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guyz my writer block is so bad rn. I still need to finish my aerion fics 💔💔
and I saw this Fragrantica trend with HABIT from everymanhybrid & lorddd it made me want to write something for him BUT THEN I'LL HAVE TOO MANY PROJECTSSSS
⋮ ⌗ ┆ Benjamin Poindexter (FBI!dex) x fem!reader ⋆.ᐟ
summary: Benjamin Poindexter x reader fic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 4/?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 5.4k
Benjamin Poindexter was good at his job.
That was something everyone knew.
Inside the FBI, there were few things more valuable than certainty. Situations changed quickly. Information was incomplete. People lied. Circumstances shifted without warning.
Benjamin didn't.
He adapted.
He watched.
He calculated.
The briefing room was colder than it needed to be, the artificial lighting reflecting off the polished table in front of him. A screen at the front of the room displayed photographs, locations and information that everyone present had already reviewed several times.
The atmosphere was quiet.
Focused.
Nobody wasted time.
"Target location is a warehouse in Brooklyn," the team leader explained, pointing towards the map. "We've had confirmation of multiple armed individuals inside. We don't know numbers beyond that."
Benjamin sat with his hands folded in front of him, listening.
"You'll be entering with the first team."
A few heads turned briefly.
Not because it was unusual.
Because Benjamin Poindexter was often the person people wanted when things became complicated.
"Any questions?"
Silence.
The team leader nodded.
"Alright. Move out in twenty."
Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone began gathering their equipment.
Benjamin stood.
His expression remained unchanged.
This was the part of his life that made sense.
There were rules. Objectives. Procedures. A clear understanding of what was expected.
He knew exactly who he was here.
—
The city looked different from inside the armoured vehicle.
New York continued around them completely unaware. People walked along pavements carrying coffee. Taxis moved through intersections. Someone laughed outside a restaurant as they passed. Normal life. The kind of life Benjamin spent most of his time protecting.
The radio crackled.
"Two minutes."
The team prepared.
Benjamin checked his equipment one final time.
Everything had a place. Everything had a purpose.
His breathing remained steady. His mind remained clear.
When the order came, he moved.
—
Later, after everything was finished, the adrenaline faded slowly.
That was always the strange part. The world could change in an instant. Then, afterwards, everyone went back to paperwork. Reports. Debriefings. Questions.
The fluorescent lights of the office felt almost too bright after hours spent focused on a single objective.
Benjamin sat at his desk, reviewing the final details.
A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him.
His colleagues moved around the office, conversations overlapping.
Someone complained about traffic.
Someone else talked about weekend plans.
Someone laughed about a mistake made during training.
Normal conversations.
Benjamin listened without participating. He usually did.
"You heading out after this?"
The voice belonged to one of the other agents.
Benjamin looked up.
"No."
The agent leaned against the desk.
"Nothing planned?"
"No."
A brief pause.
Then:
"You always say that."
Benjamin looked back at his screen.
"Because it's usually true."
The agent smiled slightly.
"Fair enough."
He walked away.
Benjamin returned to his work. Except his attention didn't stay there. Not completely.
His phone sat beside his keyboard.
Quiet.
Waiting.
He had never considered himself someone who checked his phone often.
There was rarely a reason to.
Messages were usually work-related.
Updates. Information. Instructions.
Not conversations. Not someone asking how his day was.
Not someone who had laughed at something he said and made him feel, even briefly, like he wasn't constantly analysing every interaction.
He looked at the screen.
No notifications.
He told himself that was fine.
Then, after a moment, he opened his contacts.
Your name was still there.
Y/n Hawthorne.
He stared at it. The conversation from earlier that day came back to him. The way you had laughed when he admitted he was serious. The way you hadn't seemed bothered by his awkwardness.
Most people noticed the things that made him different. You seemed to notice them and simply continued talking.
His phone remained in his hand.
A message would be simple. Something normal. He considered several options.
How was your day?
Too personal.
I hope your studies went well.
Too formal.
He almost sighed.
It shouldn't have been this difficult.
Eventually, he placed the phone back down. Not because he didn't want to speak to you. Because he wanted to do it correctly.
That thought stayed with him longer than expected.
—
Monday mornings had always been your least favourite.
There was something about the city waking up again after the weekend that felt almost aggressive.
The streets were crowded before you had even finished your coffee. People rushed past with tired expressions, phones pressed against their ears and coats pulled tightly around themselves against the cold. Cars filled the roads with constant noise, horns cutting through conversations and buses pulling away from stops with a familiar hiss.
Usually, you enjoyed the rhythm of New York.
Today, you felt slightly behind it.
Not because anything bad had happened. Just because your weekend had not gone the way you expected.
Sunday had been supposed to be simple.
A coffee.
A conversation.
Something easy.
But then your friends had invited you out, and one thing had turned into another. A quick lunch became hours of wandering around the city, catching up, laughing and forgetting to check the time until the evening had already arrived.
You had thought about messaging Benjamin.
Several times.
You had even opened his contact.
But every time you did, you hesitated. You didn't want it to sound like you were cancelling because you didn't care. You did care. Maybe that was the problem.
So instead, you had sent him a short message explaining that something had come up and apologising.
His response had come a few minutes later.
That's alright. Another time.
Simple.
No guilt.
No disappointment.
Still, you had spent the rest of the evening wondering if he actually meant it.
Now, standing outside the café on Monday morning, you found yourself strangely nervous. Which was ridiculous. You had been here countless times. You knew the layout. You knew where the sugar packets were kept, which table was usually free and which barista worked the early shift.
But today felt different.
Because now Benjamin wasn't just the man who happened to order coffee at the same time as you. Now he was someone who had your number. Someone you had spoken to outside of this place. Someone you had almost made plans with.
You pushed the door open.
Warm air immediately surrounded you, carrying the smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries. The familiar sounds of the café washed over you—quiet conversations, the grinding of coffee beans and the occasional clatter of cups being placed onto counters.
And then you saw him.
Benjamin stood near the counter. His back was partially turned towards you, one hand holding his coffee while he listened to something the barista was saying.
For a moment, you simply watched him. Not in a strange way. Just recognising the familiarity of seeing someone who, only a few weeks ago, had been a complete stranger.
Almost as if he sensed you, he looked over.
His expression softened slightly.
"Morning, Y/n."
A small smile appeared on your face.
"Morning, Benjamin."
The barista looked between the two of you.
"Your usual?"
You nodded.
"Please."
Benjamin glanced at you.
"How was your weekend?"
There was no accusation in his voice. No hint that he had been waiting. Just a question.
You relaxed slightly.
"Busy."
He nodded.
"Good busy?"
You smiled.
"Yeah. My friends dragged me out."
"That sounds like a positive thing."
"It was."
You hesitated briefly. "Sorry about yesterday, though."
Benjamin looked at you.
"You don't have to apologise."
"I know, but I still feel bad."
"Why?"
The question was so genuine that it caught you off guard.
You shrugged.
"Because we were supposed to meet."
A brief pause.
Then Benjamin looked down at his coffee. "We can do it another time."
The simplicity of his answer made you smile.
"You really don't get bothered by much, do you?"
Benjamin looked at you for a moment. The question seemed to catch him slightly off guard. Not because it was offensive. Because it was difficult to answer.
"I do."
You tilted your head.
"You do?"
"Yes."
"But you never seem bothered."
His eyes dropped briefly towards the coffee in his hand. "I don't always show it."
That answer was so honest that it made you pause. There was something about Benjamin that was difficult to figure out.
He wasn't cold.
At least, you didn't think he was.
He just seemed... controlled. Like every reaction passed through a filter before he allowed anyone else to see it.
You looked down at your own coffee.
"Well, I guess that's probably useful for your job."
His expression shifted slightly.
"Probably."
You smiled.
"You say that a lot."
"What?"
"Probably."
A brief pause.
Then:
"I do?"
You laughed quietly.
"Yes."
Benjamin looked almost as though he was making a mental note of that.
You weren't sure if that was amusing or slightly concerning. Probably both.
The café was becoming busier now. The morning rush had settled in properly. The quiet conversations had grown louder, chairs scraped against the floor as people came and went, and the smell of fresh coffee seemed to linger everywhere.
Neither of you were in a hurry.
You had a little time before your lecture.
Benjamin, from what you knew, had a little time before work.
So you stayed.
Not in any official way.
There was no plan. No arrangement. Just two people sitting with their coffees and talking because neither of them had a reason to leave yet.
Your eyes drifted over him while he spoke. Not intentionally. You just noticed things. You always noticed things.
It was probably why forensic psychology had interested you in the first place. People's habits. Their expressions. The small details they didn't realise they showed. And right now, there was one detail you couldn't ignore. A small cut near his cheek. Another near his lip. They weren't severe. Just noticeable.
You frowned slightly.
Benjamin caught it.
"What?"
You looked away quickly.
"Nothing."
A small pause.
"You're looking at something."
You looked back at him.
"I am not."
"You are."
The fact he said it so calmly made you smile.
"Okay, maybe I am."
His expression remained neutral.
"What is it?"
You hesitated.
Your fingers moved around the cardboard sleeve of your cup.
You weren't sure why you felt nervous.
It wasn't an invasive question. It was a normal question.
It was just...
You glanced at him again.
The small cut along his cheek caught the morning light for a brief moment. other, barely visible unless you looked properly, sat near the corner of his lip.
You'd noticed them the second he'd walked into the café.
You looked back down at your coffee.
"I was going to ask you something."
Benjamin turned his head slightly.
"What?"
You hesitated for a heartbeat.
"I noticed..." Your eyes flickered back to the cuts before meeting his again. "The ones on your face."
Instinctively, his hand lifted just enough that his fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek, as though he'd forgotten they were there.
"They look like they hurt."
He gave the smallest shrug.
"They're not too bad."
"I know," you said gently, "but cuts on your face can be annoying."
A faint smile tugged at your lips.
"They always seem worse when you're trying to eat."
For the first time that morning, the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
"That's true."
The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived, but you'd seen it.
"I was just wondering..."
You paused, suddenly worried you were overstepping.
"...are you cleaning them properly?"
Benjamin looked at you for a moment. Not suspiciously. Almost... surprised.
"As in disinfectant and everything."
You laughed quietly, a little embarrassed.
"I know it sounds like such a random thing to ask."
"It is."
You covered your face for a second with one hand.
"I knew it."
"But..."
He cleared his throat softly.
"I am."
You lowered your hand.
"You are?"
He nodded once.
"I cleaned them when I got home."
"And you're keeping them clean?"
"Yeah."
You let out a small breath you hadn't realised you were holding.
"Good."
Benjamin watched you for another moment.
"You were worried."
It wasn't a question. Just an observation.
You smiled sheepishly into your coffee.
"A little."
"You didn't have to be."
"I know."
You looked up at him.
"But I still was."
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Benjamin wasn't used to that kind of concern.
People noticed injuries. Colleagues joked about them. Supervisors asked whether he was fit for duty. Doctors patched them up. But nobody had ever asked whether he was looking after them afterwards.
It was such a small question.
So ordinary.
Yet it lingered with him far longer than he expected.
"I'll be alright," he said quietly.
You nodded.
"I know."
And somehow, the way you said it made it sound less like reassurance for yourself...
...and more like trust in him.
A quiet moment passed.
Outside, New York continued moving. Cars passed by the windows. People hurried along the pavement. The city was loud and restless, but inside the café, it felt strangely calm.
You wrapped both hands around your coffee, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.
Benjamin sat opposite you, his own cup untouched for the moment.
He wasn't looking out of the window.
He wasn't looking around the café.
He was looking at you.
Not intensely. Just... attentively.
As if he were trying to commit another small detail to memory.
You noticed.
