Wenee0_0

For a moment it leaves you squinting in confusion.

The hum of distant traffic filters through the windows.

Your neck aches, a sharp crick running from the base of your skull down between your shoulders.

Your back isn't much better. Every muscle protests as you shift, stiff from being curled awkwardly in the driver's seat.

Something hard presses against your side, and for a few disoriented seconds you can't figure out why everything feels so uncomfortable.

Then your brain finally catches up.

The truck.

Right.

The familiar scent of worn upholstery and stale coffee settles around you as memory slowly returns.

Sometime during your search you must have pulled over.

Just for a minute.

Just long enough to rest your eyes.

Apparently long enough to fall asleep.

You groan softly and drag a hand down your face, trying to shake off the lingering haze of exhaustion.

A glance through the windshield reveals pale morning light creeping across the street, brighter than it has any right to be.

Great.

Probably a cop.

You can already hear yourself trying to explain why you've been parked on the side of the road for God knows how long, half asleep in your truck like someone who absolutely has their life together.

Your eyes squint, struggling against the morning light as you roll down the window.

The figure outside is little more than a blur at first.

Then suddenly a hand reaches through the open window.

Click.

The lock pops open.

"What the—"

Before you can finish, the stranger is already moving.

Footsteps round the front of the truck.

Then the passenger door opens.

A body slides into the seat beside you.

"Knew you'd come."

The voice is rough.

Gravelly.

Familiar.

Your entire body freezes.

"Dex?"

The name escapes you before you can stop it.

There he is.

Sunk into the passenger seat like every bone in his body hurts.

His head tipped back against the worn fabric.

A grin stretched across his face.

A ridiculous grin.

The kind of grin somebody shouldn't be capable of wearing while looking half dead.

Your stomach drops.

God.

He looks awful.

Worse than awful.

Dried blood stains the corner of his mouth, dark against skin gone pale beneath the grime.

More has dried in uneven trails from a split somewhere near his brow, crusted along the edge of a bruise already turning angry shades of purple and blue.

His face is swollen in places, one cheek marked with the fading imprint of a hard hit.

Fresh cuts and scrapes catch the morning light, and there are shadows beneath his eyes so deep they look carved there.

Exhaustion hangs off him like a second skin.

Like he's been running on nothing but adrenaline and sheer refusal to quit.

He looks like someone stitched together from scraps and stubbornness alone.

"Dex..."

The word leaves you in a breath.

And then nothing.

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Every thought in your head tangles together at once.

The television.

The gunshot.

The blood.

The hours spent searching.

The certainty that he was dead.

The shock of seeing him sitting here now.

The shock of seeing what state he's in.

You don't know what to say.

Don't know where to start.

All that fear and relief crashes together until there's only one thing left.

"Dex, are you okay?"

You're already moving before he can answer.

One hand comes up to cradle his jaw, turning his face gently toward the light.

Your thumb brushes across a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, then traces carefully beneath his eye as if checking whether he's really there.

The other hand slips into his hair, pushing aside blood-stiffened strands from his forehead.

While Dex's grin only widens.

The idiot actually looks pleased.

Like this is the best thing that's happened to him all week.

"I'm good," he mutters.

The lie is so obvious it almost makes you angry.

Then he coughs.

A rough wet sound.

Your heart immediately sinks.

"Dex."

"I'm fine."

"You got shot."

"I'm alive."

"Dex."

He sighs dramatically.

Like you're the difficult one.

"Just take me back to your place."

Your eyes narrow immediately.

Absolutely not.

Without warning you grab the hem of his shirt.

"Doll."

You ignore him.

"Doll."

You lift it anyway.

His complaint dies instantly.

Beneath the black fabric sits a crude bandage wrapped around his abdomen.

The edges are stained pink with old blood.

Whoever patched him up clearly wasn't trying to win awards.

You stare.

Confused.

"Did somebody help you?"

Dex glances down.

"Yeah."

A pause.

Then a crooked smile.

"She did a terrible job."

Your fingers carefully touch the edge of the dressing.

"Probably because I killed her friend." Dex shrugs.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Then decide you don't have the energy to unpack whatever nightmare that sentence means.

The vigilante community is apparently insane.

You pull his shirt back down.

"I'll redo it when we get home."

The words leave your mouth automatically.

Simple.

Natural.

You don't even think about them.

Home.

Not your apartment.

Not your place.

Home.

As though the decision had already been made somewhere deep inside you.

As though there was never another option.

Dex goes completely still.

The grin slowly disappears.

Not because he's upset.

Because something softer takes its place.

Something almost vulnerable.

For a moment he just looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Then he leans back against the seat.

Exhaustion finally winning whatever battle stubbornness had been fighting.

And very quietly—

Almost too quietly to hear—

He says,

"Yeah."

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Home sounds good."

You don't hear what Dex says.

Not at first.

You're too busy fighting with your truck.

The engine coughs weakly as you turn the key.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

The old thing groans in protest before falling silent again.

"Oh, come on..."

You let your forehead fall briefly against the steering wheel.

"Why now?"

Of all mornings for your truck to decide it has opinions.

Beside you, Dex seems perfectly content.

His eyes have drifted shut.

His head rests against the passenger window.

For a moment, you think he's fallen asleep.

You almost feel guilty for the noise.

Then—

"I thought I'd die last night."

Your hand freezes on the key.

The truck falls silent.

For a second neither of you move.

You stare through the windshield.

At the empty street.

At nothing.

Then slowly turn the key again.

The engine protests.

You don't answer.

You don't want this conversation.

Not now.

Not after the last twenty-four hours.

Not after having him half dead in your passenger seat.

You just want to get him home.

Patch him up.

Make sure he's breathing.

Everything else can wait.

But Dex keeps talking.

"I really thought that was it."

His voice is quieter than usual.

Not weaker.

Just... stripped down somehow. Like he's too tired to pretend.

"When I got to the church..."

A small breath escapes him.

"I thought my time was up."

You stare ahead.

The key turns again.

The engine coughs.

Fails.

Silence.

"I thought I'd done what I needed to do."

His gaze remains fixed somewhere outside the window.

Not looking at you.

Not really looking at anything.

"I thought I took care of what had to be taken care of."

A faint smile touches his mouth.

One without humor.

"And I was okay with it."

That finally makes you stop.

Your hand slips away from the ignition.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Because somehow that feels worse than everything else he's said.

You turn toward him.

Dex is still leaning against the seat.

Eyes half-lidded.

Exhaustion written into every line of his face.

"I was at peace with it."

He lets out a small laugh.

The sound catches somewhere in his throat.

"I didn't think I'd be."

Another pause.

"But I was."

The morning light spills through the windshield.

Pale gold against dried blood.

Against bruises.

Against a face that suddenly looks older than you've ever seen it.

Then Dex finally looks at you.

Really looks at you.

"I'm here now."

His voice lowers.

"And that has to mean something."

Something vulnerable flickers behind his eyes.

Confusion.

Hope.

Fear.

You aren't sure.

Maybe all three.

"Because why else would I still be here?"

His fingers tighten slightly against his thigh.

"As messed up as I am."

A humorless smile.

"As broken as this thing is."

He taps his chest lightly.

"This body."

"This head."

"Why am I still here if there's not a reason for it?"

Your throat tightens.

Because for all the terrible things Dex has done...

For all the things you hate about him...

You know this isn't manipulation.

He's asking you a real question.

One he genuinely doesn't know the answer to.

And somehow that's worse.

The certainty is gone.

The anger is gone.

All that's left is a frightened man searching for meaning.

Then his gaze softens.

Immediately.

The moment it lands on you.

Like the answer had been sitting in front of him all along.

"Just before I thought the darkness was finally gonna take me..."

His voice cracks slightly.

Barely noticeable.

But you hear it.

"I thought about you."

You swallow hard.

Dex looks away for a moment.

Almost embarrassed by the confession.

Then continues anyway.

"I didn't think about Fisk."

"I didn't think about Daredevil."

"I didn't think about any of it."

His jaw tightens.

"I just thought about you."

The truck suddenly feels too small.

Too quiet.

Too intimate.

You can't seem to look away.

"I wondered what you were doing."

A faint smile.

"I figured you were probably worrying."

That almost makes you laugh.

Almost.

Then his expression shifts.

Something raw opening beneath it.

"And I missed you."

The words come out so softly you almost miss them.

Like he's admitting something shameful.

Something he wasn't supposed to say aloud.

"I missed you a lot."

Your eyes burn immediately.

"Dex..."

"I know."

He shakes his head.

"I know."

His gaze drops to his hands.

"I know I don't get to ask for things."

The words hit harder than they should.

Because for once he sounds like he believes it.

"But I did."

His eyes lift again.

Straight to yours.

"And I prayed."

You freeze.

Because Dex never talks about praying lightly.

Never.

His voice is barely above a whisper now.

"I prayed I'd see you again."

Your chest aches.

"And if I died..."

His mouth trembles slightly.

Just once.

"So stupid."

A small depreciative laugh at himself before continuing—

"If I die..."

His eyes never leave yours.

"I want it to be where you could see me."

The tears hit before you realize they're coming.

"I don't want to disappear somewhere you couldn't find me."

A pause.

Painfully small.

Painfully honest.

"I won’t be able to accept that."

And suddenly the truck feels far too small to contain the weight of what he's just handed you.

You nod weakly, dragging the heel of your hand beneath your eyes to wipe away the tears gathering there. Your fingers tremble slightly as you do it.

"Don't worry," you whisper.

The words come out uneven, your voice shaking around them.

"That won't happen."

Dex watches you with an intensity that makes your chest ache. His eyes don't leave your face for a second, as if he's searching for any sign that you don't mean it.

"I'll always be here."

You lean closer and reach for him, letting your hand settle against his arm. Your thumb moves in slow circles over the fabric of his sleeve.

The gesture is automatic.

Instinctive.

The same way you would soothe someone frightened after a nightmare.

The same way you would comfort someone who looked like they were barely holding themselves together.

"Just sit back, okay?"

You force a small smile, though it feels fragile.

"Let's get you home."

Home.

The word hangs in the air between you.

You watch it hit him.

Something in Dex immediately softens.

His shoulders loosen.

His breathing slows.

Like the word itself has wrapped around him.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifts one hand.

The movement draws your attention to the damage there.

Dried blood darkens his knuckles.

Thin scratches cut across his skin.

His fingers are rough and bruised.

Evidence of everything he's been through.

Everything he survived.

You don't pull away when he reaches for your hand.

You don't think you could.

Not now.

Not after everything that's happened.

His fingers curl carefully around yours, treating your hand like something fragile.

Something precious.

Then he lifts it toward his face.

His lips brush your fingertips first.

A feather-light touch.

Then your knuckles.

One by one.

Lingering for a moment on each.

Not rushed.

Not desperate.

Almost reverent.

Like he's trying to commit every detail to memory.

Like he's grateful you're letting him hold on at all.

When his lips finally press against the inside of your wrist, warmth blooms beneath your skin.

You feel the faint curve of his smile against your pulse.

Feel the soft exhale of his breath.

Then—

"Let's get married."

For a moment, your mind simply stalls.

The words reach you.

You hear them clearly.

But they refuse to make sense.

Like your brain can't quite arrange them into something real.

Dex keeps talking before you can respond.

"I don't think it'd be a big wedding."

His thumb drifts back and forth across the back of your hand in absentminded strokes.

"Probably small."

A quiet chuckle escapes him.

"I don't really have family."

Your stomach drops so suddenly it feels like missing a step in the dark.

Oh.

He's serious.

Completely serious.

"The only people there would probably be your dad."

Another small laugh.

Soft.

Almost shy.

"Maybe some of my old coworkers."

His brow furrows as he considers it.

"Though they might call the police."

"Dex."

You barely recognize your own voice.

It's thin.

Breathless.

His eyes lift to yours immediately.

Soft.

Hopeful.

Completely open.

The look on his face hurts.

Not because it's happy.

Because it's vulnerable.

Because he's looking at you like the answer matters more than anything else in the world.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly that."

The response comes instantly.

Without hesitation.

Without uncertainty.

Like this is the most obvious thing he's ever said.

Like he's already made peace with the decision.

"I thought about what you said."

His fingers tighten around yours.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to hold on.

"The husband."

"The family."

"The life."

Emotion catches in his throat.

You see him swallow hard.

His jaw flexes.

"I think I can do that."

"Dex—"

"I do."

For the first time, urgency slips into his voice.

Not anger.

Not frustration.

Fear.

Raw and unmistakable.

The fear of someone desperate to be understood.

"I think I can be that man."

His eyes glisten beneath the light.

Bright with emotion.

"I think I can be good."

The words hit you like a stone dropped into deep water.

Because there it is.

The truth underneath everything else.

Not marriage.

Not children.

Not a house.

Not a future.

Good.

He's still talking about being good.

Still chasing it.

Still reaching for it with both hands.

Like it's always just beyond his grasp.

Like every time he gets close, it slips away again.

"Doll..."

His voice cracks.

Just slightly.

Barely enough to hear.

But enough.

"I think God gave me another chance."

Your throat tightens painfully.

No.

Not God.

Not destiny.

Not fate.

This isn't faith.

It's survival.

You can see it happening.

Right in front of you.

The same way someone reaches for a ledge while falling.

The same way a drowning person breaks the surface and gasps for air.

Dex almost died.

The thing he convinced himself would fix him didn't work.

The darkness is still there.

The emptiness is still there.

The fear is still there.

You can see all of it in the way his shoulders remain tense despite his smile.

In the way his fingers refuse to let go of yours.

In the way his eyes keep searching your face.

And now he's looking for something else to hold onto.

Something that will finally make sense of everything.

Something that will finally make him feel whole.

Something that will finally explain why he survived when he shouldn't have.

And somehow—

Horribly—

That something is you.

"I think you saved me."

Tears spill over before he can stop them.

They slide silently down his cheeks.

He doesn't wipe them away.

Doesn't seem to notice them at all.

His entire focus remains fixed on you.

"I really do."

You stare at him.

At the hope shining in his eyes.

At the desperation buried beneath it.

At the tears tracking down his face.

At the way he's clutching your hand like it's the only solid thing left in the world.

Like letting go might send him drifting somewhere he can't come back from.

