Your Friendly Neighborhood Daredevil Stan

It was another late night at the shelter.

She sat at her desk, going over donation logs and finance documents, numbers starting to blur together the longer she stared at them. The building had gone mostly quiet—just the distant hum of voices down the hall and the occasional creak of old pipes settling in the walls.

Then she heard footsteps.

Soft. Familiar. Coming closer.

She glanced up just as Matt appeared in the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame.

She smiled instantly.

“Hey… you’re not busy, are you?” he asked, offering a small, tired smile of his own.

She was. Very much so.

But the numbers weren’t going anywhere—and honestly, neither was the headache forming behind her eyes.

“I was just finishing up, actually,” she said, already closing the folder in front of her. “What’s up?”

Matt stepped further into the room and held up a takeout bag, the smell immediately filling the space—warm, savory, comforting.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt…” he said quietly. “I just didn’t want to go home yet. And I wanted to check on you, too.”

Something in her chest softened at that.

He fully stepped inside, and she could see it now—the way his shoulders slumped just slightly, the exhaustion he was trying not to show. His coat hung loosely over his arm, his voice low like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet she’d built around herself.

Yeah. He’d had a long day too.

She pushed herself up from her chair and stepped around the desk, then dropped down onto the floor in front of it with a quiet sigh, leaning back against the wood.

“Come on,” she said, patting the space beside her.

He doesn’t argue.

Of course he doesn’t.

There’s a quiet rustle as he sets his coat aside and lowers himself to the floor beside her, the faint crinkle of the takeout bag filling the space between them for a second. His shoulder brushes hers as he settles, closer than he needs to be.

Neither of them moves away.

“Careful,” he murmurs lightly, shifting the bag between them. “I think one of these containers is leaking. Or I just made a terrible decision.”

She huffs out a small laugh, the sound surprising even herself. “Bold of you to assume those are mutually exclusive.”

“Wow,” he says, deadpan. “And here I thought I came bearing peace offerings.”

“You did,” she replies, nudging his arm with hers. “I’m just emotionally fragile and also hungry. It’s a dangerous combination.”

“Noted,” he says. “I’ll proceed with caution.”

He starts unpacking the containers, moving a little slower than usual, like he’s letting himself settle into the moment. The smell fills the room quickly—something warm, garlicky, familiar—and her stomach betrays her with a quiet growl.

Matt pauses.

“…That was aggressive.”

She groans, dragging a hand over her face. “No, no, let’s not talk about that.”

“I think we should talk about it,” he says, a hint of a smile in his voice. “That felt like a threat.”

“Give me the food, Murdock.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He passes her a container, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange, and something about it feels… easier than it has in days.

For a little while, they just eat.

No pressure. No expectations. Just the quiet clink of plastic forks and the occasional soft hum of approval when something tastes particularly good.

It’s… nice.

Too nice, almost.

She swallows a bite, glancing over at her desk—the stack of papers, the list she’s been avoiding sitting right on top like it’s been waiting for her to come back.

She hesitates.

Then sighs.

“Okay, before I lose my nerve,” she mutters, setting her container aside for a second as she pushes herself up just enough to reach for it.

The paper is slightly crumpled when she brings it back down between them.

Matt tilts his head. “What’ve we got?”

She winces a little as she unfolds it.

“It was supposed to be organized,” she admits. “And then it just… wasn’t.”

There are highlighter marks in three different colors, things crossed out and rewritten, little doodles in the margins where she clearly got distracted.

He runs his fingers lightly over the edge of the page, careful not to smudge anything.

“This feels right,” he says simply.

She blinks at him. “…It does?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “If it was neat, I’d be worried.”

That earns him a small, genuine laugh.

“Okay, fair.”

She smooths the paper out between them, tapping the top of it.

“Last-minute wedding things we’ve been aggressively ignoring.”

Matt hums. “Ah. My favorite category.”

She scans the list.

