You knew something was wrong. There'd been this feeling hanging on your shoulders, for months, like an itchy coat. You couldn't put your finger on it, couldn't articulate it well enough to tell anyone close to you, but all you knew was that the walk from your car to your apartment building's entrance had you heart pounding, and the door never seemed to lock tight enough.
It's like some deeply rooted prey instinct, maybe from a time before human beings had the capacity to build weapons and fires and were at the mercy of the natural order. Ancient, primal, gripping hold of your nervous system and sending it haywire.
You felt like you were being hunted.
It's ridiculous to say that. There's no evidence, no suspicious men hanging around in logo-less caps and navy zip-ups, no unwanted gifts at your front door, nothing amiss in your apartment, your car. You thought you were losing your fucking mind, paranoia gripping the edges of your sanity and pulling it back, bearing your neurotic anxiety to the world.
Maybe you should go back to your old therapist. Maybe you should just take a goddamn Xanax and chill the fuck out. You settle for a bottle of wine and a shitty CBS show with too many seasons you've seen too many times and ignore that little part scratching at the inside of your head.
It's wearing on you, and maybe you feel like you're going insane. You pick up extra shifts at the bar just to keep around people, keep yourself distracted enough. The extra money goes to pepper spray and a dead bolt.
Your friends must notice something's wrong, but they don't say anything, keep on pretending you're just sitting together like normal, when your entire world is imploding. Your Mum isn't speaking to you, some petty punishment for a perceived slight in a phone call last week and your Dad died so far back you can't even really remember his voice.
The only person in your whole entire world that mentioned anything, is one of your recent regulars at the bar.
"Forgive me if this sounds rude, but you don't look so good." His smooth voice cuts through the noise and you blink, setting down the glass you were drying.
The man had been coming in every night since two weeks back, probably in town for work or something. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone, never warranting attention. Those were the regulars you preferred the most. They didn't pretend like their uncontrolled alcoholism and your inability to pay your rent somehow made you friends. They didn't demand special treatment for deciding you ruin their lives at your workplace. They showed up, had polite conversation, and left just as quietly.
"Yeah, it's been a- well it's just been a long month." You sigh, watching him reveal brilliant straight white teeth as he cracks a smile. Crows feet gather at the edges of his dark brown eyes, almost black pools.
He's good looking. Far better than the mid-fifties divorced contractors with a beer gut and anger management issues that usually end up trying to flirt with you. He's always well dressed, like a financial broker or some wall street asshole.
You can move past the vibe, those spoiled dirtbags can be a good time if you set aside your personal morals for a night. He tips well, not enough to look desperate, but better than you'd expect from any other customer.
"I'm sorry to hear that." He says sincerely. "I'd offer you a drink, but I'm sure that's against policy."
You snort, probably pretty unattractively, but it catches you off guard. He'd never been much for conversation, and you'd never heard him crack anything resembling a joke the entire time he'd been coming there.
"I'm approaching a point where it stops mattering." You say dryly, almost under your breath.
He laughs, and you find yourself wanting to see him do it again. "Well, you're more than welcome to join me when you clock off."
The offer is incredibly tempting, and goes against every boundary you've ever put down as a bartender. You smile and give a little shake.
"Very tempting, but I'm opening tomorrow, so I'll take whatever sleep I can."
"Offers always open." He shrugs, so full of easy confidence you find yourself pulled into his orbit. Everything about him just screams safe. Attractive, but not intimidatingly. Fit, tall, but not physically domineering. Calm but not calculating, confident but not arrogant. All your defences are disarmed. "I'm Dex, by the way."
You tell him your name, and watch his lips as he repeats it, caressing every syllable in a way that feels sacrilegious.
He drinks whiskey, double on the rocks, mid-shelf. The good stuff, not flashy, but decent, the stuff that doesn't cost a mortgage payment but doesn't burn holes on its way down. He tilts his head back to finish the rest of his glass and you don't tear your eyes away as he swallows, adams apple bobbing.
"Hope you have a good night." He murmurs, leaving with a nod.
