You and Matthew were nuzzled up on your sofa, his nose was brushing against yours and the two of you peppered kisses over each other. He hummed gently before he captured your lips in a longer kiss, and your hand trailed up his chest when you reciprocated it. Your other hand was about to slip under his shirt, but you felt the way that Matt tensed beside you.
You paused and you quickly pulled away. "Matt?"
"Someone's coming towards your window." He said with a tenseness in his voice you started to hear more and more now that you knew that he was Daredevil.
You narrowed your eyes in confusion, glancing towards your living room window. You pealed yourself away from Matt and trekked towards it, you had your fair share of people coming into your apartment through your window (present company included).
"What are you doing?" He quickly asked, standing and swiftly making his way beside you when you opened the window.
You tutted, and batted his hand away when he reach out to close it. "It's probably Peter."
"How do you know that?" Matt asked.
"I don't." You shrugged your shoulders. "But you can confirm in a few seconds, can't you?"
Matt's jaw tensed, but then he sighed and shook his head. "It's Peter."
"Hah! Told you." You laughed out, poking your head out. "Pete?"
Peter appeared out from, seemingly, nowhere, he was in his Spider-Man suit, but it was battered and ripped in places. . "Hey, <<Reader>>."
"Jeez, man, what happened to you?" You asked with a sigh, holding a hand out as you helped him through the window and into your apartment.
"Uh, not much."
"Not much, kid, you're bleeding out." Matt chimed in, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Well, it can't be that bad." Peter tried to argue. "I'm still standing."
"Barely." You muttered quietly, urging him to go sit down at the table in your kitchen. "What happened?"
"I just..." Peter shrugged his shoulders lightly. "It was just harder this time, is all."
You exhaled for a few seconds, but patted his shoulder lightly. "Alright, let me get the first aid kit, and some spare clothes."
When you came back from the other room, Matt and Peter were sat opposite each other in an almost hushed conservation. Though, you already knew that there were talking about; just what he had just gone through, perhaps he felt more comfortable talking to Matt because he was Daredevil and could understand more than you could.
"You know the drill." You said softly when you pulled up another chair to sit close to Peter.
"Uh-huh." He responded absentmindedly, already ridding himself of his suit so that you could get to his injuries.
"Why'd you come here?" Matt asked eventually.
"Matthew." You warned, shooting him a glare; even if he couldn't exactly see it.
"I don't mean anything by it." He said with his hands out up in a sort of mock surrender. “It’s not often.”
It was only when you saw the giant gash across Peter’s side that the question was very quietly answered.
“Holy shit—” You gasped, quickly grabbing a cloth that you learnt to keep in that first aid kit; which caused Peter to wince out. “You were stabbed?!”
“More like sliced.” He groaned out, once of his hands braced on the table as he squeezed his eyes shut.
"Jeez." You heard Matt mutter off to the side.
"Matt, c'ere, hold this." You instructed.
"I can do it m—"
Matt had cut Peter off rather quickly as his hands found where you were previously holding the slow dampening cloth to his side. "You just let us do this, kid. You look like you're gonna pass out."
"I'm fine." Peter tried to argue.
You tutted under your breath, already getting a needle out and stitches; you'd been getting really good at the clinical shit over the past year with those two coming up to your window every other night. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"This wasn't how I thought my evening was gonna go." Matt tried to joke to, at least, devolve some of the tension.
"I'm sorry- I can go.."
You swiftly pushed Peter back to the chair when he shifted to stand. "No, no, he's joking, don't start moving now. I'm not having you bleed over my whole apartment. Still haven't gotten that one stain on my bathroom rug out."
"That wasn't me." Peter said with a grumble.
"I said I would buy you a new one." Matt tried to laugh.
"Man, you can't even keep the lights on in your office." You rolled your eyes, your expression quickly fell back to a serious one, "This is gonna sting a bit, Peter."
"Whatever, s'fine." He muttered under his breath.
You tapped Matt's hand and he moved the cloth away from Peter's side. You inhaled sharply before you slowly started to get to work. You grimaced every time Peter winced out, it never got easier to do this, especially since you've been doing this for Peter more and more; he'd never tell you why though.
"How are your college applications going?" You asked, just to try and deter the conversation.
"I never thought I would be more dreaded to have a school conversation when I've just been stabbed." Peter grumbled, a fisted hand resting on his forehead.
