Count Fatcula @z33101 - Tumblr Blog

It Had to Be You

Pairing: Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x FBI!reader

Summary: You and Dex had lived on the edge of “almost” at the Bureau. Now, you visit him in prison for the first time since he left, forced to confront the feelings you both still have and how far you're willing to go to finally be together.

Word count: 6,000

Tags/warnings: angsty/spicy/sweet aka my triple decker fic sandwich, hurt/comfort, swearing, mental illness + meds mention, emotional manipulation/lowkey suicide threat (Dex) but the reader is v aware of what he's doing, making out, flash of sub/dom if you squint, breaking and entering, first date

A/N: Title from the Motion City Soundtrack song of the same name: I felt like a fool, kicking and screaming and pretending we were wrong // It had to be you, I knew it was you PS I shortened up the timeline here from the canon multiple years to like one lol

You stand behind the prison guard as he unlocks the metal door with a loud buzz, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets and trying to feign some appearance of calm.

Inside, you were anything but. You were scared, but not in the way most people would expect, considering you were about to visit someone in prison serving multiple life sentences for murder.

No, that part didn't faze you too much. What scared you was that, deep down, you had a very strong feeling that you were going to walk through that door, knowing full well what that someone had done to get put in there, and it wasn't going to make a goddamn difference.

You were still going to feel the same way about him as you always had. Only this time, you didn't see a chance for a happy ending.

At least the rational, sane part of you didn't. It wasn't like you, a federal agent, could just ride off into the sunset with a convict, right?

And yet ...

You had tried to listen to the part of you that had been screaming to just let go of him, to finally move on. But you couldn't.

Because even though neither of you had ever said it outright when you worked together, you knew with your entire being that Benjamin Leonard Poindexter was supposed to be yours.

You take a deep breath and walk into the darkened room, dim light filtering in through the door's small wire and glass square.

"You know the precautions, agent?" the guard asks.

"Yeah, I do.” Your gaze flickers to the cuffs and chains encasing Dex’s hands. “Don’t think they’re necessary, though.”

“Just standard procedure. We don’t take any chances with this crazy asshole. I’ll be outside.”

“Thanks.”

The guard leaves and now, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, it’s just you and Dex.

You can already tell that there's something different about him, something subtler and deeper than just trading his FBI jacket for a DOC jumpsuit.

The Dex you had known always looked like he was in control. But underneath the cool, composed exterior and the dry wit and smirks, when you actually got close enough to pay attention, there was a faint current of anxiety emanating from him; nerves stretched tight like a rubber band. Like he was working overtime to keep his shit together.

But that kind of uncertainty, that noticeable tension he had carried, had seemingly vanished. In its place was a kind of relaxed ease, a looseness in his being, even as he sat there bound and chained to the desk. And part of you wondered and worried, that the Dex you knew—or who you thought you knew—was truly gone.

The other difference was much more evident: he was fucking jacked, which was not helping your already racing heartbeat, your eyes roaming over his biceps, the veins standing out in his forearms.

Focus.

He breaks the ice first.

“I didn't think you'd show."

You try to keep your head on straight, to not get immediately floored by that gravelly voice you loved so much. But it's hard. Really hard.

"Surprise," you reply, making jazz hands before you shove them back into your pockets, lowering yourself into the chair next to him.

Then, he gives you that same stupid, sweet half-smile that you’d come to know and miss. And even though you try to fight it, relief floods through you.

Because it tells you that your Dex is still there.

"It's good to see you, Y/N."

Fuck.

You want to say it back, but it gets stuck in your throat. Yes, you had been dying to see him. But the fact remains that you're seeing him in prison, a sobering reminder that the kind of future you had once dreamed about having with him was gone.

"Why am I here, Dex?" you ask instead.

"Because I missed you," he says quietly. It’s such an immediate, sincere response that it cuts you like a knife.

“And I wanted to talk. Like we used to.”

"So, talk."

He pauses, suddenly apprehensive, and there’s a flicker of the old uncertainty in his eyes as he meets your own.

"How are you?"

