The door to the meeting room is open.

Wide.

Empty.

Suki notices it as soon as she returns to the bullpen. Her steps slow, breath hitching, not out of fear, not yet, but out of instinct. Something's wrong. The room should still be full of tension. Full of people. Full of Dex.

But it's not.

Her eyes sweep the room.

Nothing.

She doesn't hesitate.

She leaves her desk, moving with purpose, and cuts through the field of cubicles to Ray Nadeem's office.

He's on the phone but waves her in. She waits just long enough for him to hang up before speaking.

"Where's Dex?"

Nadeem leans back in his chair, tired lines etched deeper than usual beneath his eyes, "I don't know. Last I saw him, he was out here talking to me after the meeting."

"You let him leave?"

Ray frowns, "I didn't let him do anything. He said they put him on leave. He looked... shaken up."

Suki exhales slowly.

They took his badge.

They took his gun.

That's standard.

But for Dex?

That's not just disarmament.

That's amputation.

Ray seems to catch something in her expression, something unguarded, "You two close?"

Suki doesn't answer. Not really.

She just says, "Where did he go?"

"I don't know," Ray says, "Maybe home. Listen—Murdock's lawyer is scheduled to come in soon. We're gonna need you—"

But Suki is already walking away.

She doesn't care about Murdock's lawyer.

Not right now.

Sunset bleeds over the city like spilled wine.

Dex unlocks his apartment door with hands that barely work. His fingers are numb. Detached.

The lock clicks.

He steps inside.

Shuts the door behind him.

And just stands there.

The air is still. Heavy. Stagnant.

The walls are pale, but they feel closer than usual. He can see where the paint is peeling near the ceiling. Where the shadows of picture frames no longer hang.

His eyes move to the far wall.

The one with the holes in it.

Punched straight through.

He crosses the room.

Takes off his jacket slowly. Folds it. Places it over the back of a chair.

His breath is thin.

His hands are shaking again.

He opens the kitchen cabinet.

Takes out the bottle.

Blue pills.

He doesn't count them.

He doesn't need to.

He walks over to the trash bin, pulls out a small white garbage bag, and sets the bottle inside.

Gently.

Like he's tucking a child into bed.

Then he walks to the dining table.

Sits down.

The chair creaks under his weight.

He stares straight ahead.

And the noise begins.

Not real noise.

Not outside noise.

Inside.

"Suicide hotline. This is Julie. Tell me, Dex, are you thinking about taking your own life? How are you gonna do it? Do you have a gun?"

"Learn to stay calm."

"Is it in your hand?"

"It isn't your fault."

"The world doesn't want you. I don't want you."

But then--

Her voice shifts.

Subtly.

Morphing.

Until it's not Julie anymore.

It's Suki.

"I don't want you."

It echoes.

It echoes.

And Dex can't tell if he imagined it.

Or if he believes it.

He reaches for the gun on the table.

It's small.

Clean.

He holds it in his hand like it's an old friend.

Brings it up slowly.

Presses it beneath his chin.

Eyes open.

Heart still.

For a second, he can see nothing but red, red behind his eyes, red behind his thoughts.

He closes them.

Eileen: "We prepared for this."

Julie: "Is it in your hand?"

Suki: "I don't want you."

He exhales--

--and then the phone rings.

The sound cleaves the silence like a blade.

He jumps.

The gun doesn't fall.

But it trembles.

He glances at the screen.

SUKI

He lets out a sound. He lets out a sound--a sigh wrapped in a broken laugh. A sound like a person coming up for air after too long underwater.

A half-sob.

A half-laugh.

Like his lungs forgot how to be.

He sets the gun down.

Not far.

But far enough.

He picks up the phone.

Answers.

He doesn't say anything.

He just listens.

He doesn't think.

He just answers.

He says nothing.

But her voice fills the silence anyway.

"Hey," She says gently, but not too gently. No softness that would draw attention if someone was listening. Just steady. Measured. Meant for him.

"I'm still at the office. Looks like I'm stuck here tonight. Ray's been promoted, and now he outranks me, so I'm pulling the late shift with him." A small pause. A carefully placed exhale, "Not exactly how I thought the day would end."