"I thought you said sliced." Matt chimed in.
"Matthew, either be helpful or be quiet." You muttered under your breath, but somehow it got a laugh out of Peter; you supposed it was a win.
"Okay, fine." You sighed under your breath. "How's the new apartment?"
"Dull, empty." Peter said with a little shrug of the shoulders.
You gave him a sympathetic smile, you hadn't known Peter long, but you knew how it felt to move out finally. "You're always welcomed here if you don't have somewhere else to go."
Peter never did tell you that he really had no one else to go to anymore, you always just assumed you were the only person out of the people he knew who knew he was Spider-Man.
"Yeah." He said faintly.
"Almost done, now." You said after a silent few seconds.
You grabbed the cloth from Matt, who was sitting still beside the two of you the entire time, then ran it gently over the remaining blood.
"Thanks." Peter said under his breath.
"You need a place to crash for the night?" Matt asked.
Peter shook his head, but you knew a lie was about to come right out of his—
"No, I'm good."
Yeah, you knew it.
"Nah," You said with a shake of your head. "C'mon, I have a surprisingly comfy sofa. Just for the night, I don't want to hear any arguments. I'll make dinner, God knows how long you've had a proper meal. You're getting skinny, kid."
Peter gave you a small smile, and you figured that it was going to be the best reaction out of him. "Yeah. Okay."
"Okay." You said with a small nod. "I might have some spare clothes for you, but if not I can stop b your apartment and get something while you rest. Oh, yeah, I have extra towels too, so head into the shower if you want, you know where it is."
"That alright?"
You chuckled and patted his shoulder as you stood up. "Of course it's alright. Go on."
He had gotten from the table slowly then, practically limping his way over to your bathroom.
You sighed quietly, only looking away when he was in the hallway. You started to quickly clean up, putting the first aid kit in its rightful place before you walked over to the kitchen sink and started washing your hands.
"You think he's gonna be okay?" You asked Matt in a hushed voice, you weren't entirely sure how good his hearing was, like how Matt's was.
"I don't know." He muttered to you, leaning his hip against the counter with his arms over his chest. "Kid's only ever come here, you really think he's okay?"
"You only ever come here when you're injured. Foggy and Karen know, but you don't go to them." You pointed out.
He shrugged and let out a small breath. "Well, I'm not dating them."
"He's not dating me." You snorted.
"I would hope not." Matt paused for a few seconds, then spoke up again. "I just mean... I think I know what he's going through, he's alone and he's only got us right now."
You frowned and glanced over to where you watched Peter disappear to, hearing the shower be turned on. "Then we keep an extra eye out for him, you specifically because, well, I'm actually the normal person here."
summary: you've been a burden your entire life. your parents said so. many, many times.
it's been a stone in your heart since you were little. you're too much. people always walk away once they get to know the real you. how clingy you are, how needy...
you're trying to make up for it now by serving your community and holding tightly to the friends you have now with a death grip that you can only describe to your therapist without sounding crazy.
it was going great until... until him.
Warnings/tags: AGE GAP, fluff, angst, mental illness, attachment issues, canon typical violence, language, mentions of gore (tell me to add more and ill add them because I don't know what else) SLOWBURN. EVENTUAL SMUT. NO USE OF Y/N
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You open your eyes to sunlight, the smell of dust and mildew and a towel sticking to the blood in your hair.
It takes one look out the window to orient yourself— not because you’re overly familiar with New York just yet, but because you’ve seen this street before, in a surveillance video, a photograph, in a screenshot of a map. several times over because your memory goes fuzzy while you’re recovering.
You remember though.
You know exactly who lives here.
Beside you, there is another towel and a soft set of clothes and you giggle over the gesture on your way to the open bathroom door. The light inside flickers and hums and isn’t all that bright, but it’ll do.
While the water gets hot, you check the time, send off a summary of the night before to Bucky and a sorry I never showed up last night text to tinder date.
You hope he’ll let you reschedule. You really need to get laid.
The damage to your body isn’t as bad as you expected. The side of your head was probably stripped down to your grey matter but a thick scar has knitted over the spot. it’ll be gone and your hair will grow back within a few hours.
The spray of lacerations and holes all over you will disappear in time too, so everything looks great if you ignore the inconceivable pain in your abdomen.
