The bedroom is silent.

Heavy, like the air's been weighed down with something invisible. The kind of silence that holds its breath-- not absence of sound, but presence waiting to unfold.

Suki stands near the door, arms at her sides, feet planted with precise distance between them. She doesn't lean. She doesn't shift. She simply waits.

Fisk remains by the table. He doesn't sit. He watches her.

The red lights on the cameras blink in slow succession-- one by one.

Then vanish.

When the last dot fades, Suki speaks.

"I don't like being watched."

Fisk tilts his head slightly, "An interesting thing to say... from someone whose entire job is surveillance."

"That's professional," She replies, "What you did was personal."

He says nothing to that.

She steps closer, just slightly, as if moving into a warmer current of the room.

"You knew who I was before we ever met."

"I make it a point to understand the people around me," Fisk says. His voice is low, even. Not defensive. Not evasive, "It's not unusual for someone in my position."

"You're not in a position," Suki replies, sharp as a scalpel, "You're a prisoner."

He looks at her now, more directly. Not in defiance. Not in menace.

Just presence.

"I'm still alive," He says, "That counts for something."

There's no pride in his voice. Just fact.

Suki steps further into the room.

"You made a deal with the Bureau. You help us, we protect her."

"Vanessa."

Her name lands between them like a sacred thing.

Fisk's jaw twitches once, but otherwise he doesn't move.

"You think love makes you sympathetic?" Suki asks, head tilted, "That it erases everything else?"

"I think love is the only thing that ever made me human."

"And before that?"

"I was what the world made me."

Suki doesn't blink, "You chose what to do with what the world made you."

"And you haven't?"

It's not a challenge. Not even an accusation.

It's a mirror.

"You went out of your way to learn about me," She says, "I want to know why."

Fisk takes a breath. Deep. Slow. His shoulders rise and fall like tectonic plates shifting beneath ocean water.

"You remind me of someone I once met."

"Let me guess. Another agent?"

"No," He says, "Someone I never forgot. Even now."

He walks a slow, deliberate pace toward the edge of the bed. Doesn't sit. Doesn't take his eyes off her.

"She was efficient," He says, "She didn't flinch. She believed in justice, but not the kind they teach you in school. The kind that leaves bruises."

"Was she Bureau?"

"No. But she might've been... if someone had given her a reason."

"And did you?"

Fisk smiles, just barely, "No. I ruined her."

The honesty chills the air.

Suki shifts her gaze, only slightly.

"You're trying to get under my skin."

"I'm trying to understand you."

"No," She corrects, "You're trying to own me. The same way you try to own every person in your orbit. You read files, you learn weaknesses, you calculate outcomes. You think if you understand someone enough, they'll bend to you."

He watches her closely now, "Has it worked?"

Suki lets the silence answer that for her.

"You read about me," She says, "Fine. Tell me what you think you saw."

"I saw someone forged by failure. Controlled by discipline. Someone who has clawed her way back from scandal, shame, and near self-destruction... and turned herself into a weapon so precise it cuts without ever drawing blood."

He steps closer.

"You're admired, but not liked. Feared, but not hated. People don't know what to make of you, because you've turned being unreadable into an art."

Suki doesn't look away.

"And yet you still feel the need to be understood."

He stops two paces from her.

"I read you because I respect you," He says, "And I watch you because I recognize what it looks like to become your own warden."

That strikes something.

A note in her ribs.

She folds her arms.

"Respect without consent is just control."

Fisk dips his head, "Perhaps."

She moves toward the bed now, slowly, not looking at him.

"You're working an angle. You always are. Even now."

"I'm protecting the only person I've ever loved."

"By learning the names of the agents assigned to your case?"

"By knowing the world she might step into if I fail."

She looks at him.

"Then don't fail."

Their eyes meet. And for a breath, the room is still.

Not silent-- still.

A different kind of war.

"I don't trust you," She says.

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"I don't like being seen."

