#ddba s2

[metal-armed-muse]

SAFEST PLACE TO BLEED

BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X DOCTOR! F!READER

SUMMARY. Bullseye shows up bleeding in Matt Murdock’s arms. You have a clinic, a locked door, and a terrible habit of letting wounded things crawl into your hands.

WORD COUNT. 8.4K WARNINGS. canon adjacent, wounded dex, mentions of blood, minor injury details and treatment, doctor/patient setup, emotional dependency, jealousy (dex is a jealous bitch), possessiveness, morally messy dynamics, matt murdock cameo, platonic matt, set after the events of episode 5 of DDBA S2, references to foggy’s and vanessa’s death, suicidal ideation/passive death wish from dex (canon😭), MDNI, explicit sexual content, praise, possessive language, riding, groping, tit play, unprotected pnv, creampie, soft aftercare, needy!dex, dex being a feral wounded dog of a man, no use of y/n. KIE’S NOTES. I’ve been writing this on and off since episode 5 aired, and this is by far one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Dex is such a complex character to write for holy fuck 😭 there are so many analogies to stray dog, like he just wants to be a good boy, you’ll see 🫩

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A wounded dog will decide who counts as safe long before anyone else understands why it bites. 

You learned that before medical school, before emergency rotations and back-alley sutures that made men in masks limp to you and bleed all over your tile at 3 AM. You learned it at eleven, crouched near an alley behind your old apartment, palm full of deli turkey your mother told you was for lunch, watching a stray with a torn ear bare his teeth at every adult who tried to corner him. Animal control had come with poles. A neighbor had come with a towel. Your mother came with her worried mouth pressed thin and her hands hovering near your shoulders, ready to snatch you back if the dog lunged. The dog had lunged at everyone except you. He had stared at you with yellow-brown eyes, ribs moving under filthy fur, every part of him made of pain and suspicion, and he had taken the turkey from your hand so gently that you cried on the spot. Full ugly tears, snot and all, as if tenderness from a ruined thing was the saddest miracle in the world.

Benjamin Poindexter reminds you of that dog every time he appears at your door.

Which is insane, clinically. Dex is a man. Dex is a killer. Dex is precise, lethal, too calm in ways that make the hairs on the back of your neck lift even when he is sitting on your exam stool with his shirt off and three cracked ribs under your palm. Dex looked at you with blood in his teeth and asked if you keep the good suture scissors in the second drawer or if you hide them from your 'less charming clients,' and he smiled when you stared at him too long. He is six feet of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms, and yet the first thing your mind gives you when you think of Dex is that stray dog taking turkey from your fingers.

That knock at this time is unexpected. Matt.

Matt knocks like a man who hates needing help. Two firm taps, a pause, one more. Spiderman kncoks like he's not allowed to come in. Jessica once kicked the door and yelled your name until you opened. Dex, on his own, never knocks at all. He appears. He waits. Sometimes he bleeds on the mat. Sometimes he makes a small, polite comment about your hallway light going out.

You are across the room before the kettle finishes screaming. Your clinic is technically a closed flower shop with a fake lease and a drain installed under the center table, which makes you look deranged. Until someone comes in with a knife wound and then everyone suddenly appreciates plumbing. The place smells like antiseptic, old brick damp from rain, black tea, and the faint copper ghost that never fully leaves, because blood is part of everything. You unlock the deadbolt, undo the chain, tug the door open, and Matt Murdock nearly falls into you with Bullseye hanging off him like a corpse.

For one bright, stupid second, all your thoughts empty out into his name.

Dex.

His face is a mess. Blood has dried under one nostril and smeared across his mouth in a dark shine. His lower lip is split. One eye is swollen enough that it changes his whole expression, turning him younger in the ugliest way, all that sharpness buried under bruising and exhaustion. His suit is torn at the side, tactical fabric shredded into strips. When Matt adjusts his grip, Dex makes a sound so small you feel it under your bones.

Matt's mouth tightens. Blood mats his dark hair near his temple. Only consolation is that he looks a little better than Dex. "He needs help."

You stare at Dex. Dex stares back, or tries to. His good eye drags over your face with the slow, stunned relief of a man who expected darkness and got a porch light. The part of you with a medical license starts counting injuries in a list that stacks too fast. Facial trauma. Rib involvement. Possible abdominal injury. Scalp laceration. Possible pneumothorax. The part of you that has made the mistake of caring about him too much, looks at his lashes stuck together with rain and blood and wants to put his head in your lap.

With a gentleness reserved for skittish animals, you reach for his jaw, two fingers under his chin to angle his face toward the light. "Dex, can you hear me?"

Blood shines over his teeth, as his mouth twitches. "Hey, Doc."

Matt shifts him higher with a grunt, muscles in his forearms cording from the effort. Dex makes another small sound, angrier this time, as if the pain is just now surfacing. "He took the worst of it. I did what I could, but he kept telling me to leave him."

"Balanced the scales," Dex mumbles, head tipping back against Matt's shoulder. Rainwater slides from his hair down the side of his neck. "You had a city to save."

"Ma — you should come in." You catch yourself at the last second. It rises right up, soft from habit, and catches at the back of your teeth as Dex's good eye opens again.

He smiles at you through the blood. Barely. A broken curve of recognition, jealous even while half-dead, which is so Dex that something in you aches. "I know who he is, doc. You can call him Matt."

You close your eyes, breathe through your nose once, a fond sigh, which also is deeply annoying. "Of course you do."

Dex's smile widens enough to make the split in his lip bleed again. "Smart boy."

No. Nope.

"Table. Keep his neck aligned." You tell Matt, stepping back and sweeping one arm toward the center of the room. "If either of you tracked glass in here, I'm making you both sweep before sunrise." You add, not wanting to sound too soft.

Matt obeys with a silence that says he has learned, through years of being injured in your presence, that arguing only rises blood pressure. Dex tries to help. That is the horrible part. His fingers grip the edge of the exam table once Matt lowers him, knuckles white, body shaking with the effort of being useful. His legs drag a fraction of a second behind the rest of him. Your mind sees it, circles it, hates it. You pull trauma shears from the tray and cut through what remains of the suit before any panic can bloom large enough to slow your hands.

"Eyes on me," you tell Dex, softer than you mean to. "You do exactly what I say for the next hour. That's the deal."

His lashes flutter, and his ruined mouth quirks. "I'm always good for you."

Matt turns his head slightly, lips tugging on a frown half formed. 

You feel it. Dex feels it too. They are both bleeding and somehow still measuring each other. Matt's face gives almost nothing away, but you have known him long enough to read the pauses, even the slight angle of his chin. He hears Dex's pulse change around you. He hears your answer. He hears the rotten little truth of it, warm and embarrassing under all the antiseptic.

You press two fingers to Dex's carotid and pretend the pulse under your skin is purely clinical. "That depends on your definition of good."

"Flexible," Dex breathes.

"Try alive."

"That's less flexible."

When you shoot him a look, he settles. It happens so fast Matt's brow pulls in, and despite the blood running down the side of his own face, despite the exhaustion in every line of him, you see him file it away. Dex does that for you. Dex, who would rather spit teeth than accept help from almost anyone, quiets under your hand like you found a switch under his skin.

You hate how much that means to you.

The shears bite up the side of Dex's suit. Rain-wet fabric peels away from him, exposing bruises already darkening over his ribs, long shallow cuts crossing his abdomen, a deeper gash near his left flank with slow, steady bleeding. You talk while you work, partly for him, partly for Matt, mostly for your own sanity. "Breath sounds normal. No deep lacerations. Two tiny blessings. Dex, if you lie about pain severity, I will find out and I will be extremely annoying about it."

His good eye trails over your face. "You already are."

"Funny. You get one joke per liter of blood loss."

Matt huffs through his nose, almost a laugh, then winces. You point at the chair by the wall without looking up. "Sit."

"I can take care of myself."

The room goes quiet enough for the kettle to click off in the corner.

You turn your head slowly, gloved fingers still pressed to Dex's side. Matt is standing near the exam table, one shoulder lower than the other, blood sliding past his ear, jaw set in that martyr shape you have wanted to smack off his face for years. "Sit down, Matthew."

Dex makes a low sound, a grunt, or an attemp at it. "Matthew."

Matt's eyes go over Dex, jaw clenching and unclenching. "This is a bad time."

"For you, maybe," Dex says, and then coughs hard enough that the joke breaks.

You lean over him fast, one hand at his shoulder, the other bracing his ribs. "Small breaths. Look at me." His eye finds yours again, frantic for a second. He would kill anyone else for witnessing this, but not now. Your voice drops even further. "That's it. You can hate me after."

He breathes the way you tell him to. Obedient.

When Matt sits, some ridiculous, childish part of you wants to clap. Another part wants to cry. You do neither, since your hands are full of a man who has decided your voice is a leash he can tolerate.

The first twenty minutes disappear into work. Blood pressure readings, pupils, pulses, lung sounds again, neuro checks, wound depth, rib stability. You listen to Dex's chest and feel him try to keep still under the stethoscope, sweat shining at his hairline while his fingers curl over the table edge. When you clean his lip, he keeps his eyes on you as if the room might vanish if he looks away. When you probe near the gash at his side, his breathing goes jagged, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of jerking away.

"Hey." You catch his face in your hand before he can sink his teeth deeper. "Open."

He opens his mouth, shaking while he does it. 

You can feel Matt's head turn again. You ignore it, cheeks heating as you slide gauze between Dex's teeth to keep him from chewing himself bloody. "Better. Bite this if you need to. No hero teeth."

Dex's gaze moves over you, half-lidded, feverish, words coming out mumbled over the piece of gauze. "Do you treat all your patients like dogs?"

You secure a dressing against his side and let the pressure hold under your palm. "Only my favourite strays."

His eye softens like he cannot control himself. It is small. A tiny failure of the mask. A starved thing hearing a bowl set down.

Matt hears that too. You can tell from his silence, from the careful stillness in his chair. When you finish with Dex, you cross the room with a suture kit for the cut at his temple. Matt turns his face towards you before your knees touch the edge of the chair. He smells like rain, blood, city smoke, and that faint soap he uses which you have always found unfairly comforting. You have stitched Matt under worse circumstances. You have dug glass out of his shoulder while he spit blood into your sink. You have fed him soup with one hand while keeping pressure on his dressing with another. That comfort is old. It sits between you now.

Dex watches it like it is a blade aimed at him.

You dab antiseptic at Matt's temple. "This is shallow. You are lucky."

Matt's mouth curves in that tired, self-punishing way. "People keep telling me that."

"Maybe try believing them once in a while."

Ignoring that, he dips his chin towards Dex. "How bad is he?"

You glance back at Dex. He has his head turned toward the ceiling now, but his eye is still angled in your direction. Watching. Always listening. "Bad enough that moving him tonight would be stupid. He's stable enough. But I need imaging he will never agree to. Possible rib fractures, soft tissue trauma, no obvious neuro deficit from what I can assess here, but I want repeat checks every hour. He needs observation."

"He wanted me to leave him," Matt says quietly, like his voice won't carry in the small room. 

Dex speaks from the table, voice rough around the gauze and dried blood. "You should've. Still think you should."

You thread the needle through Matt's skin with more force than strictly needed, anger showing up in a different place. Matt says nothing, but his mouth pinches.

"No one dies in my clinic unless I say so," you call over your shoulder.

Dex exhales, a soft sigh followed by a start of a complaint. "You really —"

"Please lie down and stop talking."

Matt's hand closes around your wrist after you finish the last stitch. He does it carefully, fingers warm, thumb pressing once against your radius as if he is asking permission through touch. Comfort. Familiar, heavy with years of people trying to survive horrible nights. "Fisk is still moving," he says. "Karen..." His voice thins for half a breath. "Karen may kill him if I bring him anywhere near her."

Dex smiles at the ceiling. "Smart woman."

You look from Matt to Dex, then down at the blood-speckled gauze piled near your knee. "You want to leave him here."

"I think he is safer here than anywhere else tonight." Matt's mouth tightens, next words dragging through his teeth. "I think everyone else is safer too."

Your laugh comes out dry and humorless. "So I get custody of the homicidal puppy while you go deal with the rest of the apocalypse."

Dex turns his head toward you. Even wrecked, even pale, even with gauze stuffed in his mouth and bruises swallowing half his face, the look he gives you has teeth in it. Offended by the word puppy. Pleased by the word custody. Matt catches every ugly shade of it.

"He listens to you," Matt says.

"He has limited hobbies."

Dex murmurs, "You."

The word drops into the room with a wet little thud. One syllable dragged over broken lips, and still it finds some secret place under your ribs and presses. You hate him a little for that. You hate Matt a little for hearing it. You hate yourself most of all for wanting to go back to the table and touch Dex's hair until his eyes close.

Matt rises slowly. You stand with him, suddenly aware of how small the clinic is with three people and so many things no one should say. He reaches for the cowl, then stops. "Call me if he gets worse. If he loses consciousness, if he starts vomiting, if he says anything about numbness or weakness."

"I went to med school, Matt."

His mouth tilts, a small smile, the first real one from him tonight. 

You can feel Dex watching you, clear enough to hurt. Pain pulls his face tight, yet jealousy sits in him like a second pulse, stubborn and alive. He has killed for balance tonight. He has decided dying would be neat, fair. Still, your hand on Matt's wrist bothers him. Your voice saying Matt's name bothers him. The fact that you can tease the Devil of Hell's Kitchen into sitting down while Dex lies cut open on your table bothers him so much that he has dragged himself back from the edge purely to be petty about it.

Trying to ignore him, you walk Matt to the door and keep your voice low. "You owe me."

"I do."

"No, you really do. This is beyond the usual owe me. This is pay my fake flower shop's electric bill for six months owe me."

His hand finds the doorframe. "Send the amount."

You blink at him, at his audacity. "I was making a point."

"I heard the point." His face softens toward yours, bruised and tired, but warmth nonetheless. "Thank you."

You almost touch his arm. You stop yourself, which is silly, since Matt would sense the hesitation anyway and Dex would read the shape of it from across the room. "Go. Try to keep your skull intact."

Before the door closes, Matt turns his head toward Dex. "If you hurt her, I will hear it."

Dex laughs once, and the sound turns into a wince. "If I hurt her, you can have what's left."

The clinic holds the echo of Matt's footsteps after he leaves. Rain ticks against the front window. Dex's breath is slow but uneven, the gauze in his mouth damp with blood and spit. You stand with your hand on the lock and try to make sense of this situation. A murderer on your table. A city outside eating itself alive. A man who wants to die looking at you like he would crawl back through hell if you asked him to stay.

You lock the door.

Dex watches the motion, tracking you. "You're awfully close."

You cross to the sink and strip off your gloves. The snap of latex feels too loud. "You were actively bleeding out fifteen minutes ago. Pick a smarter topic."

"Answer."

Water runs pink down the drain. Your hands shake only after the gloves are off. "Matt and I have history."

Dex's jaw works around the gauze. "So do we."

"You show up here, bleed on my furniture, say alarming things, refuse hospital transfer, and once asked if I had a membership program after your fifth visit." You shut the water off and look at him. His face makes you angry. But only a little. That hungry stare from a man who has no right to demand any part of you after deciding twenty minutes ago that death sounded fine. Yet under it is the dog with the torn ear. The animal watching every hand, every doorway, every flick of attention, trying to figure out who belongs to him, who might leave, who might choose some other dog with a clean fur.

You walk back to the table and take the gauze gently from his mouth. "You are exhausting."

Dex's throat move with effort, swallowing, saliva wetting his mouth. "Do you look at him like this?"

The question is quieter than the others. Worse. It has no blade in it. Only a man lying open under fluorescent light, too hurt to hide the wound he actually cares about.

Your fingers hover near his cheek. You let them settle at his jaw, light enough that he can turn away if he wants. He does no such thing. He leans into the touch so fast it ruins you.

"Dex."

His lashes lower, tickling your palm when he seeks the warmth. 

"I am going to clean you up, give you fluids, keep you awake for neuro checks, and cuff you to the bed in the back room so you avoid doing some noble-suicidal assassin bullshit the second I blink." Your thumb moves once along the unmarred edge of his jaw. His skin is cold. "After that, you can interrogate me about Matt Murdock until I regret saving your life."

A sad smile curves his lips. "You already regret it."

"No." The word comes out so soft. "I really, really do not."

The clinic's back room used to serve as a supply closet, then you stopped having supplies. Now it holds a narrow bed bolted to the wall, clean sheets, a cabinet of emergency meds, and a chain you bought after a masked idiot with a concussion tried to wander into traffic with three fresh staples in his scalp. 

Dex sees the cuff and laughs until pain takes the laugh away from him. You roll your eyes while helping him shift down onto the mattress, every inch a negotiation with his battered ribs.

"You chain all your favourite patients?" He asks once his uninjured ankle is secured with a padded restraint and the chain runs through the bedframe.

You tug the blanket over his waist. "Only the flight risks."

"Matt ever get the chain?"

Your hands pause, which already gives him a lot without meaning to. 

Dex smiles without opening his eyes. "Interesting."

You secure the IV line, check the dressing at his side, and sit on the small chair beside the bed with your back against the cabinet. "Go to sleep, Dex."

"Can't."

"Then lie still and pretend. You're talented."

His fingers slide over the edge of the mattress until they find your sleeve. He grips the soft cotton near your wrist, clumsy but careful. He has enough strength left to hurt you if he wanted. He holds the fabric instead.

You let him.

Near dawn, after the third neuro check, after he has told you the year, the president, your clinic address, and the exact number of tiles in the ceiling section above him like an asshole, his voice comes out thin and drugged by exhaustion rather than meds. "I did it."

You sit up straighter. Hearing him talk through pain is something you don't want to go through, but have to. "Did what?"

"Balanced it. Vanessa for Foggy."

A chill moves through you so slowly it feels like a hand closing around your heart. Foggy. Matt's grief. Karen's rage. Dex's worst crime. The city's endless appetite for payment. You look at him and see, for one horrible second, a man lying at the bottom of a ledger with a red line drawn under his own name. "And now?" 

Dex's fingers tighten in your sleeve, holding you closer. "Now I'm tired."

