˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ vicky, 22, she/they, polish, i write for ppl i find hot cause i often insert myself in these scenarios, here to give u some stories to read at 3 am when you have nothin to do and wish you were with someone fictional
synopsis you hate flying. something seems to go wrong every time you get the courage to get on a plane. but the stranger you were seated next to makes your trip a little more tolerable.
notes this one's for my nervous ramblers (looks in the mirror)
tags humor, fluff, fear of flying, awkwardness
wc 1.7k
No amount of preparation ever seemed to relax you before a flight. Whether it was the long grueling hours spent in the airport or the anticipation of taking off, stuck in an uncomfortable seat with your elbows rubbing against a total strangers’, you absolutely loathed flying.
There were times when your determination won out, though. Fear of flying be damned, you had places you wanted to see before you died.
Now was one of those times.
You were sitting stiffly in your seat, trying to even your breathing and calm the hell down now that the plane was actually in the sky. But there was a pressure in your head from the elevation making you feel like your ears were full of cotton and the loud, continuous hum of the engine wasn’t doing you any favors.
You were glad your seatmate had the window shade pulled down. The sight of being over the clouds would surely take you out in your current state. He wore a pair of vintage style headphones over his ears, minding his own business with his head rested back against the seat.
He had the right idea.
With trembling hands, you unzipped your carry on to pull out your own headphones. Drowning out the sound of the roaring engine with your top songs of the month would help clear your head and provide a nice distraction to calm your nerves.
Your bag was well-organized when you left the house. But by now you’d dug through it so many times it was a mix of tangled wires, chapstick, loose credit and ID cards, your worn half-read book you slid a receipt into as a makeshift bookmark…
No headphones. But you hadn’t forgotten them at home or packed them in the wrong bag; no, you had used them in the airport. Which means they were now sitting abandoned, waiting to be claimed by someone lucky enough to spot them.
At least they weren't your expensive ones...
You covered your face and groaned as quietly as you could. You still caught the attention of the man beside you. He had only glanced at you. No judgment in his eyes, but no sympathy either. He was just watching you, like, ‘oh. this is the person I have to ask to move if I need to use the bathroom.’
Heat climbed up your neck and you swiped your book out of your bag bitterly, opening it to your bookmarked page and staring at the words rather than reading them. They melded together in front of your eyes, letters blending and turning into inky blobs in the wake of your pounding headache.
No headphones, no ibuprofen. You were lying to yourself if you thought you were well-prepared. Maybe this is why flying was always miserable for you.
You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head back against the seat. The darkness behind your eyelids helped you focus on clearing your mind, singling out that loud engine hum and trying to force it to fade into the background. It became more and more distant and…
Was that music?
At first you thought you were wishfully imagining it in your head, still broken over your lost headphones. But then you focused on the sound a bit more, and yeah, that was definitely someone shredding on guitar.
You opened your eyes and looked beside you at your seat neighbor where the sound was coming from. His headphones were leaking his music, just loud enough for you to hear. It was barely audible, but you could make out what he was listening to.
His eyes were shut, so you took the opportunity to shamelessly catalogue his features to memory. Particularly the long scar running across his cheek. The dimple on his chin. The wrinkle between his eyebrows.
You sat back against your seat, straining your ears to listen along. You were desperate enough to make a game out of it, too, guessing every track. Radiohead, the Smiths, Chevelle…
But the next song gave you pause. It immediately struck you with recognition, a song you’d heard maybe a hundred times over your morning coffee. It was almost comforting hearing it now, over 30,000 feet in the air.
So, being as subtle as possible, you leaned your head to the side of your seat, trying to hear a little better…
Okay, clearly not subtle enough. The music paused. When you looked over to investigate why, he was looking right at you.
You sat up straight, turning your head away as if you hadn’t just been listening to music from a stranger's headphones. Totally cool, totally normal, you’re sure he didn’t notice.
He slid his headphones down to his shoulders, and you knew it was over for you.
“Were you listening?” He asked, pointing to his headphones.
You laughed sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I sort of forgot my headphones.”
Instead of being weirded out by you–or if he was, he didn’t show it on his face–he just nodded, unbothered.
For some reason, you decided to fill his silence.
“I’m a nervous flyer and music calms me down.” You explained. You were like a running tap, not able to close your mouth the moment his headphones were off apparently. “Your volume was pretty loud so I could hear it through your headphones.”
Based on his lack of responses, you expected him to ask you to stop being a weirdo, and that he’s not a free radio station service.
“The music calms me down, too.” He admitted it and then turned back to glance at the covered window, like he wasn’t expecting to open up to a stranger today.
Granted, neither were you. But you weren’t going to stop now. If you didn’t have the music anymore, you were going to get your nervous energy out by rambling to this admittedly handsome man sitting beside you.
“My best friend’s getting married,” you said, “I’m meeting her and some of our other friends for a kind of bachelorette trip. You?”
“Work.” He said simply, “not as interesting as partying.”
The scar on his cheek hinted otherwise. But you weren’t going to say that to him–you still had some semblance of a filter.
“We’re not really going to party, per se. Just…sightseeing.” You explained, looking down at the book still left in your lap. “She’s always wanted to go and her life’s so busy this is her only chance to do it before the wedding planning chaos.”
“What about you?” He asked, to your surprise. “Do you like traveling?”
You laughed nervously. “The being there part is great. Getting there, not so much…”
The slight shaking in your hands and bees nest in your stomach was proof enough.
“That song that was just playing–I recognized it because, well,” you bit the inside of your cheek, “this is going to sound strange, but the jukebox at this diner I go to for breakfast every morning always gets stuck playing it on a loop, and–”
“The jukebox at the Bel Aire Diner.” He finished for you. “I know the one.”
Your eyebrows raised. “You’re from Hell’s Kitchen, too? I’ve never seen you in the diner, though. We must be there at different times of day.”
“Must be.” He repeated after you, and you caught the corners of his lips raising in a smile.
His gaze fell to your still quivering hands. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the MP3 player his headphones were connected to.
You watched him press play again, music filtering in through the headphones that were still resting on his shoulders. The music was now just loud enough for you and him to hear.
“Go ahead and listen.” He offered. “If it helps.”
The gesture surprised you. But certainly wasn’t unwelcome. The buzzing in your stomach calmed to a soft fluttering.
“Thank you.” You smiled, leaning back in your seat again. “What was your name, by the way?”
He smiled, lips pulled to one side. “It’s Dex.”
You gave him your name, and watched him mouth it once before the music caught your attention again.
It was a slower song now, the chords progressing in a gentle melody. You recognized it, too, the lyrics repeating themselves in your head as you followed along.
You hadn’t even realized you drifted off until you woke later from the high-pitched whistle of the plane descending. The first thing you registered was how warm your body was, eyes fluttering open. It was then you felt the gentle pressure of your head resting against something hard.
Oh god. Your stomach flipped when you realized you had ended up with your head on his shoulder at some point. He didn’t seem to mind. He had the window shade pulled up now, staring out at the evening skyline.
Your face heated up and you sat up straight in your seat, rubbing your eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you there…”
He turned to look at you and shrugged. “Didn’t even notice.”
If he was trying to rescue your dignity, he was doing a great job at it.
His music was still playing until the plane had finished landing. You had moved out of the aisle to let him through, holding onto your book that had stayed in your lap the entire flight. In a distracted haste to grab your bag, you noticed he had left the plane before you got a chance to say anything more to him.
It made your heart sink. You were sure there was a little something there, even if it was just him being friendly…
But once you too were out of the plane, smelling the fresh air of the new city you had traveled to, you were overcome with the excitement of being somewhere new.
You could be grateful to him for making it the least agonizing flight of your career, even if the two of you were ships in the night.
Your friends promised to pick you up after you landed, but you had made it about a half hour early. Sitting at the nearest bench, you flipped your book open to the receipt-marked page.
Oh.
There was a note scribbled onto the empty space underneath the final paragraph of the page.
See you in Bel Air Diner.
- D
Your lips pulled into a smile, your finger tracing over the blue ink.
You still didn't have headphones for your flight home, but now you had something a little better.
a/n some of the songs i imagine being played: the red by chevelle, back to the old house by the smiths, all i need by radiohead. the song looping on the jukebox is dont dream its over by crowded house. these are probably not very accurate hcs but i digress.
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh.
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.
Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.
The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.
The target was still active.
“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didn’t show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was.
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
—
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadn’t done that.
You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasn’t anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.
The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity.
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
—
The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.
This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.
You didn’t. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—
“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.
Simple, right?
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.
That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
“Coffee?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”
“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”
“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”
I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.
“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
—
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”
Dex choked.
It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
“…You knew?” he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.
“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
She’s a target. This is a job.
“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”
You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”
You nodded once, resetting playfully.
“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”
Your lips twitched. “I got that.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”
That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?”
He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”
“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”
You grinned. “Thought so.”
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.
“Iced latte. Always.”
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.
“Consistent,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”
“Same,” he said.
“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”
“Same.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”
Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”
Dex tilted his head. “…What?”
You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to…
Then he took the phone.
“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
“See you around, Dex Not Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
—
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:
Likes iced lattes
—
Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought I’d ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?
Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so
Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You weren’t letting that go.
Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few seconds
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.
You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.
Dex: Why’d you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and you’re interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyes
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so…
Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used.
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It was—
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who “sees me around”
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.
You: yeah sure
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so…
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
—
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.”
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You snorted. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“There it is.”
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. “what…”
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”
“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.
And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence.
“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”
“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.
“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”
“No.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“No.”
“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way.
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”
“What?”
“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”
Dex blinked. “What?”
You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…
“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
“Okay,” you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late…
This doesn’t feel like a job.
—
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.
“You’re expected,” he said simply.
Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap?
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Hi,” you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”
He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…
The place was… expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.
You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active.
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.
“You’re fine,” he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”
—
It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought.
Turns out, it was.
Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.
He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t… Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.
The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.
“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”
Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.
That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—
“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”
Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him.
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.
You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.
Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.
“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.
“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”
Dex managed to roll his eyes.
“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”
Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”
“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked… Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless.
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.
Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.
“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
“I’m not,” he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”
He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really.
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.
For a while, you didn’t move away.
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too.
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.
Oh, well. What else can he do?
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”
Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.
You have enough. Kill her.
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.
What are you waiting for? Kill her.
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun.
Kill her.
And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was…
I want another date.
No. He shouldn’t want that, right?
Kill her.
He didn’t want that either.
But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?
Kill her.
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.
—
Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important.
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…
She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
—
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
“Hi,” you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“You definitely have.”
“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”
She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”
He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”
“I’m not.” He immediately said.
You blinked. “Then why…”
“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”
“Yes.”
“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
He didn’t do either.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.
“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.
The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.”
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”
You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”
“I’m observing.”
“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”
“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?
She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.
“…Yeah,” he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”
We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has too much…. whatever that is.”
“That is eel,” you squinted.
“Exactly,” he shrugged.
“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”
Kill her. Kiss her.
“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
“It’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”
Dex’s attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
“Targets?” he repeated.
You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”
He didn’t respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.
She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.
“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”
“Either.”
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”
That…. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”
“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”
“No.”
You grinned. “Then you get it.”
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldn’t even—
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
“Earth to Dex?”
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.
You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.
“What?” he said.
“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
“No,” he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
—
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.”
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood.
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.
Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.
It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you.
He needed that first. Just once.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
—
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. “Hey.”
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”
Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it.
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted… fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex.
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him.
“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just… hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…
No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…
She didn’t deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang!
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.
—
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.
You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief.
Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”
You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”
He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…
Shoot her in the head.
“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”
That caught Dex off guard. “What?”
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”
You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—
“You deserved better,” he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.
“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
—
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking.
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didn’t argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him.
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”
—
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.
You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?
“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently.
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”
He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.
You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”
Your breath caught audibly.
“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”
“Dex…” you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, I’m so sick.
“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you.
“Do it, then,” you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except…
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end.
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”
“So were you.”
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.
“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”
“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”
You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.
But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
Summary : Meeting Dex for the first time in two years doesn’t go as planned.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x new avenger! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : violence, injury, gun use, self-inflicted injury, Dex licks your blood, grief, reader used to be a good friend of Matt, Karen, and Foggy. Dex is obsessed with you, codependency, suggestive content, sex is heavily implied, freak4freak, dex in handcuffs, bondage is mentioned, emotional manipulation-ish?, both reader and Dex desperately need therapists. Food. Overall just angsty. Set in DDBA season 2 episode 6 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 8.1k.
Notes : would you look at that? Another freak4freak. The fic is inspired by the song Supervillain by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. Enjoy!
Your phone rang.
To you, it was just noise. It was loud, but it didn’t even startle you. It was nothing compared to Bucky giving orders in your comms, or John talking about extraction windows and airspace and things that feel important.
When you realised it wasn’t just white noise, it dawned on you: Your phone wasn’t supposed to ring.
It didn’t anymore. Not for real people.
Everything you do now was encrypted, filtered, approved, routed through people with clearance levels that didn’t include personal calls.
So when it rang, you ignored it.
You kept moving, eyes forward, hand steady on whatever weapon they’ve put in your grip this week— Val had sourced an experimental firearm, similar to a 9mm, modified to house adamantium bullets. She gave it to you and told you to get used to it, to practice assembling and disassembling it. So yeah, you’ve been doing that for the past thirty minutes in the tower’s common room.
Your phone rang again. You ignored it again.
Ava said your name. You answered automatically. She asked what you were having for dinner. You said you’ve already had dinner; Yelena accidentally ordered too much Chinese takeout.
It rang again in the middle of disassembly.
That pissed you off. You were trying to get a sub-10 second time, but that just frayed your focus.
You turned the sound off on your phone and didn’t even bother to check who was calling. It was probably Bob, asking you if you were up for a game of Catan. Or maybe Alexei, calling to ask whether or not his request to get a (highly illegal) Soviet missile launcher from the Smithsonian has been approved.
The answer would most likely be no.
Focus. Focus.
You looked at the tool, the mat, and the stopwatch.
You turned it on again.
One. Left thumb hit the magazine release, falling into your palm. Two. Right hand pulled the slide back, checking the empty chamber—clear. Three. Let the slide fly forward. Four. Grip the rear of the slide, pulling back just a millimeter while you index finger and thumb push down the takedown lever simultaneously.
Five. The slide slid off into your hand.
Six. Recoil spring pulled out. Seven. Barrel slid out.
Disassembled. Five seconds down.
You didn't even pause to breathe.
Eight. Barrel back into the slide. Nine. Recoil spring snapped into place. Ten. Realign the slide with the frame rails, sliding it back on. Eleven. Rack the slide once. Twelve. Pull the trigger to lock it in. Click.
Thirteen. Magazine back in.
You stopped the timer. 9.2 seconds.
You set the tool back down on the mat and looked at the timer.
Perfect. Some bastard’s gonna get fucked up by getting adamantium between their eyes.
Breathing the moment, your phone vibrated again.
You pulled it out, already irritated. Who could it be? Mel? Charles? The fucking president? The secretary general? If they wanted an answer, it better be one of them.
Unknown number.
You stared at it. Huh. Weird.
Your thumb hovered, debating if you should decline it.
You answered instead.
“Hello?” You said it flatly, professionally.
For a second, nothing answered you.
“Hi.”
Everything stopped.
Suddenly you weren’t where you are anymore.
You were back in a cramped office with bad coffee.
You were at a bar with Foggy, laughing too loud.
You were at a funeral trying not to look at anyone, trying to get the fucking hell out of here—
You stopped breathing.
“Matt?” you said, and it came out quieter than you meant it to.
There was a pause on the other end, like he wasn’t sure you’d say his name at all. Maybe he wasn’t even expecting you to recognise his voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”
You swallowed, throat feeling tight for no reason you want to examine.
You didn’t ask how he got this number. You didn’t ask why now. You didn’t ask anything.
Because he wouldn’t call you after two years of silence unless something had gone very, very wrong.
Matt exhaled softly.
“I—” he started, then stopped. You could hear him recalibrating the way he always did when things mattered too much to get wrong.
“You’re… okay?” He asked, finally.
It’s such a Matt question.
Careful, yet loaded with everything he wasn’t saying. And out of everyone you knew, you weren’t going to let him do his lawyer thing on you.
You almost laughed.
“Yeah,” you said automatically. “I’m fine.”
The lie came easy, but he didn't call you out on it. You almost forgot he couldn’t tell if you’re lying through the phone.
Another bout of silence stretched, and you felt it settle between you.
Something’s wrong.
You swallowed. “What happened?” you asked. You were tired of small talk.
For a long, unbearable second, you thought he might hang up. Like maybe hearing your voice again made him reconsider. Like maybe he didn’t actually want you here, or needed you for whatever he thought he needed you for.
You wouldn’t have blamed him. Not after everything that happened.
But it was you he was talking to.
Sure, you had talents that made you suited to the vigilante life more than most, but you were more than just another fist in the streets of New York— you were both Matt and Karen’s friend.
You had been Foggy’s friend too.
And for whatever reason, all those years ago, you had gotten attached to him.
Benjamin Poindexter.
Matt still didn’t understand it. He wasn’t sure he ever would.
It didn’t make sense. You didn’t just wake up one day and decide to fall for a man like that.
But you saw something in him. Something broken you recognized. Something that reflected back pieces of yourself you didn’t talk about. You saw someone worth saving.
Matt called it a coping mechanism. Said you needed to believe people like Dex could be saved, because otherwise… What did that say about the rest of them?
Karen thought it was your pattern. Your history with men who needed help, who gave you just enough to keep you trying. She said you were always one for the “I can fix him” trope.
Foggy…
Foggy had just shrugged, and said it was love. He never attempted to condone it, but he understood it. He said sometimes love had no rhyme or reason. He trusted you enough to not question your decision to keep visiting, day in and day out, making sure he was okay.
He was right.
You just… couldn’t help it.
Still, even Matt couldn’t help but have teeny tiny growing resentment for you because of it.
After all, the last time you met, and the real conversation you had was at Foggy’s funeral. And even then, it was only a few clipped sentences. You had gone from trusting Matt and Karen with your life to being distant overnight. You changed, just as Foggy’s death had changed every single one of you.
You weren’t even at the trial. You went even at the sentencing.
It had made sense— the man you loved had killed one of your closest friends.
There wasn’t a guidebook for surviving something like that.
After that, you were just… gone.
He knew you had been doing black ops for a little under six years now, one day mission at a time for a mysterious woman you called “Val.” After Foggy died, you had thrown yourself at the job. You’ve disappeared for months to another continent until you had no time to even text a simple “how are you?” to any of them. Perhaps, you had needed all the distraction you could get.
And Matt and Karen weren’t the only ones who felt the impact of what you left behind. You had gone from visiting Dex at least three times a week at the mental institution, to not even once visiting him in prison. Matt didn’t know why, but he could… assume.
Then, one day, Karen had turned on the TV to the announcement of the New Avengers. She had joked that they had gotten the greatest hits of earth’s mightiest heroes’ rogue gallery, from the Winter Soldier to Ghost… until the camera panned to you. Even Matt flinched when they said your name.
You were part of this now. Whatever this was. You were monitoring space and shooting off in jets. You defeated a void of a monster, and he didn’t even know how.
But if you weren’t gone before, you were definitely gone now. Avenger-level gone: Classified missions, neutralising world-ending events, things he only heard about in pieces, if he heard anything at all.
Your world had gotten bigger than New York. Your problems had gotten bigger, too.
Anyway.
“We have him.” Matt said simply, bad phone signal slightly distorting his words.
Oh.
The world dropped out from under you.
There was only one person that could mean. Your grip tightened around the phone so hard it almost hurt.
“Dex?” you whispered.
The nothingness you were met with was answer enough.
You closed your eyes. For a second, everything you’d buried— the blood, Foggy, the way you couldn’t even look at Dex without feeling like you were going to come apart— came rushing back so fast it made you dizzy.
“He’s alive,” Matt said quickly, as if he heard it in your breathing. “And he’s hurt.”
Alive.
You didn’t know what to do with that word.
You knew he was out there somewhere, but hadn’t built a version of the world where he was tangible.
You’d built one where he was gone, or locked away, or not your problem anymore. This dragged everything back into reach.
“I don’t know who else to call,” Matt added.
And there it was.
He didn’t call for forgiveness. Or reconciliation. It was simply a necessity.
You pressed your thumb harder into the side of the phone, grounding yourself in the pressure.
“We haven’t spoken in two years,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant it to. You said it almost as a reminder. To him, or to yourself? You weren’t sure.
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “I know.”
There was an exhaustion in his voice. It was worn down.
“I—” you started.
I’m sorry. That was what you meant to say. You needed to choke it out. The words sat right there, overdue by two years. “I’m—”
“No.” Matt cut you off immediately. “I don’t—” he stopped, then tried again. “Don’t.”
You went quiet.
“Just… don’t,” he said, gentler now but no less certain. “I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t this.”
He was right. This wasn’t the moment for apologies. Not after everything. Not when the only reason he was even speaking to you was because he had no other choice.
You swallowed hard, forcing the word back down.
“Okay,” you said. It felt like swallowing glass.
“You were the only one…,” Matt started, and there was something strained in it now, “…we’ve ever known to talk him down.”
You closed your eyes again, just for a second.
“Can you come?” He asked like he didn’t know if he still had the right. “Karen just… she can’t watch him. I…” he trailed off, not knowing what to say or how to say it. “I’m out of options.”
You didn’t answer right away.
Because this was the line you’d drawn. The one that kept you moving forward without looking back.
If you crossed it… you might as well drown yourself in your sorrow now.
What the hell.
“Send me the address.”
—
You found the building quickly.
There were no complications, just a straight line from the coordinates Matt sent you to a door that looked like nothing in an unassuming building.
You stood in the hallway outside it longer than you should have.
You should’ve known it was a safehouse from the dim lighting and faint hum of electricity.
And yet, behind that door…
You swallowed.
He was there.
Close enough that if you reached out and opened the door, you’d see him.
Your hand hovered near the handle, but didn’t touch it as footsteps approached from the other end of the hall.
“You’re early.”
You turned, and there he was.
Matt Murdock, no, Daredevil.
The suit surprised you first. Stark red under the chipped black paint, the mask unchanged. He held himself ever so slightly differently than before. A bit more… uptight, believe it or not.
You hadn’t seen him up close in years.
Not since…
Foggy at the bar, knocking his shoulder into yours, slurring slightly, insisting he was not drunk while ordering another round anyway. “C’mon, you’re the worst liar I know—”
You managed to blink, dragging yourself back.
“Good to see you, too” you shot back automatically, the words slipping into place like muscle memory. “Is it just us?”
He didn’t react.
“Karen needs time,” he said, straight to it.
Right.
You let out a breath, glancing at the door beside you, before looking away again. “Let me guess, she wants to kill him?” you asked, a dry, almost disbelieving edge creeping in. “Is that it?”
A short, humorless laugh left him. “Is this funny to you?”
Matt had spent years learning the shape of you without sight— your voice, your breath, the rhythm of your pulse when you lied and when you didn’t. He knew what you’d become long before tonight. You killed. Not recklessly, not blindly, but when the line you drew in your own head said there wasn’t another way.
He hated that line, argued against it. He pushed against it until it put a strain on your friendship. And still, he’d learned to live with it.
Not comfortably. But he trusted your judgment, even when it made his stomach turn, even when it sounded like everything he stood against.
Rebuilding with you, though? Going back to what you all were, what you were to him, a good friend— that was something else entirely. That, he didn’t know how to do.
You shook your head, folding your arms loosely. “I forgot how preachy you can be, Murdock.”
“Yeah, well.”
Your eyes drifted back to the door without meaning to. Your mouth, however, found a safer topic to latch on to: Karen.
“She’s a ticking time bomb, Matt,” you sighed. “She always has been.”
“Would you rather she kill him, then?”
That pulled your attention back to him.
“It’s not his fault,” you said abruptly. You forced yourself to breathe, slower this time. “It’s not his fault,” you repeated. Your eyes dropped, unfocused. “Foggy…”
His name caught in your throat like it didn’t belong in the air. You pressed your lips together, trying again.