"What?" you asked, the corner of your mouth lifting into a faint smile.
He blinked once, as though he'd been pulled back into the room.
"What?"
"You keep looking at me."
There wasn't any accusation in your voice. If anything, you sounded amused.
Benjamin looked down at his coffee for a brief second before clearing his throat.
"I was thinking."
"About?"
Another pause.
He rarely answered quickly when the answer mattered.
"You look..."
He stopped himself.
You waited.
He looked almost frustrated with himself, searching for the right words.
"You always look..."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"...comfortable."
You frowned, not because the compliment was unwelcome, but because it was unexpected.
"Comfortable?"
Benjamin nodded once.
"When you come in here."
He glanced around the café before looking back at you.
"I've noticed that."
You couldn't help smiling.
"I don't know whether that's a compliment."
"It is."
The certainty in his voice surprised you.
"You always seem..."
Again, he searched for the words.
"...calm."
You laughed quietly.
"I promise you, I'm usually anything but."
"I know."
That answer caught you off guard.
"You do?"
"You fidget."
Your eyebrows rose.
"When you're thinking."
He gestured subtly towards your hands.
"You've been turning that coffee sleeve since we sat down."
Almost instinctively, you looked down.
He was right.
Your fingers had been absent-mindedly rotating the cardboard sleeve around your cup for the last few minutes.
You hadn't even realised.
A small, embarrassed laugh escaped you.
"I do that all the time."
"I know."
"You've noticed that too?"
Benjamin gave a slight nod.
"You do it when you're nervous."
You looked at him for a second before shaking your head with a smile.
"See, that's unfair."
"Why?"
"Because you notice everything."
He was quiet.
Then, almost apologetically, he said,
"I don't mean to."
You believed him.
There wasn't a hint of self-importance in his voice. It wasn't something he did to make people uncomfortable. It was simply how he experienced the world.
You smiled warmly.
"I know you don't."
The tension seemed to leave his shoulders almost immediately.
You took another sip of your coffee.
"So..."
You tilted your head slightly.
"You really notice all of that?"
Benjamin looked at you.
"What?"
"The little things."
You smiled faintly.
"The coffee sleeve. When I'm nervous. The way I fidget."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I notice most things."
There wasn't any pride in his voice. It was simply a fact.
You rested your chin lightly against your hand, studying him for a second.
"Doesn't that get exhausting?"
His eyes drifted briefly towards the café window, watching people hurry past beneath umbrellas.
"Sometimes."
The answer was honest.
No hesitation.
No attempt to soften it.
You nodded slowly.
"I suppose my lecturers would say that's a useful skill."
"For psychology?"
"Mm."
You smiled.
"They're always telling us to observe before we interpret."
Benjamin looked back at you.
"And do you?"
"I try."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You ask more questions than you assume."
You laughed quietly.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was."
Your smile lingered.
"So..."
You pointed playfully between the two of you.
"I observe people."
"You do."
"You observe people."
"I do."
"I suppose we're both in the business of noticing things."
Benjamin considered that for a second before giving a small nod.
"I hadn't thought about it like that."
"It makes sense, though."
"It does."
Another comfortable silence settled over the table.
You watched people pass outside while absent-mindedly tracing the rim of your coffee cup.
Benjamin remained exactly as he always seemed to be calm, composed, quietly taking in the world around him without appearing distracted by it.
The café door opened, letting in a rush of cold air.
You glanced towards the clock. Your lecture wasn't far away. Neither was his work.
You sighed softly.
"I should probably go."
Benjamin nodded.
"Me too."
For a moment, neither of you moved. It was strange how quickly the café had become a place where silence between you no longer felt uncomfortable.
A few weeks ago, you would have filled every quiet moment with nervous conversation, worried that you had said the wrong thing or that he had lost interest.
Now, you were beginning to understand that Benjamin's silence was not always an absence of something.
Sometimes, it was simply how he existed.
You finished the last sip of your coffee and glanced towards the time displayed on your phone.
Definitely time to leave.
You began gathering your things, slipping your notebook back into your handbag and adjusting the strap over your shoulder. The familiar sounds of the café carried on around you—the hiss of the coffee machine, the chatter of customers, the occasional laugh from a table nearby.
Benjamin stood as well.
You picked up your coffee cup, ready to throw it away before leaving.
"Y/n."
You looked up. The way he said your name made you pause.
"Yeah?"
Benjamin cleared his throat.
It was such a small gesture, but you noticed it. He didn't seem nervous exactly. At least, not in the way most people were.
It was more like he was carefully arranging his thoughts before speaking.
"I was wondering..."
You waited.
He glanced briefly towards the door, then back at you.
"The other day."
You knew immediately what he meant.
Sunday.
The plan that never happened.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your handbag strap.
"I know you got busy," he continued. "And that's alright."
You nodded quickly.
"Yeah, sorry again about that."
"You don't need to apologise."
A small smile crossed your face. "You really like saying that."
His expression softened slightly.
"I do."
You laughed quietly.
Then Benjamin continued.
"I was wondering if you would still like to meet."
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Meet?"
"Properly."
There was something about the way he said it that made you smile.
Not because it was particularly romantic. Because it was clear he had thought about it. He wasn't casually throwing the suggestion out. He had considered it.
"If you'd like."
You looked at him. Benjamin looked completely composed, but you had started noticing the small things.
The slight pause before he spoke. The way his fingers adjusted around his coffee cup. The way he seemed to wait for your answer without trying to influence it.
You smiled.
"I'd like that."
Something in his expression eased. Only slightly. But you saw it.
"Okay."
You nodded.
"When?"
He seemed to already know.
"Friday."
A small pause.
"Six o'clock."
You considered it.
"Where?"
"Central Park."
You smiled.
"Central Park at six?"
"Yes."
"That's very specific."
Benjamin looked almost confused.
"It's a good location."
You laughed. "I know. I'm just saying."
A faint hint of a smile appeared on his face.
"I thought it would be easier."
"Easier?"
"Less crowded than a restaurant."
That actually made sense. Of course it did. Benjamin wasn't someone who would choose a loud, busy place where he couldn't hear properly or control his surroundings.
A park made sense. Open space. Quiet. Simple.
"I think that sounds nice," you said.
He nodded.
"Friday, then."
"Friday."
For a moment, you both just stood there.
The agreement was made.
Simple.
No dramatic moment.
No grand gesture.
Just two people who had started as strangers sharing coffee and had slowly reached the point where spending time together outside that café felt natural.
You moved towards the door.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Benjamin."
"Tomorrow, y/n."
You stepped outside into the cold New York morning.
The city immediately surrounded you again. The noise. The traffic. The endless movement.
But you couldn't help smiling slightly as you walked towards university.
Friday suddenly felt much closer than it had before.
—
Wednesday
7:48 p.m.
The cold settled over Manhattan long before the sky turned completely black.
You pulled your coat a little tighter around yourself as you and Pamela rounded the corner onto the next street, the glow of shop signs reflecting across damp pavements. Cars rolled steadily through the evening traffic, headlights stretching across the wet roads in long ribbons of white and gold. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed as they climbed into a taxi, while further down the street a bus sighed to a halt before disappearing again into the constant rhythm of the city.
New York never truly slowed down.
Not really.
The little Korean hotpot restaurant was exactly where it always was, tucked between an ageing laundrette and a tiny convenience shop whose fluorescent lights seemed permanently on. It wasn't particularly pretty from the outside. The sign above the door had faded over the years, and one of the windows had a small crack running through the corner.
You loved it anyway.
The food was good. The portions were generous. Most importantly...
It was affordable.
The warmth hit you almost immediately as you stepped inside. Your glasses you fogged for a second before clearing again, revealing a restaurant alive with conversation. Steam drifted lazily from bubbling pots on almost every table, carrying the rich scent of garlic, sesame oil and chilli through the room. Cutlery clinked against ceramic bowls, chairs scraped quietly across the floor, and somewhere in the background, soft Korean music played beneath the chatter of customers.
The hostess smiled warmly.
"Table for two?"
"Please," you answered.
A few moments later, the two of you were settled into your usual booth near the window.
Pamela rubbed her hands together.
"I swear this place gets better every time."
You laughed.
"No, we're just broke enough to appreciate it."
"That's probably true."
Within minutes, a pot of broth bubbled gently between you, filling the small table with comforting warmth.
You leaned back slightly with a contented sigh.
"I needed this."
"I could tell."
Pamela poured herself another drink before looking across the table at you.
"So..."
You immediately pointed your chopsticks at her.
"Don't."
"I haven't even asked anything."
"You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're about to interrogate me."
Pamela smiled innocently.
"I prefer the word 'enquire'."
"It's interrogation."
"It isn't."
"It is."
She laughed.
"Fine." She picked up a slice of beef with her chopsticks before dropping it carefully into the broth. "So..."
You sighed dramatically.
"There it is."
"There what is?"
"The question."
Pamela grinned. "How's Benjamin?"
You looked down into the bubbling broth, pretending to be far more interested in cooking your food than answering.
"He's alright."
"Alright?"
"Yeah."
"You've spoken to him since Saturday."
You nodded.
"We had coffee on Monday."
"And?"
"And... we talked."
Pamela waited.
You knew that look.
She wasn't going to rescue you from the silence.
"So?" she prompted again.
You smiled despite yourself.
"He apologised."
"For what?"
"The phone call."
Her eyebrows drew together. "He was still apologising?"
"I told you."
"He apologised over the phone."
"I know."
"And he apologised again?"
You nodded. "He seemed genuinely bothered."
Pamela rested her chin in her hand. "Huh."
"What?"
"I wasn't expecting that."
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know."
She shrugged.
"Someone in the FBI."
You laughed. "What does that even mean?"
"I don't know." She smiled. "I just imagined someone a bit... tougher."
"He is."
"You know what I mean."
You thought about Benjamin for a moment. The cuts on his face. The careful way he chose his words.
"He is," you repeated quietly. "I think he's just..." You searched for the right word. "Reserved."
Pamela nodded slowly. "That's probably a better way of putting it."
You smiled.
"He asked if I'd still like to meet up."
Her eyes widened.
"He did?"
You nodded.
"Friday."
"What time?"
"Six."
"Where?"
"Central Park."
Pamela slowly lowered her chopsticks onto the table. "Y/n."
"What?"
She looked at you with complete disbelief. "That is a date."
You laughed.
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
"It isn't."
"You are meeting a man in Central Park on a Friday evening."
"Yes."
"A man who specifically asked if you'd still like to meet him."
"Yes."
"A man who remembered your university modules."
"Yes."
"A man who apologised three separate times because he had to answer a work call."
You smiled into your drink.
"...Yes."
Pamela folded her arms.
"And you genuinely don't think that's a date?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because..."
You hesitated. The answer was more complicated than you'd expected.
"I just..." You looked out of the restaurant window for a moment, watching people hurry past beneath scarves and winter coats. "I want to know him."
Pamela softened.
"You already do."
"No."
"I don't."
"I know little things."
"The coffee."
"His job."
"The fact he always apologises."
You smiled.
"But I don't know him."
Pamela watched you quietly.
"I think he's interesting."
That much was true. You weren't lying. There was something about Benjamin that made you curious. Not because he was mysterious. Because he never seemed to pretend to be someone else.
He was quiet. Sometimes awkward. Occasionally unintentionally funny. He listened more than he spoke. He remembered almost everything. And despite working what was probably one of the most stressful jobs imaginable, he never made it his entire personality.
You liked that. Maybe more than you realised.
"I don't have time for a relationship," you admitted after a while.
Pamela smiled knowingly.
"Neither does he."
"Exactly."
"So maybe neither of you are looking for one."
You nodded.
"I think..." You stirred the broth absent-mindedly. "I think it'd just be nice to have another friend."