“…We don’t have a rain plan.”

A beat.

Then—

“We don’t have a rain plan?” he repeats.

“Nope.”

“That feels like something we should’ve had weeks ago.”

“Yep.”

Another pause.

“…Okay, great start,” he mutters.

She snorts, covering her mouth for a second.

“And—oh my God,” she adds, squinting at the page, “we never assigned who’s in charge of the rings.”

Matt stills.

“…You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

“That feels… important.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh and panic at the same time.

“Alright,” he says, shifting slightly closer to her, their knees bumping. “We can fix this. We’re fixing this.”

She glances at him, something soft settling in her chest at the certainty in his voice.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Yeah. We are.”

He reaches for the list again, this time a little more confidently.

“Alright,” he says, tapping the page lightly. “Next crisis.”

She leans closer so she can see where he’s pointing, their shoulders brushing again—this time neither of them pretending not to notice.

“Transportation,” she reads. “We… don’t actually know how people are getting from the church to the reception.”

Matt lets out a quiet breath. “We’ve really been thriving, haven’t we?”

“Absolutely excelling,” she agrees.

He huffs out a soft laugh, and this time it lingers a little longer.

They keep going like that—reading, crossing things out, adding messy little notes in the margins. At some point, he ends up holding the list steady while she writes, his fingers resting near the edge of the paper, close enough that her hand brushes his every so often.

Neither of them pulls away.

“Emergency kit,” he reads next. “What does that include?”

She hums thoughtfully. “Uh… stain remover, tissues, extra makeup, snacks…”

“Snacks feel important.”

“Snacks are very important.”

“Okay, good,” he says. “That’s one thing we’re prepared for.”

She laughs again, softer this time, and it settles somewhere deep in her chest.

It’s… easy.

Too easy.

For a second, that thought flickers—quiet, unwanted.

Like she’s waiting for something to interrupt it.

She pushes it away.

They keep going.

At some point, the list stops being the focus.

Her handwriting slows. The pen drifts. Their conversation turns quieter, less about logistics and more about… nothing. Small things. Easy things.

She doesn’t even realize when she leans into him.

It just happens.

Her shoulder presses against his first, then her head follows, settling gently against him like it’s always belonged there.

Matt stills for half a second.

Then softens.

His arm comes up slowly, carefully, like he’s giving her time to change her mind—before resting around her shoulders, pulling her just a little closer.

Warm. Steady.

Safe.

Her breath evens out.

The list sits forgotten between them.

For a while, neither of them says anything.

The quiet isn’t heavy.

It’s… full.

She traces a small, absent-minded line along the edge of the paper with her fingertip, eyes half-lidded as she stares at nothing in particular.

“I think…” she murmurs softly.

Matt’s thumb pauses where it’s been brushing slow, grounding patterns against her arm.

“…I’m starting to look forward to this.”

The words hang there, fragile and honest.

He doesn’t answer right away.

She can feel the way his chest rises under her cheek, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Then—

His hand tightens around her, just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

Something in her chest loosens at that.

Like a knot she didn’t realize she’d been carrying.

She lets her eyes close for a second, just listening—to his breathing, to the distant hum of the shelter, to the quiet normalcy of this moment.

It feels… real.

Like something she could hold onto.

Like something that might actually last.

And that same flicker returns—

Quieter this time.

But sharper.

The thought she doesn’t quite let herself finish.

If nothing gets in the way.

Her fingers curl slightly against the paper.

Matt’s arm shifts, his hand smoothing once down her arm like he can feel the tension before it fully settles.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

She nods against him, even though he can’t see it.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I’m okay.”

And for right now—

She is.

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

Matt was on his way home from a surprisingly shorter day at the firm.

For once, it was a decent sunny day without too high humidity, and he was trying to enjoy the warmth on his face when his phone rang, blaring “ASSISTANT, ASSISTANT, ASSISTANT”.

One of her father's assistants was randomly calling, though he should be expecting them daily by this point.

