#jonbernthalrpf

Frank Castle had been sitting in the corner booth for three hours, nursing the same whiskey he hadn't touched in two. His knuckles were still split from the night before , a warehouse, two men who thought they were harder than they were, a debt they owed that they'd never pay now. His jaw ached. His ribs throbbed with every breath.

He wasn't here for company. He was here because the apartment was too quiet, and quiet had a way of dragging him back to the faces he couldn't save.

You walked in near midnight, shaking rain off your jacket.

You found a stool two seats from Frank, close enough to notice the coil of tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes tracked the door without blinking.

You didn't ask if he was okay. People like him hated that question.

Instead, you said, "Rough night?"

He turned his head, slow, like he wasn't used to being spoken to. His eyes were dark, hard, but there was something behind them that wasn't anger. Something tired.

"You could say that," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke, two octaves lower than the room.

Most people read the scar on his lip, the weight in his frame, and looked away. You didn't. You met his gaze and stayed there.

"Then you're drinking the wrong thing," you said, and slid your bourbon across the bar toward him.

For a long moment, he just looked at it. Then the corner of his mouth twitched , almost a smile, almost.

"Thanks," he said, and drank.

The night passed like that. Not conversation, exactly more like two people circling each other in the language of tiredness and trust. He told you his name was Frank, and you knew better than to ask what he did. You told him you worked nights, that your life was unremarkable, that you were lonely in a city full of people.

He listened. Really listened. That was the thing about Frank when he wasn't in the fight, when the noise in his head quieted for a moment, he gave you his whole attention. Like you were the only thing in the room.

When last call came, he stood. He was bigger than he'd looked seated, shoulders like a doorway, but when he moved toward the exit he hesitated. Turned back.

"You want a ride?" he asked. "It's late. Rain's coming down hard."

And there it was the choice, hanging in the air between you.

The truck smelled like gun oil and something faintly like pine. The heater was broken but you didn't care. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, knuckles white.

"Your place or mine?" he asked, and there was no pressure in it, just an offer. Frank Castle didn't beg. He didn't have to.

You told him yours. He nodded, said nothing, and drove.

The streets were empty. Rain hammered the windshield. The silence between you was comfortable in a way silence rarely is two strangers who'd agreed, wordlessly, to carry each other's weight for one night.

When he pulled up outside your building, he killed the engine. The rain filled the space where words might have been.

"You sure about this?" he asked, and it wasn't a test. It was him giving you an out, because that's who he was underneath it all

You reached for the door handle. "Coming up?"

He looked at you for a long moment, then nodded once. That was the whole conversation.

The stairs were narrow and dark. He followed a step behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the slight hitch in his stride, the way his shoulder brushed the wall like he was used to tight spaces.

At your door, your hands fumbled with the keys. His hand covered yours, steadying it. His palm was rough with calluses, warm despite the cold.

"I'm not good at this," he said, voice low. "The talking part. The soft part." A pause. "Just so you know what you're getting."

You turned to face him. "I'm not looking for talking."

And that was enough.

He stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him. The rain kept falling outside, and whatever happened after that, in the quiet dark of your apartment, belonged to the two of you alone.