You reach up and press your hand over his. He looks at the place where your skin covers his knuckles. His expression is too human for the man the papers called Bullseye, and you hate every person who helped turn him into a weapon, including Dex himself. He leans toward the comfort like he never learned how to ask.

"Then be tired here," you whisper. "I can handle tired."

He studies you for a long moment. "Can you handle me?"

You should say something clinical. Something careful. Something with the kind of boundaries you teach medical students when they come through your legitimate daytime job, wide-eyed and terrified of liability. But, you tell the truth. "I keep opening the door, don't I?"

Dex's eye closes. His fingers stay wrapped in your sleeve until sleep finally drags him under.

By late morning, the rain has stopped. The city has that scrubbed-clean look it gets after a night of lying through its teeth. Pale sunlight presses through the frosted glass in the back room, turning the sheets gold where Dex's hand rests on top of them. You wake in the chair with your neck bent at an angle that will punish you for days, hair coming loose from its clip. For one muzzy second, you forget the night. Then the chain gives a soft metallic scrape, and you remember every part of it at once.

Dex is awake.

He is lying still, which is encouraging. Too still, which is irritating. His good eye follows you as you straighten. He looks better, at least in the way people look better when they are still severely injured but no longer actively trying to bleed into the afterlife. Less gray. More focused. The swelling around his eye has deepened purple. His mouth is still split and tender. Stubble darkens his jaw. His bare chest is bandaged in three places, bruises blooming under the tape like ugly weather.

"You stayed," he says.

Your back cracks when you shift, a grunt escaping you. "I live here during disasters now, apparently."

His gaze drops to your wrinkled shirt, the blanket you must have pulled over yourself at some point. "You slept in a chair."

"I have made worse choices." Liking him was one. 

His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but the split in his lip stops him. "Name one."

"You, repeatedly." Apparently early morning you has no filter. 

That pleases him far more than it should. He watches you stand, and when you come over to check his pupils, he tilts his face up before you ask. Trying to be good again. It is awful to your chest, that easy offering. Dex, who fights everyone, lets you put your fingers under his jaw and angle him towards the light, eyes tracking your face more than the penlight. 

"Headache?" you ask.

"Not really."

"Nausea?"

"No."

"Vision changes?"

"Ugly curtains."

"Those are original to the building, and they have seen too much to be insulted by you."

Ignoring that, he looks toward the ankle cuff. "Am I still a flight risk?"

"You murdered someone last night, tried to die at least twice by my count, and keep making jealous comments about a blind lawyer. So, Id say yes."

Dex's eye comes back to you. Slower now. "You're bringing him up."

The audacity if this stupid, beautiful, injured man. "You were going to."

"I was waiting."

"That must have been hard for you."

His fingers flex against the sheet, head dipping once towards his ankle. "Take it off."

You fold your arms, and his gaze moves briefly over your chest before he makes himself look back at your face. The tiny effort, the discipline of it, should not be as intimate as it is. "Tell me why."

"So I can leave if I want."

"Wrong answer."

The old Dex sits up under the wounded one for a second, teeth showing in spirit, even if his mouth is too sore for the full shape. He exhales, irritated. "So I can stop feeling like you expect me to run."

That one is a better answer. He sees that getting to you, which is annoying. Your mouth softening by degrees, fingers loosening against your arms, he sees all of it. You crouch near the bed and unlock the cuff with the key on your necklace. His eyes follow it, the little brass thing sliding from between your breasts, then the lock, then your hand closing around his ankle to ease the padding away from skin.

The chain falls with a dull clink.

Half of you, the pessimistic half, expects him to lunge. But he just lies there and looks at you with wonder in his eyes, as if you have handed him a weapon and he has chosen, for this one morning, to set it down.

"If you run, I will find you and sedate you in public," you say.

"You promise?"

"Dex."

With effort, his hand lifts. The tremor is subtle, visible only because you have spent too many nights learning his tells. He reaches for your wrist and stops halfway, waiting.

You wouldn't have thought more about this if he'd just reached. The waiting is what burrows under your ribs. 

When you give him your wrist, his fingers close around it with almost no pressure, thumb restinh over your pulse like he wants to feel proof you are still here, flesh and warmth, no trick. "Does he get this?" 

He should feel your pulse jump under his thumb, as you sigh and look at him. "Matt gets stitches. Lectures. Soup if he looks starved."

Dex studies your face, eyes tracking every one of your features, scanning. "And me?"

"You get the chain."

He huffs out something close to a laugh, with whatever energy that's left in him.

"You get me missing sleep, changing your dressings while you say upsetting things. You get me pretending I don't worry when you vanish for weeks and then show up with half your side open like a wounded dog dragging itself under a porch."

His hand tightens around the hold, eyes darkening. They are fixed on you with concentration, feeling more like a touch than his actual hands. 

Dex has always looked at targets with focus. You have seen him do it through security footage Matt once brought you, body still, gaze calm, all the world narrowed into distance and outcome. This is different. Messier. He looks at you like he wants to crawl into the space behind your ribs and sleep there where no one can reach him.

"Do you want him?" The question comes out blunt. Too wounded. Subtlety has been stripped from him. What remains is one battered man, waiting to hear if he has already lost something he never properly held.

You sit on the edge of the mattress, careful near his ribs. The warmth of his body seeps into yours. "Matt is my friend."

"He touches you like he has rights."

"He touches me like he trusts me."

Dex's eyes looks pained, his jaw tightening. When you lean closer, his gaze drops to your mouth. Your eyes cleanly capture that small betrayal. His thumb strokes once over your pulse, helplessly possessive. You could still walk away. Probably change his dressing, make tea, text Matt an update, maybe contact someone with imaging access who asks fewer questions than the hospital would. Your brain produces tasks in a neat row. Your body knocks the row over like dominoes.

"He doesn't get this look," you sigh. Hazel eye lifts to yours, stripped clean. You almost laugh at yourself for what you're about to say, too honest for this setting. "No one else gets this look."

His breathing changes. Shallow for a second, then controlled since his ribs hurt. He has to choose restraint with every inhale. It makes the want on his face worse. A man who can hit a target precisely even in motion, is trying to keep still under your hand. The effort has sweat gathering at his temples. His hand closed around your wrist tugs you towards him, wordless, but you don't think words are needed. 

"You have bruised ribs, multiple lacerations, and an ego wound the size of Manhattan," you say, but lean towards him anyway. 

"Your bedside manner was better last night."

"Last night you were closer to death."

His mouth curves faintly, the split lip threatening to open with themotion. "I'm improving. Reward me."

The nerve of him. The absurd, devastating nerve of him, lying in your bed bandaged to hell, asking for you like he has any right, like he has every right. He has learned the existence of a spot in you where affection, fear and desire knot together, and has decided to press his thumb there. This is medically stupid, ethically worse, emotionally catastrophic. 

But his hand on your wrist makes you feel chosen by a creature who has bitten everyone else, torn ear flashing before your eyes once more. 

You bend down and kiss him. You mean to make it careful. A little thing. A test. Dex makes a sound into your mouth, and the kiss opens wider before you can organize your thoughts. His lips are split, so you keep the pressure light, but he chases you anyway, hungry in a ruined, restrained way that sends a wave of heat through your skin. His hand rises to the back of your neck. You expect him to pull your closer, but he just holds you there, that being somehow worse. His palm is warm, fingers trembling slightly against your hairline, whole body focusing on the point where your mouth meets his.

You pull back first, breathing hard, sharing oxygen. "Pain?" 

His eyes open slowly, hazel swallowed by black. "Yes."

"From the kiss?"

"No." 

"Dex."

"Everything hurts," he says, voice rough, like he's holding on by a thread. "That felt better."

The thread is thin. Your forehead lowers to his temple for one second. Just one. But it's enough to smell antiseptic on his skin, blood in his mouth, rain still caught somewhere in his hair. Enough to feel him exhale like the thread has finally snapped.

"This stays slow," you whisper against his mouth. "You tell me if I need to stop."

His thumb moves along your jaw, soft, so soft. "I'll behave."

That word is so gentle, that he has no practice giving, and you kiss him again before you can lose your nerve. Dex kisses like survival has always been a contact sport. Even injured, even careful, his mouth has a desperate steadiness to it, as if he is memorizing the limits of what he can take from you without breaking the spell. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, then stops. Waiting again.

You place his hand over your hip.

A sound leaves him, too soft to be a groan, too hungry to be a sigh, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your thighs press together, his eye tracking the movement with a precision that makes your skin prickle. "Doc," he murmurs against your mouth.

"Mm?"

"You're shaking."

"So are you."

"I have an excuse."

A laugh from your mouth, but it comes out breathy and uneven, not nearly as cool as you need it to be. "Shut up."

You don't have a comeback, no sharp thing to say. You're letting Ben Poindexter slide his hand up under your shirt. There's an awful tenderness in being wanted by someone who rarely wants anything without destroying it. So, no. No sharp comeback. 

His palm spreads over your waist, careful of his taped fingers, of the bruises on his own knuckles, careful with you in a way that feels learned from watching rather than experience. His thumb brushes the lower curve of your breast through your bra, and your breath goes thin.

His gaze locks on that reaction. "Can I?" 

When you nod, his hand moves higher, cupping you with an aching slowness that makes your hips shift on the mattress. Dex's eyelid lowers, mouth parting slightly as if the feel of you under his palm is enough to daze him more than his injuries. He squeezes once, gentle at first, then firmer when your fingers curl into the sheet.

"Tell me," he says.

"Half-dead, but still you demand."

He ignores your words. "Tell me what you like."

The command, irritating from any other mouth, only drags heat through every inch of you now. You cover his hand with yours and guide him, showing him the pressure, the spot, how your nipple tightens when his thumb rubs over it through cotton. His attention is unbearable. "Like that," you breathe. "A little harder. Yeah, like that."

"He ever hear you sound like that?"

You kiss him harder, stealing those words from his mouth. He absorbs it with a shudder, hand tightening around your breast while his other reaches for your thigh. 

The position is so awkward, you help him a little to sit up. Two bodies learning each other in the small space of a spare room cot.

Jealousy is still there, you can feel it threaded through every question, but now it has heat behind it, a wounded need that makes him cling and challenge at once. You swing one leg over his hips before he can try to move too much, settling carefully over his thighs, your palms braced on either side of his shoulders so none of your weight hits his ribs.

For once, Bullseye looks struck.

You look down at him, at the swelling, the bruises, the blood cleaned from his mouth, the bandages you placed over skin you are now aching to touch. 

A man who tried to die last night is now staring at you like your thighs around him might be a reason to reconsider.

"This okay?" you ask, voice soft, not to startle him.

Dex swallows as he nuzzles closer, as if it was even possible. "Better than okay."

"Hands stay where they won't pull stitches."

A faint smile, soft enough to pull your heartstrings, looks up at you as if you have given him an order he would follow through fire. "Yes, doctor."

Your fingers tighten in the sheet beside his hip at his words. His thumb keeps moving on the bare strip of your stomach like he has found a place warm enough to keep him, palm heavy with feverish want and restraint that looks painful on him. 

When you reach for your shirt, his hand tightens at your thigh. "Slow… let me see."

You almost laugh at the nerve of him. When the shirt drags up your ribs, his eyes follow every inch as if the fabric itself has offended him by hiding you this long. You pull it over your head and toss it to your back. Your bra is plain, worn from too many overnight shifts, and the fact that he looks at it like lace from some altar makes heat crawl over your cheeks. "Say something," you murmur, fingers hovering near the clasp.

Dex's mouth parts, then closes again. The split along the lower one shines where he has worried it open with every kiss. "I'm trying to think like a man with blood left in his head."

"That bad?"

His thumb brushes under the curve of your breast, barely grazing the band of your bra. "Worse."

You unhook it before the embarrassment can make you hesitate. The straps slip down your arms, and Dex goes still. Your breasts fall free, nipples already tight from his earlier touch, and the look on his face makes you feel naked in a deeper place than skin. He reaches up with both hands, then winces at the pull across his ribs. His frustration flashes sharp in his jaw.

"Let me come to you," you offer.

He gives a tiny shake of his head, annoyed at himself. "I hate this."

"You hate being cared for."

"I hate having hands and not able to use them."

That almost makes you smile. You shift closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, other hand cupping your breast and guiding him towards it. "Then use your mouth."

Dex groans like that instruction broke him. His lips close around your nipple, careful for all of two seconds before the pull turns needy. His tongue works over you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips shift against his. He makes a sound into your skin, less like hunger, more comfort, like he has found some impossible warmth in you and intends to live there now. 

One of his hands finds your waist. The other slides around to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh he can reach. He cannot pull you hard without hurting himself, so he holds you in place and sucks like he needs the taste of you to steady him.

"Dex," you breathe, your hand tightening in his hair. His eye lifts without his mouth leaving you. "That's... yeah. Keep doing that."

He answers by drawing you deeper into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with a careful pull that sends a wet, aching spark down between your legs. The sound you make embarrasses you, and he hears it. Feels it. His hand slides lower, greedy over the curve of your ass. When you rock against him, his cock presses thick and hard under the loose pants you put on him hours earlier.

He releases your nipple with a soft sound, mouth shining. "Take these off me."

"Demanding, are we?"

His gaze drags up to meet yours. "Please. I need you closer, and these are in my way."

That is worse than anything filthy he could have said. Your fingers go to his waistband, tugging carefully, your focus split between wanting him and watching the tight pinch around his mouth whenever his ribs object. He helps as much as he can, lifting his hips an inch, hissing through his teeth. His cock slips free against his stomach, hard, already wet at the tip.

You stare for half a second too long. Even when he's injured, Dex notices everything. "Still want to scold me?"

"Constantly," you say, hating the softness in it, and wrap your hand around him.

His laugh turns into a groan, head dropping back against the wall while your thumb spreads the wetness at his tip down his shaft. He is warm in your hand, heavy, alive. The thought makes your throat ache, so you lean in and kiss him instead, messy and careful at once, your bare chest pressed near his bandages, your fingers stroking him until his hips twitch. "Stop moving," you whisper against his mouth.

"I barely moved."

"You moved enough." Your fingers don't stop their graze on his cock. 

"I missed you." His voice comes apart on the last word. "Grant me a little mercy."

You rise onto your knees instead of answering the smarter way, tugging at your pants with one impatient hand while the other stays braced near his shoulder. The fabric catches at your knees, and for one stupid second you almost laugh. This is so ungraceful, far from the kind of fantasy you would have let yourself have about him. Dex does not laugh. His gaze follows the slow drag of your pants down your thighs like he is watching something holy and obscene at once. By the time you kick them off near the foot of the cot, your underwear is damp enough to cling, and his fingers flex against your hips like he is fighting the urge to help. "Those too."

"You're very annoying for a man who can barely sit upright, you know?"

"Please." There's just desperation. 

You push your underwear down just enough at first, suddenly shy under his gaze, then give up and pull them off completely. Your slick coats your fingers when you touch yourself, and Dex's mouth parts like the sight has taken the last good thought from his head.

He watches entranced while you drag that wetness over his cock, making the slide easier, making a filthy shine of both of you. His hands flex against your hips, then still when you lower yourself over him.

The first stretch steals the words from both of you. You sink slowly, one hand braced on the wall over his shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm where the muscle tenses under your palm. Dex looks wrecked before you are even halfway down. His mouth hangs open, eyes fixed on your face, then dropping to where his cock disappears into you, then come back up as if he needs to see you take him more than he needs air. "Too much?" he asks.

Lowering anothet inch, you shake your head, thighs already trembling from the angle. "Just — just let me take my time."

"I'm yours," he says. "Take all of it."

The words do terrible things to you. You sink the rest of the way, cunt closing around him in hot, slick pulses. 

Dex's hands clamp down on your ass with a force that almost breaks through his weakness. His forehead falls against your sternum. He breathes there, mouth brushing your skin, then he turns his face and sucks one breast back between his lips while you start to ride him.

The cot creaks under. Your thighs burn almost immediately, cramped from sleep in the chair and the span of his hips beneath yours. Still, you lift and sink, taking him deeper each time. 

Dex tries to stay still. You feel the fight in him. His palms keep sliding under your ass, helping you rise, helping you drop, giving you just enough strength to keep moving without letting his ribs tear at him.

Then he thrusts up like he can't stop himself. A sharp little cry leaves you, pleasure striking so deep your knees almost give. Dex makes a pained sound in the same second, and your hand flies to his shoulder "Do that again and I swear I'll chain you back to the bed."

His face is tight, sweat shining at his temple. "I can take this."

"You are actively proving the opposite."

"Please." He says it into your breast, lips brushing the skin as he speaks, hands still cupping your ass. "Let me help. Sitting still while you do everything hurts worse."

Your scolding dies half-formed. If there's a tease, you could've gone through with it. But there's only need. Nodding your head against him, you let his hands guide you again. 

He lifts as much as he can with his arms, careful of his side, and you ride the motion, cunt sliding down his cock with a wet sound that makes both of you shudder. His mouth finds your nipple again, sucking harder, and you feel him everywhere, under your skin, in your thighs, between your ribs. "I'm close," you tell him.

His hand leaves your ass, searching between your bodies. But when he twists wrong, pain catches him. You grab his wrist and press it back to your hip. "No. I'll do it."

"I want to make you cum."

"You are." You touch your clit with slick fingers and circle it the way you need, riding him in short, deep rolls. "Just stay with me. That's what I need."

His head drops back against the wall, watching your hand move, watching his cock fill you, then watches your face break open around pleasure. "Look at me. P-please. Let me see you."

When your eyes find his, your orgasm hits you you hard enough to turn your thighs useless, cunt clenching around him in tight, wet pulls. 

Dex curses softly, hands locking on your ass as he spills inside you, hot and endless, body going rigid beneath yours while he tries to keep from thrusting. You keep your mouth against his, breathing into him until the shaking eases.

He says something too low for you to catch.

"What?"

His eye opens, glassy and spent. "Mine."

Your fingers slide along his jaw, careful around the bruising. "You don't get to say that unless you stay alive."

"I'll stay alive." The answer comes fast, hoarse, almost angry with how badly he means it.

