Author's Note: I keep writing these imagines because currently they're the only things helping me with writer's block as I struggle through writing a novel. Send help. Or maybe just enjoy? Yeah, that'll work. :)
Summary: “We need a system, doll.”
To Bucky, the bathroom counter looked like a war zone.
Your side now held two face lotions, a bottle of toner, a jade roller, three hair products, a bottle of vitamins, and something in a tube claiming to be "rejuvenating skin elixir”. Bucky’s side held exactly three things. There was only a plain bar of soap, a toothbrush, and the small tin of balm he used on the skin around the metal arm.
“There’s no room for my elbow.”
You were in the middle of putting your hair up, bobby pins between your lips. In the mirror you watched the way his eyes followed the line of your throat when you tilted your head.
“Your elbow has the entire rest of the apartment.”
“I need counter space to exist as a person.” He stepped into the bathroom, and the room shrank. His chest brushed your back as he reached past you, metal hand carefully moving a bottle two inches to the left so he could set his coffee down. “This is a tactical takeover.”
“It’s called a skincare routine.”
“It’s called mission creep.”
You spit the bobby pins into your palm and met his eyes in the mirror. He was standing close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your shirt. “I don’t even know what that means, baby. Besides, you’re the one who leaves the towel on the floor every single morning.”
“I pick it up.”
“After I trip over it.”
His reflection held your gaze as the corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re the one who uses fourteen steps to wash a face that already looks beautiful.”
You ignored the compliment and the way your body hummed in approval from hearing it. “You’re the one who acts like hot water is a limited wartime resource.”
He reached around you for his toothbrush. The metal arm bracketed your waist, solid and deliberate, the cool plates pressing just enough to make your breath catch. His chest touched your back for a full second longer than necessary. “Hot water is better when you don’t waste it standing under the spray having an existential crisis.”
“It’s called a shower, Barnes,” you murmured. “People enjoy them.”
“People also enjoy being able to put a cup down without starting an avalanche of serums.”
You turned in the narrow space so you were facing him, back against the counter. The edge bit lightly into your palms. Bucky was closer than the argument required. The bathroom smelled like your lotion and his simple soap and the faint clean-metal scent that always clung to his skin. You had to tip your chin up to keep his eyes.
“We need a system, doll.”
“We have a system. I use the counter. You use the look of mild judgment.”
“That’s not a system.” His flesh hand came up and rested on the counter beside your hip, caging you in without quite touching. “That’s a hostile occupation.”
You hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt, feeling the warm skin at the base of his throat. The pulse there was steady, but a little faster than usual. You tugged him closer. “You’re very cute when you’re territorial about bathroom real estate.”
“I’m being practical.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Bucky’s metal hand left the counter and settled at your waist, thumb sweeping once under the hem of your shirt. The cool of the vibranium made you shiver; the heat of his palm behind it made it worse. His voice dropped further, rough around the edges.
“I’m going to start charging rent for every bottle that crosses the midline.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
You didn’t try him with words. You kissed him instead, the kind of kiss that made the argument feel like foreplay. Bucky made a low sound in his throat and stepped fully into you, pressing you back against the counter. The metal hand slid higher under your shirt, palm spanning your ribs; the other shifting to cradle the side of your neck.
A bottle of something expensive wobbled and tipped over behind you with a soft plastic clatter. Neither of you looked.
Bucky broke the kiss, eyes darker now as he gazed down at you. “We’re going to need a bigger bathroom. Or fewer serums.”
You smiled, fingers still curled in his collar. “Don’t push it.”
Summary: It happens on an ordinary Tuesday. You say yes.
Previous Chapters
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART 3 - THE RING
Two weeks later, you come home to the sound of darts hitting the board in his apartment. Not the usual measured rhythm. Harder. Sharper. As if he’s trying to pin something down that won’t stay still.
You don’t knock. You use the key he gave you and step inside.
Dex is shirtless, his back to you, throwing with that same terrifying precision even though his jaw is tight. Three darts sit dead center. The fourth hits just outside the grouping, and he exhales through his teeth, clearly frustrated.
You set your bag down quietly beside the door. “Bad day?”
He doesn’t turn right away. He stands there, shoulders rising and falling. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are restless.
“My head’s loud.”
You cross the room without hesitation and step into his space. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your palms. He doesn’t pull away. He never does with you.
“Tell me.”
When the words come, each one is carefully measured before he lets them out.
“I spent years making sure nothing got close to me. Then you moved in next door, and suddenly the silence wasn’t enough anymore.” His hand comes up to cover one of yours on his chest. “Now there’s you. In my space. In my head. Some days it feels too good to be true. It feels like it’s going to get taken away.”
You rise up on your toes and kiss him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper against his mouth. “Not unless you ask me to.”
Something in him uncoils. His arms wrap around you, tight, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck. You stay like that for a while, simply breathing together, the dartboard forgotten behind him.
After he’s showered, the tension has eased from his shoulders, and you end up in his bed with the lights turned low. He makes love to you like he’s re-learning how to be gentle. Every touch is deliberate. Every kiss says what he hasn’t said out loud yet.
Hours later when you’re both spent and tangled in the sheets, he speaks against your hair.
“I love you.”
Three words. Precise. Delivered like everything else he does with full intention and no hesitation.
You tilt your head back enough to see his face. His eyes are steady on yours, open in a way that still feels rare.
“I love you too.”
The relief that flickers across his expression makes your chest ache.
He kisses you again, sealing something permanent between you.
The next morning you wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of him moving around the kitchen. When you walk out in one of his shirts, he’s already set a second mug on the counter. Your favorite one. The one that usually lives in your apartment.
He glances over his shoulder.
“I was thinking that we could stop pretending we have two separate places. Your lease is up in a couple months. We could… make it official.”
You lean against the counter beside him, watching the careful way he pours the coffee. “Is this you asking me to move in with you, Dex?”
He sets the pot down and turns to face you fully. One hand settles at your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your face with that same focused gentleness.
“I’m asking you to stay here. For as long as you’ll have me.”
