Rain glosses the streets, neon bleeding across puddles like stained glass shattered underfoot. The city hums outside the apartment windows—sirens in the distance, traffic below, music leaking faintly from somewhere down the block—but in here everything feels slower. Warmer.

Dangerous in a quieter way.

He’s has never been a good man.

He knows it, wears it easily. Fisk’s fixer, his shadow, the one sent to clean up problems before they become headlines. Buck moves through violence with effortless calm, always composed, always sharp enough to make people nervous. The kind of man who keeps his hands clean even when they’re covered in blood.

And yet somehow, he keeps ending up here with you.

It was never supposed to become anything real. At first it lived in stolen moments. Late nights after overlapping jobs, low conversations in parked cars, your name murmured somewhere between exhaustion and bad decisions.

Something physical. Temporary, easy to walk away from.

Except neither of you did.

Now it exists in the spaces between loyalty and self-destruction. In lingering touches that last too long. In the way Buck looks at you like he’s trying not to. In every line he keeps crossing despite knowing exactly where it leads.

The relationship sits in contradiction. Too intimate to be casual. Too damaged to be safe.

Buck carries himself with that same effortless confidence he wears everywhere else, but around you there’s something underneath. Like he’s constantly holding himself back from saying things that would make this harder to survive.

He leans against kitchen counters with rolled sleeves and bruised knuckles, watching you with unreadable eyes while the city glows behind him. Close enough to touch. Far enough to disappear if he has to.

Because the truth is, neither of you fits into the other’s life cleanly.

There’s too much secrecy. Too much violence orbiting both of you. Too many nights spent waiting for a phone call that could change everything. Loving someone in Fisk’s world always comes with an expiration date attached.

But still, you keep returning to each other like habit. Like prayer. Like something holy made out of all the wrong things.

The worst part is how natural it feels. The quiet moments are what ruin you most, his hand settling at the back of your neck absentmindedly, the rare flicker of exhaustion he only lets show around you, the way conversations drift into silence without becoming uncomfortable. Intimacy built slowly in the middle of corruption. Something almost tender surviving where it shouldn’t.

Buck knows exactly what this is. It’s not salvation or redemption.

Just two people standing in the dark pretending they aren’t worshipping something that could destroy them both.