The Heart is a Muscle
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 elseâs life, someone who hadnât been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasnât 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 didnât 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.Â
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.Â
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone elseâs 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 didnât change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didnât care about intention. His bills didnât 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 didnât acknowledge it.Â
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.Â
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 shouldnât. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.Â
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of⌠oh.Â
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.Â
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.Â
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dexâs 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 manâs 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 wasnât 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 â 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses. Istanbul â Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration. Lagos â Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high. Madripoor â Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified. Buenos Aires â Diplomatic attachĂŠ poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion. Moscow â Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.Â
Dexâs thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldnât be to anyone else. This wasnât chaos. This wasnât 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.Â
The target made clean exits where possible and didnât 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.
Dexâs 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 didnât. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.Â
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didnât rack up a body count like that by accident. You didnât walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and âhigh collateralâ 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 wasnât 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 couldnât 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 hadnât had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity: Prague â Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses. DODC Supermax Prison â Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected. New York â Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.Â
The target was still active.Â
âYeah,â Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything heâd 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 didnât show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasnât in the same place he was. This target wasnât trying to balance the scales like he was.Â
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 heâd just read. It didnât match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what theyâd done. But the file didnât lie. The patterns didnât 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, heâd 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.
â
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didnât settle. They didnât usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didnât 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 hadnât done that.
You were⌠easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.Â
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasnât 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 elseâ 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.Â
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasnât temporary, wasnât a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You werenât passing through. You werenât 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 wasnât 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 didnât like that it didnât 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 wasnât. 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 didnât scan constantly, didnât treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.Â
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.Â
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasnât enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.Â
The problem was, he didnât have a plan for that. He wasnât a spy. He didnât build relationships, didnât ease his way into proximity.Â
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like youâd done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didnât know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
â
The next day, he âaccidentallyâ 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 youâd take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one youâd take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today andâŚ. 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, wouldâve 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.Â
This wasnât 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, youâd clock him immediately.
You didnât. 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?
ââshit, sorry,â Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. âI didnât⌠are you okay?â
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
Heâd seen your photo. But a still image didnât 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 andâ
âYouâre fine,â 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.Â
Simple, right?Â
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
âUh⌠thereâs a coffee place just up ahead,â he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. âI can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.â
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what heâd just done.
That wasnât part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasnât how he shouldâve handled a target like you. He shouldnâtâve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didnât 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.Â
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. Thatâs 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.
âCoffee?â you repeated.Â
âYeah,â he said, a little more steady now. âLeast I can do.â
âFor what?â you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex couldâve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. âbumping into me? Is this a line?â
âI justâŚâ he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. âIâve seen you around.â
Iâve 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, âOkay.â
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like heâd expected it, like this hadnât just gone completely off-script.
âOkay,â 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.
â
The cafĂŠ was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your namesâ he said he was âTony,â 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 cafĂŠ, Dex was relieved to see that it wasnât 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 youâd 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.
âSo,â you said, dragging the word out just a little. âWhy does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?â
Dex choked.
It wasnât 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, whichâthank fuckâthe cafĂŠ being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
ââŚYou knew?â he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question youâd heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. âOf course,â you said. âDonât pretend like you donât know me.â
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 didnât look alarmed. You didnât look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked⌠curious.
âOh,â 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.
Sheâs a target. This is a job.
âYeah,â he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadnât just blindsided him. âI meanâyeah. I justâŚâ His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. âIâm a fan of your work.â
You didnât 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.
âRight,â you said finally. You didnât 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.
âAlright. No, weâre not doing this version,â you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. âCan we start over?â
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. âI⌠yeah.â
You nodded once, resetting playfully.Â
âHi. You already know my name, so Iâm skipping that part,â you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. âIâm a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.â
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. âHi,â he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
âHi,â he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. âIâm Dex. Notââ he made a vague, frustrated gesture, ânot Tony, I donâtâŚâ
Your lips twitched. âI got that.â
âRight. Yeah.â He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. âIâm⌠a good guy.â
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.
âHi, Dex Not Tony,â you said, teasing him. âThatâs a strong introduction.â
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. âItâs⌠yeah,â he muttered. âWorkshopping it.â
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.
