#daredevil x reader

Once upon a time, on an island in New York where the buildings stood uncomfortably close together, there was a neighborhood filled with peculiar people and small, ordinary miracles. It was crowded and noisy and occasionally troublesome, but there was something comforting about it all the same.

Hell’s Kitchen had always been that way.

The butcher knew the baker. The baker knew the bartender. The bartender knew the cop who lived three floors above the florist and the florist knew exactly which nights the old woman across the street would leave her windows open. People knew which children belonged to which families, which restaurants gave an extra helping to anyone who looked hungry, and which shopkeepers would let you run a tab when the week had been unkind. They knew when someone’s marriage was failing before the couple themselves even did.

It was not a quiet neighborhood and there were always sirens somewhere in the distance. Delivery trucks rumbled down the streets before sunrise. Music drifted from open windows, arguments spilled onto fire escapes, and somewhere, at nearly any hour, someone was shouting for someone else. Still, the Kitchen had its routines.

There was Nelson’s Meats, where the morning deliveries arrived before most of the neighborhood had poured its first cup of coffee. And there was the law office above it, where three attorneys spent their days arguing over things that had very little to do with meat and rather more to do with people. There was Franklin Nelson, who loved everybody and believed everybody ought to know it. There was Karen Page, the attorney-to-be and investigator who somehow always knew when something strange was afoot. And there was Matthew Murdock, who lately preferred not to know anyone at all. Besides his two best friends of course.

He had spent years learning the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen. The bells of Clinton Church and the subway trains deep beneath the pavement. He knew the neighborhood by heart and could identify the footsteps of countless people within it, without ever being able to see their faces. Which was why, when the wind changed one autumn morning, he noticed.

It came down the street, warm and strange, carrying with it the scent of something unfamiliar and sweet. By noon, there was a moving truck parked beside Nelson’s. By evening, the windows of the empty storefront next door were covered in brown paper.

No one knew who had chosen this particular shop or where they'd appeared from. But in a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone, it was only a matter of time before someone found out.

You had lived in enough places to know that every city had its own sound. Some were quiet in the mornings and only came alive after dark. Some hummed constantly, a low, distant thrum that you eventually stopped noticing. Hell’s Kitchen seemed determined to make itself heard. It was loud, but not unpleasantly so. You stood on the sidewalk with one hand on your hip, while your daughter sat on the curb beside you, watching the moving men carry the last of your boxes through the front door.

“Are we actually staying here?”

You looked down at your daughter. There was hope in the question, and that was the part that made you hesitate. You’d never been very good at making promises about staying. “That’s the plan.” She narrowed her eyes. “The real plan?”

You laughed softly. “Yes baby, the real plan.”

She seemed satisfied with that for now. You looked up at the building. The brick was old, the windows needed washing, and the storefront downstairs had been empty long enough for the glass to gather a rather disgusting layer of grime. But it was yours now, and the little apartment above it was yours, too. One narrow staircase. a tiny kitchen, and two bedrooms. If you were being optimistic, it was just enough room for the life you had promised your daughter you were going to build.

It was more than you’d had in some places, but less than you’d had in others. But the two of you had learned a long time ago not to ask more a place when you didn't know how long it intended to keep you. You simply unpacked. After all, your family had never been particularly good at staying.

The women before you had followed the wind for generations. It began with a dream. Every woman in your family began having it when she came of age. The same dream and always the same words.

Cuando cambia el viento, cambia el camino. When the wind changes, the path changes.

Your mother had dreamed it and your grandmother had dreamed it. Eventually, so had you. The meaning had never been questioned, and when the wind changed, you moved.

There was always a reason afterward. A better opportunity. A suddenly terrible landlord or a town that stopped feeling right. A marriage that ended-you were especially grateful for that escape. A business that was doomed to fail or a new beginning that seemed to be waiting somewhere else. The women in your family had always been very good at beginnings. You were less certain about endings. But now you had Estrella to consider.

You glanced toward the storefront. Her nose was pressed against the glass. “Can I see?”

“You’ve been looking at it for twenty minutes.”

“I want to see better, pleaaaase ma?"

You smiled and crossed the sidewalk to the front door. The little bell above it gave a tired jingle as you pushed it open. "Come on."

Dust, old wood, stale air, and the faintest trace of whatever business had occupied the space before you flooded your nose. You stepped inside anyway. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, catching particles of dust in the air and turning them gold. She wandered ahead of you. “This is it?” she said as she turned in a slow circle, “Where will the chocolate de mesa and the cocoa powder go? And the trufas?”

You pointed toward the long checkout counter along the right side wall. “That's where we'll display the finished chocolates." She followed your finger as you then pointed toward the little corner, where you’d already decided the copper pots would go. “There will be our prep station." Her face brightened. "And I get to help now right? You said I'm old enough."

You laughed. “Estrella.”

“What?”

“We haven’t even cleaned yet.”

She considered this. “Can we clean fast?” You looked around the empty shop. At the dusty shelves, bare counters, and mountain of boxes stacked against the walls. The old floor that would need a heavy scrubbing until your back protested. Then you looked at your daughter.

She was already imagining it, you could see it in her face. People coming in from the street. Chocolate displayed beneath glass. Warm drinks steaming in little cups. Her sitting behind the counter after school, doing her homework while you worked. A place that belonged to both of you.

Maybe that was why you smiled and spoke your next words. “Yeah,” you said, rolling up your sleeves. “We can definitely clean fast mija.”

The next three days were filled with a plethora of dust bunnies and lavender soap. And the occasional argument over where a particular box was supposed to go.

By the second morning, you had learned that the floor in the shop creaked loudly whenever you stepped on the third plank from the counter. By the third, your daughter had learned exactly which floorboards complained and delighted in demonstrating them for you.

~Creaak~

Your head whipped around and she froze. You stared at her and she smiled apologetically. “Sorry mamá." You narrowed your eyes.

~Creaaak~

“Estrella.” She just dissolved into giggles and ran. You sighed, but you were smiling too.

The shop slowly began to look less like an abandoned storefront and more like something you could actually imagine people walking into. The shelves were polished and oiled until the wood regained some of its color. The windows were washed. The counters were wiped down. Boxes disappeared one by one, their contents finding places in the various cupboards and drawers. Your copper pots found their home near the back. The tempering slab was set up beside them.

Glass display cases arrived two days later, and Estrella insisted on helping you clean every single one. You let her. She was always careful. “Do you think people will come?” she asked while cleaning the last one.

You looked up from the stack of paper bags you were sorting. “People always come for chocolate.” She giggled at that. “Do you think the neighbors like chocolate?” You smiled. “I guess we’re about to find out, I'm thinking we'll open this weekend.” She squealed at that and started wiping the glass faster, while you stood and started tearing down the brown paper covering up the windows.

That afternoon you began experimenting. You didn't need to, you knew exactly what you wanted to sell. But there was something about a new place that made you want to understand it through food. So you made chocolate.

Dark chocolate truffles with cinnamon.

Cacao nib bark.

Small bonbons filled with dulce de leche.

And eventually, chocolate de metate. You ground the grainy mixture slowly until the cacao, cinnamon, and panela became a smooth paste. You formed the discs and set them aside on a sheet to harden. With the turning leaves it was inevitable that people would want something warm to drink, like hot chocolate. The shop finally began to smell familiar and homey.

Roasted cacao.

Cinnamon.

Vanilla.

Caramel.

A little chile de árbol.

The scent slipped beneath the door and onto the sidewalk. You had a feeling it wouldn't take long for people to notice.

The first customer came early the next morning, although technically you weren't open yet.

You noticed him because he stood outside the window for nearly five minutes before finally working up the courage to open the door. The little bell above it chimed, and you looked up from where you were arranging the chocolates behind the glass.

He was an older man, perhaps in his eighties, with a neatly pressed coat and a wool cap tucked beneath one arm. He paused just inside the doorway as though he had forgotten why he’d come in. His eyes moved slowly over the shop. He gazed at the polished wooden shelves, the copper pots, the rows of chocolates nestled into their little paper cups, and then finally landed on you. “Hello,” you said warmly. “Hello.” His voice was soft.