Pamela didn't answer immediately. Instead, she smiled the sort of smile only a best friend could.
"You keep telling yourself that."
You groaned.
"Pamela..."
"I'm serious."
She laughed as you rolled your eyes.
"I believe you."
"...Mostly."
You reached across the table and nudged her arm.
"You're impossible."
"So you've said."
The two of you dissolved into laughter once again, your voices briefly blending with the warm, comforting noise of the restaurant around you.
Outside, the city continued rushing from one place to the next.
Inside, time seemed to slow just enough for you to forget about assignments, deadlines and overthinking.
For the first time all week, you simply enjoyed the evening with your best friend.
—
Benjamin's shift finished just after half past seven.
By the time he stepped outside the FBI field office, Manhattan had already surrendered to the night. The air was cold enough to sting his lungs as he breathed in, and a steady breeze swept between the buildings, carrying with it the distant sounds of traffic, police sirens and snippets of conversations from pedestrians hurrying home.
He adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder before making his way towards his car.
It had been a long day.
Paperwork.
Training.
A briefing that had lasted far longer than anyone wanted.
His shoulders ached beneath his jacket.
Normally, he would drive straight home.
He liked routine. Routine was predictable. Predictability made life easier.
Tonight, however, his thoughts kept drifting somewhere they hadn't before.
To you.
Benjamin unlocked the driver's door and climbed inside, setting his bag on the passenger seat before starting the engine.
For a few moments, he simply sat there. The heater hummed quietly as it began pushing warm air into the car, fog slowly disappearing from the windscreen.
His eyes landed on his phone.
Friday.
Six o'clock.
Central Park.
He remembered every word of the conversation. Not because he had been trying to.
Because remembering came naturally.
His memory rarely gave him the luxury of forgetting things.
Especially conversations. Especially yours.
He shifted the car into gear and pulled out into the evening traffic.
The roads were busy, though no busier than usual for Manhattan. Brake lights stretched endlessly ahead of him, red reflections shimmering across damp tarmac as people crawled home after work.
Benjamin rested one hand loosely against the steering wheel.
His route home would take him west. Instead, without really thinking about it, he found himself turning at the next junction.
The movement was instinctive.
He frowned almost immediately.
That wasn't the way home.
His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
He knew where you lived. Not your apartment number. Not which floor. Just the neighbourhood.
You had mentioned it once during one of your conversations over coffee, and he had remembered.
The thought settled uncomfortably in the back of his mind.
He could drive past. Just once.
He wasn't trying to interrupt you. He wasn't planning to stop. He only...
Benjamin exhaled slowly.
No.
His indicator clicked as he changed lanes again. The car turned back towards the main road.
What was he doing?
You had your own life.
Your own friends.
Your own evening.
The fact that he was curious didn't mean he had any right to satisfy that curiosity.
His instructor's voice echoed faintly in his memory.
"Boundaries matter, Dex."
He swallowed.
They did. Of course they did.
The traffic slowed to a stop at a red light. Benjamin drummed his thumb once against the steering wheel before looking absent-mindedly through the passenger window.
A small restaurant stood on the corner.
Its windows were fogged from the warmth inside, making it difficult to see clearly.
People laughed around closely packed tables. Steam drifted upwards from bowls and hotpots.
His gaze moved across the room without much thought.
Then it stopped.
You.
You were sitting by the window opposite your friend you had mentioned a few times—Pamela.
You were laughing. Not the polite laugh he sometimes heard in the café.
A proper laugh.
Your head tilted back slightly as Pamela said something that made you cover your face with one hand.
Benjamin felt something in his chest loosen.
You looked...
Happy.
Relaxed.
Comfortable.
For a brief moment, he considered parking.
Not to interrupt.
Just...
No.
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. You hadn't invited him. This wasn't his moment.
This belonged to you.
The traffic light turned green. A car behind him sounded its horn.
Benjamin blinked, shifted his attention back to the road and eased his foot onto the accelerator.
He drove away.
He didn't look in the rear-view mirror. He didn't circle the block. He didn't slow down.
By the time the restaurant had disappeared behind him, he was already telling himself he had done the right thing.
Because he had.
He had almost let curiosity become something else.
Almost.
That thought stayed with him for the rest of the drive home.
It unsettled him.
Not because he had seen you. Because, for a moment, he had wanted to.
And Benjamin Poindexter was beginning to realise there was a difference.
In love with anything that contains men with blood on their face…
Like, thats right you’re so manly and tough, you can fight damn
These three are literally all different species. Random headcannons for them>>>
>Dex is a mentally ill, aggressive, violent man who is ready to do anything to get you and keep you. He can be like a horror movie if you push him hard enough.
In truth, you don’t even have to push him for him to get scary.
He can hurt you if he “has” to meaning he will follow you if he thinks he needs to and after some good thinking through, he might even be ready to swipe you off the street when you turn to a slightly darker street.
Jail doesn’t change him at all. He just can’t wait to get out somehow and get to the people he needs to.
When he has his mind on someone, he will think about that person absolutely all of the time, especially if he feels some kind of love towards them.
He feels love in a much different way. He feels like he needs that person, and that nobody understands that this need feels like his life actually depends on it. Like he depends on air and water.
<Frank is a man who is also aggressive and violent but would never even in his dreams lay a hand on you or wish to scare you on purpose.
He would kill more than he could count if he had to, but you would be safe and sound.
He loves being a man. Providing and guarding. Like some kind of dog. You keep him on a leash and whatever you said, that was law. You felt scared? Thats over. You were hungry? He would bring food on the table. Someone threatened you? He’d gauge his eyes out.
It wasn’t really complicated. He would simply do anything and everything.
At first he is reluctant about letting you in, but when he realises theres no escaping his own feelings, he falls harder than ever. His fear doubles because he’s lost everything once already, and surviving that again would be a hard pill to swallow.
He just wants domestic love. Dinner and kisses. But instead fate has dealt him quite the opposite.
=Matt is a quiet lover. He Is soft, calm and collected in every possible scenario, and you have no idea how he does it. Maybe it’s because of his faith, you think. Or maybe because his other senses are so well developed. Who knows.
Thinks its better to keep you in the dark about things so nobody gets hurt. Especially you. Being quiet is the way you stay safe. Anyone can learn from that right? Being quiet never got someone in trouble.
If someone asked, you knew Matt, that was it. Only far later did he tell you who he was also.
Unlike Dex who would do anything to keep you with him, Frank who thinks keeping you safe and near was the way, Matt often sees that walking away is the best choice.
His identity cannot hurt you if he wasn’t there. But he loves you. If needed, he was ready to let you go.
But if you ever came to his mind, he would always imagine a simple life. An apartment for both of you with no real danger besides court looking at him in disagreement when he was defending someone.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ Benjamin Poindexter (FBI!dex) x fem!reader ⋆.ᐟ
summary: Benjamin Poindexter x reader fic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 3/?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 4.8k
Two and a half weeks passed.
By then, the rain had become almost expected.
It drifted over the city in soft curtains as you finished your morning run, leaving the pavements dark and gleaming beneath the streetlights that had yet to switch off. New Yorkers hurried from doorway to doorway beneath umbrellas, coffee cups warming cold hands as another working day began.
You found Benjamin already inside the café.
He stood where he usually did, one hand wrapped around a paper cup while the other rested loosely in the pocket of his dark FBI jacket. Tiny droplets of rain still clung to the shoulders of the fabric, evidence that he'd only just arrived himself.
As you stepped through the door, he looked up.
"Morning, y/n."
You smiled before you even realised you were doing it.
"Morning, Benjamin."
It was the first time you'd ever said his name aloud.
Something about hearing it in your own voice felt strangely unfamiliar.
The barista glanced between the two of you with a knowing smile.
"The usual?"
"Please," you replied.
Benjamin looked towards you.
"How's university?"
You slipped your purse back into your bag.
"Busy."
"I imagined it would be."
"I've got two essays due next week."
He nodded once.
"You mentioned behavioural profiling."
Your eyebrows lifted. "You remembered that?"
"Yes."
The answer came so naturally that it almost caught you off guard.
Most people forgot the details of conversations after a few days. Benjamin, apparently, did not.
"We've started looking at interview techniques now," you explained as the barista prepared your drink. "How psychologists build rapport, recognise inconsistencies... things like that."
He listened with the same quiet attentiveness he always seemed to have.
"Do you enjoy it?"
"I do."
You laughed softly.
"It's probably the first module where I haven't spent half the lecture wondering why I chose this degree."
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"That's good."
The barista slid your coffee across the counter.
"There you go."
"Thank you."
Benjamin collected his own cup at almost the same moment.
The two of you reached the door together.
"I'll get it."
He pulled the door open before you had the chance, holding it steady as you stepped out beneath the awning.
"Thanks."
He gave a small nod.
Rain fell steadily onto the pavement beyond, the sound mingling with passing traffic and the distant wail of a siren somewhere deeper in Manhattan.
You opened your umbrella.
"So..."
Benjamin glanced briefly towards the street.
"I should—"
He gestured vaguely in the direction he normally walked.
"Yeah," you said.
"I've got class."
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Benjamin turned to leave.
"Benjamin?"
The name left your mouth before you could lose your nerve.
He stopped almost immediately. Turning back, he looked at you with quiet curiosity.
"Yeah?"
Your grip tightened around your coffee cup. You hadn't actually thought this far ahead.
"I…" You swallowed. "Could I get your number?"
The words hung between you.
Almost as soon as they left your mouth, you wished you could gather them back up again.
Heat crept into your cheeks.
"Not—" You let out a small, awkward laugh. "Not in a weird way."
Wonderful.
That definitely made it sound less weird.
"I just thought..." You rubbed your thumb against the cardboard sleeve of your cup. "I don't know... it might be nice to catch up outside the café sometime."
Benjamin blinked.
Not because he looked uncomfortable.
Because he seemed to be genuinely considering the question.
His lips parted slightly.
"I…"
A sharp vibration buzzed from inside his jacket.
He froze.
Another buzz.
His eyes dropped instinctively towards the inside pocket.
For a brief moment, he didn't move. As though trying to decide.
The phone vibrated again.
"...Sorry."
The word came quietly.
"I just..."
He stopped himself, almost frustrated.
"Excuse me."
He slipped the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I have to take this."
"It's okay," you said quickly.
"Sorry."
There was something almost apologetic in the way he said it.
Then he stepped a short distance away, already lifting the phone to his ear.
"Poindexter."
His voice changed immediately.
Sharper. Professional.
You remained where you were.
One minute passed.
Then another.
You leaned lightly against the café window, watching pedestrians hurry past beneath umbrellas while Benjamin continued the conversation several metres away.
He paced once.
Stopped.
Listened.
Answered.
Every now and then, he glanced in your direction. Not for long. Just enough to confirm you were still there before returning his attention to the call.
Five minutes slipped by. The conversation showed no sign of ending.
You looked down at your coffee.
What were you still doing here?
He'd looked uncertain before the phone rang. Maybe he'd been trying to think of a polite way to refuse. Maybe asking for his number had been a mistake.
You sighed quietly.
Reaching into your bag, you found a folded receipt and a pen.
Balancing your coffee beneath one arm, you scribbled your name and phone number onto the back.
For a moment, you stared at it. Then, before you could overthink it again, you crossed the few metres separating you.
Benjamin looked up as you approached.
He was still listening to whoever was speaking on the other end of the call.
You held out the folded piece of paper.
His eyes dropped to it.
Then back to you.
"It's just my number," you said quietly. "If you ever... want to."
He reached out automatically.
Your fingers brushed for the briefest second as he took the paper.
"...Thank—"
The word caught in his throat. Whatever he had been about to say disappeared as the voice on the other end of the line spoke again.