Dex's eyes are glassy.

He watches the gun on the table in front of him. Doesn't touch it now. Doesn't need to.

"I just wanted to check in," Suki continues, "Make sure you got home okay. I figured you might be... decompressing."

She doesn't say spiraling.

She doesn't say unraveling.

But she knows.

And he knows she knows.

"I'm sure today felt like a punch to the gut," She adds, softer now, "But it's not the end. This isn't where it stops."

Dex's chest aches.

He closes his eyes, lets the words wash over him.

"Take a shower. Eat something. Watch one of those dumb action movies you pretend not to like."

His lip twitches.

Just barely.

"I can't be there right now," She says, and that part, that, hurts her to say more than she'll admit, "but... I'm here... for you."

His fingers curl against the edge of the table.

The holes in the wall feel distant now. The voices in his head dulled. Her voice stretches between them like a bridge over fire.

"You okay?" She asks, at last.

He exhales slowly.

"Yeah," He lies, "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Good."

Another pause.

A long one.

"I'll check in later," She says, "Get some rest."

He opens his mouth.

Almost says I miss you.

Almost says I need you.

Instead, he just says, "Night, Suki."

"Night, Dex"

The call ends.

And for one long, still moment, Dex is just a man in a dark apartment, staring at a cold gun and trying to remember how to be a person again.

Then--

The phone rings.

Again.

He freezes.

Looks down.

Unknown Number.

The kind of number only certain people can dial from certain places.

He answers.

And the voice on the other end?

Smooth. Rich.

Velvet wrapped around venom.

Dex doesn't breathe.

Because that voice—

Fisk.

" When I was in prison, my mother passed away. Among her effects was a shoebox with my name on it. A keepsake box of sorts. It was full of happy relics from my life. The gifts that I made her when I was young. The odd news clipping. And the hammer. The instrument of my father's death. I thought that she had thrown it away. But she was proud of what I had done, of who I was. She accepted me, without shame. And that's what I want for you. Someone to accept you, without shame. I do. And I've sent you a gift, an opportunity to become your true self. And if you accept this... unlike everyone in your life, I will never abandon you. The decision is yours."

The lobby of the New York Bulletin is on fire with noise.

Not literal flames, just panic, static, screaming. People flood the stairwells, shoving each other, some bloody, others pale with shock. Phones clatter to the ground. Someone is crying. A woman with glass in her shoulder is hyperventilating by the vending machines.

Suki moves with purpose behind Nadeem.

Gun drawn.

Eyes sharp.

They weren't supposed to be here for this.

They were here for a witness. A statement. Routine.

But nothing's routine anymore.

Ray raises a hand, "Upstairs."

Top floor.

Chaos.

Suki doesn't need someone to tell her what kind. She already knows.

The sound is too precise.

Too clean.

Gunshots, measured, rhythmic, expert.

She's heard those patterns before.

Not random panic fire.

Kill shots.

They race up the stairs. A dozen agents. Tactical. Focused.

But it's too late.

They hit the top floor, and the hallway is slick with blood.

And at the far end, near the shattered glass office of Karen Page, stands him.

Daredevil.

But something is wrong.

He's holding a gun.

There's a man on the ground.

Blood still blooming beneath his body like an ink stain.

Jasper Evans.

Dead.

Karen Page is screaming.

Suki doesn't have time to process it.

Because just then--

The masked man turns.

And runs.

He hits the stairwell door.

Opens it.

And comes face to face with the incoming wave of FBI agents on the next floor down.

Dex strikes first.

Hard.

Fast.

A knee to one man's ribs. A clean elbow to another's jaw. A baton strike to the third's temple. He moves like water, like poetry soaked in blood.

He avoids killing, but only just.

Suki is behind them.

She sees him.

And as the agents drop, stunned, groaning, he sees her.

Just a flicker.

A pause.

Then he pushes her.

Open-handed.

Firm.

Not brutal.

Just enough.

She stumbles back against the railing, more shocked than hurt.

And that's the last straw.

No mercy.

She launches after him.

No hesitation.

No questions.

Tiger's Eye strikes.

She takes the stairs three at a time, chasing him down, boots thudding, gun holstered now. She won't need it.

