#ehhhhhh

You sat down on your couch, placing the bowl of cereal down onto the glass table. Your hand reached for the TV remote, clicking it back to life before searching through the channel. Trying to find a distraction, some kind of way to kill time.

Then? The news flashed. Former FBI, Benjamin Poindexter, found guilty of eleven counts of first-degree murder during the attack on Josie's bar, had escaped from custody.

Your fingers froze around the remote. The screen blared with chaos: grainy footage of flashing red and blue lights, helicopters circling above rooftops, a blurred image that might've been him darting into an alley, and then the anchor’s voice again—

"Authorities are urging residents to remain calm but vigilant. Poindexter is considered armed and extremely dangerous. If seen, do not approach. Contact law enforcement immediately."

You stared at the screen.

Then muted it.

The cereal went soggy in the bowl, untouched.

It wasn't shock that settled in your chest. Not really. Not the kind they were hoping the public would feel. Not fear, either.

You'd known this was coming. Felt it in your spine for weeks—some pressure building, tight as a wire being pulled just before it snapped. A whisper under your skin. And now that it was real, now that his name had been spoken again on national television like a ghost summoned into existence, something else stirred deep inside you.

Your brows furrowed, fingers squeezing the remote before you threw it aside. Your back bent forward, eyes stuck onto the shining screen.

The world had gone quiet after Dex had been sent to Rikers Island. No one really showed up on your doorstep beaten or bloodied. You didn't have to patch anyone after a rough fight. You didn't have to worry about cleaning his blood off of the floor or the bathroom mirror.

Now? He was back.

The man who was once your colleague, your friend, your partner in the FBI—became unrecognizable.

He had unraveled before your eyes, thread by thread, until all that remained was something sharp-edged and wrong. A man who couldn't stop spiraling. A man who didn't want to be saved anymore.

And you? You'd realized it too late.

You leaned back on the couch, rubbing your jaw. The cushions groaned under your weight, too soft for a moment like this. Everything about this apartment suddenly felt too still.

Your eyes drifted back to the screen. That flicker of footage—was it him? The grainy blur had his height, that frantic, focused gait. You could almost hear it in your head, the way his boots used to hit pavement when he was zeroed in on something. Back then, it was justice. Back then, it was you at his side.

The news anchor was already moving on to the next story, something about rising temperatures and a heat wave sweeping across the state. You didn’t care. You couldn’t even hear her voice through the mute.

Your mind was buzzing.

He escaped.

Your apartment felt smaller all of a sudden. Like the walls were inching closer. You stood, walked over to the window, and parted the blinds. The street was empty. Still. Too still.

You scanned rooftops. Dark corners. Your fingers flexed by your side, remembering the old rhythm of your sidearm even though it hadn’t left the drawer in months.

A sick little part of you—buried deep, locked down like a vault—had missed him.

Not the Dex the world saw now. Not the one in the footage. But the man he'd been before. The man who watched your six in every raid. Who knew your coffee order. Who cracked his knuckles when he was nervous and tilted his head when he was listening, really listening.

The man who used to sit beside you in your car, stained in sweat and adrenaline, and say, "You trust me, right?"

And you always had.

Until he stopped giving you reasons to.

Your phone buzzed on the table. A text.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Missed you.

Buzz. Buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: You changed your locks. Again. UNKNOWN NUMBER: Why? You know I'd never hurt you.

Your stomach churned.

You didn't need to know who it was. You didn't need to hear his voice.

You knew.

You paused for a moment, as if your brain was assessing this whole situation. Your fingers gripped the phone hard, filled with frustration and something else beneath all the rage.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, tension rippling through your forearm like electricity just beneath the skin. You could block the number. You could call someone—call them. Report it. Let them trace it. Let them find him.

But you didn't.

Instead, you stared. Long enough that the text thread auto-closed and the screen dimmed.

Your breath felt shallow.

He was close.

You knew it the same way you'd known the second you first saw him unravel years ago, that moment when the mask cracked and you caught a glimpse of the void behind his eyes. The same knowing that settled in your bones now—like gravity tilting toward a center that had always been him.

The silence in your apartment didn't last.

Three slow knocks at your bedroom window.

Not loud. Not frantic. Like he already knew you were listening. Like he already knew you were going to open it.

