#dex x reader

You had been heading home when the rain started, the first cold drops splattering against your cheeks and soon saturating your jacket. As the downpour intensified quickly, you changed course, deciding to head to Tony’s. With each block you hurried down, your clothes grew heavier, and your hair plastered to your forehead. With a dead phone and soaking wet, you finally slipped into his flat. The faint, sharp tang of city rain carried in on you, mingling with the comforting undertone of Tony’s cologne that lingered near the entryway. Each step squelched, your socks heavy and cold against the hardwood. Your damp skin prickled as you moved further inside, shivering from the arctic temperature Tony kept the thermostat set to. Drops fell from your body, leaving tiny puddles with every movement.

Even with the blinds open, the apartment was cloaked in darkness, except for the glow of the green clock on the oven and the TV’s red standby light. Thunder rumbled, heavy and close, vibrating through the floors and making the windows vibrate in their frames. Lightning briefly lit the room, the flash turning the raindrops clinging to the window into tiny silver beads, illuminating the empty couch and the folded blanket Tony always left out. You hurried toward the bedroom, needing to plug in your phone to let him know you were there.

While you’re in his room, more thunder bellows, the sound rolling through the apartment and masking the soft creak of the window sliding open. Heavy boots land with a dull thud on the wooden floorboards. Dex appears, soaked and shaking, struggling to catch his breath. Rainwater drips from him, leaving a trail as he staggers forward. He moves slowly and painfully, every motion deliberate, as he hauls himself inside and takes his time standing to his full height. His face is drawn and pale beneath the balaclava, jaw clenched tight. The searing pain in his side begs him to stay hunched over, blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt, the metallic scent mixing with the rainy air.

Deciding to make a cup of hot tea, you leave your phone to charge and walk to the kitchen, your sock-clad feet padding silently against the floor. Still traversing the place in the dark, you round the corner, feeling your way to the cabinet with the tea bags. As you enter the kitchen, your eyes catch a dark silhouette in the corner of the living room; you ignore it, blaming the darkness for playing tricks on you. It isn’t until you’re gripping a mug that you hear the rain pitter-pattering louder than you had before. Growing stiff, your brain replays the moment you walked into the room. The blood in your body becomes freezing cold as you realize that a window is now open, which means your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you.

There is a person in here with you.

Someone is standing less than fifty feet away from you, in the dark. Suddenly, the air feels thick, suffocatingly so, as you now feel the difference of having someone else occupy the same space. As calmly as your shaking body will allow, you turn, ceramic mug still in hand, to face the intruder. Through the dark, you make out the wide span of thick shoulders, with long, bulging arms resting down by his sides. Truly, a unit of a man stands before you, hidden inside the shadows. While you can’t see his eyes, you feel them locked heavily onto you. No one speaks, no one moves; you both stand frozen. The thumping of your heart is so loud you’re certain it’s echoing through the apartment, while every limb throbs from adrenaline pumping through your veins. Just then, a serrated line of white cuts across the sky, filling the room with blinding light.

The lightning’s glare reveals him in sharp detail: a navy blue suit, knives strapped everywhere, a gun holstered at his chest, and wild, unblinking eyes locked onto you. Terror tears through you as recognition dawns. This isn’t just any intruder. It’s Bullseye. A skilled marksman, a trained killer, a man devoid of remorse and conscience. Panic takes over, and before you know it, the mug is flying from your hand, aimed straight at him. You don’t wait to see if it lands. Scrambling like a frightened fawn toward the bedroom, one desperate thought pulsing in your mind: get your phone.

Muffled by adrenaline, you hear the mug shatter and heavy footsteps pounding after you. You barely reach the bedroom door when a pillow skids across the floor, attempting to trip you. Stumbling but staying upright, you shove the door open, fingers grasping for your phone. The footsteps quicken, growing louder as he enters, and your pulse skyrockets. Only the queen-size bed stands between you and him.

He circles the bed with the slow, predatory caution of a wolf stalking prey. You mirror his every move, left when he goes right, until you are both weaving in sync, tension stretching between you. His long arms dart out, reaching for you, and you back away from the mattress. Your eyes flick to the lamp to your right; his gaze follows. In a low, guttural voice, he growls, “Don’t.” You ignore his warning, grab the lamp, and hurl it at him. He dodges, gliding around the bed as you vault over it, feet slipping on the velvet duvet.