You finish your shift, closing up, that insidious panic creeping back up on you as you lock the door. The drive home has you looking back in your rearview mirror, checking for cars that aren't there.
Living in Hell's Kitchen, your fear is not entirely unfounded. You're a college dropout with a broken family, and your options for apartments are limited to high-crime areas or a cardboard box on the side of the road. Gunshots go off in the night, sirens not always following. You've learned to drown out the noise.
You park in your complex's lot, a little area across the road from your complex (because how could they afford underground parking?), gathering your things and taking a deep breath before you unlock your door.
Unfortunately, the moment you step out into the cold night air, several men loitering near the dumpster notice you. You didn't see them before, hidden in the shadowy enclave the escapes the flittering street light's illumination. They certainly see you. Easy target.
You've got all the cash from your tips stuffed in your purse and you realise this could go very south very fast, so you pick up your pace, hurriedly making your way to the building.
"Ay sweetheart!" One of the men calls behind you, and you refuse to turn around, clutching the pepper spray in your bag, thumbing the button that releases it. Your heart thumps so loudly you can barely hear your own footsteps.
You can hear theirs though, picking up speed, multiple pounding on the concrete behind you and they're getting closer to you than you're getting to the front door.
The unmistakable click of the safety of a gun freezes you on the spot.
"Don't fuckin' move or I'll blow your brains out." The man hisses, circling around with a glock levelled at your head. You can't breathe.
"Please- I'll give you everything-" You're babbling, adrenaline ricocheting through your system, while you're paralysed with fear.
"Yeah you will." He says, and you think this might be the moment you die, life rubbed out on a pot-holed sidewalk in a neglected shit hole by three assholes.
The next thing you know there's footsteps, and yelling, and you can't see anything because your arms are wrapped around your head. Your brain screams at you to move and you let yourself see, forcing your arms down, looking for an escape.
One of the men lies bloodied on the ground, there's commotion all around you, chaos spiralling beyond your comprehension. You grope blindly for your pepper spray, sidestepping away from the barely conscious body on the ground.
Someone grabs your shoulder and you swing around, unleashing a stream of mace at the assailant. The man howls, batting blindly to try and knock it out of your hands.
And that's when you realise who it is.
"Oh my god, Dex?" You almost whimper. You look around, one man fleeing, the other two on the ground. One isn't moving at all, and you don't want to think that he could be dead. Dex, from the bar, is hunched over, face screwed up in pain. "Oh my God, I am so sorry, I didn't realise-"
"It's fine." He says, but it comes out strained and anguished. He stands up, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. The mace hit the side of his right eye, thankfully missing most of his face. "Are you okay?"
You almost laugh, sheer relief and the dregs of terror mixing in your gut. "I'm fine, you're the one that got pepper sprayed."
"It was an accident." He huffs, sniffing and finally looking over at the seen. His eye is still screwed up, but the worst seems to have passed. The part of his face is red, eye watery and bloodshot. "I'd rather you get me thinkin' I'm one of those guys."
Tears unconsciously stream down your face as the reality of everything starts to sink in. Who knows what these men would have done to you, if Dex hadn't stopped them.
How did Dex stop them?
"How- what-" You stammer, unable to thread the questions together under the weight of your rabbiting heart.
"I was goin' for a walk, my apartment is nearby. Saw a group of guys followin' a girl, didn't realise it was you until I got closer."
You don't question it, too busy trying to get a grip and pull yourself together.
The police come by, arrest the guys on the ground, take your statement. Dex doesn't leave your side, even though there's still pepper spray on the side of his face. It doesn't even seem to phase him.
The police officer you're talking to repeats your story back to you and you nod, thanking him. He pats you on the shoulder.
"You must be the luckiest person in Hell's Kitchen, gettin' robbed in front of an FBI agent." His head nods in Dex's direction. You quickly turn, brows drawn together.
Dex has the gall to look sheepish.
"You're an FBI agent?" It makes perfect sense, but it feels like something out of a TV show. He shrugs.