Before you can respond, he catches the wrist of the hand you used on your clit and brings your fingers to his mouth. His lips close around them, sucking you off your own skin with a slow hunger that makes you clench again around his softening cock. 

Like he cannot bear another second apart, he pulls you down and kisses you, your taste on his tongue, his hand weak but certain at the back of your neck. His pulse slams under your palm where it's holding onto his neck. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Getting off him is slow and messy. His cum slides down your thigh while you stand naked beside the cot. 

Dex watches with a dazed, almost helpless look that follows you even when you grab a warm cloth. You sit beside him and clean his cock first, gentle around oversensitive skin, and he inhales like this care is harder to take than the sex. "I can do that," he mutters.

"You are injured. Shut up." You continue your path down his thighs. 

"You like telling me what to do."

"I like keeping you alive." You check the bandage at his side next, still naked, still dripping, fingers clinical even while his gaze keeps dropping to the mess he left between your thighs. "Looks okay. Nothing opened."

When you clean yourself, he watches your hand move between your thighs with a frown that is almost offended. "That should be me."

"You can do that when you aren't fighting for your life."

His eye lifts to yours, begging, exhausted. "Next time?"

"Next time." Next time means he's planning on staying. 

Your phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the moment. One small vibration against the metal cabinet, and Dex already knows. His eye shifts before yours does, tired and sharp at the same time, like the rest of him is sinking under but that sharp little blade in him still knows how to lift its head. "Matt," he says.

Offering him a bottle of water, you pick up your phone. Sure enough it is Matt.

"Tell him I didn't vanish." The bottle is unopened at his hands.

Sighing, you grab it from him, uncap and press it to his lips. Dex looks at you stunned, almost offended that you're holding a bottle to his mouth. "Drink."

Whatever response that was about to spill from his lips is interrupted by another buzz of your phone, currently on the cot beside him.

Dex's eyes drop to the screen. Bruised, naked under the too-thin blanket, barely keeping himself awake, and still he finds the one thing in the room pulling your attention away from him. "Persistent," he rasps.

"You're one to talk." The bottle stays at his mouth until he takes one grudging swallow, then another. His throat works, lashes lowering for a second.

The phone buzzes again.

Dex's mouth leaves the bottle. "Just — just reply him."

You pick up the phone with a sigh, and type back a response. 

Still here. Stable. 

Dex's eye tracks every letter. "That's all?"

"You want a performance review?"

His almost-smile tugs at the torn corner of his mouth. "Five stars. Charming. Didn't vanish."

You set the phone facedown beside his hip and lift the bottle again. "One more sip."

He groans, but drinks. This time he doesn't look offended. When a drop slips from the corner of his mouth, you wipe it with your thumb before thinking better of it. Dex catches your wrist before you can pull back. His grip has almost no strength left, but he holds you like letting go is the worst thing that could happen. "I behaved." 

Just two words, like that wounded dog setting its head down because it has run out of places, but has finally found home. Your eyes sting so fast it's embarrassing. You settle your palm against his cheek. "Yes, you did."

Matt's reply comes through, unseen and ignored.

Dex's eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into your palm, your wrist still trapped in his loose hold. And all you can think is, stay.

MY MASTERLIST

EXTRAS. you can tell i almost gave up in the end. also… my man is so puppy dog. prove me wrong…

[aquaticmercy]

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 else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.

Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.

He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count. 

Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?

The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be. 

So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.

That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.

His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it. 

He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.

The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter. 

The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway. 

The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh. 

2.5 million dollars.

Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?

His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow. 

Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives. 

Secondary objective: termination upon completion.

Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.

And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.

Target Activity Log (Condensed): Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses. Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration. Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high. Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified. Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion. Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated. 

Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.

This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.

He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.

He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods. 

The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.

Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway. 

He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.

You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.

Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.

People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.

Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.

His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.

Recent Activity: Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses. DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected. New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.

Right. 

The target was still active. 

“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.

That was what tipped it for him.

Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good.  The file didn’t show that.

It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was. 

And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.

His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.

Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.

Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.

And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.

His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.

And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.

—

Dex expected you to be harder to find.

Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.

But you hadn’t done that.

You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly. 

It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.

But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month. 

He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.

The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.

Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.

There wasn’t anything.

It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.

He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.

Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.

It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.

After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order. 

Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job. 

By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong. 

The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity. 

But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.

—

The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.

He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?

He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.

He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.

He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental. 

This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.

You didn’t. You just kept running.

He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?

“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”

Up close, everything went a little sideways.

He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—

“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.

Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel. 

Simple, right? 

Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.

Right. Say something. Anything.

“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”

There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.

That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.

Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?

But you were still just looking at him.

And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.

That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it. 

Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.

This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.

You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.

“Coffee?” you repeated. 

“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”

“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”

“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”

I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?

Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”

Oh?

Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.

“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.

He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.

And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.

And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.

—

The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.

On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.

When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.

You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.

Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.

You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.

“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”

Dex choked.

It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.

His eyes snapped back to you.

“…You knew?” he asked.

You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”

There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.

Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?

You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.

“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.

Great. Perfect. Real smooth.

He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.

She’s a target. This is a job.

“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”

You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.

Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.

“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.

The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.

“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”

Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”

You nodded once, resetting playfully. 

“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”

You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.

Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.

You waited.

“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”

Your lips twitched. “I got that.”

“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”

The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.

“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”

That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.

“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”

That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.

“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?” 

He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”

“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”

Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”

You grinned. “Thought so.”

“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.

“Iced latte. Always.”

He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.

“Consistent,” you corrected.

“Same thing.”

“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.

The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm. 

You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was. 

For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes. 

“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”

“Same,” he said.

“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”

“Same.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”

There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it. 

You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”

Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”

Dex tilted his head. “…What?”

You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to… 

Then he took the phone.

“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”

He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.

“See you around, Dex Not Tony.” 

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”

You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.

Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.

Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right

—

That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.

The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all. 

He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.

He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary: 

Likes iced lattes

—

Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.

He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.

His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.

There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:

THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY

Below it, you had texted: 

is this you?

Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.

Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.

Dex: no. Why would you think that?

He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away. 

He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.

You: just thought I’d ask

Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough? 

Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?

There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.

You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so

Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.

Right. You weren’t letting that go. Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.

He only had to wait a few seconds 

You: sure

He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.

You sent another message before he could respond.

You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway

Dex managed a smile.

Dex: Probably.

You texted back just as quickly

You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂 You: congrats

He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.

You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.

Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again. 

Dex: Why’d you actually text me?

The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.

You: because I wanted to You: ??? You: do I need a better reason than that

Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could  categorize, 

Dex: People usually have reasons.

This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.

You: okay, fine You: I was bored You: and you’re interesting You: better?

Dex froze.

Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?

Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.

He could almost picture you rolling your eyes 

You: wow. you are a fan

He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place. 

You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so… 

Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date

He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used. 

The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds. 

You: is that what that was the first time? a date??

Dex blinked.

“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.

No. It was—

He stopped. What was it?

Dex: maybe?

That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.

You: right You: with a guy who “sees me around”  You: very normal

Dex pressed his lips together.

Dex: Do you want to go or not?

During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies. 

You: yeah sure 

His grip on the phone loosened slightly.

You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?

Dex huffed.

Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about? 

Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?

You: okay. Friday?

The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so… 

Dex: Friday works.

He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.

You: cool You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe

Dex stared at that one for a second.

Dex: No promises.

There was no reply after that.

That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:

Initiates contact.

—

The second date felt different before it even started.

You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.” 

You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.

Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”

It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have. 

The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.

“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.

Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.

You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.

“It’s fine,” he said.

You snorted. “Liar.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are.”

He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“There it is.”

The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.

You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.

Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said. 

You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.

You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—

Dex raised his hand before he could stop it.  “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.

You paused. “what…”

His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.

His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”

“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.

He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.

There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.

And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.

You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence. 

“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”

“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled. 

“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”

“No.”

“Scrapbooking?”

“No.”

“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”

He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”

You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”

Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.

You shrugged. “Standard Red Room stuff.”

Dex’s posture shifted slightly, attention narrowing. 

Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way. 

These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”

You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”

“What?”

“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”

Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”

Dex blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”

He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…

“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.

“Okay,” you echoed.

And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late… 

This doesn’t feel like a job.

—

Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.

Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.

So yeah, you had given him your real address.

For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.

The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.

“You’re expected,” he said simply.

Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.

By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap? 

He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.

“Hi,” you said.

Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.

Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.

You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”

He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.

Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…

The place was… expensive.

Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.

“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it. 

You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”

And just like that, you disappeared.

Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything. 

You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.

“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.

Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.

His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.

Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.

He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.

Inside was a compact hidden compartment.

The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.

Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.

It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?

He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.

He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active. 

You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.

This was the kind of access people killed for.

His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.

This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.

Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.

Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.

Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.

“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”

Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.

“You’re fine,” he said evenly.

You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand. 

You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”

—

It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought. 

Turns out, it was. 

Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him. 

His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.

He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities. 

It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t…  Well.

He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.

Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine. 

The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.

It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.

Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?

You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.

But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.

Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.

At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.

“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”

Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.

“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”

Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”

Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.

That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.

You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work? 

That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.

Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—

“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”

He blinked, pulled back into the moment.

“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”

Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.

He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him. 

And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?

Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little. 

And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything. 

The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not. 

You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking. 

At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth. 

Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.

“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”

Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself. 

“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.

Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”

You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”

He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.

You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”

Dex managed to roll his eyes. 

“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”

Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”

“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again. 

The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.

The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.

You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.

Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.

And you looked… Pretty.

That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.  

But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless. 

Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.

Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.

The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer. 

Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.

You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.

Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.

Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.

You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have. 

“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.

“I’m not,” he said automatically.

You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”

He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.

It made something in his brain go pop.

You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.

Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.

It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.

He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really. 

It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit. 

For a while, you didn’t move away. 

Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.

Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too. 

Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—

That would be it. The line would be crossed.

You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.

Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.

You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.

Too close. This was way too close.

Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.

Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.

“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.

“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”

Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.

You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.

“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”

Oh.

He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment. 

Oh, well. What else can he do?

“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”

Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.

And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.  

You have enough. Kill her. 

Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted. 

What are you waiting for? Kill her. 

It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now. 

He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun. 

Kill her.

And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.

Kill her.

But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was… 

I want another date.

No. He shouldn’t want that, right?

Kill her.

He didn’t want that either. 

But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?

Right? 

Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier? 

Kill her. 

No, he told himself, Not yet.

I want just one more date. 

And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet. 

—

Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.

The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.

He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.

He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.

He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.

He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.

Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.

His handwriting stayed tight. 

2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales. 

Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.

Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—

His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.

The pen froze again.

That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important. 

But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.

Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—

His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.

… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.

Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.

What the fuck.

He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.

Red wine is her favourite.

His grip on the pen tightened slightly.

He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.

He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.

Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft? 

Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…

She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”

He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.

—

The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.

It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.

You need to kill her today.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.

When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.

“Hi,” you said with a smile

Kiss her.

He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”

“I haven’t.”

“You definitely have.”

“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.

You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”

She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.

Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”

“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”

He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”

“I’m not.” He immediately said. 

You blinked. “Then why…”

“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.

You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”

“Yes.”

“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.

He didn’t do either.

“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.

“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”

Liar. Kill her.

Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass. 

The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.” 

You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.

After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”

You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”

“I’m observing.”

“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”

“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.

You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”

Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?

How did you even survive? 

She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.

“…Yeah,” he said anyway.

Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”

We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.

“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It has too much…. whatever that is.”

“That is eel,” you squinted.

“Exactly,” he shrugged.

“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”

He paused. “That’s not the point.”

You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”

Kill her. Kiss her.

“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.

You beamed. 

By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.

“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.

Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.

Kiss her. Kill her.

He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.

“It’s good,” he admitted.

“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.

He shook his head slightly.

She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.

You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”

Dex’s attention shifted immediately.

There it is. Focus.

“Targets?” he repeated.

You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”

He didn’t respond.

You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”

You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.

She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.

“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”

“Either.”

You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”

That…. He understood.

Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”

His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”

“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”

“No.”

You grinned. “Then you get it.”

He did. He really, really did.

You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.

Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.

Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.

He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.

You wouldn’t even—

You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.

“Earth to Dex?”

He blinked, refocusing on the world around him. 

You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.

“What?” he said.

“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”

Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.

“No,” he said, coughing a little

You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”

He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.

Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.

He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared. 

He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.

Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.

—

When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard. 

His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns  lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.” 

That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood. 

Kill her.

He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.

His thoughts only sped up after that. 

Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.

He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission. 

It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.  

He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.

Focus.

His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do. 

He needed to do it. Now. Outside. 

He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket. 

But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.

Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.

He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.

He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.

The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you. 

He needed that first. Just once. 

“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.

Kiss her. Then kill her.

—

The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions. 

Good. No witnesses.

Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.

Kill her.

“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.

He gulped. “Hey.”

His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.

“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”

Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.

His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.

Kiss her like you mean it.  

When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.

You tasted… fuck! Sweet.

His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex. 

Kiss her like you fucking mean it. 

He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.

Kill her.

The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.

Do it now.

He could, theoretically.  You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.

One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him. 

“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.

Dex froze.

You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just…  hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.

Kill her.

His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…

No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.

It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…

She didn’t deserve that.

That was it. That was his excuse this time.

You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang! 

His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.

“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”

You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.

Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—

Kiss her.

He almost did.

Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:

She tastes like strawberries and cream. 

—

The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.

Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.

It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.

He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.

It ends today. Kill her.

Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.

You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.

Kill her.

He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.

You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”

His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.

It was insufficient. He knew it.

You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.

He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.

You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief. 

Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”

You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”

He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…

Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.

You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.

For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.

Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.

But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…

Shoot her in the head.

“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”

That caught Dex off guard. “What?”

You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”

You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”

Dex stared at you.

Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—

“You deserved better,” he said.

You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”

Make it quick, coward.

He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night. 

You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.

Kiss her.

He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.

Kiss her. Indulge.

He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.

You didn’t.

Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.

You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with. 

His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.

You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.

He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.

You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”

Kill her. Do it right.

He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.

Fucking coward. What are you waiting for?  She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you. 

Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”

He nodded once.

If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”

That part wasn’t a lie.

You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.

And just like that, you followed him home.

—

The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking. 

But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.

Kill her.

It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.

Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.

Kill her. Do it before she does it first.

The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

But then, another voice cut through.

Kiss her.

It didn’t argue. It pulled.

Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.

His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.

Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.

It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.

One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—

Then, he felt your hand slip into his.

And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet. 

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.

Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.

The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.

Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.

His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him. 

And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.

By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.

He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.

Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.

Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.

He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.

And it was a primal, wild want. 

He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.

Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”

—

His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you. 

You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.

Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint. 

His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.

You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once. 

He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.

His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking. 

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”

“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”

But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.

How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?

“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.

You said his name again, gentler this time. 

And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.

“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently. 

You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”

But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.

“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”

Oh.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get. 

Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.

Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.

His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—

click.

It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off. 

Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.

He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.

It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.

Of course.

Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.

And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.

“…Oh,” he said softly.

The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.

You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.

How could he be this fucking stupid?

He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.

Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—

No. You were working. Just like him.

Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.

And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.

His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.

Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.

Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.

“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”

He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.

Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core. 

You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.

The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.

He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.

And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too. 

And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.

Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.

Fuck.

His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.

You looked vulnerable.

And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.

Your brows pulled together slightly.

Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”

Your breath caught audibly.

“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”

“Dex…” you breathed shakily.

But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”

You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.

God, I’m so sick.

“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”

Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.

“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”

Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.

The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you. 

“Do it, then,” you whispered.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.

“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”

Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?

Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.

His hands slid down your thighs reverently.  “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.

“So are you.”

That almost made him smile.

The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.

That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.

He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.

Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him. 

His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.

Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.

The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.

Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.

Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.

And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.

Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.

Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.

He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers. 

Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast. 

Too much. It was too much.

Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.

Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.

Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.

“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”

You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.

His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.

“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”

The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.

You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore. 

You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except… 

You had fallen utterly in love with him.

Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end. 

And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.

It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.

Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.

He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.

A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”

You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”

“So were you.”

You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.

Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you. 

“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.

Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.

He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”

“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”

When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.

Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough. 

But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.

You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.

The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally. 

Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.

Dex thought he was dead.

For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”

You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”

Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.

“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”

Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.

And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.

Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.

“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.

Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.

When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.

Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.

His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.

But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.

—end.

[i-smoke-chapstick]

'CRY FOR ME,

-BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X READER-

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; This whole fic was inspired by this post by @masterfishbaiter71 ! Anyways, this entire fic is just about edging Dex til he has a meltdown and goes fucking crazy on you ;)

⋆ tags/warnings. benjamin poindexter x female reader. SMUT!!!! PURE PORN. Guys please don't edge Dex, for your own safety, warnings for sadism, mentions of dacryphilia for both dex and reader, dex taking his anger out on reader, kind of switchy vibes (starts off with somewhat subby Dex and ends with reader getting destroyed lmao), m!receiving oral smex, BLOWJOB BLOWJOB BLOWJOB, facefucking, sadomasochism, you're his north star, per usual that white boy loses his self control, emotional Dex, swearing. I saw this post and flatlined pretty much. I love my little dexy-poo. Again, tysm to everyones support on my fics! Im so excited for tommorrows episode!

♫ “Baby, I could slow down, if that's what you need me to do. / We can go another round, maybe to a new altitude. / I'll make you need it, and you want it.” Altitude by Montell Fish

"I'm...I'm trying-" He growls out a plea.

The words fall from his lips in short spasms and bursts. He's struggling to get them out, his jaw clenched like it might break. You see him white-knuckling the sheets, twitching like he wants to reach out and grab onto you. Onto any part of you he can get his hands on.

Your tongue flicks over his tip once, twice. Precum pools in a small bead at the top which you kitten lick off intently. You hear Dex moan- and it's a strangled, ragged sound.

"Trying to...what, Dex?" You tease. Laughing against his throbbing cock. He can't respond when you begin to just kiss the length of him, wet and hot. You feel his whole body jerk and a low groan tear out from him.

The only sound in the room is the slow, wet obscene noises coming from how you're working him. And the sound of Dex's heavy choked breathing.

He's close. So close. It's times like these you get to see his brain completely shut off, all the noise that plagues him turn into a pliant, quiet mush at the feeling of your mouth on him.

"I-I'm going to-"

Cum. He's going to cum. You know that, smirking around the head of his flushed red cock. Poor guy can't even finish his sentence. You almost feel sorry for him the moment you pull back.