“No, no, no,” you whimper, the words rushing out as you make your escape.

He’s right behind you as you bolt back toward the kitchen, the hair on your neck bristling; you feel akin to a rabbit fleeing a fox. Your name rasps from his lips, chilling you to your core. You sense the heat of his hand, almost brushing your skin. Glancing back, you miss the puddles that have gathered on the floor. You skid, feet flailing, spinning out like a car on wet asphalt. With a gut-wrenching crack, your back slams into the kitchen island, and your head snaps against the plaster. A hoarse gasp escapes you, and for a split second, everything spins and fades. Your mind reels, tears springing to your eyes. This is it, you think, I’m about to die.

Bullseye skids to a halt, looming over you, gloved hands lunging for your arms. Another lightning flash splits the room, and this time you see him up close. Blood streaks his suit, weapons gleaming, eager for use. In that harsh light, your tear-filled eyes meet his wild stare, and terror swallows you whole. A scream, raw and piercing, tears from your throat. He hesitates, then his hands move through the air, fast and harsh. You flinch as he does, bracing for whatever he’s planning. Instead of feeling anything, the sound of fabric being adjusted and a voice that’s too familiar reaches your ears.

“Don’t be scared, baby. It’s just me.” His voice is soft and low, trying to be reassuring, but it only makes you feel sick. Your mind lurches through a rapid-fire jumble of memories: Tony laughing with you in the sunshine, whispering promises into your hair, the gentleness of his hand in yours. Then, just as quickly, your mind flickers to the chase—boots pounding behind you, the frantic eyes glaring at you through the mask, your own scream ricocheting off the walls. Your senses and memories clash and entangle, making it impossible to reconcile the gentle tone with the nightmare you just lived through.

Terrified thoughts crash around in your brain: Is this really Tony? Was any of it real? How could the man you loved be the same person who hunted you down? Everything you thought you knew feels suddenly paper-thin and fragile. A ringing starts in your ears, drowning out everything except the sound of your own ragged breath. Your heart feels like it has been split open, disbelief crashing through you like another stroke of lightning. The Bullseye mask is off, but the terror is still crawling on your skin. You search his face, desperate for this to be some mistake or hallucination. But it is undeniably Tony – the man you loved, the man who just chased you through the darkness. Nausea surges, and your mind can barely wrap around the betrayal. All you can do is stare, wide-eyed and trembling, as if the world itself has broken apart.

This has to be some sort of sick joke. There’s no way Tony is standing above you wearing the Bullseye outfit. There’s no way that your back and skull are throbbing with pain because of your gentle-natured boyfriend. Your head begins to splinter harder from Tony’s reveal.

Hands reach out to help you. You whine, sliding away from him. “Don’t.” It hurts to say, as your throat constricts uncomfortably. Once you’re not stuck between him and the kitchen island, you stand on shaky legs. There’s double of everything as you sway, but still, you refuse to let Tony come closer.

His whole face twists in anguish, “Please, I-I’m sorry. Just-”

Reeling backward, you hurl yourself at the door, wrenching it open before Tony can react.

​

The rain beats at your already oversensitive skin, each stride agonizing as your legs tremble, muscles quivering with fatigue. Your lungs burn as you pull in cold, wet air that sears your throat. You want to stop, your whole body is screaming for it, but terror keeps you running. You can’t risk looking back. Not yet. Not until you reach home.

When your building finally rises from the haze, relief almost makes your knees buckle. Reaching the street outside, you double over, strength gone, gasping for air that feels too thick to swallow. A fit of wrenching coughs wracks your chest. Nausea overtakes you, folding you to the unforgiving, rain-slick concrete. You clutch at the ground, the rough sidewalk scraping the thin skin of your knuckles as the chaos of the past hour slams into you all at once. The world tilts violently. You retch until there’s nothing left, knees pressed to the cold pavement, grief and horror expelled with every shaking breath.