You smile, rising up to kiss him. “Then I guess I’m moving in with you.”
His mouth curves against yours, the closest thing to a real smile he’s given you yet.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I already cleared the rest of the closet.”
The first box sits in the middle of his living room like a declaration.
It’s only been a week since he asked, but neither of you wanted to wait. You’ve already started the slow migration. One drawer at a time. One shelf. One box.
Dex stands over it now, sleeves pushed up, studying the contents in focused concentration. Books. A few framed photos. Your favorite blanket. The mug he already claimed as his favorite because it’s the one you always reach for first.
“You don’t have to label everything,” you tease gently from the doorway.
He glances up and the corner of his mouth lifts. “I like knowing where things go, especially when they’re yours.”
You cross the room, and he pulls you in without hesitation, one arm around your waist, the other still resting on the box like he’s claiming it too.
It takes most of the afternoon to bring over the first real load. He carries the heavier boxes without effort, precise and efficient even when sweat starts to dampen the back of his shirt. You catch him more than once measuring space with his eyes, calculating where your books will fit on his shelves, where your photos can go without disrupting the clean lines he prefers.
At one point you find him in the bedroom, carefully clearing the top drawer of the dresser even though he already gave you one weeks ago.
“You already did this, Dex.”
He doesn’t look up right away. He keeps folding one of your sweaters with the same care he uses for everything.
“I wanted to do it again properly. Now that it’s real.”
Your chest tightens in the best way.
When everything from the first trip is unpacked and put away, the apartment already looks different. Softer. Lived-in. Your blanket is draped over the back of his couch. Your books are stacked neatly beside his on the small table. One of your photos, a candid shot of you as a girl laughing at the park with your mother, sits on the shelf near the dartboard.
Dex stands in the middle of the room, taking it all in.
You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist. “Too much?”
He shakes his head and turns in your arms so he can look at you. “No, it looks like you belong here.” His voice drops lower. “It looks like we belong here.”
You rise up and kiss him. He returns the caress, slow at first, then deeper, hands sliding under the hem of your shirt to find skin. You end up against the wall beside the dartboard, his body pressed to yours.
When you’re both in bed, he pulls you on top of him and lets you take the lead. There’s something different in the way he touches you tonight. Less careful. More certain.
Your head on his chest, you listen to his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare back.
“I’ve never done this before,” he admits quietly into the dark. “Let someone take up space.”
You look up to see he’s watching you with that same intense focus he’s always had. “I’m glad it’s me.”
Dex reaches up and tucks your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. “So am I.”
A month later, the apartment doesn’t feel like 4B anymore.
It feels like yours.
Your books are mixed with his on the shelves. Your toothbrush sits in the cup beside his like it’s always belonged there. Even the dartboard has shifted slightly to make room for the small framed photo of the two of you that you took on a rare sunny afternoon in the park.
You’re curled on the couch in one of his sweaters while he moves around the kitchen. He’s making tea the way you enjoy it.
When he brings you the mug, he doesn’t sit beside you right away. He stands there for a moment, looking at you like he’s still getting used to the fact that you’re here. Not visiting. Not temporary.
You reach for his hand and tug him down beside you.
He goes easily now.
His arm rests along the back of the couch, fingers idly playing with the ends of your hair. You lean into his side and feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“I’ve been thinking.” His voice is measured, the way it always is when he’s choosing his words with care.
You look at him. “About what?”
“About what comes next. With us.”
Your heart gives a small, warm kick.
He turns to face you fully, one hand coming up to rest against the side of your neck. His thumb strokes slowly along your jaw.
“I never planned for this, never let myself want it. I do now.” His gaze is steady, intense, completely open in the way it only is with you. “I want to keep learning how to be soft for you.”
He pauses, thumb still moving gently against your skin. “I want to marry you one day.”
The words land honestly between you. Not a question. Not yet. A simple truth he’s been carrying.
Your breath catches. “Dex…”
“I’m not asking tonight. I just need you to know where my head goes when I look at you. Where it’s been going for months.” His mouth curves. “I love you. I want a life with you. The kind that doesn’t end when the lease does.”
You don’t answer with words at first.
You kiss him instead, the caress full of everything you feel but haven’t said yet. He pulls you into his lap without breaking the caress. There’s no rush. Only the steady, deliberate way he touches you, like he’s still memorizing every inch even though he already knows it by heart.
With a sigh, you rest your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat.
“I want all of that too.”
It happens on an ordinary Tuesday.
You’re in the kitchen making coffee the way he showed you, exact measurements, because some of his precision has rubbed off on you. He’s sitting at the small table, watching you with that focused gaze that used to make you nervous and now makes you feel known.
When you set his mug in front of him, he doesn’t reach for it right away.
He stands.
You know that look. The one he gets when he’s been turning something over in his head for a long time and has finally decided the moment is right.
Dex reaches into the pocket of his dark sweater and pulls out a small black box. Simple. Matte. Exactly like him. He sets it on the table between you but doesn’t open it.
“I’ve had this for three weeks.” His voice is steady, but there’s something raw underneath it.
He opens the box. The ring inside is simple. Elegant. A single stone set in a clean band. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw attention. Beautiful in the same quiet way he is.
He picks it up with those precise fingers and holds it between you.
“I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life making space for you. In every quiet part of me that used to stay locked up.” His eyes never leave yours. “Marry me.”
Your breath catches. For a second you can stare at the man who once moved through the hallway in complete silence, the one who now stands in front of you with his heart in his hands.
“Yes.”
Dex exhales. He takes your left hand and slides the ring onto your finger with the same careful attention he gives everything that matters. It fits perfectly.
Because of course it does.
When he looks up at you again, his eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them.
You step into him and kiss him. He kisses you back like he’s been waiting his whole life to give someone a future and you’re the one who said yes.
Breaking away, he traces the band with his thumb, over and over.
“You’re really mine now.”
“I always was. You only needed to start speaking.”
Three weeks after the proposal, the ring feels new on your finger.
You catch yourself staring at it sometimes. When you’re making coffee in the morning, when you’re reaching for a book, when Dex’s hand covers yours on the couch. He notices every time. He always notices.