Fisk nods once, "Then we're the same."

Suki turns, walks to the door.

Pauses with her hand on the frame.

Without looking back, she says, "If you ever speak to me again without permission, I'll make sure this penthouse becomes a prison in ways you haven't imagined."

Fisk doesn't respond.

She exits.

The red dots on the cameras blink back to life.

And the game resumes.

Suki walks out of the suite without a word.

No clipped nod to the other agents. No sideways glance at Dex. No muttered protocol.

She just walks.

Lim is cracking a joke at the coffee station. Someone's typing too loud. But the suite feels colder the moment she's gone. Like she took the room's structure with her, and now the rest is held together with tape.

Dex watches her go.

She doesn't usually leave like that.

She doesn't move like that-- shoulders tight, jaw set, arms a little too stiff at her sides. Her steps aren't measured. They're fast. Irregular. Off-beat.

It isn't the anger that worries him.

It's the fact that she isn't hiding it.

He follows her.

Not immediately. He gives her ten seconds of space-- enough to make it seem like coincidence if anyone's watching. Then he slips through the door, out of the suite, into the hallway, down the elevator with a tap of his badge.

He doesn't say anything until they're both on the street.

Suki cuts a path down 44th like she owns the sidewalk. Dex is a step behind, his hands in his pockets, his coat brushing the edge of hers each time the wind shifts.

"Suki."

Nothing.

"Suki, what did he say to you?"

Still nothing.

Her heels hit the pavement in steady, furious rhythm. The air outside smells like exhaust and old rain. Somewhere a car horn bleats. A hot dog cart clatters over a pothole. A man on the corner yells something about the end times.

Dex keeps pace.

"Was it about Vanessa?" He tries again, "Or was it about you?"

She walks faster.

He knows she hears him. She's too aware not to. She's scanning every alley, every window, every shadow, even now. That's what she does. That's what she is.

But she's also unraveling.

And she's letting him see it.

"Come on," Dex says, "Talk to me."

Suki stops walking.

Spins on her heel.

And pins him with a look that could stop a bullet midair.

He freezes.

Not in fear.

In awe.

"I'm frustrated, okay?" She says, "I'm fucking frustrated."

Her voice is low, but sharp. A quiet weapon, honed for damage.

Dex doesn't speak.

Suki steps closer. Not by much. Just enough.

"I'm the only woman on this task force," She says, voice steady but tight, "The only one. And the only other non-white person is an Asian frat bro who keeps calling every assignment 'sick' like this is some goddamn group project."

Dex blinks. Doesn't interrupt.

"I liked D.C.," She goes on, "I was good in D.C. I had a routine. I had order. And now I'm here, in this-- this overpriced, over-glorified, underprepared mess, surrounded by people who think they're in a Tom Clancy novel."

Her hands clench once at her sides. Not enough to tremble. Just enough to crack the calm.

"And now a man-- a convict, someone we're supposed to be watching, someone who has no reason to know anything about me-- just read me like a fucking book."

Dex's eyes soften, "What did he say?"

She ignores the question. Steps past it like a landmine she refuses to touch.

"I've spent my whole life building walls," She says, "Perfecting them. Sharpening the edges so no one could get through. And now? Now I've got some caged-up monster staring at me like he's already figured out the blueprints."

Her voice wavers then-- just slightly.

Dex steps closer.

"Suki."

"I don't like being seen," She says, her tone quieter now, "I don't like being... known. Because when people think they know you, they think they own you. They think they can break you."

She looks up.

Her eyes meet his.

"And I can't afford to break."

Dex's breath catches.

The air between them is razor-thin now. Buzzing with things unsaid.

He studies her face.

The precision of it.

The storm underneath.

And asks, quietly: "Is it working?"

Suki doesn't answer.

She doesn't move.

Her silence is louder than a scream.

Dex leans in, just barely.

Not touching.

But present.