You laugh, because the whole situation is so comically ridiculous and your nerves are shot. Dex walks you back to your building, right up the stairs to your front door. You turn around, a little embarrassed at this point, the emotion starting to ebb.
"Thank you so much for saving me- I don't even know what would've happened if you hadn't been there."
"Of course, I'm just glad I was there and you didn't get hurt." His deep eyes are full of concern.
"Next time I'm working everything is on the house." You tell him, it's half a joke, half a feeble offering. "As a thank you for saving my life and an apology for macing you in the process."
"Well that's the only reason I saved you." He winks. "For the free drinks."
You don't see him the next day, during your day shift, but you come back in two days later and find him already sitting at the bar. He gives you a full toothed smile when he sees you.
"How are you?"
"A bit shaken up, but I'm okay."
It's a gigantic lie. You're not okay. The attack only added to the weight of the fear you've been carrying on your shoulders. You almost have a panic attack walking from your car night. You haven't left your apartment except for work. Noises make you flinch, make your hands shake. You peer around corners like there's someone waiting with a gun. You think you're hearing movement in your walls, think anyone walking past you on the sidewalk is following you.
Your old shrink would tell you you're traumatised, and you'd have to agree. You vaguely wonder if you meet the criteria for PTSD. Maybe paranoid schizophrenic.
"That's understandable."
He lets you pour him another whiskey, and offers cash you refuse to take. You needle him about his important FBI work that he refuses to tell you about, deflecting the conversation back onto you. You don't let him pry too deeply, just slide beneath the surface, tidbits about how you were a year into law school and that you don't like gin.
"Might be a blessing in disguise that you dropped out." He swirls his glass, the bottom rubbing against the wooden grain of the barter. "Lawyers can be more trouble than their worth."
You roll your eyes. "You're just saying that because you're a fed."
He snorts. "I've run into a few in my time."
"People say the same about cops." You retort, and watch an unfamiliar coldness cross over his face. The feeling starts to creep back in.
He smooths back over it and the lights seem to brighten, returning to normal. "I would concede that there's a few valid criticisms of our police system."
You're blissfully distracted by another customer, and he slips out the door a few minutes later with a wave and a have a good night.
There are things missing from your apartment. You're sure. Dead fucking sure. You've paced up and down your hallway enough times, trying to convince yourself you're not going crazy.
But you had an apple in your fruit basket. You know, because it's the only red thing standing out between the lemons and limes. You know, because you bought it and have been staring at the fucking thing deciding whether to take it to work or have it at home.
But you got home from work and it wasn't there.
You ignored the apple. Maybe you did take it and completely forgot, somehow losing it in the process. Maybe anything other than someone breaking into your goddamn house and taking an apple was easier to believe.
Your favourite pair of panties, black lace with a metal ring accenting the back and a bow on the front, french cut, worth twenty five fucking dollars, hadn't returned from a trip to the laundromat, even though you could have sworn you'd taken them out of your laundry bag and folded them up in the draw.
Maybe you'd mistaken them for another pair and they'd been sucked into the abyss of the laundromat washing machine like a dozen other odd socks and pairs of underwear.
Your doormat was shifted. Chairs slightly angled like they'd been hastily shoved back in. The corner peeled back of the covers you'd sworn you smoothed out before you'd left.
The final fucking straw was your broken shower. The water pressure died, dribbling out in miserable drops, trailing out from the joints of the showered, spitting like it was on its last legs. You'd contacted maintenance, and a guy had shown up, begrudgingly, coincidentally visiting another tenant and deciding to kill two birds with one stone.
He's clanging around your bathroom, until you hear him swear under his breath and come out to see you.
"Did you put this shower head on yourself?"
Your brows dip in confusion. "No? It's the same one that was there when I moved in."
"I found the problem, the seal is missing."
"Missing?"
"Gone, couldn't find it anywhere. All the water's just leakin' out from the bottom when you turn it on. Are you sure you didn't take it apart?"
"I've never touched the thing." You shake your head. "It can't just wear away or fall out?"
"No, it'd have to be undone and removed. You haven't had anyone come over and do works?"