He thinks this one's name is Tonya, but her father has so many, and he keeps forgetting to save their contacts under their names, so they've all run together at this point.

He answers politely and listens as they reply, “Good afternoon, Mr. Murdock. Are you familiar with the local talk show, 'Metro Mornings'? With Fallon Vane as the host?”

Matt usually listened to Spectral News for local information, but Metro Mornings did ring a bell, he thinks.

“Yes, I believe that sounds familiar. Why do you ask?”

Tonya's reply came quickly through the phone, “Ah, excellent! He's arranged for her to do a small donor spotlight for the shelter on Metro Mornings that will air tomorrow morning, and he'd like for you to be there as support for her.”

Matt raises an eyebrow at that. He's not sure why she would need his support for something related to the shelter, but he supposes the shelter deserves as much good PR as it can get, and he'll be there if she needs him.

He gives a polite agreement, and Tonya tells him to stay where he is, as one of her father's SUVs will be there right there to pick him up.

It didn't take long for the car to pull up beside him, and for him then to be quickly ushered into it by Tonya.

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Matt felt the vehicle slow down as they approached the building, and he was already reaching for the handle, opening the door before the assistant could scurry around to help.

He's rushed inside the building before he even had the opportunity to ask any questions. He's greeted with a mix of overly sterilized air, a distinct citrus floor polish, and a very heady haze of perfume that seemed to follow him everywhere.

He follows Tonya down a hallway filled with even more artificial scents and voices that sounded too practiced and polished. Too performative. His skin crawled with the feeling that there was more to what was going on.

Somewhere off to his left, he hears her before he's meant to. But her voice isn't right—it's exaggerated. Tight. Polite. Controlled. Too controlled.

Matt tilts his head slightly, focusing in and listening closer.

“Oh, uh-huh... yes, that was such a lovely event. No, I didn't expect frosting to be involved either.”

Then she laughs, but it's not her real laugh. It's fake. Forced. And something in his jaw ticks.

He frowns.

Something is definitely wrong. Not in a dangerous way, just not normal. Things were so polished to the point of being fake.

Forced smiles. Scripted words. He doesn't like it, especially with how she sounds.

But still, he's Matt Murdock. So, when the other assistant guides and explains to him to sit in a makeup chair he was guided to, he does so politely. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, but his jaw was set. He denies the suggestion of powder with a flat, “No, thank you.”

While in his seat, he can focus and listen further to everything around him. The hum of the studio, the buzz of cameras and bright lights, and the voice of the host getting into place.

All the guise of a smooth PR segment, but he could tell that under it all, something else was brewing.

And when he hears her voice again, a moment later, his fiancée's-he realizes it's not the room alone that's tense.

It's her.

And she's pissed.

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Matt was only in the makeup chair for a moment before he was up and guided to the studio set, where the buzzing of lights and the artificial hum of cameras grew even louder.

He finds himself beside her, in a soft, plush chair behind a table. However, he feels that she's as stiff as a board next to him. She's wound up tight.

He then realizes there's another presence on her other side.

He tilts his head, listening in again before he realizes it's her father. And oh, is he practically vibrating with excitement.

She murmurs out a small, almost clipped, “Hi, Matt. Glad you could join us,” before she goes quiet again.

He feels something twist in his chest and immediately thinks to himself, “She's too quiet again. She always goes quiet when something is wrong and she's upset.”

Especially after yesterday… after the cake tasting, the frosting, the way she curled up against him—he hadn't expected a greeting like this. But there's no time to ask. No time to process.

He hears another woman settle into the seat opposite her father. Fallon, maybe? He thinks that was the name Tonya mentioned. Her perfume is overwhelming—sharp and floral—and she clinks her coffee mug too loudly against the desk before rustling some paper.

She's bubbly, animated. Fake.

A cameraman calls out a countdown.

