something raw and fragile. “Don’t you… don’t you get it?”

“Get what?” A few fries were already in his mouth, and he was setting up your meal like this was any other night, like the world hadn’t just shattered around you. “I hit him too hard? Yeah, I forgot to dial it down. I’m sorry. Baby, take a sip of this.”

The straw paused on your lips, and you looked at him incredulously, your eyes wide with disbelief.

“No.” Your hands waved around, your voice rising in frustration. “Not because you hit him too hard, Dex.” The words were soft, like a mouse breathing in the mouth of a tiger. “You assaulted someone without probable cause at my workplace.”

“—Yeah. Like I said, I tapped him too hard.” He made a fist gesture next to his head, chewing on his fries and giving you half of his pack.

“No!” You pawed the straw away, your hands trembling, and sat back in your seat, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Are you good? Like, is it all ticking right up there? Get this straw away from me.”

His eyes began to scatter over the food in a panic, his confidence crumbling like a house of cards. “Yeah. I’m ticking just fine. W-what’s the problem? Should I have gotten something else? Shit. I didn’t know you started disliking these oreo sundays...”

You reclined in your seat, your eyebrows knitting like you were piecing it all together.

"Dex let me out."

"What?!" He laughed but suddenly shot out his hand to lock the car-doors. "Okay, baby, we should talk. Okay? Let me explain."

...

The backseat was cramped. The air thick with heat and tension. His hands were everywhere, rough and desperate, as if he needed to reclaim you.

To prove you were his.

To prove he hadn’t lost you.

And you let him.

Because beneath the anger, beneath the fear following your talk— you understood.

Or at least... you had tried to.

───

Nine days later, 7PM.

...

For the first time in days, the weight on his chest lifted.

The apartment smelled like you both now—like home. His things were everywhere. His toothbrush. His hoodies. His presence.

Dex somehow managed to move in a week later after that fiasco. He supposed his good deeds dwarfed his... oddities, but he still couldn't believe you were so understanding of them.

Dex took it with grace and didn't question you when you pressed your key into his hand.

The landlord, desperate to keep a tenant who paid on time and never complained, reluctantly agreed—doubling the rent of your apartment instead. As if that could compensate for the chaos Dex had brought into your life.

He was attempting to perfect an egg for you to eat when you'd finally come home.

The pan hissed, the butter sizzling, golden and bubbling. Dex stood over it, spatula in hand, his hazel eyes rigid on the pan—focused, for once. Not on the past. Not on the what-ifs. Just on the now.

Unil the phone rang.

Fisk’s voice was a blade through the phone. Sharp. Cutting.

“You’re slipping, boy. Pull it together.”

Dex’s grip tightened around the spatula, his knuckles whitening. “I’m not slipping.”

“Then explain why you haven’t shown up to work in a week. After you paid your girlfriend’s workplace a visit.”

His blood froze.

“What?”

“Mark called in sick. Then he quit. Without notice.” A pause. Deliberate. Mocking. “Funny how that happened right after you put your hands on him.”

Dex’s vision whited out.

The spatula slipped from his fingers, clattering against the stove. The egg, half-cooked, sat abandoned, the yolk still trembling.

“You’re on thin ice, Benjamin.” Fisk’s voice was low, dangerous. “One more stunt like that, and you’re done. There’s only so much I will cover up for you without any of your services in return.”

The call ended.

Dex stood there, the phone slipping from his fingers, hitting the counter with a thud. A noise came from the apartment next to yours—his old apartment. Technically still his, with all his furniture and items intact—but there was a noise.

A break-in?

Two people.

Men.

Dex’s instincts screamed.

He moved before he could think.

Softly, silently, he opened your door and stepped into the hallway, his gun in hand.

The door to his old apartment was closed, but the walls were thin enough to hear the rustling.

The murmur of voices.

His breath was steady.

His pulse was controlled.

But his mind was already three steps ahead.

Who the fuck was in his apartment?

What did they want?

And why now?

--------

+++ taglist

@sapphire-saga @starlitflora @crazydexling @ladymacbeth1987 @avidreader73 @yolainwonderland @devilsfendi @snowwythegloww @dvpachvj @snukey13 @bimbopinksblog

Bonus note:

You trying to explain that violence is bad and that Dex can't go apeshit on your coworker.