And suddenly you understand something that terrifies you.

This isn't a proposal.

Not really.

It's a lifeline.

A plea wrapped in the shape of a future.

For a moment, you try to picture it.

Marriage.

The word settles strangely in your chest.

Not because you have never imagined it before.

You have.

God, you have.

When you were younger, you used to imagine a little blue house somewhere quiet. A porch swing that creaked in the evenings. A garden you never quite managed to keep alive.

You imagined coming home from work to someone already there.

Someone normal.

Someone who would complain about coworkers and traffic and bills.

Someone who would leave coffee mugs in the sink and forget anniversaries and ask what was for dinner.

You imagined children.

Small hands.

Tiny shoes by the front door.

A face that looked a little like yours and a little like theirs.

Something steady.

Something ordinary.

Something safe.

Your eyes sting.

Because suddenly—

you realize none of those daydreams ever had Dex in them.

Not once.

And somehow that hurts more than it should.

Your gaze drops to him.

To the dried blood still staining his jaw.

To the exhaustion carved into his face.

To the way he is looking at you now.

Like a man hanging from the edge of a cliff.

Like if you let go, there will be nothing beneath him.

A terrible sadness settles inside your chest.

Not fear.

Not regret.

Grief.

Pure grief.

Because you understand now.

You understand that loving Dex has never been about choosing between a good future and a bad one.

It is choosing between him—

and the future itself.

You know what marriage will not do.

It will not cure him.

It will not heal whatever lives inside him.

It will not make him gentle.

It will not make him normal.

Tomorrow he will still be Benjamin Poindexter.

Still impulsive.

Still obsessive.

Still reaching for violence the way other people reach for comfort.

A wedding ring will not change that.

Your love will not change that.

Nothing will.

Because there is nothing broken in him waiting to be fixed.

This is who he is.

And this realization should make letting go easier.

It should.

But when you imagine pulling your hand from his—

when you imagine watching him disappear from your life—

when you imagine never hearing his voice again—

never feeling his hand searching for yours—

never seeing that ridiculous smile he only seems capable of giving you—

something inside you cracks.

A sob catches in your throat.

Because for all the lives you could have lived—

all the futures you could have chosen—

every road that doesn't have Dex in it suddenly feels unbearably empty.

Not happier.

Not brighter.

Just empty.

And maybe that is the cruelest part.

You know he will never become the man you once dreamed of.

But somewhere along the way—

without meaning to—

he became the man you loved.

The tears finally spill over.

You lower your head.

And for the first time since he said those words—

since he asked for forever as casually as asking for the time—

you realize the choice was never really between yes and no.

It was between grief and grief.

And no matter which one you choose—

something will be lost.

Dex sees your tears and mistakes them for joy.

Of course he does.

He has seen it before.

In movies.

In television shows.

Women cry when they get proposed to.

Women cry when they are happy.

Women cry when they are loved.

So when he sees you covering your face with your hand, shoulders trembling beneath the pale light spilling through the windshield, he smiles.

A small, relieved smile.

As if the hardest part is over.

"Hey."

His voice is soft.

Careful.

Almost hesitant.

"You don't have to cry."

A breathless laugh escapes him, quiet and nervous.

"I mean... unless they're good tears."

One of his hands lifts slowly.

Tentatively.

Like he's afraid moving too quickly might shatter the moment.

His fingers brush across your forehead, gently sweeping a few loose strands of hair away from your face. The touch is feather-light, lingering for just a second before his hand settles against your temple.

The gesture makes you look up at him.

Your eyes are red.

Glossy with tears.

Your lashes damp.

And the moment Dex sees them, something in his expression softens even further.

The nervousness fades.

The uncertainty.

All that's left is affection.

His hand slides down to your cheek.

Warm.

Careful.

Cupping your face as though you're something fragile.

Something precious.

His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching a tear before it can fall.

Then another.

And another.

Wiping away tears that refuse to stop coming.

"You know..." he says quietly, almost shyly. "I've thought about it before."

His gaze drops briefly to your joined hands resting between you.

His thumb strokes absentmindedly across your knuckles.

"More times than I'd admit."

A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Embarrassed.

Fond.

"And every time I did..."

His eyes lift back to yours.

Steady.

Earnest.

"I couldn't picture anybody else standing there."

The words land like stones in your chest.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

Because he means them.

Every single one.

There isn't a trace of manipulation in his face.

No calculation.

No hidden motive.

No attempt to convince you.

Just love.

Pure and terrifying.

The kind that asks for everything without realizing how much it's asking.

The kind that trusts completely.

His hand remains against your cheek.

Warm.

Gentle.

Cradling your face as though it is something precious.

Something breakable.

His thumb continues to move in slow, absent circles against your skin.

Comforting you.

Trying to soothe tears he doesn't understand.

And the worst part is—

he thinks this is a beautiful moment.

He thinks this is what happiness looks like.

He thinks the tears running down your face are because you've been handed a future.

Not because you're mourning one.

Patiently, he waits.

Waits for the answer.

For the word that will settle the restless thing inside him.

The word that will finally let him believe he isn't alone anymore.

The word that will give meaning to surviving.

The word that will keep him from falling.

You stare at him.

At the dried blood beneath his nose.

At the faint bruising beginning to darken along his jaw.

At the exhaustion sitting heavy beneath his eyes.

The exhaustion of a man who has spent years carrying more than he should.

And beneath all of it—

the hope.

God.

The hope.

It's everywhere.

In the way he's looking at you.

In the way he's holding your hand.

In the way he's waiting so patiently, as though he already trusts the answer.

And suddenly you realize you already made your choice the moment you started searching for him.

The moment you climbed into your car.

The moment you spent all night driving through Hell's Kitchen with your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

The moment every unanswered call made you panic.

The moment relief hurt more than fear when you finally saw he was alive.

You were never standing at a crossroads.

You were only pretending to.

A sob escapes you.

Small.

Broken.

Your eyes squeeze shut.

Fresh tears spill over despite your efforts to stop them.

Then you nod.

Once.

Twice.

The movement is barely noticeable.

But it changes everything.

"Yes."

Your voice breaks around the word.

Fragile.

Unsteady.

You swallow hard and try again.

"Yes."

More tears slide down your cheeks.

Not because you're certain.

Not because you're happy.

Not because this will save either of you.

But because you love him.

Because despite everything, despite all the reasons you shouldn't, despite every fear clawing at your chest—

you love him.

And somehow that feels far more frightening than anything else.

"Yes," you whisper.

Your lips tremble.

Your throat tightens.

Then finally—

"Let's get married."

OC!Reader the biggest mama bird of them all. 😞😞😞 Thank you for the read everyone and as you guys must have guessed it.....next chapter is the last chapter. Whatttttt?!

Yep, Log 4 will be the final chapter of Northbound.

This ended up being a pretty short series, but this is mainly because I'm preparing to embark on a new journey in my own life. This is why I think I'll be stepping away from the writing world for a little while.

It's been an incredible experience. Your comments, support, and encouragement have meant more to me than I can properly express, and they played a huge part in helping me see this story through to the end.

Thank you for reading, for sharing your thoughts, and for joining me on this journey.

With that said, I'll see you next time. Peace.✌️😉

Taglist: @braindead-raccoon , @sleepystaarr , @nbhrhn, @junyrosess, @jheelam-23-08, @teasippindragon, @umsan733, @justalover-gurl, @avocad0ess @bellispunk @whorrorbellee @rporter19 @actuallyazriel @urdarkestsecrets @finalgirlmp3 @hellscagee @dexishot05 @saltea-coffee @i-shall-be-the-possum1 @juliecherrybomb @madglyphrefuge @tvdumarvelhpsimp @foggyturtleknightangel @snowwythegloww @ultraviolence44 @kkkkisworld @libertywrites1 @itsneagain36689 @marytvirgin @sawendel@cpuffz@slowlylosingfaith @akiyhara 

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Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Reader presses the device tighter against her ear.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on.

Then—

"The number you are trying to reach—"

Reader immediately hangs up.

"No."

She stares at the screen.

Calls again.

The same result.

Again.

The same.

Again.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The silence feels deafening.

A horrible pressure begins building inside her chest.

Suddenly every terrible possibility arrives all at once.

Did somebody find him?

Did the AVTF finally catch up?

Did Fisk?

Did somebody recognize him?

Did he get cornered somewhere?

Did he get hurt?

No.

No.

If he had been captured it would have been everywhere.

Every newspaper.

Every television channel.

Josh would've known.

Josh reads the news every morning.

The entire city would know if Benjamin Poindexter had been arrested.

Which means—

Reader's hand flies to her mouth.

A cold wave rushes through her body.

No.

No no no.

Please don't let it be that.

Immediately her imagination betrays her.

An alley.

Dark.

Hidden from the street.

AVTF officers.

Angry ones.

The kind who had lost friends because of him.

The kind who might decide not to file paperwork afterward.

A gun.

A body.

Gunshots.

Sharp.

Close.

Final.

Reader physically flinches.

Her eyes squeeze shut.

As though she can actually hear them.

"No..."

The word escapes her before she can stop it.

Her breathing becomes uneven.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

She presses herself back against the nearest wall.

Trying to steady herself.

Trying to think.

But all she can see are flashes.

Every horrible possibility her mind can invent.

Every ending.

Every death.

Every goodbye she never got to say.

Because she didn't mean it.

God.

She didn't mean it.

Not really.

Not the way it sounded.

Not the way she made it sound.

Tears blur her vision.

Reader stares down at the floor.

At the dark stains scattered between shattered glass.

Small flecks of dried blood.

Old enough to have turned brown.

Her chest tightens painfully.

Whose blood is that?

Some officer's?

Some stranger's?

Or—

Dex's?

A broken hiccup escapes her.

For the first time in her life she finds herself praying for something she once hated.

She hopes he was cruel.

She hopes he was faster.

More ruthless.

More violent.

More terrifying.

Because if he was—

then maybe he survived.

Maybe he's still alive.

Maybe she can still find him.

Maybe she can still apologize.

A real apology.

Not the awkward half-formed attempts she kept rehearsing in her head.

Not pride.

Not excuses.

Not distance.

Just honesty.

Because yes.

She had imagined his death.

She had.

But every version of it had always come wrapped in grief.

The same grief crushing her now.

Reader slowly sinks onto the floor.

The familiar hardwood presses against her legs.

She looks around the apartment.

These yellow walls.

These cheap cracked windows.

This ridiculous little studio.

For three days she had called this place home.

For three days she had let herself belong here.

Allowed herself to belong here.

Allowed herself to belong to him.

And God help her—

she had wanted it.

Wanted him.

Wanted this.

For seven years.

Seven years.

Her eyes drift toward the bed.

And then—

she pauses.

Something feels wrong.

Reader blinks.

Looks again.

The bed.

The bed isn't touched.

Everything else in the apartment looks like a hurricane tore through it.

Yet the bed stands untouched.

You approach the bed slowly.

Almost cautiously.

Each step feels measured, deliberate, as though moving too quickly might disturb something invisible lingering in the room.

Like the bed is a trap.

Like if you make one wrong move, the entire apartment might finally reveal whatever secret it's been hiding from you.

The closer you get, the stranger it looks.

Everything else in the room bears the scars of violence.

The overturned furniture scattered across the floor.

The shattered glass glittering beneath the dim light.

The dried blood staining walls and hardwood alike.

The television with a coin buried deep in its cracked screen.

Every corner of the apartment tells the story of chaos.

Yet the bed remains untouched.

Neat.

Perfect.

Waiting.

The sheets are smooth and wrinkle-free, the pillows arranged with almost unsettling precision.

It looks less like a place someone slept and more like something carefully prepared.

You stop at its edge.

For a moment, you simply stare.

Trying to make sense of it.

Trying to understand why this one thing was spared.

Then your first instinct arrives.

Mess it up.

Destroy the perfection.

Because it doesn't belong here.

Not in this apartment.

Not after everything else you've seen.

Without another thought, your fingers hook beneath the embroidered green blanket and yank.

The covers slide away in one swift motion.

Fabric rustles loudly in the silence.

You brace yourself.

For blood.

For bullet holes.

For something awful hidden beneath the surface.

Instead—

you freeze.

A mint-green gift box sits neatly in the center of the mattress.

Wrapped with a pristine white ribbon.

Waiting.

As though it has been expecting you.

Your breath catches.

Immediately, you know it's for you.

Of course it is.

Who else would it be for?

Slowly, you lower yourself onto the edge of the bed and pick it up.

The box is heavier than you expect.

Solid.

Dense.

The weight settles into your palms and immediately your stomach sinks.

Heavy means something inside.

Something real.

Something intentional.

Something chosen.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you notice a folded note tucked carefully beneath the ribbon.

Carefully, you pull it free.

The paper is worn at the edges, folded with surprising neatness.

Just one sentence.

Written in familiar handwriting.

Don't ever say I never promised you a rose garden.

You stare at the words.

No signature.

No explanation.

None needed.

A breath leaves you so suddenly it almost hurts.

Relief.

Pure, overwhelming relief.

It crashes through your chest so fast it leaves you dizzy.

He's alive.

Thank God.

He's alive.

Not captured.

Not dead.

Not bleeding out somewhere in an alley.

Alive.

Somewhere.

Running from something.

Chasing something.

Doing something reckless and dangerous and completely insane.

But alive.

Your legs finally give up trying to hold you together.

You sink onto the mattress.

One hand presses against your eyes.

The other still grips the note tightly enough to wrinkle the paper.

For a moment, that's enough.

Just knowing he's still breathing.

Just knowing he made this.

Just knowing he had enough time to leave something behind.

The apartment suddenly feels less empty.

Less final.

Then your gaze drops back to the box.

And immediately the anxiety returns.

Because if there is one thing you hate—

it's surprises.

And somehow surprises become infinitely worse when they're coming from Benjamin Poindexter.

Carefully, you untie the ribbon.

The white fabric slips free with a soft whisper.

The bow falls apart beneath your fingers.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

As if whatever waits inside might leap out at you if you're careless.

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

Finally, your fingers find the edge of the lid.

You hesitate.

Then lift.

Inside—

you expect something horrifying.

A severed finger.

A bloody keepsake.