You smiled. “Welcome in, take your time and let me know if you'd like any suggestions." That seemed to help. His shoulders loosened a little, and he stepped farther inside. “It’s lovely,” he said.

“Thank you. We’re still getting everything together and we'll be officially open tomorrow.”

“Well, it looks finished to me.”

You laughed. “That’s because you’re being very kind.” He smiled at that, though he still seemed a little nervous. You had seen that particular sort of shyness before. People sometimes felt silly walking into a confectionery shop alone, especially when they didn’t know what they wanted. There was an expectation that they ought to know something about chocolate beyond I like it or I don’t like it, and you had never understood why. Chocolate was supposed to make people happy, not make them feel like they were on trial.

“I've kind of been waiting for you to open," he admitted quietly with a chuckle. “I’ve walked past several times.”

“Ohh yes, no wonder you looked familiar.”

That made him blush. You leaned your elbows lightly against the counter. “So what can I tempt you with?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He glanced toward the display. “I’m not very adventurous.”

“That’s all right, most people don't think they are either. They just don’t like admitting it.”

That earned another quiet laugh. You started pointing things out, because giving him something to focus on seemed easier than leaving him standing there feeling watched. “We have dark chocolate with sea salt, milk chocolate with caramel, cinnamon truffles, a few filled bonbons, and those are ones made with dulce de leche.” You gestured toward the neat row of little chocolates. “The ones with the gold tops are orange.”

His gaze lingered there. Only for a second. But something in you tugged gently in that direction. “Actually,” you said, reaching beneath the glass. “I highly recommend you try this one.” You selected one of the orange chocolates.

He looked surprised. “That one? Why?”

You paused, not really having an answer. You’d been doing this for years, the little hunches, and the way you sometimes reached for something before you’d consciously decided why. You had always been pretty good at reading people once you got to chatting with them. “I just have a feeling you’ll like it.”

He smiled shyly, reaching out. “All right.” You placed the chocolate in his palm. He held it carefully before taking a small bite. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he stopped and his easy smile disappeared. His expression had suddenly gone somewhere far away. You waited as he swallowed. “That’s…” He looked down at the remaining piece in his fingers. “That’s orange peel." You smiled. “It is.”

“My wife used to make an orange cake.” There was something so tender in the way he said wife that you didn’t interrupt. “Every Christmas,” he continued. “She’d make it. Never bought one because she always insisted that the ones from the bakery weren’t right. And she would put an ungodly amount of orange zest in it, but it was the perfect balance of bitterness and sweet.... just like her."

You laughed softly. “She sounds particular.”

“Oh, she was.” His smile returned, but his eyes had grown damp. You reached for a napkin and offered it without making a fuss. He accepted it with a quiet thanks.

“She passed?” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” He looked down again. “It’s been… quite a few years now.” You didn’t tell him that you were sorry again. Wouldn't give him the usual empty condolences people offered when they didn’t know what else to say. Instead, you smiled. “Would she have approved of the orange in this?" He looked at you for a long moment. “I think she would have.”

From somewhere behind you came the faint scrape of a chair. You glanced toward the back of the shop. Estrella had been sitting at one of the little tables you’d put in the corner, coloring quietly. She had been quiet for several minutes now, which should have been your first clue that she was listening. The old man noticed her too. “Oh, hello. Is that your daughter?”

“Yes! Baby this is…” You paused, realizing you hadn’t actually asked his name. He smiled. “Stan.”

“Stan,” you repeated. “And this is my daughter, Estrella.”

She smiled politely. “Hello.”

“Hello, sweetheart.”

She studied him carefully. You recognized that look. Estrella tilted her head, then she looked at the chocolate in his hand. “You’re happy.” He blinked, seemingly taken aback by her observation. You closed your eyes for half a second, about to scold her. When you opened them you saw Stan looking between the two of you. Then, to your surprise, he smiled. “I suppose I am.”

She nodded as though that settled the matter. “You were sad before.” Ay, Dios mío. You gave her a look. “Estrella.”

“But he was mamá."

The old man’s smile softened. “She’s right.” He looked toward your daughter for another moment before turning back to you. “I haven’t spoken about my wife this much in a long time, I... I try not to think about her this much." You leaned against the counter. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Remembering."

“No.” He looked down at the little orange chocolate again. “I don’t suppose it is.”

He bought a small box. Twelve orange chocolates. When you handed them over, he hesitated, glancing toward your daughter briefly with an oddly contemplative look. “Do you think you could put a few of the cinnamon ones in there too?” Estrella tilted her head. She did that sometimes when she was feeling something you couldn’t. You just smiled. "Of course.”

By the time he stepped back onto the sidewalk, he was smiling. You watched him through the window as he tucked the little box carefully beneath his arm. Estrella came to stand beside you. “He’s gonna call his daughter." You looked down at her. “Is he?”

“Yes, soon.”

You glanced back through the glass. He had stopped halfway down the block and was standing with one hand in his coat pocket, staring at the box. Then he reached for his phone. You smiled. “How did you know that?”

Estrella shrugged. “He misses her too.”

You looked at your daughter for a moment. Then back at the man standing alone on the sidewalk. You didn’t know what to say to that. Always so perceptive, your little star was. So you simply reached down and smoothed her hair.

“Come on, mi estrella. Hay mucho que hacer.” There's a lot to do.

By late morning, the shop was still not quite finished, but close enough that you could stand outside and look at it without seeing all the work that remained.

You’d put the little chalkboard sign beside the door, written the day’s selection in neat white lettering, and arranged several boxes of chocolates in the front window. A small vase of flowers sat on the counter inside, something you’d picked up from the little market down the street because the storefront had just felt too bare without them. You were still fussing with the display outside when you heard the familiar sounds of the neighborhood settling into its afternoon rhythm.

A delivery truck groaned somewhere down the block. Someone shouted from an open window. A car horn answered another from the intersection and you smiled to yourself. You liked it here already. Maybe that was dangerous. You’d learned not to become too attached to places before.

But there was something comforting about this particular stretch of Hell’s Kitchen. People passed one another without hurrying quite so much as they did in other parts of the city. A woman walking a terrier had already stopped twice that morning to admire the chocolates through the window. The man from the laundromat across the street had introduced himself. Someone at the bakery had sent over two pastries with a note welcoming you to the neighborhood. You straightened the little chalkboard and stepped back to admire your work. “There,” you murmured.

“Looks good.”

You turned. The woman with the terrier was passing again. Wow, she walks a lot. “Thank you.” You were still smiling once she'd gone when you heard footsteps approaching from behind you again. You glanced up and promptly forgot what you had been doing.

The man walking toward you was very handsome.

That was your first thought. Your second was that he looked like he was in a terribly foul mood. He was dressed in a dark suit, his hair neatly combed, a leather briefcase in one hand, and a cane in the other. He moved with an almost irritating sort of confidence that suggested he knew exactly where he was going despite never looking in your direction. Or any direction for that matter, if the dark glasses were any indication. There was something almost severe about him. You stepped slightly aside to give him room. Then, because you were you, you smiled. “Good morning.”

He slowed. Barely. His head turned toward you, just enough that you realized he had heard you, though his expression didn’t change. Up close, you could see more of him. The sharp line of his jaw beneath the short stubble, the bruising on his cheekbone-geez, that looked really bad-and the little crease between his brows that suggested he had been frowning long before he’d come within ten feet of you. His red-tinted glasses hid his eyes completely, but somehow that only made his expression seem more intense.

“Morning,” he replied, the word completely flat. You smiled anyway and said, “You having a busy day?” That earned you an actual pause just past you. His head tilted a fraction over his shoulder toward you. “Something like that.” He didn’t elaborate. You weren’t sure why you had expected him to. “Well,” you said, still trying to be pleasant, “I hope it gets better-”

His mouth tightened. “I’m late.” And then he kept walking. You stood there blinking.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Didn’t offer so much as a sorry for brushing you off. The only acknowledgment you got was the steady tap of his cane against the pavement as he continued down the sidewalk, completely unaffected by the fact that he’d just managed to make you regret possessing basic social skills.