And for a moment-- for one impossible moment-- they just stand there, two shadows on the sidewalk, under the neon haze of a city that doesn't care what it turns you into.

And neither of them speaks.

Because this?

This isn't the kind of truth that needs words.

It's the kind that sits between heartbeats and breath.

Waiting. Watching.

And never blinking first.

The invitation comes quiet. Casual.

"You want a drink?"

Suki's first instinct is to say no-- sharp, automatic, clean. But something about the air between them, raw and buzzing from what was just said-- what was almost said--makes her hesitate.

She doesn't drink with colleagues.

She doesn't drink with men like Dex.

But maybe, just this once, blowing off steam won't get her killed.

"Fine," She says, the word tasting like compromise.

Dex nods once, nothing smug in it. Just motion. He turns, and she follows.

The streets keep pulsing around them. They don't speak as they walk. Neon signs flicker in the puddles underfoot. A siren wails somewhere to the east. New York breathes like a dragon under its breath--hot, impatient, alive.

They don't go far.

Just a block away, tucked under the scaffolding of a condemned art gallery, they find it-- one of those narrow bars that pretends not to want your business. No sign. No music. Just a red light over the door and a bouncer who doesn't blink when Dex flashes his badge.

Inside, it's dark.

And quiet.

Not dead quiet, but respectful quiet-- the hush of whiskey and hardwood and men nursing regrets in dim corners. The kind of place where secrets sit heavy in the glass and nobody bothers you unless you want to be bothered.

They slide onto two stools at the bar. Not close. Not far. A breath's distance.

The bartender is a woman with tired eyes and a New Jersey tattoo just barely visible beneath her sleeve. She nods once.

"Whiskey," Dex says.

Suki lifts a brow, "Neat?"

"Obviously."

She smirks, "You seem like the type who'd water it down."

"And you seem like the type who judges what other people drink."

"I do."

The bartender glances at Suki.

"Gin and soda," She says.

The drinks arrive fast, no garnish, no nonsense.

They clink glasses without looking at each other.

The first sip is sharp. Cold. Necessary.

They sit in silence for a while.

The silence isn't awkward. It's pressurized.

Two people who don't speak unless they mean it.

Two people who were never taught how to waste words.

Dex is the first to break it.

"So... therapy, huh?"

Suki cuts her eyes toward him.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, "Not judging."

"I quit," She says, flat.

"Yeah, I saw that too."

He sips his whiskey, "Says you didn't like being analyzed."

"I didn't like being wrongly analyzed."

Dex lets out a dry chuckle, "That why you control everything?"

Suki doesn't answer.

He studies her now-- not just her face, but the way her fingers curl around the rim of her glass. The way she always keeps her back to the wall. The way her hair is pulled tight, not a strand out of place.

"I thought this was about blowing off steam."

"It is. Doesn't mean I need to lose my edge."

Dex leans forward slightly, elbow resting on the counter, gaze dropping just for a second to her mouth.

"What does losing your edge look like?"

Suki turns to him, face unreadable.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Their eyes lock.

For a second, neither of them blinks.

Then she leans back, sipping her drink again.

"I don't like this city," She says suddenly.

Dex tilts his head, "Why not?"

"Because it never sleeps. Never slows down. It's not a place for healing. It's a place for hiding."

He nods slowly, "Yeah. But sometimes, hiding is the only way to stay alive."

She looks at him then-- really looks.

And for a moment, she doesn't see the charming, slightly off-kilter agent who asks too many questions and drinks whiskey like it's a love letter.

She sees something else.

Something haunted.

And then it's gone.

He raises his glass.

"To hiding, then."

She lifts hers.

"To surviving."

They drink.

Another silence.

Dex doesn't look away, "He really got to you, didn't he?"

Suki exhales sharply through her nose.

"He didn't get to me. He just... saw too much."

"You hate that."

"I hate being predictable. I hate when someone thinks they can see behind the curtain. That they can reduce me to a pattern, a statistic, a type."

Dex's voice is quiet, "You're not a type."