(He doesn't understand why you won't eat your fries. They're warm. Obviously.)

you could count on one hand the times he was home when he was supposed to be. instead he was off galivanting around the city as bullseye, killing any AVTF member he could find and unleashing his shakespearean rage on the people who were just doing their jobs. sure their jobs weren't great and they were harming many people, but they were still human at the end of the day and it made you feel sick.

especially when he came home covered in blood and rolled into bed next to you without saying a word or even apologising for being late and missing date night. it had happened on numerous occasions and dex never truly acknowledged how late he was. instead, he would make you a coffee in the morning before you went to work and grumble a 'good morning' before you went to work.

he hadn't kissed you in weeks. there was the rare time he would wrap his arms around you. or when he would brush past you and his hands would land on your waist. everything was falling apart, and you had never felt so alone. sometimes you'd stay late at work hoping that dex would be home and call you to ask where you were. at least then he would be paying some attention, right?

the window was pulled open and you heard a groan echo from behind his mask. you rolled your eyes instantly from the kitchen as you grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. you didn't have it in you to even look up at him. not when he had pushed you away so much.

"pass me some of that, would you?"

something in you snapped.

"oh hi! how was work? it was good thanks, a little draining but im okay! how was your day? oh yeah I'm just tired-"

"what are you talking about?"

"what am I talking about? dex are you stupid?" you scoffed a laugh that made him twitch when he pulled the mask over his head. "you haven't spoken to me in forever! all you do is come home, shower, and go to bed! you don't want anything to do with me, you just use my apartment as a base-"

"our apartment."

"how can it be our apartment when I'm the only one living here?" you groaned. "why don't you just go back to your apartment? you only come to mine because its closer to the city."

"don't say that."

"it's true!" dex had never heard you raise your voice or seen you lose your temper, so this instantly made him uneasy. he could handle any bad guy that the streets through at him without batting an eyelid but as soon as it came to you being upset? he didn't know what to do. "you should just go back to your apartment and I'll stay here, alone. I basically do anyways."

"how could you say that?" he asked, hands reaching out to hold you but you never accepted. "I always wanna come home to you. to your place. to lay with you after a long night. it's all I've ever wanted."

"you have such a funny way of showing it." you rolled your eyes at him. nothing could've prepared dex for what you said next. no amount of senseless violence or good deeds he could do would fix this. nothing could fix that broken tone in your voice, or the way you looked over at him with fresh tears brimming around your eyes. "do you even want me anymore?"

his heart stopped.

this hurt more than any gunshot, any wound he could ever have experienced. how could you even think like that? dex adored you!

he fell to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your thighs as he pulled you in closer to him. tears flew from his eyes - that salty taste touching his lips - and he looked up at you with those puppy dog eyes you couldn't ever deny. those were your weakness. those were what made you fall in love with him in the first place! before all of this bullseye nonsense. back when he worked for the fbi and came home upset from work looking like someone had just kicked a puppy.

"baby of course I want you, how could you say that? I always want you, always. I'm just exhausted from everything lately and I'm sorry I haven't been good at talking to you and I've been neglecting you and-"

"dex just stop." you wiped the tears from your eyes. "how could you do this?"

🎯 Benjamin Poindexter

annaevermore

aquaticmercy

barbercuewithoney

blackcat-9696

brokenbleedingwings

brunchable

clawxmoon

cyber333angel

darkomoth

deusexgirlfriend

duchess0fmalfi

eyesxxyou

geebumbler

ghostskiss

holeinthemattress

hyacinthandmoss

i00que

machiavelliam

manonwillpower

mcrdvcks

nervousd

preechie (cannibal!reader)

roxxmo

softly-potter

sun-hashira

targaryenstar

the-ghost-bird

triceraquake

winteryn

🌊 Finnick Odair

ellecdc

finnickodaired

ilguna

mickey-1996

sylussips

sweeterthanfiction

🐺 Leon Kennedy

vinnyandthephenomena

You thought going out and getting some essentials from the grocery store was going to be fine, what you didn’t expect to see was people being attacked or dragged into the back room with your hand still gripping your bag. “Hey! Hey! What’re you doing?!” You yell, slapping whoever’s hands are on you only to stare wide-eyed at a zombie coming in your direction, a small scream escaping you. “Okay! Keep dragging me! But quickly! We’re gonna die!” 

You both make it into the room, door slamming and you turn to finally look at who it was. Your eyes widen and your jaw falls to the ground. “Holy shit, you’re hot!” If it was even possible, your eyes widened even more, slapping your hand over your mouth as the rest of the people in the room laugh. You quickly bow your head and move over to the table taking a seat. 