You watched him with a baffled smile cross the few feet between your shop and the one next door. And then he walked directly inside. You frowned and looked at the butcher shop's sign above. Nelson's Meats. “Okay” you scoffed, turning back toward your flowers. “Vete a comprar tu carne, cabrón.” Go buy your meat, asshole.

You picked up the little vase you’d been fussing with and moved it half an inch to the left. Then another half inch to the right, frowning at it. You were still thinking about him, which annoyed you more than the interaction itself. There was no reason for it. He was attractive, yes. But handsome men weren't exempt from being dicks. You had learned that one the hard way, your parting gift from that experience coming in the form of your beautiful daughter.

There was something about the way he’d spoken to you that had rubbed you particularly wrong. Not just because he had been in a hurry, you understood being in a hurry. It was the tone. That clipped interruption, as though the fact that he had somewhere to be meant the rest of the world had ceased to exist. You shook your head. Whatever. You were not going to waste another thought on a rude man who apparently bought his cuts of meat in the middle of the day, dressed in his Sunday Best.

You were shaken out of your thoughts as a customer wandered past the window and approached the open door. You smiled automatically. “Good morning!” They replied with a warm "Hello!"

Much better. You were going to like the people of Hell’s Kitchen. Just perhaps not that one.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant blur. By the time the sun had begun to sink lower between the buildings, you had sold more chocolate than you’d expected to sell before your official opening. Not enough to empty the cases, thankfully, but enough that you were beginning to think perhaps you’d been worrying for nothing.

People had come in curious. Some had asked what made your chocolate different. Others had simply said that it all looked good and trusted you to tell them what to get. You liked those customers best. There was something lovely about watching someone take that first bite and waiting to see how their expression changed.

You smiled at the thought as you began straightening the display cases. There was something satisfying about seeing little gaps where chocolates had been. Proof that people had come in. Proof that they'd liked something enough to take it home

Estrella had spent most of the afternoon coloring at the little table in the corner. Every so often, she’d come behind the counter to help you put chocolates into little boxes, taking the job very seriously.

By early evening, you were beginning to think about closing. The last of the day’s sunlight stretched across the floorboards in long golden stripes. You were wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimed.

You looked up as a man walked in first. He was broad shouldered, and dressed in a suit that looked as though it had seen considerably more use than it deserved. His tie was undone and slightly crooked, his sandy blonde hair a little mussed, and he had the sort of face that immediately put you at ease. A woman followed him. She was blonde, elegant without looking like she was trying to be, and had a quiet sort of attentiveness about her. Her eyes moved around the shop, taking in the shelves and displays before settling on you.

"Hi!" you greeted.

"Hi," the man said brightly. "Sorry. Are you still open?"

"Technically. I haven't closed up yet so you're safe."

"Excellent. Because we've been smelling chocolate all day and it's becoming a serious workplace distraction." The woman beside him laughed and you smiled. "Well, then I'm glad to be of service." He stepped closer to the counter. "We're your neighbors."

"Oh!" You looked past them toward the door. "Across the street?"

He laughed. "No, next door."

You blinked, confused, and he pointed toward the ceiling. "We're the law firm upstairs." Your eyebrows lifted. "There's a law firm upstairs?"

"Yep."

You looked toward the wall as though you might somehow see it through the plaster and brick. "I thought it was all part of the butcher shop."

"It is," he said, grinning when you stared at him with an increasingly bewildered expression. "Long story."

You laughed. "Well, I'm glad to finally meet you."

"Foggy." He offered his hand and you shook it, offering your own name. "Nice to meet you, Foggy." The woman smiled and extended her hand next. “Karen.”

“It’s lovely to meet you.”

Foggy looked around again. "We've been so stoked watching you set everything up the last few days. What do you recommend?" There was something immediately easy about them. You liked that. Foggy seemed to operate under the assumption that he’d be welcome everywhere he’d ever go, while Karen had this soft, quieter sort of confidence that made you feel as though you’d known her longer than just two minutes. You gestured toward the displays. “It depends, any preferences?”

“Chocolate.”

You laughed, still smiling as you reached for a small assortment box you’d prepared that morning. “Then I think you need to browse this.” You placed it on the counter and opened the lid. There were six chocolates inside.

A cinnamon truffle.

A salted dark chocolate bonbon.

Dulce de leche filled.

Orange zest.

A little chile infused dark chocolate.

And one milk chocolate filled with a cinnamon infused whiskey ganache.

Foggy stared at them. You pointed at the orange one. “This one is nice if you like something bright, and this one’s warmer," you said, gesturing to the cinnamon. You pointed toward the dark chocolate with chile. “That’s a little more adventurous.”

Foggy immediately reached for it, stopped when Karen caught his wrist. “No."

He looked offended. “Why not?”

“Because you have said many times that you’re a simple man, and that does not look simple.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m boring.”

You laughed again. “You can absolutely be adventurous, it's not that spicy I promise.” He gestured enthusiastically at you. “YES- thank you! I like you.” Foggy took the chile chocolate and Karen chose the liquor filled. You watched them both take their first bites. His eyebrows rose right as Karen hummed. “Oh, that’s good. This-" Foggy pointed at the chocolate, holding up the little half eaten piece “This is being stocked in the office. You’re gonna make a fortune off us.”

Karen rolled her eyes at him as you moved to put away the partially eaten assortment box. “Actually, I was making something for the neighbors nearby. I thought it might be nice.” You reached beneath the counter and brought out two boxes tied with twine. They weren’t elaborate. Just larger assortments you’d put together that morning, each containing a few of the chocolates you’d made and a card. You handed one to Foggy and then Karen accepted the second one. “This is really sweet," she said.

A small voice came from the corner. "Ma." You looked over and Estrella had abandoned her coloring. She was watching the two strangers with quiet interest. "Come say hello," you replied. She slid out of her chair and came over.

Foggy smiled. “Oh- is this your daughter?” You nodded. “Estrella.” She came closer, peeking around your side. “This is Foggy and Karen they’re our neighbors.”

Foggy crouched slightly so that he was closer to her height. “Hi, nice to meet you!” She stared, studying him. “Hi.” He smiled, his expression wavering slightly when he spoke again. “So, uh… Es-”

Her little brow furrowed. “Estrella.”

“Right. Es…tre-ya.”

She nodded. “That’s better.”

Karen covered an amused smile right as Foggy looked at you helplessly. “It’s a beautiful name. I’m just going to need a little practice.”

“Most people do," you offered consolingly.

Estrella thought about this and piped up, “You can call me Stella.” You glanced down at her. “Oh? So we like nicknames now?" She shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Foggy brightened. “Stella. Perfect.” Estrella beamed back at him and, come on, you couldn’t help smiling too. There was something almost ridiculously sweet about watching your daughter decide, within thirty seconds, that someone was acceptable. Estrella had gone very still beside you and you glanced over. You knew that look.

Foggy stood to full height again. “Well, Stella, I think we’re gonna have to come back.” She nodded seriously. “Tomorrow?” Foggy looked at you. “See? She’s already bringing in the business.”

You chuckled and leaned against the counter. Foggy tucked the little box beneath his arm. “Guess we’ll see you guys tomorrow.” Karen gave you a small wave as they headed toward the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The bell chimed as they stepped outside. You watched them disappear down the sidewalk, Foggy already saying something animatedly while Karen laughed beside him. Estrella slipped her hand into yours. “You like them. Your heart was warm and happy I could feel it.” You looked down at her and huffed.

“Yeah, guess I do.”

notes: first of all, do you guys SEE these gorgeous dividers?! the biggest, fattest thank you and kiss to Elinor @peterftpercy for surprising me with them 🥹♥️

i hope you all enjoyed this chapter even tho we didn't get a whole lotta Matty in it just yet. if it isn't obvious i'm having way too much fun with this 😛 storybook vibes, food focused scenes, and Matt being an asshole. it's like a dog hearing it's favorite words. let me know what you guys think

general taglist: @sharksausages @ifyoulovemeletmebinge @alldayeverytae @patronsaintofthirst @ash-tuhn

Disconnected. Always disconnected. 

All the extra noise inside of your head faded and muted up here. There was no mask to wear, no smile to fake, no fumbling through small talk. You didn’t have to constantly wonder what to do with your hands, or if your nervous laugh came out a little too often, or if you were talking too softly. You didn't have to explain or make excuses for yourself up here, you simply existed.