The loss of your tongue is jarring. It's the third time tonight. You've been teasing him, watching his control falter with every lick and kiss. You've also been careful not to take him fully down your throat, cataloging every reaction he gives you. The sight of his pretty face contorted with a desperate, needy pleasure.

You chuckle when his abdominal muscles flex, his whole body tense. The absence of your mouth feeling like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on him. A sharp gasp is ripped from his throat, hips bucking in shallow thrusts to chase the loss.

His whole body taught with the effort not to snap.

You finally look up from your place between his thighs, if only to catch a glimpse of his face. You note his hollow cheek-bones twisted into a grimace at the loss. The beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and abs. The way his veins prominently stick out and throb from under his skin and forearms. The way his chest heaves at the lack of contact.

And yet, what finally gives you pause is when you meet his eyes.

His eyes. Those gorgeous, dark eyes of his- heavy lidded and red rimmed. Overstimulated and wrecked, like he's been crying, or at least is on the verge. Glossy and wet as he desperately attempts to blink them away.

For a moment, you think he really just is that needy. Crying for his North Star's mouth on him, eyes dimmed with nothing but complete worship. But when his eyes meet your own, biting the inside of his cheeks, it's when you finally notice the truth.

The way his brows are lowered. The way his body trembles. The way his cheeks are flushed. The way his cock pulses impatiently under your hand. His locked jaw.

That look of pathetic desperation in his eyes is nothing short of a hot, wild, frenzied anger.

He's not just needy. He's fucking furious.

Your train of thought is cut off entirely when you feel a hand come up, tangling in your hair, and pushing you down in one hard, smooth motion. You feel the head of his cock immediately hit your esophagus.

As if on instinct, you gag around him, throat tightening as he groans loudly. He pants as he pushes you all the way down, manhandling your mouth onto his cock like a fleshlight. He holds you there for what feels like forever, those glossy eyes of his drinking in the sight of you gagging on him.

"Breathe...Breathe through your fucking nose." Is all he orders, trying to catch his own breath while you sputter around him. The words come out harsh. The change of pace is jolting. His eyes are still wet with need, the hard lines of his body still rigid underneath. You feel his hands tighten in your hair to a pressure than borders on painful.

He's seething. That anger boiling over and melting into a mean look on his face he was trying so, so hard to repress for you. But you just couldn't let him, huh? Had to make him the bad guy.

He observes as your mascara quickly begins to run, your own eyes welling. Something about it makes him shudder. Only when he sees tears of your own does he begin to move. You two can cry together.

"Good. That's...That's good. That's it." He loosens his grip on you ever so slightly to pet your hair, take you in like the goddess you must be, his saving grace. His body begins to relax, coming down from his anger as his breathing calms down...right before he rams his cock sharply down your throat.

You let out a loud gag and whimper around his cock, and he inhales sharply in unison.

"All quiet now, huh." He grits out, shoving you down further as you choke. The force of his words are coupled with the sharp thrusts of his hips fucking up into your throat. When you whine, he decides to push you harder. "Look at me. Look at me."

His words sound like both a livid command and a desperate plea.

You struggle to open your eyes, but when you do, you're still met with bloodshot and glistening gaze that now completely matches your own.

He holds you there, both of you shakily breathing, tears pooling while you cry around his dick.

He briefly wonders if you knew. If you knew you were killing him like this. If you knew how hard he was trying not to grab your head and fuck your throat raw. Be...gentle.

Guess it doesn't matter now.

Dex’s grip tightens in your hair, fingers flexing like he’s still fighting himself even as he starts fucking your throat in short, brutal strokes. His voice is low, rough, and broken.

“Couldn’t…just...wait anymore.” The words come out both furious and strangled. Like he's desperatley trying to apologize, to tell you why, but they lack any and all remorse the more he bullies your throat.

Each thrust is measured but punishing, his cock sliding deep, stretching your throat until fresh tears spill down your cheeks. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time- glossy, furious, and starving.

His thumb gently wipes a tear from your cheek even as he keeps ruthlessly using your mouth, the contrast between the soft touch and the vicious snap of his hips making your head spin.

He's close. Again. For the fourth time tonight. And something tells you this one won't end in broken pleas or shallow thrusts up into nothing.

He’s panting hard, hips snapping up faster, losing the last threads of control.

“Swallow it. All of it. Right now.”

His voice cracks on the last word. And with a final groan, he shoves himself as deep as he can go and holds you there, pulsing hard as he spills straight down your throat in thick, endless spurts. He stays buried, breathing ragged, thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek almost tenderly while his cock twitches against your tongue.

He leans down to rest his forehead against yours, pulling you back up with a gentleness that contrasts his earlier actions. His touch is hot, the sweat of his body sticking to your own. Your throat will be sore tomorrow.

The two of you stay like that for quite some time, losing count of the hours. You might just end up kissing each others tears away.

[sun-hashira]

Willow

summary: prison was never going to stop Dex from finding you again.

who: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader

word count: 2.9k (i got carried away)

warnings: soulmate au, mentions of blood, injuries, break-in, imprisonment, emotional tension, and obsessive themes. If I have missed any please let me know!

divider by: @uzmacchiato

Glitch Series Masterlist

Next Chapter: I Can See You

“Wherever you stray, I follow…” — Willow by Taylor Swift

It was the uncomfortable pain in your shoulder that woke you from your restful sleep.

A pain that was no longer sharp, not like it was that night, but one that still lingers as a pinching, persistent ache that settles deep in your shoulder on cold and wet nights like tonight.

Rolling onto your back, you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the pain as you gently massage three fingers against the ache, hoping it will pass and you won’t have to leave the coziness of your warm bed.

Feeling the rough scar beneath your fingers, you lie there trying to ignore the memories of how you got it, but when the sirens pass your apartment building, you find yourself slipping back into your memories of that day.

The day your life changed forever.

You, Foggy, and Karen had just left Josie’s Bar to check on Cafaro when the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air and pain hits you from behind. It rips through your right shoulder, taking your breath away before you fully understand what’s happened, as the force of it sends you stumbling forward.

But what made you stiffen was the blood splatter on Karen’s face as you realised that the bullet had exited your shoulder and hit Foggy, who had collapsed onto the ground as people around you screamed in horror, and for a few seconds you froze in pain and panic before adrenaline kicked in and you were moving before your mind caught up.

Yelling for someone to call an ambulance, you press your hands firmly against Foggy’s wound, willing your powers to stop healing you and to heal Foggy.

To keep him breathing, and to keep him stable. To keep him with you.

You were so lost in your panic that you didn’t even notice when Karen put her hands against your shoulder until she pressed down hard enough to make you gasp in pain as she tried to keep as much of your blood where it should be.

“Stay with me.” Her voice broke as each word filled with more panic. “Both of you, please.”

But you don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when you're forcing everything you have into Foggy. Not when you can hear your brother fighting on the roof of Josie’s Bar, knowing that he’s listening to Foggy’s heartbeat, to your blood dripping onto the street.

With your body begging to heal the hole in your shoulder, your vision blurs as you push through the pain, putting everything you have into Foggy. You hadn’t even realised that you'd been repeating the same things over and over.

“Keep breathing. Just keep breathing. Stay with me.”

But the strain keeps building, becoming sharper with each passing moment, when a heavy impact lands behind you three. Your breath catches as your powers flicker for just a moment as you silently pray that you won’t lose them both tonight. Not Foggy and Matt.

Not your brothers.

Breathing deeply, you steady your hands, channel your powers, and check that Foggy is still breathing as the paramedics that have just arrived rush to help before you turn your head and let out a sigh of relief.

Not Matt.

You slouch into Karen's waiting arms, your pain finally catching up with you as you fully turn to look at Benjamin Poindexter on the ground, barely conscious, and as you make eye contact, it happens.

The pleasant burning feeling on your left collarbone. The sign you've been waiting nearly your whole life for.

The sign that you have met your soulmate.

And yours has just shot you.

Breathing deeply, you push the memory out of your mind, reminding yourself that you’re in your apartment tucked away in your warm bed and not bleeding in the arms of your friend.

But the ache is still there, still pinching, and you realise that no amount of gentle rubbing is going to relieve it tonight. Sighing you toss your covers back, slide your feet into your soft slippers to make your way to your kitchen, where you last put the pain relief balm.

Slowly you push yourself to stand, your aching shoulder throbbing in protest as you put on your fluffy robe, fingers brushing against the scar, and take a deep breath.

Checking your clock that reads 1:44 AM, you tighten the robe and step into the hallway.

The apartment is pitch black except as you make your way towards the kitchen, you don’t bother turning on any lights, using the moonlight to help lead you to the balm left on the center island.

Opening it, you gently massage the soothing gel onto your scar, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel it take effect. Placing the lid back on the tin and tucking it into your robe's pocket, you turn back towards the bedroom when the sound of fabrics moving against each other comes from the darkness of the living room.

Slowly you grab a knife from the wooden block and move carefully towards the sound, slippers gently slapping against the wooden floors. Keeping your breathing as quiet as possible, you slowly crept around the corner and quickly flicked the lamp on, flinching at the brightness and nearly dropping the knife when you saw who was sitting on the sofa.

Benjamin Poindexter was supposed to be imprisoned and serving multiple life sentences. Not casually sitting on your new sofa.

Blood darkening the side of his shirt as one of his hands pressed tightly against it, though a slow trickle of blood slips through his fingers. His head lifts the second the light turns on, and for a moment he doesn’t move; he just stares at you with a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

For a few seconds, neither of you speak. You just look at him, cataloguing everything that has changed since you last saw him. He’s bigger and bulkier than before, as if he had nothing to do in prison except gain more muscles. You ignore how it makes your heart stutter.

Dex’s eyes flicker briefly towards the knife clutched in your hand, and a smirk appears on his face as he looks you in the eyes. “Are you going to use that?” he asks quietly.

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. “What do you want?”

Soulmate or not, this is still the man who shot you.

Dex’s eyes lower briefly to the blood staining his side. His hand still tightly clutching the wound. “I needed help.”

Then his eyes lift back to yours. “And I wanted to see you.”

Something tightens in your chest because part of you understands exactly what he means.

For a moment you stay where you are, knife still low at your side, eyes flickering once again towards the blood dripping from his hand and staining your sofa.

“You’re staining my sofa,” you say, placing the knife on the shelf, hands more steady than you feel.

Dex tilts his head, eyebrows twitching in confusion. “What?”

“My sofa is brand new, and you’re ruining it.”

“Oh,” he says, finally noticing his blood soaking the cushions. “So I am.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the last bit of adrenaline leave your body. When your brother told you this morning he was going to see Dex in prison, this wasn’t how you expected your night to go.

“Let me see it,” you say.

Dex stills at your words, his hand moving to his ribs, his eyes slightly hopeful.

“Your injury,” you sharply say, face flushing red. “Not that.”

His eyes stay on you for a second before he slowly moves his hands away from his body. Blood immediately gushes through the tear in his shirt, a stab wound from what you could see and probably a few hours old.

You swear softly under your breath. “You should be at a hospital, especially with those face wounds as well.”

“No.” His answer was quick but certain. “Just you, only you.”

You don’t bother arguing as you step closer, removing your robe and setting it below you on the coffee table. He looks worse up close, pale even in the light of your warm lightbulb, and the left side of his face was bruised.

But his eyes never left you, slowly roaming up and down, taking in your light blue PJs, and smirking at your fluffy cow slippers.

“What?” you ask, reaching for the box of medical supplies you kept in the ottoman. Usually you would have used your powers, but tonight you were too tired and drained from helping out at the back-alley clinic your boss ran.

“Fluffy cow slippers?” His amusement was clear in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, putting all your supplies on the table beside you. “They were a gift from Karen, and they’re very comfortable.”

Dex snorted. “Sure.”

“Are you armed?” you ask, pulling on gloves and sliding to your knees.

“Yes.” He said, spreading his legs to give you more room.

“… Are you planning on using it?” You ask, facing your supplies.

“No.” His answer was quick and certain again. “Not on you, never on you.”

Again. You couldn’t help but think.

“You’re nervous,” Dex says quietly, still watching you, and you begin to wonder if he’s even blinked.

You snort at that. “You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and are now bleeding all over my sofa.”

“You’re still helping me.” He says like this means something.

You refuse to answer that as you reach for his shirt because deep down it does.

“Lean forwards.” You say quietly.

Dex obeys immediately and you lift his shirt. The movement exposing his defined muscles, and a few inches above the wound in black letters was your name. Unblemished, like he had done everything to protect it.

You freeze slightly at the sight of it, feeling the rush of emotions that happened every time you thought about him. Shaking the feelings away, you grabbed the disinfectant and soaked a gauze.

Silence settled between you as you dabbed at the wound, soaking up as much blood as you could before grabbing a fresh gauze.

“You didn’t come to see me,” he whispered breaking the silence, his eyes leaving you and going towards his blood-soaked hand.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze harder against the wound than intended.

Dex barely reacts as his eyes move back to you. “Don’t what?”

“Talk like this changes anything.” You whisper, grabbing a new gauze to wipe away the remaining blood.

And for the first time since you walked into the living room, something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not hatred, but something you didn’t expect to see on him.

Hurt.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew, but you never came.”

You still at his words because what was there to say? For months you’ve refused to talk about what happened that night, focusing on your family and pushing every thought or feeling about him away.

For months you’ve kept your bond with him to yourself despite how much you wanted to cry and rant to someone about it without being judged or scorned.

You force yourself to keep working, fingers steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “Yes,” you say evenly. “I knew.”

The quiet is heavy as it fills the room before you clear your throat, reaching for the needle and thread in the kit. “You need stitches.”

“Sit up properly if you can,” you instruct, pulling all the necessary items closer to you.

Dex watches you for a second longer before pushing himself upright from the cushions, his jaw as he straightens himself up.

“Take the shirt off.” You say, preparing everything that you needed to stitch him up.

Dex drops the blood-soaked fabric onto the table behind you, exposing the full extent of the wound. The weapon grazed more than it pierced, but it still tore enough flesh to make a mess of his side.

Wiping the surrounding area with a fresh gauze, you gently rubbed some numbing cream around the wound and threaded the needle while waiting for it to dry.

“This is going to hurt.” You say, leaning closer towards him.

Dex goes still at your words, his attention once again focused fully on you.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, focusing completely on stitching the wound perfectly and not on how close he was now that you’re kneeling between his legs and leaning against him to get better access to the wound.

“You should’ve had this cleaned hours ago,” you mutter nearly halfway done.

“I was busy.” He answers as his hand gently brushes against your shoulder.

“With?” You ask, eyes still not leaving the wound but not shrugging his hand away.

His eyes scan your face. “Finding you.”

Your hand slips slightly. Not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to notice.

“You already knew where I lived.”

“I wanted to see you.”

There’s that sentence again. So honest, like there was nothing else more important.

Silence settles between you again, broken only by the quiet rattle of paper as you open fresh gauzes and the sound of rain against the windows. Focusing once again on your task, you quickly lose yourself in what is familiar.

Then Dex quietly says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You tie off the last stitch before grabbing more gauze and soaking it in antiseptic alcohol. “Most prisoners send a letter.”

“I didn't think you’d like letters from me.”

You couldn’t stop your quiet snort.

“Did you think about me?” he says quietly after a while. Hand tightening on your shoulder like the answer to this question could hurt him more than his wound.

You press the gauze against the stitches, cleaning them and the surrounding area. “You were all over the news, quite hard to miss.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He says cupping your face and forcing you to look at him.

His face is blank, but his eyes are looking at you like he’s already decided you belong in his life.

And maybe you did. But it causes that familiar complicated feeling to twist in your chest.

“You shot me,” you say softly before you can stop yourself. “I waited years for you, and you shot me.”

Your confession settles heavily between you, and for the second time that night, Dex looks away.

“I know.” He says his face filled with something you couldn’t place—guilt, maybe.

The apartment smells faintly of antiseptic, rain, and blood. Outside the storm gets stronger.

Inside the living room, neither of you move.

“You’ll live,” you say, taking off your gloves.

Dex looks down at the neat line of stitches crossing his side before his gaze drifts back to you. “I know.”

Standing up, you move all the soiled items aside so that you can toss them in the kitchen bin. “You should go before the numbing wears off.”

Moving back to the table, you pack up the remaining medical items, making a mental note to restock and place them back in the ottoman.

Leaning down to grab your robe, your breath catches as Dex reaches out his hand, gently grabbing your wrist, his thumb gently pressing against your pulse.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m tired.” You say, making no move to pull away.

“You’re drained.” He states.

You almost deny it. But what would be the point? He noticed everything else about you tonight.

“I’ve had a long night,” you remind him.

“And you still helped me.” He states like this means something.

Before you could reply, Dex’s gaze drops to your shoulder. To the scar barely hidden by your shirt. His expression shifts into the same look as earlier.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he says honestly. “You moved in front of him so quickly I didn’t have time to stop.”

You look away at his admission, part of you wanting to believe him while the other part wants to shoot him to make it even.

Rain hits the windows harder as you begin to feel it again, that persistent and wanting pull between you becoming tighter the longer he stays.

“You need to leave,” you say quietly.

Dex looks at you for a long second. “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Months of knowing exactly who he was to you, and you’d done nothing.

No visits. No letters. Nothing except pretend the name on your skin didn’t exist.

“I was in prison,” Dex continues quietly. “You knew where I was.”

You couldn’t force yourself to hold his gaze. Not when you knew what he was really asking. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you choose me?

But you can’t answer that. Not honestly. Not when the truth was that every day you wanted to see him, to betray your friends and your family just to get a day with him.

“You need to leave.” You say, instead of spilling the truth, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

For a second, you think he might argue. His stare fixed so intensely on you that you almost cave and spill the truth.

Then he stands, pulling his shirt back over his head, and makes his way towards the window. Pushing it open wider, as storm blows cold air and rain into the living room as he tosses one leg out before he pauses and turns to look back at you again.

“I’m going to see you again.” He states.

Then he disappears into the night, and you’re left standing alone in your living room.

Your fingers slowly brush his name on your skin, and you can’t stop the feeling of wanting to see him again.

