#mattelektra

Daniel Shaw had owned the movie studio currently paying your invoices, which made his sudden death inconvenient more than tragic. He had been found in his suite less than an hour ago. Someone said it was a heart attack. Another person said it was suicide after someone found a bullet in his head. It was so sudden! Your coworker kept repeating, as if the situation might become less alarming if she repeated it enough. You had worked under his studio for three months and met him properly only twice. He was charming, rich, and distant. Powerful men often were, which meant he remembered nobody’s name unless they could make him money.

You were a stunt choreographer. That put you somewhere below the director, below the producers, below the lead actress’ wellness coach, and slightly above the poor intern sent to buy twelve green juices at six in the morning. Shaw dying wasn’t personal to you, but it was close enough to your paycheck to keep you at the bar instead of going upstairs to sleep.

You took a sip of your whiskey and watched the room in the mirror behind the bottles.

That was where you found him watching you.

He didn’t look away when your eyes met, and it made you smile. Most men glanced down when caught, then looked back later with some lazy excuse written across their face. This man didn’t bother. He simply held your gaze in the mirror, almost amused, like he had known you were going to notice him and had been waiting for you to decide what to do about it.

You turned slightly on your stool. “You’re staring.”

His mouth curled up, barely. “You finally noticed.”

“I’m trained,” you shrugged, trying to keep things vague. “I notice when someone is watching me.”

He simply raised his cup to his lips. “Good to know.”

“Is it?”

“It explains the bruises.”

You looked down at your knee, where the hem of your dress had ridden up enough to show the dark bloom of a rehearsal bruise above your shin. It wasn’t your worst one this week, but it wasn’t the prettiest, either. Still, the way his eyes touched it and moved on made your skin warm, because he didn’t leer. He assessed. 

You picked up your drink and carried it down the bar to him because the night was already strange, your contract might be cancelled by morning, and you had never been especially good at leaving interesting things alone.

“Since you’re apparently studying me,” you said as you sat beside him, “what else have you learned?”

He turned his glass once against the bar top, eyes moving over your face with infuriating patience. “You’re not drunk, but you’re trying to decide if you want to be. You’re not sad, but you know you should look sadder. You’ve checked the exits twice since I sat down, and you keep favouring your left side, which means either your hip hurts or your knee does.”

“My knee,” you confirmed, hating how impressed you sounded. “And I checked the exits because this room is full of dickheads. That’s just good sense.”

He managed a small, performative frown. “They’re just film executives.”

“Eh,” you shrugged, “same difference."

This time, he smiled properly. “Fair.”

You angled your body toward him, letting your shoulder rest against the bar. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“What have I learned about you?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Go ahead.”

You let yourself look, because he had started it, though that pretence felt childish and paper-thin now. He had a dark jacket on and an expensive watch worn like he didn’t  care whether anyone noticed it. His posture was relaxed, but not loose. His hands were still on the bar and had no wedding ring, no visible nerves, no grief, no curiosity for anyone in the room except you.

Your sister had taught you to read people pretty well. 

“You’re too quiet to be an actor,” you said. “You’re not a producer either, because you haven’t checked your phone every six seconds and you don’t look like you’re about to ruin someone’s career over a schedule change. You could be security, but you’re not standing like you’re being paid to watch the door.”

“Maybe I’m off duty.”

“Maybe,” you allowed. “But if you were off duty, I think you’d still know exactly who in this room was carrying, who was lying, and who would scream first if the lights went out.”

The amusement in his face was evident. “And who would scream first?”

You glanced around the bar and nodded toward a red-faced producer loudly saying Shaw had been like a father to him. “Him. But only after checking whether TMZ is watching.”

The man beside you laughed under his breath. You liked the sound too much immediately, which was annoying because you didn’t even know his name yet.

You held out your hand. “I’m not calling you stranger all night.”

His hand closed around yours. “Dex.”

“Just Dex?”

“For now.”

“That’s weird.”

“Do you like weird?”

You should have denied it. Instead, your smile gave you away. “I like interesting. Weird is reviewed on a case by case basis”

Dex didn’t release your hand immediately. He brushed his thumb over your knuckles, where tape residue still clung from that afternoon’s rehearsal. When he let go, you had to remind yourself not to stare.

“So,” he said, “stunt performer of some kind.”

You narrowed your eyes as if you were surprised that the handshake had given it away. Still, it was fun to play along, right? “Were you at the dinner?”