âMm,â you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. âMaybe workshop faster.â
That earned you the smallest exhale that mightâve been a laugh.
âSo,â you went on, glancing at his drink. âAmericano?âÂ
He looked down at it like heâd forgotten it existed. âMmm.â
âDo you actually like that,â you took a sip of your own drink, âor did you panic-order?â
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. âPanic-order.â
You grinned. âThought so.â
âYours?â he asked, nodding toward your cup.
âIced latte. Always.â
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. âPredictable,â he said.
âConsistent,â you corrected.
âSame thing.â
âNot even a little.â Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didnât match anything heâd 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 werenât saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.Â
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The cafĂŠ. 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.Â
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.Â
âOkay,â you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. âFor the record, this is the weirdest coffee Iâve had in a while.â
âSame,â he said.
âAnd Iâve had coffee in worse places.â
âSame.â
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. âYouâre just copying me now.â
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.Â
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didnât actually want to say what came next. âI should probablyâŚâ you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. ââŚgo.â
Dex nodded immediately. âYeah. Yeah, sure.â
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. âGive me your number.â
Dex tilted his head. ââŚWhat?â
You held it out, unfazed. âIn case you decide to bump into me again,â you said. âMight as well schedule it next time.â
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not toâŚÂ
Then he took the phone.
âRight,â he nodded. âYeah.â
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.
âSee you around, Dex Not Tony.âÂ
âYeah,â he said, quieter now. âSee you.â
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 youâd 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
â
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.Â
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:Â
Likes iced lattes
â
Two days later, Dexâs phone buzzed.
He didnât get messages he wanted to open. He didnât need another contractâ 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:Â
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 whoâs supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.Â
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought Iâd ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?Â
Dex: You just ask people that? âhey did you kill three peopleâ?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you donât usually âaccidentallyâ run into me either so
Dexâs grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You werenât letting that go. Dex: I said Iâve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few secondsÂ
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the cafĂŠ. 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 youâd say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so Iâm choosing to believe you đ You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was⌠strange.
You werenât pushing. You werenât 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.Â
Dex: Whyâd 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 didnât fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,Â
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 mightâve missed.
You: okay, fine You: I was bored You: and youâre interesting You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You donât seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyesÂ
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.Â
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, soâŚÂ
Dex: if youâre bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasnât part of the job. This wasnât⌠date wasnât the word he shouldâve used.Â
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.Â
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
ââŚNo,â he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It wasâ
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 âsees me aroundâ 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.Â
You: yeah sureÂ
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna âaccidentallyâ run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?Â
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, soâŚÂ
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.
â
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. âHey, Dex.âÂ
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 didnât 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 âjust in case.â
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.Â
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
âTry that one,â you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was⌠good, but he didnât say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
âItâs fine,â he said.
You snorted. âLiar.â
âIâm notââ
âDonât pretend itâs just fine,â you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
âIâm not pretending.â
âYou are.â
He hesitated, then let you win this one. âIt is good,â he admitted begrudgingly.
âThere it is.â
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didnât catch as often. You didnât 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.Â
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dexâs eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didnât notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being âcommitted to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,â andâ
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. âHold on,â he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. âwhatâŚâ
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. âYou hadâŚâ he gestured vaguely. âCustard.â
âOh.â You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. âThanks.â
âYeah.â Dex looked down at his hands. That felt⌠Unfamiliar.
He didnât know when the last time heâd done something like that was. He didnât know when the last time heâd wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didnât even have a name for it.
And while he wasnât sure he liked that, he definitely didnât hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldnât stand another second of silence.Â
âUmmm speaking of hobbies?â you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. âYou⌠donât strike me as a hobbies person.â
âI had some,â 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.Â
âPast tense is concerning.â You leaned forward just a little. âWhat, like, knitting?â
âNo.â
âScrapbooking?â
âNo.â
âBe honest,â you taunted, âI can see it.â
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. âBaseball.â
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
âYeah, I can see that,â you said, then added casually, âI used to do ballet.â
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. âOh,â he managed to say.