A/N: This is my first one-shot written so feedback is welcome!

@benspoindexter @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @genya1617

[rounyawn]

just doing some vigilante stuff

[thefateofelia]

DARLING! GUESS WHO'S BACK FROM JAIL!

word count: 16k (ops...)

summary: a woman grapples with the aftermath of her lover's sudden departure and imprisonment.as she tries to rebuild her life with the help of a therapist and a safe new romantic interest, she experiences increasingly disturbing signs.

warnings: psychological trauma/ptsd, toxic relationship /codependency, stalking/obsessive behavior, violence (descriptions of destroyed property, blood), murder references (off-screen), emotional distress/grief, possessive behavior, dissociative episodes/paranoia, emotional pain and suffering, benjamin poindexter.

The end of the world doesn't come with thunder, or with flashes in the sky. You learned that the worst way possible—the kind that isn't taught, only carved into the flesh.

The end of the world came with a note. Three words. And a silence that settled in like a permanent guest, one that never packed its bags. "Protect yourself." That's what he wrote. As if you were the most fragile creature in the universe, a piece of blown glass teetering on the edge of a fall, and he, at the same time, the only hand capable of catching you and the hard floor waiting below. As if the phrase could contain a stifled "I love you," a hopeless "I'm sorry," and a final "goodbye"—all condensed into a single line of paper that buckled under its own weight.

You woke up alone the next day. You remember this with a clarity that hurts. The sheet beside you still held his warmth, a trace of life that the body is slow to forget. The pillow still held the exact hollow of his neck, the soft indentation his head had sculpted night after night. You reached out without thinking, groping the emptiness, and for one full second—one of those that lasts an eternity—you believed he was in the bathroom. Or in the kitchen making coffee. Or in any room that wasn't the world without him. But the bathroom was empty, the towels still folded. The kitchen was empty, his usual mug in the dish rack. The entire apartment was empty in a way that hurt like an extracted tooth, the socket throbbing even after the root had been pulled.

You read the note seven times before understanding anything. By the seventh, the words were already dancing blurry before your eyes. By the eighth, you were already on the cold kitchen floor, clutching the paper with both hands like someone clinging to a float moments before drowning. And the crying came—not that beautiful, silent movie crying, but the ugly kind, the desperate kind, the kind that tears at your throat and runs down your face in snot and drool, the kind that comes from such a deep place in your chest that it feels like you're vomiting your own soul, piece by piece.

The first days were a shapeless blur, the kind memory refuses to organize in sequence. A blur of not eating, not sleeping, not getting out of bed. Time lost its meaning. The kitchen clock kept ticking the seconds, but you no longer heard its voice. You called him 47 times. You stored each one of those calls in a dark corner of your memory, like stones weighing down your pocket that you refuse to throw away. Every call went straight to voicemail, straight to that auditory limbo where words go to die unanswered. His voice, recorded at some random moment when he was still there, said with cruel naturalness: "you know what to do." You always waited for the beep. The beep always came. And you spoke, even knowing—deep down, very deep down, you knew—that no one on the other end was listening.

"Come back. Please. Come back. I won't ask anything. Just come back."

You left messages that got shorter and shorter, more and more desperate, the words tripping over each other, your voice faltering at the ends of sentences. Until the 23rd day, you stopped. And it wasn't because you had given up on him. It was because your voice no longer came out. Because you had cried so much, so deeply and for so long, that your vocal cords simply… refused to continue. As if your body had finally said enough before your soul had.

It was your neighbor from 301 who found you. Dona. A bulky woman with faded purple hair and a heart so large it seemed not to fit inside her chest—it overflowed through her small eyes and the deep voice that echoed in the hallway. She broke down the door when you didn't answer for three days. Three days in which the milk in the fridge soured, the plants on the windowsill wilted, and silence became the only living thing in the apartment. She found you curled up in his gray t-shirt—the one you wore to sleep, the one that no longer smelled of him except through a stubbornness of the sense of smell, a barely-there scent you rubbed against your face trying to resurrect a perfume already dead for weeks. Your eyes were open, and in place of your gaze there were two holes, fixed on the white wall that seemed to grow more distant by the second.

"Girl," she said. She sat beside you on the bed without asking permission, without ceremony, the way someone who has seen it all in this life and still chose to keep having compassion. She held your face with thick, calloused hands—hands that had cleaned other people's houses her whole life, that had raised a child alone, that had learned early that the world doesn't go easy on anyone. "Girl, what did he do to you?"

You didn't answer.

Not because you didn't want to. The desire was there, somewhere behind your breastbone, wanting to escape. But you no longer knew how to separate. You could no longer distinguish where his love ended and the destruction began. The two things had become so tangled inside you that they seemed like a single organism—a beautiful plant whose roots, deep down, were poisonous. You looked at Dona with dry, burning eyes, your mouth slightly open, and for the first time in 23 days there were no tears left to fall. Only emptiness. And silence. And the gray t-shirt you pressed against your chest as if he could still fit inside it.

The news came three weeks later.

Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of a ghostly routine where you learned to exist mechanically—get up, lie down, stare at the ceiling, forget to eat until hunger became a distant pang. You were on the sofa at that moment. The same sofa where he held you while you watched movies that neither of you paid attention to, because he was too busy kissing your neck, leaving a warm trail down your spine, murmuring things in your ear that you would never repeat out loud. The same sunken foam in the center, from the weight of two bodies that insisted on occupying the same space. The same smell of good mold and spilled coffee in the upholstery. Everything there. Everything the same. Except he wasn't.

The newscast said his name.

Benjamin Poindexter. The name you learned to say in the morning, still with a sleepy voice, brushing your lips against his nape. The name you wrote on bar napkins, on the edges of books, on the fogged-up glass of the shower stall. The name you whispered in cheap hotels and on stormy nights, when fear came knocking at your door and he said "relax, I'm here." The name that now came from the mouth of a news anchor with the same intonation as any other headline. As if it weren't the center of your entire world.

"Former FBI agent Benjamin Poindexter was sentenced today to life imprisonment on multiple counts of homicide…"

The rest was static.

Not literally—the television kept buzzing, the anchor kept talking, the colorful graphics kept rising and falling on the screen. But the sound of the entire world went silent in that second. As if someone had pulled the plug on reality. You could only see his face on the screen. Those pale blue eyes—the eyes that looked at you with such absolute devotion that sometimes it hurt to hold his gaze, as if he were, at every moment, apologizing for being too human. Now they weren't looking at you. Now they were fixed somewhere behind the camera, still, empty, two spheres of ice that no longer reflected anything. As if he had already given up on everything. As if the only thing that mattered—and you knew, with a cold tightness in your chest, that this thing was you—was no longer there, no longer available to be the reason he kept breathing.

The images changed. They showed him being led away by two police officers in black, long rhythmic strides, handcuffs tightening around the wrists that once held you with so much force and so much delicacy that they seemed to harbor an impossible contradiction. Head down. The white shirt open at the chest—and you saw it.

Oh, God. You saw it.

The marks. The scars. Every line of irregular tissue, every patch of skin that hadn't regenerated properly. The intimate map of his suffering, which you had learned by heart at your fingertips. You kissed each one before sleeping. It was a silent, almost religious ritual—your lips tracing those paths of pain to say, without words, I see. I know. I stay. And that place near his shoulder, where you rested your forehead when you could no longer look into his eyes. When it was too much. When love was so great that it overflowed and became a kind of agony. You rested your forehead there, and he knew. He always knew. His hand would go up to your hair and he wouldn't say anything. He would just wait. Because he knew that silence, sometimes, was the only language you could speak.

Everything there. Everything the same. Only now he was no longer yours. He would never be again. He was property of the state. A number. A file. A 3x4 photo with a little placard on his chest. The man who taught you what it meant to be loved to the marrow was now a convict, and you watched this sitting on the two-seater sofa, in the living room that still had his towel hanging on the line, his shaving cream in the shower, his last toothbrush in the cup next to yours.

You don't remember screaming.

But Dona said you did. Said you made a sound so loud and so shrill that she dropped the pan on the fire and ran up the stairs, thinking someone was dying. Said it was the kind of scream that doesn't come from the throat of a whole person. Only from someone who has already been shattered on the floor for weeks and finally found a voice for the fall.

And maybe someone was dying, yes. Maybe you died a little that day. A little there, on the two-seater sofa, watching the face of the man you loved disappear behind a steel door that would never open for you again. Or maybe you didn't die just a little. Maybe death came in slices, and that one was the biggest—a cut so deep that you would never look at a pair of blue eyes again without feeling a chill in your stomach. You were never able to decide. You preferred not to decide. You preferred to leave the question open, like a window that never fully closes, no matter how much wind and dust get in.

They didn't let you visit.

That was the first rule. The first boundary that no one needed to explain with many words. His lawyer—a woman named Agnes, thin as a hanger and cold as the glass eye she wore in place of her right one—received you in her office downtown. The office smelled of old documents and disinfectant. There was a dead plant in the corner and a 2003 calendar still hanging on the wall. The kind of place where hope comes in to rot. Agnes didn't offer coffee. Didn't ask you to sit. She opened the blue file on the table, adjusted her glasses on the tip of her nose, and said, with the same intonation as someone reading a grocery list:

"He doesn't want to see you."

You blinked. Thought you had misheard. That the words, somehow, had gotten scrambled on the way from her mouth to your ears. But Agnes repeated, slowly, as if speaking to a slow child or someone who had just suffered a concussion:

"He said, and I quote: 'Tell her I died. It's easier that way.'"

The office seemed to shrink. The walls came closer. The ceiling dropped a few inches. You stood still in the middle of the stained carpet, feeling the entire world spin around an invisible axis—and that axis was that sentence. Tell her I died. As if dying were a simple thing. As if you could receive news of someone's death with the same lightness as receiving a telegram. As if the love you had built together—in that bed, on that sofa, in that tiny kitchen where he taught you to make tomato sauce from scratch and you burned your hand and he kissed each finger—could be undone with a sentence spoken by a glass-eyed woman in an office that smelled of mold.

"Easier for whom?" you asked.

Your voice came out strange. Thin. Distant. As if it weren't yours. As if someone had taken control of your body and asked for you, because you, deep down, no longer had the strength to form words.

Agnes raised an eyebrow. The only one that worked. The one on the side of her good eye. The glass eye kept staring at you—motionless, shiny, accusatory. As if it saw things you were trying to hide. As if it knew about all the nights you lied to yourself, all the times you looked away and pretended not to see the dark stains on his soul.

"For both of you," she replied.

And that was it.

There was no crying in that office. No outburst, no plea for reconsideration, no knees on the floor begging for a second chance. You just looked at Agnes for a few more seconds—long enough to memorize the merciless gleam of that glass eye, to understand that there was no heart to be moved in there—and then you turned. Opened the door. Left.

The hallway was long and poorly lit. Your footsteps echoed on the linoleum. You clutched your purse against your chest as if it could protect you from something, but it couldn't. Nothing could. You went down the stairs because the elevator was broken (of course it was) and reached the street on a cloudy autumn day, with dry leaves piling up on the sidewalks and a cold wind cutting across your face.

And you never asked again.

Never called Agnes again. Never sent letters. Never tried to contact any lawyer, any prison official, any remote contact of someone who might reach him. You simply… stopped. Like a heart that gave up beating. Like a clock that decided it was too late to keep marking the hours.

Because deep down, in the darkest and most honest place in your chest, you knew he was right. Not about having died—because he hadn't died, he was alive, somewhere behind concrete walls and steel bars, sleeping on a thin mattress, eating bland food, counting the days of a sentence that would never end. But about the rest. About the "easier." About the "never again." About the impossibility of the two of you existing in the same world without destroying each other.

You never asked again, but you also never loved anyone the same way. The years passed—and they passed, because time is cruel and doesn't stop for anyone, not even for those who are grieving—and you met other people. Other mouths. Other hands. Other gazes. But none of them had that terrible devotion, that way he had of looking at you as if you were the last water in the desert. And no goodbye hurt as much as that non-goodbye. The one that had no last kiss. The one that had no last fight. The one that had no coffin, no flowers, no body present. The one that had only a three-word note, a glass eye, and the phrase "tell her I died," repeating in your head like a song no one asked to hear, but that never, never, never stopped playing.

The following months were an exercise in survival that didn't look like survival. It didn't have that shine of overcoming stories, didn't have the inspirational soundtrack of weekend movies. It looked like punishment. A punishment with no declared crime, no judge, no sentence read aloud—just the relentless routine of continuing to exist when everything inside you begged to stop.

You started seeing a psychologist because Dona threatened to institutionalize you. Literally. She showed up at your door on a rainy Tuesday with a folder in her hand and the most serious eyes you had ever seen in your life. "Either you go willingly, girl, or I'll drag you there; don't make me do it, because I raised three children alone and I still have the arm strength." You went. Out of fear. Out of exhaustion. Because, deep down, a tiny, still-alive part of you knew she was right.

Dr. Elaine wore tortoiseshell glasses—thick ones, sort of vintage—and had a way of tilting her head to the side when you spoke, as if each of your words was a piece of a puzzle she was trying to assemble with infinite care. Her office smelled of chamomile and had a deep armchair that felt like a hug disguised as furniture. She would look at you over her glasses sometimes, and that look alone made you want to tell her everything. Everything, really. The things you had never said out loud. The things you barely admitted to yourself when you were alone in the dark, with the hum of the refrigerator as your only company.

And you told her. Almost everything.

You told her about the note. About the silence. About the 47 calls and his voice on the voicemail. About the neighbor, about the newscast, about the blue eyes on the television screen. About the glass-eyed lawyer and the cruel phrase that had pierced you like a blank bullet—one that hurts because it seems fake, but isn't. About the nights you woke up sweating, his name on your lips, and the empty side of the bed seemed larger than the whole world.

But some things you didn't tell.

You didn't tell about the patterns he drew on your wrist while you watched TV. Concentric circles. Very slow. Very methodical. As if he were tracing escape maps on your skin. You never asked what that meant. You were afraid of the answer. You still are.

You didn't tell about the whispers in the dark. The things he said after you had already pretended to be asleep. Scattered sentences, almost inaudible, that he probably thought you couldn't hear. "I can't lose you. I wouldn't survive." "You're the only certain thing in my life." "If I ever do something bad, promise you won't hate me?" You never answered any of those whispers. You pretended to sleep. You stored each word in a little locked box at the back of your memory and hoped time would undo them. Time undid nothing.

You didn't tell how he held you. It wasn't a normal hug. It was more as if he were trying to fuse you into his own body. As if you were the only thing keeping him from shattering into a thousand irrecoverable pieces. His arms would encircle you with a force bordering on desperation, and sometimes you would feel his face buried in your hair, his breath trembling, and you knew—knew without needing words—that he was crying. He never cried in front of you. But behind you, while hugging you from behind, he allowed himself to. And you pretended not to notice, because you knew that for him shame was worse than sadness.

Some things, you decided, are too sacred to be spoken aloud. Even to a professional. Even in a room that smells of chamomile and has an armchair that feels like a hug. Some things belong only to silence. To the silence and to the pillow that still holds the shape of his head.

"He's in prison forever," Dr. Elaine said one session, jotting something down in her notebook. The pen scratched against the paper with a dry, definitive sound. "And you're trapped too. Trapped in a version of him that only exists in your head now. But he's no longer that person. He'll never be. People change, especially in extreme situations. The man you loved… he doesn't exist anymore, if he ever really existed that way. You need to accept that what you had… it's over."

Over. The word echoed through the office, bounced off the beige walls, hit the ceiling and came back. Over. As if it were that simple. As if extinguishing a love were the same as turning off a light. Flipping a switch and done, all dark, move on.

You nodded. Made the mechanical motion of yes, yes, of course, you understand, you're processing, you'll work on it. You paid for the session. Took your card out of your wallet with fingers that didn't tremble—because you had learned not to tremble; Dr. Elaine called it "functional dissociation," you called it survival. You crossed the waiting room, went down the elevator, walked out to the parking lot. Your car started. The radio played a song the two of you used to listen to together. You changed the station. Then changed it again. Then turned it off.

You went home.

Opened the door. Put away your purse. Took off your shoes. Washed your face. Brushed your teeth. Did everything a functional person does before sleeping. And that night—like every night since he left, like every night that would come after, like every night you would spend for the rest of your life without him—you slept hugging his pillow.

The pillow no longer smelled of him. That had been lost months ago, in some distracted wash, on some day when you were so dazed with pain that you didn't even realize you were erasing the last traces. The pillow now smelled of you. Of cheap soap. Of drugstore shampoo. Of poorly slept nights and dried tears. But the shape was still there. The indentation his head had sculpted into the filling. The exact depression, the precise curve that matched the back of his neck, the way he turned his face to kiss you before turning off the light.

You would hug the pillow and close your eyes. Breathe deeply. And for a moment—a brief, stolen moment, a small offense against reality—you would pretend his arm was still there. Pressed against your waist. Heavy and warm and present. You would pretend his breath was stirring your hair at the nape. That he was going to pull you a little closer, groan softly against your shoulder and murmur "I love you" in that dragging voice of someone already almost asleep.

You pretended. Because it was all that was left. And what was left was so little that you needed to protect every crumb, every fragment of illusion, as if they were the last embers of a fire that had once warmed the whole house.

The pillow didn't hug back. But you had already forgotten what it was like to be truly hugged. And maybe, deep down, you preferred it that way. Because if you remembered—if you remembered exactly how it was—then you really wouldn't be able to go on.

The psychologist insisted on a meeting.

It wasn't a request. It was a calculated move, the kind professionals use when they think a patient is stuck in a well too deep to climb out of alone. Dr. Elaine pushed a yellow piece of paper toward you—from one of those sticky note pads she used for quick reminders, always with a faded flower in the corner—and leaned back in her chair with an air of someone who had already decided the answer before you even opened your mouth.

"He's a friend of my nephew's," she said, as if talking about the weather or the exchange rate. "Very polite. Works in credit analysis. Normal. Safe. Nothing special." She paused, adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses, and added with a gentleness that hurt: "Just coffee. So you can see there are still other people in the world. People who won't destroy you."