It’d never been lost on you that the only place you felt comfortable was somewhere that left you quite literally looking at the world from the outside in–sitting on the top of your apartment building staring down at Hell’s Kitchen below. While time stood frozen for you, everyone else was out there living their lives as time moved forward for them. Falling in love while on a date, or falling asleep after a long day of work. Drinking away the sting of heartbreak, or celebrating the excitement of a wedding proposal. Catching a flight for a business trip at the airport, or bringing a baby home for the first time.

Not you, though. It'd been months since you'd last gone out and celebrated anything with anyone, or felt as if there even was something worth celebrating. You had two best friends, but both of them were busy with their own families and reaching milestones that you felt like you’d only get to dream about. Occasionally you’d get invited out to grab drinks with your co-workers, and you'd awkwardly accepted a few times, but you knew the invitation was only ever given out of politeness and not a genuine desire for your company. Because that's what happened when you were the strange girl–you were never truly wanted. 

You didn’t fit in anywhere.

Growing up, you’d often wondered what was wrong with you. With the way you felt among your classmates, you'd always known that something was off with you even if you didn’t exactly understand why you were different. Now that you were older and more self-aware, you’d wondered how life could’ve been different if whatever that thing inside of you that was missing didn't separate you from everyone else. Maybe if your brain didn’t function the way it did, you wouldn't have spent every night for nearly the past month sitting on the ledge of your apartment building contemplating succumbing to gravity. Maybe everyday wouldn't be a constant game of pretend, a game which left you exhausted from a lifetime of playing it.

This world wasn't made for people like you. 

“You're crying.”

He materialized straight out of the shadows of the night itself, an odd feat he managed to accomplish every single time he visited you now that he was wearing his old black suit. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had been iffy on the details about what’d happened to the other one that offered more protection, but you were too polite to push for details. 

He melted out of the darkness without a warning, returning tonight like a stray cat seeking out your company. He’d spent every single night sitting on the ledge of your apartment building with you as you stared down at the city, oddly showing up ever since that very first night you’d decided to sit up here. He came without fail except for last night, but last night he’d sent his surly friend in his place. 

“You're back,” you greeted him.

Daredevil lowered himself down to the ledge with a fluid grace you’d never achieve as he crouched to sit. Your eyes remained fixed on the lights of the traffic moving along the street below as he casually tossed both black booted feet over the side of the building and took his usual place next to you. The familiar and heady scent of his sweat mingled with the faint tinge of exhaust fumes and something slightly sweeter as you absently reached up, fingertips gently wiping away a few of the tears you hadn’t noticed snaking wet trails down your cheeks. 

“Of course I’m back,” Daredevil replied in that gravely tone, pitching his voice a little lower and huskier than its natural register. “I apologize for my absence last night, but I didn’t leave you entirely alone.”

A soft snort met his apology. “No, you sent your friend, Frank,” you said, hand lowering to your lap. “An interesting choice of company.”

“I imagine he gave you reason number five?” the Devil inquired. 

Almost a week ago, Daredevil had decided to personally undertake what you deemed an absurd initiative to bring you what he called Reasons Not to Give Up. You’d flatly dubbed them Reasons Not to Go Splat, but he wasn’t particularly fond of hearing you call them that. 

So far he’d brought you a handful of fragrant daylilies from one of the nearby parks as a reminder about the beauty in nature, which you’d found entertaining since he’d illegally plucked them himself just for you. He’d also shared a recording on his cheap flip phone of a cellist he greatly enjoyed overhearing practicing at night, and a slice of what he claimed was the best pizza in all of Hell’s Kitchen–which he hadn’t been wrong about. He’d even brought you a ridiculous rubber chicken that looked like the Statue of Liberty and sounded like a foghorn, and it’d brought the biggest smile to your face in months. 

Last night when his friend Frank had come to join you along your spot on the rooftop, he’d brought you the comfort of not being alone–or so he said that's what Daredevil forced him to say. Though Frank had also brought you a slew of interesting and highly amusing complaints and anecdotes about his nights out with Daredevil, which you’d enjoyed surprisingly just as much as his company. 

“You really don’t need to keep doing this,” you told him. Watching one of the city buses as it slowed to a stop at a red traffic light, you wiggled your bare toes in the open air. “I know you have far more important things to be doing than sitting with a weird stranger on a rooftop every single night. Don’t you need to sleep?”

“You stopped being a stranger a long time ago,” the masked man told you. “Besides, you’re not weird. And no, not really. I don’t have the best relationship with sleep.”

“You and me both,” you muttered.

Out of your peripheral, you caught sight of something moving towards you, and the smell of sweetness tickled your nose. Glancing down, you saw the Devil’s gloved hand gently nudge your right arm with a little plastic to-go container. Inside of it sat a single red velvet cupcake topped with a perfect glob of chocolate frosting with two little devil horns peeking out of the sides of it.

Teeth sinking into the flesh of your bottom lip, you felt a grin threatening to break out across your face. He’d brought you a Daredevil cupcake. There was a bakery a few blocks from your apartment that had nearly been broken into the other week, but Daredevil had stopped the attempted robbery before the culprits had caused much damage to the storefront. In honor of his valiant efforts protecting the business, Delia’s Bakery had made Daredevil cupcakes special in the days since. They'd even been featured in a small article in The Bulletin.

“Your namesake cupcake?” you questioned. “You brought me a Daredevil cupcake?”

The Devil’s covered head cocked to the side, the black fabric of his mask hiding most of his face as your gaze flicked up to him. The wide grin on his pretty mouth was contagious, and your lips pulled free from your teeth until you were smiling stupidly back at him. Somehow he always managed to disarm you.

“Is it?” he playfully asked. “I couldn’t see what I picked out earlier.”

You rolled your eyes at him, having endured the repeated blind jokes that he’d made at his own expense ever since he’d revealed to you the shocking surprise that Daredevil was actually blind two weeks ago. It’d stemmed from you explaining to him that you were autistic and how the world felt so full of everything that it often overwhelmed you–the bustle of people, the rush of cars, the tall buildings closing in on you, the bright lights of the city giving you headaches, and the constant noise and onslaught of smells mixing together. It was an entire ordeal for you to leave your apartment and manage all of that while trying to act like you were just like everyone else, and it weighed on you every single day. A simple trip to the grocery store risked a panic attack some days.

You’d expected Daredevil to judge you after you’d revealed your big secret to him–that you were on the spectrum. You assumed that he’d suddenly look at you like there was something wrong with you, or that he'd talk down to you like being autistic somehow meant that you’d abruptly dropped a significant chunk of intelligence and were now the equivalent of a child. That was usually what happened when you admitted you were neurodivergent.

But he didn’t do any of that. Instead he’d revealed a secret of his own. He'd confessed that Daredevil was blind. Not only that, but apparently an accident when he was young had blinded him yet enhanced all of his other senses, meaning he also struggled with overstimulation in a way that sounded like absolute torture to you. He’d assured you that he’d long since learned how to manage his heightened senses and how they could sometimes overwhelm him, but it meant that he also understood how you felt.

You'd never met someone else who could relate to you like he did. You liked knowing that he understood what it felt like for your chest to tighten and your heart rate to accelerate just because there were too many voices in a room, or that sometimes it was difficult to breathe just because you were cramped in the corner store checkout line between shelves and people. Your friends never understood even if they tried, but Daredevil did.

“Here,” he urged, nudging you with the plastic container again. “Reason number six.”

“Diabetes?” you joked.

“No,” he said. “The simple pleasure of enjoying something you like.” He tipped his masked head at the container as you awkwardly accepted it from him. “I remember you mentioning the other week that you have a fondness for red velvet cupcakes. I thought you might like this one.”

Throat growing tight at the small, thoughtful gesture, you gingerly held the little plastic container in one hand as your other gripped tighter onto the rooftop’s ledge, keeping you balanced. The prickle of tears burned at the back of your eyes sharp enough for you to notice the sting as you stared down at the lone cupcake, the sugary scent of vanilla and cocoa settling over you. Before you could blink it back, another tear snuck its way from the corner of your eye, slipping its way down your cheek and dripping off the tip of your chin before landing on the lid of the container with a quiet splat.