When the convulsions finally ease, and your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts, you push yourself upright. Somehow, you manage to stumble up the steps and through the front door, the brief shelter making the silence feel deafening after the roar of the rain. Only when the door clicks shut behind you do you let yourself fall apart. Collapsing onto the floor, every muscle unraveling, sobs tearing from your throat as hot tears stream down your cheeks. For a long moment, you lie there, feeling the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down, your mind struggling to process the terror and relief warring inside you.

Gradually, you drag yourself upright, limbs heavy, and you shiver, your wet clothes clinging to your skin. Peeling off your soaked jacket, then the rest of your clothes, you are frantic to get rid of anything contaminated by the awful situation. It all falls in a sodden heap by the door. The apartment feels cold and hollow, every shadow sharper, every creak in the walls amplified by your nerves. You stumble toward the bathroom, desperate for warmth and to wash away the filth coating both your mind and body.

Inside, the light flickers on, casting your reflection in the mirror, gaunt, wild-eyed, streaked with rain and tears. Not wanting to look at your pitiful self anymore, you enter the shower. The mundane sound of water running gives your mind something to cling to, allowing you to numb the pain for a moment. You turn off the water, pressing your palms to your eyes, willing yourself not to cry again, but the anxiety comes back, curling in your chest like smoke.

You move through the apartment, switching on every light, checking each lock and window three times. Only when you’re certain you’re alone do you finally sit, knees held to your chest, and breathe in the slow, trembling silence. The rain outside has softened to a whisper, but inside, every sound makes you tense, worried you’ll turn to find Tony in your apartment.

Back in his apartment, Dex begins to spiral. The panic attack seizes his whole body, and suddenly his breath is coming in ragged, shallow bursts. His chest contracts, muscles clenching as if he is being crushed from the inside. He wraps his arms around himself, trying in vain to calm the tremors shaking his body. His heart pounds so fast and hard it feels like it might crack his ribs. His hands are numb and tingling, sweat pooling along his hairline despite the cold. Each inhale burns in his throat, and when he tries to move, his legs collapse beneath him, leaving him curled on the kitchen floor, shaking violently. Something he had thought he had seen the last of years ago. The attack is all too familiar, a relic of the past version of Dex. It had taken him years to learn how to help himself see the light at the end of the tunnel. But now, all it takes is one bad hour to extinguish that hope; he sees no shore in the ocean he’s currently drowning in.

He messed everything up. Not only had he scared you, but he had caused you harm. You had looked at him like you didn’t know him, the fear in your eyes chilling him to his bones. Bile rose in his throat at the sound of your broken voice, your body hitting the kitchen island, your terrified scream all echoing in his head. Everything he didn’t want to happen had happened. Without any idea of what to do, he lay there on the floor. Soaking in his own blood, sweat, and tears, caring nothing about the mess he’s making on the clean tiles. His mind whirls as he wonders how this even happened. Misplaced anger grows in his chest at you being in his place unannounced, but it quickly disappears as he remembers this isn’t your fault. He’s the only one to blame. More anger bubbles in his chest at himself before it morphs into sickness. For a split second, he thinks of reaching out to you, desperate to explain or beg forgiveness, but the shame is too great. Maybe it would be kinder to disappear from your life entirely, to spare you from ever seeing this version of him again. Caught within the urge to run after you and the paralyzing fear that he has lost you forever, his body goes limp as he’s yanked into unconsciousness.

​

During the sporadic hours of sleep you had gotten, Tony and Bullseye haunted your dreams. When you woke at four in the morning, you surrendered to insomnia. You brewed a large pot of coffee, grabbed your laptop, and began digging into Bullseye's history. Not being a New York native, you had missed the previous public incidents involving Wilson Fisk. All you knew was that Bullseye was loose on the streets and had tried to assassinate Fisk last year. You had never seen his face or known his real name until now: Benjamin Poindexter. Once a Special Agent with the FBI, he became Wilson Fisk’s personal Daredevil; before that, he was an orphan in a group home. Each new piece of information pulled at your mind in a different direction.