“Foggy didn’t just—” you stopped, teeth tightening hard.
You could see him, leaning over your shoulder, complaining about paperwork, stealing fries off your plate like you wouldn’t notice. Sitting between you and Matt and Karen, always talking, always there…
“He didn’t… ,” you said, voice rough now, thinner than you wanted it to be. “He didn’t deserve to… to die. He shouldn’t have died.”
The hallway felt smaller. Even Matt flinched.
“But that’s not on Dex,” you continued, resolute. “It’s my fault. I could’ve prevented this.”
You barely heard yourself say it.
But Matt did.
“What?” he said immediately, like he thought he misheard you. He started listening for irregularities in your heart beat and found none. So yes, you were telling the truth. At least you thought you were.
“It’s something I’d rather not unpack with you,” you said, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t clawing at your ribs.
“C’mon,” you said, nodding toward the door even as your chest tightened. “We didn’t come here to chat, right?”
—
The door opened, and there he was.
Dex was on a narrow cot, wrists cuffed on either side, bruises dark and blooming across his face and throat, breathing shallow like even that took effort.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt.
And your brain, traitor that it was, dragged you into the memory of the last time you had a saw him.
The visitor room of the mental institution had always been too bright for your liking.
It was clean and controlled. It looked like it was designed to remind you that nothing in it was normal, no matter how hard you tried to pretend otherwise.
But you’d gotten used to it because of him.
Dex was already there when you walked in that day. He sat straight-backed at the table, hands folded too neatly, like he’d been waiting long enough to start counting seconds.
And the second he saw you, his entire nervous system lit up like fairy light behind his eyes.“You’re late.”
You huffed out a laugh, already walking toward him. “Relax,” you said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his temple, like you always did. “It’s been, what? A day since I last saw you. You can handle five minutes of me being held up in security.”
“It’s not enough,” he said immediately. His eyes tracked you still, even if the movement was a bit slower from the meds.
You paused, just for a second, pulling back enough to look at him properly. “You see me every other day.”
“I know,” his eyes stayed on you, finger tapping the table. “It’s still not enough.”
You swallowed it down, forcing a lighter tone as you dropped into the seat across from him.
“Wow,” you said, reaching into your bag. “And here I thought I was doing something nice.”
That got his attention. “What?”
You pulled it out with a small flourish, holding it up between you. “Don’t you ever say I don’t bring you anything good.”
His eyes locked onto it instantly. “is that…?”
“Banana flavoured marshmallows,” you confirmed, a little smug.
There it was, a smile.
“You remembered,” he said. You had a mission in South Korea five months ago— you were barely there for a day, but you managed to grab one of those for Dex at the airport. You remembered how much he liked it, so you had managed to source an importer. It took a while, but there were very few things you wouldn’t do for him.
“Of course I did,” you replied.
You slid the bag across the table toward him, your fingers brushing his. He opened the plastic and picked one up carefully, turning it between his fingers like he was committing it to memory before taking a bite.
You watched him, watched how his shoulders relaxed.
Just like that, all the effort was worth it.
“You okay?” you asked after a moment, your voice lowered now.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the table, on the half-eaten marshmallow in his hand.
“Better when you’re here,” he said finally.
You looked away for a second, like that might make his words easier to stomach. You leaned forward and put your hands on his. “Yeah?”
“I think about it,” His eyes lifted back to yours, steady, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “When you leave.”
“What do you think about?” You tilted your head.
“When you’ll be back,” he said. “How long it’s going to take.”
He said it carefully. It’s as if he didn’t want to push too far but couldn’t help saying it anyway.
“I’ll always come back,” you reassured him.
That mattered. You saw it in the way his focus sharpened, in the way he leaned just slightly forward like he was holding onto the words. He readjusted his hand and squeezed your palm.
You sat with him that day and talked about nothing and everything. Let your knee bump his under the table like it was normal, like you weren’t separated by a bureaucratic line you so desperately want to tear down.
And when the visiting hours finally ended, you didn’t want to leave.
You never did. You would give anything to listen to him talk for more than a few hours at a time. You would give anything to coax another laugh, another smile from him.
“You’re going to be back soon?” he asked as you stood up, showing the smallest crack in the certainty he tried to keep around himself.
You smiled at him. “Soon.”
You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was brief, but it still made his day.
When you pulled back, he nodded. “Soon,” he repeated under his breath.
You nodded. ‘Soon’ was good. ‘Soon’ was non-specific.
Because little did he know, you’d already agreed to a seven-day mission. Val had barely given you a choice.
You’d never been gone that long before.
Usually, missions were two days. Three days, max. And even those ones were few and far between. And then you’d come straight back to him, no matter how exhausted you were, no matter what you had to wade through to get there.
But you decided he didn’t need to know about this… extension.
You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That he’d be fine. That telling him that you would be gone three times as long as you usually do would only make him spiral, make him worry, make him count every hour in a way that would hurt more than help.
So you kept it to yourself.
On the sixth day of the mission, Foggy was dead.
You snapped yourself out of it.
Because now you were here, standing in front of a man you haven’t seen in more than two years.
Dex didn’t move at first.
For one horrible second, you thought he was still out, chest rising too shallow under the dim light, like whatever it took to bring him in had hollowed him out and left the shell behind.
Then when he realised someone else was in the room, his head turned slowly, and then… his eyes found you.
Oh.
For a second, he stared at you like you weren’t real. Like this was a hallucination his brain had made up to cope with his injuries. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.
“Y-you…” his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, throat working like it hurt. “You came back.”
What he had in his voice wasn’t relief. It wasn’t even hope. It was disbelief so raw it sounded like it might collapse in on itself.
Of course this was how he reacted.
Because he had waited, back in the institution he was assigned to. He waited for every sound in the corridor. Every footstep that wasn’t yours. Every door that didn’t open.
On the fourth day, he started asking the facility staff over and over, until the answers became rehearsed, clipped and annoyed. They said you were “busy,” “not scheduled,” or “unavailable.”
Still, he waited.
On the fifth day, a staff member told him he had a visitor.
And for the first time in while, he lit up.
It had to be you, right?
He sat up too fast, eyes fixed on the door before it even opened, already bracing for the moment you’d step through and make the last five days feel like a misunderstanding he could recover from.
The door opened and… it wasn’t you.
It was Vanessa Fisk.
The light in him shut off instantly.
As he sat down, he had a hollow, sinking realization that he might’ve wrong to expect you at all.
Maybe you had gotten sick of visiting him. Of not being able to touch him as much as you wanted, of not being able to hold him as much as you wanted. After all, why would you settle for a broken man when you could have a free man?
Behind you, Matt went completely still, listening, measuring, probably hearing the way Dex’s heart was starting to race, the way his breathing kept catching like it didn’t know how to settle.
“You came back,” he said again, gentler now, like he was afraid saying it too loud would make you disappear. His eyes dragged over your face, searching frantically. “I thought… I thought you wouldn’t. I thought you—”
“I know, ” you said, but it came out thinner than you meant, as if the words had to fight their way out.
Your voice alone was enough to undo him further.
His breath hitched again, like your voice made it real in a way his eyes alone couldn’t.
“You’re here,” he repeated, and now there was something fragile in it. “You actually… y-you came back.”
He tried to push himself up, instinct overriding his senses, the cuffs snapping tight with a harsh metallic sound that made his whole body jolt. It didn’t stop him immediately. He strained against them anyway as he got on his knees, like he could get to you if he just tried hard enough.
“I-I…” his voice came faster now, stumbling over itself. “I thought you left, I thought—”
“Dex…”
“You said soon,” he cut you off, the words rushing out like he’d been holding them in for two years too long. “You said you’d be back soon.”
Your stomach dropped.
His eyes were shiny now. Not crying yet, but right there on the edge of it.
“You didn’t come,” he said. “I waited. I kept…I thought maybe you got held up, I thought maybe—”
His breath stuttered, like the memory of it was catching up to him all over again.
“And then you didn’t,” he finished, voice thinning.
Behind you, Matt shifted slightly.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Matt said, directed at you, but Dex flinched anyway, like any sound that wasn’t yours was an intrusion.
His gaze snapped onto you, almost panicked now, like he thought he might take you away again.
“You’re here now,” he said quickly, like he could rewrite the past by insisting on the present. “You came back.”
The words were breaking apart as he said them. He needed them to be true.
Your chest ached so bad it felt like it might cave in.
“Leave us alone.” It came out rougher than you meant.
“He’s not stable,” Matt said again, more firmly this time.
He was right. You could hear it in every fracture, every broken piece.
But Dex was still looking at you like you were the only thing holding him together, barely.
“Matt,” you said, and your voice almost gave out on his name. “Please.”
You knew he had somewhere to be anyway. Why was he even here, with you? Did he just now realise that this might be a bad idea? That you ever had one true weakness, and that it was him? Did he just now realise that if he left, he might just come back later tonight to an empty room?
Dex didn’t move now. Didn’t even try to fight the cuffs again.
“You came back,” he whispered like a prayer.
Behind you, Matt exhaled reluctantly. “You don’t know what state he’s in.”
“I do,” you said, and he had no idea. You knew him better than anyone in the world, so Matt insisting on playing chaperone was only irritating you. “Please.”
You heard him sigh.
The door opened, then closed.
Just like that, he was gone, footsteps disappearing down the hall.
It was just you and Dex now.
Dex let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, except it fractured halfway through.
You had no buffer. No witnesses.
You stepped forward without meaning to. “What did you do?”
You knew, of course. You’ve seen the news. You just wanted to hear him say it, you needed him to know what he thought he did and why he thought he did it.
“I fixed it,” he said immediately, a little too quickly. “You don’t have to… I fixed it.”
“What did you do?” you asked again.
Against all odds, Dex looked pleased. “I balanced it.”
“No,” you let out a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding, “you didn’t.”
“I did,” he insisted, words starting to tumble now. “I took something from you, so I took something from him, it’s even now, it’s—”
“Dex.”
“I killed your friend, I killed Foggy,” he said flatly. “So Vanessa had to die.”
Oh. So that was what this was about.
It might not make sense to you, but you could see now, how it would make sense to him. How it would twist the cords in his mind and pretend to untangle it.
“I balanced the scales,” he said again, faster now, unraveling, beads of sweat travelling down his temple, to his neck, to his bare chest as the restraints rattled. “You don’t have to hate me anymore, it’s equal, it’s fixed, you can love me now, I can die knowing you love me—”
“What?” you snapped, putting a hand on your face. “You want to die? What the fuck does you that have to do with anything you’ve done?”
“My job here is done.” he shot back, agitation spiking. “You’re just not seeing it yet, but you will, you always do—”
“Stop.”
He didn’t.
“I did it for you,” he pushed on, voice rising, cracking, desperate. “So you’d come back, so you would forgive me, and once you do, I can finally—”
“Stop talking,” you put your hands through your hair, exasperated.
“You’re here now, see? It worked, it—”
“Shut up, Dex!”
He froze for half a second, but the silence didn’t last long. He snapped right back into his spiral, this time worse.
“I fixed it,” he insisted, louder now, breath coming fast, shoulders jerking against the restraints. “You don’t get it, I had to make it even or you’d never come back before I go, you’d never—”
Fuck.
Fuck’s sake.
Did you really have to do this?
You grabbed your concealed gun from under your shirt and raised it into his view.
His eyes snapped to it instantly. “What are you—”
You pressed the barrel under your chin.
“Hey!” He pulled on his restraints. If there weren’t dents in the metal before, there were definitely now.
You stared at his angelic hazel eyes as you clicked the safety off.
Dex broke. “No!”
He surged forward, the cuffs yanking him back hard with a metallic crack. The cot screeched against the floor as he thrashed, sanity tearing loose under his skin.
“No, no, no! Don’t do that—don’t…”
Metal slammed, his whole body jerking, twisting, fighting restraints that didn’t give.
“Please,” he choked out, voice breaking apart as he pulled on the cuffs as if he could rip through them, wrists straining, breath turning wild. “You don’t… p-put it down! put it down right now—”
“Dex…”
“NO!” he barked, frantic, eyes locked on the gun like it was the only thing in existence. “Not you, not you, not you…”
You sighed, resting your finger on the trigger. You could pull at any second now.
“Dex!”
He didn’t stop.
“I fixed it for you,” he was spiraling now, words slurring into each other desperately. “I made it right, I made it equal, you’re here now so it worked, just put it down, j-just—”
“Goddammit, Dex!” You shouted, and it echoed through the room.
He finally stopped, and you finally spoke a language he understood: that the only way to get him to listen was to threaten to hurt you.
“Shut up and fucking listen!” you snapped, voice shaking with an emotion hotter than anger, “or you’re going to have to fish an adamantium bullet out of my cold dead body until your fingers are smeared with my liquified brain, you understand?”
All you got from him now was silence.
It worked.
His chest was still heaving, eyes wide. They were glued to you, on the gun, on your finger, on the very real, very immediate possibility of losing you again.
So you stepped closer.
The gun stayed where it was, pressing even further into your skin. The rest of you gave in, closing the distance inch by inch until you were standing right in front of him, close enough to feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
Dex didn’t retreat.
He was still there on his knees on the cot, shoulders drawn.
His eyes tracked you like you were the only fixed point in a collapsing world.
You raised your free hand slowly and reached out slowly, giving him time to flinch, to recoil…
He didn’t.
Your hand found his face, cupping it carefully, thumb brushing over the scar carved into his cheek. He hadn’t had it the last time you saw him.
You had assumed that Matt had given it to him at Josie’s on the night that Foggy died.
That scar was a reminder of what he had done. And he had to carry it everywhere.
You exhaled, your touch softening without thinking, tracing it again like you could map the moment it happened, like you could undo it just by understanding its shape.
Dex made a whiny sound. It was small, broken, as if it sat between a breath and a moan. His eyes fluttered for half a second, leaning into your touch before he could stop himself.
You studied him. It had been a while since he was this close to you.
He was… pretty.
You’d always thought so. Not in a conventional way, or a safe way. It was almost unnatural, the kind of beauty that wasn’t meant to comfort, but to unsettle. It was the kind of beauty you imagine ancient gods to possess: radiant and terrible all at the same.
Your thumb moved from the scar to his mouth. You pressed lightly against his lower lip, testing.
He parted for you immediately. He didn’t even have to think about it. It was pure instinct.
His breath hitched as your thumb slid past his lip, resting against the warmth of his tongue.
Fuck, he missed this.
His tongue moved, brushing against your thumb in a slow, searching motion, as his eyes rolled back slightly to the back of his skull.
It was trust, desire, and recognition all the same.
You didn’t pull away.
Instead, you pressed down slightly, feeling the way his breath faltered around it, the way his body went still again, utterly focused on you and what you were allowing. What you weren’t taking away.
After a moment, you drew your thumb back out, slow enough that he followed the motion without meaning to, lips parting just slightly before he caught himself.
You didn’t give him time to think about it.
Your thumb brushed across his lower lip again, smearing the moisture of his spit there, grounding him in a physical sensation.
“Nothing…” you choked, then tried again. “Nothing you do will balance the scales,” you finally managed to rasp out.
His breathing hitched again.
“Foggy’s death…” you paused, forcing the words through the tightness in your throat, “…was my fault.”
For a second, he just looked at you. For once, he was the one trying to make sense of your beliefs and judgement..
“No,” he murmured against your skin. “It’s not.”
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull your hand away. Your thumb stayed near his cheek, your palm still cradling his jaw, holding him there even as your fingers tightened slightly.
“It is,” you said firmly.
His head shook faintly against your hand, rejecting it. It’s as if he physically couldn’t let it settle.
“But you hated me for it,” he said, voice thinner now, searching your face for confirmation, for a fact he could anchor himself to.
“No.” You shook your head immediately, your grip on his face tightening without meaning to. “No, no, sweetheart. I never hated you.”
What?
“But you didn’t come back,” he said, a swell of tears spilling down his cheek. You caught it and wiped it away. “You didn’t go to the trial. You didn’t go to the sentencing. And you… you don’t visit anymore.”
It fucking hurt to see him this was.
“I didn’t go,” you said slowly, each word dragged up from the pit of your stomach, “because I couldn’t look at you… and see what I made you do.”
His brow furrowed immediately, confused.
“I should’ve told you,” you cut in, your voice tightening now, the words starting to spill faster. “About the mission. I should’ve told you I’d be gone that long. I should’ve—”
Your hand trembled against his face, but you didn’t stop.
“I didn’t think, I didn’t know… I didn’t know Vanessa would know I was gone,” you continued, choking on your words, “I didn’t know she’d take advantage of that. That she’d come to you when I wasn’t there to talk you down—”
“No.” Dex shook his head harder now, the movement pressing into your palm. “That’s not—”
He couldn’t even finish it, because he believed there was no version of this where you were the one at fault. Not in his mind. How could you possibly do anything wrong?
“You’re not—” his voice hitched, desperate now, like he was trying to put a puzzle piece of the truth into place, “you’re not responsible for that. You didn’t make me do anything. I—”
“What did Vanessa tell you?” you interrupted suddenly.
He blinked. “What?”
“What did she say would happen,” you pressed, your thumb brushing his cheek again without thinking, “if you helped her?”
Dex hesitated for a second. “She said… I could be free.”
Your chest tightened.
“That I wouldn’t have to be…” he swallowed, eyes flickering down for half a second before finding you again, “…half a man for you anymore.”
Fuck.
“Dex,” your hand tightened on his face again, your other still holding the gun in place beneath your chin, the barrel pressing harder now as your jaw shifted with every word. “Don’t you see?”
“No.”
“If I hadn’t gone on that mission,” you pushed on, faster, louder, the words tumbling over each other, “if I was there, I would’ve talked you out of it. I always do.”
Your fingers trembled against his skin, but you didn’t let go.
“I would’ve stopped you,” you said, convinced with terrifying certainty. “I would’ve stopped your fucking rampage, I wouldn’t have even let you get that far! I….”
The barrel pressed harder into your skin as your mouth moved, your grip tightening around the gun without realizing it.
“Don’t you see?” you repeated, voice cracked. “It’s my fault.”
Dex’s eyes snapped to the gun.
He hadn’t stopped watching it, but now he saw it. The way your finger trembled on the trigger. He saw the way it pressed deeper every time you spoke, every time you believed what you were saying a little more.
“No,” he said.
Dex’s breathing turned uneven again, but not the same as before. Not frantic in the way it had been when you walked in.
“No,” he said again, louder this time, his body tensing against the restraints as far as they’d allow. His eyes flicked between your face and the gun, tracking every movement of your hand. “You don’t get to—” his voice strained, tightening with every word, “you don’t get to say that and then—”
His breath hitched when your finger shifted slightly.
“—and then do that,” he finished, voice breaking at the edges now.
Because now, he could see the way you were starting to believe you deserved it. “Put it down. Please.”
But you didn’t hear him.
“Balance, huh?” you whispered, almost taunting.
Your thumb drifted back to his scar beneath your palm, tracing the line of it again, like you were committing it to memory in a different way now.
If you believed that you were as responsible for Foggy's death as he was, and you did, shouldn’t you have something to remember it by, too? Something you had to carry everywhere, too?
Dex’s breath hitched.
“You want balance, Dex?” you asked, genlter this time, but you sounded off.
His head shook immediately, frantically pressing his face into your hand like he could stop you just by being close enough.
“Not like this,” he said, voice tightening. “No.”
“You want it so bad,” you went on, almost like you weren’t hearing him anymore, your attention flicking between his face and the gun still pressed beneath your chin. “You killed Vanessa to make it even, right?”
“No. No, that’s not—”
You tilted your head slightly, considering him, your grip on the gun shifting. “Then let’s make it even.”
The resolution in your voice made his entire body go rigid.
“Please,” he said again, panic breaking through. “No, don’t—”
You adjusted your wrist, quickly angling the barrel. It was not directly under your chin anymore, titled it forty-five degrees.
“Stop,” he choked out, pulling hard against the restraints, metal biting into his wrists. “Stop, baby, please. Please…”
You were tired of this. Tired of him thinking he deserved it when you knew for a fact you were the deciding factor in why Foggy had died…
So you pulled the trigger.
The sound boomed through the room, deafening in the confined space. You stumbled back, hand pulled away from his face, as your grip on the gun faltered. It clattered to the other side of the room
For a split second, you didn’t move.
Then you felt the pain.
It was white-hot and blinding, tearing across your cheek as the adamantium round grazed your skin instead of ending your life.
Dex flinched.
Your hand shot up, fingers brushing the wound.
You stared at the blood on your fingertips like it was exactly what you wanted.
Then you laughed.
It came out wrong. It was a little too high, like one of those cute little giggles that he adored so much.
You could already feel the vertical cut on your cheek, matching the horizontal one on his face.
You were his mirror drawn in flesh.
It was unwise, you knew, especially because it wasn’t just any weapon. It was experimental, and even you weren’t fully briefed on it. Adamantium rounds weren’t meant to graze skin. They were meant to pierce, to hold, to do things that conventional physics couldn’t. It was meant to kill supersoldiers. It was meant to cut through thick alien skin. You had no idea what they would do to living tissue at a superficial angle.
But right now, you didn’t give a shit.
You pressed your hand back to his face anyway, smearing blood across his cheek with the same gentleness as before.
“Balance, Dex,” you said again, voice shaking now but still smiling.
You lowered yourself onto the cot, the thin frame creaking under your weight, your balance still slightly off, but you didn’t care. The room still rang faintly in your ears, your thoughts moving too fast, too sharp, like they were skipping steps.
Dex moved closer the second he could reach.
He pressed his forehead to yours like he needed to make sure you were real. His eyes snapped to your cheek again, to the blood that hadn’t stopped, a thin line still slipping down your skin.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, tighter.
You let out a breath that almost turned into a chuckle.
“I know,” you said, a little too brightly. “It’s fine. It’s…” you shook your head faintly, like you were trying to catch up with your own thoughts, “… it’s good.”
He frowned, but didn’t argue.
Instead, he leaned in. His breath touched your cheek ghosting over the blood like he was measuring where to start.
And then he licked you.
The tip of his tongue brushed lightly against your skin, just at the edge of the blood. He was testing, making sure you wouldn’t pull away.
You didn’t.
Why would you? You liked it. Even when it stung a little.
“It’s okay,” you said, relaxing your head back a little, letting Dex clean up the red from the start of the wound, all the way to the liquid that had made its way down. “We’re okay.”
Dex leaned in closer, lapping up nearer to the wound. He didn’t rush it, like he was trying to clean you without hurting you further.
Your head tilted slightly, giving him more space without thinking.
“We both paid,” you said suddenly, almost thoughtful. “See? That’s what you wanted, right?”
He shifted closer, his breath catching faintly between each pass, his focus narrowing completely to the cut, to the blood still lingering there. His tongue moved slower, tracing near the edge of the wound but never pressing into it.
His hand shifted as much as the restraints allowed, fingers brushing against your arm, then settling there. He was holding you in place, or maybe holding himself steady.
He licked the stream down your neck, and you gave him a breathy, angelic moan of pleasure that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight down his spine.
“It matches,” you whispered, like it was a revelation. “We match.”
As much as he hated seeing your scar, he couldn’t help but smile a little.
“You’re not supposed to get hurt,” he mumbled against your jaw, teeth red now.
You let out a breathy laugh.
“Too late,” you said.
What had been slow, deliberate licks turned lighter and shorter. It became less about cleaning, more about touch. His lips brushed your skin in their place, tentative at first.
A pressed a soft kiss near the edge of the wound. Then another just beneath it. Then again, closer to your jawline.
These kisses came unevenly in scattered, small, points of contact, like he was trying to map you back into his memory. Each one lingered a fraction longer than the mass, his restraint slipping away.
You didn’t stop him.
Your breathing had slowed, but your head still felt light, your thoughts still running a million miles an hour.
He just kept pressing those small, almost reverent kisses along your cheek, your neck, your temple, your face until they edged closer to your mouth.
There, he hesitated.
He was close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips, like he remembered exactly what this was, exactly what it meant, and didn’t trust himself to take it without permission.
So you were the one who closed the gap.
You pressed your lips against his. Your hands came up fast, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him in like you needed to prove he was still human.