“What is it?” the Devil pried.

Sniffling lightly, you tried to dismiss his question with a swift shake of your head. Your emotions sat like a ball lodged in the back of your throat, and you quickly felt yourself becoming swallowed up by the intensity of them. You didn’t understand why he kept coming back to visit you every single night, or why he’d sent his friend when he couldn’t make it last night, or why he kept bringing you all of these little, thoughtful gifts. 

The only thing that made sense was that Daredevil felt responsible for you because you lived inside of Hell’s Kitchen. He protected the entirety of this part of the city, and you assumed that must’ve included those tempting fate on the edge of a rooftop. 

Yet his visits had become increasingly confusing to you. You’d started to think of him as a friend, but you knew that was stupid. He was a masked vigilante who patrolled the streets and protected its people. You were just some high risk idiot always dangling off the side of an eight story building wallowing in self-pity. Daredevil was your babysitter, not someone who’d call to ask how your day was or invite you out to catch up over a cup of coffee. Yet you desperately wished that’s what he could be, because Daredevil was the first person who’d ever made you feel like maybe you could actually fit somewhere for once.

He said your name softly, the sound of it barely breaking through the racing thoughts in your mind. A hollowness seeped into your chest, sucking everything into it like a sinkhole devouring your insides. Your tongue pressed firmly against the roof of your mouth as you tensed, shaking your head again at his attempt to get you to speak. You simply couldn’t.

You felt stupid suddenly shutting down like this on him, but you couldn't stop the way your mind decided it had no idea how to handle the agonizing disappointment of realizing how he probably perceived you. Tears bloomed in your eyes as your fingers tightened around the little plastic cupcake container, accidentally smooshing some of the frosting onto the lid, but you couldn’t find the words to express yourself right now. You wanted to run back into your building and go hide beneath the covers of your bed like you were six years old all over again.

If only you were different. If only you could better play at the lie that you were like everyone else. If only you really were normal instead of this chaotic mess. 

“Okay, that's fine. We don't need to talk,” Daredevil soothed. “How about I just walk you away from the ledge?” he offered. 

He slowly rose back up onto his feet beside you, moving cautiously so that he wouldn't startle you. That only made you feel even more foolish. Why the hell couldn't you just be normal? What was so hard about having a conversation? 

“Let's get up,” he said calmly, “and I can walk you back over to the rooftop door when you’re ready to go back inside.”

You nodded stiffly in assent, allowing his gloved hands to secure themselves around your upper arms. Carefully he helped you back up onto your feet, gradually turning you towards him before he gingerly guided you away from the edge of the building until he was comfortable with your distance from it. 

He kept a gentle, comforting grip on your biceps when he drew you both to a stop, almost as if he knew the exact pressure to use to keep you grounded while your mind disconnected itself from your body. Your heart erratically thundered inside of your chest, and the tears fell a little faster, steadily streaming down your cheeks as the chilly evening wind stung the wet-streaked skin. 

Normally your nights with the Devil ended with you growing tired and eventually deciding that tonight was not the night to teeter forward and play the backup plan in your back pocket for when life felt too daunting. You’d never actually frozen on him before because you’d become overwhelmed trying to process the conflicting signals he’d been sending you over these past few weeks.

“Sorry,” you bit out, embarrassed as your fingers squeezed around the plastic container even harder.

What you really meant was: I’m sorry that I’m a burden and that I’ve gone and made more of this entire situation between us than I was supposed to, I just don't know how to properly make sense of what's going on here or navigate normal social situations like everyone else. But you didn’t quite know how to put all of that into words.

“Don’t,” he urged. “Don’t apologize for who you are. Just take your time, I'm right here.”

You caught the firm shake of his masked head when he’d spoken as you stared at his black boots, your teeth gnashing unconsciously along your lower lip as your left hand continued curling and uncurling into a fist. The embarrassment alone was motivation enough for you to focus on trying to slow your thoughts just so that you could reach a point where you could tell him goodnight and dart back inside to the safety of your apartment and away from the complicated and unexpected situation here on the rooftop.  

Unfortunately, it took you five painful, drawn out minutes before you could manage that.

Matt’s fingers were casually wrapped around the inside of Foggy’s elbow as he walked, the stiff material of his best friend’s suit a scratchy nuisance against his hand, but he’d chosen to ignore the extra sensory input. His senses were focused on other things this morning as Foggy held open the door to a coffee shop that sat an inconvenient two blocks away from Nelson, Murdock, and Page.

“I really need to stop enabling you, Murdock,” Foggy mused. 

A delighted grin tugged itself across Matt’s lips as he followed Foggy inside On the Horizon Coffee, having successfully convinced Foggy to tag along with him for yet another morning visit. As Matt stepped off the sidewalk outside which currently bustled with the usual morning foot traffic, the noise inside of the small shop intensified. So did the strong aroma of coffee and a multitude of flavored syrups and sugary sweet baked goods. Foggy guided him towards the long line behind the counter to order, and Matt’s index finger tapped an impatient rhythm against the folded cane in his left hand. 

“You need to become fixated on a girl who frequents coffee shops near our place of business instead,” Foggy continued. “Or just, you know, go talk to her already.”

“I have talked to her,” Matt distractedly replied. 

Half his attention was focused on sifting through the commotion of the coffee shop, trying to search it for a trace of your presence. It was never a guarantee that you’d be sitting here drinking a coffee, but every once and awhile he’d get lucky and catch a sign of you before you disappeared for work. You often sat in the far back corner, tucked up against the window with your head bowed over a book and earbuds in your ears as you tried to block out the noise of the coffee shop.

He’d gradually begun to understand you better after you’d confided in him the other week that you were on the spectrum. It hadn’t actually surprised him at all despite how nervous you'd sounded when you’d shared the information with him. Your body had always read differently to his senses, and you weren’t the only one he’d ever picked up on that from. It was actually why he'd noticed you that first time he'd come to this coffee shop to meet with one of his clients. 

You'd sounded panicked and terrified, your body radiating unusual levels of fear for someone who was just drinking coffee and reading. He could still recall the sharp, acrid tang of it on his tongue. It'd caught Matt’s attention, distracting him from his meeting as he unprofessionally fumbled his way through it. He'd worried that something was wrong, but when your adrenaline and cortisol eventually lowered a fraction after you'd gotten absorbed into whatever book was in front of you, Matt realized it was just your anxiety that he'd picked up on.

That was how he'd found you on the top of your building. He'd recognized the uneven pattering of your heartbeat and it'd drawn him straight to you when he'd been heading home for the night. He could still hear your sad voice from that first night telling him that you’d went to the rooftop because just knowing there was another option if the world ever became too much was a comfort to you. But it broke part of Matt to learn that the curious girl he’d discovered in the coffee shop weeks ago was the same one spending her nights on a rooftop feeling such overwhelming shame over who she was that she let her teardrops quietly fall one-hundred and fifteen feet to the ground while she contemplated tossing away something so precious every single night. 

“I meant as you you and not the other you,” Foggy corrected. 

He caught onto the familiar, slightly elevated heartbeat across the coffee shop at the same time that the line shuffled forward. Foggy leaned over towards Matt, his voice lowering as he noticed exactly what Matt just had.

“Your girl is here,” Foggy informed him. “In her usual spot by the window.”

Something eased in Matt’s chest at knowing that you were here, especially after how you’d reacted to him delivering you that cupcake last night. He hadn’t meant to upset you, and he wasn’t entirely certain what he’d done wrong with bringing it. He’d hoped to hear the smile in your voice and maybe weasel a few jokes out of you along with a small laugh before you’d gone back inside for the night.

He loved your laugh. He'd become enamored with it the second he’d heard it, which he remembered had been on the third night that he’d stopped by to sit with you on the rooftop. He couldn’t remember the joke that’d pulled it out of you at this point, but he hadn’t forgotten the way your laughter had danced across the wind and echoed against the steel buildings of the city. Truthfully, it was the reason why he’d brought you that rubber chicken the other day, and he’d been rewarded with his favorite sound multiple times that night. Despite the criminals he’d fought as Daredevil on the streets that entire week, the sound of your laughter trilling through the night had felt like his biggest accomplishment.