"How am I?" you repeat back slowly, and you want to laugh and scream at the same time because it’s such a loaded question.

I’m ok. I’m a mess. I’m alright. I’m heartbroken. I’m so fucking mad at you. I’m so fucking happy to see you.

"Fine, I guess." You shrug. "I've actually only been back in the city for a few months. They put me on assignment in LA last year, organized crime. It was good, got really tan, surfed a bit. But wearing tac gear in 90-degree heat got old real quick. So, here I am."

Dex looks at you strangely.

"Did you put in for it or did they ask you?"

You pause.

"I put in for it." You start bouncing your leg, unable to keep your anxiety in check.

"Why?"

Your fists clench tighter in your pockets and you avert your eyes away from him, staring at the ceiling.

"Because when you … left, I was struggling. They thought a change of scenery would be good."

It’s silent for a few moments until Dex speaks.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you look at me? Please?”

You take a deep breath and force yourself to meet his gaze, and the sight you’re met with shatters your heart further than you thought was possible, threatens to break all your resolve.

Because Dex—whom the world has deemed as a volatile, soulless, irredeemable killer—is now sitting across from you with tears in his eyes.

"I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. All that ease you had initially noticed, it’s gone. He looks like how you feel, how you’ve felt every day since he was out of your life: broken.

“For what?” you manage to ask, trying to push down the lump in your throat, the stinging building in your eyes.

“That everything just … fell apart. That I couldn’t say goodbye because I didn’t even know I was saying it until it was too late. That I couldn’t tell you what was going with me. That I was too much of a pussy to just ask you out like I wanted to.” He takes a deep breath. “And fuck, I really wanted to. I was just … afraid. And I’m sorry.”

You brush the back of your hand against your eyes quickly.

“I don’t know what I'm supposed to say to that.”

“Say that it wasn’t just me that felt it,” he pleads, and it’s taking everything in you not to fall apart in front of him. “That it wasn’t all in my head.”

“It wasn’t,” you whisper. “Of course it wasn’t.” And your eyes burn more as they stare back into his own, trying and failing to steady your breathing. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

He shakes his head.

“Yes, it does,” he says firmly, and it’s his conviction in contrast to the reality of the situation—the one he put you both in—that finally sends you over the edge.

“No it doesn’t, Dex. It can’t!” you yell, and this time, you don’t bother to wipe away the tears that start falling. Your eyes flicker to the door, and you lower your voice. “I’m still an agent, and you're sitting in front of me in a fucking DOC jumpsuit with multiple life sentences for murder. And every day I go to work and all I think about is how you’re supposed to be there but you’re not, because you chose blood instead of me.”

“That’s not what-” he tries to cut you off, but you keep going.

“And I feel insane because even after all that, I look at you for one second and I still feel the same goddamn way about you that I always have." You laugh without humor. “So I can’t get over you. And I can’t be with you because you’re here. And I am left fucking dying inside in the middle of that.”

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, and then they land on the table.

Now, you’re the one pleading.

“So just tell me, why? Fucking why, Dex? Why did you do all this, choose this? What the fuck happened to you?” Your voice is shaking uncontrollably now, and it drops to a miserable whisper. “And why didn’t I see any of it coming?”

Dex inches his chair forward, trying to get as close to you as he can with his restraints still in place.

“Listen, you were—you are—the best part of my life,” he says desperately, and you choke back a sob and a scoff at the same time. “You have to know that. But I can see how it could look … otherwise. I’ll tell you everything, ok, you deserve that, but don’t.”

He stops, breathing deeply through his nose, but when he continues, he sounds almost angry; his frustration with your version of events spilling over; possessed by an ardent need to keep you on his side.

“Don’t ever think I did any of this because I didn’t want you. Us. That’s not right at all. I just …” He takes a deep breath again, steadier this time, and sighs. “I’ll start at the beginning.”

So, he tells you everything, all the way back from Mercer's therapy tapes and creating his North Stars to stopping his meds and planning to kill himself, Fisk manipulating him into murder and then snapping his spine.

And throughout it all, the relentless buzzing in his head that only ever seemed to quiet when he was around you.