Something stolen.

Something that would make perfect sense coming from Dex.

Instead—

it's a gun.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

For a moment, your brain refuses to process what you're seeing.

Then slowly, you reach inside.

The familiar weight settles into your hands immediately.

Cold metal.

Heavy.

Solid.

Real.

Your chest tightens.

You know this gun.

Of course you do.

It's Dex's.

The same gun.

The one you took from him.

The same gun you once held against him, the barrel pressed to his forehead while tears filled your eyes.

The gray metal catches the light as you turn it over.

Familiar despite its weight.

Too large in your hands.

Too heavy.

Too dangerous.

Yet impossible to put down.

Because attached to it are memories.

Too many memories.

Conversations.

Arguments.

Promises.

Moments you wish you could forget and moments you never want to lose.

Then something catches your eye.

You pause.

There—

scratched into the side of the metal.

Not professionally engraved.

Not polished or precise.

Hand-carved.

The letters uneven.

Imperfect.

Done by someone using whatever sharp object they could find.

Your thumb drifts across the carving.

Feeling every rough groove.

Every imperfect line.

Every deliberate mark.

Northstar.

Your breath catches again.

He carved this.

For you.

Your thumb lingers over the letters.

Tracing them again.

And again.

As though touching them might somehow explain what he was thinking when he carved them.

Then your gaze drops back into the box.

The remaining contents finally register.

Bullets.

Neatly arranged in careful rows.

Waiting beside the gun.

Immediately the memory returns.

I'll get you bullets.

I'll be your gun.

The words echo through your mind.

Clear as the day he said them.

And suddenly the relief from moments ago begins twisting into something else.

Something colder.

Something heavier.

A knot forms in your stomach.

You stare at the weapon in your hands.

The apartment feels quieter now.

The silence pressing in from every side.

And for the first time since finding the box—

a different thought settles into your chest.

Not where is he?

But—

What is he planning to do?

The city breathed beneath him.

Even in the middle of summer, Hell's Kitchen never truly slept. Traffic crawled through the streets in endless streams of red taillights. Laughter drifted up from crowded sidewalks. Music spilled from open bar doors. Somewhere below, a drunk man shouted something incomprehensible before being drowned out by the roar of passing cars.

And above it all came the cheers.

Thousands of voices gathered around Fogwell's Gym.

A high-profile charity boxing match, with Wilson Fisk himself stepping into the ring.

His victory lap.

People stood in lines stretching around the block, eager for a glimpse of their mayor.

Their hero.

The city loved him.

A part of it at least. Yet—

The thought still made something bitter curl in Dex's stomach.

From the rooftop across the street, he watched the gym in silence.

The distance.

The angles.

The entrances.

The exits.

Every possibility unfolded behind his eyes with mechanical precision.

If Vanessa entered through the main entrance.

If she entered through the private entrance.

If security shifted.

If the police responded.

If he was forced onto the street.

If he was cornered.

If he died.

Especially if he died.

Dex adjusted the gloves covering his hands.

Then adjusted them again.

A nervous habit.

The realization made him frown.

Nervous.

The word felt foreign.

He had stood in front of armed men without shaking.

Had walked into gunfire.

Had faced death more times than he could count.

Yet now—

His fingers wouldn't stop trembling.

Not because of Vanessa.

Not because of Fisk.

Something else.

Something he couldn't quite name.

"You're scared?"

The voice came from behind him.

Soft.

Familiar.

Dex froze.

His heart stumbled painfully in his chest.

At the edge of the rooftop sat Y/N.

As if she had always been there.

As if she belonged there.

The warm glow of the city painted her features in gold and amber. Her bare feet swung lazily over open air. Wind tangled itself through her hair, lifting loose strands that danced around her face.

For one stupid, irrational second, Dex worried she was sitting too close to the edge.

As though she might fall.

As though gravity applied to her.

As though she was really there.

"You look nervous."

A smile tugged at her lips.

The kind that always felt like she knew something he didn't.

"Come on," she said lightly, amusement dancing in her voice. "Vanessa wouldn't stand a chance against your knives. You know that."

Dex looked away.

His hand drifted toward one of the blades hidden beneath his jacket.

He drew it slowly.

Steel gleamed beneath the city lights.

Turning the knife between his fingers, he watched his reflection move across the polished surface.

Distorted.

Broken.

Unrecognizable.

"You think this ends with Vanessa?"

Her voice was closer now.

When had she stood up?

Dex didn't know.

He only knew she was beside him now.

Close enough for him to catch the scent of her if she had been real.

Close enough to hurt.

“Back then, you thought it would all be over once Fisk was gone.”

She stepped beside him.

“And when they locked you away, you told yourself that was the end of it, too.”

The knife stopped turning in his hand.

“Then you found me again, and for a while, you thought maybe that would finally make everything okay.”

Dex stared into his reflection.

His own hazel eyes stared back.

Not Bullseye.

Not the FBI agent.

Not Fisk's attack dog.

Just Benjamin.

Broken Benjamin.

The one nobody wanted.

The one he spent years trying to outrun.

"You've been running for so long."

Her voice softened.

Not cruel.

Not angry.

Just sad.

"From Fisk."

A pause.

"From the hospital."

Another.

"From yourself."

The city seemed quieter suddenly.

As if the world itself was holding its breath.

"Aren't you tired yet?"

Dex swallowed.

The question struck somewhere deeper than any knife ever could.

His jaw tightened.

The reflection in the blade remained unchanged.

Still him.

Always him.

"You can't run from it, Dex..."

Reader muttered.

Her feather-light hand settled over Dex's gloved hand that held the dagger.

He couldn't feel her.

Not even her warmth.

Of course.

Yet—

"You can't run away from who you are..."

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Soft.

Gentle.

The knife remained still between his fingers.

"You will always... be a killer at heart."

The words should have cut.

Should have hurt.

Instead, they stilled his hands.

As if some truth buried deep inside him had finally surfaced.

As if a clarity so absolute had settled over him that nothing could shake it loose.

Dex couldn't see her face.

Couldn't see what expression she wore as she whispered those cruel words so sweetly.

All he could see were her hands.

Soft hands resting over his own.

Her fingers draped across the glove wrapped around the hand that held the knife.

Dex stared at them.

Memorizing them.

The curve of her knuckles.

The shape of her nails.

The small mole on her forefinger.

His throat tightened.

"I'll... always love you... Y/N."

The words escaped him quietly.

Barely audible beneath the sounds of the city.

Reader said nothing.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand.

Pulling away from his.

Her fingers slid along his forearm one last time.

A touch he couldn't feel.

A goodbye he couldn't stop.

Then—

Nothing.

Dex turned.

Quickly.

Desperately.

Wanting to see her one last time.

But she was gone.

No Y/N.

No smile.

No voice.

Only the city.

Only the distant roar of traffic.

Only the cheers rising from the streets below for Wilson Fisk.

Dex stood alone on the rooftop.

And for the first time, he didn't fight the truth.

Yes.

He was a killer.

Dex turned back toward the street.

His gaze settling on Hell's Kitchen below.

On the flashing blue lights spilling through the glass of Fogwell's Gym.

The city roared around him.

Uncaring.

Unchanging.

And he would do what killers do.

The night feels different. Not quieter—New York never gives quiet—but heavier, like the air itself has changed its mind about staying still.

You’re at the sink with your hands submerged in warm, soapy water, watching dishes slip between your fingers. The kitchen is lit in that familiar yellow glow your father always prefers, soft and slightly tired at the edges. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, the television hums low, a news anchor’s voice bleeding faintly through the walls.

You don’t fully listen at first.

It’s just background noise.

Just life continuing in its usual shape.

Your ankle feels better now. The wound has scabbed over properly, tight and dry under the bandage. It probably will leave a scar, but that thought doesn’t really register as something important. You’ve had enough of them already. Small ones. Forgotten ones. Some from accidents. Some from moments you don’t like remembering too closely.

And then—

Dex.

The thought doesn’t arrive gently. It interrupts everything else, as if it had been waiting just beneath the surface for the right moment to surface again.

Your hands pause over the plate.

Wet porcelain. Soap sliding between your fingers. The faint scrape of the sink beneath it all.

And suddenly he is there—not physically, not even as a clear memory, but as a presence threaded through you in a way that feels almost inconvenient in its intimacy.

Like he never learned how to exist at a respectful distance.

What you always noticed about him—what you never quite had words for—wasn’t softness. Not exactly.

It was absence of judgment.

With Dex, you never had to translate yourself.

Never had to calculate how you looked from the outside. Never had to become aware of your own face in the middle of a conversation, or the angle of your body, or the weight of being perceived.

It didn’t happen.

He didn’t look at you like you were being evaluated.

He looked at you like you were already decided.

Already enough.

As if there had never been a version of you that needed fixing.

That quiet certainty had always unsettled you in its own way—not because it was cruel, but because it was absolute. He didn’t make space for your insecurities to exist in the room between you. They just… stopped mattering in his presence, like they had no authority there.

Even the things you had long accepted about yourself—things you assumed were simply true of you, unchangeable facts of your body, your face, your presence—somehow dissolved when he was looking at you.

Not because they changed.

But because he never treated them as flaws to begin with.

Like your existence wasn’t something that had to earn softness.

It already deserved it.

And that was the strange part.

Because it wasn’t gentle in the way people usually mean it.

It wasn’t careful reassurance.

It was devotion in the form of certainty.

As if simply being near you was not something he was receiving from you—but something you were giving him without even trying.

And worse than that—

something he would have taken even if you hadn’t known how to give it.

Your grip tightens slightly on the plate.

Soap slips over your knuckles.

For a moment, you realize how easily that feeling has followed you into silence.

How it doesn’t matter whether he is beside you or not.

It stays.

Uninvited.

Unresolved.

Like something that never asked permission to become part of you.

Then the voice from the television sharpens—professional, urgent, clipped into that unmistakable rhythm of breaking news.

“—we are receiving confirmed reports of an attack at Fogwell’s Gym tonight.”

You freeze.

The dish slips slightly in your grip.

The anchor continues, faster now.

“Sources on the ground say Mayor Wilson Fisk was present at a scheduled public appearance when chaos erupted inside the venue—”

A pause. A shift in tone.

“—involving multiple armed assailants.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.

The plate trembles.

The reporter presses on, words stacking too quickly to fully process.

“Eyewitnesses describe masked individuals engaging in violent activity inside the gym floor. Early reports identify at least two figures—one referred to as Bullseye and another believed to be the vigilante known as Daredevil.”

The world narrows.

Just those names.

Bullseye.

Daredevil.

And something inside your chest goes completely still.

The anchor’s voice lowers, more grave now.

“Gunfire was reported on site. Emergency responders confirm that Vanessa Fisk has been injured and transported to hospital care.”

A beat.

Then—

“Unconfirmed footage appears to show Mayor Fisk also engaging the assailants before being pulled from the scene.”

Your breath catches before your mind fully understands why.

The plate falls from your hands.

It hits the sink with a dull, wet sound and you’re already moving before it even finishes breaking.

Barefoot down the hallway.

Heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s pushing against your ribs from the inside out.

“Dad—?”

Your voice doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

The living room is dimmer than the kitchen, the television casting flickering light across your father’s face. He’s sitting forward now, completely still, eyes locked onto the screen like the world has narrowed into that single rectangle of glass.

You barely register him at first.

Not until the camera stabilizes.

Not until the footage sharpens just enough for your mind to catch up with what your eyes are seeing.

Grainy security feed. Overhead angles. Harsh lighting bleeding into static.

Fogwell’s Gym is chaos.

A packed ring of bodies, movement colliding in every direction, security pushing through crowds that are already breaking apart at the seams. Shouts layered over shouts. Something explosive in the air that the camera cannot quite translate properly.

And then—

A figure cuts through it.

A masked man.

Moving too cleanly to belong in a place like this.

He doesn’t run so much as calculate through motion.

Knives flick through the air with brutal precision, flashing silver arcs under the gym lights as they strike toward AVTF officers pushing through the crowd.

Your breath catches without permission.

Because something in your body recognizes him before your mind does.

That shoulder.

That stance.

That controlled, mechanical economy of movement.

It hits you like a physical blow.

That shoulder you’ve traced absentmindedly when he thought you were asleep.

That same frame you’ve watched sitting at the edge of a bed in the early hours of morning, still and unreadable, like he belonged more to silence than to people.

Dex.

Your stomach drops so violently it feels like something inside you detaches entirely.

“No…” it slips out of you, barely audible.

Not denial.

Recognition.

Your gaze locks onto the screen.

He moves again.

The masked figure—Dex—rises slightly above the chaos, arm snapping forward.

Something leaves his hand.

A sharp arc.

It cuts through the air toward the ring—

Toward Vanessa Fisk.

Time stutters.

She turns.

She sees it.

And then—

A gun.

Your body goes cold before your brain can fully process it.

A flash.

A soundless impact through the grainy footage.

Dex’s body jerks.

Just slightly.

But enough.

Enough that your entire chest collapses inward.

“No—no, no, no—”

It spills out of you, broken and unfiltered.

Your hands fly to your mouth without thought, pressing too hard against your lips like you can physically hold the sound back.

Behind you, your father turns sharply.

“Hey—hey, what is it? Do you know him?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Your vision is locked on the screen like something has physically pinned you in place.

Dex stumbles in the footage.

Just for a second.

His movements don’t stop—but they change.

Sharpen.

Become more desperate.

More violent.

He keeps throwing knives.

Keeps forcing his way forward through incoming officers, through chaos, through resistance that folds under his precision.

But you don’t see anything else anymore.

Only him.

Only the way his body tightens.

The way he absorbs the hit and keeps moving anyway.

Something in your throat breaks.

Please.

The thought isn’t even formed as words.

Just instinct.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

Please—someone—

Your hands stay over your mouth, trembling now.

If you blink, it feels like betrayal.

If you look away, it feels like abandonment.

So you don’t.

You stare until it hurts.

And then—

A shift in the footage.

A sudden drop in the frame.

A new presence enters like a rupture in the scene itself.

A figure in red.

Daredevil.

The baton snaps forward with impossible precision, striking Fisk’s weapon mid-motion.

The gun flies out of frame.

Fisk staggers.

