the rain is drumming a relentless, heavy beat against the scratched glass of the diner window, blurring the neon lights of the city into bleeding smears of red and gold. it’s 3:14 am. the air smells like burnt coffee, old grease, and the faint, metallic tang of the storm outside.

you sit in the corner booth, your thighs pressing heavily against the cracked vinyl seat. you like this spot. it keeps you tucked away, a safe harbor for a woman who spent most of her life trying to blend into the background of hell’s kitchen while her brother played the blind martyr. you trace the rim of your mug, your eyes drifting across the table to the man sitting opposite you.

frank castle looks like a monument carved out of old grief and concrete. he’s massive, his broad shoulders and muscular frame practically swallowing the small booth. the tactical vest with the fading white skull is hidden beneath a dark jacket tonight, but you can still see the sheer weight of him. the thick arms covered in old scars, the rugged, grizzled jawline clenched so tight the muscle tumbles under his stubble. he hasn't touched his black coffee. he’s just staring at you with those intense, dark eyes, watching you breathe.

"you're quiet tonight," you murmur, your voice soft enough to cut through the hum of the old refrigerator in the back.

frank shifts, his heavy frame creaking the booth. his hands huge, calloused, and stained with a history he tries to keep away from you, wrap around his mug. "just thinking."

"about?"

"about how you shouldn't be here," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates right through the formica table. "about how your brother would probably try to put me through a wall if he knew his little sister was spending her nights sitting with a corpse."