Doctor Paylei will be pleased when she looks you over. She might be a little pissed off that you haven’t been taking your multivitamins, but the fact that you go to her checkups at all is effort, so you don’t let that bother you.
Gold star. Participation points.
In the shower is a bar of the kind of soap that could melt the rust off an old car and you opt to use the half empty bottle of shampoo as body wash instead, humming in delight at the sound of pebbles falling from your hair to ricochet around the tub.
As a courtesy, you fish them out and throw them in the trash when you’re dried and dressed.
You check the time again and get antsy. If he doesn’t show up within ten minutes you need to leave. You can feel it.
You keep busy by going through his cupboards for anything edible and find a thousand year old can of coffee grounds.
You sigh. There’s a coffee maker, so why not.
It’s almost finished by the time he arrives.
He.
Him.
You know his real name— and you’ve tried very hard to forget it, as if dumping the memory somewhere outside of your skull would erase the man altogether, but he just keeps showing up and spreading kerosene all over the fires you start.
keeping him just Bullseye has been a good way of keeping him in the part of your mind labeled classified.
Do not touch. Do not engage.
And up until now, you haven’t done either.
That he bothered to move your body— which was essentially a corpse until an hour ago— at all is quite the conundrum, since he seemed more than satisfied to leave you where you were all those other times.
You don’t bother asking what changed. It won’t do anything but spawn more questions that you’ll let fester inside you until you can’t think about anything else.
Nonchalant has never been your strong suit.
Maiming the problems you create in your head like a rabid dog and then staring at your reflection as if you’re a monster for accidentally killing pieces of yourself is why you don’t have many friends— except for the ones who have no choice but to deal with you.
You breathe a sigh of relief every night knowing you aren’t there in person to ask Yelena if she still likes you every time you have a disagreement, or ask whether Bob would still want you to play games or see movies with you if you had met as two strangers on the street.
The answer to your questions is always yes. Of course. They like you, they really do.
They’ve gone out of their way to welcome you, feed you, put clothes on your back, but most often you still feel… hollow.
Other.
It’s good you have your own place now, really, it is!
Only, you’re lonely. And all your friends are inside the Watchtower.
So you turn your eye to that corner labeled do not touch.
You kick open the door.
And you let Benjamin Poindexter walk right into your thoughts, a free man.
His apartment isn’t much of a mess— two mugs in the sink, your bloody imprint in his bed, and your Swiss-cheese’d suit in a heap on his bathroom floor— but you still have to tear him out by the hand like tweezing a stubborn splinter out of an even more stubborn callous when he agrees to come with you to Minty’s.
You have less than an hour before your body begins to metabolize itself to continue healing you— you can feel blood sloshing freely between your intestines where it doesn’t belong, a few fragments of what you assume used to be a bullet being pushed into soft spaces that refuse to accommodate them— and he’s walking so slow.
“Have you ever been to Minty’s?” You ask to distract yourself from the pain of your muscle fibers, slowly, slowly parting to eventually spit out the jagged foreign bodies.
Poindexter speeds up when you do, matching the urgency that’s probably written all over your face as you cross the street. You still have his hand— and his grip tightens around yours so you don’t suddenly detach.
You appreciate that.
“Can’t be that different than any other diner on the block, can it?” He asks, looking both ways before leading you through another crossing so you don’t have to waste your precious brain power on a safety assessment.
You appreciate that too.
“That’s blasphemy,” you scoff, and maybe you are a little biased, having eaten here thousands of times, but no one does life-sustaining calories quite like Jordan Minty. “They have a maple bacon milkshake that’ll clog your arteries in ten seconds flat.”
He laughs and you fight the moan that wants out of your throat the moment you smell pancakes and sausages around the corner, floating like a zombie towards the door, which Poindexter rushes to open for you.
A gentleman, of course.
The place is newly remodeled, with neon lights everywhere and beautiful tables with plush red seats that you could sleep on— You wave to the counter and before you even scoot all the way into your booth, Jordan comes straight out of the kitchen with a plate of random shit and a waitress on his tail, stolen from another table but ready to take an order.
Jordan Minty has known about your… condition, for a while now. And this is just one of the many restaurants Valentina has placed on retainer for you.
As a man who gets paid thousands of dollars to feed you, he takes your wellbeing very seriously.
You rattle off a few menu items you’ve known forever and ask for a pitcher of lemonade to wash it all down before handing the metaphorical stage to Bullseye, who says he still needs time.