A split-second opening.

Enough.

Your lungs finally release a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.

But there’s no relief yet.

Not fully.

Because the footage doesn’t slow.

Daredevil moves again.

He hooks Dex—

grabs him mid-chaos—

and in one fluid motion, launches both of them out of frame, disappearing into the blur of motion and static as the camera struggles to keep up.

Dex is gone.

Your breath breaks.

Sharp. Shaking.

“Oh my God…”

It comes out again—but this time it’s different.

Not panic.

Not fear.

Something sharper.

Something that breaks cleanly through everything else.

A breath catches in your throat as the image on the screen finally settles into meaning, not just motion.

“He’s alive…”

The words don’t feel like they’re spoken.

They feel like they’re realized.

Like something inside you had been holding its breath for far too long and is only now allowed to collapse back into place.

Alive.

Alive.

Your knees threaten to give out, not from shock, but from the sheer release of it—like your body doesn’t know what to do with the absence of dread it had already prepared itself to carry.

For a moment, everything else disappears.

The chaos. The noise. The fear. Even the blood your mind had already started to imagine.

None of it matters.

Only that one fact remains, clean and absolute, cutting through everything else like a line drawn through darkness.

He’s alive.

Behind you, your father’s voice sharpens, confused now, edged with concern.

“Wait—what are you talking about? You know that guy?”

But it doesn’t land.

Not properly.

It’s like you’re hearing him from underwater.

Your body has already moved before your thoughts catch up.

Your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop your phone as you shove it away. You don’t even register grabbing your coat properly—only the urgency of needing to be out of the room, out of the apartment, out of this moment where you are not with him.

Because now that you know he is alive, everything else becomes irrelevant.

Not speculation.

Not fear.

Not uncertainty.

Only direction.

Only movement.

Your heart is beating too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to outrun your thoughts.

“I have to go,” you say, voice breaking slightly on the edges of control.

“Where are you going?” your father calls again, sharper now.

But you’re already at the door.

Your hand hits the handle.

And for the first time in the entire night—

there is no hesitation.

Only certainty so intense it burns through everything else.

Dex is alive and he needs you.

The city feels endless.

You drive through Hell's Kitchen with both hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, your gaze constantly shifting from one side of the street to the other. The neighborhood stretches around you in a blur of brick, concrete, and amber light, familiar streets transformed by the late hour into something quieter and stranger.

Come on.

Come on.

The words repeat endlessly in your head, keeping time with the hum of the engine and the rhythmic sweep of your windshield wipers.

A prayer.

A plea.

A desperate attempt to will him into existence.

Your pickup rolls slowly past rows of aging apartment buildings, their windows glowing sporadically against the darkness. Pools of orange light spill from old streetlamps onto cracked sidewalks. Every alleyway catches your attention. Every narrow gap between buildings feels like a place someone could disappear into.

Your pulse jumps whenever you catch movement.

A figure stepping out of a doorway.

Someone lingering beneath an awning.

A man crossing the street with his hands shoved into his pockets.

You slow instinctively at intersections, peering down side streets and into shadows.

Looking twice at every broad-shouldered silhouette.

Every limping pedestrian.

Every glimpse of black clothing disappearing around a corner.

For a moment, hope flares.

Then reality follows.

Not him.

You don't know whether calling would help.

You glance at your phone sitting on the passenger seat.

The screen stays dark.

Dex hasn't called.

Hasn't texted.

Nothing.

The silence feels heavier than bad news ever could.

Bad news would at least mean certainty.

It would mean knowing.

This is something worse.

An absence.

A hollow space where Dex should be.

So you keep driving.

You circle past Fogwell's Gym.

Then three blocks north.

Then east.

Then back around again.

Then south.

The route changes, but somehow you always end up retracing your steps.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The same intersections begin to blur together. The same storefronts pass by your windows. The same graffiti-covered walls and shuttered businesses appear so often that the city starts to feel less like a place and more like a labyrinth designed specifically to keep you searching.

Hours slip by unnoticed.

The adrenaline that sent you rushing out of your father's apartment has long since faded, leaving behind a deeper, heavier exhaustion.

Your shoulders ache from tension.

Your eyes sting from staring into the darkness.

Your fingers have grown stiff around the steering wheel.

Every time you consider turning around, something inside you recoils.

Not yet.

You can't.

Maybe he's on the next street.

Maybe he's around the next corner.

Maybe he's sitting in some alleyway you haven't checked yet.

You tell yourself these things over and over.

The same promise.

The same excuse.

The same fragile thread of hope that keeps you moving.

Your headlights sweep across another row of storefronts.

A laundromat with darkened windows.

A closed deli.

A liquor store hidden behind metal security gates.

Everything is quiet.

Everything is empty.

A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it.

You must look completely insane.

Driving around New York in the middle of the night searching for a man who probably doesn't want to be found.

A man who has spent most of his life running toward danger and away from anyone trying to help him.

A man who would likely be irritated if he knew you were doing this.

Yet you keep driving.

Because stopping feels worse.

Stopping feels like surrender.

And surrender feels too much like abandoning him.

The thought settles heavily in your chest, stirring something deeper than worry.

Your father.

Without warning, your thoughts drift toward him.

Toward this truck.

Toward all the years that came before tonight.

The image arrives with startling clarity.

Your father sitting in this same driver's seat.

His hands wrapped around this same worn steering wheel.

The city lights reflecting across the windshield as he drove home after another long day of work.

Knowing exactly what waited for him when he got there.

The arguments.

The bad days.

The medications that worked until they didn't.

The exhaustion that never seemed to leave.

The disappointment.

The fear.

The uncertainty of never knowing what version of life would be waiting behind the apartment door.

And yet he came home.

Every single time.

Not because it was easy.

Not because he always wanted to.

Not because he believed he could fix everything.

But because leaving felt worse.

Your grip tightens unconsciously.

For years, you were convinced you would become your mother.

It felt inevitable.

The illness.

The instability.

The darkness that eventually consumed her.

You spent so much of your life watching yourself for signs of it, examining every fear and every mistake as though they might be evidence of something waiting beneath the surface.

You expected it.

Prepared for it.

Feared it.

But sitting here now, exhausted and restless as you drive through sleeping streets searching for someone who has broken your heart more than once, a different realization begins to settle over you.

Quietly.

Gradually.

With the weight of something undeniable.

You aren't your mother.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you are your father.

Still driving long after you should have gone home.

Still searching for a solution that may not exist.

Still carrying the impossible hope that maybe one more try will make a difference.

Because somewhere in this city is someone you can't quite save.

Someone you may never be able to save.

And somehow that knowledge hasn't stopped you from trying.

The clock on the dashboard changes again.

Another hour gone.

Outside, the streets have grown even quieter. Traffic has thinned to almost nothing. The city seems suspended in that strange space between night and morning.

You stare through the windshield at the empty road stretching ahead.

Just one more corner.

You swallow against the tightness in your throat.

One more street.

Your headlights sweep across another intersection as you turn.

One more look.

Then I'll go home.

OK part 3<<< Cause I feel like it deserves it's own part.

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Heavy silence.

The kind that makes a home feel abandoned even while the lights are still on.

The plastic CVS bag crinkled softly in Josh’s grip as he slowly stepped inside the apartment again. Bandages. Disinfectant. Gauze. Painkillers. Everything he could think to grab in his rush.

The hallway stretched ahead dimly beneath the amber glow of the apartment lights.

And at the end of it—

the kitchen. Orange light spilled weakly from the doorway.

Josh approached slowly.

Carefully.

Then finally looked inside.

And there you were.

Sitting on the kitchen floor.

Still.

Quiet.

Your back leaned weakly against the cupboard beneath the sink, eyes unfocused like your mind had wandered somewhere far beyond the apartment walls.

You slowly looked up when you noticed him there.

Josh’s eyes immediately dropped to assess the damage.

The kitchen had already been cleaned.

No shattered glass.

No blood.

No signs of chaos at all.

Your foot had already been bandaged too.

Neatly.

Carefully.

Almost professionally.

But despite all that—

you still sat there like the mess never actually ended.

Like some part of you was still surrounded by broken glass.

Josh’s chest tightened painfully at the sight.

“Hey… baby girl.”

His voice softened instinctively as he stepped into the kitchen.

“You alright?”

He lowered himself carefully onto the floor beside you with a tired groan, leaning back against the doorway after setting the plastic bag aside.

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then slowly shook your head.

No.

And Josh understood immediately this had nothing to do with your foot.

“Yeah,” he murmured quietly.

“I figured.”

Silence settled between you both afterward.

Soft.

Heavy.

Josh studied your face beneath the warm kitchen light and saw it clearly then—

that look in your eyes.

Not anger.

Not fear.

Something worse.

Loss.

Like something inside you had been hollowed out and left open.

It made his heart ache because he had seen that look once before.

Years ago.

On someone he loved very much.

“The boy is…” Josh exhaled softly, searching for the words. “Pretty good, actually.”

That earned a quiet laugh from you.

Small.

Broken.

“Does it look like it?” you asked softly.

Josh glanced toward the hallway before—

“Honestly?” he said.

“Yeah.”

Your brows tightened slightly.

“The entire dinner, that boy couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Josh smiled faintly to himself afterward.

“I don’t even think you noticed half the things he was doing.”

Your expression faltered slightly.

“He kept fixing little things for you.”

Josh motioned vaguely toward down the hall to the living room where tonight’s dinner occurred.

“You kept pushing those parsley pieces around your plate and every time you did, he picked them out for you without interrupting the conversation once.”

That made your breath catch faintly.

Because no—

you hadn’t noticed.

And somehow that hurt worse.

Your gaze dropped toward the floor tiles.

The crack running through one of them suddenly becoming unbearably interesting.

“Dad…” your voice came quieter now.

“Hm?”

“How was it with mom?”

Josh blinked in surprise.

You almost never asked about her.

Not directly.

Not like this.

“What about it?” he asked carefully.

You hesitated.

Long enough that Josh almost thought you wouldn’t answer at all.

Then finally—

“Was she difficult to love?”

The question landed softly. But it still hit him like a punch to the chest.

Josh leaned his head back against the doorway slowly. His eyes drifted across the kitchen.

Across old tiles.

Old cabinets.

Old memories.

For a moment he simply sat there in silence searching for an answer that wouldn’t fail you.

Then finally—

“No,” he said quietly.

“She was difficult to keep.”

That made you finally look at your father properly.

Not just glance at him between conversations or through the blur of your own emotions—

but truly look at him.

And suddenly you became painfully aware of how old he had gotten.

The gray in his thinning hair had nearly taken over completely now, silver strands catching beneath the dim orange kitchen light. His beard had grown unevenly over the years too, rough and scattered with white. The skin beneath his eyes looked darker than you remembered, tired in a way sleep could never really fix anymore.

For a moment, he did not look like your father.

He looked like a man who had spent years surviving loneliness quietly.

The realization made something heavy settle inside your chest.

Guilt perhaps.

Or grief.

Maybe both.

Because all at once you realized how long you had left him alone in this apartment.

This dim little apartment filled with books and newspaper stacks and fading memories.

“Your mother…” Josh finally spoke after a while, his voice quieter now. Softer. “I always knew she was complicated.”

He paused there.

His fingers rubbed slowly against the fabric over his knee, like he was feeling around carefully for the right words before allowing them out.

“Not difficult,” he corrected gently after a moment, almost immediately unhappy with the first word. “I don’t want to use that word”

The kitchen fell quiet again except for the faint buzzing hum of the overhead light. Josh leaned his head back lightly against the doorway behind him.

“Every relationship becomes difficult eventually,” he murmured. “That wasn’t something unique to your mother.”

His eyes wandered somewhere distant then.

Not toward you.

Toward memory.

“She was…” A faint tired smile crossed his face. “Spontaneous. God.”

You saw it then.

For the first time that night, something warm entered his expression instead of exhaustion.

“If she got an idea into her head, that was it. Nothing could stop her.” He let out a quiet breath through his nose almost resembling a laugh. “She had to do it immediately. Had to chase it completely.”

Another pause.

“And if she couldn’t do it perfectly…”

His voice trailed off gently. But he didn’t need to finish the sentence.

You already knew.

You remembered the darkened rooms.

The closed curtains.

Your mother staying in bed for days with hollow eyes fixed at the ceiling while unfinished paintings or abandoned hobbies sat untouched around the apartment like little graves.

You remembered how failure seemed to swallow her whole.

Like if she could not become extraordinary at something immediately, she would collapse inward completely.

“Often,” Josh continued more quietly, “she got frustrated with herself. With life. With the way her own mind worked.”

He looked down at his hands then.

“And during those times…” he admitted carefully, “yes. Loving her could feel hard.”

His voice held no resentment.

That was the painful part.

Only exhaustion.

Only honesty worn smooth with time.

Then slowly—

he looked at you again.

And the expression on his face softened so deeply it almost hurt to witness.

“But what can I say?” he murmured.

“She was the love of my life.”

The words settled heavily inside the kitchen.

Inside you.

The love of my life.

And immediately—

you thought of Dex.

The thought arrived so naturally it frightened you.

Would he become worse with time?

Would the violence grow sharper?

Would the anger become unbearable?

Or maybe—

maybe one day he would simply become empty instead.

Hollowed out by his own mind the same way your mother had been.

You thought about what he said.

About borrowed time.

About his body failing him eventually.

About death with such strange calmness that it almost sounded rehearsed.

And suddenly a horrible thought crossed your mind.

When that borrowed time finally ran out like he said—

would Dex end it himself?

Or would he throw himself into enough danger until somebody else finally did it for him?

The idea made your stomach twist painfully.

“Dad…” Your voice sounded smaller now.

Josh hummed softly in response.

You stared down at your bandaged foot before finally asking,

“Did you ever think about leaving mom?”

The question landed softly between you both. But your father still went completely still afterward.

Not dramatically.

Not enough for someone else to notice.

But you noticed.

Because you were his daughter.

His eyes lowered slowly toward the linoleum floor.

Toward the cracks running through it.

And for the first time that night, he looked almost… ashamed.

“I…” He cleared his throat quietly. “I would never leave you or your mother.”

A pause.

“Especially when she was…unwell.”

But something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.

The hesitation.

The careful wording.

