Chapter 7
Frank woke up before the sun.
Some habits never die.
The air in his apartment was cold, the kind that settled into the bones overnight. He exhaled, watching his breath fog in the dim light, then sat up, the mattress creaking beneath him.
He didn't have much in this place, he honesty didn't think he would still be here. But he was. And he knew exactly why.
His body ached—his shoulder, his ribs, his knee. Old injuries that never really healed, just learned how to exist alongside him. Years of fighting in many different wars left him more broken and bloody than he wanted to admit. But he was still here. And no matter how much pain he was in, Frank always forced himself to get up to live another day.
Trouble was already awake, curled at the foot of the bed. His tail thumped once against the blanket, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. He found himself tapping his trigger finger to the same beat, often. He found that having Trouble as an anchor was difficult but worth it.
Frank ran a hand over his face, then reached down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Morning, Trouble.”
The mutt stretched, yawning wide before hopping off the bed and padding toward the door.
Frank followed.
Routine. That’s what kept him moving. He could handle a routine.
Mornings were simple.
Shower. Black coffee. Work.
The coffee machine sputtered to life. No breakfast, just caffeine. His stomach wasn’t used to eating in the mornings anymore, and food was just another chore.
He grabbed his work gear—tool belt, gloves, a jacket that smelled like sawdust and sweat. Then he was out the door, boots heavy against the pavement as he made his way to the construction site.
Today was no different.
By the time he made it to the construction site, the sun was just starting to rise, stretching pale gold across the city skyline. The foreman nodded at him, clipboard in hand.
“Castle. You’re on drywall today.”
Frank grunted. “Got it.”
Work was good. Kept his hands busy. Kept his mind quiet. He needed quiet.
And unlike the life he used to live, the worst thing that happened here was a busted pipe or some asshole not measuring right.
Still, there were moments—moments when his body moved on instinct, the way it used to.
When a crash sent his pulse racing. When someone walked up behind him too quietly, he had to remind himself that he wasn’t there anymore.
He caught himself gripping his hammer too tight, fingers white around the handle and his trigger finger tapping that same beat.
He forced himself to breathe.
One hour at a time.
By lunch, his muscles were sore, and his shirt stuck to his skin with sweat. But the work was done, the bones of a new wall standing solid behind him.
He liked construction, not because of his love for architecture. But because the more a project develops, the more he can see a family living between those walls. It was nice. It hurt. But it was nice nonetheless.
It kept him grounded.
Kept the war at bay.
For a while, at least.
He wiped his hands on his jeans, grabbed his jacket, and left without a word.
Because Tuesday nights weren’t for work.
Tuesday nights were for something else entirely.
Frank wasn’t a man of many words.
Curtis knew that.
The guys in the group knew that.
Most weeks, he sat there, arms crossed, listening to the others talk about nightmares, about jobs, about trying to be whole again when the war was still rattling around inside them.
A lot of the time they talked about their families. Trying to fit back into their old lives. On those days, Frank found himself a little extra quiet.
But tonight...
Tonight, Curtis caught him lingering in the doorway, not quite stepping inside.
Curtis tilted his head. “You good?”
Frank didn’t answer right away. He exhaled, long and slow, then stepped forward, dropping into a chair.
Curtis waited.
The others were already talking—some kid from the Navy was going on about his brother’s wedding, about how strange it felt to be standing in a room full of people who didn’t know what it was like to need to count exits.
Frank listened, absently running his thumb over his knuckles and tapping that trigger finger.
Then, when there was a moment of silence, he spoke.
“Been seein’ someone again.”
The room went quiet.
Curtis blinked like he hadn’t expected that. “Someone?”
Frank rolled his jaw. “Not like that.” He exhaled. “Karen.”
Curtis nodded, slowly. “Karen Page?”
Frank gave a short, sharp nod.
A beat of silence. Then, one of the older guys—Mendez—spoke up. “She the reporter?”
Frank’s fingers flexed against his knee. “Lawyer. Reporter. Don't know anymore.”
Mendez whistled low. “Didn’t know you had friends, Castiglione.”
Frank shot him a look.
Curtis ignored them both. “And how’s that going?”
Frank hesitated.
