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district4widow · 18 hours ago

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left behind, still yours

summary : dex can’t let you go after you broke up with him. spiraling into obsessive stalking, one night he breaks into your apartment while still you’re asleep.

cw : [reader is hinted as black] (mention of brown nipples / POC friendly) somnophilia/ dubcon / stalking / mild-choking / masked sex / fully clothed penetration / emotional vulnerability / self-worth issues / possessive dirty talk / creampie / messy feelings (typical delulu dex) not proofread mb yall

he can’t stop replaying your last words, your coldness cutting deeper than any punch. the way you said you needed space, freedom from him. freedom from the chaos he carries like a second skin. but the truth is, he’s not ready to let go. not yet.

tonight, something inside him snaps. a decision he knows is reckless, dangerous, but inevitable. he can’t stand another night without touching you, without reminding you — and himself — that you’re still his.

he’s dressed for the night like a shadow of himself. black tactical pants, worn but functional. a fitted black hoodie with the hood pulled low, the fabric soft but concealing. on his feet, silent black military boots that grip the metal of the fire escape like a second skin. his mask — the old black one with the angular lines — covers his face, hiding the desperation in his eyes but not the raw need twisting in his gut.

he moves with practiced precision, scaling the fire escape like a ghost, every metal step cold beneath his fingertips. the city hums quietly around him, the distant sirens and buzz of late-night cars fading behind the wall of silence he wraps himself in.

the window to your apartment looms ahead—half open, just like you always left it when you went to sleep. he slides the glass up with barely a sound, muscles coiled and tense as he slips inside.

dex stands just inside your apartment, the faint glow of the city bleeding through the cracked window you left open, a tiny flicker of hope that maybe this is some sign—that you’re still waiting for him in your own way, even if the silence says otherwise. his heart pounds, heavy and erratic, like it’s fighting against the weight of what he’s about to do. every instinct screams at him to stop, to turn back and respect the space you’re trying to carve out for yourself without him, but some desperate part of him clings to the fact that the window was open—maybe you wanted him here. maybe.

inside, the air smells like you—your shampoo mixing with the faint hint of the lotion you always keep on your nightstand. his pulse pounds as he takes in the quiet sanctity of your bedroom, the soft rise and fall of your sleeping form beneath the blankets.

this is his moment. the place he’s been craving, stalking, aching for. and now, finally, he’s here.

you’re lying in your bed, skin warm beneath the thin cotton sheets, the soft curve of your tummy just visible, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with your breath. your brown nipples, dark against the smoothness of your skin, catch the faint moonlight slipping through the blinds. your thighs spread lightly beneath the covers, familiar and soft, everything dex always loved.

you don’t hear the door open, don’t feel the weight cross your threshold — but dex is here. masked and fully clothed, the smell of his cologne and sweat lingering around him, he moves carefully, reverent almost, like you’re some fragile treasure he’s terrified to break.

he kneels beside the bed, watching you sleep, voice low, a rasping whisper. “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

he then climbs on the bed, over you. his hands twitch, uncertain, hovering just inches from your skin before he finally lets his fingertips ghost over your bare shoulder, trembling like a prayer. he’s terrified that the smallest wrong move will shatter this fragile moment—your breath, your sleep, the thread of trust left between you. the warmth of your skin under his touch pulls him in, raw and tender and achingly familiar, and he leans closer, letting his face bury in the crook of your neck, drinking you in. your scent is everything he’s missed—honeyed, soft, the way it clings to the curve of your collarbone and wraps around him like a lifeline.

his hands move up, trembling but reverent, to cup your full breasts, his thumbs brushing over your clothed nipples, aching under his touch. he wants to worship you like a temple, slow and soft and careful, but the hunger beneath that tenderness claws at him, pulling him deeper into desperation. his lips find the skin below your ear, sucking lightly, murmuring your name like a prayer, a plea.

his hands reach out first — trembling as they brush your thick thighs, tracing the soft curve of your tummy, the part he always loved. his fingers curl around your waist, pulling you closer to him in the dark.

he pulls back, sliding his hands beneath your shirt.

then his lips find your chest — full tits rising and falling with your steady breath, brown nipples hardening beneath his mouth. he sucks one gently, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, reverent and needy.

his voice cracks when he whispers, “i missed you,” barely loud enough for you to hear, but it’s everything he feels—an ache that’s been gnawing at his ribs for too long. he’s torn between worship and want, between fear of breaking you and the primal need to claim you again. he hesitates, his hands trembling on your skin, caught in the storm of his own conflicted desire, draw a quiet moan even from your sleep.

they wander, worshiping your curves, the way your body fits like a goddamn prayer beneath his fingertips. his voice starts to ramble, desperate and tender, a broken confession whispered against your skin.

