#synth pop

Benjamin Poindexter x Fem!Reader

You were just being nice. He turned it into something permanent.

Dex's Masterlist

It starts small. It always does.

Benjamin Poindexter doesn’t notice you because you’re loud. Or flashy. Or even particularly remarkable in the way most people define it.

He notices you because you are consistent.

Same diner. Same time. Same booth—third from the window, left side, where the neon sign bleeds pink across the glass and paints everything softer than it really is.

8:12 PM.

Not 8:10. Not 8:15.

8:12.

You order before the waitress even asks. Coffee first, always black, always untouched for at least six minutes before you take your first sip. Then something small—fries, usually. Sometimes a slice of pie you barely finish.

You bring something with you every time. A notebook, sometimes. A cassette player more often. Headphones resting loose around your neck, not fully on, like you don’t want to disappear completely.

You hum sometimes.

Not loudly. Not for attention.

Just enough.

Dex sits three booths behind you the first time.

Then two.

Then one.

Not because he’s interested.

Because proximity improves accuracy.

—

It becomes routine.

Observation requires repetition.

He builds you the way he builds everything else—piece by piece, detail by detail, until you make sense.

You tap your fingers when you’re thinking. You tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re uncomfortable. You stare out the window when you’re somewhere else entirely.

You are easy to map.

Predictable.

Clean.

You fit.

And that matters more than anything.

—

The record store comes later.

He doesn’t follow you there immediately. That would be inefficient. Premature. But once he notices the bag—the same store logo folded into your arm every Thursday night—he adjusts.

Thursday. 6:34 PM.

You linger there longer than anywhere else.

This is where you’re different.

Less contained.

You flip through vinyl slowly, like time bends around you. You read covers. You smile at things no one else notices.

You play tracks at the listening station, eyes half-lidded, completely gone somewhere he can’t reach.

So he learns.

He memorizes what you choose.

Synth-heavy. Dreamlike. Soft vocals layered over something pulsing underneath.

He listens later, alone, in his apartment. Same songs. Same order.

It helps.

It makes the noise in his head quieter.

You make it quieter.

—

The first time you speak to him, it’s accidental.

You’re both reaching for the same record.

Your fingers brush.

You don’t flinch.

“Sorry,” you say, easy, absent-minded. Not scared. Not guarded. Just… normal.

Dex studies your face in real time.

Matches it to what he already knows.

You don’t recognize him.

That’s fine.

“You can take it,” you add, already pulling your hand back.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you like it?” he asks instead.

Your head tilts slightly. Curious. Open.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s… I don’t know. It feels like driving somewhere you’re not supposed to go.”

He processes that.

Files it.

“Okay,” he says.

You smile—small, quick—and grab a different record instead.

Conversation over.

But something has shifted.

Because now you’re not just pattern.

You’re interaction.

—

After that, it becomes easier.

You don’t question his presence. Why would you? He mirrors you well.

When you’re quiet, he’s quiet.

When you talk, he listens the right way—focused, still, like every word matters.

You say things casually. About music. About the city. About how sometimes it feels like everyone’s watching everyone else, waiting for something to slip.

He remembers all of it.

Repeats it back later, not exactly the same, but close enough to feel familiar.

You don’t notice.

You just think he understands you.

—

You start sitting together.

Not every night.

But enough that it becomes expected.

He adjusts his routine around yours seamlessly. There’s no disruption. No friction.

That’s how you know it’s working.

You laugh once—soft, surprised—and he locks onto it like a coordinate.

Replays it later in his head.

Tries to find the exact sequence that caused it.

Stores it.

Reuses it.

—

“You always come here alone?” you ask one night, stirring your coffee even though you haven’t added anything to it.

“Yes.”

“By choice?”

“Yes.”

You watch him for a second longer than usual.

“Me too.”

He nods.

That fits.

—

For a while, everything is… stable.

You are consistent.

He is precise.

The system works.

The shift is small.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

—

You don’t show up.

Thursday.

6:34 PM.

He waits.

6:40.

6:52.

7:10.

You are not late.

You are never late.

He runs through possibilities.

Transit delay. Work. Illness.

He goes to the diner.

You’re not there either.

Your booth is empty. Someone else is sitting in it, laughing too loud, disrupting the symmetry.

Dex stands there longer than necessary.

The waitress asks if he wants anything.

“No,” he says.

And leaves.

—

The next day, you still don’t appear.

Or the next.

Or the next.

—

Something is wrong.

Not with the world.

With you.

Because the world follows patterns.

You followed patterns.

And now you don’t.

—

When you finally come back, it’s not right.

8:12 PM.

You sit in your usual booth.

But you don’t order right away.

You don’t bring your cassette player.

Your fingers don’t tap.

Dex watches from across the room.

You look… off.

Like something has been removed.

Or replaced.

He approaches carefully.

Measured.

“You didn’t come,” he says.

No greeting.

No buildup.

Just fact.

You look up, startled—but not afraid.

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah. I just… had stuff going on.”

That’s not an answer.

“What stuff?” he asks.

Your expression shifts slightly. A crease between your brows.

“Just life,” you say, a little lighter, like you’re trying to move past it.

That’s incorrect.

That’s vague.

