James Welsey
When they arrived at her apartment, Karen immediately regretted it. The place was a mess—case files strewn across the coffee table, crime scene photos and scribbled notes covering every inch of glass, a cup of cold coffee abandoned in the corner.
Frank didn’t say a word, but she still rushed to clean up. “Sorry, it’s not usually like this.”
“I know,” he said without hesitation.
She froze, then forced a laugh.
Of course he knows She forgot that time he came to her apartment, brought her those beautiful flowers sitting on her balcony, and made her question whether she should run away with a murder or not.
She turned away, busying herself with grabbing sheets, blankets, and a pillow from the storage closet. As she bent down to set up the couch, she felt a warm hand at the small of her back.
She sucked in a sharp breath, turning slightly.
“You don’t have to make my bed too, ma’am. I got this.” His voice was quiet, careful.
At the end of the day, she knew Frank. This was probably killing him inside—accepting help from someone, staying in a home that wasn’t his, being close to a woman who wasn’t his wife.
So she dropped the sheets into his hands. “Okay. There’s a shower in my room. Don’t think about going to bed on this couch without washing some of that blood off of you. I have some oversized clothes that should fit. When you come out, dinner will be on the table.”
He nodded at each instruction until the last one.
“You don’t have to cook for me, ma’am.”
“Who said I was cooking? Chinese takeout work for you?”
His mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Yeah.”
He disappeared into her room, and Karen quickly grabbed her phone, dialing her favorite takeout spot. She ordered them a little of everything, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t matter. Frank seemed like the type to eat for sustenance, not enjoyment.
She pulled out one of her brother’s old hoodies and sweatpants, leaving them folded neatly on the bed. Then she paused, staring at the space for a long moment.
Frank Castle was in her house.
A day after she told him about her brother, a name she hadn’t spoken in years.
He was in her shower, naked.
Frank Castle was naked in her house.
She closed her eyes, exhaled sharply, and shook herself free of the thought.
The doorbell rang just as the water shut off. She paid for the food and laid it all out, barely settling into her chair when Frank emerged.
He was wearing her brother’s clothes. And it threw her completely.
The Punisher was in her living room. Except… he wasn’t. Because the man standing in front of her, shy and uncertain, was all Frank Castle and none of The Punisher.
She rolled her eyes. He didn’t even mean to be funny half the time, but he was.
They ate in comfortable silence until Karen got tired of it. She was beyond tired of unspoken words and half-glances.
“Why haven’t you come to see me?”
He paused, fork hovering mid-air. “What?”
She pressed on. “I don’t have many friends. Not anymore. Foggy is a big-shot lawyer. Matt is gone from my life, and Claire’s too busy dealing with her own vigilante problems. And for a while, I considered you important to me. Maybe not a friend, but not less than that. But I haven’t seen you in six months—outside of your trips to that damn rooftop. And friends don’t do that.”
He was silent for a long moment. Frank Castle was always careful with his words. Maybe not his actions, but what he said to her always mattered. He weighed them, measured them, made sure they didn’t cross a line he couldn’t take back.
“You said I was dead to you.”
She clenched her jaw. The anger came quick—faster than it should. But Karen had always been the hotheaded one. Frank was cautious. Careful.
“The Punisher is dead to me. You are not The Punisher.”
His tired gaze met hers, and for the first time that night, something raw surfaced. He let the words slip before he could swallow them down.
“I am nothing but The Punisher.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really?” His voice was rough, edged with something that sounded almost like resentment. “What would you call what I do every night? Split personalities? There is no line between Frank and The Punisher.”
She didn’t hesitate before speaking, which was probably a mistake.
“I killed someone.”
His whole body went still.
“I shot a man seven times.”
Frank sat back, watching her carefully. Choosing his next words like a man disarming a bomb. “What happened?”
“I got too nosy, and Fisk had me taken.” Her voice was cold, detached. “His right hand. A man named James Wesley. He didn’t think I’d do it. I grabbed his gun, pointed it at him, and he laughed at me. He fucking laughed. So I emptied the clip.”
Frank’s expression didn’t change. But when he spoke, his voice was steady.
“Good.”
She shot up from the table, chair scraping against the floor. “The Punisher kills murderers, right? So kill me. If there’s no line between the Frank I know and the monster I’m supposed to fear, then kill me.”
His trigger finger twitched under the table. His breath hitched.
“No.”
“No?”
He exhaled sharply, jaw clenching. “He deserved it. It was self-defense. You aren’t a murderer. You’re a victim.”
She scoffed, arms crossing. “You don’t believe that. You hate excuses.”
Frank shook his head, standing up slowly. “You didn’t kill him because you wanted to. You killed him because he left you no choice. There’s a difference.”
She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
Then, a rough hand landed gently on her arm. She glanced up, surprised to find something aching and human in his expression.
“Wesley isn’t your cross to bear,” Frank murmured. “Let me carry that one.”
Karen swallowed hard, blinking quickly. “You can’t carry everything, Frank.”
He gave her a look that said watch me.
For the first time in months, Karen let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
And for the first time in years, Frank let himself be close enough to catch it.