Tonight the apartment is quiet. You’re sitting on the couch with your legs across his lap while he reads, one of his hands resting on your shin, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes.
You’ve been engaged for less than a month and already the rhythm of your life has shifted into something steadier. More real.
Dex closes his book and sets it aside. His eyes find yours in that focused way that still makes your stomach flip.
“I’ve been thinking about the wedding.”
You smile. “I figured you would be.”
He doesn’t smile back, but his expression softens in the way it only does for you now.
“I don’t want anything big. No crowds. No strangers watching. Just us. Maybe a few people if you want them there.” His thumb keeps moving against your skin. “I want it to feel like this. Ours.”
You lean forward and kiss him, slow and grateful. “That’s what I want too.”
He nods once, filing the decision away. His hand slides higher up your leg, under the hem of your sleep shorts.
“I want to marry you as soon as possible. I don’t need a long engagement. I’ve waited long enough to have you.”
Your breath catches when his fingers trace higher. “Dex…”
He moves then, shifting so he can pull you into his lap. You straddle him, hands on his shoulders, and he looks up at you.
“I want to call you my wife,” he sighs against your mouth. “I want to wake up every morning knowing you chose this. You chose me.”
You kiss him harder, fingers sliding into his hair. He groans quietly and grips your hips, pulling you closer. The kiss turns deeper, hungrier, the way it always does when the weight of what you are to each other settles between you.
Clothes come off between kisses. You end up in his lap with nothing between you, sinking down onto him slowly while his hands steady your waist. This time feels different. Heavier with meaning. Every movement is deliberate. Every touch says mine and forever without needing the words.
You stay wrapped around him.
Dex’s hand finds yours and brings it up between you. He runs his thumb over the ring again.
“I never thought I’d have this.”
You brush your nose against his. “You do now.”
He exhales and pulls you tighter against his chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs into your hair. “I do.”
Four weeks later, Dex comes home with a small folder tucked under his arm.
You’re already in the kitchen when he walks in, and you know immediately that he’s been planning something. He sets the folder on the counter and slides it toward you.
You open it.
Inside are a few printed pages. Simple, clean, no unnecessary decoration. A small list of dates. A quiet, private venue an hour outside the city. The name of a licensed officiant who specializes in low-key ceremonies. Nothing flashy. Nothing public.
You look up at him.
Dex watches your reaction with that steady, focused gaze.
“I found a way for us to get married in three weeks.” His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of something warmer beneath it. “We can do it at this place. They have a private garden and a simple indoor option if it rains.” He pauses. “I already spoke to the officiant. She’s available on the 17th.”
Your heart beats a little faster. “Three weeks?”
“I don’t want to wait longer than that; not if you’re sure.”
You step around the counter. He opens his arms automatically, pulling you against his chest.
“I’m sure,” you say against his shirt. “I’ve been sure.”
His arms tighten around you, and you feel him exhale, long and slow.
“I want to stop calling you my fiancée. I want to call you my wife.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are darker than usual, intense in that way that still makes your stomach flip even after all these months.
“Then let’s do it on the 17th.”
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, happiness, and that prideful possessiveness that’s become so familiar.
He kisses you, one hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on. You kiss him back with everything you feel, fingers curling into his shirt.
He pulls away to rest his forehead against yours.
“Three weeks,” he says, almost to himself. “Then you’re mine in every way that matters.”
Two days before the wedding, the apartment is quieter than usual.
Dex moves through it, checking and rechecking the small bag he’s packed for the overnight stay at the venue. Simple black suit for him. A soft cream dress you chose for yourself. The marriage license. Everything is already organized, labeled in his mind even if it isn’t written down.
You sit on the edge of the bed watching him, your engagement ring catching the light every time you twist it around your finger.
He notices the movement.
He immediately stops what he’s doing and crosses the room to stand in front of you. He tilts your chin up with two fingers, studying your face the way he studies everything that matters.
“What is it?”
You take a breath. “It’s starting to feel real.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes softens. “It is real. In two days, I’m going to stand in front of you and promise to spend the rest of my life choosing you. No matter what.”
You reach up and rest your hand over his heart. It beats steady and strong under your palm.
“Are you nervous at all?”
“I’ve spent most of my life being certain about the wrong things. This is the first time I’ve been certain about something that feels right.” His hand covers yours on his chest. “Marrying you feels like the most precise decision I’ve ever made.”
Your throat tightens. You stand and step into him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He holds you, one hand at the back of your head, the other at the small of your back.
“I love you, Benjamin.”
“I know.” His voice is low against your hair. “And in two days, I get to spend the rest of my life proving I love you back.”
The morning of the 17th is quiet and unhurried. He helps you zip the simple cream dress. You fix the collar of his black suit jacket with careful fingers. He watches you in the mirror the entire time.
The drive to the venue is peaceful. His hand rests on your thigh the whole way, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes. Neither of you talk. The place is exactly what you both wanted. Small, private, surrounded by trees. No crowds. No noise. Just a simple garden and an indoor space if the weather turns.
The officiant is warm and efficient. She keeps things short, the way you asked.
When it’s time, Dex takes both of your hands in his. His vows are short. Precise. Completely him.
Your throat tightens as you say your own vows, honest and full of everything you feel for the man who once never spoke but now gives you his entire future without hesitation.
When the officiant pronounces you husband and wife, Dex doesn’t wait for permission. He pulls you in and kisses you like the rest of the world has finally disappeared.
After the short ceremony and quiet congratulations from the officiant, you find yourselves alone in the small private suite the venue offered for the night.
Dex stands in front of you looking at the band now sitting beside your engagement ring on your left hand. His wedding band is simple and black.
“I love you, Mrs. Poindexter.”
“I love you too, Mr. Poindexter.”
He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, then to the rings.
Summary: "So, you really read The Hobbit in 1937?"
Bucky was on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his metal arm curved around your waist as you sprawled half on top of him. The vibranium was warm from his body heat, the plates smooth under your palm where your hand rested against his side.
