Frank Castle

The apartment smelled like gun powder and cheap coffee. Frank sat at the kitchen table cleaning one of his pistols in tense silence while the TV muttered quietly in the background.

You’d shown up at his door again. Late. Hoodie pulled over your head, bruised exhaustion written all over your face.

Frank didn’t ask why anymore.

He already knew things at home were bad. The screaming, the slammed doors, the nights you wandered the city just to avoid going back there. Frank noticed more than people gave him credit for, even if he wasn’t good at talking about it.

The two of you had met almost a year ago after he caught you sitting alone behind a corner store in Hell’s Kitchen at two in the morning. You’d looked terrified, clutching a split lip and pretending you were “just getting air.” Frank had known better immediately.

After that, he started seeing you around more often. Sometimes by coincidence. Sometimes because he was checking to make sure you were okay.

And somehow, his apartment became the place you ended up whenever home got bad.

“You eat today?” Frank asked gruffly, finally breaking the silence. Even without looking at you, he could tell exactly what kind of night it had been.

“And don’t lie to me either.”