"You're the first person that's ever been in there since I've moved in." You get a horrible sinking feeling in your chest. You know you didn't touch that thing. You know the shower was just fine a day ago, before you left the house to see a friend.
The maintenance guy scratches his head, looking puzzled. "That's just fuckin' weird. Someone had to have taken it out."
"No one's been here since it was working last." You say, but the words tremble as you say them out loud. You're trying to convince yourself that this isn't happening.
The guy sighs. "Huh, well I'll have to order a new one, won't be able to get it for a few days, but then I can come back and install it for you. Unfortunately I have to turn the water off to the bathroom to make sure it doesn't leak everywhere."
Thankfully, your toilet is on a seperate system according to the guy, so you're just without a shower. You thank him profusely as he leaves, trying to ignore the beating of your heart. You don't know where you're going to be able to shower. Your friends are a long subway train ride away. Maybe you can buy a day pass to a gym and shower there. The thought, after everything, makes your fucking skin crawl.
You go to work that night and spend the first few hours of your shift trying not to cry. You're not sleeping anymore. You're sweaty and terrified and miserable, and the thought of having to go home at three in the morning without a working shower and the knowledge that something is very, very wrong, is looming over you.
You catch a break, the night quiets down after ten, and you slip out the backdoor to give yourself five minutes to shed some tears, let the dam burst before you explode.
You're sobbing into your hands before you hear your name.
You jump a little, looking up to see Dex on the footpath, at the entrance of the alleyway. He walks forward, eyes widened a little. There's bruises hidden in his hairline, his lip split. He looks like he's been in a fight.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
You sniffle, hastily wiping your face. "It's so stupid, my shower broke, and it's just been a horrible few weeks and all I want to do is go home and wash off the fucking smell of alcohol and I can't."
"Your shower broke?"
A sob bursts out. "I don't even know how it happened, but the fucking seal is missing and the maintenance guy turned the water off."
"Shit, you've had a disaster week."
You almost laugh, lifting your head up. "This just sucks, you know? I just want to shower."
"You can use mine, if you want?" He offers, looking at you with disarming kindness. "I'm a few blocks away from you."
You've never felt off about Dex, he's kind, respectful, gentle. He never pushes. He showed up weeks after you'd started dealing with this feeling. And you've been pushed so far past your sanity you're grateful for anything.
"Are you sure? I finish at three tonight, I don't want to disturb you."
"I've got tomorrow off, I can stay here until you close and walk you home."
"Really? I don't want to ruin your night off?"
"Really, it's fine, you've been through it, you should at least have somewhere safe to shower."
He sits with you, and thankfully you finish early, the crowd dwindling on a late Wednesday night. You walk home, and notice the considerably nicer surroundings as you escape the shit hole you live in.
He lets you in the door, and you notice how clean everything is, neatly organised and lacking a lot of distinctly personal affects. If you didn't believe him about being a Fed then, you'd probably believe it now, especially with the navy windbreaker hanging on the coat rack with bright yellow letters emblazoned on the back.
"Nice place." You comment, looking around at the white linoleum in the kitchen. You hear a huff of air behind you.
"They gave me this apartment while I'm working in the New York office." He shuts and locks the door. "Can't complain."
He shows you the shower, handing you a towel. You're almost glad your shower broke when you step in. The water pressure is actually good, the water not just swinging in between freezing cold and untenable for human skin. He's not using 3-in-1, and you appreciate the fact he's not some man child that can't shower properly.
You try not to think about Dex in standing in the same shower, right where you are. Try not to imagine him without any clothes.
When you step out, back in your disgusting work clothes that still smell like sweat and beer, you feel a little more human. You dread going back to your apartment, dread another sleepless night, dread the fear coming back.
Dex offers you a glass of water, which you take.
"Thank you so much, I- really, I can't thank you enough. You saved my life and you let me use your shower at god knows how late, and I-" You falter as your eyes start to water. Dex sets his cup down.
"To be honest, I'm worried about you, you got held at gun point, and you don't look like you're sleeping at all."
