only gamble with birth control

The sidewalks of Hell’s Kitchen still glistened from the rain that had fallen an hour earlier, reflecting the glow of storefront signs and passing headlights in fractured streaks of gold and red. The city never really slept – not in this neighbourhood – and even this late at night there were voices drifting from bars, distant sirens somewhere farther downtown, the low groan of buses lumbering through intersections.

Matt walked beside you with one hand wrapped around yours and the other loosely holding his cane. His suit jacket was slung over his shoulder despite the chill in the air, and his tie was loosened. He looked tired in that familiar way he always did lately – like sleep was something that happened to other people – but tonight there was a lightness to him that hadn’t been there in weeks.

Maybe it was because the case at the office had finally settled.

Maybe it was because Foggy had practically shoved the two of you out the door after catching you lingering by Matt’s desk again.

Or maybe it was simply because the two of you had stopped pretending.

“You know,” you said, nudging his shoulder lightly, “Foggy’s getting way too smug about this.”

Matt smiled immediately, the expression slow and crooked. “About what?”

“You and me.”

“That’s fair.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. “He earned the right to be smug. He spent… what, a year listening to me deny I was in love with you?”

You laughed softly. “You denied it?”

“Oh, aggressively.”

“You are such a liar.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he corrected. “Different profession entirely.”

You snorted under your breath, and Matt’s grin widened at the sound. He always reacted to your laughter like it was something precious — something he wanted to memorise. Even now his head tilted slightly toward you, listening closer than sighted people ever did.

It still amazed you sometimes, how attentive he was. Matt noticed everything: the subtle hitch in your breathing when you were stressed, the way your footsteps changed when you were angry, the difference between your real laugh and the fake polite one you used around difficult clients.

Sometimes it felt impossible to hide from him.

Not that you wanted to.

“I still think Karen knew before either of us did.”

“Oh, Karen definitely knew.”

“And she said nothing.”

“She likes watching people suffer.”

“That explains why she works with you.”

Matt barked out a laugh at that – an actual laugh, warm and unguarded – and your chest tightened at the sound. You loved those moments most because they were rarer than they should’ve been. Matt carried so much tension inside himself all the time, so much guilt and responsibility and exhaustion that seemed woven directly into him. But every now and then, usually late at night when the city quieted enough, he let himself relax around you.

And when he did, he was unbearably charming.

“You’re mean to me,” he said lightly.

“You like it.”

His smile softened. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I do.”

The conversation drifted after that into easier things. Stories from the office. Foggy’s latest disastrous attempt at flirting with a waitress during lunch. Fran cornering Matt in the apartment hallway earlier that week to complain about the laundry machines again. Matt mimicked her perfectly, down to her exasperated sighs and sharp little gestures, and you nearly doubled over laughing.

“Don’t encourage her,” you managed between breaths.

“She likes me.”

“She manipulates you.”

“She gives me empanadas.”

“God, you’re easy.”

“You offering food, too?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Maybe.”

“Then I’m yours forever.”

His voice dipped lower on the last part, teasing but sincere underneath it. Your stomach flipped in that ridiculous way it always did when he said things like that — casual little comments that somehow landed with startling honesty.

By the time you reached your apartment building, the laughter had faded into something softer. The street around you buzzed faintly with distant traffic, but your corner of the block felt oddly still. Matt stopped when you did, cane tapping lightly against the concrete before settling beside him, his other hand remaining wrapped around yours.

For a moment neither of you spoke. You looked up at him beneath the amber wash of the streetlamp. His red-tinted glasses hid his eyes, but you could always tell when his attention narrowed entirely onto you. It was in the slight turn of his head, the stillness that came over him, the way his mouth softened at the corners.

His thumb traced another slow line across your hand. Then, quietly and with a small grin pulling at his mouth, he said, “Alright. I’m gonna kiss you.”

You laughed softly, and so did he before he stepped closer, slowly enough to give you time to close the distance yourself if you wanted to. He always did that. Careful in ways people rarely expected him to be. His free hand found your waist gently. Then he kissed you.

At first it was soft — warm lips brushing yours in a slow, familiar rhythm that immediately melted the lingering chill from your skin. Matt kissed like he did everything else emotionally: cautiously at the beginning, like he was trying not to take more than he deserved. But there was always hunger underneath him, too. You felt it in the way his fingers tightened slightly against your hip. In the quiet breath he exhaled through his nose when you kissed him back harder. In the subtle shift closer until there wasn’t space left between your bodies anymore.