Anger burned in your chest as you realized how much he had hidden, while twisted sympathy crept in as you scrolled through the grim details of his childhood. Seeing photos of Tony, or Dex, or Benjamin, from before you knew him broke your heart even as confusion tangled through you. The sight of his hollowed eyes and pallid skin revealed a man merely pretending to fit a mold, clearly a shell of who he should have been. Part of you pitied the lost boy in those images, just as fiercely as you hated the man who deceived you. You didn’t know whether to cry for him or scream at him, or at yourself for not noticing the cracks until it was too late.

Videos of his trial and his mug shots stare at you, harsh, vivid reminders, as a strange sympathy creeps in. The names Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page appear in article after article. Each story turns your stomach. Watching the trial footage and seeing Tony, the man you thought you knew, standing with a smug, bored expression as the judge pronounced him guilty, only intensifies your anger. After hours of research, that anger turns inward.

How could you have been so naïve? So blind? Your desperation for love and a relationship had made you overlook every glaring red flag: the baseball cap he always wore in public, his avoidance of crowds, the secrecy surrounding his job, the unexplained bruises he always brushed off. The shabby apartment on the lower side of town, where nobody cared who he was. His overprotectiveness, the constant check-ins, it all made sense now. Your eyes grow wide at the next thought.

Meeting him hadn’t been accidental; it wasn’t some meet-cute. He’d been following you for months before introducing himself. Back then, you thought it was fate, the stars aligning just for you, but now you see the truth. Of course, you’d caught the attention of the city’s deadliest vigilante. A deep groan escapes as you collapse onto the couch. The splitting headache returns, and the bright light of your computer only makes it worse.

​

Dex waits a week. A full week of living in misery and spiraling before he decides he’s done. After getting back to the apartment one night, it’s like a mask had been pulled off his eyes. His trashed apartment glares back at him. The view makes him itchy, digits twitching as the need for order and cleanliness barrels through him. It takes a few hours, but it’s all worth it as he stares at his work. Everything is folded, tucked, turned, and staged in their rightful places; a layer of anxiety falls off his shoulders, and his mind clears. Another week passes of Dex punishing himself. He doesn’t allow himself to look for you, avoiding all your spots to ensure there are no run-ins. He’s decided that you just need space, that you’ll be back once you’ve calmed down and once that night and the pain have dulled in your mind. You’ll want to see him, he hopes. You’ll miss him, and then you’ll be back to him, he prays.

The third week is when Dex falters, a pure accident. He had been walking, not paying much attention to where he was going, when suddenly the rich smell of coffee filled his nose. Glancing up at the sign of the cafe, he quickly surveyed the area, scanning for you. It takes no time for him to spot you, inside, curled away in the corner, clearly trying not to be seen by passing eyes. But you could never hide from Dex; he’d spot you anywhere and in any crowd. Dex’s heart spasms in his chest. Seeing you again reignites everything. He can’t stop thinking about speaking to you, holding you, kissing you, apologizing, begging for forgiveness. He desperately needs you back in his life.  

​

The chill from the cold granite of your bathroom counter migrates up your arms as your elbows rest on the sink's edges. Patting the rest of the warm water off your face, you hear a knock on the front door. Gently and quietly, you shuffle through the apartment, looking through the peephole to see who’s there.

Before you can think logically, you move quickly away from the door, and the action causes the floor to groan. The noise alerts Dex; his head tilts up, like the human embodiment of a dog hearing a squeaky toy. Softly, he calls your name, not tauntingly, not overtly horrifying, just in the same tone he always did when he saw you after a long day. A softer knock rings through the apartment, “Please, let me-let me explain everything.”

You freeze in place, unsure of what to do now. Again, your name reaches your ears, the sound soft and broken. Clenching your eyes, you try to will yourself to walk back to your bedroom and call the AVTF hotline, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, you stand battling yourself and finally, against better judgment, you open the door.

On the other side, Dex stands just as shocked as you. A relieved look crosses his face at the reveal of you, but it is soon replaced with the guilty, stressed-out look he had previously been wearing. Putting space between you two, you move back into the apartment, and Dex follows you. Gently closing the door behind him, his hand never touching the lock, showing you that you’re free to leave or maybe just giving you the illusion.

“Go on.” You speak steadily, despite the way you’re shaking with nerves.

“How are you feeling? You hit the kitchen island pretty hard.”