“you were waiting for me,” he murmurs, lips barely grazing your skin. “i know you were waiting, baby. i’m here now.”

he knows this isn’t like before. you’re not waiting, not really—not now. but he’s desperate to believe that maybe this touch, this breath, this moment is still yours. and slowly, trembling, he moves lower, trailing kisses and soft sucks along your neck, your collarbone, until he’s pressing his forehead against your skin, silent except for the frantic beating of his own heart.

you shift slightly but don’t wake, his worship continued — his mouth finding your other nipple, sucking harder, rougher now, his desperation bleeding through every touch.

his cock presses hard against your thigh, strained in his belt.

dex’s hands slide lower, over your belly—soft, just a little round where he always loved to rest his palm—before slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers tracing the slick heat between your thighs.

he pushes your shorts down slowly, loving the way your skin reacts even without waking. thick thighs spread, exposed and soft, waiting. breathing shallow, fingers trembling where they ghost the curve of your hip beneath the blanket.

slowly, reverently, dex slips his fingers beneath the edge of your panties and shifts them aside, his breath catching when he sees the warmth glistening between your dusky thighs.

he slides a hand beneath your body, lifting your hips gently and after unbuckling his pants, he presses the tip of his cock through your slick folds. you’re still asleep, he lines himself up, hand stroking gently down your thigh, grounding himself. and then — with a low, shaky sound — he pushes in, slow and deep, his whole body trembling as your warmth welcomes him like home.

his voice breaks in a low, trembling whisper. “i love you. please ever don’t leave me again.”

he fucks you slow at first, savoring the feel of you so warm and tight, the way your body yields beneath his. then faster, desperate, nearly choking on his own need.

his hands cup your cheeks, thumb stroking tenderly as he buries himself deeper, moaning your name like a prayer.

you stir—eyes fluttering open.

“dex? what the… what are you doing?” you ask, voice raw, half-dreaming.

dex’s mask hides his face, but his voice is soft, trembling, pleading. “you were waiting for me… you always used to. you said i could always find you in your sleep. remember?”

he rocks into you again, deeper, harder this time — like the rhythm itself is an anchor.

“i know you still wanted me. i know you were waiting.” his voice is rough, torn at the edges. “i watched you fall asleep. no one else is here. it’s still me. it’s always me.”

his hand moves up to your throat, not squeezing — not yet — just holding, thumb stroking along your jaw like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

you’re wet, so fucking wet for him, even half-asleep, and he takes it like proof. like permission. like you were aching for this too.

his hips grind in deeper, a soft whimper catching in his throat when he feels your walls tighten.

“god, i missed this pussy,” he groans. “so fucking soft—always take me like you were made for it.”

your breath catches again, half from his words, half from the way his cock keeps hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. he’s still fully clothed, the texture of his hoodie rubbing against your exposed stomach, the weight of him holding you down in the way you used to love.

“why did you leave me?” his voice cracks as he thrusts into you, slow and deep, his mask damp against your skin. “why the fuck did you walk away?”

you blink up at him, breath hitching, the stretch of him inside you grounding and unbearable all at once. you don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know — but because saying it out loud might shatter something permanent.

“don’t… don’t do that.” you plead.

“don’t shut me out. you said i could come to you. you said i could have you like this.” he begs, almost choking on it.

your hands come up, fingers brushing his jaw beneath the mask, the heat of his skin trembling under your touch. “i didn’t leave because i stopped loving you,” you whisper. “i left because you looked at me like i was… pure. like i was something holy…i couldn’t take it anymore.”

his rhythm falters.