You didn't move at first. You just stood there, back stiff, phone screen reflecting off the glass of the living room window. He could be anyone now. You hadn't seen him in years, and last time, he’d been in restraints.

But somehow, you knew—he hadn’t changed that much.

Three more knocks. Closer this time, like he'd leaned in. Like maybe his forehead was pressed against the glass, the way it used to be when he needed you to open up. When he needed you to see him.

You swallowed hard, walked to the bedroom. Saw him outside the window, still in tactical gear. His mask was slightly tilted up, revealing the lower part of his face. His lips. The tip of his nose.

You didn't open it—not yet. Just walked closer to the glass.

"Dex," you murmured.

Silence. A breath. Then, his voice—low, hoarse, ragged like it’d been scraped against pavement.

"I missed your voice."

Your fingers curled into a fist. His voice did something to you—something you hated yourself for. Something hot and dizzy and heavy with memory. He looked at you through the glass.

"This... is insane." you said. It came out steady, despite the pulse hammering in your neck.

"I know."

"You killed innocents."

Another beat of silence. Then, "Yeah."

You huffed, jaw clenching. "Then what do you want from me?"

The pause this time was longer. Then came the whisper, the kind that crawled under your skin.

"I want to come home."

Your hand trembled.

"You're in the wrong place."

Another pause. Then a quiet chuckle. "Yeah. I figured you'd say that."

One of his gloved hands pressed against the window, his breath fogging the glass up.

"You don't have to open it," he said, quieter now. "I just wanted to hear your voice. Just once. That's all."

He didn’t mean it. You knew he didn’t mean it.

Because he was always starving. For touch, for attention, for something he could never quite hold. For you.

And somewhere deep inside, no matter how many months had passed, you were still tangled up in him—cut on the same sharp edges.

And then—

The window rattled slightly.

It was locked. But he was testing it.

"Dex." Your voice was a warning now.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he said, and fuck—it sounded true. Not performative. Not rehearsed. Just tired. Raw. Like if you opened the window, he might finally fall apart for good.

"...I don't believe you."

A soft sound on the other side—maybe a breath, maybe a sigh. Then.

"I don't blame you."

You stood there, eyes locked onto the silhouette of him—barely visible beyond the pane, but close enough that your mind could fill in the details. The scar on his cheek. The way his shoulders curved forward when he was on the verge of shutting down. All of it came rushing back like muscle memory.

Your pulse wouldn't slow down. Neither would he.

"I don't blame you," he repeated, voice gentler this time. "But you know me better than anyone else ever will. So you know I'm not gonna walk away."

The words were so quiet they almost didn't make it through the glass. But you heard them. You felt them, too—in that place under your ribs that still ached when you thought of him.

"Jesus Christ, Dex." You whispered, "this is fucked up. You know it is. Are you just—waiting for me to take you in? Again?"

"Well, I'm not gonna break in," he murmured, but his hand stayed pressed against the window, palm flat, fingers splayed wide like he was testing the shape of you through the glass. "I could've. You know I could've."

You did.

"Then, what? You're just trying to...test the waters? See if I still accept you? Let you in?"

"No, I..." he breathed. "I don't know what I'm doing either."

For a second, the streetlights outside flickered, shadows shifting across his face. His eyes—hazel, cold, and rimmed with something like exhaustion—stared right through you.

"I'm not here to start a fight." His lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but forgot how. "I'm here 'cause you're all I remember."

You crossed your arms, gaze falling away from him. Your stomach twisted, heartbeat unsteady beneath all the composed look. The air in the room was thick, heavy, like humidity before a storm.

His hand dropped from the glass, but he didn’t move away. He just stood there, shoulders slumped, breathing shallow.

"You still eat Frosted Flakes for dinner when you're stressed?" he asked, voice soft, almost playful.

Your jaw flexed.

He must've seen the bowl on the table.

"That's... not your business anymore."

His breath fogged the window again, but this time he laughed—a soft, bitter sound, like he hated himself for still knowing you this well.

"Yeah," he rasped. "But you used to be my business."

You didn't have a reply for that.

For a long moment, neither of you said a word. The quiet stretched thin between you, like a thread about to snap.