You sit there, wide-eyed and listening intently, and you find you knew bits of it; the fucked-up childhood, the anxiety, the need for structure and control, the loneliness. But when he lays the full depth of everything out in front of you, the disparate puzzle pieces clicking into place, it's like you're seeing him again in full light for the first time.

And you're not repulsed, you’re not scared, you're not even angry.

You're just sad. So fucking sad, your heart breaking that he had been carrying all this by himself, trying to fight his own mind day in and day out. That Fisk had taken advantage of his trauma, of the deepest, most vulnerable part of him that had never known love as a little kid. That the fear and the pain and his wiring had blocked out any consideration for a different path forward.

And that you didn't know about any of it.

You wipe your tears on the edge of your sleeve.

"Why didn't you talk to me?” you ask.

"I thought if I tried hard enough, I could outrun it," he says slowly. "That I could be different. Better. But we are who we are." He looks at you, and suddenly, he seems exhausted. "I wanted to tell you, but I … I couldn’t handle you looking at me differently.” His voice quiets. “Like I was an animal.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“And now?”

You shake your head. When you had walked into the room earlier, part of you had wondered if you had just been blinded by your feelings—that maybe you were a lovestruck idiot and he really was just another psycho male shooter. But your heart had won out, and now, he’d confirmed what you had already known deep down.

He wasn’t a monster. He was just Dex: complicated, traumatized, mentally ill, Dex.

And Dex was your person.

"I still don't think you're an animal. I think, to some degree, you actually make … sense,” you say. You sigh, running a hand down your face. “I also think you need help. Serious, professional help, Dex." You wave your hands. "And probably some kind of, I don’t know, some fucking spiritually cleansing Ayuhsaca trip and R&R on a beach in Belize."

Dex suddenly smiles.

"You're still doing it."

"What?"

"Trying to make me laugh."

He’s not wrong. You manage a half smile back.

"Old habits,” you say softly. You shift up in the chair, cross your legs underneath you. “So, after Fisk, what happened? Your phone was disconnected and no one told us anything at the Bureau, it was just like ... like you never existed.”

He explains the operation and how when he woke up, he was in the psychiatric facility.

"It was worse than this," he says, nodding his head up at the prison. "The drugs they put me on, I could barely remember who I was, could barely move, barely think. Like I was drowning in cement. And I was starting … not to remember you." He pauses for a second, and you can see the weight of his time there etched in his face. "So I had to get out. I had to get my mind back."

"So how did you?"

"I got an offer. My freedom for a job. So I took it.” His jaw sets in a hard line. “I wasn't supposed to end up in here. I was supposed to come find you.”

Your eyes widen as the last piece of the puzzle clicks into place.

"Josie's was a hit," you breathe out, and the revelation hits you like a freight train. "Who hired you?”

He shakes his head slightly.

"I can't tell you that."

"Oh, yes you can, and you better," you reply furiously.

"Or what?” He smirks. “You gonna arrest me?"

Goddammit. He could be a such a little shit when he wanted to be, and normally, it'd make you laugh. But right now, sitting across from him at Rikers, you’re infuriated.

"No, but I will punch you in the face for being an asshole! This isn't a joke, Dex, this is your life!" You watch the smirk slide off his face, eyes widening slightly. "This changes everything related to your case!”

"I know,” he says hurriedly. “I just can't tell you. You'll get hurt, and I can't have that.” His voice lowers. "Not again. But I'm supposed to meet with an attorney later. Matthew Murdock."

"The guy who's best friend you killed? Who helped put you in here?” you ask, your voice laden with skepticism.

Dex nods. “He’s gonna want to know who hired me. And I’ll tell him, but only if he can get me outside.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“That has about a 2% chance of working.”

“I’m gonna take those odds." He gives a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and even though he sounds nonchalant, you can sense the strain underneath.

"They, uh, they put me in gen pop yesterday, so I don’t have a lot of time to figure out a better plan. That’s also why wanted to see you now. Just in case.”

Your brain starts whirring, real panic setting in.