“and i’m not, dex,” you breathe, lips parting around the truth. “i’m not that. i’m fucked up. selfish. angry. i’ve done things—thought things—i didn’t want you to see.”

he lets out a ragged sound, like a sob and a moan tangled together. “don’t say that. you’re mine. you’re everything.”

you shake your head against the pillow, tears catching in your lashes. “i couldn’t keep letting you love me like i was some perfect thing. it felt like lying.”

he thrusts deeper, desperate, his gloved hand coming up to wrap around your throat with a gentleness that shouldn’t make sense. “then don’t be perfect,” he growls, forehead pressing to yours. “be broken. be angry. be fucking cruel. just don’t leave me again.”

your eyes lock — and there’s nothing left to hide.

you reach up without thinking, fingers brushing the side of his mask. “take it off…”

he stills — just for a second. then he presses deeper, choking on a breath. “you sure?”

you nod, eyes meeting the black fabric. “i want to see you. all of you.”

his hand lets go of your throat just long enough to pull the mask up and off. his face is flushed, eyes glassy with emotion, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something dangerous.

you cup his cheek, and he leans into it like a starving man.

“you came back,” you whisper, and there’s no anger in your voice. just heat. just heartbreak and admiration.

“i never left,” he says, voice shaking. “you tried to lock me out, but you’re still mine. i know you are.”

his hand returns to your throat, squeezing just enough now to make your breath hitch, his other palm sliding down to your stomach, pressing gently where he’s filling you so deep.

you whimper, thighs tensing as he starts fucking you harder now — no less loving, just desperate, rougher, his control slipping.

“say it,” he pants. “tell me you’re still mine.”

you can barely breathe, barely think with how full you are, how he’s choking you and touching you and claiming you like you’re his goddamn oxygen.

“baby,” you whimper, softly, like it’s sacred. “i’m yours. i’m so fucking yours.”

“i’m not going anywhere ben…not now. not ever again.” you promise, body clenching around him.

a strangled moan tears from his throat.

and you don’t say anything — not with words. just a gasp, a moan, the way your legs wrap tighter around him. the way your body arches into his like your skin still knows the shape of him even after all that distance.

you squeeze around him again, and that’s all it takes for him to break.

his body convulses as he spills into you, hard, messy, overwhelmed. his head drops to your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, clinging to you, his breath hitching like he can’t get enough air.

and even after, he doesn’t pull away. just breathes you in, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other around your waist like he’s never letting go again.

a few moments pass. after catching his breath, he tears away from the crook of your neck, for a moment, he just stares—like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face, to convince himself this is real.

you smile — tired, aching, you still look at him like he hung the stars. your palm presses to his cheek.

“hi,” you whisper, like it’s the first time. like you’re seeing him all over again.

he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a slow, shaky smile curling at the edge of his lips. “hi.”

you lean up, kissing him so slow and sweet it makes his chest cave. no lust. no desperation. just the kind of softness that says stay. he kisses you again — slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world now. and when he finally pulls back, you whisper against his mouth :

“i missed you.”

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 3 days ago

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Chapter 1: I Know I’m Not the Only One Who Ever Felt This Way.

Summary: Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter is a shattered man, once again confined to Riviera Psychiatric Institution. Stripped of his badge, his purpose, and anything resembling peace, he spends his days in a numb routine—therapy sessions, meds, silence. The walls close in a little more every day.

Then there’s you.

The chaotic variant who crash-landed into his life with bad coffee, sharp eyes, and a mouth that didn’t know how to shut up. You, who sat across from him like you’d known him for years. You, who didn’t flinch at his name or the weight of his past. You, who on that first day out of his room, made him feel something—for the first time in a long time.

Thrown together in group therapy, shared rec hours, and whispered conversations through thin walls, the two of you form an unlikely alliance. Over time, that threadbare connection deepens—into something volatile, raw, and painfully real. A bond forged in shared fractures and quiet defiance, one that spans across years.

Before the world dragged him back into the darkness, there was this: two broken people in a broken place, finding a strange kind of clarity in each other.

Warnings: Slow-Burn, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Swearing, Violence, Flashbacks, Fluff, Smut. Pairings: Benjamin 'Dex' Poindexter/Reader.

Masterlist:

Chapter 1. “She wasn’t supposed to be there—too calm, too steady for a place built to hold fractured minds like his. But when she sat across from him in that flickering, too-bright rec room and spoke like she actually cared, something in him shifted. For the first time since everything fell apart, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t beyond saving."

The first time Benjamin Poindexter stepped out of his room, the pale yellow walls greeted him like a sickly ghost, their muted hue soaking up what little light seeped through the flickering fluorescent bulbs overhead. The corridor stretched out before him, sterile and uninviting, the air heavy with a cocktail of antiseptic, stale coffee, and something faintly metallic that made his throat tighten. It had been almost two weeks since they’d discharged him from the hospital—a fact he couldn’t forget, though he’d rather have erased it.