People who won't destroy you. The phrase floated in the air of the room, accusatory. As if she knew—and she did know, you had told her almost everything—that destruction was your last love's native language. As if she were offering you an instruction manual for a life without craters.

You almost said no. The word was on the tip of your tongue, heavy and familiar, an old friend who had slept on your couch for months and refused to pack its bags. No was comfortable. No was safe. No was known territory where you knew exactly where the floor gave way and where you could step firmly. But something—maybe the exhaustion, maybe the way Dr. Elaine tilted her head with that infinite patience of someone who has seen worse cases, maybe a leftover of stupid hope that refused to die no matter how hard you tried to strangle it—made you reach out.

The yellow paper had small, careful handwriting. The name was Lucas. 34 years old. Likes hiking and specialty coffee. Has a dog named Toby. It looked like a pet adoption form. You almost smiled. Almost.

You went.

And you went for him. Not for Lucas. For Ben. Because a part of you—the part that still woke up in the middle of the night with your heart racing, thinking you felt the weight of his arm on your waist, thinking you heard his breath in the dark—wanted to prove to yourself that you could do it. That you weren't permanently broken. That he hadn't managed to destroy you completely, despite all evidence to the contrary. That you still existed outside his universe, outside the gravitational orbit of that blue-eyed, scar-shouldered man.

The café was a fancy place you would never have chosen on your own. Designer lamps hanging from the ceiling like cold jewels. Low music, the kind no one pays attention to but misses when it stops. You ordered a latte and spent five minutes adjusting the handle of the cup, spinning the saucer, fidgeting with the napkin—because you didn't know what to do with your hands. The hands he used to hold. The hands he kissed, one finger at a time, while you waited for the movie to start.

Lucas arrived late. Nine minutes. You counted because you counted everything now; time was something that needed to be measured in small, controllable portions, otherwise it slipped through the cracks. His excuse came with a tight smile: "Traffic, you know how it is." He was shorter than you imagined. Not much, but enough for you to notice. Perfectly combed brown hair, not a strand out of place. A close, almost surgical shave. The friendly, generic smile of someone who fits into any life insurance ad. He didn't have Ben's crooked smile. The one that went up a little more on one side, as if he knew a secret you hadn't discovered yet.

He asked about your job. You answered with rehearsed phrases, the same ones you used in interviews and family gatherings. He told a story about Toby burying a bone in the yard and unearthing a head of lettuce. You laughed at the right moment, at the right volume, for the right length of time. It was an impeccable performance. It deserved applause.

He asked for the check—and asked for it before you had finished your latte, which you mentally noted as a point against him—and asked if you wanted to do this again. You said yes because that's what you do. Because Dr. Elaine would be proud. Because maybe, if you pretended enough, that strange feeling of wearing someone else's clothes would eventually go away. Because maybe, if you repeated the motion enough times, eventually the gesture would become natural.

But throughout the meeting—one hour and forty-three minutes, you counted, noted on your phone, memorized—your eyes wandered three times to the café door. It wasn't intentional. It happened like a nervous tic, a conditioned reflex. You looked at the door expecting… what? Expecting whom? He wasn't going to walk in. He couldn't walk in. He was behind concrete walls, steel bars, miles away and a lifetime apart.

Twice you looked out the window, through the glass fogged by humidity. Once you looked at a man in a dark jacket sitting in the back, in the farthest corner, near the bathroom. He had his back to you, his face hidden by a dark cap, and something about the inclination of his shoulders—the way he held his cup with both hands, as if trying to extract heat from a liquid that must have been cold for a long time—made your heart stop for a second.

When you looked again, he was gone. The empty table. The chair slightly displaced. An almost full cup abandoned, as if whoever had been there had left in a hurry. As if he had been seen.

You didn't tell Lucas this. He paid the check—nine minutes late and still insisted on paying, textbook chivalry—and walked you to the door. He lightly touched your shoulder when saying goodbye. A dry, secure, absolutely normal touch. You felt the same as you would if a stranger brushed against you on the subway: nothing.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine in the next session. She asked how it had gone, and you said "fine," and she tilted her head in that way that meant she wasn't believing you but wasn't going to push. She jotted something down. You paid. Left.

You didn't tell her that on the way back to your car, crossing the empty mall parking lot, you felt a chill on the back of your neck. It wasn't cold. It was that old, familiar shiver, coated in nostalgia and fear. The same one you felt when Ben was watching you from the bedroom door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, while you put on mascara in front of the mirror. He would stand there in silence, just looking. And when you asked "what?" he would give that crooked smile and say "nothing, just looking." But it wasn't nothing. It was never nothing.

You turned around. The parking lot was dark, the garage lights flickering with the frequency of something that had needed maintenance for years. No one. Just the empty street and the headlights of a car parked too far away for you to see the driver. A black sedan. Tinted windows. The engine running, a thin cloud of exhaust rising in the cold air. You stood there staring for too long. The car didn't move. Neither did you.

Eventually, you got into your car, locked the doors—a habit you only acquired after he left, after the world became a place where any shadow could be a threat—and drove home.

You didn't tell her that when you entered your apartment that night, the first thing you noticed was the smell. Not an identifiable smell, not perfume or cologne or soap. It was the absence of smell. A vacuum. Something that had been there and then wasn't. You put your purse on the counter, turned on the kitchen light, hung up your coat. Did everything mechanically, on autopilot, while a silent alarm sounded somewhere deep in your consciousness.

Then you went into the bedroom.

Your pillowcase had been changed.

You froze. Not immediately—first you thought you had changed it and forgotten, that the pain and exhaustion and sleeping pills had erased the memory. But you didn't have pillowcases like that one. This one was Egyptian cotton, a white so pure it seemed bluish, with a tiny lace detail in the corner. Just like the one that had disappeared three months ago. The one he used. The one he had taken with him in that worn-out backpack, on that last morning, along with his toothbrush and phone charger. The pillowcase you had bought on a work trip, very expensive, and he liked it so much you said "take it, it's yours." He took it. It disappeared. You thought you would never see it again.

It was there. On your pillow. Perfectly stretched, the creases from the packaging still visible, smelling of baby fabric softener. Someone had entered your apartment. Someone had entered your bedroom. Someone had changed your pillowcase while you were having coffee with a credit analyst who had a dog named Toby.

You started to shake.

It wasn't a light tremor, the kind that passes with a sip of water. It was a deep shaking, coming from your bones, shaking your whole body in successive waves as if you were having a silent seizure. Your legs buckled without warning. You sat down on the bedroom floor—you didn't choose to sit, you simply fell—and stayed there, curled up against the foot of the bed, your arms wrapped around your knees, staring at the strange-familiar pillowcase on your strange-familiar pillow as if it were a snake about to strike.

Twenty minutes. You sat on the cold bedroom floor for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes trying to convince yourself that you hadn't seen what you saw. That it was a different pillowcase, that you were confused, that your memory was playing tricks. Twenty minutes trying to quiet the sound of your heartbeat—because it was so loud it seemed to fill the entire apartment, each beat a question: was he here? was he here? was he here?

You didn't tell anyone.

You didn't tell Lucas. You didn't tell Dr. Elaine. In the next session, you talked about other things, smaller things, things that fit in the office. You didn't tell Dona. Who would get desperate and probably call the police, and what would you tell the police? Someone changed my pillowcase?

You didn't tell because you didn't want to hear what any sensible person would say: you're paranoid. you're making things up. you need more medication. you're projecting onto him something he couldn't have done because he's in prison, he's in PRISON, you saw it on TV, you saw the handcuffs, you saw the cell, how could he get into your apartment?

You didn't tell because, deep down, in the deepest and darkest and most honest place, you knew the answer. You didn't know how. You didn't know when. You didn't know by what impossible, miraculous, terrifying means he had done it. But you knew it was him. You knew it as surely as you knew your own name. As surely as you knew the sky is blue and fire burns and hearts break.

And you didn't tell because, if you told, you would have to admit something else. Something you could barely face alone, in the dark, hugging the pillowcase he had returned:

You didn't want him to stop.

The signs only got worse.

The following week, a pair of black underwear disappeared from your drawer. You didn't notice the same day—it took forty-eight hours to register, because you had already given up looking for meaning in small losses, in objects that vanished without explanation, in the empty spaces that opened in your routine like tiny black holes. But the black underwear was different. You knew which one it was as soon as you noticed the empty space between the blue fabric and the red. It was that one. The one he liked. The one he always took off you with his teeth, laughing against your skin, his lips brushing your stomach as he said, in an accusatory yet loving tone, that you wore it just to provoke him.

And he was right. You did.

You searched the entire apartment three times. Opened drawers, looked under the bed, emptied the laundry basket, checked the washing machine, the dryer, the clothesline. Nothing. The black underwear was nowhere to be found. As if the floor had swallowed it. As if someone had taken it.

The following Tuesday, it appeared on top of your dresser.

Folded. Perfectly folded, the corners aligned, the fabric stretched with a care that hurt from familiarity. You knew that fold. He had that habit—he who didn't know how to fold a shirt properly, but learned to fold your underwear with the precision of a goldsmith, because he said each piece of yours was too precious to be wrinkled. In the middle of the underwear, a crease. A deep indentation, as if someone had pressed the fabric against their face while sleeping. As if they had breathed deeply there, trying to extract your scent from fabric that no longer smelled of you after so many washes.

You leaned your hand against the wall to keep from falling. The kitchen spun. The world spun. You stood there for a long minute, your forehead cold against the plaster, eyes closed, trying to convince yourself there was a rational explanation. There wasn't. You knew there wasn't.

You bought a camera. Went to an electronics store downtown, paid in cash to leave no trace on your card—as if you were doing something wrong, as if the victim were the criminal. A small, discreet camera, the kind that connects to your phone. You hid it on the living room shelf, pointed at the bed, adjusting the angle three, four, five times until you were sure it captured the bedroom door and the window and the whole bed. Then you turned it on, tested it, confirmed it was recording, and went to sleep.

The next morning, the memory card was blank.

Not erased—blank. As if it had been formatted. As if someone had taken the original card, recorded over it, and returned a blank card in its place. The same card. The same brand. But not a single frame recorded. You spent an hour trying to recover the files with internet programs, your eyes burning with exhaustion and frustration, your hands trembling on the mouse. Nothing. Zero. As if those hours of recording had never existed.

And that's when the fear changed its nature. Because it wasn't just someone entering. It was someone intelligent. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who didn't just enter your apartment—someone who entered and had time, had calm, had the coldness to mess with your devices, erase your evidence, reorganize your things. Someone who didn't get caught by surprise. Someone who already expected the camera. Someone who, somehow, knew you were going to put it there before you even knew.

You changed the lock. The first was a common locksmith, the kind from the hardware store. Three days later, the black underwear appeared on your nightstand. Not on the dresser. On the nightstand. On your side. As if someone had placed it there for you to find as soon as you woke up. This time you didn't even feel fear. You felt coldness. An iciness that traveled down your spine and settled in your stomach. You picked up the phone, called a 24-hour locksmith, and had them change the lock again.

The next day, the locksmith came. A bald man with a gray mustache and calloused hands. He examined the old lock, the two you had just installed, and said: "Miss, this is the most expensive one there is. Five-bolt lock, European cylinder, no one opens this without the key. No one." He knocked on the door with his knuckles, as if presenting a quality product. "You can rest easy. This is invasion-proof."

You paid. Thanked him. Locked the door behind him. Unlocked it. Locked it again. Unlocked it. Locked it. Stood there leaning against the door for a minute, listening to the silence, the beating of your own heart, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

The next morning, all your sleep shirts were in place. Drawer open, drawer closed, everything seemingly normal. But you were no longer the same person who woke up without examining every inch of the bedroom. You looked at everything now. Every detail. Every object out of place. Every shadow that shouldn't be there. And that's how you saw it.

One of them—the gray one, the old one, the one you wore when he was still here—was wet on the pillow. Not with water. No. The texture was different. The almost imperceptible viscosity. The smell. Oh, God, the smell. It was tears. And sweat. And something else, something you refused to name, something for which your brain created euphemisms while your heart already knew the truth. Someone had lain on your pillow. Someone had pressed your shirt against their face. Someone had cried there. In your bed. In your place. Perhaps for hours.

You sat on the bedroom floor again. You weren't shaking anymore. You weren't crying. You just sat, leaning against the wall, the damp shirt in your lap, your fingers lightly running over the wet fabric. And stayed there. For a long time.

You told Dr. Elaine. You needed to. You couldn't carry that feeling of going crazy alone anymore. You arrived at her office that afternoon with deep dark circles, unwashed hair, the sweatpants you had worn for four days straight. You sat in the deep armchair, wrapped your hands in your lap, and told her. The underwear. The camera. The lock. The wet shirt. You told it all out loud, the words coming out jumbled, rushed, as if you needed to vomit them up before they suffocated you.

Dr. Elaine listened in silence. Jotted something in her notebook—the pen moving quickly, surely, as if she already knew the diagnosis before you finished speaking. She grimaced when you mentioned the wet shirt. Not from shock. From clinical concern. The kind of concern you see in doctors when they examine a test that came back wrong.

"Listen," she said, after a pause that lasted too long. "I know it feels real. I know it feels as real as you and me here right now. But we need to consider the possibility that this is happening inside you, not outside." She tilted her head, her tortoiseshell glasses slipping slightly down her nose. "Dissociative episodes are common in severe post-traumatic stress. Small memory lapses, objects that disappear and reappear, the feeling of being watched… the brain plays these tricks when it can't process the pain."

She increased your medication dosage. One and a half pills now, instead of one. "It will help with the nights," she said. "Continuous sleep reduces these episodes." You took the prescription. Stuck it in your purse. Bought the medication at the corner pharmacy. Took it that night, the next, the one after. The extra pill left you dizzy, heavy, as if you were walking through a vat of honey. But the noises continued.

The footsteps in the hallway in the middle of the night. Always in the middle of the night. Always around 3:17 AM—you started looking at the clock, noting the times in a notebook, trying to find a pattern. 3:17. 3:22. 3:09. Slow, measured footsteps, as if someone were walking barefoot on the living room parquet, stopping near your bedroom door, waiting, breathing, and then continuing. You never heard the door open. Never heard anyone enter. Just the footsteps. And the silence that followed.

The feeling of being watched at the grocery store. You choosing bananas, feeling a weight on the back of your neck, turning around too quickly—and no one. Just the girl restocking tomato cans, just the security guard yawning at the door, just the security cameras in the corners, blinking red lights like mechanical eyes. Once you thought you saw a silhouette behind the cereal shelf. When you went around, there was no one. But the floor was wet. A small puddle, as if someone had spilled water and run away.

The hairs on your arm standing up when you walked past dark alleys. The electric sensation on your skin, the hair on your neck bristling, your heart racing for no apparent reason. You avoided alleys now. Avoided poorly lit streets. Avoided going out after eight in the evening. Your life had shrunk to fit within a five-hundred-meter perimeter around your apartment—the grocery store, the pharmacy, the bus stop. And even there, inside that tiny circle, the feeling of not being alone never completely left.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine that one night, you woke up to the weight of a body on the bed. Not a whole body—if it had been, you would have screamed, jumped up, called the police. It was just the weight. The depression in the mattress beside you, on his side, the side you hadn't occupied since he left. The mattress sinking slowly and silently, as if someone had lain down with absolute care, the care of someone who didn't want to wake you. And the heat. The heat of someone who had been there and left before you opened your eyes. A residual heat, like embers after the fire is gone.

You opened your eyes suddenly, your heart in your throat, your body already tensed in a defensive position you didn't even know you had learned. No one. The empty room. The curtain swaying gently—but the window was closed. You had checked before sleeping, and checked again, and checked once more, until the whole neighborhood must have known you had a thing about windows. The curtain had no reason to sway. But it swayed.

You didn't tell Dr. Elaine that that night, lying in the dark, your heart still racing and your body still waiting for a touch that didn't come, you whispered into the silence of the room:

"Ben?"

Just that. A name. Three letters you hadn't spoken aloud in months—not since that last call to his voicemail, not since your voice stopped working and you learned to keep his name locked in a cabinet inside you.

And you heard it.

For a second—just one second, so fast you could swear it was your imagination—someone held their breath. That unmistakable sound of someone who had been holding the air and failed for an instant. A startle. A surprise. As if he hadn't expected you to speak. As if he hadn't expected you to know.

Then silence. A silence so complete you could hear your own heartbeat, the blood circulating in your temples, the little hum that always exists at the bottom of your hearing and that you only notice when everything else stops. You lay there, eyes open in the dark, waiting. One minute. Five. Fifteen. Your heart gradually slowed, like an engine shutting down after a long journey.

No one held their breath again. No one spoke. No one appeared.

But you knew. Just as you knew your father's name and your birth date and how to ride a bike, you knew you weren't alone in that room. Or you hadn't been. Or you still weren't, somewhere beyond your ability to see. The weight on the side of the mattress had already disappeared, the heat had already cooled, the curtain had stopped swaying. But the air was different. Denser. Heavier. Like before a storm.

You didn't sleep the rest of the night. You sat up in bed, your back against the headboard, your eyes fixed on the bedroom door, waiting. You didn't know if you were waiting for him to appear. You didn't know if you were waiting for him to leave. You didn't know if you were waiting for someone—the police, a burglar, God, death. You just waited. And the silence waited with you. Complicit. Patient. Watching.

From outside. Or from inside. You no longer knew the difference.

The night of the second date started like any other. The routine had become a survival mechanism: wake up, take your meds, work, eat the bare minimum, wait for night, sleep poorly, repeat. But that night was different, and you knew it even before you opened the closet.

You put on the blue dress. The one he bought for your birthday, two years ago. You remembered the exact moment: a gift box wrapped in silver paper, a red bow so perfect it seemed fake, and his crooked smile as you opened it. "Try it on," he had said, and you went to the bathroom and put it on, and when you came back he was there, standing in the middle of the room, his pale blue eyes so transparent you could see to the bottom of his soul. He didn't say anything. He just looked. Two years later, that look still burned in your memory like a sunburn.