3… 2…

“Good morning, Metro! I'm your host, Fallon Vane,” she chirps toward the camera before turning to beam at their little trio.

She takes a moment to explain who they were and that they were her guests for the segment.

And then Matt can feel her smile. Wide. Too wide. Like she's about to sink her teeth into something.

She launches into the segment with barely a breath.

“So, you've both become something of a staple in the local news cycle lately—how are you adjusting to life in the spotlight?”

Matt's brows furrow.

That's not related to the shelter at all. Why isn't she asking about the shelter?

And why is this host's voice so familiar to him?

She replies while Matt is still trying to understand what exactly is going on, “It's definitely an adjustment. There's a big difference between attention for the shelter and… attention for your personal life.”

Matt hears her offer a smile, but it doesn't feel like one. It's tight. Strained.

“I'm more comfortable behind the scenes, helping people, not answering questions about what I'm wearing or how many times I've been photographed this month.”

Matt stiffens and immediately thinks to himself, “Oh... Oh no, something definitely isn't right.”

Matt takes a breath before he adds his response, trying to choose his words carefully.

He knows an interview wasn't ideal, but he tries to be civil.

“Uh, yeah, I mean we've both always been involved in the community, through the shelter and the firm. But this level of attention is… new.”

“Try to steer it back. Try to anchor it down.” He thinks.

“We're managing it the best we can, staying focused on the work that brought us together in the first place.”

And because he needs to say something, because she's radiating distress, he reaches for her hand.

He curls his fingers gently over hers on the table and adds:

“It helps to have each other.”

There's a beat.

He doesn't miss it... A slight hesitation before she lets him hold her hand.

But she doesn't pull away.

Not yet.

Fallon moves on to the next question, the bite in her smile still there and obvious in her voice.

“There's been a lot of speculation about your relationship… how would you describe your dynamic?”

Matt feels her tilt her head slightly as she thinks before she answers Fallon.

“We're figuring things out. Just like most couples do.”

Matt nods in agreement and adds, still in a polite tone.

“We've been through a lot already. I think that tends to build trust… or at least, a strong foundation.”

Fallon hums like she's impressed with the answer, but there's a smugness under it.

Matt doesn't like that hum. It feels rehearsed. Like she already knows what she wants the headline to be.

Then comes her next question, too casual to be innocent.

“You looked so emotional at the last event. Is that common for you?”

The air shifts. Matt feels her still beside him, just for a second. Just long enough to clock that she's choosing her words carefully.

Her voice is sweeter than sugar when she replies:

“No, that usually only happens when stuck-up women smear frosting on me.”

A beat of silence.

Matt blinks. He can feel Fallon tense across the table—her heartbeat gives her away.

And suddenly, the voice clicks. The perfume. The sugar-coating. The goddamn fake laugh.

He remembers her.

Oh.

Oh.

It's her.

Fallon tries to laugh it off, but there's a slight tremble in it now.

“I think we were all caught a little off-guard that night!” she chirps.

Matt leans forward slightly, resting his arm on the table, tone still polite, but now there's a sharper edge under it.

“Emotions are part of caring. Something we both bring to our work…”

A pause. A tilt of his head. A razor-thin smile.

“…more than some people bring to a fundraiser.”

He hears someone behind the camera choke slightly. Fallon doesn't respond right away. Matt hears her blink a few times, but she keeps going, though her voice wobbles slightly.

“Your father's been so generous to the shelter. How involved is he in your day-to-day?”

That does it.

Matt feels her spine straighten next to him, her tone no longer pretending.

“Not involved. The shelter runs independently, and that's how it should be.”

Matt nods once, slow and deliberate.

“His name might be on some of the checks,” he says, voice low and steady, “but the work… the care, the heart… that's all her. Always has been.”

There's no mistaking it now. They're both done playing nice.

Fallon taps her pen twice on her notepad. The cameras are still rolling, but the energy in the room has shifted entirely. She clears her throat and pastes on another smile.