You shrugged. âStandard Red Room stuff.â
Dexâs posture shifted slightly, attention narrowing.Â
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 couldnât access any other way.Â
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, âWhat does that mean?â
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. âMmânope.â
âWhat?â
âNot here,â you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. âIâm not getting into that here.â
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. âCome by my place on Saturday,â you said, like it had just occurred to you. âWeâll call it our third date.â
Dex blinked. âWhat?â
You shrugged, completely unfazed. âIf youâre really curious,â you added, a small tilt to your head. âThereâs⌠fewer people.â
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 notâŚ
âOkay,â he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
âOkay,â you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too lateâŚÂ
This doesnât feel like a job.
â
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 hadnât 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 heâd already been cleared.
âYouâre expected,â he said simply.
Dex didnât 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?Â
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
âHi,â 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 hadnât caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. âCome in.â
He couldnât 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 realisedâŚ
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.
âHowâŚâ he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.Â
You didnât seem to notice. âMake yourself comfortable,â you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasnât worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. âI just need the bathroom. Iâll be quick.â
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.Â
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 momentâs notice.
âThatâs stupid,â he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didnât 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 werenât rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didnât try to look for what was there, but what didnât belong. Because people like you didnât 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 didnât 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 didnât 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 didnât need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
âOf course,â 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 wouldnât miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasnât 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 didnât have a red Xs on their files were still active.Â
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 heâd 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.
âSorry,â you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. âThat took longer than I thought.â
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didnât line up. The. it was gone.
âYouâre fine,â 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 wasnât here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didnât even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.Â
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, ââŚSo,â you said, more direct. âWhat do you want to know?â
â
It canât be this easy right? Dex thought.Â
Turns out, it was.Â
Which was weird, because people like you didnât just⌠hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup heâd ever walked into, or you really didnât think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.Â
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. âThanks,â he said, smaller than usual.
He didnât 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.Â
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldnâtâŚÂ 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.Â
The first sign that it wasnât poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didnât react; you didnât 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, didnât 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.
âYou donât really realize it when youâre in it,â you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. âIt just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You donât question it because thereâs nothing else to compare it to.â
Dexâs grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
âThey donât just train you. They⌠build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.â You gave him a small laugh.âHonestly? Itâs basically a cult. You have no idea what itâs like to be manipulated like that.â
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. âYeah,â he said. âI do.â
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. âOh,â you looked down. âRight.â
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 didnât have anywhere else to put it.
Thatâs 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?Â
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. Andâ
ââŚAnd you?â you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. âCâmon.â
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
âIf weâre trauma dumping,â you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, âwe might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.â You took another sip, then shrugged. âDoesnât exactly look like either of us go to therapy.â
Dex huffed. âYeah,â he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldnât, though, right? He shouldnât tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but⌠The booze was getting to him.Â
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.Â
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.Â
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.Â
You didnât interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.Â
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.Â
Dex didnât 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 hadnât been there before.
âGod,â you said, almost to yourself. âWeâre so fucked up.â
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.Â
âYeah.â He took another sip, âYou more than me,â he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. âExcuse me?â
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. âYâknow,â he said, âChild soldier and all.â
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. âReally?â you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. âIâm more fucked up?â
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. âYour boss broke your spine and you lived.â
Dex managed to roll his eyes.Â
âYou got thrown off a roof and you lived,â you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. âSounds like youâre pretty far from normal.â
Dex huffed again. âDidnât say I was normal.â
âMm,â you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.Â
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 didnât matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didnât realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didnât realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didnât 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 didnât cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart. Â
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didnât even remember what) and it made you look⌠harmless.Â
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didnât 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.Â
Dex didnât 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 wouldnât 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 didnât even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.Â
âYouâre smiling,â you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
âIâm not,â he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. âYou are.â
He shouldâve 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 werenât even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. ââŚWhat?â you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didnât 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 didnât feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadnât planned on doing it. It wasnât even a decision he consciously made, really.Â
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.Â
For a while, you didnât move away.Â
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 neededâ to know you wanted it, too.Â
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fractionâ
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You werenât pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didnât move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. ââŚDex,â 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 werenât thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch⌠but you didnât meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
âMm,â you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
âNo,â you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. âItâs only our third date.â
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadnât fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
âBesides,â you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, âI want you to kiss me when youâre sober.â
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.Â
Oh, well. What else can he do?