When they walk away, his eyes don’t trail after either of them. They fix on you.
They follow your hands as you sort through the puzzle of French fries on your plate to find a curly one, lips parting as you raise it to your mouth. They trace the curve of your neck when just a small, curious tilt stretches one side open to the sunlight.
You watch him watch you and, not for the first time since you learned who he is behind the mask, consider how good the man looks. he's on the older side, compared to you, at least. His hair is silvering out on either side of his head, and you’d say that’s a plus. it looks good on him— he has the neck muscles of a horse, a strong jaw with a dimpled chin and a tasteful scar cutting from his ear to his nose. You don’t need to look at his body to know he’s strong, seeing as he’s hit you once or twice, but you’ve also hit him so you aren’t in much of a position to count that against him. But the smile he gives you when you cock your head is where it’s at. His face creases at the edges, his eyes light up as he shows you his perfect teeth.
Whoever made him must have loved art, music, poetry…
You’re so deep in wonderland that when you finally feel the pieces of metal exit your abdomen and fall into your lap, you forget the man across from you isn’t a friend and almost ask if he wants to see something gross.
The eager moron in you wants to ask anyway, but the stately diplomat lays a firm hand on your shoulder and says, not yet.
Not until you know him well enough to gauge if the result will be rejection or acceptance.
You listen.
You resist.
You begin to think maybe inviting him was a mistake.
Poindexter declines the offer of an onion ring, so you eat it instead, taking his answer as a clear rejection of you as a person.
After all, why would anyone want to know you when the option not to exists?
It’s just a fucking onion ring, the diplomat snarls.
The eager moron counters; an onion ring of friendship. Offer him a fry next. Offer him a blowjo—
“Wacha thinking about?” You ask, tight lipped. Jaw tense, because his eyes still have not left you, and it’s beginning to make you nervous.
He blinks, like he was somewhere further away than you, and starts lazily scanning the menu. “You didn’t seem surprised when I walked through the door.”
You know what he wants you to say, but you’ve had too much publicity training to just blurt out the fact that you know everything about him. “I was in your apartment.”
“It could’ve been anyone’s place.”
“But it wasn’t anyone’s, it was yours.” You lean forward, folding your hands atop the table.
His mouth twitches up, and then settles back down into a thin line. “Are the Avengers keeping tabs on me?”
You frown, but just for a fraction of a second before another tense grin knifes its way across your face. “I doubt there’s a single person in the city they haven’t somehow put a tracking chip in. But that’s not why I invited you.”
“Why then?”
You pause. Both of your inner voices scream. “I like you. You make my job harder, but I like you.”
“What exactly is your job?”
You think to your tower file— the unofficial one with newspaper articles whispering about a candidate for the Avengers that didn’t work out for some reason, your medical history, recordings of mandated therapy sessions and detailed, hand-written reports of every one of your contributions to Hell’s Kitchen’s night life — all encrypted, coded, and lovingly titled Bulwark.
“Anyways. I don’t have many connections in the underground, so maybe we can exchange numbers or something. Be more organized next time we meet on the street.” You shrug.
You notice the twitch of his fingers. His hands— the ones that kill people— pull toward the edge of the table, closer to his body.
Further away from you.
“Who is there aside from me?”
People you don’t like.
People who don’t like you.
“You ask a lot of invasive questions.” Your brows raise. He’s charming, but not enough to get the information he wants without bribing you or marrying you first. “You could at least learn my favorite color or something before crawling up my ass.”
Lightning flashes across Poindexter’s handsome face, first dejection, then anger, a heavily restrained tension that sits in his shoulders. “…What’s your favorite color?”
You move your arms so the three plates of food you ordered can be slid across the table by the waitress. “Blue. Now tell me yours.”
He doesn’t look at the woman leaning over between you, or even tilt his face to glance when she asks if he’s ready to order.
He looks so uncomfortable you wave her off for his sake, stabbing into a pile of pancakes and beginning to manhandle them apart with your fork.
“…Red.” He says, swallowing when your tongue comes out to lick syrup from the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes drop to your plate again, focusing on your hands, only your hands. “I can see you’re getting frustrated.”
“I’m just…” you hear his shoes shift position under the table. “I prefer when conversations are more streamline.”