You sniff, tears escaping down your cheeks. "I- I'm not. I don't know what's wrong with me. I think- I don't know-"
You can't get the words out, because he'll realise how insane you are. No one knows anything about the ordeal you've been suffering through over a month. You thought you were going crazy but there is real, tangible things that cannot be explained.
"Because of the mugging?" His voice is so soft, so open, you just want to tell him.
You can't. What, because of a missing apple and panties and a shower seal? You know there's something but you can't articulate it and you don't want to look like more of a blubbering idiot than you.
"I'm just- I can't sleep, I keep thinking they're going to come back." It's half the truth anyway.
"Do you want to stay here tonight? You can take the couch."
"No, no, Jesus I can't keep being such a burden on you."
"You need to sleep sweetheart, if you're not sleeping your mind is going to keep twisting itself into a mess."
"I know, I know but-"
"I used to be a fucking disaster." He says, seriously. "I wasn't sleeping, eating, I was getting into fights. I was a psycho. But someone showed me kindness and they helped me and it saved my life. Let me repay some of that."
"Dex I-"
"Ben." He corrects. "My real name is Ben."
"Ben." You repeat. "I can't thank you enough."
"You don't need to." He waves you off. "I'll get you some clean clothes."
You stay the night, head back to your place and change into a new outfit for work. He tells you to come back after your shift and you do.
The sleep is blissful. Finally, the feeling goes away, finally your mind stops spinning. You're safe. There's an FBI special agent asleep not even ten feet away from you. No one can hurt you here.
You find out Ben's real name, what he does in the FBI. A sniper. Runs point on protection detail. It's impressive and very fitting. He's meticulous, insane attention to detail. You're not dirty, but you're not the type of person to make your bed in the morning, so you make a point to keep your things as far out of sight as possible.
You feel guilt at how much you're relying on Ben, using his shower, sleeping in his lounge room, but you're only there after work and he seems happy to have you around. You have good talks around his kitchen bench, and you slowly feel like the person you were before all of this mess started.
You think about telling him the real reason you don't want to go home, but it's been a week since anything's happened, and it all feels a little ridiculous now.
When you walk out of the shower, you notice his closet is open. You shouldn't. This man has opened him home to you, he saved your life, he's shown you kindness beyond anything you'd ever expect.
But you're really, really nosy, and some pathological urge wins out and you peer in. He's got a safe. A little unusual, but he's a Fed, probably got guns, classified information. It's probably standard in any FBI apartment.
The safe being open? Probably not protocol. And if an open closest was irresistible to your terminal need to know shit, then an open safe was practically an invitation.
You're not that self-absorbed to actually justify yourself, but it's funny enough.
There's a lot of weapons. Almost disturbing. You don't know much about law enforcement but you'd have to wager some of this shit isn't standard issue. Ninja stars and throwing knives? There's a box of old fashioned cassette taps, beaten up, well loved, and a walkman. There's another box, nondescript, and you wouldn't have even looked at it except the lid doesn't fit quite right and a gleam of a metal ring catches your eye.
You freeze. Every hair on the back of your neck stands up. Your heart starts beating erratically, your stomach sinking into the ground. Your brain almost hurts as it tries to process.
That feeling doesn't just creep back in, it crashes over you like a tidal wave, and you almost drown in your vindication.
Those are your fucking panties. The ones that went missing weeks ago, the ones you drove yourself crazy trying to gaslight yourself into thinking they just got lost into the washing machine.
You snatch up the box, ripping the lid off. Your panties. The fucking shower seal. Hair ties you'd not even noticed were gone.
But the worst parts are the pictures. There's an entire stack, printed on paper.
You, getting out of your car. You, walking into work. You, disappearing into the subway station on your way to visit a friend. The rare occasions you go on a run in the same damn loop of the Hudson.
You flip through the stack in a frenzied craze, unable to stop yourself. You're not even thinking, just consumed by horror.
There's worse ones. There's a picture of you and your friends at a bar in Manhattan, a glimpse of your silhouette in the window of her loft. Empty photos of your apartment, makeup left on your bathroom sink before you left, your underwear draw, your bed.