âYeah,â he managed to say. âOkay.â
Still, he didnât 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. Â
You have enough. Kill her.Â
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employerâs request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.Â
What are you waiting for? Kill her.Â
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.Â
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at youâ from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didnât even need a gun.Â
Kill her.
And no, you wouldnât 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 wasâŚÂ
I want another date.
No. He shouldnât want that, right?
Kill her.
He didnât want that either.Â
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?Â
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?Â
Kill her.Â
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.Â
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.Â
â
Dex didnât 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 heâd 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.Â
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.Â
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displaysâ
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 wasnâtâ He exhaled, teeth clenching. âthis wasnât important.Â
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift towardâ
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 wasnât 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 didnât need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?Â
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath itâŚ
She laughed when she said âweâre so fucked up.â
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
â
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 hadnât just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
âHi,â you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. âHi.â
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. âYou look like youâve been here for a while.â
âI havenât.â
âYou definitely have.â
âMaybe five minutes.â 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. âKnew it.â
Sheâs faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. âYouâre late.â
âIâm two minutes late,â you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. âAnd I brought personality, so it cancels out.â
He huffed, hiding a smile. âThatâs not how that works.â
âIt is.â You insisted, tapping the menu. âAlso, you picked sushi? I didnât think you were a sushi person.â
âIâm not.â He immediately said.Â
You blinked. âThen whyâŚâ
âSeemed efficient.â What he meant was; itâs a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. Itâs 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. âYou picked it based on efficiency.â
âYes.â
âThat is the least romantic thing Iâve ever heard.â
Kiss her. Tell her sheâs pretty.
He didnât do either.
âYouâre still here,â he pointed out instead.
âYeah,â you said easily, settling back in your seat. âBecause I actually like you.â
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, âYou know anything about the ports here?â Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.Â
The question shouldâve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. âNot much,â he admitted after a second. âFisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.âÂ
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably shouldâve 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. âYou always order too much.â
You lit up like heâd just handed you a piece of chocolate. âOh, weâre judging now?â
âIâm observing.â
âRude,â you said, already scanning the menu. âAlso, itâs not too much, itâs strategic.â
âStrategic how?â He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. âYou ever go hungry enough that your brain just⌠rewires? Like you donât trust âenoughâ anymore?â
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?Â
Sheâs a widow. Sheâs a weapon. Sheâs a person.
ââŚYeah,â he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. âYeah,â you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. âSo Iâll over-order. Itâs fine. We deserve it.â
Weâre so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. âOkay.â
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
âOkay, this one,â you said, pointing. âWeâre getting this.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
âIt has too muchâŚ. whatever that is.â
âThat is eel,â you squinted.
âExactly,â he shrugged.
âItâs just eel,â you pointed out. âYouâve eaten weirder things.â
He paused. âThatâs not the point.â
You grinned. âI have enough of an appetite for the both of us.â
Kill her. Kiss her.
ââŚFine,â he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.Â
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didnât 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.
âTry this,â you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didnât 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.
âItâs good,â he admitted.
âI know,â you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
Sheâs dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. âWe used to have this thingâtraining-wiseâwhere theyâd reward you with food if you hit certain targets.â
Dexâs attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
âTargets?â he repeated.
You winced slightly. âOkay, that sounded worse out loud.â
He didnât respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. âI meanâit was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like âhit this, get that.â Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.â
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadnât just said that.
Sheâs a monster. Sheâs a victim. Sheâs both. Kill her.
âDo you ever miss that?â he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. âThe food or the brainwashing?â
âEither.â
You smiled faintly. âSometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.â
ThatâŚ. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
âYeah,â he said quietly. âMe too.â
You didnât make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. âHey,â you said, lighter now. âAt least now we get sushi instead of, like⌠boiled cabbage or whatever.â
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. âI didnât get cabbage.â
âOh, sorry,â you deadpanned. âDid your government program have better catering?â
âNo.â
You grinned. âThen you get it.â
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things againâbad 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. Sheâs 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 wouldnât evenâ
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
âEarth to Dex?â
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.Â
You were looking at him like youâd caught his mind somewhere far away.