He turned his head slightly.
"Sorry," he muttered into the phone, sounding momentarily flustered. "Go ahead."
You offered him a small smile.
"Bye, Benjamin."
Before he could answer, you turned and walked away into the rain.
Benjamin remained where he was, the folded piece of paper resting between his fingers. His gaze followed you for a second longer than it should have.
Then he looked down at your handwriting.
Carefully—almost instinctively—he folded the paper once more and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Not with his wallet.
Not loose in another pocket.
Somewhere he knew it wouldn't be lost.
—
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
By the time Benjamin finally returned to his apartment, New York had settled into that peculiar hour where the city seemed both exhausted and wide awake. Traffic still flowed beneath his windows in an endless stream of headlights, the occasional siren echoed somewhere in the distance, and rain continued to patter softly against the glass, carried sideways by the evening wind.
He locked the door behind him.
The familiar click of the deadbolt was followed by silence.
His apartment was immaculate.
Not because he particularly enjoyed cleaning, but because everything had its place. His keys hung on a small hook beside the door. His jacket was hung carefully on the same hook it always occupied. His shoes were lined neatly against the wall before he walked further inside.
Routine.
It settled his thoughts.
Most days.
Tonight, it didn't.
Benjamin loosened his tie as he crossed into the kitchen, switching on the light above the dining table. The warm glow filled the otherwise dim apartment, illuminating the sparse furnishings and the stack of unopened post resting on the counter.
His shoulders ached.
Hours spent wearing body armour had left a familiar heaviness between his shoulder blades, and the muscles in his neck protested as he rolled them gently. SWAT deployments rarely ended when they were supposed to. There was always paperwork afterwards. Debriefings. Reports. Meetings that stretched long beyond the point anyone remained fully alert.
Normally, exhaustion made it easier to quiet his mind.
Not tonight.
He filled a glass with water but left it untouched. Instead, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
His fingers found the folded receipt almost immediately. He already knew it was there. Even so, he unfolded it with surprising care.
Your handwriting curved neatly across the paper.
Your name.
Your telephone number.
Nothing more.
He read it once.
Then again.
He remembered standing outside the café. Rain falling steadily onto the pavement. You shifting your coffee into one hand while trying to explain that asking for his number wasn't strange.
You'd looked embarrassed.
He'd been about to answer.
Then the phone had rung.
Benjamin exhaled quietly.
He should have thanked you properly. He should have explained. Instead, he'd answered the call.
Because that was what he always did.
Work came first.
It had to.
His therapist had once asked him whether he found it difficult to separate his professional life from his personal one.
At the time, he'd answered honestly.
"I don't really have a personal one."
The memory lingered unpleasantly.
He looked back down at the receipt. You had waited. Five minutes. In the cold rain. He hadn't asked you to.
You could have walked away.
Most people would have.
Instead, you'd waited until it became obvious the call wasn't ending, walked over to him, handed him your number and quietly said goodbye.
No frustration. No irritation.
Just... understanding.
Benjamin frowned slightly.
He wasn't accustomed to people being patient with him.
His thumb brushed absent-mindedly over the edge of the paper.
He reached for his phone. Unlocked it. Opened the contacts application.
For several moments, he simply looked at the blank screen waiting for a name.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Y/n Hawthorne.
He entered the name.
His thumb paused above the next field.
Telephone number.
He copied it carefully from the receipt, checking each digit twice before saving the contact.
The screen now displayed your name. That should have been enough. Instead, he remained seated.
The silence inside the apartment felt unusually loud. He opened the conversation window. A blinking cursor waited beneath your name.
He could apologise. That seemed appropriate. Or perhaps thank you.
No.
He should apologise first.
He began typing.
Sorry about this morning.
He stopped. Deleted it. Too abrupt.
He tried again.
I'm sorry I had to leave so suddenly.
He stared at the sentence.
It wasn't inaccurate. It simply didn't say what he meant.
Delete.
Another attempt.
Thank you for waiting.
Delete.
His jaw tightened.
None of it sounded right.
None of it properly acknowledged the image that kept returning to him—seeing you standing beneath the café awning, rain falling beyond the shelter, waiting while he remained on the telephone.
He rested the phone on the table. Perhaps calling would be better.
No.
Calling unexpectedly might inconvenience you.
He didn't know whether you were studying.
Working.
Sleeping.
His eyes drifted back towards the receipt lying neatly beside the phone. He realised, with faint annoyance directed entirely at himself, that he had spent far too much of the day replaying the conversation.
Not the words.
The timing.
If the phone had rung thirty seconds later...
He would have thanked you. He would have given you his number. He would have explained that work had interrupted him. Instead, he'd left you standing there wondering whether he'd intended to answer at all.
Benjamin leaned back in his chair, rubbing hand across his face.
He disliked unfinished conversations.
They lingered.
His phone remained on the table beside your contact. The cursor still blinked patiently within the empty message box.
Outside, rain continued tapping steadily against the window.
After another long moment, he picked up the phone once more. This time, he didn't start typing immediately. He simply looked at your name.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth softened into the faintest hint of a smile.
Tomorrow, he decided.
Tomorrow, when his thoughts were clearer.
He would send the message.
He owed you that much.
—
Saturday mornings were supposed to be peaceful.
At least, that was the idea.
No lectures.
No rushing across the city.
No checking the time every five minutes because you were terrified of being late.
Just sleep.
That was all you wanted.
You had spent the previous night experiencing nearly every emotion a person could possibly feel within the space of a few hours.
Embarrassment.
Confusion.
Regret.
A strange kind of disappointment that you weren't entirely sure you were allowed to feel.
You had tried studying first.
That was always your default.
If something bothered you, you worked harder. If your thoughts became too loud, you filled the silence with something productive.
Except last night, you'd read the same page of your textbook four times without absorbing a single word.
Eventually, you gave up and moved onto something far less productive.
Eating.
Not because you were particularly hungry.
Just because having something else to focus on was easier than sitting with your thoughts.
Then came Pamela.
Your phone call had lasted far longer than either of you had intended.
You had explained everything.
The café.
The conversation.
The rain.
The fact that you'd asked Benjamin Poindexter for his number and immediately wanted the ground to swallow you afterwards.
Pamela had listened patiently.
Mostly.
"You do realise you didn't commit a crime, right?"
"I know."
"Because the way you're talking, you'd think you accidentally confessed to something."
"I just feel stupid."
"You asked a man for his number."
"I know."
"That's literally all that happened."
You had gone quiet. Because she was right. It wasn't a dramatic event. It wasn't some life-changing moment. He was a man you'd met in a coffee shop. That was all.
He was supposed to just be the coffee shop guy.
The quiet FBI agent who ordered the same drink every morning.
The familiar face you recognised before you knew anything about him.
You didn't know why you had suddenly wanted his number.
Maybe because talking to him had become easy. Maybe because you had become used to seeing him. Maybe because, somewhere along the way, he had stopped feeling like a stranger.
That thought had only made everything more confusing.
And, despite your best efforts, you had cried once. Only once. Mostly because you felt ridiculous for caring.
Pamela had immediately noticed.
"Y/n."
"I'm fine."
"You are crying."
"I'm aware."
"Okay, well, that's usually a sign you're not fine."
You had laughed despite yourself.
That was the annoying thing about Pamela. She always managed to make you feel better.
—
Now, several hours later, you were still in bed.
Your bedroom was exactly the kind of space you had always wanted.
Dark.
Comfortable.
A place that felt completely yours.
The black metal frame of your bed stood against the wall, surrounded by a black lace canopy that softened the sharpness of the furniture. Dark wooden shelves held stacks of books, some neatly arranged and others left open where you'd abandoned them halfway through reading.
Your vintage vanity sat in the corner beneath the soft glow of a lamp, the large round mirror reflecting the warm lighting scattered throughout the room.
Candles sat on almost every surface.Not because you needed them.
Because you liked the atmosphere they created.
The gentle flicker.
The quiet warmth.
The feeling of being somewhere separate from the rest of the world.
Ambient lighting had always been your favourite thing.
The kind of lighting that made everything feel calmer.
More manageable.
Your walls were covered with posters, photographs and little reminders of things you loved. A CD rack stood in the corner beside a small pile of albums waiting to be organised. Books were scattered across the floor, some opened face-down on the rug.
Your laptop sat abandoned nearby.
Open.
Completely dead.
You had forgotten to charge it.
You didn't care.
You didn't want to deal with the mess.
Not the physical one.
Not the mental one either.
You pulled the blanket slightly higher, sinking further into the mattress.
Your cat shifted somewhere near your feet, barely acknowledging your existence before settling back down.
Even she seemed to understand that today was a day for doing absolutely nothing.
You closed your eyes.
For a moment, you tried not to think about the café. Not about the rain. Not about Benjamin standing there with his phone pressed to his ear. Not about the way he had looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't.
You had no idea what he was thinking.
You had no idea whether he would ever message.
And, honestly, you weren't sure which possibility made you more nervous.
Your phone rested on the bedside table.
Silent.
You told yourself you weren't waiting for it. You were just tired. That was all.
You had a free Saturday.
You were allowed to sleep.
You turned onto your side, facing away from the phone.
"Five more minutes," you whispered to yourself.
The rain outside had finally stopped.
The city was beginning to wake up.
And somewhere across New York, Benjamin Poindexter was already at work.
But for the first time in a while, your usual Saturday routine had been interrupted by a thought you couldn't quite put away.
You wondered if he had kept your number.
—
Saturday mornings were usually predictable.
Benjamin preferred it that way.
Predictability meant fewer variables.
Fewer variables meant fewer things that could go wrong.
The café was one of those routines he hadn't thought much about until recently.
It was simple.
Coffee.
A few quiet minutes before work.
A familiar environment.
The same faces.
The same order.
The same corner of the city waking up around him.
Except this morning, something was different. You weren't there. He noticed immediately. He told himself he didn't.
He stepped inside the café, removed the rain from his jacket and joined the queue like he always did.
He looked at the menu despite already knowing what he wanted. He listened to the conversations around him. The music playing quietly through the speakers. The hiss of the espresso machine. The sound of cups being placed onto counters.
Normal things.
Routine things.
Still, his eyes moved towards the door every time it opened.
Every time someone walked in, his attention shifted automatically.
Not obviously.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But enough.
The door opened again.
A man carrying a briefcase.
Not you.
Another customer entered a few minutes later.
A woman with headphones and a takeaway order.
Not you.
Benjamin looked away.
He disliked the fact that he had been expecting you.
You weren't late.
You weren't supposed to be there.
You had your own life.
Your own schedule.
The fact that he knew you usually came in on Saturdays was irrelevant. Or at least, it should have been.
"Large black coffee. No room."
The barista began preparing it before he had even finished speaking.
Benjamin watched the familiar movements.
The same order.
The same cup.
The same routine.
Yet something about it felt incomplete.
His eyes briefly moved towards the table near the window where you sometimes sat.
Empty.
He looked away.
—
By the time he left the café, the coffee was already in his hand.
The city was brighter than it had been the previous evening. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets damp and reflective beneath the morning light. People moved along the pavements carrying shopping bags, walking dogs, heading towards whatever plans they had made for the day.
Benjamin stood outside for a moment longer than necessary.
He looked down the street.
No sign of you.
It was irrational. He knew that. You had never promised to be there.
You had never said you would message him.
You had simply handed him your number.
A small gesture. An invitation. Nothing more.
His fingers moved inside his jacket pocket. The folded receipt was still there. He had kept it safe. He wasn't entirely sure why.
Benjamin had spent the previous evening trying to find the right words.
Not a rushed apology. Not something careless.
You deserved more than:
Sorry about yesterday.
That didn't explain anything. It didn't explain that he had wanted to answer.