The discomfort hidden underneath gentleness.

And suddenly—

you knew.

Maybe he had thought about leaving once.

Maybe several times.

Maybe there were nights he sat awake wondering how much more both of them could survive.

“It’s alright, dad,” you said softly before he could bury himself beneath the lie completely.

“Really.”

You gave him a weak smile.

“I’m not a little girl anymore.”

Josh stayed quiet.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of your skirt.

“Whatever you went through…” you admitted carefully, “I’ve probably gone through it as well.”

A soft laugh escaped you afterward.

Thin.

Tired.

The kind of laugh people make when the truth hurts too much to say plainly.

The tension in Josh’s shoulders eased slightly after that.

Like your permission allowed him to finally stop pretending for a moment.

Slowly he raised one knee upward, resting his elbows against it while staring absently toward the dim kitchen light.

Thinking.

Remembering.

Mourning quietly.

Then finally—

he spoke.

"Your mother..." Josh starts, then stops.

His fingers rub together absently. Like he's trying to smooth out a wrinkle that isn't there.

"Claire..." His voice softens. "She got violent sometimes."

The words sound difficult coming out.

Not because they're untrue.

Because saying them aloud feels like a betrayal.

He swallows.

"Not her fault. At least that's what I always told myself."

A small helpless laugh escapes him.

"The doctors were constantly changing medications. Some worked. Some didn't. And when they didn't..."

His gaze drifts toward the floor.

"...she wasn't really herself."

The kitchen grows quieter.

The hum of the refrigerator suddenly feels loud.

"When that happened..." Josh pauses.

For a moment it looks like he might stop talking entirely.

Like he's already said too much.

Then he exhales.

Slowly.

"I used to think about leaving."

Reader stills.

Josh's eyes stay fixed on the floor.

"I don't mean leaving you."

His voice cracks slightly.

"I mean...just leaving."

His fingers tighten around his knee.

"Getting in the car after work and not turning toward home."

A bitter smile pulls at one corner of his mouth.

"Just keep driving."

His gaze goes distant.

Like he's looking through the kitchen wall.

"North. South. East. West. Didn't matter. I never got far enough in the fantasy to figure out where I was going."

Reader's chest tightens.

"I just knew I wanted to keep driving."

Josh's throat works.

"Until the gas ran out."

Silence settles between them.

Heavy.

Old.

"I thought about it more times than I'd ever admit to anyone."

His voice drops lower.

"Every red light."

A pause.

"Every traffic jam."

Another.

"Every day I sat in the parking lot after work trying to gather enough courage to walk back through that door."

Reader watches him carefully.

She has never seen her father like this.

Never seen him stripped down to something this raw.

Josh finally looks up.

His eyes shine under the kitchen light.

And Reader realizes with a start that her father is trying very hard not to cry.

"I hated myself for thinking it."

His voice trembles.

"Because it wasn't just her I'd be leaving."

A small sad smile appears.

"It would've been you too."

Reader's throat tightens immediately.

Josh shakes his head.

"You were just a kid."

His eyes grow distant again.

"And no child should've had to carry what you carried."

The words come out rough.

"I knew that."

His jaw clenches.

"And the worst part was knowing I couldn't fix it."

Reader looks away.

Because she knows that feeling too.

Knows exactly what it feels like to love someone and realize love isn't enough to save them.

"So every day I'd sit there in the car."

Josh laughs softly.

"Thinking maybe this would be the day I keep driving."

His eyes drift toward the doorway.

Toward memories.

"And then I'd come home."

His smile softens.

Warms.

"Because every night there was this little girl waiting for me."

Reader's eyes sting immediately.

"Dad..."

"You remember?"

Josh chuckles.

"You'd sit on those apartment stairs holding that ugly little teddy bear."

Reader lets out a watery laugh.

"It wasn't ugly."

"It absolutely was."

His smile widens.

"The thing looked like it'd survived a war."

"It survived me."

"Exactly."

That earns a genuine laugh from both of them.

Small.

Brief.

But real.

Josh's eyes soften.

"And every time I'd climb those stairs..."

His voice grows quieter.

"...you'd already be waiting."

Reader remembers.

God.

She remembers.

The darkness outside the windows.

The smell of cigarettes where dinner should be.

The sound of keys rattling.

The heavy footsteps climbing the stairwell.

And her father's face.

Always exhausted.

Always carrying something invisible on his shoulders.

Yet the second he saw her—

he smiled.

Every single time.

Like she was the best thing he'd seen all day.

"You'd run over before I even got to the top step."

Josh laughs.

"And suddenly I'd have this little gremlin attached to my leg."

Reader groans.

"Dad."

"It's true."

"You make me sound feral."

"You were feral."

Josh grins.

Then his expression softens again.

"Those were the moments worth coming home for."

The smile remains.

But something sad settles behind it.

"Not because they fixed anything."

His gaze lowers.

"They didn't."

A beat.

"Your mother was still sick."

Another.

"The fights were still there."

Another.

"The bad days were still waiting."

Josh looks back at Reader.

"But for a few minutes..."

His voice becomes almost a whisper.

"...I remembered why I stayed."

Silence follows.

Not uncomfortable.

Not heavy.

Just thoughtful.

Reader stares at the floor.

Thinking about escape.

About staying.

About all the people who spend years trapped inside lives they desperately want to run from.

And she wonders—

is staying courage?

Or is it fear?

Is running weakness?

Or simply honesty?

Because every creature on earth wants to flee when cornered.

Wants to survive.

Wants relief.

Yet somehow people stay.

For children.

For spouses.

For promises.

For love.

And sometimes Reader isn't sure whether that's humanity at its finest—

or its most tragic flaw.

Josh sits quietly for a moment.

Then he glances toward you.

"You know..."

He rubs his beard.

"I used to think loving someone meant never wanting to leave."

You look up.

"But that's not true."

His voice is calm.

"Sometimes the people we love the most make us want to run the fastest."

The kitchen falls silent again.

Josh stares toward the living room.

"Your mother wasn't easy."

A sad smile.

"God knows I wasn't easy either."

He chuckles softly.

"But I think the mistake I made for years was believing love was enough."

You frown.

"What do you mean?"

Josh thinks for a moment.

Then says—

"Love isn't what keeps a relationship alive."

That catches your attention immediately.

"Choice."

You blink.

"Every day."

He taps the floor lightly.

"Every day you wake up and decide whether this person makes your life bigger or smaller."

A pause.

"Whether they make you more yourself."

Another pause.

"Or less."

The thought settles between you and your father.

Making your life bigger.

Or smaller.

You stare at the kitchen floor.

At the faded linoleum that has seen decades of footsteps pass over it.

At the worn seams where the pattern has almost disappeared entirely.

At the faint smear of dried blood near your bandaged foot.

The kitchen feels unusually quiet now.

The refrigerator hums softly somewhere behind you.

A pipe groans in the wall.

Outside the apartment, somebody laughs in the hallway before the sound fades away.

Life continues.

Normal.

Unbothered.

And yet your entire world feels as though it has shifted slightly off-center.

Your father's words keep circling.

Bigger.

Or smaller.

You turn the thought over in your head.

Examining it from every angle.

Trying to fit yourself inside it.

And the more you do—

the less certain you become.

Because had your life ever been big?

The question arrives so suddenly it almost startles you.

You think about Dex first.

Of course you do.

The letters.

The waiting.

The years.

The fear.

The longing.

The constant shadow of him hanging over every decision you've made since Florida.

But then—

your thoughts drift further back.

Further than Dex.

Further than the psych ward.

Further than the letters.

Back before everything became so complicated.

Back when you were 19.

Back when you thought adulthood would arrive one day and magically explain who you were supposed to become.

The memory unfolds slowly.

A cramped office floor.

Rows of cubicles.

Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

The stale smell of burnt coffee and printer ink.

Phones ringing.

Always ringing.

You remember sitting there for hours.

Listening.

Listening.

Listening.

Strangers crying into the phone.

Strangers begging for reasons to stay alive.

Strangers whose names you would forget five minutes after hanging up.

You remember the exhaustion.

The numbness.

The strange guilt that came from becoming accustomed to suffering.

And yet—

you stayed.

Year after year.

The same desk.

The same cubicle.

The same walls.

Never asking for more.

Never trying to move higher.

Never trying to leave.

At the time, you told yourself it was because you wanted to help people.

Because the work mattered.

Because somebody had to answer those calls.

And part of that was true.

It was.

But now, sitting on your father's kitchen floor, you wonder if that was the whole truth.

Or if there had been another reason.

A quieter one.

An uglier one.

Because staying had always been easier.

No risks.

No expectations.

No possibility of failure.

Your gaze drifts toward the cabinets.

Toward the faded paint chipped around the handles.

You suddenly remember standing in front of a blank canvas when you were younger.

Trying to paint.

Trying to be like your mother.

God.

How badly you wanted to be like her.

To understand how she could create entire worlds from nothing.

You remember the smell of paint.

The roughness of the canvas.

The way the white surface seemed to stretch endlessly before you.

And every single time—

you froze.

Not because you lacked ideas.

But because there were too many.

Infinite possibilities.

Infinite directions.

Infinite chances to get it wrong.

So you never painted much at all.

Then came writing.

Your father.

His notebooks.

His articles scattered around the apartment.

The way words seemed to flow from him so naturally.

You wanted that too.

Wanted to be brave enough to put something of yourself onto a page.

But every article came back with the same criticism.

You can practically hear the teacher's voice now.

"Lacks boldness."

At the time you hated hearing it.

Thought it was unfair.

What did that even mean?

How can writing be bold?

Now you think you finally understand.

It wasn't your writing they were talking about.

It was you.

You were always standing near the edge of things.

Never stepping fully into them.

Always hesitating.

Always waiting.

Waiting until you were certain.

Waiting until you felt ready.

Waiting until someone gave you permission.

And suddenly—

a painful thought slips into your mind.

Maybe Dex didn't make your life smaller.

Maybe your life had always been small.

The realization lands heavily.

Not because it's cruel.

Because it feels true.

You feel your throat tighten.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Because for years—

you blamed Dex for everything.

The fear.

The waiting.

The stagnation.

And he deserved some of that blame.

Maybe even most of it.

But not all of it.

Not all.

Some of it belonged to you.

To every opportunity you never took.

Every risk you never made.

Every door you were too frightened to open.

The realization doesn't make you feel liberated.

It makes you feel tired.

Tired in the way people feel when they finally stop lying to themselves.

"Dad."

The word leaves your mouth quietly.

Almost accidentally.

Across from you, Josh blinks.

Pulled from whatever memory he had been lost inside.

You watch him quickly wipe at his eyes.

Trying to compose himself.

Trying to be your father again instead of a grieving husband.

"Yes, pumpkin?"

The nickname hits harder than it usually does.

Maybe because suddenly—

he looks old.

Not weak.

Not frail.

Just old.

His hair has almost completely surrendered to gray.

The lines around his eyes have deepened.

His shoulders don't sit as straight as they used to.

And for the first time, you realize how many years the two of you have lost.

Not to death.

Not to tragedy.

Just to life.

You smile softly.

A small thing.

Fragile.

"Can we watch Christmas movies together?"

The question seems to surprise him.

His eyebrows lift.

"Christmas movies?"

You let out a small laugh.

"It's stupid, I know."

"It's June."

"I know."

A pause.

You look down at your bandaged foot.

Then back at him.

"I just miss them."

The words come out smaller than you intended.

But they're honest.

And somehow that's enough.

Your father's face softens immediately.

The way it always has.

The way it did when you scraped your knees.

When you failed tests.

When you cried over things that seemed enormous at sixteen.

The same look.

The same warmth.

Still there after all these years.

"Of course."

His smile is gentle.

Steady.

Safe.

"Anything my little girl wants."

And for the first time since walking into this apartment—

the ache in your chest eases.

Not completely.

Not even close.

But enough.

Enough to breathe.

Enough to remember what home feels like.

The night air clings warm against Dex’s skin.

New York never fully cools after sunset—not in summer. It stays humid, heavy, alive. Even in quieter streets like this one, where traffic noise fades into distant murmurs and flickering streetlights replace the chaos of the main avenues.

Dex stands across the street.

Still.

Half-shadowed against a brick wall.

Perfect line of sight to the apartment window.

To her father’s living room.

He doesn’t move even after Josh disappears inside the building.

Even after enough time has passed that he should already be upstairs.

Even after logic tells him there is nothing left to observe.

Still, Dex watches.

His gaze stays fixed on the dim orange glow behind the window.

Waiting.

Checking.

Needing to make sure.

Needing to confirm she is alright.

That she didn’t break under it.

That she isn’t sitting somewhere alone with that look in her eyes again—the one that comes after she says something she can’t take back.

Dex understands that pattern, even if he doesn’t fully understand the cause.

Y/N always feels it after.

Whatever it is.

A kind of guilt that lingers too long, too deep. One that curls inward until it forces her to fix something—anything—to make it right again.

He has never understood why she carries it so heavily.

Maybe that is what good people do.

He remembers hearing that once—somewhere, long ago.

Good people feel too much.

They absorb things others let pass through them. They take responsibility for what was never theirs.

A good heart, then.

That must be it.

Y/N is good.

Dex’s gaze softens slightly as he watches the window.

His angel.

His star.

The only thing in a world like this that feels clean.

Pure.

Unbroken.

Even when she is angry.

Even when she shouts.

Even when she looks at him like she might hate him for anything he does.

It never changes what she is to him.

Because those same hands that push him away are the hands that once held him so gently.

Those same eyes that cut through him are the eyes that once looked at him like he was something worth loving.

And that mouth—

that voice—

that softness—

it still exists underneath everything else.

Dex’s jaw tightens slightly.

He knows what he is.

He doesn’t forget.

Blood sticks too deeply to wash off easily.

He has no right to stand near her like this.

No right to linger in her orbit and call it love.

That’s why it has to be corrected.

Balanced.

Cleaned.

Made right.

A single good action.

Something to offset the weight of everything else.

His eyes remain on the window.

And then—

movement.

A shift in warm light.

A silhouette.

Y/N appears.

Limping slightly.

Smiling.

Talking to her father like nothing is wrong.

Like the world hasn’t cracked open between them just hours ago.

