people in fiction are always making plans like "how about tuesday?" and then leaving without elaborating. what time? where? do you even have each other's numbers? deeply stressful
❝ you offered him a chance when he was already preparing to lose you. so now, sitting across from you with trembling hands and too many thoughts, dex does the one thing he's always been terrible at—he tells the truth. about the loneliness. about the silence. about the way people always seem to leave once they realize there's something wrong with him.⠀⠀❞⠀
◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 4 of series. part 1 — part 2 — part 3. fem reader. obsessive dex. fluff? masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.
The hour feels unbearable.
Dex spends most of it sitting in the corner booth pretending not to look at you while every thought in his head tears itself apart.
You offered to stay.
That’s the thing his brain keeps circling back to.
You could’ve said no.
You could’ve told him politely to leave and never come back.
Instead you said:
We could have coffee together.
Coffee together.
Like normal people.
The phrase feels strange inside his head. Almost unreal.
He watches you from the corner while trying very hard not to look like he’s watching you. Which probably just makes him look worse. Every time your eyes briefly flick toward him, he immediately looks away too fast.
Stop doing that.
Jesus Christ.
Act normal for once in your life.
But his pulse won’t settle.
What if you only said yes because you felt bad for him?
What if you’re scared to reject him directly?
The thought makes nausea twist through his stomach.
He keeps replaying the look on your face earlier.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
But concern.
Carefulness.
Like you were handling something fragile that might suddenly bite you.
The thought digs under his ribs.
By the time your shift finally ends, his nerves feel skinned raw.
You emerge from the back room wearing a softer sweater than before, sleeves covering your hands slightly. Your hair’s down now, loose around your shoulders.
You look younger out of uniform somehow.
Softer.
“There you are,” you say lightly when you spot him still sitting there.
Like you expected him to stay.
Of course he stayed.
Dex stands too quickly.
The table bumps softly against his knee.
Shit.
You pretend not to notice.
“That place across the street is quieter,” you tell him. “We can go there.”
We.
The word lands heavily inside his chest.
Outside, the rain has mostly stopped. The sidewalks still shine wet beneath streetlights, reflecting blurred gold across the pavement. Cars hiss softly through puddles while people hurry past bundled in jackets.
Dex walks half a step behind you automatically.
Not too close.
Don’t crowd her.
You keep glancing back at him occasionally while talking about random things. The weather. A customer who spilled an entire latte earlier. Some guy who tried flirting with your coworker and accidentally asked for her “Instagram number.”
You laugh while telling the story.
Dex watches your mouth move more than he listens.
You laugh so easily.
He doesn’t understand people who laugh easily.
The café you bring him to is small and warm and mostly empty this late in the evening. Soft jazz humming quietly overhead.
You order hot chocolate immediately.
“I hate coffee,” you admit sheepishly.
Hate coffee.
Another thing his brain stores away instantly.
The barista smiles at you like he already knows you.
Of course he does.
People probably remember you everywhere.
Dex orders black coffee because he always orders black coffee. Not because he likes it particularly. Just because it’s efficient. Bitter enough to keep him awake.
You both sit near the window.
And suddenly—
silence.
Awkward.
Thick.
The kind that presses against skin.
You stir whipped cream slowly into your hot chocolate while looking out the window.
Dex can hear the spoon tapping ceramic softly.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Say something.
Anything.
But his thoughts keep colliding against each other too fast.
Don’t scare her again.
Don’t ramble.
Don’t stare.
You glance at him finally and smile awkwardly.
“So…”
Dex’s stomach tightens.
“So,” he repeats stupidly.
Great.
You let out a tiny nervous laugh.
God.
You’re nervous too.
That helps a little somehow.
“Aren’t you cold?” you ask suddenly, looking toward his jacket. “You barely zip that thing up.”
“Oh.” Dex glances down at himself briefly. “I don’t really feel cold much.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re a cryptid then.”
The word surprises a laugh out of him before he can stop it.
A short rough sound.
Your eyes widen immediately afterward like you didn’t expect him to laugh either.
“There,” you grin suddenly. “That. You should do that more.”
The warmth that spreads through his chest afterward genuinely hurts.
He looks down at his coffee quickly.
Steam curls upward.
“You really thought I was scared of you?” you ask quietly after a while.
His fingers tighten around the mug immediately.
Don’t lie.
“Yes.”
The answer comes out flat.
Honest.
You look down at your drink.
“I wasn’t scared,” you say softly.