“Some critics have said your engagement seems like a distraction from your individual missions. How would you respond to that?”

Matt's jaw ticks.

He hears her shift next to him, breath shallow like she's biting back the impulse to lash out. But Matt cuts in before she can.

“Only people who don't understand what we do would call it a distraction.”

His tone is firm, calculated.

“We haven't lost sight of our missions. If anything, we've just found someone to walk through them with.”

She lets out a quiet breath beside him. Like relief.

Fallon doesn't even blink before she tries to regain control by lobbing out the next one:

“And you, Mr. Murdock, has this relationship impacted your focus at the firm?”

Matt tilts his head, slow and deliberate. That lawyer calm. That careful, precise confidence.

“No more than hosting a talk show impacts your journalistic integrity.”

He smiles.

“We all find balance where we can.”

He swears he hears someone snort offstage.

Fallon's smile is tighter now. Desperate. So she goes for the obvious bait. She flips to a new page on her notepad with unnecessary flair.

The paper hisses. So does her voice.

“Have you two decided on a date yet—or are you still in the 'adjustment period'?”

Matt hears the shift in her tone—sweet on the surface, laced with bite underneath. He doesn't miss the slight emphasis on adjustment.

He stays still. Calm. But he can sense her tense beside him again. Can practically hear her teeth grinding as she forces out a response.

“We've picked a date. And I've picked my dress. And I'm sure it'll be a beautiful event… assuming no one throws dessert this time.”

Matt adds politely, but there's a dryness to his tone now.

“The venue's confirmed, the officiant's booked, and I'm planning on showing up on time... though I might skip the pre-show interview.”

Matt's usual smirk returns to his face when Fallon let out a dry, little huff of a laugh before she continues, obviously trying to wrap the interview up now.

She really wants them out of her studio now.

“Well, we'll certainly be keeping an eye out for the wedding photos, then! Can't wait to see them in the press!”

She smiles sweetly and replies politely, but the bite in her tone is still there.

“Oh! Don't worry. If frosting's involved, I'm sure you'll be the first to know.”

Matt is almost certain that the one who snorted earlier offstage just let out a snicker at that.

They all politely shake hands before the cameraman gives the signal that it's all a wrap.

Matt can hear Fallon mutter out, sounding as sincere as cold oatmeal, “Pleasure having you both.”

Matt feels her moving beside him as she jerks her mic off and shoots out of her chair, immediately making her way to the nearest exit.

He'd been removing his mic carefully—methodically—but the sharp click of her heels says she's storming off. He tears his off in a rush and follows her without thinking.

Matt hears her father call after them as he goes to speak with Fallon and deal with her alone, “Great job, you two! Big publicity boost!”

Neither of them acknowledges him, but before she can make it out of the door, he pulls her into a hug and murmurs almost teasingly in her ear.

“For the record, I only held your hand to keep you from lunging at her.”

He hears the soft little chuckle from her as she mutters back just as playfully, “You're lucky you're not wearing your awful slides today, you wouldn't have been able to hold me back with those bad boys on.”

He chuckles softly at that, and something about her tone makes him relax just a little as he thinks: “She's mad. But not at me.”

He presses a sweet, gentle kiss to the side of her head before they make their way out to the car.

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The ride is quiet for a bit as they both decompress.

He can hear her letting out deep, relaxing breaths and can imagine she's probably counting down in her head.

She lets out one last deep breath that ends up turning into a yawn, and he chuckles softly at that.

He can hear the frown in her voice as she finally speaks, “I hate that he thinks he can just… use us like that.”

Their hands find each other's, fingers lacing easily. He gives her a gentle squeeze. “He ambushed you. I won't let that happen again.”

The warmth returns to her voice as she replies, the genuine smile obvious in her tone at his reassurance. “Thank you, Matt. That helps a lot.”

She pauses, then chuckles. “I know we've been putting it off, but we really need to stop at my apartment. I'm running out of things to 'borrow' from your closet.”