That doesn’t align.

“You didn’t tell me,” he says.

“I didn’t know I had to.”

You say it gently. Not defensive. Not harsh.

But it lands wrong anyway.

—

Dex studies you.

Everything is slightly off.

Your tone. Your posture. The way you don’t hold eye contact as long.

“You’re different,” he says.

You blink.

“What?”

“You’re acting different.”

A pause.

Then a small, disbelieving laugh.

“I mean… yeah? Things change.”

“They don’t,” he says.

They shouldn’t.

—

You lean back, watching him now in a way you haven’t before.

More carefully.

More aware.

“That’s not really how people work,” you say.

“You said you liked it here,” he continues, ignoring that. “You said it felt—”

“I remember what I said.”

Your voice cuts in, still calm, but firmer now.

“And I still do. I just… don’t always want the same things all the time.”

That doesn’t make sense.

It contradicts previous data.

“You’re inconsistent,” he says.

You stare at him.

Something flickers across your face.

Not fear.

Not yet.

But something closer to it than before.

“Dex,” you say slowly, “that’s normal.”

No.

No, it isn’t.

—

“You don’t usually cancel,” he says.

“I didn’t cancel anything.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t know I had to report my schedule to you.”

That lands harder.

Sharpened.

Unintentional—but sharp.

—

There’s a silence that stretches too long.

Too tight.

The neon outside flickers.

—

“I didn’t ask you to—” you start, then stop yourself.

But it’s already there.

Hanging between you.

He waits.

“You didn’t ask me to what?” he says.

You shake your head slightly.

“Nothing.”

“No,” he says, quieter now. “Say it.”

You hesitate.

Then—

“I didn’t ask you to feel like this.”

—

That’s it.

That’s the break.

—

Dex doesn’t react immediately.

Because first, he has to process.

Re-run.

Re-evaluate.

You didn’t ask.

So—

This isn’t shared.

This isn’t mutual.

This is… his.

—

“You made it like this,” he says.

You exhale, tired now.

“I didn’t make you do anything.”

“You—”

“I was just being nice,” you interrupt, softer but more certain now. “I liked talking to you. That’s it.”

That’s it.

That’s—

No.

That’s not enough.

It can’t be that small.

Not with how it feels.

—

“You said things,” he presses.

“Yeah,” you say. “People do that.”

“You meant them.”

“I did.”

“Then why are you—”

“Because meaning something in a moment doesn’t mean it’s… permanent.”

—

There it is again.

Inconsistency.

Instability.

Wrong.

—

“I’m allowed to change,” you add.

The words settle.

Heavy.

Final.

—

Dex looks at you like he’s trying to fit you back into something that no longer exists.

But you don’t.

You don’t fit anymore.

—

You stand first.

Slow.

Careful.

“I think…” you start, then stop, choosing your words more deliberately now.

“I think you thought I was something I’m not.”

No.

He knew you.

He built you.

He—

“You don’t actually know me,” you say quietly.

And that one lands.

Deep.

Because it’s the first thing that feels… possible.

—

You leave money on the table.

You don’t touch him.

You don’t look back.

—

Dex stays seated long after you’re gone.

The booth feels wrong now.

Too empty.

Too loud.

—

He doesn’t follow you.

Not right away.

That wouldn’t fix it.

—

He goes home.

—

The room is exactly how he left it.

Precise.

Ordered.

Controlled.

Except for one space.

—

A separate room.

Smaller.

Closed off.

—

Inside, it’s different.

Less structured.

But not chaotic.

Organized obsession.

—

Notebooks stacked in careful columns.

Dates.

Times.

Observations.

Your words, written down in neat, exact handwriting.

Your patterns mapped across pages.

Your routines charted in ink.

—

There are receipts.

A napkin you used once, folded cleanly.

A strand of your hair—thin, nearly invisible—sealed between two pieces of tape, labeled with the date.

Collected without disruption.

Without you noticing.

—

On the wall, a calendar.

The last month marked in red.

Your absences circled.

Your return noted.

Your deviation highlighted.

—

Dex stands there, staring at it all.

At you.

Or—

What you were.

—

“You’re wrong,” he says quietly.

Not to you.

To the space.

To the idea of you.

“You were consistent.”

You had to be.

Because he needed you to be.

—

He picks up one of the notebooks.

Flips through it.

Page after page of you.

Perfect.

Predictable.

Correct.

—

Then—

The last few entries.

Messy.

Unstable.

Incorrect.

—

Dex closes the notebook slowly.

Sets it back in place.

—

Adjustments can be made.

Patterns can be relearned.

—

He moves to the window.

Looks out over the street.

—

You’re out there somewhere.

Different now.

But still traceable.

Still observable.

—

He just needs time.

—

And you—

You feel it before you see it.

Days later.

Weeks, maybe.

That subtle, crawling awareness.

—

Someone standing too long across the street.

A figure that doesn’t move when it should.

A presence that lingers just outside certainty.

—

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

It has to be.

—

But sometimes, when you pass reflective glass—

You swear you see him.

Not close.

Not touching.

Just—

Watching.

—

And that’s worse.

Because he doesn’t need to be near you anymore.

—

He already knows you.

Or at least—

The version of you he refuses to let go.

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