He comes in the dead of night, gently tapping on her door. She's told him time and again where the spare key is, knowing he doesn't even need it anyway. Her locks don't present any real challenge to someone like him. And yet, it's what he always does, knocking quietly until she notices.
She wonders how many nights there have been when she was too tired to hear the soft noise, when he shouldered his beat up duffel and walked off into the darkness.
When she opens the door he doesn’t cross the threshold until she nods, stepping out of the way. Shucking his boots off he sets them beside her coat rack. They stand like sentinels guarding the pair of beat up running sneakers she hardly ever wears.
He's quiet still, doing a quick sweep of her apartment to make sure the windows are secure, that no one is lurking in the alley watching them. It's out of habit rather than necessity, but she doesn't stop him.
When he's sure that everything is secure she can see the tension flow out of his shoulders, the stern expression on his face softening ever so slightly.
“Karen.”
No one says her name like he does. It's all rough along the edges like it’s the first thing he's said all day, coming out in a raspy whisper. It makes her tingle with warmth, the sound waves running along the surface of her skin as palpable as the breeze on a spring day.
“Frank.”
She tries so sound sure of herself, confident in the reason they're standing in her dark apartment, but it always comes out in a soft sigh, a signal for him to close the space between them.
He doesn't embrace her right away, skimming his fingers down her arm, encircling her wrist. She can feel her heart rate increase, the pulse jumping against his fingers. He draws her toward the bedroom, silent as ever, not bothering with the lights. He knows the layout of her tiny apartment by heart.
Then he kisses her, darkness enveloping them like a blanket as she slowly breathes him in. Frank always tastes like dark roasted coffee, and the smell of recently used aftershave still clings to his skin. He's always freshly showered, face smooth from a close shave. His clothes still smell like the spring scented detergent they sell in the vending machines at the laundromat. She's told him time and again he can do all that here, but he just shakes his head and changes the subject.
It's hard to get used to what a gentleman he is, holding doors for her, placing his hand on the small of her back as they walk from one room to another. It's such a contrast with who he's supposed to be, a ruthless avenger, quick to anger. Watching him carefully turn down the blankets on her bed makes the corners of her mouth twitch, a smile beginning to spread across her before he catches her by surprise, dragging her toward the bed.
He holds her face when they kiss, thumb gently drawing circles in the hollow beneath her ear. He commented on her height once, before all this, gruffly saying, “You're tall,” and watching her blush and stammer awkwardly about wearing heels. His only reply had been, “I like that you're tall.”
She's always the one to deepen the kiss, another surprise really, and it's no different this time. She sighs into him, slipping her arms up around his neck and pressing into him. The curls at his nape are just long enough to thread her fingers through, and she tugs at them impatiently. It's like he's waiting for her to flip the switch, his own arms slipping down around her waist and pulling her to the bed.
She bought new sheets because of him, soft ones with tiny blue flowers scattered across the surface, all because in a rare moment of talkativeness he told her he liked they way she looked surrounded by flowers, her daisy print dress billowing around her as she spun for him.
Right now, flowers are the last thing on her mind. It's hazy with desire, the burning need to get rid of the clothes between them. She knows her skin is flushed, an embarrassing shade of pink that only gets brighter when she thinks about it, and she's grateful it's dark as she fumbles to drag the blouse over her head.
Frank is swift and silent as a ninja. By the time she's yanked the thing off, panting in exertion, he's divested himself of his own shirt and pants. Deft fingers find their way to the troublesome snap at the back of her skirt, her bra clasp a mere afterthought.
She laughs at what a ridiculous scene they would be making of anyone could see it, squeaking as he devours the sound with another kiss. Then she's on top of him, pressed against him head to toe, the heat of his skin seeping into her.
She likes being on top, taking control. Straddling him, she owns the strength coiled in his muscles, sliding down his length slowly. She is rewarded by Frank cursing under his breath, strong hands reaching up to grip her hips.
It's always a little frantic, but tonight the frenzy is almost feels desperate, Frank flipping her over and pinning her to the mattress, whispering something under his breath. She strains to hear it but the sound of her own voice echoes off the walls and drowns out the staccato of his harsh breathing.
When they're spent, clinging to each other on the suddenly tiny bed, flower print sheets twisted around their legs, he says it one last time. “You own me.”
She clings to him more tightly, knowing it's a declaration something akin to love, and that it means when he leaves in the morning he doesn't know when he'll be back.
And that's how it always is.