Matt grins. “Yeah, I've noticed.”

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

They didn't speak much after the stream.

The water had been quiet, calming. Silver offered him peace, and for once, Matt accepted it without suspicion.

As the night descends over the forest like a solemn prayer, a palpable tension replaces the earlier tranquility.

Their new shelter is a small, stone hollow tucked behind a cluster of tall trees. The cave mouth is mossy and narrow, just big enough for two people, a fire, and one small, sleeping guest curled beside Silver's bedroll, much like most of the world.

But not Matt or Silver.

He sits with his back against the wall, his elbows on his knees, and his hands still bound by the remains of the chain. They're looser now, less prison and more symbol. His armor smells faintly of campfire smoke and stream water. His face is turned slightly toward Silver, though his expression reveals nothing, a mask of his inner turmoil.

Silver is cross-legged by the fire, gently grinding dried herbs for more potions with the edge of a stone. She hums quietly, tuneless. Not for anyone else, just for herself.

Matt hears the rhythm of her breath. The soft flick of each movement. The rustle of her cloak as she shifts.

And he knows.

Now.

It's going to break him if he doesn't ask.

His voice is low and hoarse when it finally cuts through the quiet.

"You tried to stop me, didn't you?" Matt's voice is a mix of accusation and almost desperation.

Silver looks up slowly, hands stilling over the small bowl in her lap. The firelight paints soft gold over her pale elven chain armor and catches the curve of her brows as they knit together.

She doesn't answer at first.

Then...

"…Yes."

A quiet beat. Then Silver adds, voice softer, "And when I found him dead in his home, I tried to save him. But my spells weren't enough."

Everything stills.

She senses it, not with her ears, but with her heart. The way his breath catches. How something behind his silence shatters.

And then, like a dam bursting, the Hells break loose.

Matt rises like a storm, tearing himself off the ground. The red behind his eyes flares hotter, sharper. More fiery.

The holy sigils etched into the chains sputter out like dying stars.

And the chains fall.

"YOU TRIED TO SAVE HIM?" he roars, his voice cracking like a war drum against stone.

Ashen Oath ignites in his grasp without him even reaching for it, flame racing up the blade like it's been waiting.

Silver gasps, and so does Matt... barely a heartbeat behind her.

His hands weren't supposed to move like that.

The blade wasn't supposed to rise.

But it does.

And then it lunges.

Ashen Oath rears toward her like a beast on a leash, hatred pulsing down the steel.

His fury fuels it.

Matt snarls, furious now, but not at her.

He throws the sword aside hard. It crashes against the far wall with a hiss and a crack.

And in the same breath, he surges forward, grabs her by the shoulders, and drives her back.

Her back collides with the cave wall with a rough jolt. Her breath catches. But she isn't hurt; her armor absorbs the blow. She's just… stunned by the impact. The air just almost knocked from her lungs.

Matt is kneeling in front of her, but his presence still towers, trembling. His hands shake with a vulnerability he's struggling to hide.

Silver lifts her hands, not to defend but to steady him.

"Matt… breathe..."

"I didn't mean—" he choked. "I didn't mean for it to—"

"I believe you," she whispers. "You looked just as surprised as I was."

His jaw locks. His breath comes in ragged bursts.

She can tell he's thinking and overthinking everything.

"I told you," she says gently, "the High Seer said he needed to be stopped. That justice would come for him, just not by our hands. I tried to bring him back… so he could face it. So no one else would have to die."

Matt shudders. Something shifts behind Matt's eyes. A memory. Blistering. Bright. Years ago, he could no longer remember the woman's name. But he remembers the dark alley. The storms. The man who cornered her. He remembers stepping in, not with fire, not with fury... but restraint. He remembers dragging the attacker into the light. Leaving him tied to a lamppost, bloodied but breathing, the authorities arriving just as dawn broke. He remembers the trial. The survivor's testimony. The sentence passed down by a court, not a sword. He'd felt pride. Not the burning kind. The quiet, hard-earned kind. Justice had come. Not through him. But because of him. That version of himself… he hasn't seen him in a long time.