“I’m fine, Tony,” You sigh, eyes closing in frustration. “Benjamin or Dex, or whatever your actual name is.”

"It’s Dex. I hate the name, Benjamin. Tony was the man I tried to build, the man I prayed you could love. But Dex is who I really am. I thought if I could hide that side, if I could just be Tony for you, it would be enough."

You nod, lips tight, but say nothing. The silence between you is loaded, Dex’s breath trembling as he tries to steady himself.

He looks up, voice husky and raw. "I should’ve told you the truth, but I was a coward. I wanted to keep you in the light, because I’ve only ever known the dark, and-and you’re so perfect and everything that I want to be. So I thought if I hid everything ugly and broken, you might love the version of me that wasn’t real and believe me to be the man that you deserve."

Dex’s hands tremble as he attempts to step closer, but decides to keep his distance, as if afraid his presence is poison. "I’m begging you, please. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I know what I did hurt you in ways I can never fix. I know it feels like I betrayed you, but you have to know why I lied. I wanted to spare you, to protect you from my darkness."

He scrubs a shaking hand over his face, voice faltering. "I keep replaying that night, over and over. The terror in your eyes, the way you looked at me, and your scream.” His eyes clench shut as he shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the memory. “I will never forget it or forgive myself for that. I hate myself for it. I never wanted you to be afraid of me. I never wanted to be the reason you hurt."

He sinks slowly to his knees, eyes shining with tears. For a moment, you are frozen, your breath caught in your chest, arms locked around your ribs as if holding yourself together. Your heart pounds so violently it feels as if it might burst through your chest; a harsh, involuntary sob wracks your body.

Staring up at you, shaky hands alternating between grasping at his chest and reaching out for you, he continues. "I lied because I was scared. Scared you’d see me for what I am, scared I’d lose you forever. I told myself it was to protect you, but I realize now it was all about protecting myself. I’m so sorry. I know words aren’t enough, but if there’s any way to make this right, I’ll do anything. I just want a chance to earn back your trust, or at least your forgiveness."

Something tight and hot unfurls in your chest, violent and raw. Your hands clench at your sides. It hurts to look at him, so instead you stare at the floor between you, vision blurring with angry, helpless tears. You want to scream, to break something, to demand how he could do this to you, but the words stick like thorns in your throat. A bitter laugh bubbles up and breaks into a sob.

When you finally look up, your face is wet. Resentment and heartbreak are loud in your whisper: "You shattered everything. I don’t know who I am to you anymore, or what was real. Even how we met was fake. You lied about everything! You lied from the second you started speaking to me and just continued for the last year!"

“I know. I know.” Dex cries out, his green eyes closed tightly in shame. Fat shiny tears roll down his flushed cheeks while his lower lip trembles.

“How am I supposed to trust you? How can I feel safe around you?” The words come out sharp and aching, but underneath them is a mess of raw confusion and longing that makes your voice tremble.

“You’ve always been safe with me.”

“You chased me through your apartment in the dark. My entire back is bruised, and I’m pretty sure I had a minor concussion because of you.”

“I panicked! You ran, and I couldn’t have you calling the cops-”

“So you chased me? Instead of doing anything else?” You exclaim, hands waving through the air in frustration.

“I tried my best. I-I didn’t know what to do. Everything that I had built was crumbling around me. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m sorry, so sorry, baby, please.” His voice cracks at the end. Sinking further down, now on hands and knees, he cries before your feet. Wide, desperate, sad, dark green eyes peer up at you. He babbles more apologies to you, begging for forgiveness.

Taking a tentative step forward, you try to ignore the spark you feel as you watch Dex’s eyes begin to gleam with hope at your proximity. You kneel, joining him on the floor. Gently, you splay your palms on either side of his cheeks, your thumbing absentmindedly stroking the muted pink scar.

“Dex,” He keens as you whisper his name.

“I need time and space. Nothing is going to be magically fixed overnight. I-I don’t even know if I still want to be with you,” at your admission, Dex’s lip trembles again, a fresh batch of tears clumps his lashes. “But if I do, it’s going to take some time, and it’ll be on my terms.” You raise your eyebrows, hinting at Dex to respond.