And then she laughs.

Light.

Brief.

Real.

The sound is too distant to hear, but Dex doesn’t need to hear it.

He knows it.

His expression softens without permission.

Something almost relieved passes through him.

She’s okay.

That’s all that matters.

That she’s okay.

That she’s still whole.

Still there.

Still herself.

Only then does Dex finally push off the wall.

Turning away from the window.

His steps are slow as he begins walking back into the night.

Because now he knows what he has to do.

Something good.

Something clean.

Something that will make him worthy again—at least for a moment.

One act to balance the scales.

One thing that proves he can still be what she deserves.

So that when he returns to her—

he won’t feel like something stained standing in front of something sacred.

It's been a while since you've seen Dex.

Three days.

At least you think it's been three days.

The number keeps changing every time you try to count it.

The last few days have blurred together into a strange routine of moving back and forth between your apartment and your father's.

Sleeping in one place.

Waking up in another.

Helping your dad sort through old boxes one afternoon.

And most importantly—

You haven't called Dex.

Partly out of pride. Partly because you genuinely have no idea what you're supposed to say.

What is there to say after a conversation like that?

Hello, Benjamin.

I would like to formally apologize for informing you that I spent seven years hoping you would die in a psychiatric institution.

You grimace.

God.

Even in your head it sounds insane.

Cruel, too.

And the worst part?

You aren't even sure it was entirely untrue.

Still.

That isn't what's bothering you. The thing bothering you is that Dex hasn't called.

Not once.

No texts.

No emails.

No unexpected appearance outside your building.

Nothing.

Silence.

Cold.

Complete silence.

And that should be reassuring.

Any normal person would probably consider it healthy.

Space.

Distance.

Time to cool off.

The problem is that Dex has never been particularly interested in any of those things.

Space has been practically nonexistent since the moment he crashed back into your life.

The man treats personal boundaries the same way most people treat speed limits.

More suggestion than rule.

Which means the silence feels wrong. Wrong enough that it eventually drives you here.

To him.

Because if Dex isn't coming to you—

then you're going to him.

The apartment building looks exactly the same. Leaning slightly to one side as though it has finally grown tired of holding itself upright.

You pause across the street for a moment. Staring at it.

New York's own version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Just significantly uglier. And probably one bad winter away from collapsing entirely.

The front entrance buzzes weakly as you step inside. Immediately you're greeted by cracked marble flooring that looks older than you are.

The building smells faintly of dust. Old pipes. And somebody's questionable attempt at cooking cabbage.

No security desk.

No cameras.

No doorman.

Nothing standing between the city and whatever happens inside these walls.

You try not to think about how concerning that is considering who lives on the 5th floor.

The stairwell isn't any better. The steps are steep enough to qualify as a climbing exercise. The wooden handrail rattles whenever you touch it.

At one point it shifts beneath your palm and you immediately decide not to trust it with your life.

Or even your balance.

By the second flight your leg is already aching. Which makes you remember something.

The last time you came here—

you never actually climbed these stairs.

Of course.

Dex carried you.

All the way upstairs.

At the time he'd claimed it was compensation for losing your luggage while the two of you were running from AVTF officers.

A terrible apology, really. Considering most of your belongings had been inside.

Photos.

Clothes.

Small gifts.

Little pieces of people you cared about. Things Elton and Marisa had given you over the years.

Gone.

Lost somewhere in the chaos.

You remember standing in this very stairwell afterward.

Trying not to care.

Trying not to think about what it meant.

Because life has a funny way of leaving messages lying around.

Symbols.

Warnings.

Metaphors.

Most people either fail to notice them. Or notice them and deliberately look away.

Sometimes because they're blind to it. Sometimes because the truth is simply inconvenient.

Eventually you reach the 5th floor.

Slightly out of breath.

Slightly sweaty.

And far more nervous than you'd like to admit.

Dex's apartment door stands exactly where you left it.

Plain.

Unremarkable.

Closed.

You stare at it.

Right.

Now comes the difficult part.

You need an excuse. A reasonable excuse.

Something that doesn't immediately reveal that you came all the way here because you were worried.

Your hair clip. That could work.

You could say you forgot your hair clip.

Simple.

Believable.

From there you could naturally steer the conversation somewhere else.

Ease into it.

Ask how he's doing.

Pretend this wasn't the entire reason you came.

Your hand starts lifting toward the door.

And then—

"Are you Tony's girlfriend?"

The voice startles you badly enough that you nearly jump.

You turn around.

The apartment door beside Dex's has opened at some point without you noticing.

An elderly woman stands in the doorway.

Small.

Sharp-eyed.

The kind of woman who looks like she has spent the last twenty years monitoring every resident on this floor through sheer force of curiosity.

A gray cat slips past her ankles before she can stop it.

To your surprise, it immediately trots toward you.

Its tail lifts high in the air.

Friendly.

Confident.

As though the two of you have met before.

"Uh—"

Before you can react, the cat is already weaving around your legs.

Rubbing itself against your ankles.

Purring loudly.

You stare down at it.

Confused.

You definitely don't remember meeting this cat.

Yet it behaves like you're a familiar visitor.

Like it already knows your scent.

The old woman doesn't seem interested in the cat's social life.

Her eyes remain fixed firmly on you.

Studying.

Assessing.

Judging.

"Who are you?" she asks.

The words are thick with a heavy Albanian accent.

"What business do you have with the man in that apartment?"

The question isn't friendly.

It's suspicious.

The sort of suspicion that comes from years of watching people come and go.

You shift awkwardly.

"Um..."

The cat bumps its head against your shin.

You almost lose your train of thought.

"I'm Y/N."

The woman continues staring.

You clear your throat.

"I'm his girlfriend."

The word feels strange coming out of your mouth.

Girlfriend.

Not hostage.

Not victim.

Not pen pal.

Not whatever impossible thing the two of you actually are.

Just girlfriend.

The woman looks you up and down slowly.

Taking in everything.

Your clothes.

Your face.

The nervous way you're standing.

Then she mutters something under her breath.

"Vajzë e gjorë."

The phrase means nothing to you.

But the pity in her voice does.

"Excuse me?"

The woman waves a hand dismissively.

As if translating would be a waste of both your time.

"Just take your things and leave."

Your stomach tightens.

"What?"

"He is not here anymore."

The old woman shifts the cat higher in her arms.

The animal immediately begins purring against her shoulder.

"He won't come back."

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

The hallway suddenly feels much warmer.

Much smaller.

You blink.

Trying to process what she just said.

"What do you mean?"

The woman shrugs.

A simple movement.

As though the answer should be obvious.

"Your man is criminal."

The words land heavily.

Matter-of-fact.

Not angry.

Not judgmental.

Just factual.

Like saying the sky is blue.

Or winter is cold.

"Better stay away from him."

And before you can ask anything else—

the woman retreats into her apartment.

The door closes.

Leaving you alone in the hallway.

Silence settles immediately afterward.

The cat included.

Gone.

Just like that.

You remain standing there.

Staring at the closed door.

Your thoughts struggle to catch up.

He won't come back.

The words echo unpleasantly in your head.

Your man is criminal.

Well.

You already knew that.

Unfortunately.

The list of crimes Benjamin Poindexter has committed is probably long enough to qualify as its own library section.

So that can't be what she means.

Which means—

A cold feeling begins spreading slowly through your chest.

No.

No, she must mean something else.

Right?

Your gaze drifts back toward Dex's apartment door.

Suddenly noticing something you should have noticed immediately.

The door isn't fully closed.

It's slightly ajar.

Open by perhaps an inch.

Your pulse stumbles.

Slowly—

carefully—

you push the door open.

The hinges groan softly.

And the moment you step inside—

you realize something is wrong.

Very wrong.

The apartment is a mess.

Not messy.

Not lived-in.

Not the kind of clutter that gathers naturally over time.

A mess.

Violent.

Sudden.

Wrong.

The armchair lies overturned on its side.

The television has been knocked onto the floor, its screen shattered inward around a single coin lodged deep in the glass.

A coin.

Reader's stomach immediately twists.

Of course.

Who else's apartment would have a coin embedded in a television?

Books are scattered everywhere.

Broken picture frames litter the floor.

Glass crunches softly beneath her shoes as she steps inside.

The shelves have been stripped bare, their contents thrown carelessly across the room as though somebody had searched the apartment in a hurry.

Or fought inside it.

The sight leaves Reader frozen in the doorway.

Her jaw parts slightly.

What the hell happened?

She was just here.

Three days.

Three days ago she had been lying naked in this apartment complaining about the summer heat.

Three days ago Dex had left to buy her popsicles.

Three days ago this place had felt strangely domestic despite the cracked windows and yellow walls.

And now—

now it looks like a crime scene.

Her heart begins pounding.

Hard.

Too hard.

Part 2 <<< P.S: I'm sorry if reader and her dad's conversation is a bit long, it's mostly self indulgent in my part with my daddy issues.

Taglist: @braindead-raccoon , @sleepystaarr , @nbhrhn, @junyrosess, @jheelam-23-08, @teasippindragon, @umsan733, @justalover-gurl, @avocad0ess @bellispunk @whorrorbellee @rporter19 @actuallyazriel @urdarkestsecrets @finalgirlmp3 @hellscagee @dexishot05 @saltea-coffee @i-shall-be-the-possum1 @juliecherrybomb @madglyphrefuge @tvdumarvelhpsimp @foggyturtleknightangel @snowwythegloww @ultraviolence44 @kkkkisworld @libertywrites1 @itsneagain36689 @marytvirgin @sawendel@cpuffz@slowlylosingfaith @akiyhara 

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@rheleea @not-the-teen-witch @miscrying @gojoswaterbottle @sgreer123 

Because after everything—

after the violence, the fear, the bodies, the years—

seeing Dex look hurt still destroys you instantly.

It’s unfair.

God, it’s so unfair.

You swallow hard.

“Yes,” you whisper finally.

The word feels irreversible the second it leaves your mouth.

Like the first crack through porcelain.

And maybe this is it.

Maybe this is the moment the fragile little fantasy you both built finally collapses under its own weight.

“Yes,” you repeat shakily. “I wanted you to leave me alone.”

Dex just stares at you.

Breathing shallow now.

You force yourself to continue anyway before fear can stop you.

“Matter of fact…” Your voice trembles violently. “I always thought one day I’d get a letter.”

Your eyes burn.

“A letter telling me you died in that psych ward and…” You inhale sharply. “And I would finally be free.”

The confession hangs between you.

Ugly.

Raw.

Dex looks almost disoriented hearing it.

Like his brain physically cannot place the words together correctly.

“You wanted to be free,” he repeats softly.

Not even as a question.

More like he’s testing the shape of the sentence in his mouth.

Trying to understand how it could possibly exist.

“Yes.”

Your voice cracks harder now.

“You don’t understand how suffocating those seven years were.”

Tears finally spill down your face despite how hard you fight them.

“My body was in Florida but my mind never left you.”

That finally gets something out of him.

His eyes lift quickly back to yours.

Searching.

Desperate almost.

Because there’s no anger in your face right now.

Only exhaustion.

Only truth.

“Every time I wanted something good for myself…” your voice shakes, “every time I thought about moving on, or being happy, or having a normal life—”

Your chest tightens so badly the words nearly stop there.

“I thought of you.”

Dex’s breathing falters.

“I thought about how one day you’d come back and see me happy without you.” You laugh once weakly through tears. “And you’d destroy it.”

The kitchen blurs slightly around the edges now.

You can barely feel your fingers anymore.

“For seven years,” you whisper, “I lived in your shadow.”

The words spill faster after that.

Like once the wound opens, it can’t close again.

“I was too scared to step outside of it because some part of me always believed you’d find me eventually.”

Your voice turns smaller.

More fragile.

“And now I’m almost forty.”

That one hurts to say aloud.

You can feel it.

“No husband. No child of my own. No stable life.” Your face twists slightly as another tear slips free. “Because I’ve spent almost a decade being haunted by you.”

Silence crashes over the kitchen again afterward.

You stand there shaking.

Bleeding onto the floor.

Feeling like you finally ripped open every ugly thing you kept buried for years.

And Dex—

You don’t know what you expect from him.

Part of you braces automatically for violence.

For the sudden sharp crash of plates against walls.

For silverware embedding itself into cabinets.

For him to explode the way storms do after holding too much pressure for too long.

Because that’s what men like Dex do when cornered.

They destroy things.

But instead—

he just stands there.

Perfectly still.

Then—

“Well…”

The word leaves Dex so quietly you almost miss it beneath the buzzing kitchen light.

For a second he says nothing else.

Just stands there across from you while blood slowly gathers beneath your foot in thin dark streaks against the white linoleum.

Then finally—

“Since we’re being honest.”

His gaze lifts.

And something about it makes your stomach tighten instantly.

Not anger.

Not cruelty.

Something calmer.

Worse.

Like a storm that has already decided where it’s going to land.

“If we’re going to talk about the grievances of our youth,” he says softly, “then I’ll tell you mine too.”

You already know.

Before he even continues, you already know exactly where this is heading.

Dex inhales sharply through his nose.

“I stayed in that place for seven years.”

The words come out flat.

Controlled.

Too controlled.

His eyes stay fixed on yours.

“Not you. Me.”

A beat.

“You know what that place does to people?”

A quiet laugh leaves him then.

Dry.

Humorless.

“They wake you up before sunrise. Pills. Therapy. More pills. Same rooms. Same walls. Same people staring at you like they’re waiting for you to snap.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“And if you don’t cooperate…”

He shrugs once.

Small.

Detached.

“They hold you down.”

Your throat tightens immediately.

Dex keeps going anyway.

“Four people usually. Sometimes more.”

His gaze flicks briefly toward the floor.

“I hated the injections.”

That sentence comes quieter.

More honest than the others.

“Couldn’t think straight after. Hands shaking all the time. Could barely hold a spoon some days.”

A pause.

Then his eyes lift back to yours.

“And you knew that.”

The words don’t come out angry.

That’s the worst part.

They come out hurt.

“I wrote to you every week.”

Another pause.

“And you still hoped I stayed there.”

The silence afterward feels unbearable.

The kitchen suddenly feels too small.

Too hot.

You can hear your own heartbeat now.