“What do you mean they put you in gen pop? You’re a former federal agent who can’t use his hands! Dex, you have got to cut the bullshit and tell me who’s behind this.”

“No, I told you, I’m not getting you involved.” His tone suddenly flattens. "But anyways, it doesn’t really matter, right? If I live or die. It’s not like I have anything good waiting for me out there. Not anymore.”

Your stomach drops and you look at him, confused.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

That ease, that kind of assuredness you caught right before you walked in, it's now suddenly back. He’s eerily calm, his intense gaze boring into yours. And it all tells you that he knows exactly what he's doing.

“You said this, us, it can’t matter anymore, right? And that was the only thing keeping me going, so who knows?" He leans back and smiles, actually fucking smiles, and you really do think you might punch him in the face. "Maybe I won’t meet with Murdock. Maybe I’ll just let karma do its thing, balance the scales. Because if we don’t matter, then my life doesn’t matter to me.”

His words leave you speechless for a few reasons.

1) On one hand, you’re absolutely seething—because after everything, how dare he try to pull some blatant bush league, guilt-tripping, Quantico 101 shit on you and then sit there and look so goddamn smug about it? But it also makes your heart skip a beat, in a twisted way: that he’s willing to try absolutely anything to get you to stay in his life for good. To make you promise that you can still figure things out together.

2) You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time today, you don’t just see Dex. You see Bullseye.

And you like it.

“Jesus Christ,” you chuckle darkly, resting your head in your hands.

And as you sit there, you realize you’re tired. Tired of, as Dex said, “trying to outrun it.” Tired of pretending like you were ever going to be able to walk out the door today without knowing he’d end up back at your side. Tired of pretending like you couldn't be together, that you wouldn't give anything to make it happen.

Fuck it.

You lift your head up, mirroring his calm demeanor.

“Why are there no cameras in here?”

Dex frowns, thrown slightly by the seemingly random ask and looking at you curiously.

“Attorney-client privilege, you know that. And I’m pretty sure the guards use it for drug deals. But don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not.” You drag your chair forward until you’re within inches of him, your pulse picking up immediately. “I asked a specific question for a specific reason.”

And before he can reply, before you can change your mind, before you decide to listen to the voice in your head yelling "this is crazy!!!,” you grab his face in your hands and you kiss him.

As you pull back, your hands still on his face, Dex looks dumbstruck for a second, lips slightly parted as he stares into your eyes. Then, you catch the briefest flash of a triumphant grin before he practically headbutts you, so eager to get his lips back on yours.

You smile against him, dizzy from the dopamine surge as you match his pace, his fervor, before you slip your tongue in to meet his; heat flooding through you at the wrecked little groan he makes. The angle isn't perfect and it's a little rushed, a little messy, but you don't care—because finally, everything that ever went unspoken between you two of you is out in the open.

And there's no going back now.

Suddenly, he bites down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it might've broke skin, and you quickly pull back.

“Hey,” you say firmly, shaking your head. “No evidence here.”

He looks gorgeous like this: hazel eyes fixed on yours, blown-out and ready to devour; breathing gone ragged with want. Simply starving for you.

He gives you a wicked grin, chuckling.

“Have it your way, pretty girl, but just wait until I’m-”

“‘Till you're what?” you cut him off. “You can't do shit since you’re stuck in chains and gonna die here, right?”

“Hm. Change of plans,” he breathes out, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

Men.

His gaze follows you as you duck under his restraints, crawling up onto his lap and straddling him. Your hands slide to his shoulders, working your lips, your tongue, up his neck; still mindful enough to fight the urge to sink your teeth in, to mark him up and finally, rightfully, claim him as yours.

"Fuck, Y/N. Don’t stop,” he rasps as you slowly roll your hips against him. You hear chains rattle suddenly and Dex growls with frustration. You look down and see the restraints pulled taut, veins practically popping out of Dex’s forearms from trying—and—failing to get his hands on you.

Five minutes ago, you would've felt bad. But that was before he thought he could play games with you, before he tried to turn his life into a bargaining chip.

So, as much as you love him, you laugh.