She meets his eyes.

He doesn't smile. Doesn't flirt.

Just says it.

And something about that-- its lack of decoration, its lack of performance-- makes it worse.

Makes it true.

She looks down at her glass.

"I didn't want to come here," She murmurs, "Not to the bar. Not to this city. Not to this assignment."

Dex doesn't interrupt.

"I had a life," She continues, "It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't exciting. But it was mine. And now I'm just... on loan. Like a thing they can move from shelf to shelf."

"They didn't send you here for no reason."

"No," She says bitterly, "They sent me here because I don't make waves. Because I'm quiet. Because I don't ask questions unless it's in the goddamn interrogation room."

She finishes her drink. Sets the glass down with more force than needed.

"And now," She adds, "I've got a monster with a God complex and a file on my childhood trying to earn my trust."

Dex nods, quiet for a beat.

Suki looks at him.

Long and hard.

She opens her mouth to speak.

And then closes it.

She doesn't blink.

Then she sits back down beside him.

Dex doesn't speak.

But inside, something flinches. Twists. Brightens.

Suki runs a hand through her hair and signals the bartender with two fingers. She doesn't ask what Dex wants. She just knows he'll match her.

She doesn't look at him right away. But when she does, it's not the same stare. It lingers. Measures.

And maybe it's the gin dulling her discipline, or maybe she just doesn't care tonight, but she looks at him now. Not as a colleague. Not as a threat.

As a man.

And he is-- all sharp corners and rigid quiet, jawline tense enough to cut glass, the curve of his neck taut beneath the collar of his dark shirt. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and she notices it now for the first time: his arms.

Big.

Tense.

Muscle coiled around scars that look too old to be recent, but too deep to be forgotten.

Burns.

Lacerations.

One that rides from his inner wrist up to the bend of his elbow like a ghost trying to claw its way out.

He notices.

Of course he does.

Dex notices everything.

But this? The way her gaze lingers?

It sears him.

Not because it's inappropriate.

Because it's honest.

Suki blinks once and says nothing. But he can see the wheels in her mind turn-- calculating, filing away her own observations.

Professional, she tells herself.

But even that word has started to wear thin tonight.

Their next drinks arrive. They clink glasses. Not in celebration, not even in solidarity.

Just something ritualistic. A fragile peace treaty between agents. Or maybe just two broken things pretending they're still whole.

The alcohol starts to warm the space between them.

Suki's voice softens. Her posture loosens. She still doesn't slouch, she never slouches, but she leans, just slightly, toward Dex, her shoulder grazing his when she laughs once at something he mutters under his breath about the bartender's scowl.

"You say whatever you're thinking," She notes.

"You don't."

She smiles. It's not big. Not warm. But it exists.

"I have to be careful with what I say."

Dex tilts his head, "Why?"

"Because people believe I mean it."

He nods, "That's because you do mean it."

Suki sips her drink and shrugs, a sliver of vulnerability slipping through.

"Maybe I just got good at sounding like I mean things."

Dex leans on the bar, eyes fixed on her like a sniper behind glass.

"You're good at a lot of things."

There's something weighty in the way he says it.

He doesn't look away.

And neither does she.

Another drink disappears between them.

More heat curls in her chest. Not just from the gin. Not just from the hour.

From him.

From this.

She shouldn't be here.

But she is.

"So what's your story?" She asks, voice low.

Dex raises an eyebrow, "You already read my file."

"I did. It was incomplete."

He smiles-- a crooked, tired thing.

"I want the tissue," She says.

Dex laughs, "That's the first time someone's asked me for my tissue."

"I mean your mess," She clarifies, a little too fast, "The soft parts. The ugly bits."

"You first," He counters.

She shakes her head, "I'm a vault."

"I've seen your vault," Dex says quietly, his voice slipping toward something more intimate, "It's impressive."

Her eyes meet his.

"You watch me that closely?"

He doesn't lie.