“What’s she reading?” Matt whispered back.

Foggy shifted beside Matt, craning his neck as he tried to get a view of the cover of your book from across the coffee shop. Moments like this were one of the few rare times where he genuinely cursed his own limitations. None of his heightened senses could ever tell him what book you were so absorbed within the pages of as you drank your latte. 

“I can’t see,” Foggy said. “But she’s got purple nail polish today.”

A pleased smile stretched across Matt’s mouth as he tried to imagine you painting your nails. He wondered which night you’d done that. Had it been before or after the rubber chicken? Because he swore he'd felt the tension completely melt out of you that night. You’d relaxed around him fully, no longer giving Matt the impression that you were a second away from disappearing on him but instead warming to his presence. 

“You should go introduce yourself this time,” Foggy encouraged. “Go talk to her. I think she’d like that.”

“But then she’d know who I am,” Matt countered. 

“So? Your point is?” Foggy demanded as the line inched forward again. “Need I remind you that you once said, and I quote, ‘She’s the only one who’s ever merged both Matt Murdock and the Devil so wholly.’”

The corner of Matt’s mouth dipped downwards as Foggy repeated his words verbatim back at him. He had in fact said that exact line just last week.

“But what if she doesn’t like both sides when they merge for real?” Matt protested. “What if she doesn’t like who I am beneath the mask?”

Foggy’s hand came down with a light smack on Matt’s shoulder, the impact causing Matt to frown. He could hear the air shift as Foggy turned to face him more fully, Matt’s fingers still loosely gripping the inside of his friend’s elbow.

“Well then buddy, it sounds like you’d relate to her exact same daily struggle,” Foggy stated. As he continued, he leaned forward and kept his voice low so as not to attract the attention of the others in the line. “You said that she feels like she wears a mask whenever she steps outside her apartment, afraid of what people might think of who she actually is beneath it. I think she can relate to that better than most, man. And maybe you should actually go introduce yourself to her before she…”

Foggy’s voice abruptly trailed off, and Matt’s frown deepened as he caught the faint pull of muscles on his best friend’s face when he winced. He knew what Foggy had been about to say without him needing to give voice to it. He should introduce himself to you before maybe one night you really did lose that razor thin battle you tortured yourself with on top of your building and Matt no longer had the opportunity. 

While the city had long ago begun calling him The Man Without Fear,  Matt had suddenly acquired a singular fear that’d haunted him over these past few weeks. He was terrified that the one night he didn’t show on your rooftop might be the one night that you lost that battle. Which was why he’d sent Frank the other night, pleading with him to check on you and just keep you company because he couldn’t make it himself that evening. 

“It sounds like she could use a few friends,” Foggy recovered, clearing his throat. “Why don’t we just get a coffee and go say hello? Just a few words. Then maybe when you run into her tonight,” Foggy continued, pulling Matt forward with him as the line moved yet again, “you can give her reason number seventeen or whatever and tell her the truth. Invite her out to Josie’s with us some night after.”

Matt’s brows drew together behind his glasses at the suggestion. “You want me to invite her to Josie’s?”

“Yeah,” Foggy said, bobbing his head. “Or if she’d be more comfortable, invite her to our office for Friday Night Pizza.”

“We don’t have a Friday Night Pizza,” Matt countered.

“Au contraire, Murdock,” Foggy playfully disagreed, raising a singular finger in the air. “We always stay far too late at the office on Friday nights and end up ordering pizza while we try to cram as much work as we can into a few hours, but it always derails into Friday Night Pizza where we sit around the front desk and accomplish nada.”

A grin cracked itself through Matt’s frown. He hadn’t exactly realized it, but that did happen every single Friday night lately. It’d become so much of a routine to him that he hadn’t really noticed it was now a “thing” that the three of them did.

“You want me to invite her to the office?” Matt skeptically clarified. “For pizza?”

“Yeah,” Foggy agreed. “Karen and I feel like we’ve already gotten to know her through all your creepy stalking–”

“I’m not stalking her,” Matt firmly denied.

“–and we’ve been wanting to get our chance to meet her,” Foggy continued, undeterred by Matt’s interruption. “I think she’d fit in great with us misfits. Not that, you know, she’s a misfit or anything.”

With a heavy sigh, Matt’s head shifted a fraction over his shoulder back in your direction. He threw his senses out towards where you sat in the corner by the window, catching how fairly calm your heartbeat sounded as you flipped a page in your book. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to go over there and say hello this morning, and he’d admittedly been getting the urge to reveal his identity to you for the past few days. 

“I just think she’d round out our group,” Foggy finished. “And you’re clearly obsessed with her.”

Matt’s attention returned to Foggy beside him, the smile fading from his lips. “I’m not obsessed,” he disagreed. “I just…like her.”

“So then go do your Matt Murdock thing and stop being afraid to talk to her,” Foggy replied. “We’re not college freshmen anymore, man. Put your big boy pants on. Let’s go make a new friend today.”

“Fine,” Matt relented. “Fine, we’ll go say a quick hello. But if we freak her out, we’re leaving.”

The rush of excitement that hit Foggy the second Matt agreed was palpable in the air. When his best friend pumped his fist upwards while simultaneously dragging him towards the register to order, Matt couldn’t stop the chuckle from rumbling out. He felt lighter on his feet than he had in weeks just from finally agreeing to approach you, so he didn’t even care when he heard Foggy muttering something about Frank owing him twenty dollars for getting him to finally agree to talk to you.

All that mattered was that Matt would get to hear your pretty voice this morning.

┈┈┈┈❀┈┈┈┈┈┈❀┈┈┈┈┈┈┈❀┈┈┈┈┈

Fighting with Matt is awful.

When he's angry at you its obvious. He doesn't show it through smashing things or yelling. Its controlled, tight, careful.

He knows what to say. Its probably the lawyer thing. He just... Knows how to use his words.

You know why hes so stuck up when hes angry at you specifically. Matt isnt exactly... When hes angry hes more than that. Hes overwhelmed. He doesn't really know what to do. He wants to fix it but he can't.

With any other matter, he doesn't care if he gets aggressive or violent.

But you? He doesn't want to scare you.

So hes as tight as a pulled string.

"You're just going to stand there and stay quiet? Like a child?".

There's bite in his tone.

You stare at the kitchen counter, jaw tight, hands gripping the edge. Even if it feels bad to think, him being blind has one advantage. She never, never has to look him in the eyes.

When you don't respond he sighs. His hands sit on his hips, his breathing growing a little bit louder.

"What were you thinking? What the fuck were you thinking?" he asks, louder this time "Getting wasted in the worst neighborhood of the worst part of the city, because of something you didn't tell me about, then refusing- no not refusing-" he pauses, a mocking laugh leaving him "Forbidding your friend from calling me to pick you up. Insisting you go home by yourself.".

He hasn't taken off his glasses this whole time.

"So tell me, what was your plan there?" he asks, pushing, forcing "What does that mean? What the fuck does that mean?!".

You don't know what to do.

Even if you tried to fight him, hes better with words. Hes way better at words, he can shut you up the moment you start talking.

Every bone, every muscle, it all screams at you to get violent.

Because, truly? You dont know how to solve a dispute like this normally.

When you were a kid the only acceptable ways of solving problems was aggression or the silent treatment. Breaking things, hurting eachother, that was the only way you got to be heard.

You want to throw something at him. Hurt him. Throw something on the floor. Everything tells you to do that but yourself.

You said you'll be better. You vowed. You dont want to hurt him. You dont want to be that person.

But you dont know what to do.

You cant defend yourself.

A part of you just wishes he would hurt you. Thats, afterall, what you... You deserve?

You want him to hurt you. So that it would hurt and so that you could finally cry.

Its scary. It really is. There are those moments where you just want him or for the sake of the matter- anyone - to beat you senseless. Its not that you... Want it but you want to be punished. You want a way to somehow- somehow process these emotions, this conflict. Shift the blame.

Abuse is wrong. Couples hitting eachother is wrong.

Its true. All of it is true.

You dont want it. You really dont.

But it feels like that's the only path.

You can't defend yourself. It makes you feel pathetic. It makes you angry.