Then—

His head tilted. That old movement. The one from back when he was still human to you.

"You're the only person I got left." His voice cracked—just barely. "I don't wanna hurt you. I don't. But I'm not… I'm not right without you. You know that. You know that I love you."

You closed your eyes for a second, tried to push down the ache that bloomed in your chest.

"Fuck." You cursed underneath your breath, "Christ, this isn't love, Dex..."

"I know," he breathed. "It's worse."

Your stomach dropped.

He shifted closer to the window, forehead resting against the glass now. You could see the tension in his jaw, the tremble in his lips. Like maybe he was holding something back. Like maybe this was him—stripped down, no mask, no armor, just the hollowed-out pieces that still looked for you in the dark.

"I'm tired," he whispered. "I'm so fucking tired."

You wanted to hate him. You wanted to slam the blinds shut, call someone, let them come and take him away.

But you couldn’t move.

His voice was still inside you. Deep down. Like a splinter under the skin.

"You're gonna turn yourself in," you finally whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through.

His eyes met yours. There was something sharp in them—like he was weighing his options. Like maybe he would, just to make you happy. Or maybe he wouldn't, just to see if you'd stop him.

Instead, he said,

"Let me in. Just for tonight."

Your throat closed up.

"I can't."

"You can."

"No, Dex. I—"

His gloved hand pressed once more against the glass. Soft.

"Just—just for a few hours," he whispered. "I won't sleep. I won’t touch you. I just…"

He trailed off, breathing harder now.

"I just need to be in the same room as you again."

You swallowed hard. Nails digging into your palm. Because you knew what this was. This wasn't just a fugitive on your doorstep. This wasn't just a man with blood on his hands.

This was the part of you that never stopped missing him, standing in the cold, asking to come home.

And fuck—you didn't know if you were strong enough to say no.

Not tonight.

You let him in.

God help you, you unlocked the window, slid it up slowly while your heart rams into your ribs. He ducked through the frame like it's nothing, like this is normal. Like you didn't just let a killer crawl back into your life at two in the morning.

He lands light on his feet, standing in the hush of your bedroom, eyes locked onto you like you're the last light in the world. His shoulders twitch, his jaw flexes. You can tell he's trying so fucking hard to behave.

And you hoped he does.

For a second, you think—maybe—this is going to stay manageable.

But it's Dex. You should've known better.

Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting on your living room floor, back against the couch where your legs were tucked underneath you. His tactical gear was half-off now, stripped down to the black undershirt he always wore under Kevlar. His eyes were closed. His head tipped back, resting on your knee.

You should push him off. You should make him leave.

But you didn't.

Because the truth is—his weight feels good against you. Familiar. Dangerous in the way that makes your pulse kick.

"I missed this," he murmured, barely audible.

You stay silent.

His hand twitches—just a flinch at first, fingers curling against his own thigh. But then he turns his face into your leg, lips ghosting the fabric of your sweats. A breath. A brush of heat.

"Dex," you warned, throat tight.

"I know," he breathed. "I know."

But he didn't stop.

Because he was shaking now. Not from fear, not from cold—from needing. He drags in a breath like he was drowning, like the air won't get in unless it’s wrapped in you.

And then—slow, soft—he tilts his head up. His lips press against your knee, your thigh, the curve of your hip. Little grazes of mouth that make your skin catch fire under the fabric.

"I said you could stay," you gritted out, "not—"

"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice breaking. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

But he kissed you again anyway.

Up your side. Over your ribs. Gentle, desperate little touches that felt more like confessions than kisses. He wasn't thinking about consequences. He wasn't thinking about escape routes or next steps. He was thinking about you. About how your body fits against his. About how he was starved for this—for you—worse than for food or rest or safety.

Your hand sank into his hair.

Maybe you should've shoved him off right then. Push him out of the door. Walked away.

But you didn't.

Because you were just as sick as he was.

His breath hitched when your fingers curled at the back of his neck. His shoulders loosened—not relief, not really. More like surrender. Like something in him uncoiled the second you touched him. His lips dragged over your hipbone, heat seeping through thin fabric, his breath coming out ragged.

"We shouldn't—" you started, but it was already too late.

