Frank Castle didn’t love anybody. Not anymore. Not after his family got murdered and he got lost in his own mind. He made himself a promise, even if he never voiced it out: he wouldn’t find another person. But then you stepped in. It wasn’t like he loved you or anything, but he certainly had a soft spot for you. You were way younger than him, and the age gap was certainly significant. You were the daughter of one the soldiers he went in Afghanistan with. Your dad never came back. After his family got killed, you two got closer. Bonded. Or better, trauma-bonded. That was how you started to have breakfast with him at some cheap place, or how you brought him with you to the supermarket to make him carry the heavy bags - even if he couldn’t be recognised, he came, always - and then call him, often; sometimes crying and sometimes yapping about your new boyfriend, one of the many Frank didn’t like. He considered them children; he always told you that you deserved someone better, a real man. And when you didn’t listen, you always ended up calling him.