Her body is a weapon.

Dex glances over his shoulder, knows she's coming.

Knows she'll catch him.

Lets her.

Third floor landing.

She dives.

Hits him low, takes him off balance.

They crash into the wall, the stairwell echoing with the thud of bodies and breath.

He rolls away.

She doesn't give him space.

Spins. Sweeps.

A textbook Kenpo low strike-- meant to debilitate.

He hops back, dodging.

Avoiding.

She rushes again.

Judo grapple.

He lets her catch his arm.

But slips out of it before the toss.

She doesn't recognize the voice-- or what little she hears of it.

But she hates that he fights like someone trained by the U.S. government.

Because he does.

He counters her next aikido pivot with ease.

Spins her into the wall.

Traps her arm.

For a second, they're face to face.

Breathless.

And Suki stares through the red mask, into nothing.

He lets go.

She snaps a karate heel strike up into his ribs.

He stumbles.

Falls halfway down the next flight.

Suki follows, relentless.

He throws a baton at her feet.

She jumps it.

Jujitsu takedown.

She grabs his collar, drives him to the wall.

And for a split second, he falters.

Not because he's winded.

Because his hand almost goes to her throat.

The bruise.

He sees it in his mind again.

And he can't touch it.

Can't.

She drives her elbow into his jaw.

It hits.

He reels back.

She rushes--

But he drops.

Under her swing.

Kicks her leg, her dominant one.

She falls. Catches herself. Comes back harder.

They fight for thirty seconds that feel like an hour.

Strike. Parry. Dodge. Clash.

Every movement she makes is rooted in precision. Discipline. Rage.

Every movement he makes is rooted in avoidance. Restraint. Regret.

She slams him into the wall.

He gasps.

That's the first noise he's made.

And he freezes.

She doesn't know why.

He pushes her off. Harder now.

There's no more time.

Sirens in the distance.

FBI agents regrouping above and below.

Dex bolts.

Down the stairs.

Suki follows.

But he's faster.

And this time, he uses everything around him.

Throws a fire extinguisher. Blocks a door. Slams a pipe behind him.

By the time she hits the ground floor--

He's gone.

Into the wind.

Like smoke.

Like a ghost who bleeds.

The air inside the New York Bulletin smells like blood and fear.

Not just the iron tang in the air, but something thicker. Sourer. Like panic trapped in the carpet fibers.

Suki leans against the wall, arms crossed, observing the aftermath unfold.

Standard procedure.

Secure the scene.

Separate witnesses.

Assess casualties.

She stays quiet. Stays still.

Her heart still beats too fast under her ribs, but she won't let it show.

Across the ruined floor, Agent Nadeem kneels next to a young woman—Karen Page—her hands shaking so hard they barely hold onto the bloodied hem of her jacket.

Karen won't speak.

Won't look up.

Smeared in red, silent as a ghost.

Ray's voice is low, steady, coaxing.

But Karen just shakes her head over and over and over.

One sentence. That's all she offers:

"I won't say anything without my lawyer."

Ray closes his eyes for a second, just a second, then nods.

Behind them, Jasper Evans' body lies sprawled, limbs splayed at wrong angles, eyes open to nothing. The blood around his head darkens with every passing minute.

Another body.

Another case that won't fit cleanly into a report.

Suki shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

Her knuckles ache from the fight on the stairs.

The adrenaline hasn't worn off.

It probably won't for hours.

Ray finally rises from his crouch and crosses the wreckage-strewn floor toward her.

His face is drawn.

Older than it was this morning.

He leans in, speaking in a hushed voice meant for her alone.

"You okay?"

Suki nods once.

Too fast.

Too mechanical.

Ray doesn't press.

"This was Daredevil," He says, voice low but certain.

Suki's eyes narrow, a tiny shift.

No surprise.

She expected that's what they would say.

What they needed to say.

Still--

"That's not his M.O.," She says evenly.

Ray's brows pull together, "I saw the horns. Everybody saw the horns."

"And I'm sure," Suki says, voice just as calm, just as cutting, "if someone picked up a vibranium shield and started murdering people with it, you wouldn't automatically assume it was Captain America."

Ray stares at her.

No answer.