"You…" he swallows hard. "You did everything right. You've always done everything right."

Her brows furrow. "Matt—"

If only he knew she hadn't. Not really.

She's done everything wrong since the start. And she knows it. Feels it.

"Even after what he did. You still… tried."

"I thought it was what Selûne would've wanted so that he couldn't escape his punishment."

He leans in without meaning to, just barely brushing his forehead to hers. His voice is hoarse.

"I want to hate you for it. It feels like the logical reaction."

Her breath catches.

"…Why don't you?" she asks.

He doesn't answer.

Matt's breath falters. So does hers.

He can hear it.

The steady rhythm of her heart stutters beneath her armor.

He can smell the faint, warm scent of moonflower still clinging to her cloak.

Her lips part, just slightly, and he hears the softest hitch in her breath, like a prayer trapped between hesitation and hope.

His own pulse hammers like a drum against his ribs.

The weight of his gaze drops to her mouth.

He almost kisses her.

The space between them goes still and breathless. The weight of it, of what could be... lingers.

He doesn't know what he wants. Not yet. His actions puzzle even himself.

But he wants something.

Instead of a kiss, Matt moves even closer to her. A rough, desperate embrace. His arms lock around her like he's trying to hold himself together with the shape of her kindness.

And she lets him.

She doesn't fight it.

Not this time.

Her arms come around him slowly, instinctively. She presses her cheek against his shoulder, like that might be enough to keep the weight of the world off his back.

And gods…

Gods, she doesn't know how to let him go either.

She's not even sure what will happen when they reach her Order... if they'll see Matt the way she does, if the Seer will still say "intervene" or simply "end this."

He's clinging to her like mercy might vanish if he lets go.

But she's holding on just as tightly.

And the thought of walking him to a fate she disagrees with...

It's already starting to break her.

His breath is uneven against her shoulder.

And then his voice comes like a prayer dragged through broken glass.

"Don't ever try to make me good again... Please..."

But gods, the way he clings to her says something else entirely.

Tighter than anything, like mercy, might vanish if he lets go.

So, Silver stays.

She wraps her arms around him, steady and warm, and says nothing more. The moment doesn't need words.

Time passes, and the campfire dwindles. She doesn't know how long they have been sitting like that, pressed together on the stone floor of the cave. The shadows lean in close. Every so often, she feels his chest stutter with uneven breaths, feels the heat of tears he won't admit press against her collar.

Eventually, a soft rustling draws her attention.

Sage, small and even further mended, their broad and large ears twitching, hops delicately into her lap.

Silver smiles faintly, one arm still curled around Matt. She reaches down gently with the other hand to welcome the bunny into her arms.

She'd learned their name earlier before they left the stream, when she sipped on a potion of animal speaking and whispered softly, wanting to offer comfort. "Sage," the little creature had answered shyly.

It suited them. Soft. Resilient.

Now, Sage settles in quietly against her, their tiny form radiating warmth and peace.

She cradles the bunny in one arm, the other still wrapped around Matt.

Neither of them moves.

And when his breathing finally evens out, heavier, slower, Silver realizes he's fallen asleep like that.

Holding her.

She doesn't wake him. She doesn't shift.

Not even when her back starts to ache, or her limbs grow stiff beneath his weight.

She stays still. Keeps him grounded.

Because after everything he's carried thus far, everything that almost tore him apart—

She's not about to let go.

Not tonight.

She might not ever, if she can help it.

The softness she's felt for him from the beginning hasn't faded. If anything, it's only broken wider.

Because even when the world called him a monster...

She still saw the divine paladin beneath the ash.

✧༚˚⟡༺❖༻⟡˚༚✧

📚 Available on ao3 too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66458593

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