That he had appreciated you waiting. That he had been thinking about contacting you since the moment he left.
He wanted to say it properly.
That was the problem.
Benjamin had always been better with actions than words.
Actions had rules. Words didn't. Words could be misunderstood. Words could reveal things he hadn't intended to reveal.
He had spent most of his life learning control. Control over his reactions. Control over his emotions. Control over the things people saw.
But a simple message to someone who had been kind to him shouldn't have felt complicated. And yet it did.
His phone sat heavy in his pocket.
He had not had the right moment.
That was what he told himself.
During work, there was no time. After work, he had been exhausted. At home, he had rewritten the same message repeatedly until none of it sounded genuine.
He hadn't wanted to send something empty.
You had not treated him like a task to complete.
He didn't want to treat you like one either.
Benjamin looked back through the café window.
The empty chair near the window caught his attention again.
A strange feeling settled in his chest. Not panic. Not concern. Something quieter.
Disappointment.
He disliked that too. Because it meant he had been hoping to see you.
He finished the last sip of his coffee.
Then he pulled his phone from his pocket. For a moment, he simply stared at the screen.
Your contact was still there.
Y/n Hawthorne.
His thumb hovered over your name. He could message now. He should. He had a few minutes before he needed to leave.
Enough time.
He opened the conversation.
The blank space waited.
Benjamin stared at it.
Then he began typing. This time, he didn't delete it.
Good morning, Y/n.
I wanted to apologise for yesterday. I should have thanked you properly before I had to take that call.
I hope you got home safely.
He paused.
It was formal.
Too formal.
He frowned and added another line.
I would still like to take you up on your offer to talk sometime, if you meant it.
His finger hovered above send.
He read it once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Because suddenly, he wondered whether you had changed your mind. Maybe you regretted giving him your number. Maybe he had made you uncomfortable. Maybe the silence was your answer.
Benjamin looked at the message again. For someone who could make decisions under pressure in seconds, this felt strangely difficult.
A notification appeared on his phone.
Work.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Of course.
He locked the screen and placed the phone away. Not because he didn't want to send it. Because he wanted to do it properly. He wanted to be certain.
As he walked towards his vehicle, the thought remained.
You weren't there this morning.
And for some reason, that absence stayed with him longer than it should have.
—
The afternoon passed slowly.
After speaking with Pamela, after replaying the entire situation in your mind far more times than you wanted to admit, you eventually decided that the only way to stop thinking about it was to stop sitting still.
So you cleaned.
Not because your apartment was particularly messy.
It wasn't.
You just needed something to do with your hands.
Music filled the room, loud enough that the neighbours would probably hear it if they were paying attention. You had abandoned any attempt at being graceful, dancing around the living room with a cloth in one hand while rearranging books and wiping down surfaces.
It was ridiculous.
And it helped.
Your apartment felt warmer with the music playing.
The candles were lit.
The lamps were turned low.
The city outside continued moving, cars passing beneath your window and people living their own lives without any idea that you had spent the last twenty-four hours overthinking a man you barely knew.
A man who was supposed to just be the coffee shop guy.
You moved another stack of books onto the shelf, quietly singing along before stopping to laugh at yourself.
This was better.
You were fine. You were going to be fine.
Then your phone chimed.
The sound was almost lost beneath the music.
Almost.
You froze.
The cloth in your hand lowered slowly.
For a moment, you stared towards the phone sitting on the kitchen counter.
You told yourself not to rush.
You told yourself it could be anyone.
Pamela.
A university email.
A notification.
Anything.
Still, your feet moved before you had consciously decided to walk.
You picked it up.
Your stomach dropped slightly when you saw the name.
B. Poindexter.
You stared at the screen.
He had messaged.
You opened it.
Good afternoon, Y/n.
I apologise for not contacting you sooner. Yesterday got away from me. I should have thanked you properly before I had to take that call.
I hope you got home safely.
Then another message below it.
I would still like to take you up on your offer to talk sometime, if you meant it.
You read it once.
You read it twice.
Then a third time.
Not because the message was complicated.
Because it sounded exactly like him.
Careful. Thoughtful. Almost too formal.
A smile appeared before you could stop it.
You sat down on the edge of the sofa. For some reason, seeing his name on your phone felt different than seeing him across the café counter. This was intentional. He had chosen to contact you.
You could text back. That would probably be normal. Most people texted. But you had always preferred calls.
Texting left too much room to overthink. Too much time staring at words. Too much time wondering what someone meant.
So before you could convince yourself it was a bad idea, you pressed the call button.
—
Benjamin was sitting in his vehicle during his lunch break when his phone began ringing.
He looked down.
Your name appeared across the screen.
For a second, he simply stared.
He had expected a message.
Eventually.
Not a call.
His thumb hovered over the answer button.
Then he pressed it.
"Hello?"
There was a brief pause. Then your voice.
"Hi."
Something about hearing you rather than reading your words caught him slightly off guard.
"Hi."
You immediately laughed softly. "Sorry. I know I could have just replied."
"No."
The answer came quicker than he intended.
He paused.
"You don't have to apologise."
You smiled despite yourself.
"Okay."
There was a quiet moment. Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar.
Neither of you were used to this yet.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," Benjamin said.
You leaned back against the sofa. "You already apologised."
"I know."
"Then why are you apologising again?"
Another pause.
Because he didn't have an easy answer.
Because the truth was that he didn't like the thought of you standing there in the rain because of him.
"I should have handled it differently."
You softened slightly. "Benjamin, you were working."
"That doesn't mean I couldn't have explained."
"You were on the phone with work."
"I know."
The way he said it made you realise he wasn't arguing. He was simply stating that he understood.
You smiled faintly.
"You're very hard on yourself, aren't you?"
Silence.
A longer one this time.
You wondered if you had gone too far.
Then:
"Sometimes."
It was quiet.
Honest.
You weren't expecting that.
"So," you said, trying to lighten the mood, "are you always this serious?"
A small pause.
"Yes."
You laughed. A genuine laugh.
And on the other end of the phone, Benjamin went quiet. Not because something was wrong. Because he had realised he liked hearing that.
"I was joking," you said.
"I know."
"You didn't sound like you knew."
"I did."
"You didn't."
A faint smile touched his face.
"No."
You smiled.
The conversation continued. Nothing dramatic. Nothing life-changing. Just two people talking.
You told him about your cleaning attempt and how you had been avoiding university work.
He asked questions. Not many. But enough.
He listened.
When he spoke, he was careful with his words.
When you laughed, he stayed quiet for a moment afterwards, as if committing the sound to memory.
Eventually, he glanced at the time.
"I have to go back."
"Right."
The disappointment in your voice was subtle. But he noticed.
"I'll see you soon?"
The words left his mouth before he could reconsider them.
You smiled.
"Tomorrow morning?"
A pause.
Then:
"Tomorrow morning."
And somehow, that simple agreement felt like the easiest thing either of you had said all day.
When the call ended, Benjamin remained sitting there for a moment longer.
The city moved around him. People walked past. Cars passed by.
His lunch break continued ticking away.
But for the first time that day, his thoughts felt quieter.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ Benjamin Poindexter (FBI!dex) x fem!reader ⋆.ᐟ
summary ⋮ Benjamin Poindexter x reader fiic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 2/?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 4.5k
By the time you reached your Wednesday morning lecture, your coffee had long since gone cold.
You carried it into the theatre anyway, more out of habit than hope, weaving between rows of students already settling into their seats. The room smelled faintly of old carpet, paper and stale coffee—an unavoidable consequence of filling nearly a hundred university students into one space before nine o'clock. Conversations overlapped from every direction, some discussing coursework, others weekend plans, while the occasional burst of laughter echoed against the high ceiling.
You slipped into your usual seat three rows from the back, set your bag beneath the desk and opened your laptop. Your notebook followed, then a pen, arranged neatly beside it. The lecture hadn't begun yet, but you preferred having everything ready before Professor Carter arrived.
Across the aisle, two students were hurriedly comparing notes for an assignment due later that afternoon.
"I still don't understand the statistical analysis section," one admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "I swear I've read it six times."
His friend shrugged sympathetically.
"You're asking the wrong person. I barely survived last semester's statistics module."
"That's reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
You smiled faintly to yourself before taking another sip of your coffee. It had become lukewarm at best.
The chatter gradually quietened as Professor Evelyn Carter entered the lecture theatre carrying a worn leather folder beneath one arm. She was a woman in her early fifties with neatly pinned dark hair and an effortless confidence that meant she never needed to raise her voice to command a room.
She placed the folder on the lectern, adjusted the microphone and looked out across the theatre.
"Good morning."
A scattered chorus of greetings answered her.
"I know," she replied with a knowing smile. "It's half past eight. None of us is especially thrilled to be here."
A few students laughed.
"But criminals don't politely wait until midday to commit offences, so neither can we."
Another ripple of amusement travelled through the room.
She switched on the projector, revealing the title of the morning's lecture.
Behavioural Observation and Environmental Awareness.
Professor Carter rested one hand against the lectern.
"Observation is one of the most misunderstood skills in psychology."
She paused, allowing the room to settle.
"People often believe they're observant simply because they notice what's directly in front of them."
She shook her head.
"They're not."
The theatre fell silent.
"Observation isn't passive. It's intentional."
She stepped away from the lectern and began walking slowly along the front of the room.
"So, let's begin with something simple."
Her gaze swept across the students.
"Without turning around, tell me what the person sitting directly behind you is wearing."
Several people instinctively twisted in their seats.
Professor Carter raised an eyebrow.
"I did say without turning around."
More laughter followed.
"I've already caught half of you."
She folded her arms.
"Well?"
A student near the front frowned.
"I... think it's a grey jumper?"
"You think?"
"I'm not sure."
"Exactly."
Professor Carter nodded.
"We convince ourselves we're paying attention because we recognise people. Recognition isn't the same as observation."
She picked up a marker and wrote two words across the whiteboard.
LOOKING
Beneath it, she wrote:
SEEING
"Looking is automatic," she said, placing the marker down. "Seeing requires effort."
The next slide appeared.
A crowded railway platform filled the projector screen.
"Imagine you're asked to assess this environment."
She looked around the lecture theatre.
"Who appears confident?"
"Who's distracted?"
"Who's deliberately trying not to attract attention?"
Hands gradually began to rise as students offered their thoughts.
Professor Carter listened to each answer before asking the same question.
"What evidence supports that conclusion?"
The discussion continued for several minutes.
One student suggested a man near the platform edge looked anxious because he was standing rigidly with his hands buried in his pockets.
Another argued he simply looked cold.
Professor Carter smiled.
"Good. Already we're seeing why context matters."
You found yourself writing almost everything she said.
Observation first.
Interpretation second.
Never the other way around.
As your pen moved across the page, your thoughts wandered unexpectedly.
Not because you had lost interest in the lecture.
Because Professor Carter's examples reminded you of someone.
Agent Benjamin Poindexter.
You realised, somewhat to your own surprise, that if someone had asked you to describe him, you wouldn't have started with his appearance.
You remembered his habits instead.
The way he always paused just inside the café before moving any further, as though instinctively taking in the room.
The way his eyes travelled briefly across every table without lingering.
The way he stood perfectly still while waiting in the queue, never checking his phone, never shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.
Even his coffee order never changed.
Large black.
No room.
You stopped writing for a moment.
It wasn't unusual to notice patterns.
After all, that was precisely what your degree was training you to do.
Still, it struck you as mildly amusing that your mind had apparently selected the quiet FBI agent from your local coffee shop as an unofficial case study.
"Miss Hawthorne?"
You looked up.
Professor Carter was watching you expectantly.
A few students turned in your direction.
"I'm sorry?"
Professor Carter smiled.
"I asked whether you agreed with Daniel's assessment."