Then quieter:
“I just didn’t know if you even liked me.”
What?
Dex stares at you.
His brain genuinely stalls.
“What?”
You laugh awkwardly, hiding part of your face behind the mug.
“You stare really intensely,” you mumble. “And you barely talk, so I couldn’t tell if you hated me or not.”
Hated you?
The idea feels insane.
“No,” he says immediately.
Too fast.
Too intense.
You blink slightly.
Dex forces himself to lower his voice.
“No,” he says again quieter. “I don’t hate you.”
God.
How do you explain this without sounding insane?
He stares down into his coffee instead.
Dark liquid reflecting distorted light back at him.
“I just…” His throat tightens. “I’m not good with people.”
Understatement of the fucking century.
You stay quiet.
Listening.
That alone almost undoes him.
Most people interrupt eventually. Or drift away mentally. Or start looking uncomfortable.
You just listen.
“I never really had…” He swallows. “Anybody.”
The words sound embarrassing out loud.
Too vulnerable.
But now that he started talking, he can’t seem to stop.
“No family,” he says quietly. “No friends.”
His fingers trace unconsciously against the paper sleeve around the coffee cup.
“I mean—I had coworkers and stuff. People around me sometimes.” He lets out a humorless little laugh. “But nobody close.”
You’re staring down into your hot chocolate now.
Not looking at him.
But still listening.
“That’s probably my fault,” he says.
Because it is.
He knows it is.
“People usually…” He struggles for the words. “People notice something’s wrong with me eventually.”
There.
Said it.
The thing sitting under his skin his whole life.
Wrong.
Not broken exactly.
Just wrong in ways people can sense without understanding.
“They think I’m weird,” he continues quietly. “Or intense.”
Obsessive.
Uncomfortable.
Too much.
The words stay trapped inside his throat.
“I don’t know how to…” His jaw tightens slightly. “Be normal around people.”
Silence stretches softly between you.
Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy.
Outside, rainwater glides slowly down the windows.
Dex keeps staring into his coffee because looking at you suddenly feels unbearable.
“And then you gave me that bracelet,” he says quietly.
His thumb brushes unconsciously against the pink stones around his wrist.
Still there.
He wore it for you.
The realization makes his chest ache again.
“It helped.”
The confession comes out rougher than he intended.
You finally glance at the bracelet.
Then at him.
“It sounds stupid,” he says quickly.
“No,” you whisper.
Dex’s throat tightens.
“No,” you repeat softly. “It doesn’t.”
He looks at you then.
Really looks.
You’re staring at the bracelet now with this strange sad tenderness in your face.
Like your heart hurts for him a little.
That feeling almost kills him.
“I’m not asking for a lot,” he says suddenly.
The words leave him before he can stop them.
Your eyes flick up immediately.
“I know I’m…” He laughs weakly. “A lot.”
Understatement.
“But when you talked to me…” His chest feels tight suddenly. “It felt…”
Safe.
Warm.
Human.
The words clog inside him.
“It helped,” he says again quietly.
You keep looking down while he talks.
Dex notices your fingers tightening around the mug.
You’re thinking carefully.
Please don’t reject me.
The thought screams inside his skull so loudly it almost drowns everything else out.
Please.
“I don’t really know how to do this either,” you admit finally.
Your voice sounds small suddenly.
“My sister says I adopt sad stray people.”
Despite himself, Dex snorts softly into his coffee.
You smile faintly at that.
Then after a long pause, you say:
“We can be friends.”
Friends.
The word lands inside him like something breaking open.
You said yes.
You actually said yes.
Relief floods through him so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“Really?”
Too desperate.
Fuck.
But you just laugh softly.
“Yeah, really.”
Dex shakes his head slightly in disbelief.
“Thank you,” he says immediately.
Too fast.
“Seriously, thank you, I—”
And then suddenly—
a weird sound escapes him.
Halfway between a cough and a strangled goat noise.
A sharp mêhh—
Silence.
Dex freezes.
Mortified.
What the fuck was that?
Your eyes widen instantly.
For one horrible second he thinks he just ruined everything.
Then you burst out laughing.
Real laughter.
Head tipping back slightly. Shoulders shaking.
“Oh my God,” you wheeze. “What was that?”
Heat floods Dex’s face instantly.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, horrified.
And then somehow he starts laughing too.
Actual laughing.
Not fake.
Not forced.
The sound feels rusty coming out of him, rough around the edges like something unused for years.
You’re both still laughing while people glance over confused from nearby tables.
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