"Matt-"

You dont know what to say.

You did do all of those things. Was it just your need for attention?

"Is it because of how busy I've been? Is it that? Are you trying to get my attention this way?" he pushes "Its stupid. Really stupid.".

Is it that?

Have you just been so lonely that instead of talking to him, telling him how much you miss him, how much you want to talk about the things that are so small but so big to you, you decide to do something dangerous in hopes he'll see you as a victim?

Why can't he just look at you?

Why does every second with Matt feel as if you have to justify your own existence? As it you have to prove yourself?

Youre definitely not doing it now.

"If so- you succeeded! Here I am!" he takes off his tie, throwing it down. In the process he slams his hand against the counter and you jump.

That makes him tense. He can hear the spike in your heartbeat. He knows hes scaring you.

"Sorry. Im sorry.".

That's really what you want him to say. Just to... Apologize. For something. You dont know what.

You stay silent, stuck in your own head.

A part of you wonders what would happen if you were to leap. Right now, after. Would he be sad? How sad...

You hate these thoughts. You know they're unhealthy and disgusting.

You hate yourself for it.

"... Please say something. Please sweetheart.".

Beneath all of it Matt is worried.

You dont want him to know how hurt you really are. How scared you are of it everything bursting into pieces. How tightly you're trying to hold on to the first normal relationship you ever got. Its unfamiliar, its terrifying. You dont know how to take accountability without punishment. You dont know how to do this.

Can you?

Can you be in a normal relationship?

Are you built for it?

Or... Was it simply determined from the start that you dont deserve it?

"Im sorry." you whisper "Im sorry. Im sorry. I-" the tears are flowing and you dont know what to do. Hes standing there, hes angry.

"Im sorry Matthew, Im sorry. I- i dont know. I..." if you tell him how bad it got would it be manipulation? Trying to get him to pity you?

Aren't you doing it already?

"I dont feel well.".

Then your voice breaks.

You have to try. You have to try to explain.

"Im scared. I feel hopeless- i feel awful. I- I don't know what to do." you whimper. Its hard to breathe.

"I dont know why I did that- I don't! I just- i felt so bad. I felt awful. I wanted it to stop- i wanted it-" you then laugh "its for such a stupid reason. My boss yelled at me and I got... I got upset." you swallow "I try, I really do. I really try hard at work but- Im not-..." you close your eyes "Its really hard for me to talk like that Matt. It really is. I- I-" you bite your tongue "I missed you. I missed you. And honestly I-"

You feel your throat tighten.

"... I feel dirty for doing so.".

You dont even realize it until he touches you that hes right next to you. Hes taken off his glasses, he looks softer without them. His hands are on your arms, gently pulling you to him.

"Sweetheart, you dont have to feel dirty for missing me." he whispers, gently rubbing your arms "You dont. You're not a bother.".

"Its... Its not about that its-..." you swallow down a sob "Its embarrassing. Its humiliating.".

"Missing me?".

"You ignoring my call changes my entire mood and im a grown woman.".

He nods, his head against yours.

"... Im sorry. Its been hectic. Im not..."

"Its not your fault that im needy." you whisper "I... I dont know. I just..." you shake your head, leaning further against him "Im trying. I am. I promise that I am.".

"You shouldn't have stayed quiet about your work situation." he says "You shoudlve told me. I dont like the thought of someone yelling at you. You can come to me with these things- I thought you knew that?".

He seems genuinely hurt that you dont want his help.

Really? Its the core of the fight.

Matt is furious you dont want his help. That you dont trust him or feel too scarred. That even though he lets himself relax in your arms and tell you things, real, actual things, you don't want to do the same.

It makes him feel vulnerable. And like a bad boyfriend.

"I want you to tell me the things that are going around your head. No matter how bad they are. Please. Trust me."

Matt is terrified hes losing you.

Hes aware you're not the most stable person. That at most its a mask that you use to get through the days. You're disconnected from everyone else. From him.

He doesn't like it.

He doesn't like that it reminds him of him.

That now hes on the other end. On Heather's end. On Foggys end. Hes on the worried end where he doesn't know how to help.

You're making him realize too much about himself.

"I can't do that." you whisper, taking his hand "I cant."

"Yes you can. Please.".

You stay quiet, staring at the cupboards.

"... Dont run off again. Dont. Atleast call me if you do.".

You swallow tightly before finally gathering the guts to face him. You cup his face, trying to stop the shiver that passes you.

"I... I try Matt. Im trying. Its just... Really hard." you whisper. He leans his head into your palms, his hand coming to hold your wrist.

"I do want to be with you. Im not leaving. Im just..." you shake your head "Im not used to this.".

"No?"

"No.".

He rests his forehead against yours, letting out a heavy sigh.

It's such a mess.

Chapter 1 - El Viento

Chapter 2 - Dime Cómo Te Sientes

divider credit: the lovely @peterftpercy 🤎

You try your best to hide it from Matt. You really try. But you know it’s almost impossible to hide anything from him. That still didn’t held you back.

Matt has been noticing that something is off ever since that night. You woke up in the middle of the night and ran straight into the bathroom to throw up in the toilet. He immediately came to look for you and instantly pulled your hair with his hands out of your face.

His big calloused hand held them up into a pony tail, meanwhile he kept his other hand onto your lower back to trace slow, gentle circles trying to calm you down.

Despite being with him together for almost two years you keep finding yourself embarrassed in situations like these. You always feel insecure being the vulnerable one, even though he gives you no reason to feel that way. He loves you no matter what and keeps on telling you that.

But after all, you’re still a woman. So you find it hard to believe these words coming out of the mouth of a man.

Even though Matt isn’t like any men. He’s the kind of men who will do everything in his power to make sure that you feel loved, comfortable and heard. You being safe and sound is his biggest priority.

After your body threw up every meal you had inside you, he began helping you to get up. He carried you back to your bed and putted you gently down. He made sure you were in a comfortable position before he went straight into the kitchen without saying a word. Your brows turned into a frown as tho why he left so quickly.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, your eyes sleepy and tired. Almost not able to keep them awake. Exhaustion was written all over your face.

As soon as you saw him entering the bedroom, with a glass filled with water, you had pulled yourself up, trying to sit straight.

Standing in front of you, he had slightly parted your legs to stand in the middle of them. With one hand he had reached out for your arm to keep you steady, he noticed the slumpy posture of you. Seeing how you tried your best not to break down.

With the other hand where he held the glass of water, he lifted it toward your mouth.

„s‘okay, Matt I can do it on my own.“ you mumbled trying to let him know that you don’t need his to help you drink.

„Of course, baby, I know you can but please let me take care of you“, he shushed you to be quiet.

So you let him.

You let him take care of you.

After you took big gulps of the glass of water, he praised you by each gulp. „Good girl, doing so good for me“, as he gently drew his thumb along your jawline in light circles.

All this time, you had tried to avoid looking at him. He noticed, the way your eyes looked at everything else than the man standing right in front of you. His hand that stayed on your arm the whole time reached for your chin, directing it towards him.

„Look at me, please“ he almost plead. He doesn’t like it when you feel insecure when he’s taking care of you.

Your gaze finally meet his. Even in the dim light of the room, you still felt him staring right into your eyes. Heat crept up in your cheeks feeling the sudden warmth in them.

Even after almost two years he still makes you blush like crazy. Him just looking at you in a calm and concerned way, makes you melt instantly.

Every second felt intimate. Too intimate.

The glass now being empty rested beside your bedside table. Matt wanted to bring it right back to the kitchen but you grabbed his arm and insisted not to be left alone. So he stayed and put you back into bed. He made sure you were tucked in properly before walking to the other side of the bed and letting himself down next to you.

His arms immediately reached for your waist and pulled you closer to himself, so your head rested comfortably on his rising chest. The sound of his breathing calms you down. Your heavy lidded eyes were getting tired and you felt the exhaustion rushing over you. He left a kiss on the top of your head. Breathing in your scent before the tiredness got to him too.

The next day, you still have a dizzy feeling.

The empty space on the right side of your bed reminds you that you were alone. Matt had already been of to work in his office.