Your hand slid up into his dark hair, and Matt made a soft sound against your mouth that nearly unravelled you on the spot. “Careful,” you murmured teasingly between kisses. “Someone might see us.”

“Mm.” Another kiss. Slower this time. Deeper. “Let them.”

You laughed softly against his lips, but it dissolved into another breath when he tilted his head and kissed you again with more intention. Matt always seemed slightly surprised by affection, even now. Like part of him still expected tenderness to disappear if he held onto it too tightly. Sometimes after long days at the office you’d catch him going quiet when you touched him first, almost stunned by how naturally you did it. And tonight, standing outside your apartment with his mouth warm against yours and his hand steady at your waist, you could feel that same carefulness giving way to something more vulnerable.

He pulled back only slightly, forehead resting against yours. “You know,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “I had an entire walk-home speech planned.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to it?”

“You laughed at me.”

You grinned. “That sounds fragile for a lawyer.”

“It was a very good speech.”

“You can still give it.”

Matt considered that for a second before leaning in to kiss you once more instead — slower now, lingering. “Nah,” he murmured against your lips. “Think I made my point.”

Your heart felt embarrassingly full. You brushed your thumb lightly along his stubbled jaw. “You wanna come upstairs?”

There was the briefest pause — not hesitation exactly, but consideration. Matt was always thoughtful about boundaries, about making sure you meant what you said. Then his expression softened into something warm enough to make your chest ache. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”

You squeezed his hand and guided him toward the apartment entrance. Matt followed easily beside you, cane tapping lightly against the front steps before folding neatly once you got inside. He slipped off his shoes near the door automatically, setting his cane carefully atop the table beside your front door. There was something deeply intimate about that. Not dramatic intimacy. Not cinematic. Just Matt in your apartment late at night, loosening his tie the rest of the way while you kicked off your shoes beside him.

You watched him shrug out of his dress shirt cuffs, rolling them up his forearms with tired precision, before you asked, “You want something to drink?”

“Water’s good.”

“Boring answer.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

Matt leaned against your kitchen counter, smiling faintly. “Occupational hazard.” You handed him a glass, and his fingers brushed yours when he took it. “Thank you.”

There was that softness again. That quiet sincerity he carried into small moments when nobody else was paying attention. You moved closer without really thinking about it, resting your hand lightly against his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat was steady and strong, and Matt covered your hand with his own immediately.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He nodded once. “Yeah,” he said after a second. “Just… happy.” The honesty in it caught you off guard. Matt ducked his head slightly afterward like he regretted admitting it aloud, but you smiled and stepped closer instead.

“You know,” you murmured, “for someone who planned a whole speech, you’re getting really sentimental.”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

You laughed quietly, and Matt smiled again before reaching for you instinctively, fingertips brushing your waist until he found you completely.

Then he pulled you in gently, pressing another lingering kiss to your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. There was no urgency, no hunger — just a deep, patient affection that made your heart ache. You felt his other hand settle at the small of your back, pulling you against him. The warmth of his body seeped through the layers of your clothes.

You pulled back after a long, languid moment and took his hand. “Come with me.”

He followed without hesitation, his fingers interlaced with yours as you led him through your apartment and into your bedroom. The room was dim, lit only by the city glow filtering through the curtains. You turned to face him, and he stood there, his head tipped slightly downward as if he could see your outline with his other senses.

You reached for the hem of your sweater and pulled it over your head. He heard the soft rustle of fabric, and a quiet breath escaped him. “Let me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped forward, his hands finding your shoulders first, then sliding down your arms. He traced the straps of your bra, then hooked his fingers under them, easing them down. Each movement was deliberate, reverent, as if he were memorising every inch of you through touch alone. You undid the clasp of your bra and let it fall, and his hands skimmed over your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples.

You shivered under his touch before you returned the favour, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, pressing kisses to his collarbone as the fabric parted. He let out a low hum of pleasure, his head falling back. You pushed the shirt off his broad shoulders, and soon, you were both naked, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your skin.

Matt reached for you, pulling you into a kiss that turned deep and searching. Then he guided you gently backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed, urging you to lean down onto your elbows, then onto your back as he followed you, settling his hips between your thighs. The weight of him was grounding, solid, but there was no rush. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips.