She pushes, voice still low, still composed.

"If you saw someone dressed as Captain America beating a civilian to death with a shield, you'd stop and think. You'd ask yourself if maybe, just maybe, it wasn't him."

Ray exhales through his nose.

Frustrated.

But thoughtful.

Her words are landing.

They're getting into the cracks.

Still, he shakes his head, stubborn, "Right now, all we've got are bodies. Witnesses saw the costume. They saw the mask."

"They saw what they were supposed to see," Suki says under her breath.

Ray doesn't reply.

Not right away.

Instead, he checks his watch.

Business taking over emotion again.

"Tomorrow," He says, straightening, trying to shift back to formalities, to the schedule, "Murdock's lawyer is coming in. He's representing Miss Page now. I want you there for the meeting."

Suki nods, but her mouth tightens.

She doesn't want to.

Not because she's afraid.

Because she's angry.

Because she knows whatever story they're about to build around this isn't the truth.

And she hates being asked to sit quietly and pretend it is.

Still--

She tries.

She really does.

"Can I have the morning off?" She asks, "Personal stuff."

Ray gives her a look.

A sharp one.

His voice hardens, "I haven't had a day off in three months. I barely see my wife and kid."

Suki raises an eyebrow.

Silent.

Ray crosses his arms, defensive.

Waiting for her to back down.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she says, flat as stone, "Sounds like you're projecting."

The words hit harder than any punch.

Ray blinks.

Then, slowly, grimly, he lets out a breath, almost a laugh, almost a sigh.

"Damn it," He mutters.

Because he knows she's right.

And he hates it.

He scrubs a hand down his face, "Fine. Fine. You can have a late start."

Suki lifts her chin slightly, just enough to acknowledge the small victory.

"Be at HQ by noon," Ray adds, "No later."

"Understood."

He walks off without another word, already talking into his radio, already drowning himself back in Bureau protocol to forget the fact that everything is falling apart around them.

Suki remains where she is.

Silent.

Watching the blood dry on the floor.

Watching the broken glass glitter under the fluorescent lights.

She's tired.

But it's not the kind of tired sleep can fix.

It's the kind of tired that settles into your bones when you realize the people you trust are either lying to you, or lying to themselves.

She presses two fingers lightly to the bruise under her collarbone.

The one no one else can see.

Dex climbs through the window like a ghost slipping into a haunted house. Every movement is sharp. Controlled. Careful. The red suit clings to him, damp with sweat and blood—most of it not his. The city outside hums with sirens and the low growl of chaos he helped ignite. He locks the window behind him, pulls the curtain shut, and leans his forehead against the cool glass. His mind won't stop spinning.

Blood on the carpet. Blood on the walls. The weight of bodies folding under perfect aim.

The noise in his head is deafening. He tries to ground himself the only way he knows how. He drops the bag from the Bulletin to the floor. It hits the wood with a muted thud. He moves mechanically, robotic precision. Straight to the closet. The hidden safe behind his hanging clothes. He punches in the code.

The door swings open. The old cassette tapes stare back at him like relics of a life he's losing his grip on. He pulls one out. Pops it into the battered old tape player on the nightstand. Presses play.

Elieen Mercer's voice crackles through the static.

"Breathe, Benjamin. Find your center. You are in control. You are calm. You are safe."

Dex closes his eyes.

Listens.

Breathes.

It's not enough.

It never is anymore.

So he vacuums.

Not just the debris from his earlier outburst, the shattered fragments of a lamp, the ripped fibers of an old chair, but every inch of the floor.

Twice.

Three times.

The rhythm soothes him.

For a little while.

But he still feels dirty.

Tainted.

So he peels the suit off, piece by piece.

Exposing the bruises blooming on his ribs, his arms, his jawline.

Ghosts of blows he didn't quite dodge.

He steps into the shower.

Lets the water scald his skin.

Tries to scrub the blood off.

Tries to scrub her off.

The memory of her fists slamming into him.

Tiger's Eye.

He scrubs harder.

Knock knock knock.

Dex freezes.

Water streaming down his face.

The world shrinks.

His hand snaps to the towel rack, yanks the cloth free.

Wraps it low around his waist.