Dex's hands slipped under your sweats, cold gloves peeled away, fingers bare now—warm, shaking as they found your skin. His mouth pressed harder, teeth barely grazing the waistband before he exhaled sharp against your stomach.

"I know, I know, baby," he whispered.

Neither could you.

Your sweatpants came off fast—sloppy, no finesse, just Dex fumbling like he was afraid you’d change your mind halfway through. Like he'd die if you did. His eyes flicked up, pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he was dizzy from just looking at you.

"Fuck," he whispered, almost reverent. "Fuck, you're—"

He breathed.

"Perfect."

Perfect. It was filled with some kind of sick obsession. Worship. That word should've made you hit him. Should've made you shove him back out the window and bolt it shut.

But you didn't.

Instead, you leaned into it. Into him. Into the wreckage of it all.

He shoved his undershirt up over his ribs, tugging at it like he couldn’t breathe in it anymore. Scars stretched pale under the moonlight, the ones you remembered patching up, the ones you'd kissed once before he lost his mind.

His hands ghosted up your thighs, thumbs pressed tight like he was trying to memorize the feel of you again.

And then he was there—pushing into you, no warning, no prep, just the blunt heat of his cock splitting you open in one hard, frantic shove.

"Jesus—Dex," you hissed, eyes squeezing shut as your back hit the couch.

He whimpered—whimpered—into your shoulder, burying his face there like he could hide from how bad he needed this. From how wrong it was.

He was shaking, teeth scraping your neck as he bottomed out. Bare just skin on skin, slick and filthy. You could feel everything—every twitch, every drag of him inside you. Hot, messy, raw.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, but he didn't stop. Couldn't.

His hips rocked, small at first, like he was trying to keep it gentle—but his body betrayed him. He fucked into you fast, frantic, like he couldn't slow down, like his life depended on it.

You could feel the sweat sliding off his temple, his pulse racing against your throat.

"God, baby—" his voice cracked, pathetic in your ear. "I missed you. Missed you so fuckin' bad—"

Your hand stayed in his hair, pulling just enough to make him whine into your neck. His cock twitched inside you at the sound of his own need.

"Need... need you," you whispered, your thighs locking tighter around him, pulling him in deeper.

"I know," he breathed, voice barely holding together. "I know, I know—"

The wet slap of skin echoed in the room, sharp and fast, sweat slick between you both. It was frantic, ugly sex—nothing soft about it. Just desperation. Just two people drowning together because neither one could swim without the other.

His mouth trembled against your jaw. His cock throbbed, already close. He'd gotten too worked up too fast—he always did. His hips stuttered, rhythm breaking.

"Nnh—fuck, I'm—"

You came first, feeling yourself tip over the edge as he continued. You clenched around him hard, watching his body break for you.

His head snapped back, mouth falling open in a raw, silent cry. His stomach jerked tight, cock pulsing inside you, spilling hot, messy. Too much—his cum leaking out as he kept fucking into it, making it worse. Intensifying every move.

"F-fuck—" he gasped, still moving, overstimulating himself with every desperate thrust. His voice cracked, almost a sob. "Feel s'good..."

You gripped his shoulders tighter.

"Dex," you murmured, your voice too soft.

His face twisted, wrecked and open and softer than it should’ve been. His hips stuttered again, another shaky pulse of cum spilling inside you like he needed to mark you, to ruin you so you wouldn’t send him back out into the dark.

And you let him.

You let him ruin you.

A few moments of silence passed. The room no longer had the sound of skin against each other, only the sound of your breaths mixing in together.

He didn't pull out immediately, not yet. He stayed buried inside of you, head nuzzled into the crook of your neck as he pressed a trail of wet kisses down your neck. His mouth lingered against your pulse, teeth scraping your skin.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he groaned.

"Fuck, I'm in trouble." You grunted underneath your breath.

He leaned back, just enough to see your eyes once again. The corners of his lips twitched into a small smile, and his eyes weren't empty anymore. Not fully. He breathed, the gears inside of his head turning.

"I am in trouble." He quipped. An attempt to lighten the mood up.

A beat. Then another.

Dex could feel himself getting even more nervous by the second.

You looked at him, chest heaving up and down before you shifted away from him.

You wheezed, "un-fucking-believable."

"Hey, wait—I was just joking."

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