Two weeks since they’d broken his spine open like a puzzle and pieced it back together, courtesy of Dr. Kenji Oyama. A miracle worker, they called him. Dex wasn’t so sure. His body worked now, sure. He could stand, walk, move—things he hadn’t been sure he’d ever do again. But something about his movements felt...off. Almost mechanical, like his spine wasn’t really his anymore, but some borrowed thing keeping him upright out of pity.

For those two weeks, he hadn’t left his room. The orderlies came like clockwork, always the same routine. A knock that was more a formality than a courtesy, followed by the grating scrape of the door as it opened. They’d shuffle in, balancing a plastic tray with food he barely touched. The tray was a dull gray, the kind of gray that seemed intent on draining any appetite he might have had. The bright orange fork and spoon they handed him were the final insult—flimsy, rubbery plastic that bent under the slightest pressure. They weren’t utensils; they were mockeries, designed to remind him that he wasn’t trusted not to hurt himself—or anyone else.

Then came the meds. Three tiny, clear plastic cups, set down methodically on the small metal table beside his bed. Four brightly colored pills in one, two plain white ones in another, and two small blue ones in the last. A Styrofoam cup of water was placed beside them, the kind that squeaked unpleasantly when touched. Always the same large orderly watched him, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable but tense. Dex hated the way the man’s eyes lingered on him, like he was waiting for something to happen. Something violent.

And Dex hated that he understood why.

He’d swallow the pills, one by one, the bitter taste lingering on his tongue no matter how much water he used to wash them down. And then the orderly would leave, the door snapping shut behind him with a finality that made Dex’s chest tighten. He didn’t know if the sound was worse than the whispers.

The walls weren’t thick enough to keep out the murmurs of the nurses stationed just outside his door. They tried to keep their voices down, but Dex’s hearing had always been sharp—sharper than most people’s, even before everything had gone to hell. He heard every word. He heard how they whispered about the news, the things he had done; the former FBI agent turned serial killer.

Their words weren’t new. He’d heard it all before—in courtrooms, in news reports, in his own head. But here, in this place where the walls felt like they were closing in on him, it hit differently. It burrowed deep, sinking into his skin, into his bones. He wanted to scream at them, to tell them they didn’t know him, not really.

But he didn’t. He stayed silent, staring at the ceiling until the whispers faded into the white noise of his own thoughts. The psychologist’s name was Jane. She introduced herself with a smile that was too kind, too practiced. She sat across from him once a day, clipboard balanced on her lap, her pen poised and ready to scribble down whatever breakthrough she thought she might coax out of him.

“Benjamin,” she’d start, her tone soft but firm. “Can we talk today?”

But Dex wasn’t interested in talking. Not to her. Not to anyone. He barely looked at her, his eyes fixed on the wall behind her as she asked her carefully crafted questions.

“How are you feeling today?” “Have you been sleeping?” “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

He didn’t answer. Not at first. What was the point? Every question felt like a trap, every smile a lie. Jane might have been good at her job, but she was no different from the others. She saw him as a case study, a puzzle to solve. A serial killer with a tragic backstory.

He wasn’t up for it. He wasn’t up for anything, really, except sleeping. Sleeping he could do.

The day he finally stepped out of his room, the corridor felt impossibly long. His legs felt heavy, his steps awkward and unsure. The linoleum floor squeaked under his shoes, each step echoing louder than it should have. The air felt thicker out here, weighed down by the muffled sounds of the rec room at the end of the hall.

He could hear voices—patients talking, laughing, arguing—but it all sounded like it was coming from underwater. Even the colors around him seemed muted, like someone had drained the vibrancy out of the world. His own mind felt dull, like it was wrapped in cotton. He was so tired. He’d barely made it halfway down the hall before he considered turning back. Maybe he should. Maybe the whispers and the psychologist and the flimsy plastic cutlery were better than this.

The rec room was a sensory assault. The smell hit him first—a mix of disinfectant, burnt coffee, and something stale that he couldn’t quite place. The TV in the corner was encased in a thick plastic box, the screen tuned to some mindless game show. A handful of patients sat around it, their expressions vacant as they watched the garish colors and exaggerated laughter flicker across the screen.

Behind a large desk, nurses and an orderly sat, their chatter low but punctuated with occasional bursts of laughter. They barely glanced at him as he entered, too busy typing away at their computers or making notes on patient charts.