The steam clings to him like a second skin as he pads barefoot across the hardwood.

He grabs a knife from the kitchen drawer.

Approaches the door like an animal stalking prey.

He looks through the peephole.

Suki.

Every muscle in his body tenses.

He sets the knife down on the counter without a sound.

His hand lingers there, just for a second.

Then he unlocks the door.

Opens it a crack.

His wet hair drips onto the floor.

His torso, still slick, still raw, is half hidden behind the doorframe.

But Suki's eyes—

Her eyes catch everything.

The sharp lines of his collarbones.

The water tracing the curve of his chest.

The bruises. Purple, blue, yellowed at the edges.

She doesn't let her gaze linger.

But it's an effort.

A war against instinct.

She meets his eyes instead.

Fierce.

Unyielding.

"I told you I'd check up on you later," She says.

Dex's mouth curves into a smile.

Small.

Real.

Dangerous.

"Always keeping your promises," He says, voice low, rough from the shower, rough from everything else he won't say.

She steps inside.

He moves back to let her.

The apartment is dim, lit only by the city bleeding through the blinds.

The tape still plays softly in the background.

"You are safe. You are centered."

Suki hears it.

Files it away without comment.

Dex disappears into his bedroom, towel still clutched at his hip.

She stands in the living room, taking it in.

The vacuum tracks on the carpet.

The fresh scrape marks on the wall.

The faint scent of bleach.

And the bruises.

Her bruises.

She can't stop seeing them now.

The patterns.

The angles.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

Her hands flex at her sides.

No.

It's impossible.

There's no way.

She tells herself she's imagining it.

Seeing ghosts in bloodstains.

The doubt gnaws at her still.

Beneath the professionalism.

Beneath the loyalty.

Something colder.

Sharper.

He returns a minute later, dressed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp, sticking up in messy spikes.

"Sorry," He says, voice a little sheepish, "Wasn't expecting company."

Suki smirks faintly, "I can tell."

Dex watches her.

Carefully.

Always carefully.

She moves closer.

Not too close.

But closer.

She smells the tea tree oil again, faint under her jacket.

Anchoring.

Real.

He wants to reach out and touch her just to prove she's here.

"You okay?" She asks, quieter now.

His throat bobs.

He nods.

"Yeah."

Another lie.

But one she wants to believe.

So she lets it slide.

She crosses her arms, pretending not to notice the way his eyes trace her movements.

Pretending she isn't doing the same thing.

She notices everything.

The tightness around his mouth.

The slight tremor in his fingers.

The tension in his shoulders, like he's barely holding himself together.

She sees it.

She sees him.

And somehow, it doesn't scare her.

It should.

But it doesn't.

Dex breathes her in like oxygen.

Suki breaks the silence first.

"You need anything?"

He shakes his head.

"You need to talk?"

Another shake.

She nods.

Like she expected it.

She steps back toward the door.

"I'll let you get some rest."

His chest tightens.

"Stay," He blurts out before he can stop himself.

She blinks.

Caught off guard.

But not startled.

Just--

Paused.

Considering.

Something flickers in her expression.

Something dangerous.

Something warm.

She tilts her head.

"I thought you were okay."

He smiles again.

That broken, boyish smile that doesn't fool her for a second.

"Maybe I just don't wanna be alone."

The words hang there.

Fragile.

She should leave.

Every rule she's ever lived by says she should leave.

But instead--

She stays.

At least for a while.

At least for tonight.

And neither of them says what they're really thinking.

Not yet.

The air between them thickens by the second.

Dex leans against the kitchen counter, pretending casualness, pretending normalcy, while Suki stands a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest.

The tension is unbearable.

Not loud.

Not messy.

But dense.

Every glance.

Every almost-touch.

Every breath sharpened into a blade.

Suki should go.

Every rational cell in her body tells her to go.

This is dangerous.

He is dangerous.

Not in the way Hudson was, not in the way the President's son once spun chaos around his privileged little finger. Hudson had been reckless. Immature. A boy with matches who didn't care who got burned.

Dex is different.

Dex is steady.

Dex feels like something solid. Something weighty.

And maybe that's why she stays.

Maybe that's why she doesn't turn on her heel and leave.