He made a small, broken sound against your mouth as he kissed you back.
Fuck, your lips.
For him, it hit all at once.
You were as warm, as soft, as sweet as when he first kissed you all those years ago. You had remained unchanged, like no time had passed at all. It was just as he remembered, just as consuming, just as euphoric. It was as if everything else in the world disappeared the second you touched him.
It was like breathing after drowning.
His whole body reacted to it, straining forward, instinctively chasing more as his hands pulled hard against the restraints with a sharp metallic clink. He tried to close the distance further, like the cuffs were an insult now. It was just another unbearable barrier between him and what he’d been missing for two years.
The kiss deepened quickly as you tightened your grip at the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as much as pushing yourself flush against his bare chest.
more, closer, don’t stop, he thought.
The restraints rattled again, louder this time.
He was breathing harder now, frustrated, his hands flexing uselessly against the metal as he tried to reach you properly, to touch you the way he wanted to.
The sound was loud enough to grab your attention that time.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were blown wide, locked onto you, his whole body pulled tight with restraint in more ways than one.
You glanced toward the other side of the room. It was a pair of keys hanging by the door. It most likely belonged to the handcuffs.
“If I let you go…” you said, looking back at him. You trailed your hand down his stomach, settling on the waistband of his pants “…will you behave?”
“Yes,” he said immediately, breathlessly, desperately. “Yes, please. I’ll…” his voice hitched, then he rushed out, “I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
You could tell he pathetically meant it, too
He just wanted to touch you. He needed to.
His eyes flicked back to your lips like he couldn’t help it, like he was already half gone again just from the memory of it.
So you made a choice.
A very you kind of choice.
Let’s just say…. you had no idea what you were going to say to Matt when he came back.
You had no idea how you were going to explain why you were the one chained to the bed (you very much asked for it), wrists pulled taut, skin flushed and marked in ways that you liked. You had no idea how you were going to explain why your breathing was still uneven as Dex sat free at your side, patching up a bullet graze wound on your cheek with the kind of focus that felt indecent after what you’d just let him do to you.
So yeah.
It’s safe to say that you made up.
-end.
extra note: I cannot stress this enough, the song this fic was inspired by is so Dex x reader coded. I strongly suggest reading this while listening to the song.
Summary : Dex has a growing obsession with his neighbor. Little did he know, the feeling is mutual.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Neighbor! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is a tattoo artist and has non-specific tattoos, Dex gets tattooed, sexual themes, nudity, Freak4Freak/stalker x stalker, alcohol and cannabis use, suggestive content, pain kink, obsessive/possessive behavior, morally ambiguous reader, references to murder, depiction of a panic attack, reader mentioned to be a daughter of a crime boss. Both reader and Dex take turns in being pathetic for each other, Dex commits some violent shit in your name, cursing (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 13.7k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : I think this is my favourite dark fic i have written with any character ever. Enjoy!
He was lying. And you knew he was lying.
You clocked that before he even spoke.
You’d just gotten back from the studio the day you met him. Your feet were aching, shoulders tight, the faint buzz of tattoo machines still ringing in your ears. The plastic bag full of groceries you just picked up dug into your fingers as you fished for your keys, climbing up the stairs.
That’s when you noticed the new guy moving into the apartment next to yours.
Moving might be an exaggeration. He had barely anything with him— just a duffel bag and a backpack like he hadn’t had a life before this at all.
“You new here?” you asked when you got to the top of the stairs.
He turned, and there it was.
You recognised him instantly.
Benjamin Poindexter.
Bullseye.
You didn’t know him personally, but you’d seen him enough times, in enough places. You saw him on screens, from news clips, in courtroom sketches on social media. After all, you kept tabs on a lot of dangerous people in NYC. Out of habit, more than anything, really.
Your expression didn’t change, though. You just shifted your groceries slightly higher on your hip.
“Yeah, I just moved in.” Then, after the tiniest pause, he introduced himself. “I’m Tony.”
A lie.
You almost laughed at how mundane Tony sounded. Still, you didn’t call him out.
You weren’t a snitch, and never had been. After all, grew up around men who made him look almost… refined. Your father would always tell you there were honour amongst thieves.
In this case, murderers.
Still, you’d learn early how to mind your business and survive.
And besides… You’d heard what he’d been doing.
He’d been hunting Anti-vigilante task force agents, dropping them on the streets one by one.
You didn’t lose sleep over that.
So you pushed off the walls by the staircase, stepping a little closer like this was just a normal introduction. “Welcome to the building, Tony.”
His eyes were still on you. There was a sparkle there, as if interest formed before he could stop it.
You pretended not to notice, especially because your arm was starting to hurt.
“Hold on—” you muttered, shifting your grocery bag to the floor and digging through it. “Here.”
You pulled out an extra roll of paper towels and held it out to him.
He blinked, like that hadn’t been part of the script.
“For the pipes,” you said, pushing it into his hand when he didn’t take it fast enough. “They’re shit. They’ll leak, clog, make your life miserable. You’ll want backup.”
“Thanks,” he said as he took it, still looking at you, still so… focused.
You grabbed your groceries again, already turning back to your door.
“Don’t mention it,” you said, slipping your key into the lock. “And if you die in a pipe-related accident, I’ll tell management I warned you.”
“Very reassuring,” he said.
“Tell me about it.”
You pushed your door open, stopping just long enough to glance back at him. “Try not to flood the place, Tony.”
Then you slipped inside, leaving him in the hallway with a fake name, a paper towel roll, and a seed of obsession watered by conversation.
Like ivy finding its first crack in a wall, he knew it was going to grow.
—
A week passed before anything more than that happened.
Not that he didn’t notice you.
He did. Fuck, he did.
He noticed you every time your door opened. He logged every time your footsteps hit the hallway. He listened every time your laugh carried faintly through the thin, terrible pipes you’d warned him about.
But the interactions were small and contained.
You’d nod when you crossed paths. You’d say a quick “morning” on your way out of the apartment. Once, you smiled sweetly when you both reached the stairwell at the same time and you gestured for him to go first.
He didn’t.
“After you,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. A gentleman.”
That was it. Still, he thought about it longer than he should have.
Then, one morning, you stepped out into the hallway, to spot the other neighbour who lived on this floor. She was a lovely elderly woman, and she definitely loved you. She’d call you the “granddaughter she never had,” then proceeded to try and try to get you on a date with literally any guy she knew. She introduced you to the landlord’s son, the electrician, and even her own grandsons.
Her apartment door was propped open, and she stood there, gently ushering her cat into the hallway to stretch its legs.
“Well, look who it is,” she said the second she saw you.
“Good morning,” you greeted sweetly, passing her a brown bag with a mint chocolate chip cookie in it.
Her face lit up like you’d handed her gold. “Oh, you angel. I told you, you don’t have to keep doing this.”
“I know,” you said, smiling. “I want to.”
The cat stretched toward you immediately, paws reaching, and you obliged, scratching under its chin. It purred loud enough to echo. As you picked her up and cuddled your little furry friend in your arms, you coddled her and whispered a little “Hi, baby. When do I get to cat sit you again, huh?”
That’s when another door clicked open.
You didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Dex stepped out into the hallway, pausing when he saw the little scene in front of him. His eyes landed on you first, then flicked to the older woman, then back again.
She followed your glance and her face lit up.
“Oh! Perfect timing,” she said, waving him closer. “Come here, come here.”
He stepped closer like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere else.
“Tony, this…,” she said proudly, gesturing toward you, “is the pretty girl I was telling you about. She always brings me cookies.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like it was a secret. “She is an excellent baker.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “We’ve met.”
The cat wriggled happily, and you set her down, watching it immediately circle your legs again. You turned slightly toward him, tilting your head. “Are you a cat person, Tony?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
What kind of answer was sure? Did he just see that you seemed like a cat person, and decided he simply would be, too?
The cat brushed against his leg, and he glanced down at her like he was trying to figure out the correct response.
It was slightly stiff, but you could tell that he was trying.
It was… weirdly cute.
“Anyway,” you shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “I need to go to work. I’ve got a client who wants a full sleeve done in one session and I really need to tell him it’s not happening.”
“You work all the time!” Your neighbour said, scandalised.
You scoffed fondly. “Oh my god.”
“It’s true,” she insisted, looking between the two of you like this was critical evidence in her case. “She’s never around long enough to meet anyone nice.”
You rolled your eyes, but turned away to go. If you let her, she’d keep you here all day and talk about all the nice boys your age she met in church. “I gotta go now,” you said, “I’ll come by later.”
You headed toward the stairs.
A second later, you heard footsteps behind you.
Of course, Dex was going out, too.
You didn’t slow down, but you didn’t speed up either.
“Pretty girl?” he said from a step above you, almost amused
You groaned under your breath. “Don’t start.”
He shrugged, completely unbothered as you let him catch up. “She’s not wrong, though.”
You almost missed a step.
“Wow,” you said, recovering quickly. “You’re laying it on thick this morning.”
You reached the bottom of the stairs, past the mailboxes. He followed, falling into step beside you.
“Don’t tell anyone,” you said abruptly.
He glanced at you. “About?”
You leaned in just slightly, lowering your voice. “The cookies?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re from the supermarket.”
He went quiet, before letting out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “So you lied.”
You nudged at him immediately. “I never said I made them. She just assumed.”
“And you never corrected her,” he pointed out.
“It makes her happy,” you said, shrugging. “She likes the idea of it. I’m not ruining that over a 3 dollar box of cookies.”
He watched you for a second longer than necessary. There it was again, that focus. That sharp, almost unsettling attention.
Softer, he said, “Fair enough.”
You crossed your arms lightly, smirking. “What? You’ve never bent the truth before?”
For a split second you could see his brain buffer, but it was gone just as quickly. “Maybe once or twice,” he said.
You huffed. “Right.”
Internally, you almost laughed. Talk about lying.
Outwardly, though, you just shook your head, nudging the door open to head your separate ways.
“I hope my secret’s safe with you,” you said, stepping out onto the pavement.
“Of course,” he replied.
You started walking, then glanced back at him once. “And if she asks, I spent hours baking them.”
The last thing you saw before turning was his smile.
He stayed there for a second, watching you go.
That day, he debated following you to your workplace instead of killing the two Task Force agents he knew were going to be by the bridge.
—
A week later, you found yourself in the basement, doing your weekly rounds of laundry. It smelled like detergent, damp concrete, and rust.
You were crouched in front of one of the machines, shoving a stubborn pile of clothes deeper into the drum with your forearm, when the door creaked open behind you.
Then, you heard footsteps. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“Hi, Tony,” you greeted with a small smile. But as you got up, you winced a little.
“You okay, pretty girl?” He asked, eyebrows raised.
Oh, so it was a nickname now?
You waved it off immediately, rolling your shoulders like that would fix it. “Yeah, yeah. Just…” you paused, stretching, “—work is trying to kill me. I’ve been hunched over a chair all day today.”
His eyes flicked over you as he put his basket down on the table. “What’s work?”
You snorted, grabbing your laundry basket and setting it on top of the machine. “Ink,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. “I work at a studio a few blocks over.”
He nodded like that was new information.
It wasn’t.
He knew your route down to the minute. He knew what time you left, what time you got back, which days you tend to stay late. He knew which shop you stopped at when you were too tired to cook.
You, on the other hand, just kept talking.
“Actually—” you turned a little, hooking your thumb under the hem of your shorts, tugging it up just enough to expose a small piece of ink on your upper thigh. “See this?”
His eyes dropped instantly to a small design, a little uneven if you looked closely, lines not quite as confident as your newer work, shading a touch inconsistent.
But it was… cute. Especially on you, Dex thought. It was definitely on theme with the other tattoos you had down your arms and legs.
“I did that,” you explained. “I don’t usually tattoo myself, but it was studio policy. Had to do it to get from apprentice to artist.”
“I like it,” Dex said, and for once, he was honest.
You glanced down at it fondly. “It’s a little wonky, but… yeah. It’s part of me now.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He was still looking, and not just at the tattoo.
He was looking at the way it curved with your skin. The way your fingers rested just above it. He was thinking about how you didn’t think twice about showing him something that permanent, that close, that personal.
He briefly wondered what you would do if he hooked his finger on your shorts, maybe dragging it higher…
You dropped your shorts back into place, completely unaware of the direction his thoughts had taken.
“You got any?” you asked, nodding toward him.
“No,” he answered.
You hummed, tilting your head like you were considering him from a new angle. “Would you ever get one?”
He almost said no again.
Tattoos were permanent. Identifiable. Stupid, for someone like him and his… line of work.
“You’d be a hell of a canvas,” you added, like that might sweeten the deal.
And just like that he said, “Yes.”
It was pathetic, really, how quickly he folded. All he could think about was how you’d be doing it, how you’d be marking him, how you’d be the one sitting him on a chair telling him to sit still, how you’d tell him he was taking such a good job resisting the pain when he would like it simply because it was you who was hurting him.
You blinked, then broke into a smile like that was the exact answer you wanted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You nodded, like you’d already figured out the logistics in your head. “If you ever want one, you don’t have to go to the studio. I’ve got a setup in my apartment. It’s nothing crazy, just for friends and stuff. People who don’t want to pay the upcharge or deal with the whole… environment.”
His eyes flicked up to your face again.
“Noted,” he said.
You smiled, satisfied, turning back to your machine as it started its cycle. “I give a mean tattoo, Tony. You’d be in safe hands.”
He believed that.
You leaned back against the machine, folding your arms loosely. “So what do you do for work?”
You loved watching him squirm, even if his body language didn’t necessarily show it. His eyes darted a little, and you learned that it was as close as he got to a tell.
“Freelance,” he answered abruptly.
You raised an eyebrow slowly. “Uh huh.”
Still, you didn’t push. You didn’t call him out.
“Must be nice,” you said lightly. “Flexible hours and all that.”
He gave a vague shrug, but his attention had already drifted back to you, and to the ink peeking out from under your sleeves, continuing lines at your arm. He decided that you’d definitely have more hidden under your shirt.
He wondered how far it all went, how much of you was marked.
What it would look like if he could get you alone, without the distraction of clothing. He would trace every line, every curve, every piece of art embedded in your skin with his tongue, tasting and—
“Earth to Tony.”
He blinked. You were looking at him, amused.
“You just completely checked out,” you said. “I was saying, don’t overload that machine. It’ll make a noise so loud Mr. Ramirez from across the street is gonna file a noise complaint.”
“Right.” He nodded. Then, almost to himself, he added. “I was listening.”
You smiled, unconvinced but not pressing it. “Sure you were.”
The machines hummed between you, filling the silence.
For a second, neither of you moved.
“Well,” you finally pushed off the machine, grabbing your basket. “Have fun doing laundry, Tony.”
And just like that, you were gone.
—
You got so used to Dex being your next door neighbour that you almost forgot he was a convicted murderer.
After all, it was hard to even believe that when your interactions with him were so… wholesome.
You’d be halfway down the stairs, keys between your fingers, already running through your day in your head when you’d hear his door click open above you.
“Morning, Tony,” you’d call, not even looking back.
“Morning, pretty girl.”
That was it, at first. Eventually it became…
“Running late?” he asked one day, watching you juggle your bag and a half-zipped jacket.
“Shut up, Tony,” you shot back, hopping the last step. You were amused though, and pleased that he even gave you any attention at all.
He smiled.
A few days later, he “accidentally” ran into you on your way back, after the sun had dropped. You were tired, shoulders slumped, ink smudged faintly along the side of your wrist.
“Long day?” he asked.
You huffed, digging your key into the lock. “This girl wanted a tattoo of her boyfriend’s name. Bad idea.”
He laughed, cherishing every little interaction he had with you.
Some days, you’d offer him a bottle of water when the building’s pipes went weird again. He’d hold the door open when your hands were full. He'd give you salt when you ran out. He even helped you babysit your mutual neighbour’s cat once.
And then one night, it changed.
You got back late. Later than usual.
Thank god you were back, though. Dex was a few seconds away from breaking and entering into your shop to make sure no one had hurt you.
Still, your feet hurt, your back hurt, your patience was hanging by a thread. The second you stepped into your apartment you made a beeline for the window.
You shoved it open, letting the cool air hit your face, dragging in a breath like you hadn’t taken one all day. The city hummed below with distant traffic, music bleeding faintly from somewhere down the block.
You climbed out onto the fire escape without thinking about it. You’d done it a hundred times before.
You sat there with a beer, legs stretched out, back against the brick, letting the noise settle your brain.
Tonight was no different.
At least, it wasn’t supposed to be.
Little did you know, Dex had been watching you for a good five minutes.
And because he just really wanted to sit with you, he eventually pushed his own window open and stepped up to his own fire escape.
You didn’t look over right away.
He moved across the narrow divider between your sides (there was barely a gap at all), and that’s when your head tilted, just slightly.
“Y’know,” you said casually, “most people use the front door.”
Dex paused before stepping fully onto your side.
“Didn’t feel like it,” he replied.
You let out a small huff of a laugh out.
You lifted the bottle in your hand slightly. “Beer?” you offered to share.
Dex stared at you for half a second too long.
That was it? You let him into your space, just like that?
“Take it or don’t,” you said lightly. “But if you murder me, I’m gonna be really annoyed I wasted good beer on you.”
That almost made him laugh.
He took the bottle, and stiffened as your fingers brushed his for a second. “You trust me?”
You shrugged, settling back into your spot like the moment had already passed. “I figured if you were gonna kill me, you would probably be sneakier.”
He took a swig of the bottle. You were right, it was good beer.
“I might just be bad at it,” he said.
“Yeah,” you snorted knowingly. “You look real incompetent.”
Silence settled for a second, but not an awkward one.
You took the bottle from him and sipped, glancing sideways at him.
“So,” you said. “you always break into people’s fire escapes, or am I special?”
Dex leaned back against the brick. “Special,” he decided.
You hummed, clearly pleased with that answer. “Thought so.”
The conversation drifted after that. You talked about a client who tapped out halfway through a tattoo and blamed you for it. You complained about the landlord again. You pointed out which windows belonged to which neighbours, offering little pieces of your world like they didn’t matter.
Dex listened, of course. He logged everything. But for once, he didn’t feel like he was gathering intel.
He felt like he was… sitting. With you.
At some point, you laughed head tipping back again, and it echoed out into his skull and gripped his heart like a vice.
He only really snapped out of his little trance when you asked, “Same time tomorrow, Tony?”
—
It became a habit.
You’d sit cross-legged or stretched out along the fire escape. Dex would cross over, and then you'd pass bottles back and forth, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Work stories, complaints about neighbours, stupid observations about people on the street below. Easy things, safe things.
Dex told you just enough to keep it believable.
You didn’t push, not even when you smelled the lingering iron scent of blood on him.
Still, you’d bump your foot against his when you laughed. You’d steal his drink the way he stole yours. Sometimes you’d talk over each other, then both stop, then both say “you go first” at the same time and laugh about it like idiots.
It was dangerously normal.
Occasionally, though, you weren’t as upbeat as you usually were. Those nights, Dex tended to pry a bit more. He needed to know what was wrong with his pretty girl, and who was responsible for you being in a mood, right?
“You’re quiet today.” Dex said once.
You glanced at him, a little surprised, like you hadn’t realised it yourself. Then you gave a small shrug, curling your fingers tighter around your beer.
In the end, you just shook your head. “Wow. Okay.”
You nudged his foot lightly with yours, a habit by now, but there was less energy behind it than usual.
“…It’s stupid,” you added after a second.
Dex just waited for an answer.
You exhaled, tipping your head back before finally giving in. “I did this back-of-the-hand tattoo today,” you explained. “Like, really intricate. It was of a sun with fine lines, proper detail, the whole thing.”
As you talked, a little life came back into your tone, the way it always did when you spoke about your work.
“I genuinely think it’s one of my best pieces,” you went on, glancing at him briefly. “Especially for that placement. Hands are tricky as hell.”
Then your tone dipped again.
“Guy ran out and didn’t pay.”
Dex tilted his head, but didn’t interrupt.
You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t quite land as playful. “Honestly? I don’t even care about the money anymore.” You picked at the label on your bottle, peeling it slowly. “I just wanted a photo of it. It was my art, you know? But he won’t even return my calls.”
His fingers tapped once, lightly, against the glass bottle in his hand. He was thinking of every scenario, how he could handle this, when, and how he was going to tell you about it. He needed a plan.
“Does he have a name?” he asked.
You blinked, looking over at him. “Yeah,” you said, a little confused by how direct that was. “Jack Hargrove, I think. That’s what he signed in the form, why?”
Dex nodded once. “Okay.”
That was it, no more questions asked.
—
And then… there were the nights you got high.
Those were his favourite.
You had already grown into his favourite person by then, but when you were giggly and mumbly? He found you fucking adorable.
You’d show up already a little floaty, or you’d pull out a blunt halfway through the night like it was nothing.
The first time you did it, you asked, “Hey.” You nudging his arm lightly. “You smoke?”
Dex didn’t even hesitate before answering. “No.”
You blinked at him once. Slowly, your eyes narrowed just a little, almost amused.
“Wow,” you said, dragging the word out slightly. “That was fast.”
“I don’t,” he repeated.
You snorted, shoulders shaking as you leaned back against the wall, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth like you were trying (and failing) to contain it.
“Alright, officer,” you said, wondering how much you can bring up about his past without him being suspicious. “or is it… agent?”
Dex’s head turned toward you so quickly it almost hurt him. “What?”
You were already grinning, wide and lazy, eyes bright with mischief, ready with a lie to soften your statement.
“You just hit me with the most federal ‘no’ I’ve ever heard in my life,” you quickly backtracked, knowing you had just put him on high alert. “Like, no hesitation, no curiosity, no ‘what is it?’ Just… no.”
He stared at you.
You pointed at him with the blunt, still smiling. “That’s fed behaviour.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, playfully.
After a while, you leaned a little closer, squinting at him like you were inspecting something. “Yeah,” you teased, trying to push little buttons. “You’d hate paperwork too much.”
Dex almost frowned. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“And you’re being very defensive for someone who’s definitely never been a fed,” you shot back lightly.
There was a good five-second pause before you grinned again, gentler this time.
“Relax,” you added, nudging his arm again. “I’m kidding.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. You did enjoy toying with him.
Dex let out a deep breath, tension he hadn’t even acknowledged easing just slightly.
“I just don’t smoke,” he said.
You hummed to yourself, satisfied, and brought the blunt to your lips instead.
“Suit yourself, officer,” you murmured, the tease slipping back in just enough to make it light again.
The flame flickered briefly as you lit it, casting a warm glow over your face before fading. You inhaled slowly, like you’d done it a hundred times before.
Dex watched the way you exhaled, smoke curling into the night air. He watched the way your shoulders dropped, tension leaving you in real time.
“Okay,” you sighed, settling back against the brick, your knee bumping his again. “Now I’m fun.”
Dex didn’t look away. “You’re already fun,” he’d mumble under his breath.
Still. The more you smoked around him, the more he got used to it.
He already adored you before, but something about the cute string of laughter you only got when you were high would make his heart melt.
The way you shifted closer without thinking, your knee bumping lightly against his. The way you leaned back, head tilting until it rested briefly against the wall, eyes half-lidded but still bright.
Most times, you’d just trip over your sentences.
“You ever just…” you started, then stopped, laughing under your breath. “No, wait, that’s stupid.”
“What?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You turned your head toward him slowly, like it took effort, eyes landing on his face and staying there.
You didn’t sound intimidated. You sounded delighted.
“Am I?” he said.
“Yeah,” you nodded, completely serious for half a second before it slipped again. “But it’s okay. I like it.”
Your words would drift in and out, sometimes making perfect sense, other times, it meant nothing. You’d laugh at things he didn’t understand. You’d drift from one thing to another. Childhood stories that didn’t sound like childhood stories. You'd say things that sounded like names you never explained. You’d mention places that didn’t quite exist in any way he could trace.
Sometimes you’d say things that should have sounded serious, but you said them with a smile, with a laugh, like they didn’t weigh anything at all. You once even said something about sleeping next to a sawed-off shotgun when you were twelve “just in case.”
In case of what?