You glanced back towards the projected photograph.
"The man by the ticket machine?"
"Yes."
You considered it for a moment before answering.
"I think he's drawing a conclusion too quickly."
Professor Carter gestured for you to continue.
"Standing rigidly with his hands in his pockets could suggest anxiety," you said, "but it isn't enough on its own. He could be cold. He could simply be waiting for someone. Without context, posture alone doesn't tell us very much."
Professor Carter nodded approvingly.
"Exactly."
She turned back towards the rest of the class.
"One of the easiest mistakes to make in behavioural analysis is mistaking possibility for certainty."
She glanced back at you.
"Very good, Miss Hawthorne."
As the lecture continued, you couldn't help thinking about that distinction.
Observe first.
Interpret later.
It sounded simple enough.
Yet people rarely afforded one another that patience.
Most decided who someone was within moments of meeting them.
You had no intention of making that mistake.
Not with strangers.
And certainly not with Agent Benjamin Poindexter.
—
The library was usually where you went when you needed silence.
Not complete silence—universities rarely offered that luxury—but the kind of quiet where the occasional turning of a page or the distant tapping of a keyboard became background noise rather than a distraction.
Today, however, it wasn't working.
You had been staring at the same paragraph for nearly ten minutes.
The words were there.
You could read them.
You understood each individual sentence.
Yet somehow, when you reached the end of the page, none of it had actually stayed in your mind.
You sighed quietly and highlighted another line you knew you would have to read again later.
Across the table, Pamela looked up from her laptop.
She had been watching you for longer than you realised.
"You know you've highlighted the same sentence three times, right?"
You stopped.
Slowly, you looked down.
The sentence was, in fact, highlighted three separate times.
You closed your eyes.
"Have I?"
Pamela leaned back in her chair.
"Yes."
"That's embarrassing."
"It's only embarrassing if you're pretending you're not distracted."
You looked at her.
"I'm not distracted."
Pamela raised an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at the same page since I sat down."
"I've been reading."
"You've been staring."
You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped because she was right.
Pamela smiled slightly.
"I know that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're physically here but mentally somewhere else."
You shut your textbook.
"Am I that obvious?"
"To me? Yes."
Pamela had known you long enough to tell the difference between normal university exhaustion and when something was genuinely occupying your thoughts.
She took a sip of her coffee.
"What's going on?"
You hesitated.
"Nothing, really."
"Y/n."
You laughed softly.
"Okay, maybe something."
"I knew it."
You rolled your eyes.
"You always say that."
"Because I'm usually right."
The library continued around you. Students moved between shelves, printers hummed in the corner, and somewhere nearby someone was quietly whispering about an upcoming exam.
Normally, it would have been comforting.
Today, it felt like you were fighting against your own thoughts.
Pamela glanced at your untouched notes.
"How long have you been trying to study?"
"About two hours."
"And how much have you done?"
You looked down.
"...Not much."
She closed her laptop.
"Then we're leaving."
You frowned.
"What?"
"We're leaving."
"Pamela, I have work to do."
"And you aren't doing it."
"I could."
"You could also spend another three hours here convincing yourself you're studying."
You couldn't help but smile.
"You're very supportive."
"I am supportive. I'm supporting you leaving this building before you start arguing with your textbook."
You packed your things, knowing she was right.
Sometimes forcing yourself to continue wasn't discipline. Sometimes it was just stubbornness
—
By the time you left the university grounds, rain had begun falling.
Not heavily.
Just enough to coat the pavements in a reflective sheen and make the city lights blur against the wet streets.
You opened your umbrella while Pamela did the same beside you.
New York looked different in the rain.
The usual sharp edges softened. Buildings reflected in puddles. Taxi lights stretched across the road like ribbons of colour, and people hurried beneath umbrellas, shoulders raised against the cold.
You and Pamela walked without any particular destination.
That was the nice thing about being friends with someone for years.
Sometimes you didn't need plans. You just needed time.
"So," Pamela said, glancing at you. "How's everything?"
You smiled.
"That's a very broad question."
"I know."
"University?"
"Mm-hm."
"Stressful."
"Obviously."
"Money?"
"Also stressful."
She nodded.
"Adult life sounds terrible."
"It is."
"Good. Glad we're both suffering."
You laughed.
The conversation moved naturally after that.
Assignments.
Lecturers.
Work.
The tiny frustrations that made up everyday life.
Eventually, as you passed a row of closed shops with rain tapping against your umbrellas, Pamela looked over.
"What about your love life?"
You immediately laughed.
"My what?"
"Your love life."
"Pamela, I barely have time to sleep."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer."
She shook her head.
"You cannot spend all your time studying and expect a relationship to magically appear."
"I know."
"Have you met anyone?"
You thought about it.
"No."
Then, after a moment:
"Well... sort of."
Pamela immediately looked interested.
"Sort of?"
You realised too late that you had given her information.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That look."
"What look?"
"The one where you act like you've just discovered something interesting.'
She smiled.
"I have discovered something interesting."
You sighed.
"There's this guy who comes into the coffee shop."
"A guy."
"Yes."
"Go on."
You looked ahead, watching rainwater run along the pavement.
"I don't know. He's just... there."
Pamela waited. You knew she wasn't going to let you get away with that.
"He's an FBI agent."
Her eyebrows lifted. "An FBI agent?"
"Apparently."
"Apparently?"
"I overheard someone call him Agent Benjamin Poindexter.... and the barista basically told me..."
Pamela looked amused.
"That is a very specific person to overhear."
"I didn't ask."
"I didn't say you did."
You gave her a look.
She laughed.
"Okay, okay. Tell me about him."
You thought for a moment. It was strange trying to describe Benjamin. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.
"He comes into the café every morning."
"Every morning?"
"Pretty much."
"And you've spoken to him?"
"A little."
"Is he nice?"
You considered that.
"Yes."
"Charming?"
You laughed.
"No."
"Cold?"
"Not exactly."
You looked down at the pavement.
"He's just... quiet."
Pamela listened.
"He has the same order every day. Large black coffee. No room."
"No room?"
"Yeah."
She smiled.
"You've memorised his coffee order?"
You immediately looked defensive.
"No."
"Y/n."
"Okay, maybe."
Pamela laughed.
"I'm teasing."
You smiled despite yourself.
"He just has this routine. Everything about him is very controlled."
"You sound like you're analysing him."
You paused. The irony wasn't lost on you.
"Maybe I am."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No."
You adjusted your grip on your umbrella.
"I think I'm just curious."
"Curious?"
"Yeah."
You searched for the right words.
"He seems like someone who notices everything."
The rain continued falling around you.
"And I guess I'm curious about what he notices."
Pamela smiled slightly.
"That sounds very much like you."
"What does?"
"Being interested in the person everyone else overlooks."
You didn't answer immediately.
Because, annoyingly, she was right. Benjamin Poindexter was just a stranger.
A man who drank black coffee every morning.
A man you exchanged a few words with.
A man whose life you knew almost nothing about.
And yet...
Somehow, you had started noticing him.
—
You and Pamela continued walking long after the conversation about Benjamin had ended.
That was the thing about the two of you.
A simple walk was rarely just a walk.
There was always another topic waiting around the corner.
The conversation drifted from university to childhood memories, from embarrassing first jobs to the strange reality of becoming an adult and realising nobody actually knew what they were doing.
Pamela told you about a lecturer who had accidentally sent an unfinished email draft to an entire class.
You laughed so hard you had to stop walking for a moment.
"No way."
"I swear."
"An entire class?"
"Everyone received it."
"What did it say?"
Pamela grinned.
"Something about needing coffee before dealing with 'the chaos of today's youth'."
You covered your mouth to hide your laugh as rain tapped against your umbrella.
"That's actually kind of sweet."
"It was not sweet when we were the chaos of today's youth."
"You were twenty minutes late to a seminar once."
"That was one time."
"It was three times."
"Details."
You smiled.
The rain continued falling around you, steady and constant, turning the pavement into a mirror beneath your feet.
Eventually, the conversation moved towards relationships again.
Not seriously.
Just the usual questions friends asked each other.
People you had dated.
People Pamela had dated.
The terrible experiences that somehow became funny months later.
"I still think you need to get out more," Pamela said.
You looked over at her.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning your current routine is university, studying, your apartment, your cat and that coffee shop."
"That sounds like a perfectly acceptable routine."
"It sounds like the routine of an eighty-year-old woman."
You laughed.
"I like my life."
"I know you do."
Her tone softened.
"And that's a good thing. I'm just saying you should let people into it sometimes."
You looked ahead at the glowing shop windows reflecting in the wet pavement.
"I do."
"You let me in."
"Exactly."
"I'm the exception."
"You are."
Pamela smiled.
"See? That's what I mean."
You shook your head.
The two of you continued down the street, eventually turning towards the neighbourhood where the coffee shop sat.
The rain had made the city quieter somehow.
Not actually quiet—New York never was—but softer.
The constant noise of traffic became a distant hum beneath the rain. Headlights stretched across the wet roads, taxis moved through intersections in endless streams, and pedestrians hurried along beneath umbrellas, their faces briefly illuminated by passing streetlights.
Pamela glanced around.
"So this is where you get coffee every morning?"
"Almost every morning."
She smiled.
"Lead the way."
You guided her down the familiar street.
You knew this route without thinking.
The corner where the bakery always displayed fresh pastries in the morning.
The small bookshop that changed its window display every few weeks.
The little park where you ran before the city became too busy.
Everything felt familiar.
Then, halfway down the block, you saw him.
At first, it was only a familiar shape.
A dark navy jacket.
A tall figure standing beneath the glow of a streetlight.
You almost didn't register it.
Then he moved.
Your attention caught on the subtle shift before your mind had even registered why.
Across the road, beneath the white glow of a streetlamp, stood three FBI agents.
Dark navy jackets.
Protective vests.
Gold lettering catching the light whenever passing headlights swept over them.
One agent stood slightly apart from the others, his radio pressed to his shoulder as he listened to whoever was speaking on the other end. Every so often he answered with a clipped, professional response before returning his attention to the junction.
The second agent was saying something you couldn't make out over the rain and traffic.
The third...
You recognised him immediately.
Benjamin Poindexter.
He stood beneath a black umbrella, one hand wrapped around its handle while the other rested loosely by his side. His dark FBI jacket was damp across the shoulders despite the shelter, and beads of rain clung to the short strands of his hair where the wind had carried the water beneath the umbrella's edge. Droplets traced slowly down the side of his temple before disappearing beneath the collar of his jacket.
Even while listening to his colleague, he seemed quietly alert.
His posture remained as precise as ever.
Shoulders square.
Weight balanced evenly.
Nothing wasted
Nothing careless.
For a moment, everything else seemed to blur. The city continued moving around him. Cars passed between you, tyres cutting through rainwater and sending sprays of mist into the air. Yellow taxis rolled past in endless succession. Pedestrians moved around him without noticing him, each person caught inside their own world.
But you noticed.
You slowed to a stop without realising it.
Pamela, a pace ahead, turned back.
"You coming?"
Instead of answering, you reached out and lightly tapped the middle of her back.
"We should..." You hesitated, glancing across the road again. "Maybe we should go another way."
Pamela frowned.
"What?"
"It's nothing."
She looked at you suspiciously.
"Y/n."
"I just think—"
"Why?"
Before you could answer, Pamela followed your line of sight.
Her eyes settled on the opposite pavement.
On the three FBI agents standing beside the pedestrian crossing.
One speaking into his radio.
One chatting quietly.
And Benjamin Poindexter between them.
"...Oh," she said.
You gave an awkward nod.
"Yeah."
Pamela looked back at you, then across the street again.
"That's him?"
"The one with the smaller umbrella."