âWhat?â he said.
âYou spaced out,â you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. âThat was intense. Should I be concerned?â
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her sheâs pretty.
âNo,â he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. âYou do that a lot. Go somewhere else.â
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. âIâm here,â 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 didnât stop.
Kill her. Sheâs dangerous. Sheâs a Black Widow. Sheâs killed for corrupt governments. Sheâs 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.Â
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.
â
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.Â
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. âIâve got it,â 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, âI want to.âÂ
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didnât like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldnât exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motionâinsert, wait, signâbecause that was simple, and that was something he understood.Â
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.Â
Kill her. She needs to go. Sheâs a monster. Sheâs a widow. Sheâs a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. Sheâs faking it. Sheâs 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.Â
It wasn't strategic. It wasnât calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same. Â
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.Â
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.Â
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.Â
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her sheâs pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. Sheâs a bad person. Sheâs dangerous. Sheâs 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 didnât. 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 didnât deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didnât want to kill you before he kissed you.Â
He needed that first. Just once.Â
âIâll walk you home,â he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said âOkay,â it didnât make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldnât want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
â
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.Â
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.
âHey,â you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. âHey.â
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
âI think,â you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, âyou earned it.â
Dex didnât get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met hisâŚand 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 youâd disappear. The kiss wasnât gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didnât belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it. Â
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 couldnât 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 didnât matter to Dex.Â
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.Â
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldnât 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.Â
âIâll see you soon?â 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 justâŚÂ hopeful. And all he could think about was the way youâd kissed him. The way youâd let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficientlyâŚ
No. Not like that. I canât kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. Youâd bleed. Youâd feel it. Youâd die a slow, painful deathâŚ
She didnât 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 werenât looking. Just⌠bang!Â
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadnât caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
âIâyeah,â he said, voice, rougher around the edges. âYou will.â
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadnât just made a decision that shouldâve 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 didnâtâ
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.Â
â
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, âa picnic!â said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didnât involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
Heâd 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 wasnât tactical, it wasnât anything like the person heâd read about in that file. You looked⌠beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. âYou lookâŚâ he started, then stopped, like the word wouldnât come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. âWhat?â
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. âNice,â he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadnât just undone him.
Kill her. Sheâs dangerous. Sheâs 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 heâd set up, hands already busy unpacking what heâd brought.
You noticed immediately. âYou brought strawberries and cream?â You asked in disbelief.Â
Dex shrugged, like it wasnât a big deal, like he hadnât thought about it too much. âYou like sweet things.â
You went quiet for a second. âIâŚâ you started, âI do.â
He didnât look at you. If he did, heâdâŚ
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 didnât 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 wasnât 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 mindâŚ
Shoot her in the head.
âIâve never done this before,â you said after a moment, glancing around. âA picnic, I mean.â
That caught Dex off guard. âWhat?â
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. âYeah. Not like this, anyway.â You picked at the edge of the blanket. âWe used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.â
You said it so lightly. Like it wasnât something that should gut him. âIn the basement of the facility I was raised in,â you went on. âSome of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.â You smiled, but it was fragile. âWeâd share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was⌠nice.â
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. Sheâs a Black Widow. Sheâs killed people. Sheâsâ
âYou deserved better,â he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. âYeah,â you said, after a second of consideration. âI think so too.â
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.Â
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 didnât notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldnât help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didnât.