Dex couldn’t find anything abnormal about your day to day life, no matter how much he dug or how many times he followed you, so he assumed it didn’t mean anything.
Every now and then, you'd let him tuck you in bed. Tonight was one of those nights.
You blinked slowly, looking at him like you were trying to say something important.
“Tony,” you murmured.
He leaned in slightly without thinking. “Yeah?”
You smiled, soft and sleepy. “You’re… nice.”
The word came out like it surprised even you. Then you giggled again, like the effort was too much.
He didn’t correct you. He just watched as your eyes drifted shut for a second too long.
Dex stood before you could even try. You didn’t protest when he guided you up.
You didn’t question it when he helped you through your window, one hand steady at your arm, the other hovering just in case.
Inside, your apartment was dim and warm.
You barely made it to the bed before sinking into it, still half-laughing at something only you understood.
Dex pulled the blanket over you as you shifted slightly, face turning into the pillow.
“Night,” you mumbled.
He stayed there for a second, looking at you. At how soft you looked like this. How open. How completely unguarded.
But then… your eyes opened up again just a little. You traced the scar on his cheek gently.
“You don’t have to worry,” you mumbled. Your voice was different. Not quite giggly, but clear as day. “I’m not on anyone’s side anymore.”
—
That night, he left your apartment without a sound.
He came back over the fire escape, slipped through his own window, and closed it behind him like he had done many times before.
Dex moved straight to his laptop, already pulling it open, fingers moving before the screen fully lit up.
Not on anyone’s side anymore? That was a red flag, right?
He immediately looked up databases, records, everything.
He checked for you— your address, previous work history, licenses, financial trail.
He found nothing.
He refined his search. He tried running deeper pulls. He cross-referenced. He even systems.
Still… Nothing. No childhood records, no school registrations, no medical history.
No digital footprint worth anything. No tickets, no fines, no traces.
It wasn’t just clean, It was impossible.
Dex leaned back slowly, eyes still locked on the screen like something might appear if he stared long enough.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Because now those moments replayed differently.
The way you talked, the things you said, the way you never explained anything fully, the way you didn’t ask questions.
You weren’t just a tattoo artist with a strange past.
You had no past at all.
He stared at the blank screen again. “Who are you?”
—
The next couple of nights were normal. It wasn’t until Thursday that things began to unravel.
That night, you weren’t at your fire escape.
Most people would ignore it, maybe even justify it with she’s just busy, she’s just tired, it’s just one night.
Dex didn’t believe in just one night. Not with you.
You were consistent, and that made patterns easy. You came home at the same time, your lights turned on within minutes, your window slid open not long after that. Sometimes you were early. Sometimes a little late. But you always showed up.
So when he stepped out onto the fire escape and your window stayed dark, he immediately started running all the scenarios in his mind.
He stood there, one hand resting against the brick, eyes fixed on the blank glass like it might change if he waited long enough.
Still, nothing.
He told himself to leave after ten minutes. He didn’t.
He stayed longer than that, longer than he would’ve for anyone else, eyes flicking to your window every few seconds like it was a reflex he couldn’t shut off.
When he eventually he went back inside, the feeling didn’t go with him.
—
The next day he confirmed you weren’t at work.
At first, he was confused when you didn’t get out of your door at all. Then, he thought you might’ve gone extra early.
So he did what he did best— he went to your studio.
From across the street, he saw that your workstation was empty. No setup. No sketches. No you leaning over someone’s arm with that focused look you got when you were working.
Nothing.
By the time he got back to the building, he made a beeline straight to your door.
Dex didn’t knock, or call. He didn’t do things halfway.
He broke in, lock giving up in seconds. He slipped inside without a sound.
Your apartment felt… wrong.
Not messy or disturbed. Everything was where it should be. Your shoes were by the door, your jacket thrown over the back of a chair, a glass left on the counter like you’d meant to come back to it.
But it felt… stale. Like you hadn’t opened the window all day and all night.
Dex moved through it quickly, eyes scanning every corner, mind already working through possibilities.
Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the kitchen.
Then, he heard a faint sound from down the hall,
He stopped immediately. He heard a shallow inhale, followed by another, and another, like whoever it was couldn’t catch up with their own lungs.
Dex followed the sound to the bathroom. The door was barely closed, just enough to muffle the sound.
He pushed it open.
You were on the floor, folded into the corner like you were trying to disappear into it.
Your knees were pulled tight to your chest, arms wrapped around them so hard your knuckles had gone white. Your head was tipped forward, forehead almost pressed to your arms, your entire body shaking in violent, uncontrollable tremors.
You were breathing too fast, each inhale breaking halfway through, like your lungs were locking up on you. Your chest heaved, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
Your eyes were wide, unfocused, glassy with panic, like you weren’t fully there anymore.
For a second, you didn’t even recognise him.
When you did, you shrank even more, as if you were embarrassed to be found.
“Hey…” he pushed the door away, “hey, I’m here now.”
You looked up at him through glassy lashes, dead silent for a second.
“H-he’s here,” the words tore out of you eventually. “He’s here, he’s in town! I saw him-I saw him—”
Dex dropped in front of you, one knee hitting the tile hard, but his focus never left your face.
“Look at me,” he said, cutting through the chaos. “Tell me what happened.”
Your gaze flickered, struggled, then caught on his.
“One of my dad’s friends—” you choked, your breath hitching so hard it made your whole body jerk, “His old friends, he found me, he found me—”
Your hands went to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling just enough to hurt, like you needed a physical sensation to hold onto.
“He’s gonna tell him,” you rushed, the words tumbling over each other faster and faster, spiralling, “he’s gonna tell my dad and he’s gonna… he’s gonna get me, he’s gonna—fuck—fuck!”
Your breathing broke completely after that, a choking inhale one right after another.
Your body folded tighter in on itself like it was trying to shut everything out.
Dex grabbed your wrist. “You need to tell me who you saw and where you saw him,” he insisted, “I can’t help otherwise.”
You stared at him, chest heaving, like you were trying to force your body to cooperate.
“Marko,” you whispered, the name barely making it out. “Marko Kovač.”
Your breath hitched again, but you pushed through it, words spilling out uneven and desperate.
“I saw him on E-Eighth and 23rd, outside that liquor store with the broken sign… he was just standing there and he looked right at me, like he knew, like he recognised me—”
Your grip tightened on his sleeve without you even realising.
Just like that, he stood up like there wasn’t time to waste.
Your hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve before he could step away, fingers clutching hard, desperate.
“Don’t…” your voice broke so badly it barely sounded like you. “Don’t leave me, please—”
Dex stopped and looked down at you. He looked at the way you were shaking. He looked at the tears you didn’t even seem to notice. At how completely, utterly terrified you were.
You, who laughed at everything, who teased him, who sat on that fire escape like nothing could touch you…
You were breaking.
And you were asking him to stay, but it didn’t change what needed to happen.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, quieter now. “Okay? Stay here.”
Your grip didn’t loosen right away. Your fingers trembled too much.
“Okay,” you whispered finally, as he gently pulled free.
Because at the end of the day, you trusted him.
—
It took a while before you could even move.
For a long time, you just stayed there on the bathroom floor, curled into yourself, your breath still catching every few seconds like your body hadn’t quite figured out how to come down yet.
But slowly, it eased.
Not gone. Not even close.
But Dex being there, telling you that he’d help, it was enough that your fingers stopped shaking so violently. Enough that you could uncurl your arms without feeling like everything would fall apart if you did.
You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand, dragging in a shaky breath that actually finished this time.
In.
Out.
It was still uneven, but it was better.
“Okay,” you whispered to no one, voice hoarse.
When you moved, every motion felt heavy, like your body wasn’t fully yours yet. You pushed yourself up using the edge of the tub, legs unsteady, breath catching again when the room tilted slightly.
You waited it out. Then you made yourself keep going.
You washed your face with cold water over and over until your skin stung and your reflection looked less… broken.
It didn’t fully work, but it helped.
You pulled your favourite hoodie on like armour. You tugged the sleeves down over your hands, fingers disappearing into the fabric, as if you could hide in it.
Then you made it to the couch.
You curled up in the corner, knees tucked in again, but looser this time.
He said he’d be back.
So now, all you could do was wait.
—
The door clicked open so quietly it almost blended into the hum of your apartment, but you still heard it. You didn’t even question how he got the keys.
You didn’t move right away. You were still curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie pulled over your head, sleeves covering your hands, your body folded in on itself like you hadn’t fully decided it was safe to exist again.
You looked up as he stepped into the living room.
Dex stood there like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t left you shaking on the bathroom floor, like he hadn’t disappeared into the night with a name and a purpose.
“Hey,” he said casually, like he’d only gone out to grab dinner.
Your throat felt a little tight, but not from fear. Not anymore. “Hi, Tony.”
You watched his mouth twitch at that, like the name amused him now instead of hiding him.
Your eyes dropped to his sleeves and saw blood.
It was dried now, but you could tell it soaked into the cotton blend near his wrists and forearms. It was subtle. If you hadn’t seen blood on fabric before, you might have chalked it up to a stain.
Your gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He followed it.
Then, almost like it didn’t matter, he lifted the plastic bag in his other hand slightly. “I got Chinese.”
Your lips curled up faintly.
He didn’t ask where anything was. He set the bag down, pulled containers out, found plates in your kitchen as if he’d done it a hundred times before. The fragrant smell filled the room and it felt almost surreal layered over the reality of him standing there with blood on his clothes.
You pushed yourself up slowly, legs still a little heavy, and drifted closer.
“Did you—” you started, then stopped yourself.
You were going to ask. You wondered, distantly, how long it had taken. If Marko had recognised him. If he had time to understand why he was dying, or if it had been quick and efficient, like everything Dex did.
You wondered where the body was.
The Hudson, maybe, weighed down. Or maybe somewhere no one would ever think to look. Dex didn’t seem like the kind of man who left loose ends.
Maybe he wanted someone to find the body, maybe as a deceleration of loyalty to you.
You decided against asking.
He glanced at you anyway, oblivious.
“I got your favorite,” he added instead, nudging a container toward you as he sat down.
You blinked at that. “You don’t know my favorite.”
“I do.”
You opened the container. He could tell by your smile that he was right.
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head as you scooted beside him.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
You bumped your shoulder lightly into his as you settled in. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it just enough that you noticed.
You picked up your chopsticks, pausing for a second before actually eating. Your hands weren’t shaking anymore. That alone said everything.
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Dex said.
You went still for half a heartbeat. Then you nodded. “Okay.”
You wondered again, briefly, if Marko had been scared. Then you took a bite of your food.
“Good?” Dex asked, watching you a little too closely.
You chewed, swallowed, then nodded again. “Yeah. Really good.”
He relaxed. It was as if he had been waiting for that exact reaction and didn’t quite know why.
And just like that, the moment settled into comfortable silence.
You leaned back into the couch, letting your shoulder brush his arm this time.
Your body felt different now. Not wired with panic anymore, not collapsing in on itself.
Against all odds, you felt safer because he was here.
Dex turned his head slightly, after finishing his meal. “Who was he?”
You knew what he meant. You nudged your food around with your chopsticks, eyes dropping. “My dad’s friend.”
You said it very flatly.
“Your dad has… very armed friends.”
You couldn’t hold back a scoff. You shook your head, unable to hide your cynical amusement. “Yeah,” you said. You hesitated, before reluctantly adding, “He was the one who armed them.”
That got his full attention. “Oh?”
Well, fuck.
You were assuming he killed a man for you. What more did you really have to hide?
“Ugh,” You exhaled, dragging a hand up over your face before letting it drop. “He was—is- an arms dealer.”
You leaned back further into the couch, head tipping slightly against the cushion as you stared at nothing in particular. “I ran away when I was eighteen,” you continued. “Just as he was starting to talk about how his empire was one day all going to be mine.”
You let out a small, humourless huff. “Guess I wasn’t into the whole… family business.”
You never really had a problem with what he did, it was just the world you grew up in. You learned early not to judge it. To each their own and all that shit. Survival didn’t leave much room for morals anyway.
But you didn’t love it.
You could do it. You would do it, if you had to. That part of you was there, shaped and grown exactly the way your dad intended.
Violence didn’t scare you.
You understood it, the same way you understood how to hold a pencil or steady a glock in your hand. If you were out in a situation where it could arise, you wouldn’t hesitate to dish it out. Even your mother considered you trigger-happy.
Still… it was never what you wanted.
You just wanted to draw.
And sometimes, that made you feel… pathetic.
Because the voice your dad left behind in your head never let it be simple. In your nightmares, he’d call you selfish and weak. He’d say that all you cared about was your own need for self-fulfillment. While everyone else carried the family legacy, you were chasing something as small and useless as art for art’s sake.
Safe to say, he wasn’t exactly a good father.
Not when he shoved a gun into your small hands at seven years old and told you to stop shaking and kill the son of a bitch already. Not when he pressed the barrel one to your head at thirteen because you were sketching during one of his “important meetings,” telling you that if you were going to survive in this family, you needed to learn what deserved your attention.
He called it tough love. He was preparing you for a bright future.
And maybe it worked, a little.
Because you didn’t run from violence. You just… didn’t actively seek it.
Dex didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“He’s still looking for me,” you added, looking down. “Or was. I don’t know. I stopped checking.”
You lifted your shoulders in a small shrug. It looked casual, but there was a tired smile behind it. For a second, Dex wondered how much time you had really spent on the run.
“I just want to draw,” you finished, looking down at what was left of your food. Suddenly, your appetite vanished.
To Dex, everything made sense.
To him, it explained the missing pieces, your lack of records, your offhand comments, the way you never asked questions you should have asked.
He studied you for a second before asking, “You left all of that behind?”
After all, as an FBI agent, he’d seen heirs fight over an empire far less than what he could gather was your father’s. He’d seen people kill their own brothers over a small-town drug operation.
You managed a chuckle. “I could’ve been filthy rich,” you paused for a second. “But I don’t like paperwork.”
For a second, he just stared at you.
Then… he laughed.
It wasn’t loud, but it was real. It sounded abrupt and rough, like the sound surprised him. You glanced at him, a smile tugging at your lips in response.
Out of all people, he made you feel like you had normalcy.
You were just on your couch, eating takeout, laughing about paperwork… while a speck of his sleeve was still dark red.
You wondered, again, how it happened. What it looked like. If he’d been thinking about you while he did it.
The thought didn’t make your stomach turn. Instead, you felt more at peace knowing he had done it.
That Marko was gone.
That wasn’t coming to drag you back.
You nudged his arm lightly with yours. “Hey, Tony?”
“Yeah?”
“Come back when you’ve got time.”
He watched you, waiting.
“Think about what you want, and I’ll give you that tattoo,” you said, a warm smile forming. “It’s free,” you added. “As a thank you for helping with Marko.”
Dex held your gaze for a long second. Whatever he was looking for, he found it.
“Okay,” he said.
—
A couple of days later, he showed up at your door on your day off.
You let him in without a second thought.
“So,” you said, stretching your arms over your head as you turned toward your setup, “today’s the day. What are we doing?”
Dex stepped inside, eyes looking to the couch, now covered with extra fabric, the neatly arranged tools, the small table you’d set up.
“I don’t know what,” he said after a second.“But I know where.”
“Alright, Tony,” you nodded, grabbing a pair of gloves and snapping them lightly against your wrist. “Show me where you want it. We’ll figure the rest out together.”
He didn’t hesitate before he took his jacket off and reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off in one smooth motion.
And… Jesus.
You knew he was built. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the way his shirts fit, the way he carried himself, the way fabric would ride up his stomach on the fire escape.
But this was different.
You could see his defined muscle, veins underneath, broad shoulders. His body didn’t just look trained. He looked like a biblical carving made by the hands of Michaelangelo himself. It was unfair really, especially when he had the face of a Caravaggio angel. Scars scattered here and there, some small, some not. Every inch of him looked… precise.
Your brain very helpfully went: oh my fucking god.
Then, you snapped your head back in the game before the heat between your legs could derail your train of thought.
And yeah. It almost did.
“Wow,” you said, casual, like it hadn’t hit you at all. “You’ve been hiding all that under those boring shirts on purpose, or…?”
He didn’t answer.
But you saw thoughts stalling behind his eyes, almost like a glitch. Soon, the faintest flush crept up the tips of his ears, just barely pink against his skin. His shoulders shifted, like he didn’t quite know where to put himself under your watch.
Dex, who could look someone in the eye without blinking while deciding whether they lived or died…didn’t know what to do with a compliment.
How adorable, you thought.
You just smiled. It was flirty, but it didn’t faze you nearly as much as it did to him.
Instead of acknowledging that, he turned slightly, presenting his back to you.
“See the scar?” he said.
You knew what it was, the raised skin that went from the bottom of his neck to right above the waistband of his trousers.
You knew about the experimental operation, the spinal damage— the whole story. But you didn’t say that.
You stepped closer instead, fingers hovering just above his skin. You weren’t quite touching yet, just tracing the air along the line of it.
“Surgery?” you asked casually.
“Yeah.”
You hummed, stepping around him to get a better angle. “You want to cover it, or… work with it?”
He considered for a second, but didn't seem to come to a conclusion “It’s up to you,” he said.
“Dangerous thing to say to an artist,” you murmured.
Dex managed a shrug anyway.
You gestured toward the couch. “Lay down. Face down.”
He did, no questions asked. You made sure the surface was clean with a fresh sheet, and then you got to work with a sharpie.
Dex could heat the scratch of your marker against his skin as you started sketching directly onto him, your hand steady, movements confident. You worked instinctively, letting the shape of the scar guide you.
Dex didn’t even move once.
You leaned back after a while, head tilting as you assessed it.
“Hold on,” you said. “I need a better angle.” You hesitated just a fraction before adding, “Mind if I climb up?”
After all, your couch wasn’t exactly a tattoo chair. Or a bed you could just go around. You had limitations, and you just had to work with it.
“Go on.”
So you did.
You swung a leg over, settling carefully against him, straddling his ass just enough to get the position you needed.
You ignored the way your stomach flipped.
You should be focused, professional. Mostly.
You adjusted slightly, bracing one hand against the back of the couch as you leaned forward to refine the lines. Your other hand moved with purpose, sketching, correcting, building lines that felt right.
It didn’t take long before you finished the initial sketch.
You pulled back again, grabbing your phone.
“Don’t move,” you said, already snapping a photo.
Then you climbed off him, stepping around to his side and holding the screen out.
“Alright,” you said. “What do you think?”
Dex pushed himself up just enough to look.
Oh. Wow.
You had drawn simple ivy vines winding up his spine, starting low and growing upward. It curled, twisted, and wrapped around the scar like it belonged there. Like it had always been part of it. Like life had taken root in a broken part of him and made it… beautiful.
Dex stared at it for a long second.
“It looks like it’s growing out of it,” he said quietly.
You nodded, watching his reaction. “That’s the idea.”
He looked at it again, then at your fingers, purple from the ink on the sharpie.
If he agreed, if he said yes to this, you would be part of him forever. He couldn’t imagine a better feeling than that, so he said, “It’s beautiful.”
Your lips curved up into a pleased smile. “Let’s prep you, then.”
—
You settled into your rhythm quickly after you put your gloves on. As the machine buzzed to life, you leaned over him.
“Alright,” you warned, steadying your hand against his back. “Let me know if it’s too much.”
The needle touched down.
Most people flinched. Some needed a second to adjust.
Dex didn’t.
If anything… Dex pressed into it.
Your eyes looked up for a second, then back down to your work.
He seemed to be chasing the pain. Interesting.
You dragged the line a little longer this time. Your voice was right there, focused on the task at hand when you said. “Your skin’s taking this really nicely.”
His breath hitched, and from the needle.
From how it felt.
Dex clenched his jaw shut immediately, forcing the reaction down, forcing his body still. The next needle drag came slower, more deliberate, and it pulled a pleasure out of him that he wasn’t prepared for.
It burned. It lingered. It made his spine feel too sensitive, like every nerve was suddenly awake and paying attention.
And he… liked it. He liked it a little too much. The fact that you were the one doing it to him made it worse.
His fingers curled into the couch as he swallowed hard.
Focus, Dex.
He tried to file it away, treat it like any other sensation, but then your gloved thumb brushed close to the fresh ink, grounding him just enough to make the next sting hit harder.
“Stay like that,” you said, encouraging him. “You’re doing really good.”
That… fuck. That made it so much worse.
Because now he wasn’t just chasing the pain.
He was chasing the reward: your praise and approval.
His body reacted before he could stop it, a sound clawing up his throat. He crushed it down.
But the next line came. And the next. Each one was slow and intentional, as if you were making sure he felt it.
“You’re sitting so well for me.”
For you.
The words tangled with the sensation, twisting it into the same vine he couldn’t separate anymore.
Dex’s grip tightened again, knuckles paling as another line burned up his spine, and this time, the sound almost slipped. It manifested in a small, strained breath that edged too close to a whine before he cut it off.
But you kept talking like you had no idea what you were doing to him.
“Most people don’t handle this like you are,” you said, dragging another line. “You’re taking it really well”
His breath broke again, quieter this time, but worse, because it didn’t fully go away when he tried to control it.
He wasn’t just enduring it. He was waiting for it, anticipating the next drag of the needle, the next burn, the next excuse for you to praise him like that.
“Looks so fucking good on you.”
Oh, that one went straight through him.
He choked it down so fast it hurt, throat tightening, breath uneven no matter how hard he tried to fix it.
Honestly, it was pathetic, the amount of moans and lewd whines he had to swallow simply because he was being marked by you.
Still, he wanted more.
—
The machine finally fell silent after what felt like hours, the buzz fading into nothing but the sound of both your breathing.
You leaned back slightly, flexing your fingers before grabbing a clean cloth and wiping gently over his back, clearing away the excess ink and plasma. The design came into full view: dark, clean lines curling up along his spine, wrapping around the scar like it had always belonged there.
“Good canvas,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Dex didn’t respond right away. He was too busy feeling the absence of the needle, the strange numbness where the sensation had been, his body still humming.
“You didn’t even twitch,” you added, a little louder this time, clearly impressed as you reached for the wrap. You stepped aside, clearing a path to the full-length mirror at the corner of the living room, “it’s even more impressive that it’s your first tattoo.”
He pushed himself up from the couch, rolling his shoulders once before stepping toward the mirror.
And then he saw it.
The ivy climbed his spine in delicate, elegant lines, twisting around the scar instead of hiding it.
For a moment, he just stared. The scar looked… pretty. Pretty like a dewdrop from a leaf at dusk. Pretty like the sky’s reflection in the water at dawn. Pretty like you.
“You wear it well,” you said casually behind him, like it wasn’t a big deal, like you hadn’t just permanently changed the way he saw himself.
His fingers hovered near it, not really touching.
“Thank you, pretty girl.” he said, smaller than usual. The usual teasing edge with that nickname was dulled. He said it almost reverently.
You smiled a little at that, already focused on your next task as you stepped closer again. “Hold still.”
You smoothed the second skin carefully over the tattoo, pressing it down along his back with practiced hands.
“This’ll stay on for like a day or two,” you explained, your tone shifting into professional. “It’s basically a clear bandage. It keeps everything clean, helps it heal faster. You can shower with it, move around, whatever. Just… don’t mess with it.”
You stepped back, giving it a quick once-over to make sure it was sealed properly.
“After you take it off, wash it gently, no harsh soaps,” you continued, ticking a mental list off like muscle memory. “And don’t forget to moisturize.” You paused, then snapped your fingers lightly. “Oh, cocoa butter. That’s what I use.” You turned toward the hallway. “I’ve got a shit ton in my bedroom, let me grab you some.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex was left standing alone in your living room.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he shifted, awkward in a way he never was anywhere else, glancing around the space like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself without you there to anchor his attention.
His eyes drifted to the couch and the table.
And then he saw it.
A sketchbook, sitting on the coffee table. It had a plain black cardboard for a cover, but even the edges were worn.
He would bet good money that you laid your mind out there. That the sketches you drew were part of you, that it would give him an insight to how you thought, how you felt, who you are.
He stared at it for a moment.
Looking wouldn’t hurt… right?