She studied him for a second.
"I can see why you noticed him."
You let out an exasperated laugh.
"Pamela."
"What?"
"Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything."
"You absolutely are."
She smiled to herself, still watching the opposite pavement.
"He certainly doesn't look like the friendliest person in New York."
"No," you admitted. "He doesn't."
"But?"
You watched Benjamin for another moment before answering.
"But I don't think he's unfriendly."
Pamela tilted her head.
"You've spoken to him, what, three times?"
"Something like that."
"And you've already decided he's misunderstood."
"I didn't say that."
"You were thinking it."
"I was not."
"You absolutely were."
You sighed, shaking your head.
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
Pamela's attention drifted back across the road. Benjamin had shifted slightly beneath his umbrella, listening as one of the other agents spoke. The third agent lowered his radio for a moment, exchanged a few words with the pair, then raised it back to his shoulder.
"Hm."
"What?"
"I want to get a better look at him."
Your head snapped towards her.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
Pamela blinked innocently.
"I didn't say I was going to marry him."
"You don't need a better look."
"I've only seen him from across the road."
"You'll survive."
She looked thoroughly unconvinced.
"What if we just..."
"No."
"I haven't even said anything yet."
"I know you."
Pamela grinned.
"You do."
She tapped a finger thoughtfully against the handle of her umbrella.
"Alright. New plan."
"There isn't a plan."
"There is now."
You gave her a look that should have been enough to end the conversation.
It wasn't.
"We cross the road," Pamela said matter-of-factly. "I ask them for directions."
You stared at her.
"They're FBI agents, y/n. If anyone knows the area, it'll be them."
"They're working."
"So?"
"So we're not interrupting three federal agents because you're curious."
"I'm not curious."
"You just said you wanted a better look."
"I did say that."
You let out a long sigh.
"Pamela..."
She held up a hand.
"Hear me out."
"I already don't like where this is going."
"You don't have to say a word."
"I wasn't planning to."
"You can stand there looking innocent."
"I always look innocent."
Pamela laughed.
"You can even pretend you haven't seen him."
"I have seen him."
"I know that. I mean... don't acknowledge him."
You frowned.
"That would be even stranger."
"Not if you're facing the other way."
You looked at her as though she'd lost her mind.
"So your plan is for me to stand with my back to him while you ask complete strangers for directions?"
"When you put it like that..."
"It sounds ridiculous."
She smiled sheepishly.
"...A little."
The rain drummed steadily against your umbrellas as people streamed past in both directions, eager to escape the weather.
You glanced towards the pedestrian crossing.
The signal was still red.
Cars continued rolling through the junction in an endless procession, their headlights streaking across the wet road.
"It's a bad idea," you said.
Pamela considered that for a moment before nodding.
"Maybe."
You raised an eyebrow. "Maybe?"
"But..."
She gestured towards the crossing.
"We have to go that way anyway."
You followed her gaze.
She was right.
The coffee shop sat just beyond the next block.
Unless you wanted to add another ten minutes to the walk by circling the area, you would have to cross at this junction.
Your shoulders dropped in reluctant defeat.
"I still think it's a bad idea."
Pamela smiled triumphantly.
"I never said it wasn't."The pedestrian signal clicked.
The red figure disappeared.
A white walking symbol illuminated above the crossing.
Around you, the waiting crowd began to move.
Umbrellas lifted against the rain, shoes splashed through shallow puddles and the steady rhythm of traffic gave way to the electronic chirp of the pedestrian crossing. Headlights crawled to a halt, their reflections stretching across the rain-slicked asphalt like ribbons of white and amber.
You tightened your grip on the handle of your umbrella.
"This is still a terrible idea," you muttered.
Pamela smiled without looking at you.
"I know."
The two of you stepped off the curb with everyone else.
As you reached the middle of the crossing, you resisted the urge to glance towards the opposite pavement.
Instead, you focused on the white lines beneath your feet.
On the rain tapping steadily against the umbrella above your head.
On the sound of tyres hissing over wet roads as impatient drivers waited for the lights to change again.
You were almost across when Pamela nudged your elbow.
"Don't look now."
You gave her a flat stare.
"You say that after we've already crossed?"
"I know."
"You are unbelievable."
"I've heard that."
You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth.
The three agents were only a few metres away now.
Up close, the gold FBI lettering across the backs of their jackets was unmistakable. Rain gathered along the edges of their shoulders, tiny droplets catching beneath the glow of the streetlights before falling silently onto the pavement.
One of the agents lowered his radio.
"...Copy that."
His voice was calm, businesslike.
Benjamin stood beside him, listening to the other agent speak in a low voice.
He gave a brief reply.
A single nod.
Nothing about his posture suggested distraction.
Even in conversation, his attention seemed divided between his colleagues and the movement around the junction.
It was subtle.
Almost impossible to notice unless someone was looking for it.
You supposed that was exactly the point.
As you and Pamela stepped onto the pavement, Dex's gaze swept instinctively across the pedestrians filtering through the crossing.
A routine scan.
Nothing more.
His eyes moved from one face to the next.
An elderly couple.
A cyclist wheeling his bike.
A woman pushing a pram.
Then...
You.
His gaze stopped.
Not for long.
A fraction longer than it had for anyone else.
Recognition settled across his expression so faintly that another person would likely have missed it altogether.
You didn't.
Nor did he look surprised.
It was simply the quiet acknowledgement of seeing someone familiar in an unexpected place.
His colleague continued speaking.
Benjamin listened, though his attention lingered for another heartbeat before returning to the conversation.
You felt oddly self-conscious.
Not because he was staring.
He wasn't.
Because you'd become aware that he recognised you just as easily as you recognised him.
Pamela leaned closer.
"He definitely knows who you are."
You kept your voice low.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm serious."
"He looked at everyone."
"He looked at you differently."
"You cannot tell that from ten feet away."
"I absolutely can."
You opened your mouth to argue.
Before you could, the agent with the radio stepped away from the group, speaking quietly into the microphone again.
The remaining agent said something to Benjamin that made him glance briefly towards the junction.
For the first time since you'd known him, a faint smile—so slight it barely existed—crossed his face at whatever had been said.
It vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.
You blinked.
It was... strange.
Not because he'd smiled.
Because it reminded you that beneath the badge, the rigid posture and the measured voice, he was simply another person standing in the rain talking to his colleagues after a long day.
Benjamin looked back towards the pavement.
This time, his eyes met yours directly.
There was a brief pause.
Then, with the same restrained politeness he always seemed to carry, he inclined his head once.
It wasn't formal.
It wasn't distant.
Just... a greeting.
The sort exchanged between two people who happened to share the same corner of the city every morning.
Almost instinctively, you returned the gesture.
A small nod.
Nothing more.
Pamela watched the exchange from the corner of her eye.
"Oh," she murmured.
You looked at her.
"What?"
"He really does know you."
Before you had the chance to answer, Benjamin's colleague clapped him lightly on the shoulder and said something that drew his attention back to work.
The moment passed as quietly as it had begun.
The three agents resumed their conversation, the radio crackled again, and the city continued around them as though nothing at all had happened.
You and Pamela carried on down the pavement towards the café, leaving the junction—and Agent Benjamin Poindexter—behind.
Even so, you couldn't shake the feeling that, for the first time since your paths had begun crossing, the familiarity no longer belonged only to you.
He recognised you too.
—
Next part — HERE
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°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
wrote 2 chapters over the course of 2 days... time to retreat lol
summary ⋮ Benjamin Poindexter x reader fic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 1/?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 3k
New York never really slept.
Even before dawn, the city breathed through the distant growl of traffic, the hiss of buses kneeling at empty stops, and the occasional wail of a siren somewhere beyond the rows of apartment buildings. From the fourth floor of your building, those sounds had become familiar enough that silence felt stranger than noise.
Your alarm sounded at six.
You reached across the bedside table and silenced it before it could ring again. A grey tabby immediately lifted his head from the pillow beside you, emerald eyes narrowed in quiet annoyance.
"You've got a harder life than I do," you murmured.
The cat answered with a slow blink before curling back into himself.
The apartment was modest, but it was yours.
Well—not yours. The landlord would certainly remind you of that if the rent was late—but it was home. A small kitchen with mismatched cupboards, a narrow living room dominated by second-hand furniture, shelves overflowing with university textbooks, and walls that desperately needed repainting. Nothing about it was glamorous.
You loved it anyway.
Every object had been bought with money you had earned. Every book had brought you one step closer to where you wanted to be.
Forensic psychology.
Less than two years remained until you graduated.
Sometimes that still surprised you.
There had been nights where assignments blurred into sunrise, mornings fuelled entirely by coffee, and weeks where your bank account looked frighteningly empty before your next pay cheque arrived from the university library. Yet somehow, despite everything, you had made it this far.
You intended to finish.
After showering, you pulled on running leggings, an old university sweatshirt, and trainers that had seen better days. You filled your cat's bowl before crouching beside him.
"I'll be back in half an hour."
He ignored you with complete dignity.
Outside, the cool morning air hit your face immediately.
The streets carried that peculiar quiet found only just before commuters flooded the pavements. A newspaper stand was being stocked on the corner. Delivery vans idled beside restaurants. Somewhere nearby, someone was dragging metal chairs across concrete to prepare for opening.
Your route never changed.
Three blocks east.
Across the small park.
Round the fountain.
Then back again.
Nothing ambitious. Just enough to clear your head before lectures.
Running had become less about fitness and more about routine. It gave your mind somewhere to organise itself before the day demanded your attention.
By the time you returned to the main street, your breathing had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Sweat clung lightly to the back of your neck, and your legs carried the pleasant ache that came from moving rather than sitting at a desk.
The familiar bell chimed as you stepped into the coffee shop.
Warm air wrapped around you immediately, carrying the rich smell of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries. Indie music drifted quietly through hidden speakers while an espresso machine hissed behind the counter.
"Morning," the barista called, already recognising you.
"Morning."
"The usual?"
You smiled.
"Please."
She nodded before reaching automatically for a paper cup.
You leaned against the collection counter, fishing your phone from your pocket while customers drifted in behind you.
Then the bell above the door rang again.
The man who entered looked as though he belonged somewhere quieter. He wore a dark jacket zipped neatly to his collar despite the mild weather. His hair was trimmed short, almost military in appearance, and his posture was impossibly straight. Every movement was economical, precise, as though unnecessary motion had been carefully removed from his life.
His eyes swept across the café.
Not casually.
Methodically.
Door.
Windows.
Customers.
Counter.
You noticed because you studied people. It had become instinct. Most people looked around a room. This man assessed it.
He joined the queue without touching his phone or glancing absentmindedly towards the menu. Instead, he stood perfectly still with his hands loosely folded in front of him.
No fidgeting.
No sighing.
No shifting his weight.
Nothing.
It wasn't normal.
Not unsettling.
Just... unusual.
"Large black coffee."
His voice carried easily across the café.
Calm.
Even.
Controlled.
The cashier smiled politely.
"Anything else?"
"No."
His answer came almost before she'd finished asking.
You collected your own drink as your order was called.
"Thanks."
"You have a good one."
"You too."
Turning towards the door, you adjusted your grip around the warm cup.
Someone stepped aside at exactly the same moment. You both moved to avoid one another. Then accidentally chose the same direction.
"Oh—"
You laughed softly.
"Sorry."
The man immediately shifted back, giving you enough room to pass.
"My mistake."
His voice remained perfectly level.
Not cold.
Simply factual.
Up close, you noticed faint shadows beneath his eyes, as though sleep was something he tolerated rather than enjoyed. There was a tiny scar near his jawline, almost hidden beneath the morning stubble, and another disappearing beneath the collar of his jacket.
He met your gaze for barely a second.
Long enough to acknowledge you.