Because for the first time in a long time, she doesn't feel like she's chasing stability.

She feels like she's standing in it.

Dex watches her.

The way she moves.

The way her weight shifts, always slightly on the balls of her feet, ready to pivot, ready to run.

He knows what that means.

She doesn't trust him.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But she's close.

God, she's close.

Closer than Julie ever got.

Closer than anyone ever dared.

Julie is a name he barely allows to surface anymore, just a whisper in the back of his mind. A mistake. A memory. Something... unresolved.

But Suki?

Suki is real.

Suki is here.

And he's never going to let her go.

Not unless she pries herself out of his cold, dead hands.

He shifts, a low groan slipping from his mouth before he can stop it.

Pain flares in his ribs.

From the fight.

From her fists.

Suki stiffens.

Not obviously.

Just a fraction.

A flicker across her face.

But he sees it.

Of course he sees it.

And for a moment--

just a second--

she's back in the stairwell.

Back chasing the man in the mask.

Back hearing the same groan as she drove her knee into his side.

The same pitch.

The same timbre.

It couldn't be.

It's impossible.

Her brain tries to put it aside.

Tries to bury it under logic and reason.

Because Dex is here.

Dex is steady.

Dex is safe.

Isn't he?

She forces herself to breathe.

To blink.

To move.

She steps closer.

Careful.

Measured.

The prey approaching the predator.

But she doesn't know it.

Not yet.

Dex's eyes darken as she closes the space between them.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't even breathe.

Afraid he'll scare her off.

Afraid she'll realize.

Afraid she'll see.

Her hand rises, slow, deliberate, brushing against his ribs.

Light.

A feather's touch.

"Does it hurt?" She asks, voice barely above a whisper.

His skin burns under her fingertips.

He nods.

Just once.

Suki's breath hitches.

Because she shouldn't be doing this.

She shouldn't want to do this.

But God help her, she does.

She tilts her head up, and he's right there.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

Close enough to see the small scars along his jawline.

Close enough to smell the soap still clinging to his skin.

They hover there.

Suspended.

Balanced on the knife's edge between good judgment and catastrophe.

Dex's fingers twitch at his sides.

He wants to grab her.

Pull her against him.

Devour her.

But he waits.

Waits for her to move.

Waits for permission.

Suki leans up.

Closes the last inch of space.

Their lips meet.

Soft.

Cautious.

The first brush of a match against rough stone.

Dex's heart stutters.

Then roars to life.

Suki pulls back slightly, eyes wide, searching his face.

Checking.

Making sure this isn't another mistake like Hudson.

That this is different.

Dex stares at her like she's the only real thing in a world made of smoke and lies.

And then--

he kisses her again.

Harder.

Hungrier.

All the restraint snapping like brittle glass.

Suki gasps against his mouth, but she doesn't pull away.

She leans in.

Crashes into him.

Fists curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him down to her.

Dex groans into her mouth.

A sound of desperation, of need.

His hands find her hips, gripping tight enough to leave fingerprints he'll worship later.

She moves against him, reckless, wild.

She tastes like tea tree and adrenaline.

He tastes like danger.

They stumble back against the counter.

His fingers thread into her hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back, to bare her throat.

He kisses down her jaw, her neck.

She shudders.

Grabs at him like she can't get close enough.

Like she'll climb inside his skin if she could.

The kiss turns frantic.

Sloppy.

Teeth clashing, lips bruising.

Dex lifts her, spins her, sets her on the counter like she weighs nothing. Suki laughs, breathless, gasping, before pulling him back down to her.

There's no room for words.

No room for thought.

Only sensation.

Only them.

Hands roaming.

Breaths stealing.

World narrowing down to the press of his chest against hers, the scrape of his stubble against her skin, the frantic beat of two hearts slamming into each other with no way out.

Dex cups her face, forces her to look at him.

Forces her to see him.

Really see him.

And in that moment--

he's hers.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

Whether she knows it or not.

Whether she wants it or not.

Dex would burn the whole city to ash if it meant keeping this feeling.

Keeping her.

He kisses her again.

Deeper.

More desperate.

And for the first time in a long, long time--

neither of them feels alone.