You’d been quiet for a while, tracing idle patterns over the dark blue of his henley. The fabric was soft from too many washes, slightly stretched at the seams where his shoulders tested it.
You tilted your head, resting your chin against his chest so you could see his face. His eyes were half-lidded, the blue of them softer than usual in the low light.
“So, you really read The Hobbit in 1937?”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “I did.”
“Mm.” Your fingers walked up his sternum. “Twenty years old and you just happened to be first in line at the bookstore the day it hit the shelves? ‘One brand-new Tolkien, please, and make it snappy, I’ve got a whole depression-era future to get back to.’”
“My mother gave it to me. It had a dragon on the cover. I thought it might have illustrations.”
Snorting with laughter, you shifted higher, bracing your forearm against the mattress so you could look at him properly. Your hair slipped over one shoulder, brushing his collarbone. “And then what? You just… kept reading? Through everything that came after?”
“Tried to.” His metal hand found the small of your back again, the cool plates shifting in a low hum as his thumb stroked your skin in slow circles. “Some books stayed with me longer than people did. Easier that way. You could close a cover. People didn’t always give you that choice.”
You studied him for a long moment before your smile returned, softer this time, but still wicked around the edges.
“Okay. So you’ve read The Hobbit. What about the rest? Fellowship? Two Towers? Don’t tell me you stopped at the party scene and decided the rest was too long?”
His eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, though the warmth never left them. “You’re fishing.”
“Obviously.” You leaned in until your noses brushed, the quiet exhale of his breath against your lips. “Come on, Bucky. Spill. What else did the great James Buchanan Barnes smuggle into his life between odd jobs and looking after Steve?”
He pretended to think about it, gaze drifting to the ceiling. You could almost see the memories surface. You waited patiently for an answer because you knew he would give them to you if you asked the right way.
“Pride and Prejudice,” he admitted. “1942. Steve found it first in some abandoned house outside of Lyon. Wouldn’t stop talking about Darcy. I read it to shut him up but I liked it more than I expected.”
Your grin was pure triumph. “Elizabeth Bennet. Of course you liked her.”
“She had a spine.” His metal hand slid up your back, fingers weaving carefully into your hair, cradling the base of your skull with a gentleness that still surprised you sometimes. “Reminds me of someone.”
“Flatterer.”
“Truth.” He tugged you closer until your mouth was a breath from his, until the space between you felt charged and deliberate. “Your turn. What are you reading that I haven’t? Or are you going to keep collecting my secrets without offering any of your own?”
You pretended to consider it, lips brushing his with every careful word. The contact was feather-light, the kind of almost-kiss that made his breath catch just enough for you to notice. “I’ll tell you… if you admit you cried at the end of Return of the King.”
Bucky’s laugh vibrated through both of you. In one smooth motion he rolled, taking you with him, the world tilting until your back met the mattress and his weight settled carefully over you. His flesh arm braced on one side of your head, the metal one on the other, caging you in without trapping you.
“Maybe I did,” he murmured against your mouth. “The part where they say goodbye at the Grey Havens gets me every time. You gonna tease me about that too?”
Your answer was a soft kiss, and you threaded your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, holding him there, letting the moment stretch. When you finally pulled back, your voice was barely more than a whisper against his lips.
“Every chance I get, my love,” you promised.
His eyes searched yours, and satisfied by what he found, he kissed you again.
Summary: There's still so much you don't know about him. You're willing to learn.
Previous Chapters
PART ONE
PART 2 - THE SHIFT
We’re moving too fast.
The thought hits hard. He’s still a mystery in so many ways. The precise way he moves, the scars you’ve glimpsed but never asked about, the rhythmic thuds you sometimes hear through the wall late at night. He notices everything about you, but he gives so little of himself in return. What is he hiding behind those careful, measured words and that intense stare?
You set the tea down and pull your knees up to your chest.
He’s handsome. Competent. But there’s something… more there. Something darker in the way he carries himself, in the way he seems to catalog every detail like he’s preparing for something. You’ve felt safe with him from the beginning, but is that intuition or just the pull of attraction and loneliness?
You think about the way he said your name. The way he fixed the lock. The way he looked at you when he finally let you into his apartment. It all feels real.
But is it too real, too soon?
Part of you wants to knock on his door right now and ask him everything. Where does he go when he leaves in the mornings? What those scars are from, why he lived in silence for so long. The other part is afraid of what the answers might be.
You know he makes you feel seen. You know the silence between you no longer feels empty. You know that when he touches you, it feels safe.
And maybe, for now, that’s enough to keep moving forward.
But the questions linger as you finally climb into bed alone, wondering if the man across the hall is the best thing that’s ever happened to you… or the biggest risk you’ve ever taken.
The knock comes on your door the next evening.
You open it to find Dex standing there in a dark henley, sleeves pushed up, holding a paper bag from the Thai place on 9th. The same one you’d been carrying the night he first spoke to you.
Of course he remembered.
“I’ve heard the basil fried rice is decent here.”
You step aside. “Come in.”
It’s the first time he’s been inside your apartment. He moves through it the way he moves through everything. Quiet, observant, cataloguing. His eyes linger on the books stacked on your coffee table, the string of family photos pinned above your desk, and the half-finished mug of tea you left there this morning. Where his space is spare and controlled, yours is lived-in. Warm. Full. He doesn’t comment, but you see the way his shoulders ease by a fraction, like the clutter doesn’t bother him. Like he likes it.
You eat at your small table. He’s precise even with chopsticks, every movement economical, never a grain of rice out of place. You talk more easily now. About nothing important at first. The weird neighbor in 3C who plays opera at 2 a.m. The way the Super still hasn’t fixed the flickering light in the stairwell. Small things that feel big because he’s the one listening.
Eventually you glance at the wall, at the dartboard you know is on the other side.
“You really throw those every night?”
Dex follows your gaze even though there’s nothing to see but plaster. A beat passes before he answers.
“Helps quiet things down.” His voice is low, honest in a way that feels rare for him. “My head gets loud sometimes. The repetition… centers it.”
You don’t push for more. You nod.