“Aw, this is hard for you, isn't it," you coo, tilting your head slightly.

"You finally get what you want, and you can’t do anything about it. Can’t touch me like how you want to.” You bring your mouth to his ear and graze it with your teeth, relishing the low drawl of “fuck” that falls from his tongue.

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“But unfortunately for you, you’re not in any position to tell me what I will or won’t do.

Before he can reply, you grab his hair in your fist, yanking back and tilting his head up to look at you.

“Now listen very, very carefully. If you ever try to pull that manipulative, 101 psyops bullshit with me again, I am gone." Your voice lowers further. "You will never taste me again, you will never get to use those hands on me, and so help me God, Dex, I will fuck every guy that looks my way within a 20-mile radius of here and I will send you detailed letters about it. Do you understand?”

Even though you’re threatening him, Dex just grins at you like he's won the lottery.

“There she is,” he breathes out with an exhilarated chuckle, eyes sparkling with awe as he stares up at you. “You're amazing.”

Your grip on his hair tightens, and the strained, contented little sigh he lets out might be the best sound you've ever heard.

“Answer my question.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” You let go of his hair and gaze into those hazel eyes, run your thumb across the scar on his cheek.

“Now, stop being a dick and ask me what you really wanted to ask in the first place."

“If I get out," he says slowly, bringing his forehead to yours. "Will you still want me?”

“Yes, Dex, I will still want you,” you murmur. “I never stopped.” You pull back to look at him. “So you’re going to stay alive in here and if you want to ‘protect me,’ fine. But I am only giving you 48 hours to figure out how you’re getting out of here and coming back to me, or I will be back for that name myself, which I will get from you by whatever means necessary.” You poke his chest. “Got it?”

And God, he looks transformed, glowing like you turned on a light switch inside him; brightening the weathered lines on his face, eyes filled with rapturous, slightly manic devotion.

“I’m gonna make things right with us,” he says fervently, nodding his head. “I promise. I can do it.”

And tears start to well up in your eyes, because you know he means it.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs.

“I just. I missed you, too,” you reply, voice cracking. “So much.”

He kisses you again, softer this time, and you melt into it. Then, you duck back under the restraints, smoothing your hair out and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Good, no blood.

"How do I look?" you ask him.

"Beautiful."

You smile.

"Thanks, but no, I meant, 'Do I look like I just made out with you in prison?'"

"Oh. No. You're good." He actually sounds a little disappointed, and you try not to laugh. You cup his face in your hand.

“48 hours. Stay safe. For me,” you add softly.

He nods. “I will.” He turns his head slightly, eyes still on yours as he grazes your fingers with his lips. “See you soon, baby.”

You head to the door and turn back one last time, and you see the version of Dex you arguably love most: the version you obsessively devoted yourself to drawing out at the Bureau, the version that filled your entire body with warmth whenever you caught it; slipping through the cracks in his armor and gaining the privilege to see the rarest, most precious side of him.

It’s the version of himself where he lets himself be happy.

You force your smile away, draw your face back into a what you hope is a neutral expression, and knock on the door. The guard opens it.

"How'd it go?" he asks, letting you walk out as he shuts the door behind him.

You shrug.

"Unproductive. Like you said, crazy asshole."

The guard grimaces sympathetically. Phew. He bought it.

As you move from the lonely bus off Rikers to the familiar bustling rhythm of the city, wandering your way back to your apartment, you feel elated and hopeful and nauseous all at once.

Because holy shit, that had really happened: you’d finally kissed Dex. He’d kissed you back, he wanted you, you were going to be together.

And holy shit, yes, Dex wanted you and you were going to be together—and it would be an ill-logistical, most likely illegal, clusterfuck to make it work.

You had signed your life over the second you’d kissed him, surrendering any semblance of a normal existence.

But yet, you can’t stop smiling on your way home, can’t stop replaying the feel of Dex’s lips on yours, the way he kissed you like he was drowning and you were the only source of air; your body still humming electric from his manic adoration for you, only you.

His parting words to you are stuck on repeat, your new favorite song echoing in your head:

“See you soon, baby.”

