Benjamin Poindexter x Fem!Reader
You were just being nice. He turned it into something permanent.
It starts small. It always does.
Benjamin Poindexter doesnât notice you because youâre loud. Or flashy. Or even particularly remarkable in the way most people define it.
He notices you because you are consistent.
Same diner. Same time. Same boothâthird from the window, left side, where the neon sign bleeds pink across the glass and paints everything softer than it really is.
You order before the waitress even asks. Coffee first, always black, always untouched for at least six minutes before you take your first sip. Then something smallâfries, usually. Sometimes a slice of pie you barely finish.
You bring something with you every time. A notebook, sometimes. A cassette player more often. Headphones resting loose around your neck, not fully on, like you donât want to disappear completely.
Not loudly. Not for attention.
Dex sits three booths behind you the first time.
Not because heâs interested.
Because proximity improves accuracy.
Observation requires repetition.
He builds you the way he builds everything elseâpiece by piece, detail by detail, until you make sense.
You tap your fingers when youâre thinking. You tuck your hair behind your ear when youâre uncomfortable. You stare out the window when youâre somewhere else entirely.
And that matters more than anything.
The record store comes later.
He doesnât follow you there immediately. That would be inefficient. Premature. But once he notices the bagâthe same store logo folded into your arm every Thursday nightâhe adjusts.
You linger there longer than anywhere else.
This is where youâre different.
You flip through vinyl slowly, like time bends around you. You read covers. You smile at things no one else notices.
You play tracks at the listening station, eyes half-lidded, completely gone somewhere he canât reach.
He memorizes what you choose.
Synth-heavy. Dreamlike. Soft vocals layered over something pulsing underneath.
He listens later, alone, in his apartment. Same songs. Same order.
It makes the noise in his head quieter.
The first time you speak to him, itâs accidental.
Youâre both reaching for the same record.
âSorry,â you say, easy, absent-minded. Not scared. Not guarded. Just⌠normal.
Dex studies your face in real time.
Matches it to what he already knows.
You donât recognize him.
âYou can take it,â you add, already pulling your hand back.
âDo you like it?â he asks instead.
Your head tilts slightly. Curious. Open.
âYeah,â you say. âItâs⌠I donât know. It feels like driving somewhere youâre not supposed to go.â
You smileâsmall, quickâand grab a different record instead.
But something has shifted.
Because now youâre not just pattern.
After that, it becomes easier.
You donât question his presence. Why would you? He mirrors you well.
When youâre quiet, heâs quiet.
When you talk, he listens the right wayâfocused, still, like every word matters.
You say things casually. About music. About the city. About how sometimes it feels like everyoneâs watching everyone else, waiting for something to slip.
Repeats it back later, not exactly the same, but close enough to feel familiar.
You just think he understands you.
You start sitting together.
But enough that it becomes expected.
He adjusts his routine around yours seamlessly. Thereâs no disruption. No friction.
Thatâs how you know itâs working.
You laugh onceâsoft, surprisedâand he locks onto it like a coordinate.
Replays it later in his head.
Tries to find the exact sequence that caused it.
âYou always come here alone?â you ask one night, stirring your coffee even though you havenât added anything to it.
You watch him for a second longer than usual.
For a while, everything is⌠stable.
He runs through possibilities.
Transit delay. Work. Illness.
Youâre not there either.
Your booth is empty. Someone else is sitting in it, laughing too loud, disrupting the symmetry.
Dex stands there longer than necessary.
The waitress asks if he wants anything.
The next day, you still donât appear.
Because the world follows patterns.
When you finally come back, itâs not right.
You sit in your usual booth.
But you donât order right away.
You donât bring your cassette player.
Your fingers donât tap.
Dex watches from across the room.
Like something has been removed.
âYou didnât come,â he says.
You look up, startledâbut not afraid.
âOh,â you say. âYeah. I just⌠had stuff going on.â
âWhat stuff?â he asks.
Your expression shifts slightly. A crease between your brows.
âJust life,â you say, a little lighter, like youâre trying to move past it.
âYou didnât tell me,â he says.
âI didnât know I had to.â
You say it gently. Not defensive. Not harsh.
But it lands wrong anyway.
Everything is slightly off.
Your tone. Your posture. The way you donât hold eye contact as long.
âYouâre different,â he says.
âYouâre acting different.â
Then a small, disbelieving laugh.
âI mean⌠yeah? Things change.â
âThey donât,â he says.
You lean back, watching him now in a way you havenât before.
âThatâs not really how people work,â you say.
âYou said you liked it here,â he continues, ignoring that. âYou said it feltââ
âI remember what I said.â
Your voice cuts in, still calm, but firmer now.
âAnd I still do. I just⌠donât always want the same things all the time.â
That doesnât make sense.
It contradicts previous data.
âYouâre inconsistent,â he says.
Something flickers across your face.
But something closer to it than before.
âDex,â you say slowly, âthatâs normal.â
âYou donât usually cancel,â he says.
âI didnât cancel anything.â
âYou werenât there.â
âI didnât know I had to report my schedule to you.â
Unintentionalâbut sharp.
Thereâs a silence that stretches too long.
The neon outside flickers.
âI didnât ask you toââ you start, then stop yourself.
But itâs already there.
âYou didnât ask me to what?â he says.
You shake your head slightly.
âNo,â he says, quieter now. âSay it.â
âI didnât ask you to feel like this.â
Dex doesnât react immediately.
Because first, he has to process.
âYou made it like this,â he says.
âI didnât make you do anything.â
âI was just being nice,â you interrupt, softer but more certain now. âI liked talking to you. Thatâs it.â
It canât be that small.
âYou said things,â he presses.
âYeah,â you say. âPeople do that.â
âThen why are youââ
âBecause meaning something in a moment doesnât mean itâs⌠permanent.â
âIâm allowed to change,â you add.
Dex looks at you like heâs trying to fit you back into something that no longer exists.
âI thinkâŚâ you start, then stop, choosing your words more deliberately now.
âI think you thought I was something Iâm not.â
âYou donât actually know me,â you say quietly.
Because itâs the first thing that feels⌠possible.
You leave money on the table.
Dex stays seated long after youâre gone.
The booth feels wrong now.
The room is exactly how he left it.
Inside, itâs different.
Notebooks stacked in careful columns.
Your words, written down in neat, exact handwriting.
Your patterns mapped across pages.
Your routines charted in ink.
A napkin you used once, folded cleanly.
A strand of your hairâthin, nearly invisibleâsealed between two pieces of tape, labeled with the date.
Collected without disruption.
The last month marked in red.
Your deviation highlighted.
Dex stands there, staring at it all.
âYouâre wrong,â he says quietly.
âYou were consistent.â
Because he needed you to be.
He picks up one of the notebooks.
Dex closes the notebook slowly.
Patterns can be relearned.
Looks out over the street.
Youâre out there somewhere.
You feel it before you see it.
That subtle, crawling awareness.
Someone standing too long across the street.
A figure that doesnât move when it should.
A presence that lingers just outside certainty.
You tell yourself itâs nothing.
But sometimes, when you pass reflective glassâ
Because he doesnât need to be near you anymore.
The version of you he refuses to let go.
Inspired by hate that i made you love me -- by Ariana Grande