You hadn't worn the dress since he was arrested. It stayed at the back of the closet, behind the winter clothes you no longer wore, like an artifact from another life. But something about that night—maybe Dr. Elaine's voice in your head, repeating the words "you need to move on" like a secular mantra; maybe the sudden desperate desire to feel beautiful, to inhabit your own body without feeling the weight of an absence; maybe a secret, almost obscene way of provoking the ghost you swore was following you—made you put it on.

The dress still fit. Snug as a glove, the cold fabric against your skin, the blue so dark it bordered on black in the dim light of the bedroom. You looked at yourself in the closet mirror and, for a second, didn't recognize yourself. Or recognized yourself too much. It was the same woman from two years ago. The same eyes, the same mouth, the same hair. Only more tired. Deeper. As if life had dug holes inside you and forgotten to mention.

Lucas arrived on time. By then, his punctuality had become predictable—a boring virtue, the kind you didn't know whether to thank or resent. He picked you up at your building door, got out of the car to open the door for you, and when you approached, he stopped.

"You look beautiful," he said.

And it was polite. Normal. Safe. The right words in the right tone, the friendly smile, the gaze that didn't linger too long anywhere. It wasn't the first time someone had called you beautiful, but it hurt the same way—because it wasn't the right voice. It wasn't the right way. It wasn't Ben's hoarse whisper, the way he had of saying "beautiful" as if it were a discovery, as if he looked at you and saw something no one else saw, something he himself couldn't name but that made him smile that crooked smile and pull you close, his face buried in your hair, his warm breath against the back of your neck. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen a lot of beautiful things, shit."

You got in the car. Buckled your seatbelt. Smiled. The automatic smile, the one you kept in your purse like an extra lipstick, for social emergencies.

The restaurant was fancy. Cloth napkins, waiters in vests, real candles on the tables. You ordered shrimp risotto and ate without tasting it—the shrimp could have been rubbery, the rice could have been too salty, the cheese could have been burnt, you wouldn't have known. The food went down like sand, washed down by gulp after gulp of red wine that you also didn't taste. Beside you, Lucas talked about his work, about the exchange rate, about Toby who had eaten a new shoe. You laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right times, asked follow-up questions that demonstrated interest. It was an impeccable performance. No one in that restaurant would guess that, inside, you were empty.

And all the while, all the while, you felt it.

It wasn't a thought. It wasn't a memory. It was a physical sensation, settled just below the skin, a constant tingling at the back of your neck and on your arms. A presence. A shadow. A weight in the air that made the hairs on your arm stand on end, bristled like those of an animal scenting a predator before seeing it. You felt eyes where there was no face. You felt intention where there was no gesture. You felt someone—and you knew who—watching you from somewhere beyond the light, beyond the movement, beyond the solid reality that everyone in there seemed to inhabit without question.

You looked at the restaurant door three times. The first, an elderly couple saying goodbye; the second, a waitress balancing a tray; the third, no one, just the dark glass and the street. You looked at the street twice. The first, a taxi passing too fast; the second, a woman crossing hurriedly, her coat open to the wind. You looked at the man alone at the bar counter once. He had his back to you, a dark jacket, broad shoulders, short hair. Your heart leaped into your throat. Your whole body tensed, alert, ready for flight or encounter—you didn't know which. When you looked again, he was gone. The empty chair. A half-finished glass of wine. A crumpled napkin. As if he had left in a hurry. As if he had been seen.

"Everything okay?" Lucas asked.

His hand touched yours for a second. The touch was light, dry, careful. Polite. Normal. Safe. His hand didn't have the calluses you expected. Didn't have the scars you ran your fingers over while he slept, learning the maps of another person's pain. Didn't have the contained strength you felt when Ben held your hand under the table, fingers intertwined, his thumb drawing slow circles on your palm. It was just a hand. Polite. Normal. Safe. And you wanted it to be another.

"Fine," you lied. The lie came out smooth, rehearsed, like all the others. "Just a little tired."

Lucas accepted the answer. Of course he did. He wasn't the type to push, to notice the gaps between the lines, to tilt his head and say "lie, tell me" in that thick accent that made you feel like the only person in the world. Lucas was polite. Normal. Safe. And completely incapable of seeing that you were falling apart inside.

He asked for the check. Paid without looking at the amounts. Offered to take you home, and you accepted because his car was warm and the leather seats were soft and you didn't want to wait for the bus at that dark stop where the lights kept flickering. On the way, the car smelled of fabric softener and cold coffee—a smell so different from what you were used to, Ben's smell that was cheap soap and gunpowder, sweat and something indefinable you had never been able to name and that was probably just him, just the unique chemical composition of his body soaked into his clothes, the sheets, your skin.

The radio was playing some random song. One of those generic romantic songs you didn't pay attention to, but Lucas's fingers drummed on the steering wheel in rhythm, and you noticed he had clean, well-trimmed nails, and that irritated you more than it should have. Ben never had clean nails. He had dirt under some, dried blood on others, small cuts he didn't even notice. You would spend hours caring for his hands, filing, moisturizing, kissing each knuckle like a small shoreline of a foreign country.

You ran your fingers over your own wrist, drawing circles without realizing it. Automatic. Mechanical. Patterns that weren't yours. Concentric circles, slow and methodical, exactly the way he did it. You stopped when you realized. Your arm was marked with red, the friction of your own skin creating a familiar heat.

"You're shaking," Lucas noticed. The car had stopped at a red light, and in the red light streaming through the windshield, he looked at you with genuine concern. Polite. Normal. Safe. How annoying.

"It's cold," you said.

It wasn't. The car's heater was on, and you were sweating beneath the blue dress. But Lucas accepted the answer as he accepted everything: without questioning, without digging, without trying to understand what was really happening behind your eyes. He turned the warm air up a little more, a kind and completely useless gesture, and you felt a sudden urge to laugh. Not from happiness. That bitter laugh that rises in the throat when things are so absurd that no other reaction remains.

The car stopped in front of your building. Lucas turned off the engine. The silence that settled was heavy, full of expectations you didn't have.

"Can I come up?" he asked.

The question came in a careful tone, without pressure, the door open for a polite no. He was a good boy. Handsome. Stable. Liked dogs and specialty coffee and probably returned his shopping cart at the supermarket. His mother must have been proud. Dr. Elaine must have been radiant.

You looked at him. The perfectly combed hair. The close shave. The brown eyes with no mystery, no abyss, no scar on his soul that needed to be kissed before sleeping. He wasn't Ben. Would never be Ben. But maybe—and this "maybe" hurt like a broken bone—maybe that was a good thing.

"No," you said.

The word came out faster than you expected, and there was an immediate relief in your chest, as if your whole body had exhaled after holding its breath for hours. Lucas blinked, processed, and then smiled the understanding smile of someone used to hearing no. Polite. Normal. Safe even in rejection.

"No problem," he said. "Another time."

You knew there wouldn't be another time. He probably knew too, from the tone of your voice, from the way you opened the car door before he even finished his sentence. You got out, thanked him, closed the door. The car stayed there for a moment—Lucas waiting for you to enter the building, like a gentleman—and then drove away, its headlights disappearing around the curve, taking with them the smell of fabric softener and cold coffee.

You stood on the sidewalk for a while you didn't measure. The cold night wind bit your bare arms, the blue dress protected nothing, but you didn't feel cold. You felt something else. An electricity in the air. A tingling at the base of your spine. The absolute, irrational, non-negotiable certainty that you were not alone on that street.

There was no one in sight. The building lights were on on the lower floors, off on the upper ones. The iron gate creaked as you pushed it. The stairwell was dark—the hallway bulb had burned out weeks ago, and the superintendent never changed it. You climbed the steps in the dark, your left hand sliding along the railing, your right hand gripping your purse strap as if it were a weapon.

Somewhere upstairs, a door closed. Not yours. Someone else's. But it was late for visitors, and Dona must have been snoring for hours, and the other neighbors you didn't even know. You stopped on the landing, breathless not from exertion, and listened. Silence. The silence of the night, the silence you had learned to recognize in all its variations—the silence of an empty apartment, the silence of a lurking predator, the silence of someone holding their breath.

You climbed the rest of the stairs at a faster pace. Fumbled the key into the lock with trembling hands—the expensive lock that no one opened without the key—and entered. Locked it. Locked it again. Put on the chain. Rested your forehead against the cold wooden door and closed your eyes.

The apartment was empty. The furniture in place. The curtains drawn. The domestic silence of an ordinary Wednesday. You dropped your purse on the floor, kicked off your shoes in the foyer, and walked to the bedroom.

You put on his gray t-shirt. The one that had been wet last time. The one you had washed four times in a row, and still the smell hadn't come out—or maybe you just wanted to believe it hadn't. Lay down on the bed. Pulled up the blanket. Closed your eyes.

Outside, on the street, a car with its engine running waited for hours. You didn't hear it. Or pretended you didn't. By that point, you had given up distinguishing one thing from the other.

The traffic light broke.

It was the first thing wrong that night—but you would only realize that later, when the pieces fit together into a mosaic of terror you didn't yet know you were assembling. You stood at the intersection for five minutes. Five full minutes, your feet cold inside your shoes, your purse heavy on your shoulder, the blue dress—the same one, the cursed one, the one you swore you would never wear again—sticking to your skin beneath your coat. The light was stuck on red, flickering irregularly in a way that wasn't normal, as if someone had opened the fuse box of the world and jumbled the wires just for fun.

In the distance, a siren. Closer, a dog barking—the caramel-colored stray from the corner, who barked at everything and nothing, but that night the bark had a different tone. A warning. An alert. Animals know before we do. They always have.

And the silence. That heavy, sticky silence that wasn't the normal silence of the city. It was the silence of a city holding its breath. A city that knew, in some instinctive and collective way, that something was waiting for you at home. Or someone.

"Weird," Lucas murmured at the wheel, his fingers tapping nervously—a tic you hadn't noticed before. "I've never seen that light like that. Must have been a lightning strike at the control center or something."

You didn't answer. Not because you were being rude—you had already been rude enough to Lucas that night, politely refusing each of his attempts to get closer, each outstretched hand, each "want to talk about it?" You didn't answer because you couldn't. Your mouth was dry. The words had locked themselves inside your throat, little prisoners behind a fence of fear. Because you already knew. You didn't know what—there was no way to know—but you knew something was terribly wrong. Your whole body knew. Muscles tense, ready for a flight you didn't know where to. Breathing short, wheezy, as if you had run a marathon without moving from the spot. Cold hands, tingling fingers, your heart beating somewhere deep in your throat.

It was the same feeling you had before a storm. That weight in the air. That smell of ozone and wet earth. That sense that the world was about to change, and that you had no control over the direction of the change.

Lucas stopped the car in front of your building. Turned off the engine and turned to you with that lost puppy expression he wore every time you said no—which was every time, because you had never said yes. "Want me to come up?" he asked, with polite hope in his brown eyes. The hope of someone who still hasn't learned that certain doors don't open for everyone. "Just to make sure you got in okay. It's very dark, the doorman isn't there… and you seem…" He hesitated, choosing his words with the care of someone who didn't want to scare you. "You seem tense. I don't want you to be alone like this."

"Not necessary," you said. Too fast. So fast that the two words merged into one—notnecessary—and the tone was drier than you intended. You saw his face wilt a little and felt a pang of guilt, but guilt was a luxury you couldn't afford at that moment. "Thank you. It was… it was good."

The lie came easily. So easily that it almost scared you. It was good. It hadn't been good. It hadn't been anything. It had been a two-hour performance where you played a normal woman going out with a normal man, and in the end you had received a note left by a ghost and discovered that the dress you were wearing had been folded on your bed while you ate shrimp risotto without tasting it. But Lucas didn't know that. Lucas didn't know anything. Lucas was a polite, normal, safe man who deserved someone whole and not the shards you called a heart.

You got out of the car. The door closed with a dull thud. You walked to the building's entrance, each step a Herculean effort, as if the ground were turning into quicksand beneath your feet. Felt Lucas's eyes on your back until you went in—polite, normal, safe, watching only to make sure you were okay, not with the devouring hunger of someone who watches because they need to see you to continue existing.

The building door closed with a click. The silence of the lobby wrapped around you like a heavy, damp blanket. The lobby was empty. The fluorescent lights flickered with the same irregular frequency as the traffic light outside, as if the whole city were having an epileptic fit. You clutched your purse against your chest and walked to the elevator. Pressed the button. Nothing. Pressed it again. Nothing. Of course it was broken. Of course. Because nothing that night was going to be easy.

You took the stairs.

Four floors. Counted each step as you climbed, an old habit, a way to keep your mind occupied so you wouldn't think about the noise behind you. One, two, three, four. Because there was noise. Light footsteps, almost inaudible, on the edge of your perception. Someone climbing behind you, keeping the same distance, the same pace. When you sped up, the footsteps sped up. When you slowed down, the footsteps slowed down. You didn't look back. Didn't look because you were afraid of what you'd see. Didn't look because you were afraid of seeing nothing. Didn't look because, deep down, a part of you already knew who it was and was tired of pretending it didn't.

You reached the apartment door. Your heart hammering so hard you felt your temples pulsing. Took three deep breaths. The three breaths Dr. Elaine had taught for moments of anxiety—inhale through the nose, hold, exhale through the mouth. It never worked. It never would. Anxiety wasn't air. Anxiety was a living thing that lived inside your chest and fed on your fear.

You put the key in the lock.

The door opened before you turned the key.

It was unlocked.

The world stopped. Not metaphorically—the world actually stopped. The sound of the street disappeared. The hum of the fluorescent lights ceased. The dog's bark downstairs fell silent. Everything hung suspended in an absolute vacuum, as if the universe had pressed pause just to see what you would do.

You never forgot to lock the door. Never. Even on bad days, on days you could barely get out of bed, on days you went without eating, without showering, without answering messages—you locked the door. Twice. It was a ritual. A prayer. A silent promise you made to yourself every night: you are still here. you are still trying. you haven't given up protecting yourself yet. The key always turned twice. Always.

The door was open.

And you went in.

The apartment was destroyed.

It took you a second to process. Maybe two. Maybe an entire eternity compressed into a blink. The human brain wasn't made to understand chaos all at once—it needs time, needs layers, needs permission to believe what it's seeing. The door creaked behind you as you stood in the doorway, your fingers still gripping the handle, your purse slipping from your shoulder and falling to the floor with a dull thud. You didn't move to pick it up. Didn't move for anything.

It wasn't mess. It wasn't the kind of disarray of someone rummaging through your drawers looking for money or jewelry. There was no method there. No search. There was violence. Pure, raw violence, from someone who wasn't looking for anything except a place to drain what no longer fit inside their chest. Anger. Real anger. The anger of someone who had waited too long. Who had counted every day, every hour, every minute. Who had dreamed every night of this moment—not the moment of destroying the apartment, but the moment of coming back to it, of finding you in it—and now, finally, after 847 nights, after concrete walls, steel bars, orange uniforms, and meals served on plastic trays, now that the moment had arrived, the anger no longer fit inside the body. It had to get out. Overflow. Break something.

The sofa—the same sofa where he held you while you watched movies neither of you paid attention to—was torn. Not just torn. Shredded. The fabric ripped into strips, the foam torn out in chunks, the springs exposed like the ribs of an animal that had died long ago. The stuffing was scattered across the floor like dirty snow, like the entrails of something that had once been soft and warm and was now unrecognizable, irreparable, dead. You looked at the sofa and felt a pang in your chest—not for the sofa, it was never about the sofa, but for everything that happened on that sofa. The cold nights when he wrapped you in a blanket and said "stay here, don't let me sleep alone." The silly arguments about what movie to watch, which always ended the same way—him giving in, laughing, pulling you onto his lap. The last night. The last time he sat there before writing the note and disappearing. The sofa had witnessed everything. Now it was on the floor, shattered, as if he were trying to kill the memories too.

The pictures had been ripped from the walls. The shattered glass covered the floor like a dangerous frost, reflecting the flickering streetlight in a thousand small sharp pieces. Your photos—the ones on your shelf, the ones he never liked because they had other people in them—all had broken glass, all had the faces of other people scratched out. Coworkers. Cousins. That college friend who hugged you too tight. All scratched out with meticulous fury, as if he had used the tip of a knife to scribble over their eyes, their mouths, their smiles that weren't his. Only your face remained intact. Only yours. As if he had separated each photo, broken the glass with a dry blow, scratched out the others with surgical care, and then—only then—returned the frame to the floor. A curation of hatred. A declaration of ownership written in broken glass.

The kitchen table was overturned. The chairs were broken—not tipped over, broken, legs ripped off, backs split in half. The plates covered the floor in colorful fragments, the silverware scattered as if someone had been looking for a specific knife. And found it. You saw the knife later—a serrated one, a bread knife, embedded in the kitchen wall up to the handle. As if he had thrown it and hit the target on the first try. As if throwing knives was just one more thing he knew how to do and you had never discovered.

The curtains had been torn from the window. The metal rod was bent, hanging to one side like a broken arm. The window glass was cracked—not broken, cracked. A perfect spiderweb in the lower right corner, right in the middle of a smaller, round hole, as if someone had punched it and the glass had held up better than the wall.

Because the wall didn't hold up.

There was a hole in the wall. Not just any hole. A hole the size of a fist—his right fist, you knew, because you knew every bone, every knuckle, every scar on that hand. The plaster wall was blown inward, the crumbled coating on the floor, and inside the hole, mixed with the white dust, there were red marks. Blood. His blood, probably. Or not. You didn't want to think about the "or not."

A lot of blood. On the wall. On the floor. In a trail from the living room door to the back, near the cracked window, where the blood formed a larger puddle. A dark puddle, almost black in the dim light, reflecting the streetlight like a dirty mirror. And inside the puddle, no—beside the puddle, because he was too careful, too meticulous, too crazy to sit in his own blood—he was there.

Ben. Dex. The man who taught you to make tomato sauce and to feel fear in the dark. The man who killed with the same hand that caressed your hair. The man who should have been behind bars, behind steel doors, behind a life sentence that meant forever, that meant never again, that meant you were free.

He was sitting on the floor. Leaning against the cracked wall—the same wall he himself had punched, the bloody fist hole a few centimeters above his head, like an inverted halo. His legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. His hands resting on his knees, palms down, his long pale fingers resting in a stillness that bordered on supernatural. Calm. Strangely calm. As if he were waiting for the bus. Or waiting for death. Or waiting for you—and maybe, to him, all three were the same.