Not long enough to invite conversation.
"No," you replied with an awkward smile. "I walked straight into your path."
He gave a single nod.
Neither apologetic nor dismissive. Merely accepting the information.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved.
Then the cashier called out, "Large black coffee."
The man inclined his head.
"Excuse me."
"Of course."
He stepped around you with surprising care, making certain not to brush your shoulder as he passed. There was something almost rehearsed about the movement—as though he'd consciously calculated exactly how much space to leave.
You watched him collect his coffee.
"No room?" the barista asked.
"No."
"No sugar?"
"No."
"Have a nice day."
He paused.
"You too."
Again, perfectly polite. Perfectly measured. Nothing about him stood out in the way people often imagined suspicious individuals would. If anything, he seemed exceptionally ordinary.
Quiet.
Reserved.
Disciplined.
The sort of man who kept to himself.
You pushed open the café door and stepped back into the cool morning air. Behind you, a few seconds later, the bell chimed again. You glanced back without really thinking. The same man emerged carrying his coffee.
He turned left.
You turned right.
Within moments, the crowds beginning to gather along the pavement swallowed him entirely.
You never learned his name.
Not that morning.
Not yet.
—
The days settled back into their familiar rhythm.
Lecture.
Library.
Work.
Sleep.
Run.
Coffee.
Repeat.
There was a certain comfort in routine. You had always found it easier to manage the chaos of university when each morning began the same way. It made New York feel smaller somehow, less overwhelming.
About a week after your brief encounter with the quiet stranger, you noticed him again.
He was already inside the café when you arrived.
Just as before, he stood in the queue without looking at his phone. While everyone else filled the silence by scrolling through messages or staring blankly out of the window, he simply waited.
Perfect posture.
Hands loosely clasped.
Eyes calmly taking in the room.
You joined the line a few places behind him.
"Large black coffee," he said when it was his turn.
The cashier smiled.
"No room?"
"No."
"No sugar?"
"No."
"You have a nice day."
"You too."
The exchange lasted no more than twenty seconds.
By the time you reached the counter, he was already walking out with the paper cup held securely in one hand.
You thought nothing more of it.
Until two mornings later.
Again.
The same jacket.
The same measured voice.
The same order.
"Large black coffee."
"No room?"
"No."
"No sugar?"
"No."
It happened often enough that you began to notice the details without meaning to. He arrived within roughly the same ten-minute window each weekday morning. Never looked rushed. Never lingered. Always thanked the staff. Always left.
His routine was almost as predictable as your own.
"You know him?"
The question came unexpectedly one Thursday morning.
You looked away from the door, finding the barista sealing your cup with its lid.
"Him?"
She nodded towards the window where the man was already disappearing into the crowd.
"The FBI guy."
You blinked.
"FBI?"
She laughed quietly.
"I thought everyone around here knew."
"I've only been coming here for..." You paused, trying to count it in your head. "About eight months."
"He flashes his badge sometimes if someone asks why he's carrying."
"Carrying?"
"The gun."
"Oh."
Your surprise must have shown because she smiled sympathetically.
"Scared me the first time too."
"I never noticed."
"He keeps it well hidden."
You accepted your coffee.
"I suppose I wasn't looking."
"He comes in nearly every weekday."
"I've noticed."
The words escaped before you realised you'd said them. The barista grinned knowingly.
"Hard not to."
You frowned.
"What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "He's memorable."
That was true. Not because he was loud or charismatic. Quite the opposite. There was something about him that made the room subtly rearrange itself around him. People instinctively gave him space without seeming to realise they were doing it. He wasn't intimidating exactly.
Just... composed.
Like someone who always knew exactly where they were standing.
—
Nearly three weeks passed.
Spring slowly crept further into the city. Trees lining the park began showing fresh green leaves, and people exchanged heavy winter coats for lighter jackets.
Your coursework became increasingly demanding.
Behavioural profiling.
Criminal cognition.
Risk assessment.
Some modules fascinated you so completely that hours vanished inside the university library without you noticing.
Others required considerably more caffeine.
It was after one particularly exhausting seminar that you found yourself wondering, entirely absentmindedly, whether the FBI agent would already have collected his coffee.
The thought surprised you.
Not because it mattered. Only because it had become familiar.
He was simply... there.
Like the newspaper stand outside. Or the elderly woman who walked the same dachshund every morning. Or the man who played saxophone outside the subway entrance every Friday afternoon.
Just another constant.
Except, unlike everyone else, he never seemed distracted.
One Monday morning, you arrived a little earlier than usual. To your mild surprise, so had he.
He stood near the collection counter rather than in the queue, his coffee already waiting beside him. Instead of immediately leaving, however, he remained where he was.
Not idle.
Watching.
His gaze drifted towards the front window.
A delivery cyclist almost collided with a taxi outside. A pedestrian stepped backwards into the road without looking. Someone shouted.
Within seconds, everything settled.
The man hadn't reacted dramatically.
He had simply... observed.
His eyes followed each movement with quiet precision before returning to the interior of the café.
Only then did he notice you.
For the briefest moment, recognition flickered across his face.
Not warmth.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
You had seen one another enough times now to become familiar.
He gave a small nod. The same restrained acknowledgement as before.
You returned it almost instinctively.
"Morning."
The word left your mouth before you'd decided to speak.
There was a pause.
Short enough that another person might not even have noticed.
Then he answered.
"Morning."
His voice remained level, controlled, almost careful.
No smile. No awkwardness.
Simply polite.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It merely... existed.
The barista broke it.
"Usual?"
You looked over.
"Please."
As she began preparing your drink, you became aware that the man hadn't yet left. He picked up his coffee, adjusted the lid by a fraction, then glanced towards the door.
"You come here every morning," he said.
It wasn't phrased as a question.
You looked back at him.
"So do you."
Another tiny pause.
"Yes."
Nothing more. No attempt at conversation. No introduction. Just an acknowledgement of a fact.
He inclined his head once more before walking towards the exit.
The bell above the café door chimed as he disappeared onto the pavement outside, swallowed once again by the flow of New Yorkers hurrying to work.
You watched him leave for only a second before collecting your own coffee.
It wasn't until you were halfway back to your apartment that you realised something.
You still didn't know his name.
But somehow, after nearly three weeks of passing one another almost every weekday morning, he no longer felt like a stranger.
—
Another week passed.
Mid-term assessments arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train.
Your dining table disappeared beneath open textbooks, highlighted journal articles, handwritten notes and empty mugs that you kept promising yourself you would wash. More than once, you fell asleep with your laptop still open, only to wake an hour later with a crick in your neck and a paragraph of keyboard imprints pressed into your cheek.
The coffee shop became less of a luxury and more of a necessity.
The staff no longer asked for your order.
"The usual?" was all they needed.
"The usual," you would answer.
By now, you recognised most of the regulars. The elderly man who spent an hour every morning completing crossword puzzles. Two paramedics who alternated buying breakfast depending on whose payday it was. A woman in a navy business suit who always left with three coffees balanced expertly in a cardboard carrier.
And, almost every weekday morning... Benjamin.
You still hadn't heard him introduce himself.
One Tuesday, however, another customer had held the door open as he was leaving.
"Morning, Agent Benjamin Poindexter."
He had paused just long enough to acknowledge him.
"Morning."
That was all.
No conversation followed.
The man continued on his way, and Benjamin disappeared into the crowd as he always did.
Benjamin Poindexter.
The name settled somewhere in the back of your mind. You weren't entirely sure why. Perhaps because names made people feel more real.
'The FBI guy' had become Agent Benjamin Poindexter.
It suited him.
—
Rain arrived without warning the following Friday.
The sky had been overcast during your run, but by the time you reached the café the heavens had opened.
People crowded just inside the entrance, shaking umbrellas and brushing rainwater from their coats.
You joined the queue, pushing damp strands of hair away from your face.
"Looks like everyone's had the same idea," the barista joked.
"No chance I'm surviving today's lecture without caffeine."
She laughed.
"That's the spirit."
The bell above the door rang.
You didn't need to look.
For reasons you couldn't quite explain, you already knew who had walked in.
Benjamin paused just inside the entrance, folding a black umbrella with careful efficiency before slipping it into a waterproof sleeve. His jacket was spotted with rain, though not nearly as soaked as everyone else's.
He must have anticipated the weather.
Of course he had.
He quietly joined the queue behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder.
"Morning."
His eyes met yours briefly.
"Morning."
The line moved slowly. Someone ahead was arguing over an incorrect order, while another customer struggled to decide between pastries.
Neither of you spoke.
It wasn't uncomfortable anymore.
Simply... quiet.
Eventually, the cashier called your name. You stepped forward, reaching into your bag for your purse.
Your stomach dropped.
You checked again.
The front pocket.
The inside compartment.
Nothing.
"...No."
You frowned to yourself.
"I've left my wallet at home."
The cashier offered an understanding smile.
"It happens."
"I can just—" You sighed. "I'll come back."
As you turned away, a calm voice spoke behind you.
"I've got it."
You looked around.
Benjamin was already holding out his card.
You blinked.
"Oh... no, honestly, you don't have to."
"It isn't a problem."
"I can come back."
"You could." His expression remained as composed as ever. "Or I can pay for your coffee."
You hesitated. It wasn't the amount. It was accepting something from someone you barely knew.
Perhaps he recognised the uncertainty because he added, in the same measured tone, "You can repay me another morning."
There was no pressure in his voice. No expectation. Simply a practical solution.
The cashier looked between the two of you.
"Should I...?"
Benjamin gave a single nod.
"Together."
The payment terminal beeped.
Transaction approved.
You stared for a moment before letting out a small, embarrassed laugh.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I really will pay you back."
"I believe you."
His coffee was placed beside yours.
"Large black coffee."
He picked it up.
You collected your own cup.
For a moment, the two of you stood near the door while rain hammered against the windows hard enough to blur the city beyond into streaks of grey.
"I appreciate it," you said again.
Benjamin nodded once.
"You said you're at university."
You looked at him, slightly surprised that he'd remembered.
"I am."
"What do you study?"
"Forensic psychology."
For the first time since you'd known him, something changed. It wasn't dramatic. Had you not spent years studying facial expressions, you might have missed it entirely.
His attention sharpened.
Not suspicion.
Interest.
"Genuinely?" he asked.
The question came just a fraction quicker than his previous replies.
You smiled.
"Genuinely."
"What made you choose that?"
You shifted your coffee into your other hand.
"I've always been interested in why people do what they do. Not in the crimes themselves..." You searched for the right words. "More the people behind them. Their behaviour. Their decision-making. How trauma changes someone. Things like that."
Benjamin listened without interrupting.
Completely.
The bustle of the café continued around you—the hiss of steaming milk, the scrape of chairs against the floor, customers weaving past on their way back into the rain—but his attention didn't drift once.
When you finished, he was silent for a moment.
"Interesting," he said simply.
You laughed softly.
"Most people think it's morbid."
"I don't."
The reply was immediate.
Matter-of-fact.
"I think it's useful."
Before you could answer, something buzzed inside his jacket.
Not a phone.
A sharp electronic tone.
He reached into an inside pocket and glanced down at what appeared to be a bureau-issued device.
His posture changed almost imperceptibly.
Duty.
He slipped it away.
"I have to go."
"Right. Of course."
There was a brief pause.
"I'll see you around."
Benjamin inclined his head.
"Yes."
Then, without another word, he opened the café door and stepped out into the rain, disappearing once more into the moving crowds.
You watched the door swing shut behind him.
Only then did you realise that, after more than a month of crossing paths, you'd finally had something resembling a conversation.
It hadn't been long. Perhaps three minutes.
Yet somehow, it felt as though the quiet distance between the two of you had become just a little smaller.