“Of course, anything you want, I’ll do it.” His voice comes out rushed and breathy, like the mere idea of a potential relationship is enough to get him worked up.

The silence between you stretches, thick with exhaustion and the weight of everything left unspoken. Dex sits back on his heels, wiping his face with the back of his hand, leaving angry red streaks along his cheeks. You stand up first, the movement stiff, your knees aching from the cold floor. Dex follows suit, but keeps his distance, watching you with a look that’s equal parts hope and devastation.

Needing movement, anything to ground yourself, you move toward the kitchen. Dex hovers in the entryway, hands twisting together. He doesn’t ask if he can stay; he just waits, like a stray dog who’s been kicked too many times to expect kindness but is still hoping for it.

You pour two glasses of water, setting one on the table for him without looking back. Dex takes it, murmuring a quiet thanks. The gesture hangs between you, an olive branch offered and accepted. Drinking in silence, only the hum of your fridge and the creaking of floorboards as you shift your weight fill the air. The two of you sit in uneasy peace. For now, there are no more apologies, no promises, just the slow, tentative act of existing in the same room, each of you yearning but unsure of where to go next.

​

The call comes at one am. The buzzing of his phone against the wooden bedside table startles him out of sleep. In an instant, the light is flicked on, and he's already answered before the sleep was wiped from his eyes.

“Hello?”

It’s loud, so loud that Dex winces away from the speaker. Against the pounding of music and overlapping voices, a small sniffle echoes the loudest in Dex’s ear. His eyes snap open, more awake now than he had been a second prior.

“Dex?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I need-” Your speech is slurred and thick with tears. “I need-I shouldn’t be calling you.”

“Are you alone?”

There's a pause before you answer, clearly not wanting to tattle on yourself.

“...yeah.”

He’s already dressed and storming through the apartment. The front door barely survives his force as he races towards you.

He doesn’t have to ask; he already knows where you’re at. He gets there in record time, storming in past the stragglers outside and the intoxicated people too involved with themselves to recognize the fire in his eyes as he searches for you.

“Hey,” He says just loud enough for his voice to carry over the music. You turn to face him, face flushed, eyes glossy and heavy-lidded.

“Hi.” It’s short and almost painful.

“Where are your friends?”

“Not here, I came by myself.”

Anger flares in his chest, his heart rate spiking even further at your carelessness. Closing his eyes, he exhales through his nose, pushing the anger down.

The bartender places another drink in front of you, the unnaturally blue liquid glowing in the multicolored lights. Dex glares at the shiny glass like it’s personally offended him. Quickly, he pushes it away from you, calling the bartender back over, ordering a water for you instead.

“Drink this, then I’ll get you home.” He pushes the cold water into your hands. You stare down at it for a moment before your eyes brim with more tears.

“What is it?” He asked, concerned that there was something unsavory in the cup.

“Nothin’. Just too much goin’ on.”

He nods, reassuring your drunken thoughts.

Once the water is gone, you stand from your chair, Dex moves with you, and as you sway, he has to stop himself from reaching out for you. So he stands there and watches you steady yourself. You grab your purse, then head for the door; Dex stalks behind you.

A small crack in the pavement catches your heel, and your drunken mind is no match for the speed at which you stumble forward. Dex, moving faster than you, reaches out, his large callused hand wrapping around your bicep. Out of habit, he pulls you into his chest.

Forcefully, you break away from his grip, your arms coming up to wrap around yourself. Unsure whether you are trying to hold yourself together or keep him out.

"I don’t think you should take me home," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, every word trembling but unyielding.

"I understand, but you’re way too intoxicated for me to feel okay with you walking by yourself," Dex replies, his voice gentle, but a stubborn edge cuts through.

"Then just forget I called you," you mutter, bitterness and shame tangling in your throat.

He rolls his eyes, but the gesture is tired, not mocking. "I can’t do that," he says, softer than before.

"I’ve done it before," you snap.

"You’ve done what?" Dex asks, incredulity sharpened by a hint of hurt.

"Walked home drunk. Multiple times. In fact, I just did it the other night," you admit, swaying, your voice brittle with forced bravado.

"You’re kidding, right?" He tries to mask it, but fear and exasperation leak through.