The rest of the room was a patchwork of faded colors and tired clichés. A bookshelf stood against one wall, its shelves filled with dusty paperbacks and outdated magazines. Posters hung crookedly on the walls, their edges curling with age. “Do what makes you happy,” one read, the words splashed across an image of a sunset. Dex felt his jaw tighten. Happy? In a place like this, the poster felt more like a joke—or an insult.

He counted seven people in the room. One sat by the window, their lips moving silently as they read from a tattered book. Another was slouched in a chair near the TV, mumbling under their breath. A nurse was locked in a heated argument with a man who gestured wildly, his voice rising as he demanded a cigarette break.

And then there was the one sitting alone at a table near the far corner of the room. Their arms were crossed over their chest, one foot swinging absently as they stared at something only they could see. They didn’t glance up as Dex entered, didn’t seem to notice him at all.

As soon as he stepped inside, he felt the shift. The air grew colder, his skin prickling with goosebumps. He could feel their eyes on him, the way they flicked toward him and then darted away, their curiosity barely masked by fear. They knew who he was. They always knew.

Dex clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He hated this—the looks, the whispers, the suffocating weight of their judgment. He hated the way they looked at him like he was a bomb waiting to go off. And maybe he was.

But not today .

He lowered himself into a chair by the large window, the metal legs screeching faintly against the linoleum floor. His movements were cautious, deliberate, as if the chair might collapse beneath him. Across from him at the other table, the older man with the dog-eared book didn’t even look up, his lips still moving silently as he read. Dex’s gaze drifted outside, to the courtyard below.

The view wasn’t much to look at—just a patch of tired green grass bordered by concrete, a picnic table, a single tree standing pathetically in the middle. It looked like it was trying to grow leaves, brittle branches reaching skyward, but it couldn’t quite manage. The sun poured over it in soft, golden light, warm against the cool bite of an autumn afternoon. The sight should have been peaceful, but instead, it felt hollow. Like the tree, this place was trying to grow something it couldn’t. Trying, and failing.

This was his life now.

The thought hit him like a punch to the chest, stealing his breath for a moment. This—this sterile room with its curling posters and its whispers, this chair that felt too small, this view of a dying tree—this was it. The sum total of his choices. The end result of his crimes. He’d put himself here. No one else. He could try to blame Fisk, try to pin it on circumstance or bad luck, but deep down he knew better. Every step he’d taken, every bullet he’d fired, had led him to this moment.

He’d tried to be good once. Tried to keep the chaos in his head locked away where it couldn’t hurt anyone. For years, he’d done it. Found routine. Found calm. It was like walking a tightrope every day, but he’d managed. Until Wilson Fisk. Until the prisoner transfer, when he’d pulled the trigger and everything changed.

Fisk had seen him for what he was—broken, dangerous, useful—and he’d sunk his claws in. And Dex had let him. No one had ever looked at him the way Fisk did, like he was indispensable. Like he was needed. And Dex had craved that. Needed it. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew that was where it had all gone wrong. That desperate, gnawing need to feel wanted, to feel like he mattered.

His hands curled into fists on the table, his knuckles white. For the first time, he thought about how good it had felt. Pulling the trigger. Taking those lives. The Albanians. The journalists. The pastor. Nadeem. Each one a bullet, each one a moment of clarity in the storm of his mind. The realization made his stomach twist, but he couldn’t deny it. For once, the chaos had quieted.

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

“So, the coffee’s not great, but in this place? You take what you can get,” a voice said casually from across the table.

Dex’s eyes snapped upward like a reflex, his entire body going taut. The words were unexpected—too clear, too familiar in a place muffled by sedation and static. His gaze locked on the source: you, sitting comfortably with a Styrofoam cup cradled in your hands, steam curling lazily from the rim as you slid another one over in front of him.

He didn’t recognize you. You weren’t one of the ones who muttered to themselves or stared slack-jawed at the linoleum. You weren’t twitchy or glassy-eyed. You looked... disturbingly normal. Calm, even. Like you belonged in a café, not here.

And yet here you were—talking to him.

He said nothing. Just narrowed his eyes a fraction, reading you like a threat.

Unbothered, you kept going. “If you’re really aiming to improve your odds around here, you should befriend the night nurse. Sue. You’ll know her when you see her. She’s got this 'I hate my job but I still bake for group therapy' vibe. Smile at her, and you might score an extra blanket or something. Little things. They help.”

You unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it into your mouth, the crinkle of foil slicing through the heavy quiet of the rec room. A deliberate snap followed, the kind of sound that demanded attention just enough to be annoying.

Dex blinked. Not from surprise—but from the sheer audacity of how normal you were behaving. There was nothing calculated in your movements, nothing rehearsed. Just someone talking. Too easily. Too close.

Who the hell were you?

His stare must’ve tightened, because your lips curled at the edges in something halfway to amusement.

“You’ve got that look,” you said, gesturing vaguely in his direction with your cup. “Like you’re trying to figure out who I am and why the hell I’m talking to you. Am I close?”

Still, he didn’t answer. But the tilt of his head was answer enough.

You took that as permission to keep going, introducing yourself with a name and a shrug, “I’m just a regular weirdo with too much time and not enough sense to shut up. But you looked like you were about five seconds from disappearing into your own head. I figured I'd intercept.”

Dex’s jaw clenched. Company? He didn’t need company. He didn’t need you. He opened his mouth to tell you as much—but the words stopped just short of spilling out. They froze, heavy and foreign in his throat. There was something about your voice. The way you looked at him—not with fear, not even with curiosity. Just presence. Unflinching. Unconcerned.

And that was the unsettling part. You weren’t afraid of him.

Everyone else in here was. They might not say it out loud, but it hung in the air when he entered the room, when the nurses or the orderlies knocked on his door—fear, or worse, pity. Neither ever sat right with him. But you? You just sipped bad coffee and popped your gum like he was any other broken thing in the building.

And still, he didn’t move.

He didn’t get up. Didn’t shut you down. Instead, he found himself staring at the Styrofoam cup in front of him, the thin coffee scent mixing with the sharp tang of disinfectant and fraying nerves.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” you asked. No judgment. Just an observation.

He didn’t answer. You shrugged, “That’s fine. I can talk enough for both of us.”

He glanced back at you, frowning slightly. “Why?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why what?”

“Why are you talking to me?” His voice was rough—unused, cracked at the edges.

You studied him for a moment, your gaze steady, unbothered by the way he barely looked at you—except you knew he was. Watching. Listening. Assessing.

“Because I can,” you said finally, voice low but even. “Because you look like you’re one more thought away from imploding. And because this place eats people alive if they sit in the corner thinking about every shitty thing they’ve ever done.”

Dex didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Something in him shifted—not softened, not yet—but tilted slightly, like a door left ajar. The silence between you wasn’t cold anymore. It was different. Curious. Almost… tentative.

And then you smiled.

It wasn’t wide or bright or performative like the paper-thin grins plastered on the nurses’ faces. It didn’t sell hope. It didn’t sell anything. It just was.

Dex’s throat worked as he swallowed, eyes flicking to your mouth as you popped another gum bubble between your teeth. Then, without thinking much of it, he picked up his Styrofoam cup and took a small sip. The coffee was bitter, burned, and vaguely metallic. He grimaced—barely—but said nothing. He wasn’t in the habit of complaining anymore. Not when he’d burned through every privilege a man like him could get.

“You’re doing the thing again,” you said suddenly, pointing a lazy finger in his direction.

His brow furrowed. “What thing?”

“The staring-off-into-the-abyss thing,” you said, not unkindly. “Though, I guess in here, that’s half the entertainment.”

Dex let out a short breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. It caught in his chest, unfamiliar. He glanced down at his cup.

“Well,” he muttered, “there’s not really a lot more to do, is there?”

You shrugged like that was fair. “I mean, there’s a courtyard with a sad little tree and a picnic table that clearly hasn’t been replaced since the Bush administration. You can watch mind-numbing television because apparently anything with emotional content is too stimulating for some patients. You can read—though most of the books are so boring they make padded walls look exciting. Or, if you want a real thrill, I’d offer you my puzzle book, but…” you gestured vaguely, “my pencil got confiscated for bad behavior. So you’d have to smuggle your own writing utensil.”

You smiled again, sipping from your cup like the conversation wasn’t straddling that thin line between playful and personal.

Dex tilted his head, mildly intrigued. “Bad behavior?” he echoed.

Your eyes sparkled just enough to be dangerous. “Funnily enough.”