"Yeah."

The word hangs there, soft and loaded.

Suki swallows.

"I could report you for that."

"You won't."

"Why not?"

"Because you do the same thing."

The silence between them is deafening now.

Her shoulder brushes his again-- barely.

But he notices.

Of course he does.

Suki turns slightly, her knees angled just a fraction closer to his. Her thigh almost touches his. The space between them is shrinking with every sip, every breath, every unspoken thing they've tried to ignore since the first moment they stood in an elevator together and she stopped the world just to ask how he knew her name.

"You have scars," She says, eyes flicking back to his forearm.

He follows her gaze.

"They're old."

"Still there."

"Some scars are useful," He says.

"Some are warnings."

"Some are both."

Suki looks up again.

And this time-- this time-- she doesn't stop herself from looking at his mouth. Sharp. Controlled. A trap that's never sprung without purpose.

Dex leans in, just a breath.

He doesn't touch her.

But his voice finds the softest place between her ribs when he says:

"I don't sleep much."

She tilts her head, "That a confession?"

"No. That's a response."

"To what?"

"To the question you were about to ask."

She exhales-- sharp and hot, like she's just now realizing she's not in control of this conversation anymore.

But she is.

She always is.

And that's what terrifies him.

Because Dex doesn't fall for people.

He latches.

He fixates.

And something inside him already knows: if he lets this go on much longer, there's no going back.

But Suki?

She's not afraid of that.

She's afraid of herself.

She picks up her glass again.

Takes one more sip.

And says, almost daring him:

"You're not sleeping because of me, are you?"

Dex smiles.

Slow.

Dark.

And full of quiet devastation.

"No, Agent Higashikokubaru," He says, "But you're the only reason I'm awake."

They should be gone by now.

Should be halfway back to the penthouse, back in their seats, eyes on the monitors, postures professional and untouched.

But they're not.

They're still at the bar.

Still in the same stools.

Still drinking the burn of whatever the hell is in their glasses.

And they're both shit-faced.

Not blackout. Not slurring. But undeniably drunk-- the kind of drunk that curls around your spine and loosens all the locks you've spent years putting in place.

Suki sways slightly as she reaches for her coat, "We should go."

Dex doesn't move. He leans back on his stool, fingers toying with his phone like it's a coin, like it's nothing.

"It'll be fine," He says, half a grin playing at his mouth.

"No," She insists, already trying to stand straighter, failing, "We need to go back. We're on assignment. There are cameras. Radios. Protocol."

"You worry too much."

"You don't worry enough."

Dex thumbs across his screen, types fast.

Suki squints, tries to focus.

"What are you doing?"

"Handling it," He says.

The message goes out.

He puts the phone down like it's a finished chess move.

Suki stares at him, "You'll get written up for that."

"Maybe."

"You lied to a superior officer."

"Technically I omitted the part about us being many drinks deep."

She frowns, tries to hold onto her anger, but the alcohol's turned her edges soft. Her brow furrows instead of hardening. She leans against the bar again, pressing a palm to her forehead like it might cool her down.

Dex watches her.

Watches the curve of her neck as she exhales, the way her shirt clings slightly to her shoulder, the way she breathes slower now, deeper. Her hair has loosened since she sat down. A few strands fall near her cheek. She doesn't bother tucking them back.

She looks tired.

But not just from the day.

From the years that came before it.

And still-- God, still-- she looks beautiful.

To Dex, she always will.

She doesn't look at him, but she speaks.

"You're going to get me in trouble."

He smiles, teeth hidden, "Just keeping you on your toes."

"You think this is funny?"

"I think I'd do a lot worse than lie to Nadeem if it meant spending another hour near you."

That does it.

She turns to him.

Slowly.

Her eyes are glassy from the gin, but still sharp—always sharp.

"You barely know me," She says.

"You think that matters?"

"It should."

They fall quiet again.

But now the quiet feels different.

Hotter.