“You’re quiet tonight.” The words are measured. Careful in intent. “If the other day was too much… if I was too much… you can tell me.”
You look at him. Really look. The sharp jaw. The intense eyes. The way he holds himself like every movement is calculated. He’s still a mystery in so many ways. But he’s also the man who fixed your lock, who looked at you like you were the only thing worth noticing.
“I’m just… curious about you,” you admit. “I don’t really know that much about you, Dex. Not the important things. Where you go every day. Your job. Your past.”
He turns toward you fully, giving you his complete attention the way he always does.
“Ask me anything. I’ll answer. Even if it’s not what you want to hear.”
You study him for a long moment. The doubts are still there, but so is the pull, the warmth that’s been growing between you since that first real conversation.
The dishes are rinsed in silence and left to dry. You end up on your couch, closer than you need to be.
“Tell me about the scars.”
Dex doesn’t look away. He doesn’t flinch. He simply nods once, as if he’s been expecting this.
He rolls up the sleeve of his shirt slowly, revealing the pale lines you’ve only glimpsed before. His voice is even as he speaks.
“Some are from training. Some from jobs that went wrong. I wasn’t always… quiet. There was a time when I needed control more than anything else. The kind of control that came from being the best at something most people can’t even imagine.” He pauses, thumb tracing one of the longer scars. “The silence started as a way to observe, to stay one step ahead. It became a habit. Until you.”
You listen without interrupting, heart beating faster.
“I don’t have a normal past,” he continues. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things that would make most people run. I’ve hurt people. I’ve ended lives when I was told to. Army. FBI. I was good at it. Too good.” His eyes meet yours, steady but guarded. “That’s the man I used to be.”
You swallow hard. The words are heavy, but they don’t feel like a lie.
“And now?”
Dex reaches out and takes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“Now I’m trying to be someone different. Someone who wants to be known. By you.” He squeezes your hand gently. “I’m not asking you to forget what I just told you. I’m asking you to let me show you who I’m trying to be. If you’ll let me.”
The apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of traffic outside.
You study him. The sharp jaw, the intense eyes, the careful way he holds your hand like it’s something precious. He’s still a mystery in many ways, but he’s also the man who fixed your lock. The man who finally spoke.
“I’m not running, but I need honesty. All of it.”
He reaches over without fanfare, and his thumb brushes your cheekbone. “You’ll have it,” he promises. “The good and the rest.”
The doubts are still there, but they're quieter now.
You kiss him first.
It’s different from the careful, measured kiss at the door. This one has days of tension behind it. He responds immediately, hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, mouth opening under yours with a low sound that vibrates through your chest. You climb into his lap without thinking and he lets you, steady hands settling at your waist, then higher, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt.
He maps you the way he does everything else. Attentively. Precisely. As if he’s memorizing the exact curve of your spine, the places that make you shiver when he touches them. You do the same to him. Your fingers trace the scars on his forearms, the one along his collarbone you can feel through his shirt. He doesn’t flinch. Just kisses you deeper, your curiosity something he easily accepts.
Eventually the couch becomes too small. Without strain, he stands with you wrapped around him and carries you the short distance to your bedroom like you weigh less than the darts he throws with perfect accuracy.
Clothes come off slowly. Not frantic. Intentional. He pauses between each layer, eyes dark and focused, giving you every chance to stop. You don’t. When you’re both down to skin and the cool air of your apartment, he lays you back on the bed and follows, body hovering over yours with that same controlled strength.
He doesn’t rush.
Dex kisses every new inch of skin, another observation he’s filing away. Touches you like he’s been planning this for months, which, knowing what you know now, he probably has. When he finally slides inside you it’s with a quiet exhale against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, one hand laced tight with your fingers above your head.
He stays. He doesn’t pull away or retreat to his own apartment. Instead, he gathers you against his chest, one arm banded around your waist, the other stroking slow lines down your back. You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek. Steady, even, but faster than usual.
You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in him. The wall between 4A and 4B is silent for once.
When you wake in the stillness of the early morning, he’s already up. You find him in your kitchen in just his jeans, making coffee with the same precise ritual he uses in his own apartment. He’s figured out your machine without asking.
Of course he has.
He turns when he hears you, eyes softening at the sight of you in nothing but the shirt he left on the floor.
“Morning.”
You cross the room and let him pull you into his taller frame. His arms wrap around you from behind as the coffee brews, chin resting on your shoulder.
You stand there in the quiet and realize the silence you used to fill with wondering about him has been replaced by something warmer. Fuller.
He presses a kiss just behind your ear.
“Stay in today.” Not quite a request. Not quite a command. “With me.”
You turn in his arms, rise up on your toes, and kiss him.
“Okay,” you whisper against his mouth. “But only if you make breakfast.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, the closest thing to a real smile you’ve seen from him yet.
“I can do that.”
You stay in.
Rain has begun falling in soft sheets against the windows, turning the day gray and lazy. Dex makes pancakes in your kitchen like he’s always belonged there. You sit on the counter in his henley from last night, legs swinging, watching him move. The same exact measurements and perfect temperature, the quiet ritual of it filling the small space. Every action is deliberate.
He refills your coffee, handing you the mug, and steps between your knees, hands settling on your thighs. His thumbs stroke slow circles through the fabric.
“You’re staring.”
“I like staring at you.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile, but close. He kisses you. Slow. Unhurried. You taste coffee and the faint trace of mint from the toothbrush he borrowed. His hands slide higher under the hem of the shirt, warm palms mapping skin he already learned last night.
You spend the morning like that. Tangled. He carries you back to bed when the coffee gets cold, and you don’t complain. This time is different, all quiet focus and careful hands. He watches your face the entire time, and when you come apart under him he presses his forehead to yours, breathing your name like a secret he’s finally allowed to keep.
As you lie facing each other on the rumpled sheets, his fingers trace the line of your collarbone, then lower, following invisible paths only he can see.
“I used to listen for you.” The quiet words come out careful, as if he’s testing how much he can freely admit. “Through the wall. Your footsteps. The way you hum when you’re making tea. It… helped. Made the rest of it quieter.”