Your hands shake as you keep shuffling through. The photos get more and more intimate, more and more deranged, more and more terrifying. You, asleep on his couch, blanket tucked up to your chin. One taken through a crack in his bathroom door, catching the blurred outline of the back of your naked leg.
You drop the photos at the sight of the last one, covering your mouth with your hand. You feel sick. You want to vomit. You want to run.
The photos flitter to the ground, fanning out across the plush carpet. You drop to your knees, hopelessly scooping them up, like you can put it back before he notices.
He's going to notice. He's a goddamn agent. He's going to take one look at the box and realise you've been in there and then he's going to snap, right? That's what stalkers do.
Stalker.
You were not crazy. You were not stupid, or paranoid, or losing your mind.
You were being followed, hunted, this entire time, by Ben, by a person you thought you could trust.
But Ben's always been dangerous, hasn't he? Intelligent, cold, strong. Not someone you ever wanted against you.
"Oh fuck, oh god, shit." You're panicking now, scrambling to shove everything back, if only to delay him, before he figures out why you've grabbed all of your shit and fled his apartment. God, you're going to have to move. Find a new job. Can you even go to the police?
Your world is spinning under the weight of this discovery, this horrifying fact, and you can't cope.
The front door clicks.
Your mind completely shuts down, only left with the primal, basic urge to flee, and you've almost got the pictures in, while he calls out your name and his footsteps thunder down the hall and-
You freeze and turn, box in hand, on your knees in his cupboard, in front of the wide open safe. Dex's eyes flick between you and the safe, and you watch the realisation take hold.
"So you found it."
"I-I shouldn't have looked, I didn't see anything, you came home-"
He says your name again, shaking his head at the ground, before he looks up at you. It's vaguely disapproving. "You wouldn't be looking at me like that if you hadn't seen what was in it."
"I-I didn't, Dex I-"
He steps forward, like he's caging you into the confined space of the cupboard. The muscle in his clenched jaw twitches. He looks unhinged. Terrifying.
"And you wouldn't be calling me Dex."
"No Ben-" You're stammering, shaking, unable to string together a coherent sentence.
"Sh sh sh, it's alright." He's not calm anymore, as he crouches down near you and you flinch away from his outstretched hand. His pupils are pinpoint, whites of his eyes engulfing the colour. He's trying to retain his grasp on the composure you're used to associating with him but it's slipping. The words come out too quick, too desperate to be comforting. "It's better you found out, better you know."
"Dex- Ben- please. Please don't hurt me." You plead, your back hitting the cold hard metal of the safe as he inches towards you.
"I'm not going to hurt you." His tone is so forthright it's almost ludicrous, like you're an idiot for thinking that. "God- I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."
"I just want to go home-"
"No." His voice flattens in an instant and that crazed look flares up in his usually stony face. "Not before- not without-"
He trails off, muttering to himself. You edge sideways a little, eyes hesitantly wandering past his frame to the door. Maybe you can catch him off guard and bolt to the door, get out and start screaming down the hallways.
You don't think about the fact he'll probably pull rank with the cops and get away with it. You don't think about the fact he knows every single location you could possibly go. All you're thinking about is Dex killing you in his fucking bedroom.
"You can help me." He leans in again, caging you against the safe, and all attempts at escape are cut off in a blink. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and his eyes bore into your face with unyielding intensity. "I need you sweetheart, I need you. I need you to be better. You can make me better."
"I don't-" You shake your head, mainly to break his gaze. "I don't understand."
"You're my North Star." He breathes the word with a reverence you don't understand. "You can help me be good."
"You are good." You whimper, unable to reconcile the man in your face with the one you've known. "You helped me, you saved me."
"No, no I'm not." He hisses, leaning in and pulling himself back, like he's fighting himself not to lunge at you. "I need you."
"Please let me go." You sob, tears starting to fall down your face. The sight of you crying seems to strike something deep within him, because the Dex you know starts to surface a little bit. He very carefully, and very slowly, reaches his hand up, wiping away your tears.