His throat felt tight.
“…Don’t know.” He exhaled, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Used to be simple. I knew what I was. What I had to do. Now…”
He shook his head.
He wasn’t The Punisher anymore. But he wasn’t Frank Castle either. Not the way he used to be.
Without a war to fight, without a mission to throw himself into, he felt untethered. Like a ghost wandering through a life that didn’t fit anymore.
Curtis studied him, his gaze steady. “And Karen?”
Frank swallowed. “I feel a little better when she’s around.”
Curtis nodded, like that made sense.
Because maybe it did.
The rest of the group looked at Frank a little confused. Most of them knew he was Frank Castle, they still called him Pete or Castiglione. They respected him enough for that. The ones that didn't know at first knew once he began sharing a little more about his life. Bottom line was that everyone knew he was alone. His wife and kids are gone and nobody else to rely on.
Mendez looked at Frank with a confident look in his eyes, "It's good. Having someone in your life. Keep her around."
"I don't know if I can. Not very good at the whole 'keeping people in my life' thing."
Curtis put a hand on his shoulder, "Then get good at it. Cause Karen doesn't seem like the most patient woman, but she does seem to care about you."
Frank nodded at that and let the rest of the group go back to sharing.
He knew she cared, she was never one to lie to him.
He just had a feeling he cared a hell of a lot more.
It was run-down, tucked between a laundromat and an old bookstore. The kind of place most people overlook. And the only place Frank found himself every Tuesday night.
Tuesday nights were for coffee, for quiet conversation, for something that felt almost like normal.
He walked in and made sure he got their table before she came. Karen was never really late, he found himself always being early. He could admit he looked forward to Tuesday nights. His chest was a lot more warm those days.
Karen walked in and sat across from him, "Castle."
"Ma'am." He said.
She smirked at him and said, "What's going on?"
Frank leaned back in his chair, hands wrapped around his mug. The coffee was too hot, but he drank it anyway.
Karen stirred sugar into hers, watching him. “Group go okay?”
Frank shrugged. “Talked more than usual.”
Karen arched a brow. “Oh?”
He exhaled. “Mentioned you.”
She blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”
Frank nodded. He could tell she wanted to ask more, investigating would always be Karen's first instinct. But she didn't.
She sipped her coffee, gaze soft. “That’s good.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that. He wanted to go on, but he knew he shared enough today. So instead he just drank his coffee.
She gave him what he needed, space without leaving him alone. She knew him. He knew her. And for the first time all day, his chest wasnt heavy at all.
They stopped at his apartment for the damn dog.
The air was cool when they stepped outside. The part of town they were in wasn't the best, so he made sure to keep his eyes out. The second they got closer to her place, he calmed a little.
The city was quieter at this hour, the streets mostly empty.
Trouble trotted ahead, sniffing at everything.
Karen walked beside him, her hands stuffed into her coat pockets.
Frank kept his eyes forward.
After a moment, she broke the silence. “You called me ma’am earlier.”
Frank’s steps slowed.
Karen smirked. “You only do that when you’re nervous.”
His jaw tensed.
She was right, and they both knew it.
Karen bumped her shoulder against his, gently. “You nervous, Castle?”
He exhaled through his nose. “No.”
She hummed, unconvinced.
The streetlight cast a glow across her face, catching in her hair.
Frank looked at her, and something inside him tilted.
He wanted her. So bad. It was so deep in him that the hair on his arm was rising at the thought of her touching him.
He wanted her smile, and her laughs, and her skin, and her hair. He wanted everything Karen Page was wiling to give him.
But he wasn't ready.
Karen turned, catching his gaze.
She didn’t look away.
Frank’s fingers twitched at his side. He should go. He should.
But he didn’t.
Karen’s voice was softer now. “Frank.”
He swallowed. “I should head back.”
A pause.
Then, Karen nodded. “Okay.”
But as he turned to go, she caught his wrist.
Not tight. Just enough.
Frank stopped.
Karen looked up at him, something unreadable in her eyes. “You sure?”
His pulse thrummed in his ears.
For a second, he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Then—slowly, carefully—he curled his fingers around hers.
Just for a moment.
Then he let go.
And walked away.