Oh, boy, do I have news for you… “Sorry. I’m not that.”
There’s a bit of silence before he seems to gather the discipline to speak again. “Do you always eat this much?”
“I can’t tell if you’re disgusted or impressed, but yes.” You say flatly. Honestly. It’s how you’ve always been. And, as always happens when someone brushes up against this particular bruise, you begin to feel embarrassed by it. By the ritual that keeps you alive. “the healing factor suffers when I don’t.”
summary: you've been a burden your entire life. your parents said so. many, many times.
it's been a stone in your heart since you were little. you're too much. people always walk away once they get to know the real you. how clingy you are, how needy...
you're trying to make up for it now by serving your community and holding tightly to the friends you have now with a death grip that you can only describe to your therapist without sounding crazy.
it was going great until... until him.
Warnings/tags: AGE GAP, fluff, angst, mental illness, attachment issues, canon typical violence, language, mentions of gore (tell me to add more and ill add them because I don't know what else) SLOWBURN. EVENTUAL SMUT. NO USE OF Y/N
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Dex prods your side with the toe of his boot, checking for proof of life in the least invasive way possible since you startle easily and you’ve swung at him before.
You getting cracked in the skull on these excursions isn’t something new, nor is it something surprising, considering how slow you are and how much weaker than the opponents you choose, by far. but Dex can’t bring himself to judge when half the times he’s seen you get shot or stabbed or knocked out cold, it’s in defense of someone else.
He knows your name, but hasn’t been able to jackhammer his way far enough into the earth to find out why you were kicked off the New Avengers team. if he had to come up with his own reasoning, it’s that they got tired of scooping your brain off the pavement after every mission.
You still visit the tower every now and then.
He knows because he took a stroll at the right time and ended up in the right place at some point after the third bullet you took for him. You aren’t anything particularly special— he crosses paths with new vigilantes all the time and everyone who isn’t himself or Matt Murdock is a dime a dozen.
But he had nothing going on that day. What else was he going to do, sit in his apartment? he had seen your neck break under the wheel of a truck the night before and there you were, walking around like nothing happened. Of course he had to see where you were going.
When you groan beneath his foot, he huffs, and kneels to sling you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As far as the relationship he doesn’t have with you goes, this is a first. It isn’t the first contact because, between being crushed and burned and impaled, you always manage to ask if he’s okay right before collapsing. but he feels like leaving you where you are knowing you will almost certainly live would be a weight he doesn’t need on his conscience this time.
He drops you on his mattress, which creaks so loud you stir, propping your head up with a towel that will need to be burned the second your blood and spinal fluid dries. The blankets and sheets, too, for that matter— but that’s a problem for later.
You don’t move for hours, breaths coming shallow, eyes twitching behind the lids. It happens so slowly he doesn’t realize you’ve fully regenerated the missing piece of your skull until you flip over in his bed for the first time.
There is gravel in your hair and blood all over your clothes so he puts together an outfit that might fit and lays it beside you under another towel in case you wake while he’s gone.
He isn’t out for long, just a quick trip to grab cleaning supplies and food, since there is nothing in his fridge, but there you are when he gets back. Showered, changed, waiting for coffee made from century old grounds you found somewhere in the bowels of his narrow kitchen.
You look comfortable there. Like you belong. Instead of startling when he enters with his hands full, you place your phone face up on the chipped countertop and go to help him.
He isn’t expecting the touch, so his hand jumps back from yours like you’ve burned him, and you retreat to the wall by the window, watching him for so long he feels the need to perform under your watch. His muscles tighten up, his teeth grind. he tosses a crumpled paper bag across the space into the garbage can beside you and his synapses light up like a Christmas tree when you cheer for his shot.
You wave when he’s done putting things in their respective places, the wide cuff of his shirt slipping down your wrist. You have a tattoo there. It looks like a— “hi.” You say.
Dex takes note of your waistline, your hips, your hands. The places he would have thought to hide a weapon if he were a woman in an unfamiliar place with a man blocking the door. His shirt and sweats fall around you without resistance and once he notes all of his kitchen knives are still in the block, the set of his shoulders relaxes. “Hello.”
“I didn’t want to leave without saying thank you.” Your phone vibrates and he leans over to check it for you. “And you aren’t getting these clothes back.” You add while his head is turned.