You reach up and brush your thumb along his jaw. “I’m glad.”
He looks at you for a long moment, something raw and open in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. “I don’t want to go back to just hearing you through the wall.”
The words settle warm and heavy in your chest.
You spend the rest of the day moving between apartments. The walls don’t exist anymore. He fixes the wobbly leg on your kitchen chair without being asked. Precise. Efficient. Done in under two minutes. You tease him about it and he actually laughs, low and surprised, the sound rare enough that it makes your stomach flip.
In the afternoon you end up on his couch with the dartboard across the room. He shows you how he throws, the flow of a wrist flick, the perfect follow-through. You try and miss spectacularly. He steps behind you, adjusts your stance with gentle hands on your hips and shoulders, mouth close to your ear as he murmurs instructions. When you finally hit closer to the board he rewards you with a kiss pressed to the side of your neck that turns into more.
By evening the rain has eased. You’re back in your apartment, both of you in comfortable silence while he makes dinner with the same careful attention he gives everything else. You set the table. He plates the food like it’s an operation. You end up on the couch afterwards, legs tangled, the TV on low with some old movie neither of you is really watching.
At some point he pulls you into his lap again. This time there’s no rush. Just slow kisses and wandering hands and the steady sound of his breathing against your skin. He maps every new place he can reach, learning you the same way he learns everything. Completely. Without distraction.
When you’re both half-asleep and the city outside has gone quiet, he speaks against your hair.
“Stay with me tonight in my bed.”
You lift your head. His eyes are dark in the low light, but steady.
“You sure?”
Dex nods once. “I want you there.”
You smile and kiss him, soft and sure.
“Okay.”
He carries you across the hall this time. Three steps that used to feel like miles. He sets you down in his bedroom like you’re something fragile and important, then follows you into the sheets that still smell faintly of him.
You fall asleep with his arm banded around your waist and his breath warm against the back of your neck. The dartboard on the wall across from the bed is just a shadow in the dark.
You wake in his bed.
He’s already awake, propped on one elbow, watching you with that same focused quiet he brings to everything. His hand rests on your hip under the sheet, thumb tracing slow, absent circles.
“Morning,” you murmur.
He kisses you in answer. Soft at first then deeper when you turn into him. The sheet slips. His hand slides higher. You lose track of time after that. Slow morning sex that feels less like urgency and more like claiming. He takes his time, like he’s still learning every sound you make and wants to catalog them all over again. When you come, he follows right after, forehead pressed to yours, breathing your name.
Content, you stay pressed against him. His fingers comb through your hair.
“I cleared out the top drawer in the dresser.” His voice is quiet. Matter-of-fact. “And half the closet... if you want it.”
You lift your head. He’s looking at you steadily, no hesitation in his expression.
“You’re giving me space in your apartment?”
“I want you here.” His answer is simple. Firm yet gentle. “I want your things next to mine. I want to stop counting the steps between our doors.”
The words hit somewhere deep in your chest. You reach up and trace the scar along his collarbone with one fingertip.
Too fast. Too fast. Too fast.
“You’ve been planning this.”
“I plan most things.” His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “This one felt important.”
You initiate the next kiss, slower this time, letting it say what you’re not ready to put into words yet.
Over the next few days the shift settles in like it was always meant to happen. You stop keeping track of whose apartment you’re in. Your favorite mug appears in his cabinet. His spare key ends up on your ring without discussion. He starts leaving the dartboard uncovered when you’re over, an act that shows he doesn’t mind you seeing that part of him anymore. Sometimes you sit on his bed and watch him throw. The precise, focused arches, beautiful in the way he controls every movement. He never misses.
One evening you come home late from the library and find him already in your kitchen, making dinner like he belongs there. The sight of him moving through your space makes something warm and permanent settle behind your ribs.
You step up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist. He stills for half a second, then relaxes into your touch.
“I like this.”
He turns in your arms, hands settling at your hips. Those sharp eyes soften when they meet yours.
“I like you in my space. I like…” He pauses, choosing the words with the same care he uses for everything. “I like that the noise in my head gets quieter when you’re here.”
You rise up on your toes and kiss him, slow and deep. He lifts you onto the counter without breaking the kiss, stepping between your legs like he’s done it a hundred times. Dinner can wait. Everything can wait.
Dex pulls you against his chest, one arm banded around you, the other hand linked with yours.
You trace the lines of his palm with your thumb. “This feels like more than neighbors now.”
He’s quiet for a long moment before he presses his lips to your temple.
“It’s been more than neighbors for a while.” His voice is firm. Certain. “I just needed you to catch up.”
You smile into his chest and squeeze his hand.
“I’m caught up.”
He exhales, long and slow, like something tight in him has finally loosened. His fingers tighten around yours.
“Good. Because I’m not letting you go back to the other side of that wall.”
Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, Violence, Murder, Smut, Language, PTSD, Trauma. Let me know if I have forgotten anything!
Relationships: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/You
Word Count: 2,838
Chapters: 1/10
Summary: Your neighbor in 4B never speaks... until one day he does.
Author's Note: I may have binged the show more than once. First time writing Benny, and to be honest, I'm not sure where this is going, so strap in for the ride. There will be spoilers, elements of canon and AU dabblings. Enjoy, and let me know what you think. Your feedback keeps my fingers typing.
PART 1 - THE SILENCE
Your neighbor in 4B never speaks.
Six months of hallway glances and elevator silences. Six months of him moving through the world like a shadow with perfect posture. Dark coat, sharp jaw, eyes that never lingered long enough to be called anything but observant. He nodded, once, the first week you moved in, but after that, nothing. Not even when the power went out in February and you both stood in the pitch-black stairwell for twenty-three minutes. He simply waited, breathing quiet and even, until the lights flickered back on.
Benjamin Poindexter. You learned his name from the mailbox. Learned the sound of his measured footsteps. Learned that sometimes, very late, something thudded softly against the shared wall between your apartments.
You told yourself you weren’t curious. You lied.
