Coffee Shops and Train Stops

Frank saw her before she saw him.

She stepped into the coffee shop like she belonged there—shoulders squared, eyes sharp, lips soft and pink like she’d just bitten them. It was the same ratty place they knew and yet, and she lit it up like a goddamn match.

And that skirt.

It clung to her hips like sin and moved like poetry when she walked. Her blouse was tucked in neat, collar loose, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She looked like she belonged in some city skyline—writing truths that made people angry and made others hope.

She spotted him and gave a little wave, sliding into the seat across from him like it was nothing. Like his heart wasn't beating so hard that Murdock would be concerned if he was here.

He tried not to stare.

Tried not to imagine what her legs felt like under that fabric.

“Interview went okay?” he asked, voice rougher than he wanted it to be.

Karen nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Small paper. Weekly stories. They want someone who can handle community politics and not flinch when things get messy.”

Frank gave a half-smile. “Sounds like they found the right woman.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t flatter me. You don't even know how I did.”

“I don’t have to,” he said, and meant it. “You don’t miss.”

She looked at him, long and slow, like she was reading a language he didn’t know he spoke. “You still do that,” she said softly. “Say things like that, and make it sound like they cost you something.”

Frank didn’t know what to say to that.

They talked for an hour—maybe two. He forgot what the coffee tasted like. Forgot why he ever pretended he didn’t need this. Her laugh cracked open something in him. The way she leaned in when she spoke, chin resting on her hand, eyes locked on him like he was still the man who deserved all her attention.

Nobody deserved the woman in front of him. Especially not Frank.

But every time she shifted in her seat, the hem of her skirt slid higher, and Frank had to bite the inside of his cheek.

By the time they left, it was dusk. The streetlights buzzed overhead. The sky was a soft orange bruising into purple.

They walked side by side. Their hands brushed once. He felt his chest getting hot and contemplated calling an ambulance.

Then again.

The third time, neither of them pulled away.

Frank’s fingers curled against hers, just barely, like he couldn’t help it. Like every part of him ached to touch her.

“You walking me home?” Karen said, voice quiet.

He nodded. They kept walking.

When she stopped in front of the building, she looked at him like she was still deciding. Still weighing the cost.

“You want to come up?”

He should’ve said no.

But he couldn’t.

Her apartment was small but warm. Books everywhere. Plants in corners. A soft blanket tossed over the couch like it had always waited for him.

She offered him water. He didn’t take it.

Karen kicked off her shoes and dropped her bag. Then she turned to him.

And suddenly everything was quiet.

“Why did you lie to me?” she asked.

Frank looked at her, and there was nowhere to run.

“In the woods. You said you didn’t want me there. That I should leave. That I didn’t matter.”

He didn't know why they didn't talk about this before. It had been a while, years. But it was about time. They were starting to mean something to one another and that meant talking things out.

He swallowed. “I was trying to protect you.”

“You say that.” She stepped closer, arms crossed over her chest. “You're supposed to trust me."

He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

“I watched you kill a man, Frank,” she said. “And you didn’t flinch. You just...shut down. And I know it wasn't the first time. And I know I wasn't supposed to be surprised. But I thought-”

She paused, holding her breath, "I thought I mattered."

He closed his eyes. “You did matter. You do. I didn't want you to see the Punisher. I wasn't me. Not really. I had a war to finish and you were the only thing preventing me from doing that.”

“But I did see it. And I stayed.” Her voice broke then, just a little. “I stayed, and I knew who you were. All your flaws and broken parts and you still let me go.”

“I couldn’t stand the thought of you hating me. I couldn't bare-” He stopped and shook his head, taking a step closer to her.

“I’m still angry, you know,” she said quietly.

Her voice didn’t waver. “I needed you. And you told me to leave. Said there was nothing left between us. That you didn’t want me there. And then you killed that man in the shed like none of it touched you.”

Frank winced. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice broke slightly, but she caught it fast. “I would’ve followed you. I would’ve helped. But you shut me out and acted like I was just some woman who wouldn’t let go.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

Karen let out a bitter, breathy laugh. “You were protecting yourself. From the risk of being loved and losing it again.”

He looked at her now, fully, jaw clenched. “You think I don’t care?”

“I think it terrifies you,” she said. “To want something again. To want me.”

Frank didn’t move. But God, his whole body was straining.

“You think I don’t go to sleep hearin’ your voice?” he said, low, barely more than a growl. “That I don’t see your face every time I close my eyes? You think I didn’t feel it when I pushed you away?”

Her lips parted. He could see her pulse flutter in her throat.

“I thought about you every damn day,” he continued. “And not just ‘cause you’re beautiful—though Christ, you are. But because you saw me. The part of me no one else wanted. The part I thought was long gone.”

She swallowed hard. Her breath caught. The silence twisted tighter between them.

And Frank—he leaned in.

Not all the way. Not yet. Just enough to feel the heat of her skin. To watch her eyes flicker to his mouth and back.

“I want you, Karen,” he murmured. “Not just in my bed. Not just tonight. I want all of it. The good, the bad, the shit I can’t bury. I want you to know it, and want me anyway.”

She didn’t answer. Not with words.

Her hand slid to his jaw, fingers rougher than he expected—no, realer. She guided his face down to hers, slow. Measured.

That silence came back again. Thick with old wounds and what-ifs.

Her hand touched his face, thumb brushing his jaw, and God, he leaned into it like it was the first comfort he'd known in years. It was. He had slept with women since his wife died, nothing serious and nothing of consequence. There was no comfort, no care. Only a transaction. But from Karen, nothing could be that simple. Everything meant more with her.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he said, low and broken.