Your screen lights up a few times in a row, enough time to see your screensaver is a selfie of you and Yelena Belova and Bucky Barnes in civilian clothes. Not a very smart move as a vigilante to carry leverage around in your pocket like that.
Dex takes his time to read off each of the messages as they move down your screen to make room for the next. Who would have thought the Avengers had a group chat.
Lena: eat something quickly before you get dead
Buck: wellness check tomorrow morning, don’t miss it
Bob: League of Legends after?
His line of vision is blocked by your palm settling over the screen, which makes him chuckle as you slide the phone back into the pocket of his sweats. “They fit you better anyway.”
You look down at yourself, smile a little, and startle at the beep of his coffee maker.
In turn, he tenses. Fast reactions in close quarters. Unknown variables. He can never be too careful. But all you do is pull one of his mugs closer to fill, then the second, and carefully turn to hand him one.
He looks down at the liquid inside. Its old and probably tastes like rubbing alcohol, but the gesture alone— the consideration, the togetherness of sharing a cup of coffee with someone who isn’t the rats that live in his walls— is enough to make him take it.
His fingers brush yours at the handle, and there go his synapses again…
There isn’t enough time for him to take a second sip before you’ve already gone through your whole mug and Dex finds himself disappointed by the missed opportunity to ask you anything, to listen to the sound of your breathing, to hear a witty comment about something; learn anything about you at all. And yet…
You have a tattoo of a plant on your wrist.
You play video games.
You go to the Watchtower for wellness checks.
You’re good friends with the Avengers.
You smell like his detergent and his three-in-one shampoo.
“Well, I’m going to get out of your hair and eat like a pig at Minty’s Diner.” You sigh, rinsing your cup but leaving it in the sink. Leftovers to remind him you were here when he decides to wash it.
You glance around, like people do when they’re cataloguing what they’ve packed before leaving home on vacation. “Can I leave my suit here? I’ll pick it up later, if that’s okay.”
More leftovers. And a promise that this won’t be his last opportunity to know you. “That’s fine.”
“Cool.” You nod, turning in one more circle that ends facing the door. Your weight shifts back and forth, and he waits, mug in hand, and takes his second sip. “Wanna come with me?”
The muscles in his neck pull too quickly. If you could see him, you might have cocked your head— if cocking your head is a thing you do. “I don’t want to impose,” he says carefully.
You spin on your heel, making a squealing sound on the linoleum. “Actually, scratch that; I want you to come.” You lean forward, smiling big. “Please come have breakfast with me? Please?”
Dex grips his mug so hard he’s almost surprised when it doesn’t break. Yes. “Sure.”
Summary: You're done letting Matt run from the growing feelings between you two.
Word Count: 300
Warnings: Blood and sweat, kissing, emotionally constipated Matt, protective!Matt if you squint
Song/Lyric Prompt: Therefore I Am - Billie Eilish / "I'm not your friend"
I kept the song but swapped out the lyric to use in the story. Friends to lovers with Matty? Yes please! Likes and reblogs always appreciated!
June Jukebox Scribbles Event
My June Jukebox Scribbles Masterlist
"I'm not your friend," he insisted across the shadowy rooftop, wind whipping the words around the two of you like a protective ward.
As if his distance could protect you. He was only saying this since it was obvious you'd started to care about him too much — that was his justification. You knew better. He was projecting, protecting himself from his own feelings toward you, and you were done letting him do it.
"Then I don't have to feel guilty about doing this," you said, striding up to Matt, grabbing the front of his suit, and smashing your mouth to his.
He tasted of sweat and blood, but you didn't care. You were too relieved that he was alive after yet another night of beating the shit out of Fisk's men.
You knew how dangerous being on Fisk's radar could be, which is why you made yourself as invisible as possible, quietly passing Daredevil every scrap of information you got from inside the mayor's office.
Instead of answering, Daredevil kissed you back just as fiercely. His hands landed on your hips before one snuck around to your lower back and the other slid up your spine to the back of your neck.
"I can't lose you," he said against your lips.
"You won't," you reassured him, kissing along his jaw and relishing in the scratch of his scruff.
"You don't know that," he whispered. The hand on your neck grabbed the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair which sent shivers down your spine.
"That's true, I don't," you pulled away from him, cupping his face. The black eyes of his mask looked at you, unblinking, but you knew you had his attention. "But I'm not going to let them scare me into living a life of regrets."