Their knees are almost touching. Not quite. But they both feel it.

Suki tilts her head, studying him-- not like an agent, but like a woman who's too drunk to pretend she doesn't notice how broad his shoulders are, how his throat flexes when he swallows, how his sleeves are still rolled to the elbows like he's ready to fight or fuck or both.

He's not classically handsome.

He's dangerously handsome.

The kind of man she would've ruined herself over at sixteen.

And she had.

Not with him, but with Hudson.

With reckless abandon and rich-boy charm and the intoxicating rush of being wanted.

She'd never had a boyfriend before Hudson.

Never had one since.

And here she is, thirty years old, drunk beside a man who sees her-- really sees her-- and it's all coming back too fast.

The flush.

The warmth.

That unbearable lightness that settles low in her belly when someone looks at her like she's not just present but precious.

Dex is watching her now.

Not just watching-- memorizing.

He drinks her in like it's the last thing he'll be allowed to feel.

And she knows.

Of course she knows.

Suki shifts slightly, and their knees do touch.

Dex doesn't move.

He's drunk too, and he knows it.

But more than that, he's alive in a way he hasn't felt since Eileen Mercer. Since the last time he had a North Star.

He didn't mean for it to be Suki.

Didn't plan it.

But now that it is--

He doesn't want to let go.

He wants to stay in this bar forever if it means keeping her close.

Wants her to laugh at his bad jokes and argue about protocol and look at his scars like they're something human, not shameful.

He wants her to want to be around him.

So when she says, voice low and unsteady, "You're not what I expected," he doesn't pretend not to care.

"What did you expect?"

"A lunatic."

Dex smiles, "Give it time."

Suki's eyes narrow, but not in distrust. In interest.

"What did you expect?"

"You're smarter than most people I've met. More disciplined. Scary in the good way."

She smirks, swaying just slightly.

"And what's the bad way?"

"Fisk."

They both fall quiet again.

But the silence is electric now.

Taut with want and warning.

They shouldn't be this close.

They shouldn't be drinking.

They shouldn't be anything other than partners.

But they are.

They stumble out of the bar like two shadows spilling out of someone else's life.

The street is colder than it was. Or maybe they're just warmer. Drunker. Slower.

The air hits Suki first. She pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders, trying not to shiver. She fails.

Dex notices.

Of course he does.

He shrugs out of his own coat without a word and helps her into hers, one sleeve at a time. His hands graze her forearms, bare just a moment before the fabric covers them. Her skin reacts before her mind does-- goosebumps, sharp and immediate, a flush rising beneath them like static caught under her collarbone.

She feels the heat of his hands even after they're gone.

He lingers a second too long.

She doesn't pull away.

"I'm not cold," She lies.

Dex lifts an eyebrow, "No, you're not honest."

She scowls, but the corner of her mouth twitches like it might smile.

They walk without direction for a while, just a steady rhythm of footfalls on wet concrete. Neon signs reflect in puddles, and car headlights carve temporary paths through the darkness.

They find a corner convenience store that smells like instant noodles and Pine-Sol. The kind that always looks like it's been open since 1982, even if it was built a couple years ago. Suki pushes the door open, Dex following behind, a quiet guardian.

They don't speak.

But they move like a unit.

Down the aisles, parallel lines.

Each grabs a bottle of water.

Painkillers.

Dex reaches for a neon-orange energy drink with too many vowels in its name.

Suki hesitates, then grabs the same one.

They make eye contact.

Don't say a word.

It's not a challenge. It's a dare.

The clerk doesn't blink as they pay. Two agents, half-drunk, buying chemicals like they'll cure something they can't name.

Outside, the cold is sharper.

Reality starts to creep in.

Suki cracks her water bottle open and chugs half before stopping to breathe. Dex downs three ibuprofen with the ease of muscle memory. She follows suit. They stand beside a graffiti-tagged bench, the orange halo of a flickering streetlamp cutting through the shadows above.