Every morning before you woke up, he was already gone but not before leaving a note next to you. Written on it:

,,Good Morning, sweetheart, I love you and I miss you already!“ written in his almost not readable writing.

And every time you read it, a smile forms on your lips. It stays usually the whole day, counting the hours till you get to see him again.

You were about to meet Karen over a coffee date, but had to cancel last minute because you weren’t even able to leave the bed this morning.

Every other normal human being would head straight to the doctor. But you hate going there, because whatever it is that you have, they would blame it on food poisoning or lack of sleep.

So that is not a option for you.

You spend your time reading a book on the couch or watching your comfort series cuddled up with a fuzzy blanket.

A sudden knock on your door interrupts your peace. You are confused as tho who could be knocking at the door. With a groan you push yourself up from the couch and walk toward the door.

You look through the peephole and spot a head of blond hair.

It is nobody other than Karen.

You opened the door, with a small sigh. „What are you doing here?“ you ask softly.

„It‘s nice to see you too“, she replies with a obnoxious smile.

„You know what I mean“, you hum back.

„Yeah, yeah I know I was just worried about you“, she states with concern written all over her face. „You never cancel last minute on me, so there must be something wrong with you.“

You hesitate to reply but eventually gave in, with a hand signal you told her to come in. She follows you on the way back into the living room. Were you both sit down in silence for some seconds, before you break the silence.

„I‘m feeling not so well lately“, you told her. „…and I don’t know what could be the reason.“

„Well, what are your symptoms?“ Karen asks almost clinically.

„I just feel so dizzy and sick all the time, it‘s like a weird feeling“, you stammer, listing all the recent reactions of your body.

„Mhmm, did you ever threw up before?“

„…yeah, like twice in the past 2 days, why?“

The look on her face turns slightly into a contemplative expression, like she analyzes something in her mind. Her eyes suddenly wide awake, „wait, what if- if you‘re pregnant?!“, she squeaks. A questioning smile appears on her face.

You take her words in, letting them rest in your mind. All this time your mind never crossed this point. A pregnancy? The fact you could be carrying a child.

Matt‘s child.

With a disbelieving look you instantly shake these thoughts away. „No Karen, don’t jump to conclusions and assume that I am pregnant just because I feel nauseous.“

„I wouldn’t if you only felt that way today, you know damn well that‘s not the case right now.“, she‘s raising an eyebrow while crossing her arms in a defensiv manner.

You think about it. Maybe she‘s right. After all your sex life with Matt is vibrant. Here and there whenever he comes back home late at night, you mostly end up sleeping with each other. But it never occurred to your mind that he was possible breeding you during it the whole time.

To be honest, it was never protected sex but you made sure to take the pill to prevent such things from happening.

You let out a frustrated groan. What if Matt and you haven’t been careful enough. All these times where he made you feel good, causing your legs to shake and see stars only with his hands working on you. Not letting a single drop of him going to waste, inside you. You suddenly feel like a irresponsible teenager, who didn’t took the act of sex serious.

„…guess I have to take a pregnancy test then“, you whisper. Not really progressing what’s going on.

Karen smiles at you proudly and encourages you to take the test immediately. She even insists to buy you one from the corner shop down the street from your apartment. You thankfully decline. This is something big if it’s true. So you made sure you would go there on your own later, after dealing with your messed up thoughts.

And if it was the case, if you are actually pregnant you feel the need to let Matt know it first.

Standing in front of the little corner shop, a five minute walk away from your apartment.

You step into the cramped, dimly lit corner shop, your heart racing as you walk past the narrow aisles straight to the counter. In your hand you hold the small pink and white colored box.

On purpose you keep looking everywhere else than right into the eyes of the cashier. It feels embarrassing and awkward. You quickly toss a 5 dollar bill onto the counter, heading right out, the little corner shop.

The bathroom light hums, casting a sterile buzz over your reflection.

On the marble counter sits the little plastic stick. It feels heavy. Way too heavy for something that weighs less than an ounce.

You look down at your smartphone, the time shows its 4:16 AM.

Three minutes, the box says. Three minutes until your entire world either stays exactly the same, or shatters into a million pieces.

You pace the length of the tiny bathroom. Three steps forward. Three steps back. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your t shirt - the one you had stolen from Matt‘s closet. The scent of his cedarwood cologne still clings to the threads, usually a comfort, but right now it made your stomach twist into a fresh knot of anxiety.

What if?

What if those two pink lines actually appear? Matt and you haven’t had the talk about it yet. A baby wasn't part of the script.

"Please," you whisper to the empty room, your voice cracking. You wasn't even sure who you are begging to.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. You close your eyes, squeezing them shut as memories of the past month flash behind your eyelids—the shared nights you spent together, the skipped period you had brushed off as stress, the sudden wave of nausea during the past days.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The timer on your phone went off, shattering the silence.

You freeze. Your breath gets caught in your throat. Your hands shake so violently you have to grip the edge of the sink just to steady yourself. Slowly, you force your feet to move toward the counter.

The test lies face down. You reach out, your fingertips hovering over the plastic.

This is it. The point of no return.

With a shaky exhale, you flip it over.

Two pink lines appear.

Positive.

Your breath leaves your lungs all at once.

The second one was faint, The second one was faint, a cruel whisper of a mark, but it was undeniably there. It stares back at you from the plastic window, glaringly bright under the harsh bathroom light.

Positive.

The world went completely silent. The humming of the light bulb, the ticking of the clock, the distant rumble of Hell’s kitchen night traffic—all of it vanishes, replacing by the loud, rhythmic thudding of your own pulse in your ears.

Positive.

Your knees buckle, and you slide down against the cold bathroom door, burying your face in your hands. The cedarwood scent on Matt‘s t shirt hits you again, but this time, it brought a wave of absolute terror.

Everything was about to change.

And you aren’t sure if you are ready for it.

Matt is home. He came back from another long shift at the office. Lately, he‘s been working all night but today he was back before midnight.

„Baby, I‘m home“ he shouts through the apartment.

Silence.

He furrows his brows. Usually you would come straight running into his arms whenever he came home. But this time. Nothing. Matt immediately feels that something is off. He searches his way to you, listening to your unsteady breath’s in the living room. You sat down on the couch, cuddling up with a blanket.

As soon as he saw your silhouette, sitting with your knees pulled to your chest and hiding almost under the blanket, his face looks worried. He analyzes your body his instincts telling him something is wrong with you. His hands reaches for your face turning it toward him.

A sharp, sniffle broke the suffocating silence between you two.

You press the back of your hand against your nose, trying to swallow the sob rising in your throat. Your eyes blur, tears finally spilling over and hot-streaking down your cheeks. You stare blankly at the floor, your chest heaving as you try to resist making eye contact with him.

„Hey, hey, look at me,“ he whispers, wiping the tear from your cheek with his thumb. „What‘s wrong, sweetheart?“

You can’t speak.

You simply pull out the test, that was hiding under the blanket with you the whole time. Your fingers grazing his as soon as you hold it toward him.

Matt’s brows furrows. His fingers roam over it, feeling the small plastic test in his hands as he tried to process what he was looking at. His highly sensitive fingertips trac the smooth, rectangular edges, the slight indentation of the screen, and the faint, raised texture of the modern digital display.

But Matt doesn’t even need to read the test to know.

His super-hearing picked up the tiny, second heartbeat echoing faintly alongside your own. The realization hits him like a physical blow.

His fingers tighten around the plastic stick. He doesn’t drop it. Instead, he reaches out blindly but with perfect accuracy, his warm hand cupping the side of your face. His thumb gently wipes away a stray tear.

„Sweetheart,“ he breath’s, his own heart skipping a dangerous beat. „Look at me. We‘re going to figure this out.“

He sits down next to you onto the couch. His hands reach for your waist and pull yourself closer to him. Your head rests on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He kisses the top of your head, placing a gentle kiss on your hair. His big calloused hand draws soothing circles on your hip bone.

„I love you“ he whispers quietly but loud enough for you to hear it.

„…I love you too“ you murmur under your breath, which is still unsteady.

For the first time in the past few days, you feel relieved, believing that everything will work out. That Matt and you are going to be good parents—you are going to be a good mom. You already know that Matt will be a wonderful dad, and that gives you strength.