He removed his glasses, setting them on your bedside table, before he began to press a trail of soft kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, between your breasts. His lips travelled lower, his hands caressing your ribs, your stomach. When he reached your thighs, he parted them gently, settling his shoulders between your legs and kissing the inside of your thigh, then the other, each kiss deliberate and tender. When his mouth found the heat between your legs, you gasped, your hand reaching down to grip his hair.

Matt ate you out slowly, his tongue working in long, languid strokes. His fingers parted your slick folds, and he hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He took his time, drawing out every sensation, learning your rhythms.

“Fuck,” you moaned softly, brows pinching lightly and head falling back against the pillow momentarily before lifting your head again to watch him between your thighs. When he found the spot that made you arch your back, he lingered there, coaxing you higher until you finally shattered — a soft cry escaping your lips as he drank you in, his hands stroking your hips through the aftershocks.

He kissed his way back up your body, his lips tasting of yourself. He found your mouth and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock pressed against your thigh, hard and ready, but he didn’t rush. He reached down between you, his fingers brushing your slick entrance, making sure you were ready, and then he was guiding himself to your opening.

“Okay?” he asked, his forehead against yours.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely, and you both let out a long, shuddering breath. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. Then he began to move — slow, deep, steady thrusts that rocked your body into the mattress. His rhythm was gentle, each roll of his hips a silent declaration of care.

“That’s it, sweetheart…” Matt murmured, his hand coming up to rest on the front of your throat. Not to squeeze, not to exert any pressure — just to feel.

His palm lay flat against your skin, his fingers lightly curving around your neck, and you realised what he was doing. He was feeling the vibrations of your pleasure — the hum of your moans, the pulse of your heartbeat, the tremors that ran through your body. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, his expression one of rapt concentration, as if he were reading you like braille.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I can feel every sound you make. Every little gasp. God, I love that.”

You reached up and threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging gently as he thrust deeper. He groaned, and the sound was raw, honest, unguarded. He lowered his head to bury his face in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His hand never left your throat, his thumb stroking softly across your pulse point.

The pace built gradually, not frantic but more urgent, more intimate. His hips pressed harder, his breathing grew ragged, and you felt him losing himself in the feel of you. He whispered your name like a prayer, over and over, his movements growing sloppier as his climax approached. You were close again, too, the friction and the heat and the tenderness pushing you toward the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispered against your ear. “Let me feel it.”

His words, his touch, the steady rhythm of his body — it was enough. A few deep thrusts later, his hips angled *just right*, and suddenly he struck that hidden place inside you that unravelled everything at once. The jolt of pleasure was white-hot, tearing through you so swiftly that you couldn’t hold it back. A moan spilled from your pillowed lips as your body clenched around him, pulsing in waves you couldn’t control. He didn’t falter — he drove into you steadily, prolonging the bliss until you were shaking beneath him. Your breath hitched and your thighs trembled as the ecstasy consumed you, your eyes squeezed shut whilst every nerve lit like fire.

That was all he needed. With a low, broken moan, he pressed his face into the crook of your neck and buried himself to the hilt as he emptied himself inside you, spilling inside you with a shudder that seemed to wring every last ounce of tension from his body. His hips ground into yours, his body tense, as he rode out the waves with you, his hips stuttering to a halt.

He collapsed against you, his weight a reassuring pressure, his face buried in your hair. You both lay there, breathing hard, the only sounds your mingled heartbeats and the distant sirens of Hell’s Kitchen. After a long moment, he shifted, pulling out gently and rolling onto his side, one arm wrapping around you and pulling you close.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Thank you,” he said softly, the words full of meaning beyond just the moment.

You turned in his arms to face him, your hand finding his cheek. “For what?”

“For trusting me,” he said, his thumb tracing your spine.

You kissed him, soft and slow, and felt him smile against your lips. The night outside hummed on, but in your small apartment, wrapped in Matt’s arms, time felt like it had no meaning. You were just two people, learning each other, one gentle touch at a time. When you pulled back, Matt’s forehead rested against yours, his breathing finally evening out in the quiet dark. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the radiator hissing softly somewhere across the apartment, but he stayed close like he couldn’t quite bear to put any distance between you yet.

His fingers moved lazily along your arm, memorising you in the absent, affectionate way he always did. You had started noticing it weeks ago — how Matt touched like he was learning a language nobody else could hear.

“You’re smiling,” he murmured suddenly.

You let out a quiet laugh. “You can tell?”

“I can hear it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, and you felt him grin faintly before he turned his head, pressing another kiss against your temple this time — slower, sleepier. The kind of kiss that held no urgency at all.

Just affection.