Thirty minutes go by and everyone has come up with a plan. You can’t help, but sneak glances at the man in the green tracksuit only to turn away flushed when he continued to catch you. Someone snaps you out of your thoughts with a groan, complaining that they are hungry. “Oh!” You pull your bag up, waving it around as there’s some snacks and drinks packed inside. “I remember packing this in here so I didn’t have to grab a basket. Here.” You hand it over, watching them tip the contents out and go through them, sneakily you grab a bottle and some food before making your way over to the man that saved you. “Excuse me…” 

He turns, staring down at you. “I thought that you might like some before it’s all gone.” You hand the food and drink over shyly. Dex smiles, taking them from you.

“Thank you… I am Dex, by the way.” 

You grin, “Y/n. Thank you for saving me.” You continue to stare into each other’s eyes, only looking away when someone clears their throat. You both turn and pay attention, you feel a soft poke causing you to look over your shoulder and see that Dex is offering you some of his food. You didn’t know it was possible to fall in love so fast. 

“Huh?”

Your eyes widen even more. “Huh?!” Your head whips around, seeing everyone is staring at you with their eyes wide and jaws dropped. “Did I say that outloud?!” The women begin to giggle, covering their mouths before they direct the attention back to their planning. 

Dex taps you again, looking down at you with a gentle smile. Without any words, he offers his drink and you feel yourself become flushed when you realise he’s already taken a sip and it’s like you would be kissing him. You didn’t know what was wrong with you, you had only just met this man and you’ve already confessed your love and now your thinking about kissing him… He was very handsome though. “Thank you… I’m sorry about before…” 

He waves you off and you swear your heart nearly leaps out of your chest as his eyes drift over you, checking you out. Time passes, you and the remaining survivors have made it into a truck, tucked away in the back as two members of the group sit in the front, driving. You shiver, you weren’t expecting to be out all night so you didn’t dress for when it got extremely cold, your head was also drooping to the side from how tired you were, but you didn’t dare sleep. You didn’t want to fall asleep incase something were to happen. 

You don’t notice the recently nominated leader beside you, watching you or that he unzips his green and white jacket until he places it over your shoulders, giving you a smile. Dex pats his shoulder, pulling you closer gently as you rest your head against him. Slowly drifting off into a peaceful sleep, he smelt so good even though you’d been through so much. The group watched as you slept and Dex stared at you with a small smile on his face before looking out and watching for danger. Something inside him wanting to make sure you weren’t in danger. 

You wake when the truck comes to a stop, squinting out you notice there is another truck and a car blocking the road. Everyone gets out and you pull Dex’s jacket closer to you, slipping your arms through the sleeves so that you aren’t so cold. “What’s happening?” You cover your mouth as you let out a small yawn, leaning your head against his arm, subconsciously. 

“We can’t get through unless we move them, but we’ve noticed that this is a delivery truck so we’re going to check for essentials.” You nod, listening to him.

“Why don’t we just drive around? There is enough room?” You look at the road, wondering how you are in a group of not the brightest people. “But we take the delivery truck. We could either fit inside or find a secluded place to look through and find what we might need.” You look up at him, noticing he’s staring down at you with a look of admiration. “What?”

“Maybe you should be leader.” You shake your head with a small smile, “I mean it. We could lead together? I’m sure that the group would allow it.” He nods to himself and you stare at him, this is the most he’s talked this whole time together and you only just realise he talks the most when he’s around you and no one else. 

Lee Si-young appears behind you. “I am happy to give up my position, I didn’t really want it in the first place and you two seem like a better team.” She smiles and before you can think about thanking her, she disappears. 

“Zombies! Quick!” Dex wraps his arms around you, moving you away just in case. You whack him.

“You dumbarse, if you are protecting me, who’s protecting you?” Your cheeks puff out, glaring up at him.

“Shh, get back into the truck.” You comply, something in his tone makes you want to obey him and only him. 

You guys manage to get both trucks and drive to somewhere where it looks safe and secluded before you all begin to search the delivery truck. Dex finds some chocolates and begins to make his way over to you, clearing his throat so you can turn your attention toward him.

“Yeah?”

“Here…” He hands them over, looking down at his feet and your face heats up, a soft smile appears as you gently take them from him and grab his hand, pulling him somewhere away from the group and you sit, pulling him down with you. 

You open the packet and hand him one, your eyes connecting as you both take a bite of the chocolate. Neither of you notice that the group has hidden behind something, heads peaking out as they all watch you with giant smiles on their face.

thank you for reading!