Tonight the city rain is vicious. You’re soaked to the skin, one arm cradling a paper bag of Thai food that’s already bleeding grease through the bottom, your other hand wrestling with the lock that’s been sticking for weeks. The key turns halfway and jams. You curse under your breath and jiggle it harder.
There’s footsteps on the landing. You don’t have to look. You know the rhythm.
He stops behind you. Close enough that you feel the shift in air pressure when he moves. He doesn’t speak, he never does, but tonight he reaches past your shoulder, takes the key from your fingers, and slots it back in.
One smooth twist. A soft click. The door opens.
He hands the key back. His fingertips brush yours, warm and callused in places you don’t expect.
You turn to face him. Rain clings to his eyelashes. His hair is darker when it’s wet.
“Thank you.”
He looks at you for a long second. Something in his expression flickers, as if he’s running calculations behind those eyes. Then his mouth opens.
“You should have that lock replaced.”
The words land softly. Low. Even. Every syllable measured and crisp, like he’s been rehearsing them for months and finally decided the moment was right. His voice is deeper than you imagined. Rough at the edges. Quiet enough that you have to lean in to catch it over the rain.
You stare. “I… Yeah, I keep meaning to talk to the Super.”
He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moves.
“You work late on Thursdays.”
It isn’t a question. It’s an observation, delivered with the same quiet certainty he used on the lock. It hits you square in the chest because it means he’s noticed. It’s the one night you stay late at the library for inventory. The one night you come home after ten with takeout because you’re too tired to cook. He’s seen. He’s kept track.
You should feel watched. Instead your pulse kicks hard against your ribs.
“I do story time for the kids,” you supply eagerly. “It runs long.”
He studies you another beat. Rain traces the line of his throat where his collar is open. His next words are softer.
“Get inside before you catch cold.”
It’s the closest thing to concern you’ve ever heard from him.
You step into your apartment but don’t close the door yet. He lingers in the hallway, water beading on his coat, eyes still on you like he’s memorizing the exact way you’re holding the soggy takeout bag.
For the first time in six months, you want to keep him talking.
“Benjamin…” You’re testing the name out loud. Intimate in the narrow space between your doors.
He doesn’t correct you. Just watches.
“I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
The words are simple. Not unkind. Just… true. As if he’s known for a while and has been waiting for you to catch up.
He turns, walks the three steps to 4B, and disappears inside without another sound.
The hallway feels different once he’s gone. Quieter, but not empty. The silence he left behind has shape now. There’s a weight that wasn’t there before.
You close your door, set the ruined takeout on the counter, and stand there dripping on the linoleum for a long time, listening to the rain and the faint, rhythmic thud of something hitting the wall between your apartments.
You don’t sleep. Every time you close your eyes you hear it again.
I know who you are.
It should have concerned you. It didn’t. It settled somewhere low in your stomach and refused to leave.
The next two mornings come too fast. You’re running on three hours of restless sleep and the strongest coffee the corner deli could make. The new lock you installed the previous night still sticks a little when you pull the door shut behind you. You’re cursing it under your breath when 4B opens.
He steps out in a charcoal sweater, sleeves shoved up to his forearms. You catch a flash of pale scars along the inside of one wrist before he tugs the cuff back down. His eyes flick to your hand on the key, then to your face.
“Morning.” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.
He pauses, studying you for half a second longer than necessary.
“You fixed the lock.”
Not a question. Never a question with him. A quiet fact he’s already catalogued.
You snort a laugh. “Sort of. It’s still fighting me.”
He doesn’t ask permission. He simply steps closer, close enough that you catch the clean scent of his soap and something sharper underneath, and holds out his hand. You give him the key without thinking.
He tests it once. Twice. Then he produces a slim multi-tool from his back pocket like it’s the most natural thing in the world and works on the mechanism for less than ten seconds. The tumblers click into place with surgical neatness.
He hands the key back. His fingers brush yours again. This time they linger.
You stare at him. “How do you know how to do that?”
A flicker at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. “Practice.”
He doesn’t elaborate. But when he looks at you again, something has shifted. The silence between you feels thinner.
“Y/N, right?”
Your name slipping from his lips does something to your pulse you’re not ready to name. He says it carefully, like he’s been holding it in his mouth for weeks and finally decided to let it out.
You swallow. “Yeah."
He repeats it once, almost to himself.
It shouldn’t sound that intimate, but it does.
He glances at the coffee in your hand, then back to your face. “You’re late for the library.”
Of course he’s noticed the exact minute you usually leave on weekday mornings. You should ask how. You should be unsettled. Instead you hear yourself speak.
“Dex?”
His eyes sharpen. Not angry. An act resembling surprise. Like you’ve handed him something he didn’t expect.
“Most people call me Benjamin, but Dex is fine.”
You nod, storing it away carefully. “Dex.”
Something flickers across his face. Approval, maybe. He steps back toward the stairs, that same measured stride, but he pauses at the landing and looks back at you over his shoulder.
“Lock should hold now.” He pauses, a small hesitation. “Have a good day.”
He disappears down the stairs before you can answer.
You stand in the empty hallway with your coffee going cold in your hand and your heart doing something complicated behind your ribs.
He said your name. He let you say his.
And for the first time since you moved in, the silence on the other side of the wall doesn’t feel like distance.
It feels like an invitation.
You think about it all day.
The way he said your name as if he’d been practicing it. By the time you clock out at the library, your decision is made.
At 7:42 p.m. you knock on 4B with two coffees from the good place on 9th and a small white bakery box balanced on top.
The door opens before your knuckles finish the second tap.
Dex stands there in a black t-shirt, arms bare under the hallway light. You see more of him now. The lean muscle, the old scars that map quiet stories across his skin, the way he holds himself as though he’s always ready to move. His eyes drop to the coffee before flickering back to your face.
You hold out one of the cups. “For the lock. Both times.”
He takes it. His fingers linger against yours longer than they need to. Warm. Steady.
“Thank you, Y/N.”
Your name lands softer this time.
You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing in the narrow hallway. “Can I ask you something?”
He tilts his head, waiting.
“Why do you notice everything?”