He sat down on the couch again, slower this time. The couch dipped beneath him, still warm from where he’d been lying earlier, and for a second he just stared at the sketchbook he’d just picked up his hands.
It felt like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. That thought didn’t stop him.
His thumb dragged along the edge of the cover before he opened it, the paper giving that worn sound that only came from books that were handled often.
The first pages were exactly what they should’ve been.
They were professional.
It was a string of roses meant to wrap naturally along muscle, thorns placed intentionally. The notes on the margin said the name of the client and the placement: forearm. He could practically feel where the needle would drag just by looking at the line weight. The shading was subtle but deliberate, gradients that would settle into skin instead of sitting on top of it.
Next page was a skull, split clean down the middle, like it had been cut open and arranged. Inside, instead of emptiness, there were peonies blooming out from the cavity, stems threading through bone like they’d grown there.
He turned the page.
This was a serpent coiled around a dagger, its body twisting. The scales overlapped in tight, careful patterns, each one slightly varied, like you actually understood what repetition was supposed to look like.
There were smaller pieces too; Fine-line constellations, minimalist script, coordinates. There were notes scribbled in the margins from placement ideas, sizing, reminders to adjust line thickness for certain skin types.
He flipped another page. Then another.
He saw a dragon stretched across two sheets, body flowing in a way that made it feel like it would move if you looked too long. A pair of hands reaching toward each other, fingers just barely missing contact. A moth with wings patterned like stained glass.
And then, somewhere in the middle of turning another page, that changed.
The lines loosened. The structure wavered. It felt personal, and the notes disappeared. You weren’t drawing to a prompt anymore; this was art for art’s sake— the view from your window sill, the cat from across the hall, the plants near the flower shop down the street.
The next page was a figure, a woman.
She was reclined on a chaise, her weight settled into one hip, body angled in a way that emphasized curve without exaggerating it. These were a little stylised, vintage sailor-inspired style tattoo.
She had high-waisted shorts hugging her hips, a tied cropped top slipping off one shoulder, exposing more skin than necessary, Her hair was pinned up, a few strands falling loose like they hadn’t been corrected.
Dex’s eyes lingered longer than they should have.
He turned the page to see the same figure in a different pose.
She was this time, one knee pulled up slightly, fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts absentmindedly.
Her head was tilted seductively, and that smile….
He flipped again.
This time, she was one leaning back, arms braced behind her, chest lifted just slightly, the fabric of her shirt stretched in a way that felt… intentional, even if the pose wasn’t.
Oh.
He had suspected it on the first figure, but this one confirmed it.
That smile.
He knew that smile.
He’d seen it across from him on the fire escape, half-hidden behind a beer bottle. He’d seen it when you teased him, when you pushed just enough, when you knew something and didn’t say it.
He’d know it anywhere.
“…fuck.”
You were undoubtedly the reference to all these sailor girls.
Every page after that only confirmed it.
You, over and over again, translated through your own hand. The way you saw yourself. The way you chose to present yourself.
It only got more and more explicit and intimate as he flipped the pages, comfortable being looked at by your own eyes, leaving less and less for the imagination as he saw another page of you bent over—
Fuck, even his thick tactical trousers can’t hide his physical reaction right now.
He could imagine you sitting right here, in this exact spot, probably topless. The sketchbook would be balanced against your thigh, pencil moving in steady strokes. He imagined you glancing up at a mirror before putting it down on paper.
Dex wasn’t gonna lie to himself— he’s thought about you like this way too many times.
It would happen after long, stressful nights, alone, replaying the way you leaned into him, the way your voice dropped when you teased him, the way your knee bumped his.
He’d go into the bathroom for a hot shower, fist around himself as he thought about you. How you’d look under him, how you’d react to his touch, how you’d sound if only you’d let him…
His jaw clenched as heat crept up the back of his neck. His grip on the page shifted, fingers pressing harder like he needed something physical.
There was something about seeing it, about knowing you had made this, that made it worse. He felt possessive, in a way he didn’t bother examining.
He wanted this page. He needed it. He would at least something other than his own imagination to help.
He shouldn’t do it, but when has shouldn’t ever stopped him?
He tore the page, not even caring that the paper crinkled way too loudly in your otherwise silent apartment.
He just held it there, fingers tightening around the paper like it might be taken from him if he didn’t.
But then…
The page underneath caught his eye.
“…oh.”
That… wasn’t you.
It wasn’t your pinup sketches, not a personal drawing, not even a client drawing.
It was…. him.
Dex leaned forward slightly without realizing he was doing it, eyes narrowing as they traced over the lines.
It wasn’t stylized. It was accurate, down to the placement of his scars and the faint lines on the forehead. It looked like he was doing laundry.
You… had been drawing him?
Then, he turned the page again. That was when his heart dropped.
It was him again, but not Tony.
You had drawn Bullseye, mask on and everything.
His grip on the torn page tightened.
He flipped and another one.
It was him again, on a rooftop, rifle braced, body aligned with the shot. The environment was barely sketched in, just enough to ground it, but the focus was entirely on him.
He remembered that night. He had been tracking Task Force for hours.
He flipped again.
It was him, mid-step, tracking through a crowd, head slightly dipped.
Another.
Him throwing a knife between his fingers, captured right before release.
He flipped faster.
Page after page after page, all him. From different angles, different nights, different moments.
Some of them were rough sketches, quick captures like you hadn’t had time to refine them. Others fully rendered, detailed down to the smallest nuance.
There were dozens of these, enough to go back months.
You knew.
All this time, you were aware of him, what he had done, what he was capable of.
Dex let out a deep breath.
He realised now, what this meant.
He had been following you in broad daylight, keeping track of your habits, your pattern, your days.
But he hadn’t accounted for your nights.
So you must’ve been watching him then.
All those times he was doing his self-appointed mission, thinking he was alone in it… he wasn’t.
You had been there, too. Another presence just outside his line of sight. Watching him the same way he watched you.
He wasn’t creeped out; it would be hypocritical.
He was in awe. He was amazed that his pretty girl was capable of this. Perhaps he shouldn’t be— daughter of a crime boss and all— but if anything, it only made him fall deeper in love with you, if that was even possible.
All this time, the obsession was mutual.
And then, he heard footsteps approaching.
He didn’t move. He didn’t close the sketchbook, didn’t hide the torn page still in his hand.
He just sat there, surrounded by the evidence of crossing a line. He had a feeling you wouldn’t mind, though.
The hallway creaked faintly.
“Ah,” you said, setting down the tub of cocoa butter. “You found it.”
Dex stood up slowly. He didn’t rush you, didn't corner you right away. If anything, he was taking you in slowly. His eyes were locked on you like he was seeing you properly for the first time.
He set the sketchbook down.
“How long?” he asked again, like the answer mattered more now that he knew there was one. “How long have you known?”
“From the start.” You said it like it was obvious. Like it had never been a secret. Like you were almost surprised he had to ask.
“I might be pretty,” you added with an easy shrug, “but I’m not stupid, Dex.”
Dex.
Not Tony.
He lit up.
It was visceral, that switch up. He loved hearing his name from your mouth as if it belonged there.
A breath left him, almost a laugh, but rougher. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to study you again.
“My girl’s been watching me,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
You huffed a laugh, suddenly shy. You weren’t expecting a confrontation, at least not today. “Oh, don’t start,” you said, but there was no real resistance in it.
He took a step closer.
“Following me,” he continued, piecing it together out loud now, realising just how much you had stolen from his playbook. “Watching my routes. Studying my patterns .”
He took another step, and you stayed where you were, wanting him to come closer.
“And I didn’t even notice.” He almost sounded impressed.
You tilted your head slightly, crossing your arms. “Yeah,” you said. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”
Dex let out a quiet breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh, but heavier.
“Mind?” he echoed, head tipping.
You held his eyes and didn’t back down, as he stepped in front of you.
“If you didn’t like it,” you shot back, “you wouldn’t be standing this close.”
You were right.
His hand came up firmly as it found your wrist, fingers curling around it gently.
“And you let me follow you,” he said under his breath.
Of course you knew. Denying it now would just be an insult to everyone involved.
“Seems rude to stop you having so much… fun,” you said.
Fuck, you were something, were you?
Dex moved, closing the last of the distance between you. He pushed, just a bit, backing you up against the wall. He didn’t do it harshly, but his movements were certain, like there was no version of this where you weren’t right here.
His other hand braced beside your head, boxing you in without forcing you.
For a second, he just looked at you, and not as the neighbor. Not as the girl on the fire escape.
You.
The one who knew about him all along. The one who watched him. The one who kept up with him.
“Admit it,” you said, breathing just slightly uneven now, “You like that I was watching you.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before lifting again. He was still trying to wrap his mind around how you knew who he was, and you still—what? Invited him in? Sat next to him? Drank with him?”
“Yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “I do.”
You bit your lip as if you’d been waiting for him to say it.
“What else did you see?” he asked, beads of sweat trickling down his bare chest.
You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence, “What are you worried I saw?”
“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. His mind was still tripping, even with his newfound confidence. “You’re—”
He didn’t finish it.
Your hand came up, fingers hooking lightly at his belt loop, pulling him just a fraction closer.
You leaned in closer, your lips just barely brushing near his, your voice conspiratorial. “I can hear it, you know,”
He froze.
“I love it when my name when you’re touching yourself, Dex,” you continued, tone playful. “Music to my fucking ears.”
His hand tightened at your waist, pulling himself flush against you, any space between you gone in an instant.
This was it.
This was all he ever wanted.
But it was you he was talking about, and what kind of man would he be it he just let his girl do all the work in the relationship?
“You talk too much,” he said, and that was the last thing either of you said before he kissed you.
It was hungry.
Like he had been thinking about it for too long. Like he already knew what it would feel like, had imagined it enough times that when it finally happened, his body just followed instinct.
You made a small, surprised whine, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned into him harder, your hands coming up immediately, gripping his shoulders before sliding higher, fingers tangling into his hair and holding him there.
He gasped against your mouthlike feeling you pull him closer snapped whatever control he had left clean in half.
His hands explored, one firm at your waist, while the other came up to your chin, gripping harshly as he tilted your head, deepening the kiss.
It turned messy fast.
It started with breath breaking between movements, teeth catching his bottom lip for a second, neither of you slowing down long enough to make it neat. There was nothing careful about it, nothing rehearsed, just the way you liked it.
You felt him everywhere, from the press of his chest against yours to his grip tightening and loosening like he was testing his limit.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to get a reaction in the form of a low, reverberating groan.
When you caught your breath, you smiled, “Took you long enough.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he bit out immediately, as if every second your lips weren’t on him, the world was falling apart.
That almost made you laugh, but it dissolved the second he kissed you again, harder this time, like he didn’t like the break, like he was making up for it.
Your hands slid from his hair to his neck, fingers curling there, holding him in place, keeping him exactly where you wanted him.
And he let you.
Dex, who controlled everything, let you pull him, let you guide him just as much as he guided you.
Your back was pressed more firmly into the wall as he leaned into you, his body feeling inescapable in the best way.
Your fingers dragged slightly along the back of his neck, and he reacted again, his breath hitching, his grip tightening as he toyed with the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin now.
He broke the kiss, but only just.
His lips lingered a fraction too long before pulling back, like he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to stop. His breath was uneven, his forehead against yours.
For a second, neither of you moved.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like he was already thinking about doing it again.
Then they flicked back up to yours, darker now, heavier with a primal lust that hadn’t been there before… or maybe had, just buried under a mask he wasn’t bothering with anymore.
“Does my pretty girl want me fuck her stupid?” he whispered, so condescending it bordered on arrogance.
He knew the answer immediately when you pressed your legs together, desperate for any form of friction, but he wanted to make you say it anyway.
Your throat felt tight, eyes in a haze as you followed the trail of spit that still connected your mouth to his.
You nodded. And it was pathetic, desperate, and eager.
Unable to form words? Aw, how adorable.
“Yeah,” he breathed, almost to himself, like he was locking it in. “That’s what I thought.”
—
Morning came slowly.
The distant buzz of the city filtered in through the cracked window, light spilling in thin, golden strips across the room, catching on empty bottles, painting colours on your walls.
Dex woke to your touch.
You were so gentle this time, so different from the way you’d had them on him the night before. Now they moved carefully across his back, fingers gliding over his skin spreading cocoa butter along the fresh ink.
His eyes opened, blinking against the light as he shifted under you, enough to register where he was.
Your bed, your sheets, your room.
You were behind him, straddling the backs of his thighs, completely focused on his ink like nothing else in the world mattered.
Your hair was a little messy, falling forward over your shoulder as you leaned in. Your hands moved in careful strokes along the length of his spine, following every curve of the ivy you’d etched into him.
His teeth tightened slightly, a small exhale slipping out before he could stop it.
You noticed.
“Morning,” you greeted, not even looking up at first.
The second skin had peeled off sometime in the night from the overly strenuous activity he had called sex, and you’d made good on your promise to take care of it after.
You even reassured him that after it healed, you’d touch it up if needed.
Your fingers traced just along the edge of the tattoo, careful around the more irritated areas like you were memorising it all over again.
Like you were memorising him.
“That didn’t exactly last long,” you added, a hint of amusement slipping into your voice now.
Dex huffed out a laugh. “You said a day or two.”
You finally glanced down at him, lifting an eyebrow. “I didn’t account for you… being like that.”
He shifted slightly under you again, trying to decide whether to sit up or stay exactly where he was.
He let his head drop back against the pillow briefly, eyes half-lidding as your hands moved up his spine again one last time.
You kissed his shoulder, whispering close to his ear, “all done.”
At that, Dex shifted slightly beneath you, then pushed himself up onto his forearms, rolling his shoulders once to stretch.
He looked at you, at how cute you looked in the afterglow, wondering how he could possibly have underestimated his sweet girl.
That’s when he remembered.
“Oh,” he said, like it annoyed him he’d nearly forgotten in all the chaos of last night. “I got something for you.”
You blinked, still docile from the intimacy of the morning. “Yeah?”
“Can you grab my jacket?” He asked.
You frowned a little at that, head tilting. “Your jacket?”
“It’s in the living room.”
Weird request.
“…Okay?” you said slowly, sliding off the bed.
You didn't even bother covering up.
Why would you?
It was your apartment, your space. And after last night… please.
You stretched slightly as you walked out, feeling his eyes on you before you even turned.
You glanced over your shoulder, catching his unashamed drag of his gaze down your back, your hips, the curve of your ass.
You clicked your tongue. “Perv.”
There was no bite to it.
Dex didn’t even try to deny it. If anything, he smiled like he liked being called that by you.
You grabbed his jacket from the chair, and returned a second later, tossing it onto the bed without ceremony.
“There,” you said, climbing back up, settling beside him again.
He was already reaching into the pocket, pulling a small piece of fabric out.
Leather.
At least, that’s what you thought.
“What’s that?” you asked, leaning in.
Instead of answering, he held it out to you.
You reached out, your fingers brushing the surface before your eyes assessed it properly.
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s…” you gasped in disbelief.
It was the exact sun you had tattooed on the back of Jack Hargrove’s hands.
You traced the familiar details, the tiny imperfections that you knew because you had put them there.
Your fingers pinched it as your brain caught up with what you were holding.
Human leather.
You should be appalled. You should be horrified. You should be scared of him. You should feel sick to your stomach.
Instead, all you could think about was how this was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
“…Dex,” you breathed, your voice reverent.
He watched you closely, watching you figuring out the implications in real time.
Not just that he killed him, but just how far he went.
He tracked him down, took his hand, skinned it, and preserved it. Just for you.
You turned it slightly under the light again, your thumb brushing over the ink.
Dex shifted a little beside you, like the silence had stretched long enough for him to fill it.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said.
You glanced up at him. That was not what you expected.
His expression didn’t change much, but there was the faintest edge of something almost… earnest there. Mild frustration, maybe. Not at you, but at the process.
“Making it was harder than I thought it would be,” he added, like he was explaining a minor inconvenience.
For a second, your brain just… stalled.
Then you laughed in disbelief. Not because you were afraid, but because you were delighted.
“You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head, still smiling as you looked back down at it.
Dex watched you carefully, like he was checking whether that was the correct response. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”
“Dex,” you said, smiling at him incredulously, “you literally took the time to make me art out of someone who pissed me off. Of course I love it.”
Instantly, his shoulder dropped in relief.
You leaned in without thinking, pressing a kiss to his cheek, right over the scar, lingering just long enough to feel his cheeks pull a smile.
When you pulled back, your hand was already reaching to take the leather properly, to keep it. Maybe you’d even frame it.
But he pulled it back just out of reach, teasing you.
You blinked at him, your mouth pulling into the most adorable pout he’d ever seen. “Hey,” you huffed.
He watched you for a second, clearly enjoying it. His eyes switched between your face and your mouth like he was deciding a game.
“I’ll give it to you,” he said casually. “if you promise me something.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, you’re negotiating now?”
He tilted his head just a fraction. “Tattoo me,” he said. “One of those pinups.”
Oh.
You knew which ones he meant.
You shook your head, laughing under your breath, but your eyes gave you away completely. “I thought you’d never ask.”
That was all he needed.
He leaned in again, closing the space between you, his mouth finding yours as he laid the leather on your bare thighs.
And this time, kissing him felt different. It felt like he was yours.
It felt so right in the way only things that were deeply wrong and perfectly matched could feel.
When you pulled back, you already knew he was going to be your favourite canvas.
Summary : Dex is starting to learn that his sweet girl is much more capable of taking care of herself than he realized.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x mutant! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is a florist, and a mutant immune to all toxins. Dex is a stalker as per usual, sexual themes, nudity, obsessive love, morally grey characters, violence, poisoning, medical trauma, experimentation, injury and blood, implied murder, anxious attachment!Dex, reader has a pet octopus (I swear this is important to the story.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 16.1k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : This took so long for me to write, but I love writing a pathetically in love Dex. Enjoy!
Dex almost walked right past you the first time he met you. That happened earlier this year, on Valentine’s Day.
Which was ironic, because this holiday, to Dex, was nothing short of predictable and over-rehearsed choreography, hollow at its core. He thought love wasn’t something people felt; it was something they performed, especially today, draped in red and pink like a uniform they were told to wear. He saw it in the stiff way hands intertwined, in the calculated timing of laughter, in the flowers bought not because they meant anything, but because not buying them would be bad press. It was obligation disguised as affection, routine mistaken for devotion. A transaction, really, nothing more than attention in exchange for reassurance. And underneath it all, none of it would last.
But whatever. He’d already tuned most of it out. He was halfway through scanning exits and timing foot traffic when you stepped just slightly into his path, holding out a flower like you’d been waiting for him all your life.
“Hey,” you said, bright but not pushy. “You look like you could use one of these.”
Dex stopped. He blinked at you once, recalibrating.
Oh?
The first thing he noticed was that he thought you were pretty. For a second, he didn’t process anything beyond that.
Then the details followed: the faint dirt on your hands, the natural way you handled the stems, the open shop behind you breathing out the scent of fresh blooms. You had a bucket of red roses with you, probably giving it to everyone who would stop to listen. You were a florist, obviously. That was your shop, most likely.
“Do I?” He managed to say.
“I think so,” you admitted, tilting your head as you looked at him. “You’ve got the whole ‘I’d rather be literally anywhere else’ thing going on.”
Most people didn’t say things like that to him. Not casually. Not with that little hint of amusement in their voice, like you weren’t intimidated at all.
“I don’t celebrate this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around you.
“Mm,” you hummed, like that was fair. Then you lifted the flower a little higher, wiggling it slightly between your fingers. “Good news, you don’t have to participate. This one’s free.”
He didn’t take it.
“Why give them away?” he asked instead, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re losing money.”
You smiled, wider this time, like you liked the question. “Maybe I am.” Then you continued a little more playful, “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to cute strangers without it being weird.”
You thought he was cute?
Dex almost laughed, but then decided that would probably be perceived as mean, regardless of his intentions. “That’s your strategy?”
“Hey, it’s working,” you said easily, nudging the flower a little closer to him. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
His eyes flicked from the flower back to your face, trying to find the catch, maybe some sign you didn’t mean it, some crack in the tone, but there wasn’t one. You just looked… sincere.
“Do you say that to everyone?” he asked.
You shrugged, shoulders lifting just slightly.
For whatever reason, he finally took the flower.
Your fingers brushed his, and you didn’t pull away quickly like most people would. You just let it happen, then eased back to take the next flower for the next person.
“See?” you said, satisfied, like you’d won a county fair grand prize. “Now you’ve got proof today wasn’t a total waste.”
Dex looked down at the flower in his hand, then back at you. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
You laughed, and he thought it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. “Take care of it,” you said, “Or don’t. It’s yours now.”
He didn’t react. He just awkwardly stood there for a couple of seconds, spinning the rose in his hand.
“Dex,” he said instead, gesturing to himself like offering his name made sense here, like it belonged in this conversation.
Your expression brightened just a touch at that. “Dex,” you repeated, like you were testing it. “I’m guessing you don’t usually stop for random girls handing out flowers.”
“No.”
“Mm.” You smiled, just a little smug about it now. “Guess I got lucky, then.”
He stared at you for a second too long, because it didn’t feel like luck.
It felt deliberate. Like the world was pointing at you saying this one! This one is yours!
“Yeah,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Something like that.”
“Alright, Dex,” you said, stepping back slightly to let someone pass between you. “Try not to look so miserable, yeah? You’ve got a flower now. That’s a personality upgrade.”
He huffed a small smile.
And when he walked away this time, he didn’t throw the flower out. He held onto it, tighter than he needed to.
See, he’d been empty for a long time. Nothing ever held his attention for more than a passing second anymore. Everything just got reduced to patterns, targets, and white noise. So when his focus caught on you and didn’t immediately let go, it felt wrong, like his world slipped off-pattern.
Behind him, you were already smiling at someone else, giving someone another rose. But that didn’t make it feel less personal.
It just made him want your attention back.
—
A week later, Dex stepped into your shop like he’d already memorized it, as if he’d been there a hundred times instead of zero. The bell chimed softly overhead, and you glanced up from trimming stems, fingers faintly dusted with green.
“Hi! What can I do for you today?” you asked, like he was any other customer.
For a second, he just looked at you.
“You don’t recognize me?” he said, and it came out more earnest than he intended. He sounded… disappointed.
You blinked, then leaned forward slightly, studying him. There was a moment where he could see your mind working, trying to place him, and then your eyes widened, recognition clicking into place.
“Oh! Dex, right?” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “From Valentine’s Day.”
The panic that had clawed in his chest eased immediately.
You glanced down then, noticing what he was holding in his calloused hands: A small glass vase. Inside it, the rose.
The rose you gave him.
“How’s it doing?” you asked, going around the counter and stepping closer.
“I put it in water,” he said, watching you instead of the flower. “I did all I could.”
You leaned in slightly, examining it, your fingers hovering just short of touching the petals. “Mm,” you hummed, but you didn’t sound surprised. “It’s wilting.”
“It is,” he agreed, though his tone suggested that wasn’t the point.
You looked up at him then, a little apologetic. “Roses don’t last forever.”
He knew that. You knew he knew that, you weren’t stupid. But he wasn’t the first customer who was upset that a flower had the audacity to die. Living art has a way of turning sentimental to people, beyond logic or reason.
Dex’s grip on the vase tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing absently against the glass. “Can I keep it alive?” he asked.
The question wasn’t naive. Instead it was focused, as if he was asking, what else can we do? Are we exhausting all our options?
“I mean… not really,” you admitted, “It’s just its time.”
He held your eyes, unwavering.
“I want it to last,” he said, and there was an absolution in the way he said it: stubborn, but not childish. He said it like it mattered more than it should because it was from you.
You, who he’d followed home for the past seven days without a second thought. You, who stopped at the corner supermarket to get your favourite blend of tea, who took the subway just to get coffee just because you liked how it was roasted better. You, who kept a herb garden on your kitchen windowsill meticulous and alive, and hung a suncatcher in your bedroom window so the light would break into colors across your room in the morning. You, who slept with the windows open because you like waking up to natural light. You, who slept in the cutest silk slips that barely leave anything to Dex’s imagination. And you, who had a rooftop garden hidden above your apartment, where you spent hours tending to things that grew because you cared.