"I can't." He cups your face with his large, warm hand, tracing your cheekbone with the edge of his thumb. "But I promise I will not hurt you."
"Please."
He sighs, hanging his head down like he's wrestling with himself. The hand on your face tightens, like if he lets go you're going to be able to get out, like he isn't trapping you in his cupboard.
He suddenly grabs your arm, hand like a manacle around your bicep. You struggle, writhing, but he almost effortlessly heaves you to standing, dragging you over to his bed and tossing you down onto it.
You start screaming. He dives on top of you, wrapping his large palm over your mouth. Holding you down against the mattress.
"Sh sh sh." He whispers harshly in your ear. "I'm not going to hurt you, I told you I'm not going to hurt you."
You can't help it. Everything inside of you, every survival instinct, every adrenaline fuelled drive has kicked into over gear, and your body takes over.
His weight is enough to keep you down, as he straddles your torso, yanking your arms up. He picks up a pair of handcuffs stowed underneath his bedside table, securing your wrists to the bedhead. You kick, fruitlessly, tears streaming down your face.
You're terrified of what he's going to do to you. You don't recognise the man holding you down. The handcuffs click into place.
He gets off you.
"Ben." You tug against the restorations, but they don't budge.
"This is just temporary." You can't tell if he's reassuring himself or you. "Just until I can trust you."
"You can trust me." You cry, almost choking on the lump in your throat. "You can, I p-promise."
"No, no." He shakes his head, pacing around the bed. His fists are clenched, chest heaving. "If I let you out you'll leave, you'll leave like everyone."
"I won't." You're gasping, breathless, panicking. "I promise Ben, I won't leave. I want to help."
He walks out of the room, clutching his head in his hands. You flinch at the loud thud you hear, the crashing of plates from the kitchen. Your shoulders ache, wrenched up above your head.
You pass out after a few hours. Maybe it's the adrenaline dump. Maybe it's a survival mechanism. Either way, you come to consciousness while Dex is undoing the handcuffs. You blink slowly, opening your eyes. He brushes the hair out of your face.
His knuckles are bloodied, chunks of skin rubbed away. He's in different clothes, changed out of the starched white dress shirt and slacks. You're exhausted, the entire day of work and now this. The fear you felt before has ebbed slightly, nerved calmed by the fact he hasn't hurt you.
"I'm sorry." He breathes, massaging your wrists.
"It was you this whole time?" Your voice is tiny, hesitant. He nods.
"I-I thought I was going fucking crazy." You almost start crying again. "I didn't tell you because I thought you'd laugh at me and it was you the whole time."
"I wouldn't have laughed at you."
"How long? How long have you been stalking me?"
"I wasn't-"
"How long?"
He swallows, eyes darting around uncomfortably. "A few months."
Pretty much the same time you'd started to feel paranoid. Except it wasn't paranoia, it was gut feeling, instinct, the unquantifiable biological mechanisms hardwired to keep you alive.
You run your hands through your hair, clutching at the roots, then use the back of your hands to scrub the tears from your cheeks. "I thought- I thought I was losing my mind."
"You weren't." He says quietly. There's something akin to remorse in his face, but you don't believe it, because you're still stuck in his apartment.
"Why? Why me?"
"You're good." He sniffs, kneeling down by your side to clutch at your hands. "I saw you one night while you were working, and you listen, you- you listen and you help those people that come to you in crisis and I just- I'm drowning sweetheart. I'm drowning and I don't know whether to swim to the bottom or up for air and I see how much good you could do and you can help me."
There's a million things you could say. A million arguments you could have. You don't. You're not stupid enough, not brave enough.
"It wasn't supposed to end like this, you weren't supposed to find it-" He stands up and starts pacing again, muttering under his breath. You recoil, like you can retreat far inside yourself enough to escape him.
He's unhinged. The calm, collected demeanour has completely slipped, revealing the brutal reality. Dex is completely losing his fucking mind. Dex is the one that's been stalking you for months. Dex tied you to his bed and isn't letting you leave.