He glances past you down the empty corridor like he’s checking for eavesdroppers that don’t exist. When he looks back, something honest flickers behind his eyes.
“Because most people don’t notice anything at all.”
It’s not an excuse. It’s a fact. And it makes something in your chest pull tight.
You smile, small and a little shy. “Well… I notice you now.”
The corner of his mouth moves. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Warmer. Like you’ve given him a gift he doesn’t know what to do with yet.
He steps back and holds the door open wider.
“You can come in..” He pauses. “If you want.”
You do.
His apartment is exactly what you expected and nothing at the same time. Sparse. Immaculate. Everything in its precise place. There’s a dartboard on the far wall with three darts grouped so tightly in the bullseye they look as one. A deck of playing cards squared perfectly on the small table. No clutter. No photographs. Just clean lines and controlled space.
Silence follows. He watches you take it in, setting his coffee on the kitchen counter, and leans against it, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
“You enjoy working with the kids.” Another observation. “You stay late on Thursdays because you like it, not because you have to.”
You blink, surprised. “Yeah. Story time’s my favorite part of the week.”
He nods once, filing it away with everything else he’s collected about you.
You take a sip of your coffee to steady yourself. “What about you? What do you do?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I used to be very good at finding things.” His voice is low. Soft. “Now I’m trying to be good at… other things.”
It’s the most he’s ever offered. You don’t push. You only nod, accepting the precious fragment of private information.
The next silence that follows isn’t empty anymore. It hums. Your pulse is loud in your ears. He’s close enough that you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
“I should probably let you eat in peace.”
You turn toward the door, but his voice stops you before you reach it.
“Y/N.”
You look back.
He’s still leaning against the counter, but his eyes are steady on yours. Something new in them. Something careful and deliberate.
“If the lock gives you trouble again…” He pauses, choosing the words. “Or if you just want better coffee than that deli stuff… you can knock.”
It’s not quite an invitation for tomorrow. It’s bigger. Resembling an open door he’s never offered anyone before now.
You smile, soft and real. “Okay, Dex.”
His name on your tongue makes his shoulders ease by a fraction.
You step back into the hallway. He doesn’t close the door right away. He stays there, watching you walk the three steps to 4A, gaze memorizing the exact rhythm of your footsteps.
When you reach your door and glance back, he’s still standing in his open doorway.
Neither of you says goodnight.
You don’t need to.
The silence between you has already learned how to speak.
Three evenings later, you knock on 4B again.
You tell yourself it’s because he offered coffee, and you’re too tired to make your own. A solid but fractured lie. The truth is simpler: you’ve been thinking about the way he looked at you across the hallway every time you’ve passed since that night. Like he was waiting.
The door opens before you can second-guess yourself.
Dex takes one look at you. Hair messy from the wind, shoulders heavy from a day of wrangling twenty overexcited kids. Something in his face shifts. Softer. Concerned, in that quiet way of his.
“You look tired.” No judgment. Fact.
“Long day. Story time got… creative.”
He steps back without asking if you want to come in. Just holds the door wider. You follow.
His apartment is the same as before, but it feels different now that you’ve been invited twice. He moves to the small kitchenette and starts making coffee without being asked. You watch the careful ritual. Beans measured by eye, the grinder turned exactly the right number of times, water heated to a temperature he doesn’t even check with a thermometer.
Everything he does is intentional. Controlled.
You sit at the tiny dinette table. The dartboard on the far wall catches your eye again, three perfect holes clustered dead center.
He sets a mug in front of you. Black, no sugar. Exactly how you take it.
He sits across from you, close enough that your knees could touch if either of you shifted. “Tell me about the kids.”
So you do. You vent about the little girl who decided today was the day to test every boundary, about the boy who cried because his favorite book was checked out, about how your voice is hoarse from reading the same page six times. He listens the way he does everything else. Completely. No interruptions. No advice unless you ask. A quiet, focused presence.
When you finally run out of words, the silence that follows doesn’t feel empty. It feels full.
“You’re good at this,” you say after a moment’s hesitation. “Listening.”
He looks down at his coffee, and a small, almost self-deprecating huff of air escapes him. “I wasn’t always.”
It’s the closest he’s come to talking about a time before this. You don’t push. Instead you reach across the table and rest your hand near his. Not quite touching. Close enough to feel the warmth.
“Why did you let me in tonight?”
Dex lifts his gaze to yours. His eyes are darker in the low light of his apartment. Sharper. Raw.
“Because it’s you,” he says simply. “And because I’ve been waiting for you to knock again.”
Your breath catches.
He stands. You do too. The space between you shrinks to almost nothing. He’s taller up close. Broader through the shoulders than his quiet demeanor suggests. You can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.
His hand comes up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His fingertips linger against your cheek, callused and warm. You lean into the touch without meaning to.
He watches your reaction, eyes tracing your features.
The kiss is exactly like him. Careful. Precise. Intentional.
He kisses you like he speaks. Every movement considered, like he’s making sure it’s right before he lets himself have it. His mouth is warm, firm, and when you press closer he makes a low sound in the back of his throat that goes straight through you. One of his hands settles at your waist, steadying you. The other cups the side of your neck, thumb brushing the soft spot under your jaw.
When he pulls back it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you breathing a little harder than before.
“Stay,” he murmurs. “A little longer.”
You nod against him. “Okay.”
He doesn’t kiss you again right away. He just stays there, close, letting the moment settle. Like he’s letting himself have this.
Eventually you end up on his small couch with fresh coffee and the low sound of rain starting outside. You talk more. Small things, safe things. But every so often his hand finds yours again. Your hand does the same. Neither of you comments on it. It happens. Natural. Inevitable.
When you finally stand to leave, it’s late. He walks you the three steps across the hall like it’s the most important distance in the world. At your door he pauses, one hand braced lightly on the frame beside your head.
“Tomorrow.” Not a question.
You smile up at him, the taste of him lingering on your lips. “Tomorrow.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, much like he’s already memorizing the shape of this new thing between you.
When he pulls back, his voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
You watch him walk back to 4B. He doesn’t close his door until you’re safely inside your own.
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