Oh, the garden.
Dex liked it most of all, because he found a high enough perch on a neighboring building to watch you without interruption, to stay still for hours at a time while you knelt among the plants and didn’t once look up, never once realizing your being followed, that your life was being studied by a very, very dangerous man.
Your eyes flicked between him and the rose again, and then you let out a sigh, shifting closer to the counter. “Okay,” you said, thoughtful now. “I’ve got an idea.”
You reached for the vase and slid the wilting rose free. You handled it carefully, even in its fading state.
Then you turned, plucking a fresh rose from a nearby bundle, and held it out toward him with an encouraging smile. “You can take a new one,” you offered. “If you change the water every other day, it’ll stick around for longer.”
Dex didn’t even glance at it. His attention stayed on the original, now resting lightly in your hand.
“I don’t want a different one,” he said, smaller now, but no less firm.
You hesitated. “You… don’t?”
“I want that one.”
Your brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through. “The dying one?”
“…Yeah.”
There was a certain vulnerability in his eyes that made you pause. Was he… attached?
You looked down at the rose again, then back at him. The lines in your face lowered like you were starting to understand, at least a little.
“Okay,” you murmured, thinking it through. Then, when you got an idea, you said, a bit brighter, “I could press it for you.”
Dex’s eyes shifted back to you.
“It’ll at least preserve it,” you added, gesturing lightly with the stem. “Flatten it, dry it properly. I know it’s exactly the same, but…” you smiled faintly, “it’ll last.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“You could come back to pick it up at a later date,” you continued. “I was already planning to press some gerberas anyway, so it’s not a big deal to add one more.”
Dex was silent for a moment, weighing not the practicality, but also its implication. Then he nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”
You smiled and turned to set the rose aside carefully.
Dex stayed exactly where he was, watching you move, already certain he’d be back long before the wait was over.
—
Twelve days later, Dex stood across the street from your shop for eight full minutes before going in.
He wasn’t pacing, not even fidgeting. He was just standing there, coffee in hand, watching the door like it might open on its own and solve the problem for him.
He had already timed how long you usually stayed behind the counter in the morning, how often you stepped out to rearrange the display, the pattern of customers drifting in and out, and when you disappeared into the back room for exactly three minutes and twenty seconds at a time.
Still, he stood there a second too long, staring through the glass at the familiar arrangement of flowers, the counter, at you.
The coffee in his hand was still warm. Not hot anymore, but not cold either. He’d made sure of that.
Finally, he crossed the street.
The bell chimed when he pushed the door open.
You looked up and smiled. This time, you recognised him immediately. “Hi, Dex.”
And just like that, you made his day. Maybe his week.
He stepped closer, more confident than he did before.
“Hi,” he said back. There was a second where he just stood there, looking at you like he’d forgotten why he came in at all.
Then, remembering, he held the coffee out. “This is for you.”
You blinked, surprised, but reached out to take it. “For me?” you echoed, turning the cup slightly in your hand. “You didn’t have to—”
You stopped to turn the cup slightly, reading the label, then glanced back up at him with a small tilt of your head.
“Oh my god,” you said, half-laughing already. “No way.”
Dex’s stomach dropped briefly before your smile widened.
“This is my coffee place,” you said, amused. “Like, my favourite cafe.”
He blinked, just feigning enough surprise to feel real. “Is it?”
“Yes,” you laughed, lifting the cup like evidence before you took a sip. “Dex...”
His shoulders tightened just slightly. “Yeah?”
“You got my order right.” There was a long second before you broke into a grin, bright and delighted. “That’s crazy.”
He let out a small, relieved breath through his nose. “I just guessed.”
“Insane guess,” you corrected, shaking your head as you took another sip, like you were still processing it. “You just nailed my entire personality in a cup.”
“I got lucky,” he said, shoving his hands in his pocket.
You glanced back up at him, still smiling as you sat the cup down to clean up the leaves from the counter, leftover from conditioning your antirrhinums for an event in a few days. “Well,” you said, “your luck just made my morning significantly better, so...”
“That was the idea.” It slipped out before he could filter it.
Your face shifted from amused to warm, just a touch more focused on him. “Yeah?”
Dex nodded once, like that was obvious.
A bout of silence settled, but it wasn’t empty. It stretched comfortably as you leaned a little against the counter, still holding the coffee between your hands.
“So,” you said, tilting your head, “what’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” Dex answered, “Just… thought you’d like it.”
You shifted closer to the counter, resting your elbows there, facing him more fully now. “Do you do this a lot?” you asked. “Or am I just benefiting from a very specific moment of generosity?”
“Not a lot,” he admitted.
“Well,” you said, lifting the cup slightly toward him in appreciation. “I’m not complaining.”
Okay. Dex thought. This was the lull in the conversation he had been waiting for. It was a gap, a narrow, fleeting window, and he could feel it closing even as it formed. If he didn’t do it now, it would slip, reset, become another loop of almost. Ask her out. Now.
His heartbeat had gotten loud in his ears, his focus narrowing down to you and the space between you, to the way your fingers rested around the coffee he’d brought, to the way your mouth had just barely parted.
If he didn’t ask you out on a date, then he would just be the creep, right? If nothing came of these small visits, then you would just be a florist and he would just be a customer, right?
He had the words in the back of his tongue, he had practiced in the mirror all fucking morning. It was there, just waiting for him to catch up and say it out loud—
“You’re different today,” you said, interrupting his train of thoughts before it derailed.
“I…” he struggled, but then decided to play along. “How?”
“Less intimidating,” you said, smiling. “Last time you had this whole… intense thing going on.”
“I wasn’t trying to be intimidating.”
“But you kind of were anyway.”
He considered that, then nodded once, like he’d accept it.
You watched him for a second, then laughed softly to yourself.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re just… not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
You glanced at him, smile tilting.
“I thought you’d be the type to take the flower and disappear forever,” you admitted. “Not appear with coffee and—” you gestured lightly toward him, “—actual conversation.”
Dex’s mouth shifted slightly at that.
“That’s a good thing, right?” he asked, almost proud of the achievement you pointed out.
“It is,” you said. “Because I was hoping that wasn’t just a one-time thing.”
“It’s not,” he said instantly.
You studied him for a second, then nodded, like you believed him. “Okay,” you said. “Then we should probably keep talking somewhere that isn’t my shop while I’m technically working.”
Oh. Were you asking him out on a date?
Dex’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Yeah,” he said.
You smiled, a little more playful again now that the words were out there. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You picked up your coffee again, almost absently.
“Dinner?” you suggested, like it was the most natural next step. “That feels like a reasonable escalation from coffee.”
“It does.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” You drank the coffee again, a little ahh when you finished your sip.
“How about Saturday?” you asked. “I’m working a wedding, but I’m free after seven.”
“Yes,” he said, too quickly, too excitedly. “I’ll pick you up if you… uh, text me your address.”
As if he didn’t already know.
Your smile widened just slightly, already scribbling your number on the back of a receipt.
“Saturday it is,” you said, giving the paper to him.
And just like that, a plan settled into place.
Dex stayed where he was for a second longer, amazed at how everything had worked out in his favour.
He had planned this differently.
He thought it would take more. He thought he’d have to push it there himself.
But you… you had met him halfway without even making it feel like effort.
—
Saturday arrived quicker than you had expected.
You just got back from the wedding cocktail hour, and you barely had time to change from your blazer to a flowier dress before the doorbell rang. You checked your reflection one last time before heading downstairs, adjusting your bag just to keep your hands busy.
It was seven. Exactly seven.
Not early enough to seem overeager. Definitely not late enough to feel careless. It just felt… precise.
When you opened the door, he was already standing there with his shoulders squared, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes finding you immediately.
“Hi,” you smiled, closing the door behind you.
“Hi,” he replied. “You look…” he started, then hesitated.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He exhaled faintly through his nose, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “You look good,” he settled on, like it was the safest word he had to a much stronger reaction.
You laughed lightly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
That seemed to catch him off guard.
“I was thinking we could walk,” he said. “The place I had in mind is just a couple blocks over.”
“Walking’s perfect,” you nodded. “Lead the way.”
He stepped into pace beside you easily, adjusting without thinking so you stayed in sync. Your arms brushed once, then again, and neither of you rushed to create distance.
It was comfortable.
You pointed out a bakery you liked; he asked a few questions, just enough to keep you talking.
Then you turned the corner… and you froze in your steps. “Oh my god, wait.”
Dex halted immediately, “What?”
You looked up at the small restaurant in front of you, disbelief turning into a smile. “Dex,” you said, half-laughing, “this is my favourite Italian place.”
It was tiny. It had barely ten seats, warm light glowing through the windows. It was the kind of place you only found if someone told you about it or you got lucky wandering.
You looked back at him, still smiling. “How do you even know about this?”
“I’ve heard it’s good,” he simply lied.
He opened the door for you, his hand hovering near your back as you stepped inside.
The cozy warmth hit you immediately, along with the smell of garlic and tomato sauce.
“Hey! Back again?” the owner called out.
“Of course,” you smiled, glancing back at Dex. “Couldn’t stay away.”
You slid into one of the tiny tables, knees brushing his under the narrow space. He didn’t pull away.
“This is such a good choice,” you said, leaning forward slightly.
Dex watched you for a moment before answering, “I’m glad you like it.”
You met his eyes, and for a second, everything felt like a very happy coincidence.
—
The date went… really well.
Like, unexpectedly well.
You stayed longer than either of you planned, the tiny restaurant slowly emptying around you until it felt like the two of you had the place to yourselves.
And still, neither of you moved to leave.
You talked in that wandering way that only happens when you’re comfortable, jumping from one thing to another, doubling back, interrupting each other without apology. It didn’t feel like a “first date” anymore. It just felt like time spent together.
All that time, he couldn’t stop looking at you. It wasn’t too obvious, but everything kept circling back to the way your mouth moved when you talked about needing to check on bubbles when you got home or something (whatever that meant), the way your hands followed your thoughts like they couldn’t keep up, the way you leaned in like the space between you didn’t matter.
Dex had spent years studying people, reducing them to patterns, weaknesses, outcomes. You didn’t fit cleanly into any of it. You felt… brighter than that. So whatever you were, he already decided, it was something he wasn’t going to lose.
“Today was insane, by the way,” you said at one point. “The wedding I told you I was working today? Completely unhinged.”
“What was it?” Dex’s attention didn’t waver. “Bad planning?”
“Bad everything,” you huffed a laugh. “The bridesmaid was losing it over nothing, the timeline kept slipping, and the groom—” you paused, rolling your eyes slightly “—the groom was… a lot.”
Dex didn’t care about the groom, not really. He cared about the way your nose scrunched slightly when you said it, the faint irritation in your voice. Even when annoyed, you were still… perfect. It didn’t make sense to him, how consistent it was. Still, he would listen to you simply because it was you. So he tilted his head just slightly, as if telling you to go on.
You hesitated, not like you didn’t want to answer, but like you were deciding how honest to be.
“He was…,” you said finally. “Like, weirdly controlling. Not just with the schedule, but with her.”
“The bride?” he asked, picking up his glass of red, taking another sip.
“Yeah.” You nodded, your mouth tightening just a fraction. “Everything had to be his way. The food, the layout, even the order people walked in. And if something wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, he’d just…” you made a small, snapping gesture with your hand “… shut it down in front of everyone. His mom was almost worse. She’s just enabling him all the way.”
Dex’s eyes narrowed, though his expression stayed neutral. Then, just as quickly, you shifted the topic.
“But the flowers looked amazing,” you added lightly, leaning back again. “So, you know. At least something went right.”
Dex nodded once, like he understood that more than you meant.
Then, your phone lit up again.
You glanced at it again, for the first time that night. Dex noticed.
“You expecting something?” he asked, casual enough.
You looked up, like you hadn’t realized he’d caught that. “Hm?”
“You’ve checked your phone a couple times.”
You shrugged easily. “I’m looking out for follow-up stuff from the wedding. People always need something after.”
“Even after it’s done?”
You shook you head. “Especially after it’s done.”
He didn’t question you. If anything, his instinct leaned the other way entirely. You had your reasons, you always would. Whatever you did, whatever you said, he trusted without needing to understand.
A few minutes later, you stood up. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You said, then you added playfully, “don’t disappear.”
“I won’t,” he said. As if he would run out on the love of his life.
He waited until you were out of sight, before absentmindedly reaching for his phone. He didn’t have much going on, just a police scanner app to track task force, a text thread with Mrs. Smithers in case her cat needed babysitting, and… you.
So yeah, it was mostly out of habit. He was going to lock it and put it back in his pocket before you came back, but the news app gave him a notification he could ignore:
Groom Dead at Wedding at The Plaza — Two Hospitalised.
His eyes moved over the words once. Then again, slower.
He looked at the name, the timing, the location. Everything aligned too… cleanly.
His thumb hovered for half a second before locking the screen.
When you came back, you slid into your seat like nothing had shifted.
“Okay,” you said, settling in. “What did I miss?”
Dex didn’t answer that. Instead, he turned his phone toward you. “Have you seen this?”
You leaned in slightly, your shoulder almost brushing the table as your eyes moved over the screen.
He expected you to be horrified. To gasp, to be shaken. But you didn’t react the way most people would.
You just leaned back, eyebrows furrowed.
For a while, Dex couldn’t get a read on you— and that was terrifying. Were you grieving? Were you in shock? There was nothing in your usually animated eyes that gave anything away.
“Oh,” you said.
Dex watched you closely. “That’s the wedding you worked, right?”
Your fingers found your glass again. You rotated it once, before answering. “Yeah.”
He didn’t look away.
You glanced up at him, then back down, your voice lowering just slightly.
“He did get sick during cocktail hour,” you said, as if it was a realisation. Your tone didn’t change, though.
“Food poisoning?” Dex speculated, his mind running through all the possibilities. Somewhere along the lines, he was also relieved that even though you told him you ate the canapés at the wedding, you weren’t taken ill at all.
You shrugged lightly. “That’s what they’ll say.”
Oh. Interesting.
Not that’s what it is. You said, That’s what they’ll say.
“And you don’t think that’s what it was?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheeks.
You looked at him then, properly. There was no panic in your expression, fear of saying the wrong thing.
“I think,” you said, dragging out the words, “that sometimes people end up exactly where they were always heading.”
You picked up your glass again, taking a small sip before continuing, almost as an afterthought. “I mean… She wanted to call it off.”
It was clear that you were talking about the Bride. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you now with a different kind of focus.
“She wasn’t going to get out on her own,” you continued, “and now…” you gave him the faintest shrug, “…she doesn’t have to.”
—
You saw him again a week later, when he came by the shop.
The bell chimed, and you glanced up out of habit, shears still in hand, a stem caught mid-trim between your fingers.
You didn’t expect it to be him.
But the second realised, your eyes lit up. “Hi, Dex.”
His shoulders eased, just slightly, like he’d been waiting for that reaction. “Hi.”
As he stepped further inside, his eyes moved over the shop. He studied the in the buckets lined along the walls, the arrangements you’d spent hours shaping, the little details most people skipped over entirely.
He was cataloguing it, learning it. Or, at the very least, he was pretending to.
You leaned lightly against the counter, watching him with a gentle smile. “Looking for something specific?”
“Maybe,” he said.
It wasn’t the most helpful thing a customer would say, but you chuckled anyway.
He moved toward a small arrangement near the front, a small spring bouquet you’d put together that morning, filled with yellow and whites and eucalyptus foliage. It wasn’t flashy, but it was balanced. It was thoughtful.
Dex picked it up, turning it slightly in his hand, ever so carefully, as if it required inspection.
You tilted your head. “That one?”
“It’ll do,” he said.
It’ll do.
You let out a huff of laughter at that, setting your shears down with a clink before stepping around the counter. “Wow. Glowing review. I should put that on a sign.”
He glanced at you, as if to say I didn’t mean it that way. “I need more decorations.”
You didn’t push as you reached for the wrapping paper and cellophane. You didn’t ask why a man who didn’t even know what to do with a rose suddenly cared about daisies and carnations and violet-tinted gypsophilas.
You just nodded and got to work, wrapping the stems neatly, your fingers moving with practiced precision.
He watched the way you tucked the stems in, the way your thumb pressed the fold flat. The tiny, unconscious movements that made everything you did feel trained and deliberate.
You had a feeling he didn’t really get flowers, it was pretty evident after your first date. He didn't seem to know what to do with them. He didn’t seem to care about arrangements or meaning or seasonal choices.
But he kept coming back.
And if flowers were the excuse he used just to see you, then you weren’t complaining.
The rustle of paper filled the room, followed by the faint drip of water somewhere in the back. When you finished tying it off, you lifted the bouquet and held it out toward him, a flicker of playfulness returning to your voice.
“So,” you said, “is this one going to need preserving too?”
His eyes dropped to the flowers, then back to you.
“Maybe,” he said.
It didn’t sound like a joke. And if it was, he didn’t deliver it like one.
Your smile softened anyway. “Good to know. I’ll start preparing.”
He took the bouquet from you and paid, sliding the money across without looking away for long, then gathered the bouquet carefully, holding it like it mattered more than he’d ever admit out loud.
But he didn’t leave right away.
Before you could say anything, he shifted the bouquet slightly in his hand, and then, almost absently, plucked a single daisy from it.
Your brows lifted, a quiet “hey” forming before you could stop it, maybe to playfully remind him that you worked hard on that arrangement, but you didn’t actually protest.
He stepped closer.
His hand came up to reach over the counter. Gently, he brushed a strand of your hair back behind your ear.
He did it so carefully, as if you were made of a million little crystals and might break at the wrong frequency.
Your breath hitched, only slightly.
Then he tucked the daisy there. His thumb lingered, rubbing a single slow circle under your ear. His hand dropped a little, only to rise again, this time under your chin.
He tilted your face up, just enough to catch the light properly.
His thumb rested lightly against your jaw, his pointer finger locking his hold. His gaze was fixed entirely on you now— on the flower, on your face, on the way both fit together like you’d been sculpted by the gods for his enjoyment, and that alone.
Then he smiled, lips pulling at the edges of his mouth just enough to draw toward the scar on his cheek. “Beautiful,” he muttered under his breath.
You weren’t sure if he meant you. Or the flower. Or both. You weren’t even sure if he meant to say it out loud, or if he meant for you to hear it.
Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest anyway.
“…thanks,” you said softly, suddenly very aware of the way he was looking at you.
His hand dropped, but not abruptly. He looked… satisfied.
“We’ll start planning a second date, yeah?” The way he said it wasn’t really a question. It was more like a conclusion he’d already reached, a decision you were simply being informed of.
You should’ve pushed back. Maybe teased him for it, made him work a little harder to get you.
But instead, you just smiled.
Because you didn’t feel the need to argue with it. Not even a little.
—
The second date came on a Friday, and it felt nothing like the first.
There was no careful planning, or buildup inside a restaurant, no structured beginning or end. It just happened.
It started late, later than most people would bother going out, when the city had already begun to be less crowded, less performative.
You met him with the same familiarity that had been settling between you.
You ended up just walking with no destination in mind; though he did steer you to a less crowded route. Before you knew it, you found yourself by the Hudson River, the air cooler there, touched with that faint edge of water and wind. The city lights stretched across the surface in long, shimmering lines, breaking and reforming with every ripple.
You walked side by side, close enough that you were always aware of him, his pace adjusting subtly to yours.
The conversation came without effort, drifting between small observations and half-finished thoughts, the kind of talking that didn’t need to impress or prove anything. You even talked about your personal life— mostly your flower pressing. You did mention what he assumed was a pet: “I need to feed Bubbles as soon as I get home!” Which was weird, because he was yet to see any signs of animal life in the apartment.
Before he could ask, you darted to a different topic.
But whatever. How could he focus on something so trivial when his girl was right in front of him?
At some point during the night, he stopped at a street vendor.
You didn’t even realize you were hungry until he came back to you with a sweet and sugary smelling food.
“Wait, what is this?” you laughed, peeking into the paper tray.
“Churros,” he said simply, then also pointed at the chocolate pot, like an offering.
You looked up at him, smiling. There was no point really, in telling him you loved churros. He seemed to always know what you were craving and what you wanted, that he was always somehow one step ahead of you. It’s as if he knew you better than you knew yourself. “You’re just making executive decisions now?”
“You didn’t object.”
Of course you didn’t.
You took a bite instead, the crisp sugar coating your mouth. You immediately let out a small, pleased sound before you could stop yourself.
“Good?” he asked.
“Very,” you admitted, already going in for another bite of your favourite dessert. “You’ve set a very high standard for future dates, just so you know.”
“I can keep up,” he said again, like that was the easiest promise in the world.
You walked and ate and talked, and you can’t help but feel like you’d skipped awkward and landed straight into comfortable.
You were out for hours, and it flew by as if it was just minutes.
By the time you circled back toward your place, the city had lulled even more. There were fewer people, quieter sounds. The only significant noise was the distant hum of traffic and the echo of your footsteps on the pavement.
You slowed as your building came into view.
Dex stopped just short of the door again, like last time, like there was an invisible line he was still choosing not to cross without permission.
You turned toward him, still holding the half-empty paper tray in one hand.
You looked at him, at the way his attention was always so focused when it landed on you, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
Then your eyes dropped, just slightly, to his lips. “You’ve got something there,” you said, you pointed out.
He tilted his head. “Where?”
You stepped closer before he could overthink it.
“Here.” Your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw, guiding his face just enough. Then, before you could think any better of it, you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, tongue brushing his skin just enough to take pry sweet liquid off.
Dex went completely still.
You pulled away just quickly, thumb swiping the little wet patch you’d accidentally left behind, and Dex leaned into your touch without a second thought.
You smiled a little too casually for what you’d just done.
“Chocolate sauce,” you explained, tapping your own lip like that was the only reason. “Couldn’t just leave it there.”
“I…,” he said finally, almost stumbling over his words. “…right.”
You smiled wider, like you knew he had a soft spot for you, like you knew you would get away with it if you committed hard enough.
“Goodnight, Dex.”
And just like last time, you slipped inside before he could stop you.
—
He stood there for a while, longer than necessary.
His hand lifted briefly, brushing the corner of his mouth where yours had been, like he could still feel it there.
After a few seconds, he forced himself to snap out of it. He had somewhere to be, of course.
Not home, but it was somewhere he had grown to like more than home.
See, there was only ever one place he could go after a night like this.
He walked across the street, then around the corner, then up the stairwell he already knew too well. His body moved through it like routine, but his mind stayed exactly where you’d left it—
At your door, your lips. At that fleeting kiss that had lasted barely a second and somehow rewired the rest of his night.
See, he knew what you did on Fridays. You would go up to the rooftop and tend to your plants. You would check on them, do some maintenance, and sometimes, you’d even harvest them and put them in a mortar and pestle, crushing and storing them in a little bottle. Herbal remedies, Dex had assumed. It was adorable, how much care you put into your cute little garden.
When you were done with your plants, he would watch you through your naively opened bedroom window as you got ready for bed.
After your last date, he had even watched you lay there as you ever so slowly reached your fingers under your cotton panties. It wasn’t long before he realised you were touching yourself while mouthing his name.
If he was lucky, he’d get to witness that again today.
—
Dex had been watching from his perch for fifteen minutes.
You had changed into a comfortable black hoodie that swallowed your frame— he saw that much through the glow of your bedroom window.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against the cold concrete.
You always went up to the rooftop after you changed. It was a pretty reliable pattern.
So when you didn’t appear on there, when five minutes stretched past where you should’ve been stepping into the open air, his chest tightened.
Dex didn’t move, but his focus heightened instantly, attention narrowing as he recalibrated. His eyes flicked once more to your window… and then the front door of your building opened.
You stepped out.
The hood was down, your hands tucked briefly into the pocket before you pulled one free, adjusting your sleeve as you moved.
Dex’s head tilted just slightly.
That… wasn’t part of your routine.
You wouldn’t go out at this hour alone. Especially not after a night like this.
“What are you doing?” he murmured under his breath, more observation than question.
He pushed off the ledge, already deciding he would follow.