And when your head hits the pillow that night, for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread waking up in the morning.

---

The next two days are the longest of your life, punctuated only by your frequent, covert refreshes of the local news website and glances at the TV in the FBI lobby. Waiting for any hint that Dex either secured an appeal or got out by … other means.

And if you’re honest, at this point, you don’t even care which it is. You feel like an addict going through withdrawal, hungrily waiting for another fix.

As the 48 hours approach, you trudge home from work and realize that you’re disappointed. That while you had given him a seemingly impossible, insane task, you really had believed he’d be able to figure it out.

Because if nothing else, you knew Dex liked a challenge.

You get home and unlock the door, kicking off your shoes and flicking on the light switch at the same time. You sigh and head toward the kitchen, fully ready to grab yourself a beer and order consolation takeout before you plan your trip to Rikers tomorrow.

Then, you stop in your tracks.

“What the-”

Your kitchen counters have been covered with a very expansive, very neat buffet from your favorite Mexican restaurant, everything from tacos and a rainbow of salsas and toppings to churros. There’s even two margaritas at the end, adorned with perfectly symmetrical salt rings.

But what gets you the most, what makes your heart want burst out of your chest, is the bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase.

Because, while you'd never admit it out loud, you had daydreamed wya too many times about getting flowers from your favorite FBI coworker.

And now, there they were. And clearly, so was he.

“Dex?” you call out, and then, he’s there; rounding the corner from your hallway into your kitchen.

Suddenly, you’re breathless, heart racing like a teenager.

Except for the neat stitch on his forehead, Dex doesn’t look like someone who just escaped from prison.

He just looks like an ordinary guy who’s nervous before a first date. He looks, well, good. Like he took time to think about what he was wearing, which makes no sense considering where he just came from. Dark jacket, grey jeans, and a hesitant half-smile, his eyes flickering from you to the kitchen.

And you know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s waiting for your approval.

You break the silence.

“I take it you’re not getting an appeal,” you say.

Dex shakes his head.

“Nah. Murdock wasn’t interested. But it all worked out anyways.” And now I don’t have to wait to see you.” He smirks slightly. “Your locks are shit, by the way. I expected better security from you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, the next time I know you’re planning to break in, I’ll make sure to turn the laser beams on.”

“It’s fine, I’ll get you better locks this week.”

Fresh out of prison, and he’s worried your safety. And maybe you should think that's insane. But you don’t.

You think it’s romantic.

“Just to be clear, you’ve just been out for like a day, right?” you ask. “And you somehow managed to do … all this?" Your voice quiets. "For me?”

His gaze softens as he nods, fingers tapping on his leg.

“I told you, I was gonna make things right. To do this right with you. Like how I should’ve in the first place.”

And you can’t help it, heat rises in your cheeks, a giddy little smile blooming on your face at his words, at the way he's looking at you.

“Well, I’d say you’re off to a very good start.”

Dex looks relieved, smiling fully this time, and it feels like the goddamn sun is inside your chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And you were right. Dex was just waiting for the green light—your validation—and it sends him half-running across the kitchen, practically tackling you into the counter as he kisses you.

His freed hands roam from your face to your hair to your waist; curious and ecstatic and possessive all at once, like you’re the precious treasure he’s spent a lifetime searching for and finally found.

You pull back only to bury your face into his neck, your arms around him and his own wrapping you so tightly against him that you’re surprised you can breathe.

Happy tears spring up in your eyes as you savor how he feels, how he smells (delicious); warm and solid and real and finally, finally back where he belongs, where he was always meant to be.

With you.

“You’re really here,” you whisper, and he shifts you back slightly, one hand framing your face.

“And you’re really mine,” he murmurs, grinning broadly, the corners of his eyes creasing. You match his smile.

"Always was." You swat his chest lightly. “But we have to be so fucking careful, Dex. Not to insult your intelligence, but so I don’t have a panic attack, you’re not on any CCTV footage around here, right?

“That is insulting, actually; it’s a good thing you’re cute,” he says, smirking, brushing some stray hair behind your ear. “No, and the camera closest to here now has ‘mysterious damage.’”