He was thinner. Much thinner. The white shirt—the same one from the newscast, you noticed with a knot in your stomach, the same one from the conviction, the one that appeared in the photos that circulated around the world, his face plastered on every news portal as if he were a monster, and maybe he was, maybe he always had been—that shirt hung on his body like a tent, his once-broad shoulders now looked sharp, his collarbones jutted out from beneath the thin fabric like the wings of a broken bird. The face you kissed every night, that you knew better than your own, was now too angular, too sharp, as if the bones were trying to escape the skin. The cheekbones you used to kiss playfully, saying he looked like a Scandinavian model, now cast dramatic shadows over his hollow cheeks. His under-eye circles were so dark they looked like bruises—purple, purplish-black, almost invisible in the dim light. His unshaven beard was thick, unkempt, grown without care for weeks, maybe months, and barely hid the new scars. Small cuts on his chin. A red line on his jaw. A scratch on his right cheekbone, recent enough to still be scabbed over. His hair was longer. Much longer. Fell over his forehead in a way that almost hid his eyes—but you saw his eyes. You always saw his eyes.

Those pale blue eyes. The eyes that looked at you as if you were the only real thing in the universe. The eyes you saw on television, empty, fixed somewhere behind the camera, as if he had already given up on everything. Now they were different. Deeper. Hollowed out from within, like two caves where light entered but found no exit. More tired—not the tiredness of a bad night's sleep, but the tiredness of years, the tiredness of someone who had carried the weight of an entire life on their back and discovered that the weight doesn't lessen, you just get used to it. And hungrier. A hunger you recognized because it was the same as yours. The hunger of someone who had gone too long without touching, without being touched, without feeling another person's skin against theirs. He was looking at you like a man in the desert looks at water. As if you were the only thing that could quench his thirst. And the light was blinding him—you could see in his eyes that it hurt, that looking at you after so long in the dark was like looking directly into the sun. But he didn't look away. He never looked away.

His shirt was open at the chest. You didn't know if he had opened it or if it had been torn—the lower buttons were still there, but the top ones… gone. The fabric opened in a cleft from his neck to the middle of his chest, exposing the marks you knew so well. The old scars, the ones you kissed before sleeping, the ones you traced with your fingertips while he slept. That place near his shoulder where you rested your forehead when you could no longer look into his eyes. The scar on his chest, close to his sternum, that he said was from "surgery" and you never asked if it was true. All still there. All waiting for you.

But there were new ones too.

Small recent cuts, some still with stitches—makeshift stitches, poorly done, that he must have given himself, sitting in some cold cell, with a smuggled needle and a hand trembling with anxiety. A dirty bandage on his left arm, the tape already peeling at the edges, stained with a yellow that could be antiseptic or could be pus. A dark mark on his ribcage—under his arm, where the skin is thinner and more vulnerable—that could be dried blood or could be a new tattoo, something done hastily, with improvised ink and a pain he probably no longer felt. You couldn't distinguish. Couldn't distinguish anything, because the whole world had been reduced to that man sitting on the floor of your destroyed apartment, covered in blood that wasn't only his, looking at you as if you were salvation itself.

And his face. Oh, his face.

It was dirty with blood. Not his blood—you knew that instantly, with a chill down your spine that started at the top of your head and descended slowly, vertebra by vertebra, like ice water dripping down your spine. His blood was different. You knew his blood—had seen it on various occasions, in small domestic accidents, in the slipped knife while chopping onions, in the scraped knee from a silly fall. His blood was bright red, almost shiny, like stamp ink. That blood on his cheek, his chin, his temple—that blood was darker. Thicker. From somewhere else. From someone else.

And the way he didn't do anything to clean it. The way he let the blood dry on his face like a mask, like a crown, like a trophy he wasn't willing to let go of. That told you everything you needed to know. The meeting. The coffee. Lucas with his perfectly combed hair and his life-insurance-ad smile. His car parked on the street, engine running, the polite hand that touched yours for a second at the restaurant table. You didn't know. There was no way to know. No way to know that while you laughed at Lucas's unfunny jokes, while you cut your shrimp risotto into microscopic pieces to avoid eating, while you wore the blue dress that Ben had bought and that wasn't for him, none of those gestures had gone unnoticed. None.

The blood on his face was a silent confession. A declaration of love written on someone whose last name you didn't even remember. You felt a tremor start in your hands and spread, like an underground earthquake, like the ground slowly splitting open. It wasn't fear. Or it was. Or it was something so mixed together you no longer knew how to separate. Love and fear had become the same substance inside you, like two rivers that meet and never part again.

His eyes met yours.

And something in his face changed.

The rigidity. The artificial calm. The posture of someone sitting on the floor of a destroyed apartment as if it were a throne. All fell away for a second. Just one second. The length of a breath. The time it takes to blink. And beneath, deep down, you saw it.

Saw the despair. Saw the fear. Not the fear of being caught—he had already been caught, already been convicted, already been through everything a man could go through. It was an older, more primal fear. The fear that you would look at him and feel disgust. The fear that you would call the police. The fear that you would say that word he couldn't stand to hear, the word that could kill him more than any bullet, more than any sentence, more than any cell: "Leave."

You saw the man who spent 847 nights locked in a concrete cell, counting the days with nail scratches on the wall, repeating your name like a prayer that went unanswered, drawing invisible patterns on his own wrist because yours wasn't there for him to draw on. Saw the man who broke a window with his own fist—the same fist that made the hole in your wall—to escape. Who crossed states by hitchhiking, on foot, inside trucks that smelled of diesel and sweat, hidden in compartments not made for human bodies. Who killed—you didn't want to think about how many, not now, maybe never—just to get here. Just to see you. Just to come home.

And beneath all the despair, behind all the fear, buried under layers and layers of blood and guilt and madness, you saw something else. Something more frightening than the hole in the wall. More frightening than the shredded sofa. More frightening than another person's blood on the face of the man you loved.

Relief.

He was relieved. Because you were there. Because you had come back. Because you hadn't run when you saw the open door, when you saw the chaos, when you saw him sitting on the floor like a deposed king waiting for the verdict. Because you were wearing the blue dress he bought. That dress. The birthday dress. The dress he had carefully chosen, imagined you in night after night before buying it, could barely wrap because his hands trembled so much. You were wearing it. And that meant something. That meant you hadn't forgotten. That meant part of you, no matter how buried, was still his.

His breath—which you hadn't realized was held, hadn't realized was waiting, which you only now noticed his chest hadn't been moving for an eternity—came out in a slow, trembling sigh, almost a stifled sob. His shoulders, tight as piano strings about to snap, dropped a centimeter. His jaw, which had been so clenched you could see the muscles jumping, loosened slightly. A millimeter. Enough.

He raised one hand.

The right hand. The one he used to draw patterns on your wrist on nights when neither of you could sleep. The one he used to hold yours when you crossed the street, as if you were a child and he the only guardian capable of protecting you from traffic. The same hand that, you knew, had squeezed triggers. Squeezed necks. Opened doors that shouldn't be opened. His fingers were clean, you noticed. Strangely clean. As if he had washed them before waiting for you. Scrubbed with soap, removed every trace of blood from under his nails, rinsed until the skin was red and raw. As if the blood on his face didn't matter—that was an accessory, a declaration, a signature. But his hands—the hands that were going to touch you, the hands that were going to find your face, the hands that were going to ask, in the language only the two of you understood, that you stay—those needed to be clean. Pure. Worthy of you.

His fingers moved. A small gesture. Almost shy. A wave. The same wave he made when he came home late at night and you were on the sofa, awake waiting, and he would come on tiptoe and wave as if afraid to scare you. As if he wasn't sure he could still approach. As if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in prison—lying on the hard bed, the thin blanket warming nothing, eyes fixed on the cracked concrete ceiling—and now that the moment had come, now that you were really there, in front of him, wearing the blue dress he bought, all the words he had rehearsed had disappeared. Evaporated. Left only that small, almost pathetic gesture, a wave from someone who no longer knew what to do with his own hands.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His voice, when it came out, was different. Deeper. Hoarser. As if he hadn't used his voice in a long time—or as if he had used it too much. Screamed too much. Called for you too much. Waited too much. There was a tremor in it, a fragility he hated, that he tried to hide by swallowing hard, but you heard it. You always heard it. You heard the holes in his voice, the fractures, the places where pain escaped the edges like water through a dam about to break.

"Darling..."

The word came out soft. Almost a whisper. Almost a question. As if he wasn't sure he could still call you that. As if he was afraid you would say "no, this is over, you lost the right, you lost me, go away, disappear, leave me alone." And beneath the word, you heard the echo of all the nights he must have said your name in the dark of the cell. To the walls. To the thin mattress. To the other inmates who must have thought he was crazy. And maybe he was. Maybe he always had been. But he was your crazy. The only one who loved you in a way that hurt.

His eyes glistened. Not with tears—Benjamin Poindexter didn't cry, he had told you once, on a night you woke up with him trembling beside you, his arms so tight you could barely breathe, and when you asked what had happened, he said: "People like us don't have that luxury." You never asked what he meant by "people like us." You were afraid of the answer. Still are. But his eyes glistened with something else, something that hurt just the same, that squeezed your chest the same way, that pulled the air from your lungs as if someone had opened a window at the bottom of the ocean.

His hand moved again. This time slower. More careful. As if every millimeter of air between you was a minefield. His fingers found your chin—the touch, when it happened, was so light you almost didn't feel it. A butterfly landing. A feather descending. The contrast with the violence around was so absurd, so insane, that you felt a laugh rise in your throat and held it in with force. Different from before. Before, he held you with force, with desperation, as if you were going to slip through his fingers at any moment, as if he needed to apply constant pressure to be sure you were still there. Now he touched you as if you were made of glass. As if you were the most precious and fragile thing in the universe. As if he was afraid of breaking you with a rougher movement, afraid you would shatter into a thousand pieces and he would spend the rest of his life trying to put you back together, cutting his fingers on each shard.

His thumb traced a circle on your jaw.

Automatic. Instinctive. Like breathing. The same circle. The same pattern. The same gesture he made every night before sleeping, when you had already closed your eyes and he thought you weren't watching. The same drawing he made on your wrist, your palm, the back of your neck. Concentric circles. You never asked what they meant. You were afraid the answer would be something you didn't want to hear. Or maybe you knew. Maybe you'd known from the beginning that those circles were him trying to map you, possess you, turn you into sacred territory that no one else could occupy.

Your body responded before your mind.

A betrayal. A truth. A piece of you that no longer obeyed your brain, that acted on pure animal instinct, on muscle memory, on the habit of so many nights of love and fear mixed together. Your eyes closed for a second. Your head tilted against his hand, heavy, surrendered. His skin was warm—warmer than it should be, fever-warm, the warmth of a whole life burning from within. And a sound escaped your throat. A small, painful moan, not entirely human. A sound that was both relief and despair.

He heard it.

And something in his face broke.

The control. The facade. The posture of a man who had just destroyed an apartment and sat among the rubble like a king. All fell. Not for a second this time. It truly fell. Like a house of cards finally finding the right breath. For a moment—a single, brief, luminous moment—he wasn't the elite sharpshooter. Wasn't the convicted murderer. Wasn't the fugitive who had just crossed the country with blood on his hands. He was just Ben. The Ben who pulled you closer in the middle of the night, when you were already asleep, as if even unconscious he needed to be sure you hadn't left. The Ben who whispered things in your hair, things you never repeated to anyone, things he probably didn't even remember saying because they came out of him like confessions from a sleepwalker. The Ben who was afraid to fall asleep first because he needed to be sure you wouldn't run away while he was vulnerable.

His hand trembled against your face.

His thumb stopped mid-circle. The other fingers, the ones resting on your jaw, vibrated like violin strings after snapping. The tremor traveled up his arm, through his shoulder, shaking his thin body for a second. He held his breath—you saw his chest stop—and then let it all out in one jet, as if he had held the whole world inside his lungs and could finally let go.

His blue eyes wandered over your face, slowly, as if he were re‑memorizing every detail. As if afraid of forgetting. His nose—you noticed his nose was now slightly crooked, as if it had been broken and hadn't healed right. The line of his lips—chapped, dry, the lower lip split in the middle. The new scar on his eyebrow. All the marks that prison time had left on him, all the stories he wouldn't tell, all the pieces of him that had been broken and hastily mended, without anesthesia, without care.

His thumb resumed the movement. One circle. Another. Another. A rhythm. A prayer. A thread connecting this moment to all the past nights, to all the promises tattooed on skin and in silence.

His mouth almost touched yours. Close enough for you to feel the promise of a kiss, the ghost of a kiss, the warmth of a kiss that didn't happen but vibrated in the space between your mouths like a stretched string.

His eyes met yours. And he smiled.

The smile was small. Crooked. Disturbingly familiar. The same smile he used before kissing you, before pulling you into the dark, before doing all the things you kept in your memory like a photo album you would never open again but also never throw away. But there was something different now. Something broken and lit at the same time. Like an exposed wire, sparking, smoking, but still conducting electricity. Like a house on fire but still habitable, walls in flames and the sofa still soft, windows bursting and the bed still warm. Like someone who had gone to the bottom of the well and come back, but brought the bottom of the well with him—stuck to his shoes, under his nails, at the back of his throat.

The smile widened. Showed teeth. His eye gleamed—not the wet gleam from before, but a dry, electric gleam, a little bit crazy. There was joy there. A dark, dangerous joy that you hadn't seen since before the prison, since before the note, since before the end of the world. The joy of someone who survived something they shouldn't have. Who escaped a cell that was meant to be permanent. Who came back from hell in jeans and a white shirt open at the chest, dirty with blood, thin as a thread, but alive. Alive.

His free hand—the left, the one resting on his knee—rose slowly. His fingers found your hair. Buried themselves in it. Pulled a little, not hard, like an owner. With the familiarity of someone who had done this a thousand times. With the certainty of someone who knows that hair, that smell, that temperature still belong to him. It was a possessive gesture, but it was also a request. Let me stay. Let me touch. Let me be yours again, the same way you've always been mine.

His thumb stopped mid-circle. The fingers in your hair tightened a little more. The blue eyes, those eyes that looked at you with devotion and despair and hunger and love and madness, fixed on yours like two nails. The smile was a crack in his face, an open wound, a wide-open door to a place you knew well because you had lived there for a long time.

"Guess who's back from jail?"

a/n: the ending is purposefully ambiguous and chilling. i honestly thought about another path, but i stayed firm in my choice to keep the meme. because deep down, that's exactly what he would do. he destroyed her apartment. he's covered in blood. he killed her lover on the way. he spent 847 nights locked in a cell counting the days to come back to her. and the first thing he does when he sees the woman he loves again? acts like a sitcom character coming back from vacation. is it scary? yes. but it's also him. it's that thread of madness and twisted humor that was always there, buried beneath all the devotion and violence and sick love. also... LOOK AT HIS FACE. that face of someone who escaped from hell in ripped jeans and an open shirt, thin as a thread, dark circles like bruises, dried blood on his face that isn't his. and honestly? he regrets nothing. just that it took so long. and i didn't understand why i couldn't use the gif tool correctly, but i hope you can see the credits. i don't want to offend anyone.

[ladybirdswritings]

HER ⌖ BEN POINDEXTER

⊹ synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.

⊹ warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.

⊹ next chap | lmk if you’d like to be tagged | ♫

it’s silly how random life is. when you were younger you used to think it was all one big game. like, god or whoever the fuck was looking down at you and changing the colors in the sky was manning some big joystick 24/7.

it made sense then. but now?

the blood spilling from your stomach onto the scuffed, dilapidated floors of your unfurnished hell’s kitchen apartment was as red as the tomato sauce still boiling in the pot you’d been stirring four seconds prior.

glug. glug. glug.

your free time was sacred. and that tomato sauce was supposed to go over frozen gnocchi, devoured on the couch with NCIS on and a seltzer sweating in your hand. you never found it realistic; the way actors bled on screen. too much, too dramatic.

but now, here, with your own trembling hands pressed against your midsection, you realized something.

you had been so terribly wrong.

droplets became spills. and as it always did, the sight of blood made your head swim. the copper smell hit the back of your throat and your knees buckled before you could stabilize yourself on the newly red countertop. your head met the floor with a crack that you felt more than heard.

three versions of your ceiling swam above you. all of them blurry.

and a ways away, in a place you couldn’t see, the man responsible was still squinting through his scope. still trained on the peephole of what was supposed to be karen’s door.

but you were not karen.

oh no no no.

at surface level, similar enough. a pretty blonde thing, wide-eyed. and now, gorgeously complemented by the crimson blooming across that frilly white top of yours. he stayed a beat longer than necessary, watching the spiderweb of red spread against the fabric.

his work. tidy, even when it was wrong.

then his stomach growled.

fries, he thought. and a banana milkshake. definitely a banana milkshake.

he was already turning on his heel when he heard it. faint. muffled by the door between you.

“father forgive them…” a wet, rattling inhale. ”…for they know not what they do.”

ben stopped.

were you… praying? for him?

a long pause settled behind his mask. his head tilted a fraction, the way it did when something didn’t compute. he’d just put a bullet in you. and you were down there, trembling on the other side of that door, bleeding out, spending what might be your last breaths on forgiveness.

he didn’t deserve that. he knew it plainly, the same way he knew he was hungry, the same way he knew the door in front of him was unlocked when it shouldn’t have been. facts. simple ones.

his hand closed around the knob anyway.

the click of the latch was barely a sound. the draft from the hallway kissed your face before you registered the shape crouching over you. masked, still, radiating something you couldn’t name but recognized in your gut as wrong.

“door’s unlocked.” his voice was even, almost conversational. almost amused. “that’s not very smart.”

you blinked up at him. or tried to. the tears were making it difficult.

he reached down with ease and tucked a dirty blonde ringlet away from your clammy face. clinical. unhurried. like he had all the time in the world and you weren’t actively dying beneath him.

“hello.” voice soft.

a beat.

“you’re not karen page…”

[yunyuu]