After all, he had to keep his girl safe.
—
Distance was easy to maintain when you understood movement, when you could predict the rhythm of someone’s steps before they took them.
He stayed behind you, offset just enough to disappear into reflections, into shadows, into the gaps people never noticed. Your figure stayed in his line of sight the entire time, framed between streetlights and reflected storefront glass.
You didn’t look back.
You turned down a smaller street, then another, the noise of the city thinning out until it became distant. Your footsteps echoed here.
You were more exposed.
Dex adjusted accordingly, his own steps falling soundlessly into place.
Then you turned into an alley. He slowed down immediately, slipping to the edge before you disappeared fully from view.
When he shifted just enough to see, he realised… you weren’t alone.
A man stood waiting in the shadows, wearing a dark grey jacket. What was more interesting, though, was that he was wearing thick black rubber gloves.
Dex’s eyes narrowed as you walked straight to this stranger without hesitation.
What the hell?
You reached into your pocket and pulled an envelope out. The man handed you a small and unmarked box in return.
Dex’s mind ran through possibilities fast, each one worse than the last. A deal. This was a deal. A drug deal?
His grip tightened slightly against the brick beside him.
No. No, that didn’t fit. Not you. You weren’t…were you? His girl didn’t deal in things like this.
Did she?
The thought sat wrong in his chest, and he was starting to get irritated.
You took the box without a word, and left. Dex didn’t follow you this time.
The man was still there, and Dex had questions.
So he watched him from the shadows, counted the seconds, and waited for an opening.
Stupidly, the man decided to check the cash right then and there. That was when Dex reached down to a bit of rusted metal (probably fallen off someone’s fire escape).
He prepared for a precise throw…
And it drove straight into the man’s leg.
The sound that came out of him wasn’t a full scream at first, more like a strangled choke. It was horrifically cut off as his body folded, collapsing hard against the wall. His hands scrambled, one reaching instinctively for the bar buried in his thigh, the other bracing uselessly against the ground.
“What the…fuck—!”
Dex was already on him, closing the distance before panic could turn into a fight or flight response. He crouched just enough to bring himself into view.
“Don’t,” Dex said quietly, nodding once toward the bar when the man’s fingers twitched again. “You’ll make it worse.”
The man froze. “Who the hell are you—” he started, breath hitching.
Dex grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, bones cracking within seconds.
This time, the scream came out full.
It echoed off the brick walls, cut short only when Dex tightened his grip just enough to keep him grounded in it.
“You’re going to tell me about the deal you just made,” Dex said.
The man’s breathing turned ragged, eyes wide, darting like he was trying to find a way out that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
Dex tilted his head slightly, then pressed down, just enough on the broken arm.
The man choked on the next sound, panic flooding in properly now. “Okay, okay! Fuck—okay!” he gasped. “I’ll talk, j-just stop—”
Dex eased the pressure. Not out of mercy, but out of efficiency.
“Talk,” he repeated.
“I’m just a courier,” the man rushed, words tripping over each other. “That’s it, I don’t make the deals, I don’t ask questions, I just move shit from point A to point B—”
“I don’t know everything, I-I swear!” The man’s voice cracked, eyes glassy now, pain bleeding into fear. “I just get told where to go, what to hand over—what to pick up—”
Dex didn’t blink as he listened to the man breaking under pressure.
“I think it’s plants, okay?” he blurted. “Restricted ones—imported shit, hard to get, I d-don’t… know! That’s all I know, I don’t grow it, I don’t sell it, I just carry it—please—”
Dex studied him, weighing the truth the way he always did, not through words, but through the way they came out.
Then, he let go.
The man dropped fully to the ground this time, clutching at his arm, his leg, his whole body curling in on itself like it might hold him together.
Dex stood and looked down at him, unmoved. Whether he bled out or crawled his way to help didn’t matter.
He’d already given Dex what he needed.
—
Even nearly two weeks after that, he had been thinking about the alley more than he cared to admit.
About the man. The deal. The box. But mostly about you.
He had turned it over in his head enough times to sand down the edges. Right, so it was restricted plants, rare imports, probably something you just liked. That tracked. You liked things that grew, things that needed care. It was… harmless. Endearing, even, that you would inconvenience yourself to a fault to satisfy a hobby.
Cute, That’s what he settled on. Your apparent hobby of collecting rare plants was cute.
So when your text came—come by the shop after closing?— thoughts shifted immediately, like a switch being flipped.
How could he say no to his girl?
By the time he stepped inside, the lights were already dimmed. It smelled stronger at night, but still faintly distinctly sweet underneath.
You were already there, waiting behind the counter.
“Hi,” you said, softer than usual, like the hour demanded it.
“Hi,” he echoed.
The second thing Dex noticed after you, were the chocolates.
It was a heart-shaped velvet red box, and it was open, ribbon pushed aside, a couple already missing.
It was a gift chocolate, not one you would buy for yourself. That alone was enough to get his chest hot with anger or jealousy, maybe both. It didn’t help that you were casually picking one up, inspecting it like it deserved your full attention.
You followed his line of sight, then smiled knowingly. “Oh.” You picked one up, turning it between your fingers. “These?”
“Yes.”
“Mm,” you hummed, popping it into your mouth without breaking eye contact. “They’re actually really good.”
It felt as if a rope had been pulled around his heart.
You chewed thoughtfully, completely unbothered. “Hazelnut, I think.”
Dex stepped closer, slower this time. “Who is it from?”
“From Daniel Harper,” you said, reaching for another one. “He’s the crypto guy who got flowers for Mother’s Day once and wouldn’t stop asking me out. But I think…” you tilted your head carefully, “I think he got the point now.”
“You’re eating them,” he pointed out, the entire world blurring into a haze. All he could think was that another man brought you gifts. Another man wanted you. Another man had the audacity to fucking try.
“I’m not wasting perfectly good chocolate,” you said, like it was obvious. Then you tilted your head, studying him as you unwrapped another. “Fuck, you’re so obvious right now.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” you smiled, like you were enjoying it. “You hate this.”
“I don’t hate it.” What a fucking lie.
“You do, a little,” you said, stepping around the counter, closing the distance between you. “Which is funny, because—” you held the chocolate up between your fingers “—you’re the one I invited here.”
Dex’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand then back to you.
“C’mon,” you said, voice turning playful again, nudging it closer to his mouth. “Spoils of war.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “War?” He echoed. Still, as much as he hated all of this, he couldn’t help but find your attempt to feed him endearing.
“Harper is a man who tried and failed to get me,” you grinned. “You’re benefiting from his loss. You’re welcome.”
He didn’t take it, mostly because he was stubborn— but so were you. You nudged it closer. “C’mon Dex,” you pouted, remembering how much he liked the chocolate sauce of the churros. “I know you like it. Don’t be difficult.”
Dex leaned in slightly, and instead of just taking the chocolate, his mouth closed around your fingers.
Your breath hitched.
His tongue brushed against your skin as he pulled away, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Then he took the chocolate between his teeth, like nothing had happened.
You stared at him.
“I…,” you said after a beat, a little breathless now despite yourself. “That was—”
He didn’t respond. He watched you, an arrogant grin now playing on his face. If his sweet girl wanted to tease and taunt, he had to show you two can play at that game.
Your composure came back quickly, but your smile had changed. It was less teasing, more charged.
“Right,” you cleared your throat lightly. “Actually—” You turned, gathering your thoughts and reached under the counter. “I didn’t ask you here just to steal Harper’s dignity,” you added, glancing back at him. “I have something for you.”
You waited until he was close, closer than necessary, before you said, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so,” you shot back immediately, “don’t be so suspicious. It’s a flower shop, not a crime scene.”
His mouth twitched. “Is it?
“Dex.”
He sighed, quiet, but obedient, and let his eyes fall shut.
He heard you move closer, the shuffle of your steps, the faint clink of something being set down. There was a pause, like you were checking and adjusting your secret prize.
Then, you said, “Okay. Open.”
He did.
Oh.
It was the rose.
Maybe he had expected just a dried, pressed flower, but definitely not… this.
It was preserved and framed in a gold-planted wood, intricately carved. The petals were darker now, fragile-looking but perfectly intact, held in place.
Your smile wavered just slightly. “Okay, that silence is… concerning. Say something.”
He blinked once, like he was catching up to the moment.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he said.
“Well,” you huffed a small laugh, folding your arms loosely. “That was kind of the whole point of you leaving it with me.”
“No,” he shook his head once, stepping closer. “You… you didn’t have to do all this for me.”
Your eyes softened at that. He said it as if he truly believed he didn’t deserve it.
“I wanted to,” you reassured.
He reached for it slowly, like it might fall apart if he wasn’t careful. His fingers brushed the edge of the frame, then traced it.
“It’s better,” he said simple.
“Better than a fresh one?” you teased, tilting your head.
“Yes.”
“That’s bold.” You raised an eyebrow. “Florists everywhere just felt personally attacked.”
“I don’t care about them.”
You laughed a little, and his chest tightened in a familiar way. It wasn’t entirely jealousy anymore.
“I’m glad,” you said. “Would be awkward if you were secretly seeing other florists behind my back.”
His eyes flicked to yours, as if the implications were laughable. “I’m not.”
“I know,” you grinned. “You don’t seem the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The ‘casually shops around’ type,” you said, gesturing vaguely between him and the shop. “But… you actually like it, right?” you asked at the frame, smaller this time, just to be sure. As if you were anxious that you put so much effort in something he wouldn’t care about.
He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
Your smile came back, like that answer meant more than you were letting on.
You were still standing so close.
Dex noticed that neither of you had stepped back from the frame, like the space between you had just… disappeared.
“You’re staring,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth.
“I know.”
That should’ve made you pull away.
Instead, your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the frame still on the table. “If you break that," you teased. “I’m not making you another one.”
“I won’t break it.”
“You say that,” you said, glancing up at him through your lashes, “but you’ve got kind of a… destructive vibe.”
He frowned. “You think that about me?”
“I think,” you stepped just a fraction closer, “that you get intense about things you like.”
His eyes locked onto yours. And you could tell that hit a lot closer to home than he intended.
“And you like this,” you added, tapping the frame once more.
“Yes.”
“And you like… flowers?” you pushed, clearly enjoying yourself.
“No.”
You chuckled, almost a sweet giggle. “So it’s just me, then?”
He didn’t answer. That was your answer.
“Good,” you said under your breath.
Your hand slid off the frame, brushing against his fingers on the way down. Your eyes dropped, just briefly, to his mouth.
Dex noticed.
His grip on the frame loosened, setting it aside without looking, his attention already back on you like it had nowhere else to go.
“You’re still staring,” you whispered.
“Yeah.”
Your breath hitched, slightly. Then, before you could think twice, you issued a challenge, “Do something about it, then.”
That was all it took for all pleasantries and manners to fall apart. Not that it ever had any leg to stand on.
Dex closed the distance immediately, his hand finding your waist as his mouth met yours, like he’d already done this a hundred times before.
You didn’t hesitate to kiss him back.
Your hands were on him, gripping his jacket, pulling him closer as you kissed him back just as hard, just as certain. You were quick to match his intensity, biting a bit of his lip just to drag him back to the real world. You could tell he was spiraling, that he had been all consumed by the gesture.
When you broke for air, it barely lasted a second. “Dex—”
He kissed you again.
And this time, it deepened, slower but heavier, like he was learning you in real time and refusing to let go. Like if he could, he would fuse his bones into you.
You laughed softly into it, breathless. “Okay… okay—”
But you didn’t stop him. Whatever you were about to say got lost when his hands tightened at your waist and he lifted you like it was nothing, setting you back onto the workbench behind you.
The tools rattled softly, a pack of floral tape rolling off to the side, but neither of you cared.
Your legs shifted instinctively, pulling him closer by hooking it around his hips, and the kiss didn’t slow. It only got more insistent, like neither of you had any interest in stopping now that you’d started.
“Still think I’m intense?” he murmured against your mouth.
You smiled against his lips. “A little.”
He kissed you again like that was the wrong answer, and you let him.
When your fingers tangled in his hair, he let a sweet moan against your mouth. Interesting, you thought, as his grip tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, like there wasn’t enough distance in the world to satisfy him.
It was messy and overwhelming in the way neither of you tried to control.
His hand slid up your side, under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing skin…
….and you snapped out of it.
“Dex—”
He hummed, trailing a kiss down your cheek, latching on your neck….
But then you pulled away softly, slow enough to not be abrupt, but out of place enough that he felt… confused.
What had he done wrong?
Your breath was uneven when breathed out. Gently, you pushed his hand from under your shirt. You were met with no resistance as his big palms splayed on your lap, kneading anxiously, as if he was itching to touch you again, to kiss you, to take you.
Then, you gently pressed your forehead to his. “I… we shouldn’t.”
For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.
“Oh,” he said quietly. His thoughts were spiralling, you could tell. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, playing over and over again in his head.
“No, hey, hey,” you rushed, hands coming up to his face, cupping his jaw. “Not like that. Not… not because I don’t want to.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“I do want to,” you said, more certain. “I just… I’ve got to work a baby shower early tomorrow, and I still need to finish a couple arrangements tonight, and if we—” you huffed a small, breathless laugh, “—if we keep going, I’m not getting anything done.”
Dex stared at you, processing.
“I…” he started but could not finish, as if he needed to say something, anything, to stop himself from falling off the deep end.
“I’m sorry,” you smiled sadly, a little apologetic.
He exhaled slowly, trying to recover, trying to place where you were in his mind.
“I like you, I really do.” Your thumb brushed lightly along his lower lip, where a string of moisture had collected. Dex’s eyes darted away, simply because like was not what he felt for you. What he felt was obsession, devotion, perhaps love that grew in such a short time. Still you reassured him. “I like you. I want you. Just… not right now, not here.”
Dex looked at your lips, almost still in a daze.
Then you added, a little more playful again, “Come over tomorrow? We can… continue this. Properly.”
And just like that, his brain rearranging itself, making space for a schedule.
It's okay. It’s okay. It's not the end of the world. She wants you, she still wants you…
Then, to quiet the storm in his mind, he leaned in again, kissing you once, shorter this time, but just as certain.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” you smiled against him.
“Yeah,” he said, breathless, discreetly wiping a tear from his eyes. “Yeah.”
—
That night, Dex didn’t go straight home. He found himself outside Daniel Harper’s building, hoping he could finish the job for you.
It wasn’t hard. The door wasn’t even locked.
Inside, Daniel sprawled on the couch, body slack, mouth parted with a thin line of foam dried at the corner, eyes glassy and gone.
He was already dead. He had been for a while, by the looks of it.
Dex stood there for a moment, taking it in: the stillness, the lack of struggle, the timing of it all, and tilted his head slightly, almost thoughtful.
“Huh,” he murmured to no one, cataloguing what mattered and what didn’t.
How weird.
—
Dex couldn’t wait for tomorrow. He spent the night thinking about you, and then the morning, and then the entire day in that same tight loop of fixation, until even the idea of distance felt like a grenade swallowed and exploding from the inside.
It wasn’t just want. It was compulsion, an itch under the skin he couldn’t stop scratching at no matter how much it bled.
So he did the only thing that still made sense: he went hunting for Task Force from the break of dawn, anything to keep his mind from turning fully toward you. Because when it did, he was just turned into a pathetic little puddle of emotions.
When it came down to going to your apartment, his nerves were practically buzzing off the roof.
The second you opened the door, he was already moving, one hand bracing the frame as he stepped in, the other finding your waist and then he kissed you, like the space between seeing you and touching you had been unbearable.
You laughed into it, surprised but not resisting, your hands catching on his jacket. “Dex—”
“I missed you,” he said against your mouth, already walking you backward as he nudged the door shut with his foot, his grip tightening just slightly at your side.
“You saw me last night,” you teased, breath catching as his lips found yours again.
“Hmm,” he dismissed, picking you up slightly at your feet.
“Careful—careful!” you suddenly laughed, twisting slightly in his hold.
Dex stopped instantly, setting you down like you’d burned him. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Watch out for Bubbles.” You were still smiling, a little breathless, pointing past him. “Don't wanna wreck her enclosure.”
“Bubbles?” He’s heard you say that name once or twice before. A pet, he assumed. A cat, maybe a small dog? Though he never saw anything through the window, so in the back of his mind, he had chalked it off to being a carnivorous plant.
But when he turned… he saw a small tank he didn’t recognise. After all, he had never been able see this part of your apartment from his perch.
Dex stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.
An… octopus.
It was small, beige and yellow, though the second it clocked him, it flashed aggressive blue rings. Its limbs curled slowly against the glass. It had a maze in its enclosure, an enrichment of some kind, perhaps?
“Oh,” he said. That was the last thing he ever expected.
“She’s cute, right?” you beamed, coming up beside him like this was completely normal.
Dex watched it for a second longer than necessary. “…yeah.”
It blinked, beady eyes looking straight into his eyes. He blinked back.
“Okay. Come on,” you grabbed his hand, tugging him away with a grin. “I don’t want Bubbles to watch.”
He let himself be pulled, though his eyes flicked once more over his shoulder before following you down the short hall.
You passed a door, and heknew where it must go: the rooftop. Your rooftop— idle and calming. In all its domesticity, you were your happiest there. “Where does this go?” He feigned innocence.
You didn’t miss a beat. “Junk closet.”
He looked at you, and you smiled too quickly. “…right,” he said.
Why would you lie?
The thought barely had time to settle before you pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him, straddling his thighs like it was second nature.
That distracted him immediately. He didn’t even have the time to take in the bedroom he had spent so long looking through.
Your hands found the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it off without hesitation, tossing it somewhere behind you like it didn’t matter.
Dex’s attention snapped back into place like a puzzle piece. Whatever question he had dissolved under his tunnel vision, his focus now on you.
“You think too much,” you murmured, leaning down, your hands braced on either side of him.
“I don’t.”
“You do,” you smiled, your nose brushing his. “Good thing I know how to fix that.”
His hands came back to your waist like they’d never left.
And this time, neither of you stopped.
—
Dex had been overwhelmed in the best way possible way
Not just by the way you’d pulled him apart piece by piece, with your hands, mouth, all of it; but by how easily you’d met him there.
How easily you matched him, pushed back. There had been nothing hesitant about you, nothing uncertain; every touch had felt intentional, every sinful sound felt like it belonged to him. The touch of your tongue lingered even now, under his skin. His body still felt too warm, too aware, even as the room cooled down.
He could still feel the faint press of your nails at his shoulders, how you had traced the scar on his back and not even question where it came from. He could still feel the heat of your breath against his throat, where it dragged down to his chest, then his stomach, then between his legs. You’d pulled him closer like you didn’t want even an inch of distance between you.
When he helped you chase each others’ bliss, it didn't feel casual, or even just physical. It had felt all-consuming, addicting, euphoric. And he would change a thing.
The shower hadn’t helped the nerves, though.
If anything, it had made it worse. It was your idea to clean up together, your hands sliding over him beneath the water, slower this time, exploratory, like you were learning him just as much as he was memorizing you. The steam had wrapped around both of you, turning everything hazy. Even now, lying beside you, he could still feel it, the imprint of your palm on his bare skin and his on yours.
Now, you were asleep.
You were curled into him, your leg draped over his like you’d claimed him without thinking. Your breathing was steady, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the way he was looking at you.
Dex didn’t even try to drift off. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
His hand hovered just above your waist, then settled there lightly. His thumb moved once, almost absentmindedly, like he was testing if you were real, making sure you weren’t a fragment of his broken mind it made as a coping mechanism.
You shifted closer in your sleep.
Mine.
The thought came into his mind uninvited, but he didn’t push it away.
But still… like a weed going through cracks, he couldn’t help but think about the door.
Junk closet, you said.
His teeth clenched. No. That wasn’t right.
He knew the building— found the layout and structure long before he ever stepped foot in it. He knew exactly how space worked, how things connected. There wasn’t room for a “junk closet” there.
Which meant… you lied. Why would you lie to him?
The thought didn’t sit right. It didn’t settle, didn’t smooth over the way everything else about you seemed to.
You didn’t lie. Not really. Not about things that mattered. So why this?
His back tightened slightly, his thumb pausing where it rested against your waist. His eyes darted, involuntarily, toward the direction of the door again. Junk closet.
No.
His mind ran it again, as if to double and triple check. He could see it clearly, like a blueprint burned into the back of his skull. There was no space for that.
You had lied. You must’ve.
Why? To keep him out? To hide something? From him?
His chest tightened at that, a bitterness threading through his mind previously touched by your warmth.
Check it.
The thought popped up in his mind, clear as day.
Check it.
His eyes dropped back to you immediately. You, still curled into him, your breathing even, your face relaxed. You trusted him enough to sleep like that.
His hand shifted slightly against you, fingers pressing just a fraction deeper, like he could fuse himself to you.
Stay.
That was his next thought. After all, it felt stupid to leave you alone, in bed, defenseless, in favour of a theoretically imaginary junk closet.
Don’t move.
You looked… safe. Happy. Like having him here was enough to solve all his problems.
Check it.
Fuck, that thought came back unannounced, and it came back louder.
Check it. Check it.
His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, like he could shut it out.
You lied. Why would you lie? Check it.
His fingers flexed once against your side, restless now.
Check it.
His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. He opened his eyes again, staring down at you like the answer might be written somewhere in the shape of your face. Still, he found nothing.
Check it.
His head tilted slightly, the thought settling in deeper this time: He needed to know.
A quiet sigh left him as he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek.
You stirred faintly, an adorable little snore slipping from you, but you didn’t wake.
Dex slid out from under you carefully, easing your leg back onto the mattress, making sure you stayed comfortable before he stood. He paused for a second, just watching you again, like it physically hurt to look away.
Then he turned, moving through the apartment soundlessly. As he wandered into the living room, he caught a bit of movement.
His head snapped toward the motion, and then relaxed when he realised it was just Bubbles, moving in her tank.
The small octopus had shifted the second she saw him, her body tightening, skin rippling. Suddenly, blue rings flashed brightly on her skin again.
Dex could’ve sworn, that for a second, they stared at each other.
There was something unnerving about the way her eyes locked onto his, unblinking, aware in a way that didn’t feel like an animal should be. Like she knew he was dangerous. Like she perceived him as a threat.
His head tilted slightly, studying her right back. “Hi, Bubbles,” he murmured under his breath.
Her color pulsed again, blue agitation flickering through her small body. For a second, he saw himself in her. For a second, he wondered if her blue rings were a sign of anger.
Dex’s mouth twitched, almost amused and a little irritated that he let an octopus the size of a golf ball get to him. “Relax,” he said quietly.
She didn’t, but he decided to look away anyway.
He reached for the door, hand resting on the handle. For a second, he didn’t move.
Then…
He opened it.
Part of him hoped he was wrong, that he had simply been mistaken somehow, that you had told him the truth.
But… all he saw was stairs.
Of course.
“Don’t judge me,” he muttered to Bubbles, letting obsessive certainty take over as he moved upward, each step soundless.
The door at the top gave way with barely a push. As he suspected, it was your rooftop.
It was… beautiful.
Bright moonlight spilled across the space, reflected on leaves and petals and glass, turning everything silver-edged and almost ethereal. Rows of plants, carefully arranged, meticulously kept, thrived under your attention. Vines curled where they were meant to. Blooms opened toward the sky.
Dex stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning, taking it all in with a kind of reverence he didn’t usually allow himself.
You spent time here. You cared about this.
So why?
Why wouldn’t you show him this? Why wouldn’t you tell him? Didn’t you trust him?
He would’ve listened. He would’ve understood— well no, maybe not understood, but he would’ve learned. For you.
You didn’t have to hide things from him. You didn’t have to keep parts of yourself away.
His eyes landed on the workbench to see a box, the same unmarked one he’d seen exchanged in that alley.
So it was that.
Next to it was a small juvenile plant, carefully potted. You had even given a handwritten label to it: Rosary pea.
Dex frowned slightly. He didn’t recognize the name. It sounded… almost gentle. Like everything else here.
Just a plant, right? Just you, collecting things that grew, things that needed care.
That’s all. That’s all it had to be.