That was all you said. No explanation. No attempt to fill the gap. And for some reason, that made Dex want to know. Not the file version of you—the real one. The gaps, the things you didn’t say. What you’d done. What had earned you the label that now sat on both your shoulders like weighted chains.

He didn’t get the chance to ask. A pair of boots echoed against the floor, and Dex’s gaze shifted just in time to see a male orderly approaching—mid-thirties, buzzed hair, pale skin, and a dark gray uniform that made him look more like security than support staff.

“Harrassing the new patients already, princess?” the orderly drawled as he stopped at your table, hands shoved into his pockets.

Dex stiffened, instinctively taking stock. Tone: casual. Body language: relaxed. History: familiar.

You didn’t even flinch. Just looked up at him with a crooked smirk that spoke of repetition and boredom, not fear. “Just warning him about the asshole with the cheap arm tattoo and the chronic attitude problem,” you said, sipping your coffee. “What, you here to bask in my midday glow?”

Dex’s eyes flicked to the orderly’s arm. Sure enough, a faded ink snake curled around his forearm, badly done. The other man didn’t laugh—he grunted, like someone who'd played this game before.

“I drew the short straw,” the orderly—Josh, apparently—grumbled. “You’ve got Julie today. Two full hours of picking apart your daddy issues. Sound fun?”

You groaned dramatically. “You say that like I don’t already have the script memorized.” Then, after a pause, with a grin: “Admit it, Josh. You just wanted alone time with your favorite headcase.”

Josh rolled his eyes. “You make me want to throw myself down a flight of stairs.”

You stood up, stretching with the casual energy of someone used to being yanked away from whatever passed for peace in this place. “Me first, though, right?” You shot Dex a last glance, draining your cup in one last gulp before setting it down. “If they bring lunch while I’m gone, save me the fruit cups.”

Your eyes lingered on him for half a second longer than they needed to—just enough for Dex to register it. Just enough to feel the brief but undeniable flutter of something warm beneath his ribs. Connection, maybe. Or the ghost of one.

Then you turned, walking off with Josh, your voice fading as the two of you disappeared down the corridor. Josh muttered something under his breath—sarcastic, probably—but Dex couldn’t make it out. His ears were still ringing with your voice.

He watched until you were gone, until the steady rhythm of your steps and that damn bubblegum snap vanished into the white noise of the institution.

His jaw was tight. Not with anger, but tension—wound and unwound in quick succession. It settled deep in the muscle like a cramp he didn’t know how to stretch out. His grip on the Styrofoam cup loosened slightly, the heat still lingering through the thin walls of the cup, grounding him more than it had any right to.

He hated that. That something so small—so insignificant—could feel like an anchor.

His thoughts buzzed, restless. He tried to shove them back into the box he kept for unwanted noise, but they spilled over anyway. Your voice. The way you looked at him without flinching. Like he was human. Like he wasn’t some broken weapon left to rust in the corner.

That was the part that got to him most.

He didn’t trust people. Not the ones in suits. Not the ones with clipboards. Not the ones who told him they could help. Not since the Army, not since the Bureau, definitely not since Fisk. He was done with that illusion.

But you… you hadn’t offered help. You hadn’t asked questions or spoken like you had some professional obligation to fix him. You hadn’t recoiled when he looked at you like a cornered animal. You just were.

Something about that felt wrong. Or maybe worse—dangerously right.

He didn’t know who you were, not really. Just a name, a face, and a mouth that didn’t stop moving. You were unpredictable. A variable. A walking contradiction in a place where everything was muted, regimented, safe.

And yet, he hadn’t walked away.

He’d sat there.

Listened.

Engaged even.

Even now, with you gone, the ripple you left behind hadn’t stilled. His thoughts, normally sharp and cruel-edged, felt... different. Less jagged. Less punishing.

He didn’t want to think about why.

He glanced down at the coffee still cradled in his hands. It was already cooling, but the residual warmth soaked into his fingers, foreign but not unwelcome. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn’t want to sink back into the silence. Didn’t want to drift aimlessly in the fog that usually swallowed his days whole.

Not yet.

So he just sat there, hands curled loosely around the cheap cup like it was something more. Something solid. Something real. <><><><><>

When Dex eventually forced himself back to his room, the muted hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of distant, indistinct voices felt louder than usual. He shut the door behind him quietly, barely registering the soft click of the latch engaging. The room was suffocatingly empty, nothing but white walls, a thin mattress, and the sterile scent of soap.

He sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him. The thin fabric of his institutional-issued pants did nothing to dull the chill of the metal bedframe beneath. Usually, it bothered him—reminded him constantly of what he was, where he was—but today it barely registered. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

It was with you.

He tried not to let it be, but every attempt at pushing you out of his thoughts was weak at best. Dex pressed his palms into his eyes, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. He shouldn’t feel anything at all—not anymore. Emotions were dangerous; attachments, deadly. He knew that better than anyone. He'd learned that lesson in blood and broken bones, in promises made and shattered.

And yet.

He exhaled sharply, dropping his hands and staring blankly at the floor. His thoughts kept circling back to your voice—the casual, fearless way you’d spoken to him, as if the darkness that followed him was no worse than the shadows you both lived in. As if you understood something others couldn’t. As if you’d looked into him, seen the wreckage, and somehow didn’t flinch.

It was infuriating.

Dex's fingers flexed unconsciously, twitching restlessly. He wasn’t used to this uncertainty. People were usually simple: enemies or not. Dangerous or harmless. But you didn’t fit neatly into any category. You felt like something new, something messy. A puzzle he couldn’t figure out and didn’t trust himself to touch.

You’re doing the thing again.

Your words echoed softly in the back of his mind, not mocking—just knowing. He hated how quickly you’d read him, how easily you’d seen through his guarded exterior. He was supposed to be unreadable, locked behind a mask perfected through years of careful practice. But you’d just walked right through it, not even bothering to knock.

He dropped back onto the thin mattress, the old springs groaning under his weight. The ceiling stared back at him, cracked and stained from years of neglect. He tried to refocus—tried to ground himself in reality, cold and bleak as it was—but his mind kept slipping sideways, sliding helplessly back to you.

To your smile.

To your stupid bubblegum—always popping at the wrong time, always louder than it needed to be. A snap here, a bubble there. Irritating as hell, and yet somehow rhythmic. Familiar. Like a heartbeat thudding behind the static of his thoughts. And then there were your eyes—sharp and alive and utterly unwilling to look away from him.

They sparked whenever you spoke. Not with fear. Not even hesitation. Just that raw, maddening boldness, like every word was a dare: Go on. Say something back. I dare you.

He hadn’t. Not really. But God, he’d wanted to.

There was something in the way you sat across from him, spine loose, limbs casually draped like you were lounging at a diner booth instead of a psychiatric ward. He'd seen people pretend before—saw it all the time in the Bureau. But your ease wasn’t a performance. It was too consistent. Too real. And that’s what unnerved him.

Because if you weren’t afraid of him, it meant you were either incredibly dangerous or deeply damaged. Probably both. And for some reason, Dex couldn’t decide which answer unsettled him more.

His chest tightened—not from fear, not exactly. From something murkier. He pressed his palm lightly against his sternum like he could push the sensation back down where it belonged, into that void where he buried everything. But it stayed. A dull pressure. A slow, grinding ache that made it hard to breathe for a moment.

He didn’t know what to call that feeling. He didn’t want to name it. All he knew was that it was uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and almost—almost—painful.

He hated it.

He hated how you’d slipped beneath his skin without permission in such a short conversation. How your voice had taken root somewhere behind his eyes. How you spoke like you had the whole place clocked, like nothing surprised you anymore—and he was the exception. He hated that you didn’t ask for anything, not even understanding, but somehow made him want to offer it anyway.

But what he hated more—more than the discomfort, more than the vulnerability—was the quiet suspicion blooming in his chest like a bruise:

He wanted to see you again.

Wanted to hear that voice cut through the sterile silence. Wanted to catch you watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking. Wanted to know what your deal was, what got you locked up in this place, and whether the way your eyes softened—just slightly—when you looked at him meant anything at all.

He wanted more. Of you.

And he hadn’t wanted anything in a long, long time.

Dex swallowed hard, the motion rough, dry. His jaw clenched like it might hold the thought in place, like grinding his teeth might muffle the echo of your laugh still bouncing around his skull.

The realization sat heavy in his chest, a slow bleed of something terrifying.

You were trouble.

The kind that didn’t look like a knife in the dark—but worse. The kind that made people hope. The kind that made a man forget the darkness he’d made peace with. The kind that made him think—just for a second—that maybe he wasn’t as far gone as they all said.

And Dex?

He wasn’t sure he had the strength to resist it.

Or if he even wanted to.

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