Clothes fall away like falling leaves, one by one, soft, weightless, inevitable.

Suki's jacket slips first, puddling at her feet.

Then her shirt, peeled away by shaking hands, his, hers, it doesn't matter.

Time folds itself around them.

The world narrows down to breath and skin and the feverish thrum of blood beneath the surface.

Dex watches her like she's a miracle he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch.

And Suki--

Suki lets him.

Lets herself.

For once, she doesn't retreat into discipline or calculation.

For once, she doesn't think.

His hands map the shape of her body with devastating precision, because he knows.

Because he's seen her when she thought no one was watching.

Because he memorized every curve, every shiver, every stuttering gasp she tried to swallow down in the dark privacy of her room.

He knows exactly where to brush his fingertips, exactly how much pressure to use.

And he uses it.

Perfectly.

Devastatingly.

Suki's breath catches, sharp, trembling.

Her head tips back instinctively, a low sound escaping her throat, half-sigh, half-moan.

Her body reacts before her mind can catch up, arching into his touch, begging for more without a single word spoken.

No one's ever touched her like this.

Not when she was sixteen, drunk on the thrill of first love with Hudson.

Not in the fumbling, forgettable hookups that came after.

Not once.

Not like this.

Because no one ever cared to learn her.

No one ever cared enough to try.

But Dex--

Dex touches her like she's sacred.

Like every sound she makes is the answer to a prayer he never dared say out loud.

Her legs tremble.

Her hands scramble to find purchase, his shoulders, the nape of his neck, the firm curve of his biceps, still slick with the memory of the shower he abandoned for her.

And then--

without warning--

tears spring to her eyes.

Hot. Immediate.

They spill over before she can stop them.

Her body shakes once, a hiccup of breath she can't control.

Dex freezes.

All the color drains from his face.

He pulls back, hands hovering just above her skin like he's afraid to touch her now, afraid to break her.

"Suki—" His voice is raw, wrecked, "Did I— Did I hurt you?"

The panic in his eyes is worse than any blow.

She shakes her head hard, a choked laugh bubbling up through her tears.

"No," She gasps, "God, no. Dex, I—"

She can't finish.

She doesn't know how.

Because how do you explain to someone that it's too good?

That it's too much?

That no one has ever touched her with such care, such patience, such devastating want?

That she's never felt so thoroughly, completely seen, and worshiped, for who she is, for every scar and fault and flaw?

That no one's ever made her feel beautiful just by existing?

How does she tell him that?

How does she survive it?

Dex's hands tremble as he cups her face again, as if anchoring her there, making sure she doesn't drift away.

His thumb brushes her cheekbone, wiping a tear away.

He swallows hard.

"I'm sorry," He says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

She cuts him off by surging up and kissing him again.

Hard.

Desperate.

Telling him in the only way she can that he didn't ruin anything.

That he's doing everything right.

Dex groans into her mouth, relief, hunger, devotion all tangled into one broken sound.

They move together now, frantic, uncoordinated, trembling.

She clutches at him, anchoring herself to the solid reality of his body.

He catches her, holds her up, like he knew she'd fall and he was waiting for it.

Dex kisses the tears from her cheeks, kisses the corners of her mouth, kisses the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammers wildly against his lips.

And still, he doesn't rush.

Still, he moves with aching patience, tracing reverent paths over her skin, like if he's careful enough, he can stitch her back together from the inside out.

Suki lets herself fall.

Lets herself shatter against him.

Her mind goes quiet.

For once, for once, the noise is gone.

No second-guessing.

No self-loathing.

No fear.

Just Dex.

Dex, who steadies her without trying to tame her.

Dex, who makes her feel like every scar is just another reason to be wanted.

Dex, who would tear the world apart with his bare hands if she asked him to.

She doesn't know all the darkness buried in him yet.

Doesn't know how deep his obsession runs.

But right now?

It doesn't matter.

Right now, he's the only thing tethering her to earth.

He presses his forehead to hers, breathing her in, shaking like he might come undone just from touching her.

"I got you," He whispers.

A promise.

A vow.

And for the first time in a long, long time--

Suki believes it.

She believes him.

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[ giggling, kicking my feet and twirling my hair while writing this 🤭 ]