Dex looks away first.

“It’s fine,” he mutters after a moment. “Really.”

Another quiet laugh leaves him.

“It’s fair.”

The words sound almost thoughtful now. Like he’s sorting through the wreckage of the two of you in real time.

“I get it.”

His shoulders rise slightly before falling again.

“I can’t give you what you want.”

His gaze remains lowered as he speaks.

“I can’t promise you a future. Or a husband. Or kids.”

A faint smile touches his mouth then, though it holds absolutely no warmth.

“Can’t give you a nice little house with a lawn and some stupid dog sleeping on the porch.”

Something inside your chest twists painfully.

Because he says it like he’s describing another species entirely.

Not himself.

Never himself.

“And the funny thing is…”

Dex lets out another soft breath of laughter.

This time almost at his own expense.

“I can’t even find it in me to care that I can’t give you those things.”

That hurts more than if he had lied.

More than if he had pretended.

Because this—

this is honest.

Terribly honest.

He isn’t trying to manipulate you right now.

He truly means it.

And somehow that makes it worse.

You suddenly don’t know what to say.

Because all these years, some small part of you still expected him to eventually become someone easier to survive beside.

Someone softer.

Someone willing to bend.

But now, standing in your father’s kitchen with your blood on the floor between you—

you finally understand.

This is him bending.

This is the soft version.

Slowly, Dex steps forward and lowers himself onto one knee in front of you.

The movement feels almost reverent.

His hands slide carefully around your injured foot before lifting it onto his thigh.

He doesn’t care about the blood immediately staining his jeans.

Doesn’t even look at it.

“You may have wished I died in that place,” he says quietly.

“And I may never care enough about what you feel to change.”

His fingers trace gently along your ankle.

Following the streaks of drying blood until he reaches the source.

The moment his fingers press against the wound, pain shoots sharply through you.

A broken gasp leaves your throat.

Your hand grabs his shoulder immediately.

Hard.

Almost hateful.

Dex looks up at you through his lashes the entire time.

Steady.

Unmoving.

“We could hate each other for that,” he murmurs.

“Probably for the rest of our lives.”

Then carefully—

so carefully—

his fingers pinch around something buried beneath your skin.

You barely even realize there’s glass lodged inside you until he begins pulling it free.

Pain flashes white-hot through your ankle.

You inhale sharply.

Your grip tightens harder against him.

And Dex—

Dex barely reacts at all.

His focus stays entirely on you.

The shard finally slips free with a wet streak of blood.

More immediately wells from the wound afterward, running hot over his fingers.

He presses down instinctively to stop it.

Calm.

Gentle.

Completely unbothered by your blood covering his hands.

Then finally—

finally—

he speaks again.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Your breath catches.

You stare down at him.

At the man kneeling between your legs in your father’s kitchen.

The man who touches you like something precious while simultaneously ruining your life piece by piece.

And suddenly the despair of it all feels unbearable.

Because this is the cruelest part of loving Dex.

Not the violence.

Not the blood.

Not even the fear.

It’s this.

The way he can hold your injured body with such impossible care while still being the very reason you were hurt in the first place.

The way tenderness and destruction live so naturally inside him they no longer know how to exist apart.

You don’t know whose fault this became anymore.

Maybe his.

Maybe yours.

Maybe neither.

Maybe this is simply what happens when two damaged people mistake surviving each other for love long enough that they can no longer tell the difference.

But as Dex looks up at you with blood staining his hands and something horribly devoted burning inside those hazel eyes—

you understand something with terrifying clarity.

He will never let you go.

And somewhere deep down—

beneath the fear, beneath the grief, beneath every instinct telling you to run—

you know you will never leave either.

A.N: If you guys have read Polaris, the part where Dex kneel down and take out the shard of glass out of reader's foot is actually a call back to when Dex uncuff reader's ankle chain back when she was his captive.

In both scenes, reader grip Dex's shoulder for support when Dex works on her foot. Back then she felt hot with confusion and now she felt hot with hate. Same position, same actions but different emotions are felt. I will forever love this type of repetition. 🌟🌟🌟

Also… I only realized after writing that it doesn’t fully make sense for her dad to not know it was Dex who shot him. I mean, Dex went on trial and everything, and her dad is an article writer sooo… yeah.

But let’s just pretend he doesn’t know, okay? LET’S JUST PRETEND HE DOESN’T KNOW FOR THE SAKE OF THE PLOT PLEASEEEEEEE!

Also, if at any point you feel like Dex in the story starts to stray too far from his canon characteristics, please let me know so I can refine him in future chapters.  I really want you guys to feel like you’re actually interacting with Dex, not just an OC version of him.So if anything ever feels off or like he isn’t fully “him,” don’t hesitate to tell me. I genuinely want to keep him as human and consistent as possible for you all With that being said…love you guys peace ✌️😊

Taglist: @braindead-raccoon , @sleepystaarr , @nbhrhn, @junyrosess, @jheelam-23-08, @teasippindragon, @umsan733, @justalover-gurl, @avocad0ess @bellispunk @whorrorbellee @rporter19 @actuallyazriel @urdarkestsecrets @finalgirlmp3 @hellscagee @dexishot05 @saltea-coffee @i-shall-be-the-possum1 @juliecherrybomb @madglyphrefuge @tvdumarvelhpsimp @foggyturtleknightangel @snowwythegloww @ultraviolence44 @kkkkisworld @libertywrites1 @itsneagain36689 @marytvirgin @sawendel@cpuffz@slowlylosingfaith @akiyhara 

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@rheleea @not-the-teen-witch @miscrying @gojoswaterbottle @sgreer123 

Nothing lasted long before becoming each other again.

There were no locks keeping you here.

No chains.

No barred windows.

Nothing physically stopping you from leaving this tiny apartment whenever you wanted.

In fact, the walls felt so thin you were fairly certain the neighbors could hear nearly everything happening inside.

And over the last three days—

they probably had.

Because the only screams that echoed through the apartment had not been born from fear.

Only pleasure.

Only exhaustion.

Only the dizzying sort of intimacy that came from two people clinging to each other so desperately it stopped resembling affection and became survival instead.

For three days, you and Dex had done little beyond sleep, eat, drink water when one of you remembered, and touch each other endlessly.

Like two starving things finally allowed to feed.

Like separating for too long might cause the illusion holding both of you together to collapse completely.

You lay sprawled naked across the bed now without an ounce of shame left in your body.

The sheets tangled lazily around your legs, twisted beyond recognition after being ruined and kicked apart too many times to bother fixing anymore.

From here, you could see directly into the small kitchen across the apartment.

Cracked tiles.

Old cupboards with peeling paint.

A humming refrigerator that sounded like it might die at any moment.

The apartment itself was tiny. Cheap. Human.

Nothing like Dex’s old place.

No sleek furniture that looked untouched.

No meaningless decorative pieces pretending to make a room feel alive.

No sterile perfection.

This place breathed.

The walls were worn.

The windows cracked slightly near the corners.

The pipes groaned whenever water ran.

And somehow—

it felt infinitely more intimate than anything expensive ever could.

Like this was the first place Dex had ever truly lived instead of merely existed inside.

You rolled lazily onto your side, hugging his pillow against your chest.

The fabric smelled overwhelmingly like him.

Soap.

Sweat.

The faint metallic scent that always seemed stitched permanently into Dex no matter how clean he was.

You pressed your face deeper into it instinctively, breathing him in until something heavy and aching settled warmly inside your chest.

Outside, the afternoon sun poured mercilessly through the open blinds, casting thick golden bars of light across your bare skin.

You didn’t bother covering yourself.

It was too hot for modesty.

Too hot for shame.

And honestly—

if some poor neighbor accidentally glanced through the window and saw you sprawled naked in bed at three in the afternoon, they should understand that no sane person could tolerate clothing in heat like this.

Especially not inside their own home.

Especially not after the kind of past three days you’d had.

The sudden sound of keys shifting near the front door pulled you from your haze.

You lifted yourself slightly on your elbows, sluggish from the heat.

The lock clicked.

Then Dex stepped inside.

White tank top.

Grey sweatpants pulled on hastily like he’d only worn them because you insisted someone had to leave the apartment for food eventually.

His dark hair looked slightly damp from sweat already despite having only gone outside briefly.

“Sorry, doll,” he said while shutting the door behind him. “Could only find strawberry and pineapple popsicles. No lime.”

You smiled faintly.

“It’s alright,” you murmured lazily. “I’ll survive with pineapple.”

But Dex didn’t answer immediately. His hand remained loosely around the plastic grocery bag.

And for a moment—

he simply stared.

Like the sight in front of him had caught him off guard despite having spent the last three days worshipping it.

You sitting there half tangled in wrinkled sheets.

Sunlight pouring over your bare skin in molten gold.

Your hair completely ruined from sleep and sweat and his hands constantly in it.

Your legs shifting slowly beneath the sheets.

Relaxed.

Comfortable.

His.

The expression crossing Dex’s face wasn’t lust.

Not entirely.

It looked stranger than that.

Almost uncertain.

Almost uneasy.

Your brows pulled together slightly.

That was new.

Because over the past three days, Dex had wanted nothing except closeness. Skin against skin constantly. Arms wrapped around you even while sleeping like he feared waking up to emptiness again.

So why did he suddenly look—

hesitant?

“Dex?”

Your voice comes out light. Almost playful.

You assume he’s reacting to finding you still naked in bed.

You lift one hand lazily toward him in invitation, fingers curling slightly in a silent come here.

And that—

that finally makes him move.

Dex steps toward the bed slowly.

Each footstep heavy against the hardwood floor.

Not hesitant exactly.

Careful.

Like he’s approaching something fragile enough to disappear if he moves too fast.

His eyes stay fixed entirely on you.

Too fixed.

Studying you with an intensity that makes warmth crawl slowly beneath your skin.

Like he still hasn’t fully convinced himself you’re truly here.

You frown faintly.

Confused by the strange tension in him.

Then your hand reaches out instinctively toward his side the second he gets close enough.

Your fingertips brush against the muscle beneath his thin white tank top.

Warm skin.

Slightly damp from the heat outside.

The contact is absentminded more than anything else.

A quiet attempt to soothe whatever heaviness he carried back inside with him.

And immediately—

Dex exhales.

A real breath.

Like he’d been holding it since the moment he stepped outside the apartment.

You watch the relief hit him all at once.

It softens his face instantly.

His shoulders loosen.

Something desperate in his eyes settles the second your hand touches him.

Then suddenly—

he kneels.

Straight onto the hardwood floor between your legs.

The movement is so immediate it catches you off guard.

Dex looks up at you from there with something frighteningly close to reverence in his expression. Like devotion sits so naturally inside him now he no longer knows how to hide it.

And before you can even process it fully, his hands are already reaching for you.

Large palms sliding carefully over your thighs.

Pulling you closer to the edge of the bed.

You let him.

 Of course you do.

Dex lowers his head against your bare thighs almost immediately afterward, resting there like a man finally returning somewhere safe after wandering too long.

Then he kisses you.

Softly.

Aimlessly.

Little lingering kisses pressed wherever he can reach.

Along your thigh.

The inside of your knee.

The warmth of his mouth against your overheated skin makes you let out a quiet laugh despite yourself.

Not cruel.

Never cruel.

Just—

adorably needy.

He had only been gone less than an hour.

And already he was acting like deprivation might kill him.

Dex continues upward slowly, lips dragging higher along your thigh before your legs instinctively press together slightly.

Stopping him.

“Not now,” you whisper softly.

No explanation follows.

You don’t need one.

Dex stills immediately.

Not upset.

Not frustrated.

He simply accepts it in that quiet devastating way he accepts almost everything from you now.

Like any piece of affection is enough.

Like he’ll take whatever scraps you offer and thank you for them.

So instead he stays there kneeling between your legs on the floor like some exhausted sinner at prayer while you run your fingers slowly through his damp hair.

The strands cling slightly to your fingers from sweat.

You comb through them gently.

Over and over.

Down toward the nape of his neck.

You feel him relaxing beneath your touch almost instantly.

Tiny sighs leaving him every so often.

The tension slowly melting from his shoulders.

And suddenly—

despite the heat,

despite the sweat sticking to both your skin,

despite everything strange and fragile about this little apartment—

it feels almost peaceful.

Like this.

Holding him quietly while sunlight spills across the bed.

Like you’re touching your lover instead of holding something dangerous enough to explode eventually.

Your fingers drift lower absentmindedly.

Then pause.

Scar tissue.

Your breath catches slightly.

Right.

The surgery.

Slowly, your fingertips slip beneath the collar of his tank top, tracing carefully along the raised line running down his spine.

The scar feels worse than you imagined.

Thicker.

Uneven beneath your fingertips.

Real in a way his letters never fully captured.

You remember him mentioning the surgery casually once in writing.

Just a brief mention.

Nothing detailed.

Nothing honest enough.

And suddenly you realize he probably hid most of it from you.

The pain.

The recovery.

Whatever happened to him after everything fell apart.

Your fingers continue tracing gently along the scar.

Dex flinches.

Only slightly.

A sharp involuntary twitch beneath your hand.

But he never stops you.

Never pulls away.

If anything—

his grip tightens faintly around your thigh instead.

Like enduring the discomfort is worth keeping your hands on him.

So you continue softly tracing along the damaged line of his spine.

And Dex shudders beneath you.

“Does it hurt?” you ask quietly.

For a moment, he says nothing.

Just keeps rubbing slow absentminded circles against your thigh with his thumb. Like he needs the reminder that you’re still here while you touch the parts of him nobody else gets to see anymore.

“No,” he murmurs eventually.

Then quieter—

“…not anymore.”

You hum softly.

Not fully believing him.

Your fingers continue moving gently over his back while your other hand strokes through his hair again.

And somehow—

between the heat,

the silence,

the intimacy of touching something broken so carefully—

Dex suddenly feels terribly honest beneath your hands.

“Actually…” he says after a pause.

His voice comes rougher this time.

“Sometimes it still hurts.”

Your fingers still slightly against his spine.

“When it gets cold,” he continues quietly, “I can feel it aching.”

He says it like a confession.

Small.

Human.

And you simply listen.

Not interrupting.

Not fixing.

Just letting him speak.