"I don't understand." You say slowly. "You're a good person, you don't need help."
"You don't know me." He hisses. "You don't know the things I've down. I need a North star, I need someone to show me how to be good."
"Keeping me prisoner in your apartment isn't good."
"It's better than what I would do if I lost you." He replies flatly, emotion leeching out of him. His face is closed off, almost dead.
You swallow, feeling like all the air had just been knocked out of you. "What would you do, Dex?"
"I'd kill everyone who'd keep me from you."
You end up handcuffed back to his bed while he leaves. Maybe it's minutes, maybe it's hours, you don't know. You stare up at the ceiling and ignore the aching in your shoulders and feel mostly nothing at all.
The light starts to fade from the gaps in the blinds covering the windows. You're shivering, cold on top of the blankets in just a t-shirt and leggings. The reality of the situation hasn't sunken in as much as it should. Probably shock.
You were in shock when your Dad died. You remember going to school the same day, body going through the motions of your routine while your brain was left reeling, grasping at straws. You can't believe your Mother ever let you go.
She didn't really care. She was more interested in soaking up the attention a dead ex-husband brings, more than happy to play the part of the gracious, grieving ex-wife. Never mind he hated her. Never mind they'd been divorced for seven years and spent most of it duking out custody battles in New York state family courts.
You'd never had time to grieve because you were in survival mode from that day on, or at least that's what your therapist told you. Sometimes you just think you got a bit fucked up from the start. Half your genetics from a crackpot is bound to rub off on you no matter how much positive thinking and meditation and journaling you do.
Maybe that's where your shitty taste in men came from. No Dad, Mommy issues, low self-esteem. You'd started falling for Dex in such a pathetic way and it's what shot you in the foot. Maybe you ignored all the warning signs. Maybe you saw them and didn't care because you're so desperate for someone to care about you like your Dad used to.
Whatever's at fault, genetics, shitty childhood, the end outcome is the same. Miserable, uncommitted, insecure. Ambition that falls flat. Confidence that falters at the first hurdle. A failure. An easy target.
Dex preyed on you because you were stupid enough, desperate enough, to shower in a strange man's apartment. You can't help anyone. You can't even help yourself.
You fall asleep again. You don't know how. You think the months of sleep deprivation have finally caught up to you, outweighing whatever need you have to stay awake. It's dangerous, falling off your guard like this, but then again, what are you going to be able to do even if you were awake?
You wake up to watch Dex on the other side of the bedroom, pulling off his shirt. He's wearing these little exercise shorts and exactly nothing else and there's a miserable part of you that reminds you that only half a day ago you'd have been frothing at this opportunity.
You shift uncomfortably, trying to ease the strain on your cramping shoulders, but you can't find relief. Dex must notice because he turns around, sadness on his face. You ignore the tugging of pity in your gut. This man stalked you, tied you down to his bed. He doesn't get sympathy. He doesn't get pity.
He lays down in bed next to you and you freeze. You slowly turn your head to look at him properly. The dress shirts and blazers are deceptive, hiding ropy muscle and a broad chest. You knew he was fit, of course he had to be, but he's much stronger than you thought. His chest is covered in sparse blonde hair, which throws you a bit. You guess you've always pictured him completely hairless, like a model.
He's on his side, staring at you with an intensity that churns your stomach. You can't decipher him anymore, can't decide whether this is good or bad.
"I'm sorry I had to tie you up." He breathes, ghosting his hand up your side. You flinch, tensing your stomach against the feather-light feeling. "It was never supposed to go like this, I- I just can't help but fuck things up. Everything I do I fuck it up."
You know your place here. You're supposed to guide him, supposed to make him good. Maybe you can play your role and get an opportunity to get out of this apartment.
"That's not true." You whisper back. "You don't fuck everything up. You saved me."
He sighs, bringing his hand up to cup your face, thumb rubbing along your lower lip. The grip is too tight to be gentle, but it doesn't hurt. You lay deathly still. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, before he withdraws his hand, shifting onto his back.
"Get some sleep sweetheart."