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 donât deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.Â
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 couldnât do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. âI donâtâŚâ he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. âWhat?â
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. âI donât want to stay here,â he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. âDid I do something wrong?â
âNo,â he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. âNo. Itâs not that.â
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. âCome back to mine,â he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? Sheâs a terrible person. Sheâs killed more people than you.Â
Your brows lifted slightly. âYour place?â
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.Â
âYeah,â he said, voice smaller now. âI just⌠want more time with you.â
That part wasnât a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. âOkay,â you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
â
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadnât done a hundred times before without thinking.Â
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasnât 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. Sheâs dangerous. Sheâs lying. Sheâs 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 hadnât noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didnât 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 didnât argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Donât let this end. She chose you. Sheâs 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. Thatâs all it would take, thatâsâ
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was⌠quiet.Â
It wasnât sudden. It wasnât forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like youâd done it a thousand times before. Like you hadnât even considered that you shouldnât.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didnât quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressureâŚthey 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 didnât pull away. You didnât even hesitate. You just⌠walked with him.Â
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 didnât have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasnât 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 heâd built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasnât looking for redemption, and he wasnât 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.Â
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything heâd missed, everything heâd never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didnât 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. âCome in.â
â
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.Â
You didnât 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.Â
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didnât belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didnât 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.Â
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 hadnât disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.Â
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
âDex?â you whispered, concern threading through everything. âWhatâs wrong? â
âNothing,â he insisted, almost defensive. âNothing.â
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 didnât 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 heâs never had before? That he doesnât know what this is, but itâs too much and not enough at the same time?
âIâm fine,â he added, but it didnât sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.Â
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
âI wanna taste you,â he said honestly, almost reverently.Â
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. âYouâve kissed me before.â
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didnât feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldnât 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.
âNo,â he said, voice deeper now. âI want to taste you.â
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didnât stop him. You didnât 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.Â
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadnât 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 thenâ
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.Â
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 didnât reach for anything. He didnât flinch. He didnât 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.
ââŚOh,â he said softly.
The gun wasnât 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 heâd 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 shouldâve 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 betterâ
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 didnât 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 youâd 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.
âIâm sorry,â 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.
âIâŚâ You swallowed. âYouâre not useful to OXE anymore.â
He had known something felt off. He just hadnât 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. âFuck,â he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.Â
You flinched immediately. âNo. Donât do that.â
His eyes flicked back to yours.
âDonât act like this was just me manipulating you,â you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. âI know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Donât you dare pretend like you werenât planning to kill me too.â
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 âaccidental run inâ in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.Â
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.
Dexâs 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?
âYou know whatâs pathetic?â he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. âI still want to taste you.â
Your breath caught audibly.
âThereâs a gun pointed at my head,â he whispered in disbelief. âand all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.â
âDexâŚâ you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. âNo, listen,â he said quickly. âI know what this is. I know what happens next.â
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didnât actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, Iâm so sick.
âI know youâre gonna kill me because itâs the job,â he continued. âFine. I get it.â His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. âBut ChristâŚâ His voice cracked. âJust let me have this first.â
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
âI could die happy,â he admitted. âJust⌠let me taste you first, sweetheart.â
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 didnât move away from you.Â
âDo it, then,â 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.
âFucking do it,â you said again, almost pleading now. âBefore IâŚâ
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. âYouâre shaking,â he murmured quietly.
âSo are you.â
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 himâ dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didnât want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadnât 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.Â
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldnât believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldnât 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 couldnât 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 couldnât 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. âDexââ 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.Â
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.Â
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.
âHey,â he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didnât know where to touch to make sure you were okay. âHeyâ look at me.â
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. âDid I hurt you?â he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
âFuckâno,â you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. âDex, fuck! How could you even say that?â
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.Â
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. ExceptâŚÂ
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 wasnât shameful or weaponized or ruined⌠you had stopped wanting this to end.Â
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 heâd 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.
âI donât understand you,â you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. âI donât either.â
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. âFuck, Dex,â you choked out, âyou were supposed to be a job.â
âSo were you.â
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. âI should kill you,â 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.Â
âDo it,â he whispered. âItâs what you were sent to do.â He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. âI canât,â you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. âYes, you can.â
âNo!â You shouted out, panicked. âDonât fucking⌠donât even try to make this easier!â
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldnât 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.Â
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way heâd looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. âIâm gonnaâŚâ you whispered shakily, but you couldnât finish the sentence.
You didnât 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.Â
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. âOh my god,â you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasnât, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you âHey, look at me.â
You genuinely couldnât. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. âI canât fucking do this,â you sobbed. âI canât⌠I canâtââ
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
âIâm a monster,â you whispered brokenly. âDex, Iâm a fucking monster.â
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.
âYou donât get to say that like youâre different from me,â 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 didnât know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. âWeâre both monsters,â he whispered.
But it didnât sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
âend.