He let out a sigh, tension still sitting tight on his shoulders. His eyes drifted again, unfocused now, thoughts spiraling faster.
Why didn’t you trust him? What did he do wrong?
He tried. He did everything right. He showed up. He listened. He gave you what you wanted, what you liked… Didn’t he?
His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. It was tight.
His attention snagged on something else nearby, this time it was a spire of flowers. The plant was tall and slender, violet bells hanging delicately from thin stems, catching the moonlight like they were almost glowing.
Dex stepped closer without thinking.
His fingers reached out, brushing one of the petals. It was pretty, like you.
His chest tightened, and nothing could push his thoughts away:Why didn’t you tell him?
It looped, faster now, louder.
Why did you lie?
“Huh…?” he murmured under his breath, voice barely there now, strained.
His fingers lingered against the flower, tracing it absently. But something felt… off. First, he felt as if his fingers, the ones that touched the petals, were going numb.
Then, he felt a strange heaviness in his chest. He frowned slightly as his heart stuttered once, hard enough to make his breath catch.
Dex went still. “…what—”
The word barely formed before his vision shifted. The edges blurred, the rooftop tilting just slightly out of place.
Dex blinked hard, trying to steady it, but it didn’t stop. His breathing hitched, his hand gripping the edge of the workbench.
His heart skipped a beat again.
No. No, no—
His knees weakened without warning, his body suddenly too heavy, too slow to respond.
The world tilted harder this time.
The last thing he saw was your garden, blurring into streaks of green and violet under the moonlight.
—
Dex woke up slowly, like he was being pulled up from the darkest depths of his mind, his body reluctant to follow. The first thing he registered wasn’t the room, or the fading light of dusk bleeding through your windows. Instead, it was you.
Even half-conscious, disoriented, his senses found you first.
Then his eyes opened fully.
Where was he?
He was no longer in your garden. Instead, he saw your coffee table, a TV, and a couple of harmless houseplants. Oh. He was in your living room, on your couch.
As he got a better look at you, he realised you were slumped in the armchair across from him, unconscious, your head tilted slightly to the side, your arm stretched toward him.
You looked smaller like this, folded in on yourself. It didn’t match the version of you he remembered in his head— the one that laughed behind the counter, that handled petals like they might bruise under the wrong touch.
That’s when he saw an IV tube connected to a needle in his arm. He followed it… to you. It was a makeshift transfusion.
For a second, he just stared, his brain lagging behind the image, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of why you were connected to him like that, why your blood was in him, why you looked so… still.
His stomach dropped. This was desperate. This was you cutting into yourself, giving a part of yourself away just to keep him breathing.
Why were you so still?
It felt wrong. His body recognized it before his mind could catch up. Still meant a part of you had gone. And his chest tightened, rejecting the possibility before it could fully form.
“Hey—” his voice came out rough, barely formed.
You stirred awake.
Your lashes fluttered, eyes opening slowly, and the second they landed on his face, on the fact that he was awake, relief flooded your eyes.
“Oh,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”
Dex moved too fast as adrenaline slammed into him, panic overriding everything else as he ripped the needle from his arm with no hesitation. Blood followed immediately, a thin line down his skin, but he barely noticed.
After all, he wasn’t thinking. Thinking was slower than fear, and fear had already taken over. All he knew was that something had been done to you—or because of him—and that was unacceptable.
You jolted upright. “Whoa, hey! Relax, relax—”
He was already pushing himself up, unsteady but determined. He needed to make sure you were real, that you were okay.
“What happened?” he demanded, breath uneven, voice tight
You blinked at him once, then twice, grounding yourself before answering. “You went into my rooftop,” you said, almost resigned, save for the hint of affection in your time. “Full of poisonous plants.”
Rooftop.
His jaw twitched at the confirmation that you had hidden it.
Dex frowned, trying to latch onto the memory. “What—”
“You touched my wolfsbane.”
He blinked, piecing memories together: The garden. The flowers. The dizziness.
You leaned back slightly, already reaching to remove the needle from your own arm, wincing faintly as you pulled it free, wiping the blood away like it didn’t matter.
“I’ve been selectively breeding them for five years,” you continued, almost absently. “That one’s about seven times more lethal than standard wolfsbane. Contact alone is enough.”
Dex stared at you.
“Most of the plants up there can kill you, actually,” you added, gentler this time. “That’s why I told you it was a junk closet.”
You said it so easily, like it hadn’t mattered, like it had just been a small, harmless deflection. But it wasn’t harmless. At least not to him.
“You lied,” he said, but it didn’t come out accusing. It came out… hurt and confused. Like he couldn’t reconcile it with everything else he knew about you.
You didn’t flinch, ambient interrupt.
“But I’ve seen you,” he pushed, stepping closer without realizing it, drawn in like he always was. “You touch them without gloves. I—I don’t—”
You laughed, but it wasn’t dismissive.
“I should’ve known you were watching me,” you said, glancing at him through your lashes.
And there it was again—that pleasure in your voice. This time it had reason for concern. You weren’t afraid, or disgusted at this newfound knowledge. If anything, you looked… flattered. It was as if you had suspected it, and just like the garden, you had lied through your teeth.
Dex’s chest tightened.
“If I almost died from touching one,” he said, rubbing his trail of blood away with tissues on your coffee table, “then you—” he choked at the words, as if he couldn’t physically say it. He tried again. “Then you should—“
“I should be dead?” you finished for him, noticing his struggle.
He swallowed hard. How could you even say it, when he couldn’t even let the idea sit in his mouth?
The image formed in his mind anyway, uninvited: You, collapsed the way he had been. You, unmoving in that chair, permanently gone. His mind rejected it so violently it made his lungs feel like it was collapsing.
Your eyes softened. “I’m… immune.”
“What?”
It didn’t quite make sense to him. It felt disconnected from everything he understood about you. About the girl who laughed behind a counter, who fed him chocolates, who pressed flowers into frames simply because she wanted to.
You shifted in your seat, like this part of you was just… a fact.
“My dad was a cocaine dealer,” you started, almost casually. “When I was five, I got into his stash. I ingested enough to kill little ol’ me twelve times over.”
Dex’s stomach dropped.
“But I was…,” you continued, “unaffected.”
Your fingers absentmindedly brushed over the velvet fabric of your chair.
“Doctors said I’ve got some kind of mutant gene. Means nothing really sticks in my system. I can’t get drunk. I can’t get high. Toxins don’t work the way they should.”
Dex didn’t look away from you once.
“When I was a teenager, I broke my arm,” you added an example, a faint grimace crossing your face. “They had to put pins in while I was awake. Anesthesia doesn’t work either.” You managed a sarcastic laugh. “That wasn’t fun.”
You said it lightly, like it was nothing, But he could see it anyway a younger you pinned down, awake, forced to feel everything.
You were different. A mutant, that’s the term you used. You were… oh, fuck.
You were more capable than he ever deemed you to be.
And that realization didn’t push him away the way it should have. It rooted him deeper. Because if you had always been this untouchable, then what he felt wasn’t built on fragility. You wouldn’t disappear under pressure. And he couldn’t seem to step away from you, no matter how much sense it would make to try.
Dex stepped closer again without thinking, like gravity pulled him there. Even confused, overwhelmed, heart still not fully steady, he needed to be near you.
“I… I didn’t know,” he said, as if he felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. There was even a shame in admitting it. In his mind, he had placed you in a gilded cage, easier to understand, easier to protect. But you had never belonged there at all.
You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
Across the room, Bubbles shifted in her tank, the faint glow of her skin calm now, her earlier agitation gone now that you were here. Her limbs curled slowly, as if the fact that you were awake meant that there was nothing to worry about.
Dex barely spared her a glance. The room, the hum of life continuing outside these walls all flattened into background noise. His mind had already narrowed its focus down to one fixed point, and it was you. It had been you for longer than he wanted to admit.
“How did I live?” Dex asked, but it didn’t come out demanding. It came out raspy and rough.
His hand found your wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over the place where the needle had been, where a faint smear of blood still lingered. He wiped it away, almost reverently, like it mattered more than his own safety that you weren’t hurt.
He didn’t think about it. His hands just… adjusted in a way they never did anywhere else, like he understood, on a level deeper than thought, that you should not be handled carelessly, no matter how strong you turned out to be.
“You have a Cogmium steel spine,” you said, like you were reminding him of the obvious.
His brow furrowed slightly, confusion threading through the lines on his face. “How do you know that?”
Slowly, you smiled, almost shy.
“Oh, please,” you murmured, leaning back just enough to look at him properly, though your fingers came up to loosely curl in the hem of his shirt like you hadn’t quite decided to let him go either. “I knew who you were since after the second date, Benjamin Poindexter.”
That was… new information. At least to him.
“My rare plant dealer complained that his courier turned up dead,” you continued, almost idly. “I got curious and looked into it. It wasn’t long till I put two and two together.”
Dex exhaled faintly, a small ah leaving past his lips. It was not quite relief, but acceptance. Because of course you had figured it out. Of course you had seen through him, the way only you could.
And you were still here, as if nothing had changed. You were still looking at him like he hung the moon for you, regardless of how many people he had killed, how many mistakes he had made.
People usually changed the second they understood. He had seen it happen too many times, the mind recalibrating upon the realisation of how dangerous he was. But you… you were still looking at him like nothing in him needed to be feared. Like nothing in him needed to be fixed.
Your hand lifted then, resting lightly against his chest, right over his sternum, where his heart was still finding its rhythm again. “Your spine, I—” you went on, your voice dipping more intimately. “It bonds to you.”
Dex didn’t interrupt. He just watched you like every word mattered simply because it came from you. He didn’t follow every word—not the science, not the mechanics—but he followed you. You spoke about him like he was worth understanding.
“Blood cells are made in the bone marrow,” you said, your fingers tracing absent patterns over his shirt, “That’s your immune system, your oxygen transport, everything. The aconitine would’ve disrupted the entire process.” You tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was one of your raw poisonous plants. “But yours isn’t normal anymore.”
His hand came up to your wrist again, grounding himself in you as you spoke.
“The steel fused with your spine,” you continued, almost fond in the way you explained it. “So the blood you produce now is… stronger.”
Dex’s eyes didn’t waver as he rubbed absentminded circles on your skin.
“When you touched the wolfsbane, the toxin should’ve shut everything down almost instantly,” you said. “But it didn’t. Your modified cells slowed it down,” you said. “And while you’re not immune, it bought you time.”
Your thumb brushed lightly against his chest, like you were feeling the heart, measuring it.
“I didn’t have an antidote,” you admitted. “So I used what I had.”
His eyes flicked briefly to your arm again, to the faint mark. You shifted closer without thinking, your knees brushing his.
“I hooked us together,” you said, quieter now. “Your blood was slowing down, so I had to pump mine manually for the first couple of hours to keep the flow going.”
Dex’s hand slid from your wrist to your arm, fingers curling there. It was as if he needed to hold onto you to fully understand what you were saying.
“My blood doesn’t process things the way it should,” you continued. “It breaks them down and neutralises them. So once it got into your system…” You gave a small, almost playful shrug. “It did the rest.”
You smiled at him then, pride lighting your face.
“Ta-da,” you said lightly, kissing the corner of his mouth just to make sure his lips had warmed back up, “You’re alive.”
Dex didn’t pull away from you even when he was still processing everything. If anything, he leaned closer. His hands slid upward, as if he needed to map you again now that he understood what you were capable of. What you had done. What you had survived.
And suddenly, all the puzzle pieces started to fall into place— why death seemed to follow you, why you always seemed in control when you looked like you had so little power.
“The groom?” he asked, not accusing. He was just trying to understand.
When you nodded, his shoulders softened. That was the strange, almost painful thing about Dex. Every revelation, no matter how dark, only seemed to pull him deeper under your gravity.
“Foxglove tea,” you explained, your voice clinical. “His mother and brother getting sick were… collateral. But the bride came to me the day before, crying. She….” You paused. “She had marks.”
Dex brushed his absently over your skin, like he was grounding himself in your heart. Coming to terms that you were untouchable in ways he couldn’t quite grasp.
“Harper?” he asked next.
You nodded again, and there was the faintest flicker of irritation in your expression. “Oleander cake. He… tried to touch me.”
That set him off. Dex’s brows furrowed in anger, but still wounded and earnest and almost unbearably tender, over the fact that you didn’t go to him for answers. His hands moved to your face then, clumsy and urgent, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His thumbs hovered at your cheeks before pressing in gently, as if you might disappear if he didn’t hold you there.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, and an almost boyish hurt threaded through.
You didn’t flinch under his touch. You leaned into it, your fingers gently circling around his back. “Because I can take care of it,” you said simply. “I did take care of it.”
That answer hurt him more than anything else you’d confessed.
“I know you can,” he said, and there was no doubt in it. His forehead dipped to yours. “But you don’t have to," he added, barely above a whisper.
You could feel the way he held on to control, as if the word letting go didn’t exist for him when it came to you. It was in the way his fingers lingered at your jawline, the way his breath mixed with yours, the way his entire body seemed angled toward you like you were the only point of gravity in the room.
You, who needed no one. And him who needed you, so openly it almost hurt to look at.
His eyes searched yours then, and he wasn’t searching for danger anymore. That part of him had already settled. What he was looking for now was some indication that he still had a place here, that he wasn’t just… incidental to you.
His voice dropped, fragile in a way he never was anywhere else. “Is it because you don’t trust me?”
You sighed, pulling away completely until his fingertips were bare and cold where your skin used to be.
His chest tightened, a familiar spiral already coiling. Silence had never meant anything good in his life. Silence meant distance. And distance was always the beginning of the end. Before he knew it, everyone would slip just far enough out of reach that he couldn’t pull it back, no matter how tightly he held on.
But you didn’t leave him. You just stood up.
He watched you walk across the room as you approached the tank. The glow of it lit your face in shifting blue, and for a Dex stood up, caught between following you and giving you space.
You reached into the water without hesitation, lifting Bubbles from the tank, water slipping through your fingers as easily as breath.
You turned back to him, and Bubbles curled in your palm, deceptively cute and delicate, until she noticed him.
The second she saw him, the same electric blue rings from last pulsed across her body.
Dex tilted his head. The warning was immediate, and honest in a way people never were. He wondered, briefly, if that was what he looked like to the rest of the world.
“She feels… threatened by you,” you chuckled, like it was amusing, your lips curving up. “She thinks you’re going to take me away from her.”
Dex stared at the tiny creature, at the warning written so clearly across her skin. And yet, she stayed in your hand. She didn’t flee, nor did she strike.
“But you two are more alike than you think,” you continued, softer now.
You held Bubbles closer, and she curled into you. Dex knew that feeling— the feeling of needing you, the feeling of wanting to be close to you because you felt safe.
“She’s a blue-ringed octopus. One of the most dangerous creatures alive. Their venom has no antidote.” Your fingers shifted slightly, letting the little creature settle against your skin. “I rescued her from a lab. She was… experimented on. They wanted to use her, to extract her as a biochemical weapon. As a result, her venom’s thirty times more potent now. She can thrive out of water for hours. Her species’ average lifespan is 6 months, but she...” you gently rubbed a finger over one of her tentacles as naturally as you would rub the belly of a puppy. That's when he noticed that one tentacle was marked— almost as if acid was poured over it in the quest of making her a living weapon. The poor thing had a scar, one not unlike his own, “…is turning two years old soon.”
Dex swallowed. Everything you said felt too familiar.
“I’m the only handler she didn’t kill. I’m the only handler she has never stung,” you added, almost absently. “Not just because she can’t. But because she trusts me.”
Dex had a feeling you meant more than just her.
“Just because I can use her venom to kill for me,” you went on, your voice lowering, as you ran your hand through her squishy body, “just because she’s more dangerous than anything I grow upstairs… doesn’t mean I want to use her that way.” You exhaled. “She’s suffered enough.”
Dex watched intently as you leaned forward and returned Bubbles to the tank. She drifted for a moment, then settled against a rock, her colors fading, her body going docile again, simply because you were here.
Dex saw it then: the kinship, the invisible bond, the mirror that he had when he looked at the little creature that you cared so much about.
Like Bubbles, he was already dangerous before. But now, he could fall off buildings. He could take a hit. He could survive beyond the constraints of his species.
And like Bubbles, for the better part of the last decade, he had been manipulated, taken advantage of, and used as a weapon for agendas of more powerful men, a solution, a last resort. People didn’t want him. They wanted what he could do, what he could survive, what he could destroy.
You had never asked that of him. You hadn’t handed him your problems like weapons to solve. You had handled them yourself.
That feeling was… foreign and disorienting in all its kindness. It didn’t slot neatly into what he understood. There was no place to file it, no rule to attach it to. It left him… exposed.
Dex stepped towards you before he fully thought about it. He was close again, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His hands found you desperately, one at your waist, the other sliding up your arm like he needed to make sure you were still here.
“You didn’t…” His voice caught. “You didn’t want to use me.”
It wasn’t really a question.
His forehead dipped toward yours again, his breath uneven. Dex had never known what it meant to be wanted without purpose. And it terrified him a little, because if there was no function or role, then there was nothing to hide behind. There was nothing to blame when it inevitably went wrong. He concluded, then, that you didn’t even think this could go wrong. It was the only plausible explanation.
His voice dropped, “you just wanted me.”
Dex stayed close. After all, distance had become unnatural to him where you were concerned. His grip on your waist had changed. It was less desperate now, more certain, like he was learning how to hang on instead of bracing for loss.
He looked at you like he was still catching up. Like every piece of you he uncovered only made him want to understand more, not recoil.
“You still could,” he said, eyes glistening in awe. His thumb moved in slow circles against your side, like he needed repetition.“You still would.”
You knew that. You knew he would burn the world down for you if you just asked.
You reached for his hand, not to steady it, but to hold.
Your fingers laced through his, almost disarmingly. His hand tightened around yours in a reflex.
“I don’t want to,” you said.
Dex’s breath stuttered out of him. Of all the things he’d expected, all the ways this could have gone… this was the one thing he didn’t know how to defend against: Care, without cost.
He shifted closer again, until there was no space left between you, your joined hands pressed lightly between your bodies. His forehead found your shoulder this time. He wasn’t collapsing. He wasn’t even breaking. He was just resting, letting himself exist in your orbit, without needing to prove anything.
It was almost shy.
“I don’t… know what to do with that,” he admitted, voice muffled against you, smaller than you’d ever heard it.
Your free hand came up, and settled at the back of his head. Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair, answering a question he didn’t know how to ask, “You don’t have to do anything.”
But how?
He had always been something done with. A weapon pointed, used, unleashed. An arrow for a stronger master to wield, and more recently, a servant to his own broken mind, searching for purpose in the world.
He didn’t know how to simply exist without rules or confines or borders or expectations of how he was supposed to be.
You, on the other hand, made it look easy. Effortless, even. It's as if that after spending a lifetime being a mutant, you had decided that being violent and gentle were not opposites, but two sides of the same coin.
Dex didn’t know how to do that yet, but he knew, that he wanted to learn.
He turned his head slightly then, not pulling away, just enough that his temple rested against you instead. His fingers shifted in yours, tracing lightly over your knuckles.
“I think I like this better,” he murmured, almost to himself.
And for once, there was no tension in him. No trigger to pull, no violent tendency waiting to be called on.
Maybe you had always been drawn to dangerous things because you could handle them. Or maybe, it was because you were one of them.
Both Dex and Bubbles, in all their blue-ringed, lethal glory, were remade weapons too strange, too deadly for anyone else to hold. But not for you.
They didn’t have to make themselves smaller in your hands. They didn’t have to be hidden or used.
They could just… be.
In Dex’s mind, it couldn’t simply be luck. You were a mutant, you had explained, your body had never had to adapt or learn anything— you were born already ahead of them. You were built to survive them. You were made by the powers that be to endure what should have killed anyone else.
And Dex latched onto that divine intervention with frightening certainty. You were a design, not a coincidence. It was different from the way Bubbles had been remade, different from the way he had been reshaped and reinforced. You hadn’t been altered. In Dex’s mind, you had been made perfect because you were born different.
It was as if the universe had accounted for him and then, carefully, built you around that problem. You were made to love him. It was written in the stars, he was sure of it, as sure as he was that the sky was blue.
It might not be the healthiest way to think, but at least it was his own.
And as if she understood his thoughts unfolding, Bubbles moved closer to the glass, seeing Dex in a new light now. She raised her marred tentacle like a wave, then drifted once more, almost languid now, like a reluctant concession:
hating on x reader fics is genuinely like. so weird to me .wowww someone wants to imagine dating a fictional character. wow someone did the mortal sin of pretending their fav loves them.. boo fucking hoo people are dying
At risk of sounding like a hater and an asshole this looks like AI and if its somehow not, the editor who reworked images and sharpened them up made it look like AI
This is the actual image (from a 6 year old reddit post so def not AI). Either someone asked AI to recreate it or AI, being the plagiarism machine it is, was asked for a pic of dogs finding humans in the snow and just ripped off the first image it could find. Another reminder that AI doesn't actually create anything. Also real cute dogs.
oh nooo jason's clothes are too small :( he can't even stuff himself into his jeans :( your steak is too juicy, your lobster too buttery !
"Shit."
"What's wrong?" you ask, not turning from your spot at the counter, where you're mixing brownie batter.
"I can't—goddammit!"
You put down the spoon and lick your thumb, following the sound of Jason's cursing. "Baby, what's—"
He walks out of your shared bedroom in a huff. His shirt is really tight and has a cropped quality you don't think you ever noticed. It rides up, his belly peeking out. Additionally, Jason has a two-handed grip on his jeans, and his face is red. A few inches of his underwear are visible.
"My jeans are too small," he says, pouting. "I got 'em a month ago!"
"Too small?" you ask. "How can they—"
"Look." Jason tugs them as much as he can. The widest part of his thighs barely fit, and the jeans refuse to budge much more.
"I can't even zip 'em," he says. He hooks the button, and that makes his underwear bulge out.
"So just wear different underwear," you say. "Or tuck those in."
Jason's ears are red. "'S not just my underwear. I can't... tuck it in."
Oh. You swallow, suddenly unable to stop staring at your boyfriend's clothing mishap. His thighs look like they're about to split the seams.
"And my shirt doesn't fit either," he says mournfully, tugging the hem in vain. "Can barely move my arms. This is my favorite shirt."
Jason tries to swing his arms. It only makes the shirt ride up more.
"It can still be your favorite shirt," you say, trying to ignore whatever is happening between your legs right now. "Cropped shirts are cute."
Jason scowls. "I don't have the abs for it."
"You have abs," you say, walking over to press your hand into Jason's stomach. He tenses and you feel the hard muscle beneath the fat.
Jumping Jason's bones right now would be inappropriate, and it wouldn't make him feel better about his clothes. Still, you're tempted.
"But they aren't cut and visible," he says. "And, like, whatever, but this was my favorite! And it's soft 'cause of how many times I washed it."
"You could still wear the shirt at home," you say, barely restraining your lust.
Jason shrugs. "I guess. I just don't understand how they don't fit all of a sudden."
"Let me try," you say, grabbing Jason's waistband. He obediently stays still as you plaster yourself against him and pull as hard as you can. Nothing. Jason himself doesn't even budge from all of your strength.
"Those are definitely stuck on there," you say. "They probably shrunk in the dryer. I'll get you new jeans, baby."
"They didn't shrink. I always air dry them. Which means it's me. I got bigger. I gotta cut back on the burgers."
"No!"
Jason raises an eyebrow. You clear your throat.
"I mean, um, you're perfect as you are, Jay. Who cares if you went up a size?" You look again at how Jason seems to burst through his clothes. "Anyway, you need to eat. Your work is physically intense. And you always say how your size is intimidating."
Intimidate is not the word you'd use, no.
"Yeah, true... But you really don't mind? I mean... I don't intimidate you, do I?"
"Of course not, sweetie," you say, putting your arms around his waist and resisting the urge to grope. "I think you're very handsome."
Jason ducks his head, shy as always when you compliment him. "Yeah?"
"Uh-huh," you say, slipping your hands in his back pockets. "Super hot. I'll buy you new clothes later. In the meantime, how 'bout I help you take these off?"