Her breath hitched.

And then their mouths touched.

Not soft. Not gentle.

Hungry.

Frank groaned into it, one hand flying to her waist, the other to her thigh.   Her leg slid across his and he lifted her on the island, sliding in between her legs. He could feel her heat on waist and he groaned. She pushed forward without thinking, knees curling behind his hips, skirt riding up just enough to ruin him.

But then her mouth opened under his, and he lost all sense of distance. Her hands tangled in his shirt, his fingers sliding up the back of her thigh beneath that skirt, and he groaned against her lips. He ran his fingers across her thigh and felt a shiver ran through her body. He bit her lip just enough to elicit some sound from her.

She gasped—soft, surprised—and it nearly undid him.

Frank grabbed her again and backed her up against the wall, kissing her like he was trying to memorize her mouth. Like it had been years since he’d touched something good.

Because it had.

Their bodies pressed close, her leg hooking around his hip, his hand on her waist, the other slipping into her hair.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was the kind of kiss that stole the breath from his lungs and made the whole world tilt off its axis.

She kissed him like she’d been waiting her whole life. Like he wasn’t a broken man, but something whole in her hands.

Frank gripped the back of her neck, pulled her deeper, closer, closer—like maybe if he kissed her hard enough, he’d forget the war. Forget the blood. Remember what it was like to be wanted without guilt, without fear.

Karen gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in his shirt like she was anchoring herself to him.

Frank made a low sound in the back of his throat—something between a groan and a prayer.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed this. Needed her.

Every scar, every ghost, every regret pulsed under his skin—and for the first time in a long, long time, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

Not with her.

He moved his lips lower, planting kisses on the base of her throat and getting small moans to come from that pretty mouth. He felt himself growing under her, and he wondered if she felt it to. She clearly did by the way she pushed into him again, harder, more deliberate. 

He felt a hum come from his throat before he moved one hand from her hair back to her thighs. One arm was holding her up and the other was slowly tracing her thigh. He found his hand getting warmer and warmer before a finger was tracing the lining of her underwear. He felt her groan under him, deep and needy. 

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

He moved back up to her lips and kissed her again. Slower this time. Devotional. Like she was a miracle. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved it. He let go over her thighs and grabbed her face with both hands. He was a little scared that he was crushing her skull but she grabbed his back and pushed harder, moaning in his mouth. He swallowed the beautiful sounds like sunday dinner and smiled into the kiss.

And then—she stopped.

“Wait,” she breathed, lips still brushing his.

He froze, pulling away instantly. 

He was nervous now, he didn't want to hurt her. He began tracing her body, looking for bruises or pain on her face. She noticed the behavior and stopped him.

"Hey. Stop, look at me." She said, holding on to his face and placing a small brief peck on his lips. 

Karen looked up at him with eyes glassy and wide. “You’re not ready. You think you are, but you’re not. You’re still bleeding, Frank. And I won’t be the thing you use to stop it.”

He stepped back like she’d hit him. Not angry—just wrecked. He wanted this. He could feel he did. But maybe what she really was saying was that she didn't think hed every be ready. Maybe she wasn't ready. He wanted to turn into himself, he wanted to leave and to never come back. He felt embarrassed. 

"Frank. Look at me." 

He turned back to her and looked at her, really looked at her. Her hair was a messy, blond streaks moving in different directions. Her cheeks were red and her lips looked bruised. Her skirt was rising just a bit and he could see her hand shaking a little.

She was scared. Of him?

But she reached for his hand.

"Feel me." She looked at him with a broken and begging expression on her face.

She didn't have to beg. He'd do anything she wanted. He'd kill for her, and stop for her, and marry her if she asked. Karen Page could get anything out of him at this point.

He let her move his hand down to her thighs until she was lifting her skirt just enough. 

He wanted to be a good man and tell her that she didn't have to do this. He wasn't a very good man.

She looked at him with a look he hadn't seen before. Need, and want, and that stubborn look he was used to. He knew to stay silent.

He felt his fingers trace he underwear again and he felt the warm and wet spot at her base. He looked down and groaned a bit. He needed to stop this now or he would get down on one knee and never leave this spot.

"You feel that?" She said, in a soft moan.

He nodded, unable to form words at this point.

"I want this. Never doubt that again. I just need to make sure you're ready for all that comes with this. Becuase once we go there, you can't run anymore. There's no leaving me, Frank Castle."

He wanted to say he would never leave her. But he had. He wanted to promise he would never hurt her. But he had. So he understood her hesitance. She wanted this just as much as him, but she was giving him space to know. To be sure. He might've loved her a bit more in that moment.

Loved?

He was snapped out of his thoughts when she moved his hand back to her waist. He felt himself wanting to whine and beg but he didn't. Instead, he found himself enjoying the feeling of her in his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder and followed his movements, wrapping her hands around his waist.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Just...not like that. Not yet.”

He nodded. She felt that and moved out of his grasp.

She disappeared into her bedroom and he wanted to follow her like Trouble did when he had a treat in his hand. But he didn't. 

She came back minutes later in an oversized tee and fuzzy socks. Hair tied up, makeup gone.

Still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Frank sat on the couch and found his brain again. She handed him a book—old, dog-eared, her name scrawled in the corner in faded ink.

“You read it?" she asked.

He nodded, it was a classic that got passed around the base when he was back in the military. 

"Read it again." She said, her tone soft and kind.

And he did. He would've done anything she asked. 

His voice was low and even, reading pages that made her smile, made her eyes flutter closed. At some point, her head dropped onto his shoulder. Then her hand curled into his shirt.

They fell asleep like that.

Two people full of ghosts and fire and a love that never really died.