You grunt out a "no," shaking your head, shame burning in your cheeks. "Just got too drunk tonight. Didn’t even mean to call you," you mumble, the words barely making it past the knot of regret in your throat.

Dex exhales, shoulders slumping. For a moment, you both stand in the gold-lit silence, the thrum of the bar in the background. He looks at you, jaw tight, torn between wanting to argue and wanting to protect you from yourself.

"I'm still walking you home," he says finally, voice low but resolute. "We can fight about it tomorrow."

You want to protest, but your body is spent, and the thought of being alone outside is suddenly unbearable. So you nod, turning away from his searching gaze.

Dex falls into step beside you, a careful distance away. The walk is quiet, each of you wrapped in your own thoughts, tension simmering just beneath the surface. Occasionally, your hand strays to your side, as if remembering the warmth of his grip. Dex notices, but says nothing.

At your apartment, Dex lingers by the front door, following you with just his eyes as you retreat further into the building.

The next morning, while Dex goes about his normal routine, a simple “thank you” text stops him in his tracks. A small smile tugs at his lips. He stands there, fingers hovering over the screen, unsure of what to say. He types a few sentences before deleting them over and over. Finally, he settles on “You’re welcome.” before continuing his run.                                    

Over the following weeks, the two of you drift into being strangers again. You focus on surviving one day at a time, forcing yourself into the routine of work, eating, and sleep, even if everything feels heavier than before. Late at night, when the apartment is still and your worries gather thick around you, you scribble angry rants and messy confessions into a battered journal. Little by little, you start reclaiming parts of yourself, joining a weekly yoga class, discovering new favorite spots, finding pockets of peace in small, gentle rituals.

Dex occasionally catches a glimpse of your life through your friend's social media account. Your bright smile aimed at the camera always makes his heart ache, his love for you still overwhelmingly present.

On a random afternoon, Dex decides to take himself for coffee. Not wanting to risk running into you and ruining the trust he hoped you had slowly been building towards him, he goes to the other side of the city.

Stepping through the large glass doors, he’s met with sweet, buttery bread and rich, earthy coffee, while another all too familiar scent swirls through the air. As he stands in line, he begins getting slightly tizzied as he can’t place the other smell. His eye rakes over the baked good cases and the syrups behind the counter, looking for anything to solve the mystery. He grabs his drink from the counter and finds himself a table outside.

As he nestles in with his iced beverage and a book, a shadow falls over him. Sparing a glance from the corner of his eye, he’s thrown into complete shock when it’s you that he sees. Before he can jump into explaining that he had no clue you were here, you begin speaking.

“Is this seat taken?” You gesture at the one across from him.

He freezes before stumbling over his words. “No, no, not at all.”

You sit in the chair, the sun-basked metal warming your skin as you do. He stares, his green eyes open wide as his brain catches up to you willingly being in front of him. You allow a patch of silence to rest over you two, watching as Dex resets himself.

“Funny how we both ended up here.”

He nods, hands coming up to gesture as he begins explaining that he had no idea you were here. You don’t let him speak much. Instantly, he stops talking as your pointer finger raises in the air.

“I believe you, Dex. I think it’s fate bringing us back together. I’ve been thinking a lot about you recently.” You admit a little shyly.

“You have?” Dex feels your words easing him. He had been worried you would never think of him again.

“I’ve been wanting to reach out, but I was unsure of how to put myself back in your life. Now that I know everything, I fear that I don’t fit in it anymore.”

Dex shakes his head almost comically hard. “That’s not true. You were my life. You are what’s important to me. We fit together; I know we do.”

You reach out for his hand. Dex wastes no time in grabbing yours.

“Let's try again. But I need to be honest with you, Dex. There’s still a part of me that’s scared this could happen again. That you could hurt me again.”

You look him in the eye, your grip tightening on his hand. “If we’re really doing this, I need you to work for my trust. No more secrets, no excuses. If you ever lie to me again, or if I even start to feel like you’re keeping things from me, we’re done. I can’t go through that again. So, if you really want to rebuild this, then I’ll try too. But it has to be different this time.”

He squeezes your hand tighter.  “It will be. I promise.”