Suki wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, "We're a mess."

Dex nods, unscrewing the cap of the energy drink, "Speak for yourself."

"You're drunk."

"You're more drunk."

She gives him a look, but it's softer than it should be.

They sit. Not on the bench-- leaning against the wall beside it, their backs to brick, legs stretched out in front of them like kids after school. Their shoulders touch, just barely.

And it's that, just barely, that makes the air between them unbearable.

Suki stares at her bottle. Her reflection warps in the plastic. She's too warm. Too alert now. The buzz is fading, but it leaves everything raw.

Dex is quiet beside her. But he's watching.

She can feel it.

"I hate being drunk," She mutters.

He doesn't say anything, but she hears the sound of the can cracking open. The hiss of carbonation.

She glances sideways, "What?"

"You're tense," He says.

"No shit."

"Not in the way you usually are. This is different."

She glares.

"Back at the bar," He continues, "you looked like you wanted to say something."

"I didn't."

"You still do."

"I don't."

Dex takes a slow sip.

Suki runs a hand through her hair. The cold metal of her watch brushes her cheek. She swallows hard.

"I don't date coworkers," She says, abruptly.

Dex lifts an eyebrow, "Who said anything about dating?"

She turns her head sharply, "I'm just saying."

He smiles, but there's no mockery in it. Just something quieter. Something with teeth.

"Okay."

She hates that.

That he can say okay like it means nothing.

Like it means everything.

She goes quiet for a long stretch, watching a cab roll past.

Then, voice lower: "I've only had one boyfriend."

Dex's expression doesn't change.

"I was sixteen."

Still, nothing.

She shifts, "It was... dumb."

He nods once, "Hudson Whitmore."

Suki's blood runs cold.

She doesn't say anything.

But her fingers tighten around the bottle.

"He's not in my file."

" He didn't have to be."

Her jaw clenches, "You went deeper."

"I always do."

"Why?"

Dex sets the energy drink down on the sidewalk, the can clinking softly against the cement.

"Because I needed to know who I'd be working with. Who I'd be trusting in the field."

She exhales like someone punched her.

He doesn't stop there.

"I know he was your first. I know he made a mess of you. I know you ended up in the clinic. Room 217. Georgetown. I know you walked yourself in."

Her breath hitches.

Dex keeps his eyes on the ground.

"I know," He says, "because I wanted to understand."

She stands abruptly.

"Don't," She says, "Don't talk like that."

He looks up at her. Slowly.

"I'm not judging."

"No. You're cataloguing."

He gets to his feet, "I didn't say anything I shouldn't have."

"You shouldn't know any of it."

"I do."

She's shaking now-- not visibly, not enough for a bystander to see, but internally. Her breath, the way her spine's pulled taut. She's unraveling again, and this time it's personal.

"You don't know what it's like," She says, voice thick now, low, "To be reduced to that. To make one mistake when you're young and feel it for the rest of your life. To have it in your file, like a stamp you'll never scrub off."

Dex steps closer.

Too close.

"I do," He says, "I know exactly what that's like."

She meets his eyes.

His voice is calmer now. But it's shaking underneath.

"I know what it's like to be defined by something you did once. Something you can't take back. To be known by it. Followed by it. To have it haunt every single interaction for the rest of your life."

Suki says nothing.

The city around them breathes.

She looks away.

He takes another step.

She doesn't stop him.

"Suki," He says, almost whispering, "I didn't read about Hudson because I wanted dirt. I read it because... I hated that anyone ever made you feel disposable."

That does it.

Her face softens.

Just slightly.

Not in forgiveness.

Not in affection.

But in recognition.

Because for the first time, she believes him.

She doesn't speak.

But she doesn't walk away.

And Dex?

Dex has never been closer to the edge.

Because she's still here.

Because she let him see her.

And in the quiet, amid the flickering light of a shitty convenience store and the last sparks of gin in their veins--

he feels something terrifying:

Hope.

✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