“Sometimes,” Dex says quietly, voice rough against your skin, “I wake up scared one day I won’t feel my legs anymore.”

His fingers tighten around your thigh unconsciously.

“Like everything I got now…” He swallows hard. “It’s borrowed time. And one day that borrowed time’s gonna run out.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Outside the cracked apartment windows, the city continues breathing in distant sirens and heat-drunk traffic, but inside this tiny room everything suddenly feels terribly still.

Your hand slows in his hair.

Because you understand exactly what he means.

Dex has always felt temporary somehow.

Not just his life—though that too.

But the way he exists.

Like he was never built for permanence.

Like at any moment the world might finally remember he was never meant to survive this long and come violently collecting what it’s owed.

Your fingers drift carefully lower along the scar running beneath his tank top again.

Even now it feels wrong beneath your touch.

Too deep.

Too severe.

The raised line of ruined flesh disappears beneath fabric and down his spine like evidence of something almost fatal.

Something he survived anyway.

Barely.

Dex closes his eyes when your fingertips brush over it again.

Not pulling away.

Never pulling away from you.

“Whenever it starts hurting,” he murmurs after a moment, voice quieter now, “I keep thinking maybe that’s it.”

His thumb rubs slowly against your thigh.

Grounding himself.

Making sure you’re still here.

“That maybe I pushed it too far this time.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

Because he says it so casually.

Like discussing bad weather.

Like this fear has lived inside him long enough to become ordinary.

Then slowly, Dex lifts his head.

His eyes meet yours.

God.

There’s something devastatingly open about him right now.

No performance.

No manipulation.

No sharpness.

Just raw exhausted honesty bleeding out of him in the dim afternoon light.

“I used to pray about it,” he admits softly.

Your breathing falters slightly.

Dex almost smiles at that.

Small.

Fragile.

“I’d pray my time wouldn’t run out before I see you again.”

The confession leaves him looking strangely peaceful afterward.

Like he finally said something he carried too long alone.

The sunlight spilling through the blinds catches across the scar on his cheek, softening him into something almost unbearably human.

And when he looks at you now—

he looks full.

Like a starving man finally allowed to rest.

“I guess,” he says quietly, eyes tracing your face with something dangerously close to worship, “someone finally listened.”

The smile he gives you afterward nearly breaks your heart.

Because it’s not triumphant.

Not arrogant.

It’s the smile of a man who genuinely believes this—

you here beside him in this cheap overheated apartment—

might be the happiest moment he was ever meant to reach.

Your hand rises slowly to his face.

Dex leans into it immediately.

Instinctively.

Like he belongs there.

Your thumb strokes carefully along the scar beneath his eye.

Then over the rough stubble across his jaw.

His eyes flutter slightly at the touch.

And suddenly—

recklessly—

a thought enters your mind.

If this really is borrowed time…

then maybe pretending otherwise is pointless.

Maybe loving someone like Dex means accepting the instability of it all from the start.

The violence.

The fear.

The certainty that none of this was built to last.

But maybe that’s exactly why you want more of it anyway.

More before it disappears.

More before reality catches up.

Your fingers linger against his cheek another second before you finally speak.

“Dex…”

He hums softly against your palm.

You hesitate.

Just briefly.

Then—

“Do you want to meet my father?”

Silence.

Real silence this time.

Dex stops breathing for a moment altogether.

You actually watch it happen.

His entire body stills beneath your touch like the words physically struck him.

Because this—

this means something.

Not sex.

Not obsession.

Not surviving each other.

Something worse.

Something far more intimate.

A future.

And the terrifying part is—

the moment the question leaves your mouth…

you realize you mean it.

The elevator creaks as it rises, slow and uncertain, like it’s thinking twice about carrying them any higher.

You are not alone this time.

Dex stands beside you.

Too normal.

Too quiet.

White T-shirt, red flannel, jeans—so plain it almost feels like a disguise designed by someone who has only ever seen “safe men” in passing.

 If there were a wanted poster of him tacked up somewhere in this building, no one would look at him twice in this moment. Not long enough to connect him to anything sharp or violent or irreversible.

You press the fourth-floor button, then turn away quickly, smoothing your hair down in the dull reflection of the rusted gold elevator wall. The mirror is warped just enough to make your face look unfamiliar.

You wonder if your father will notice anything wrong with you.

If he’ll see it.

If he’ll ask questions you don’t know how to answer without breaking something open.

Your thoughts snag on Dex.

On the fact that you are bringing him here.

On the fact that he shot your father’s shoulder.

That memory arrives suddenly, sharp enough to tighten your chest.

“Dex.”

A soft hum answers you.

He doesn’t look at you immediately.

His attention feels elsewhere—somewhere beyond the elevator walls, already mapping possibilities you cannot see. Like he’s rehearsing a future you haven’t agreed to yet.

You hesitate, then force the words out anyway.

“Can you please… not bring up my dad’s shoulder scar?”

This time, Dex turns his head slightly.

There’s a brief flicker of confusion in his expression.

And something in you wants to shake him for it.

“Why?” he asks simply. “Did something happen to his shoulder?”

You stare at him.

For a moment, you genuinely cannot tell if he is joking.

Then it lands harder than humor ever could.

“You shot him,” you say quietly. “In the shoulder. Back when you attacked the Bulletin.”

Recognition shifts across his face.

It arrives cleanly.

Not gradual. Not emotional.

Just… acknowledgment.

“Oh,” Dex says after a beat. “Right.”

That’s it.

No apology. No visible discomfort. No revisiting of the moment as anything heavier than a fact misplaced in storage.

Something in your stomach tightens anyway, uneasy and unsteady, because suddenly you are no longer sure whether this was ever a good idea.

The elevator slows.

A final mechanical shudder.

Ding.

Fourth floor.

The doors slide open.

The hallway smelled faintly of old carpet and cigarette smoke.

Reader stood in front of a familiar faded green apartment door, its paint peeling slightly near the bottom from years of wear. Hanging in the center was a crooked WELCOME sign, tilted just enough to bother the eye.

“Wait,” she muttered, already reaching into her shoulder bag for her phone. “I should probably call first. See if he’s even home.”

Beside her, Dex stayed quiet.

His attention had already drifted elsewhere.

To the sign.

Without thinking much about it, his fingers lifted, carefully adjusting the crooked thing until it sat perfectly straight against the wood.

Only then did a faint smile touch his mouth.

Reader barely noticed, too focused on pulling her phone free and dialing.

The ringtone barely lasted a second before—

Click.

The door swung open.

“There’s my little pumpkin!”

Reader physically winced.

“Dad,” she groaned immediately, mortified by the sheer volume of his voice.

Her father grinned anyway, entirely unashamed as he pulled her into a warm crushing hug before she could protest further. Reader let herself sink into it automatically, hugging him back just as tightly.

For a moment—

just one—

she felt young again.

Safe.

Known.

“Oh, I missed you,” her father sighed dramatically before finally pulling back.

Only then did his eyes shift past her shoulder.

“Oh! And who’s this?”

Reader stiffened slightly.

Right.

Dex.

She pulled away from her father quickly, smoothing down her hair in nervous embarrassment before gesturing awkwardly beside her.

“Um… this is Benjamin Poindexter. He’s—”

“I’m Y/N’s boyfriend,” Dex cut in smoothly, already offering his hand with an easy practiced smile. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Reader blinked.

The smile on Dex’s face looked almost surreal.

Polite.

Charming.

So painfully normal that it nearly unsettled her more than violence ever could.

“Ohhh,” her father lit up immediately. “You’re Dex.”

Reader’s stomach dropped instantly.

“Dad—”

“Aren’t you the one she used to talk about constantly back when she worked at—”

“Dad, stop. Please stop.”

Reader grabbed onto his arm in immediate panic, physically trying to steer him back inside the apartment before he could continue.

Behind her, Dex let out a low amused chuckle.

Oh, he was absolutely enjoying this.

“No, no,” her father continued mercilessly, pointing between them. “I’m serious. She had the biggest crush on you.”

“That is not true, I—”

Reader stopped abruptly.

Because when she looked back at Dex—

he was smiling at her.

Not smugly this time.

Not cruelly.

Just… warm.

There was something soft in his eyes she almost never got to see clearly. Something boyish. Quietly pleased in a way that made every defense she had prepared for herself suddenly disappear from her mouth entirely.

As soon as the apartment door opened a little wider, Dex was greeted by a long narrow hallway stretching deeper into the home.

The layout felt odd immediately.

To the left, the hallway opened directly into a cramped kitchen while the living room sat farther down near the end of the corridor, almost hidden from view. The apartment itself carried that unmistakable feeling of old New York buildings—poorly partitioned rooms shaped more by necessity than design.

And the walls—

they were painted in a strange muted color that sat somewhere between green and blue.

Too blue to be green. 

Too green to be blue. 

The kind of color that only existed in older apartments where paint had faded unevenly over decades.

“Sorry about the lighting, Benjamin,” your father called casually while disappearing toward the kitchen. “Got eye strain these days, so I keep everything dim.”

Only then did Dex properly notice it.

The apartment glowed softly in amber and yellow tones. No harsh white overhead lights. Just warm lamps tucked into corners, small pools of dim golden light spreading across cluttered furniture and stacked bookshelves.

“No sir,” Dex answered politely. “Not a problem at all.”

His eyes drifted instinctively toward you.

You already looked completely at home here.

Your coat was halfway off your shoulders as you moved through the apartment without thinking, navigating around furniture automatically. You hung your jacket onto a standing coat rack Dex genuinely hadn’t noticed at first beneath the hanging wall plants surrounding it.

It struck him suddenly then—

this was a apart of your world before him.

Soft.

Messy.

Lived in.

While you disappeared toward the kitchen, Dex found himself wandering slowly farther into the apartment on his own.

Careful where he stepped.

Newspapers and books sat scattered everywhere in uneven little stacks across tables, chairs, even the floor itself. The clutter should have irritated him.

Instead—

it almost amused him.

Now he understood where your habit of hoarding things came from.

His gaze lifted higher.

A bulletin board covered almost an entire section of the living room wall, crowded with pinned newspaper clippings layered over one another in messy overlapping rows.

Naturally, Dex moved closer.

His eyes scanned headline after headline.

Old articles.

New ones.

Most centered around vigilante attacks.

Masked violence.

Public debate.

Some articles praised vigilantes as heroes protecting the city when the system failed.

Others condemned them as unstable threats masquerading as justice.

Dex’s jaw shifted slightly at that.

Then—

his attention caught on one particular clipping.

Old.

Faded slightly at the corners.

But still recognizable immediately.

DAREDEVIL ATTACKS NEW YORK BULLETIN.

The bold black lettering stretched across the page like a ghost from another life.

And despite himself—

Dex smirked faintly.

“Dex?”

Your voice came from behind him suddenly.

His attention tore away from the article as he turned.

You stood a few feet away now, eyes just a little too wide.

You knew exactly what he had been looking at.

“Dad’s asking for you in the kitchen,” you said quietly.

Dex nodded once in understanding, already turning away from the bulletin board.

But before he could leave—

your fingers caught gently around the sleeve of his flannel.

He paused instantly.

Dex glanced downward.

You were staring at him carefully now, gripping the fabric tighter than necessary.

“Please,” you muttered softly. “Don’t mention it.”

He knew immediately what you meant.

Slowly, Dex’s hand lifted toward yours where it clutched his sleeve. His fingers closed gently around your hand, giving it one small reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured quietly. “I won’t.”

You kept staring at him anyway.

Like you couldn’t decide whether to believe him or not.

“Benjamin!” your father called from farther down the hallway. “Why don’t you come try this new pasta recipe? Tell me if it’s any good.”

Both of you looked toward the kitchen instinctively.

You finally let go of Dex’s sleeve.

Reluctantly.

“Coming, father,” Dex answered smoothly.

Then he looked down at you one last time.

And before you could react—

he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss against your temple.

Soft.

Careful.

Possessive in a way subtle enough that only you would truly feel it.

Then he released your hand entirely and disappeared down the hallway toward the kitchen.

You remained standing there alone beneath the dim apartment lights—

watching him go.

And hoping he actually meant what he promised.

The clinking of silverware begins fading into meaningless background noise somewhere around the fourth refill of wine.

You keep staring into the dark red liquid swirling lazily inside your glass instead.

It’s almost funny.

Of course Dex thought bringing an expensive bottle of wine was the perfect first-impression gift. So painfully normal. So absurdly fitting for the role he’s trying to play tonight.

Across the dinner table, your father laughs at something Dex says.

And Dex—

God.

He looks effortless.

Relaxed back in his chair, sleeves rolled casually to his forearms, red flannel hanging open over a plain white shirt. The kind of man people trusted immediately. The kind of man mothers adored and fathers offered second drinks to.

Not Bullseye.

Not the man from the news.

Just a boyfriend meeting your father for dinner.

Your stomach twists.

You glance toward your dad.

Still smiling.

Still talking animatedly about some article he’s been working on for the Bulletin.

Completely unaware that the man nodding along beside him once put a bullet through his shoulder without hesitation.

The realization makes your skin feel too tight suddenly.

Your father glances toward you briefly.

The motion snaps you upright.

You force a smile immediately.

Too fast.

Too stretched.

Your father smiles back anyway, unsuspecting as ever, and guilt hits so sharply you nearly look away first.

“Are you alright?”

The voice comes from beside you.

Not your father.

Dex.

You turn your head slowly toward him.

Hazel eyes already fixed on you with unsettling focus.

Studying.

Assessing.

Your pulse stumbles.

Because somehow, even while charming your father effortlessly, part of his attention has remained completely on you the entire time.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly.

Too quickly.

Dex’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

Like he’s trying to figure out which lie you’re choosing tonight.

Before he can press further, your father continues speaking again.

“As I was saying…”

Relief floods you so hard it almost hurts.

Thank God.

Because if either of them looked too closely right now, you might actually break apart at this table.

Might say something irreversible.

Might tell your father that the polite man sitting beside him once chained you inside his apartment.

That he locked you in bathrooms when he left for work.

That he killed people in front of you with less hesitation than most people swat flies.

That somewhere between fear and obsession and survival, you fell in love with him anyway.

Your throat tightens.