“Ok. And you’re obviously staying here until any press dies down but, after that?”

“Somewhere in this neighborhood, close to you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Until we can find a new place together.” He sounds excited—almost too excited. “Wherever you want. You liked California, right?”

Tires screech in your head, everything coming to a jarring halt because woah, woah, wait, California, what?!

“Uh, yeah,” you say with a half laugh. “But I don’t work in California anymore, honey, I work here. In New York.”

Dex frowns, looking confused.

“Wait, you’re still planning on going to work?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

He looks at you like you’re insane, the irony of that not escaping you.

“You’re a federal agent harboring a fugitive. And you were the one who went off about how we couldn’t work as agent-convict.” His laugh is too sharp, a mocking grin appearing on his face that makes your eyebrows raise. “Now, not to insult your intelligence, but how could going into the Bureau every day make sense?”

Your heartbeat accelerates again, but this time, it’s because you’re pissed—at his shitty tone and because you know he’s not exactly … wrong.

“I know it doesn’t,” you huff. “But I’m just trying my fucking best here, given the circumstances. You got any better ideas?”

“Yeah, quit.”

“What?!”

Dex shrugs.

“I can make more in 5 hits than you make in a year.” The bite in his tone vanishes entirely, going sweet and earnest so quickly you feel like you have whiplash. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about anything.” He grabs your waist again, thumbs tracing your ribs. “You could do whatever you wanted, we could go wherever we wanted, and you could just," he pauses with a smile, “let me take care of you.”

You’re silent for a few moments. Honestly, you don’t really have a strong rebuttal. On the surface, the offer seems thoughtful, domestic, even—even though, yeah, it involves homicide. Because you know Dex really will do anything, will give absolutely everything, to keep you safe and happy with him. To create your own little world together.

And also, hell yeah, early retirement!

But there's also the faintest chill running up your spine as you let his words, that light-switch change in his demeanor, sink in. Because despite the genuine care in his voice, you know that his offer isn’t really an offer.

It’s a demand.

You should be more unnerved by that fact, should be running full speed in the opposite direction. But you're not. Because if you're honest, there's a small, secret part of you that wanted to be wanted like this, chosen so fully that everything else in the universe just faded into the background.

You want to be mad at Dex, but you can't, can't blame him for being who he is—not when you were the one who saw the danger in the riptide and still dove in headfirst.

Now, it was time to go where the current wanted to take you.

“I need at least a month,” you finally say.

Dex opens his mouth to reply, but you hold up your hand, stopping him.

“I can’t just up and leave without it seeming suspicious. I need to make it seem reasonable, drop hints around that I’m burnt out.” You sigh. “Which is not a total lie. But I'm gonna miss it. So just … let me at least pretend I can have you and still do the job I love for a little while.” Your voice quiets and you blink back unexpected tears. “Please. You owe me that much.”

Dex nods quickly. “That’s fair.” Now, it's his turn to sigh, genuine distress appearing on his face as he cups your face in one hand. "Fuck, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t want to ruin tonight and-

"Hey, stop, you haven’t. I mean, between the two of us, you’re actually presenting the more logical option. It’s not like I wanna keep my boyfriend a secret forever.” Dex visibly perks up at the word “boyfriend,” and you can't help it, you smile.

“So I guess the ‘murder sugar daddy route’ does have its perks.”

Dex’s brow furrows.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he mutters sulkily, and you have to fight back a laugh.

“Oh yeah?" You wrap your arms around his neck. "What would you call it, then?”

“Hm. The ‘being an extra good boyfriend’ route.”

“You know what? That does sound better.”

Dex chuckles before he kisses you again, slower this time but with the same pressing need that leaves your head spinning; flooded with how good he feels, how right this feels.

So, consequences be damned.

He takes your hand in his, eyes never leaving yours as he brings it to his lips with a tenderness no one else would ever believe; butterflies dancing throughout your whole being.

“I’m gonna make this worth it for you. All of it. I promise.”

And you smile and tell him the truth—the most irrational, beautiful, simple truth you know:

“It already is.”