“Briefly.”

“And did you know Shaw?”

He considered his answer this time “Briefly.”

You chuckled, and Dex watched as if he wanted to understand the mechanics of it. It was unsettling, but it didn’t make you want to leave. If anything, it made you lean closer, because he was giving you so little that every small reaction felt like a gold star. You worked with performers all day, people trained to externalise every emotion so the camera could catch it. Dex did the opposite. He made you want to get your hands on him just to see what he was like underneath.

“What do you do, Dex-for-now?” you asked.

“Private security advising.”

You tilted your head. “That is the most fake Hollywood job I’ve ever heard.”

“It pays well.”

“I bet it does.” You smiled, “Do you consult on security, or do you just stand around looking intimidating?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, and this time he wasn’t quick enough to hide it. “Depends on who’s paying.”

You shifted on the stool, crossing one leg over the other, and watched his eyes flick down for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

Controlled, you thought again. He was controlled enough that making him look felt like winning.

“You know,” you said, “for a security advisor, you’re not very reassuring.”

Dex leaned slightly closer, his voice dipping beneath the noise of the bar. “And yet you came over.”

“I was bored.”

“You’re not bored now.”

You hated that he was right. You hated it more because of how certain he seemed, as if your interest was another fact he had collected. The room around you blurred into a swirl of candlelight, glass, perfume, and expensive panic. Upstairs, a billionaire was dead. Down here, this stranger watched you like you were the only interesting target. 

You took another sip of your drink. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“With some things.”

“And with others?”

Dex’s gaze held yours. “I like to be certain before I touch.”

It was absurd how quickly a fucking line got to you. Nothing in his tone was crude, and he barely even moved. But suddenly you were thinking about his hand around yours, his thumb over your knuckles, his mouth close to your ear.

You looked away first, which made him smile. 

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you set your glass down and let the silence stretch. Dex didn’t rush to fill it. He only watched you while the whole room kept mourning a man neither of you seemed able to miss.

Finally, you said, “My job might be gone tomorrow,” you sighed as if that didn’t affect you. It probably didn’t. Your family had enough money that you could just jet to the Bahamas tomorrow and not look back, but you actually liked the project you were working on. “That should bother me more.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“It does,” you said, then shrugged. “Just not enough to make me behave.”

Dex’s eyes moved over your face, and he shifted a little. “How badly do you want not to behave?”

Fuck. 

It was so direct. It was certainly too much, maybe, from a man you had met fifteen minutes ago in a bar full of vultures dressed as mourners. But you had spent your whole life around danger. Dex was not pretending hard enough to be safe, and the reckless part of you respected that.

You leaned close enough that your knee brushed his. “That depends.”

His breath changed. 

There. You had him.

Dex stood and offered his hand.

You looked at his hand, then at his face. “You always pick girls up in weird hotels?”

“No.” He managed a dry laugh, “you’re special.”

You laughed despite yourself and placed your hand in his.

The elevator ride up was a lesson in restraint. He stood beside you without touching you again, which made every inch of space between your bodies feel like you were pulling teeth. The mirrored walls showed you too many versions of him: his profile, his hands, the line of his throat where his shirt opened. You could feel him watching your reflection instead of your body directly, which shouldn’t have been hotter, but was.

The elevator doors opened before you could say anything.

His room was high up, expensive, and nearly untouched. There was no mess or scattered clothes. No sign that anyone had lived there longer than necessary. Los Angeles glittered beyond the windows, silver streets and distant headlights, while the door clicked shut behind you.

You turned to face him. “You’re not really a security advisor, are you?”

Dex looked at you for a long moment. “Not tonight.”

You should have asked what that meant. You should have cared. Instead, you stepped closer and reached for the open collar of his shirt, letting your fingers slide beneath the edge of the fabric.

“Good,” you said. “I’m off the clock too.”

When he kissed you, the control didn’t vanish all at once. That would have been too easy. It was slow, first with his hand at your waist, firm enough to make you gasp against his mouth. Then his other hand at the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he angled you exactly how he wanted you. He kissed like a man who had thought about doing it before he allowed himself to move, like every second of restraint in the bar was hell on earth. 

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders. He let it fall without looking away from you. When you started on the buttons of his shirt, Dex caught your wrists, not to stop you, but to slow you down, his thumbs pressing lightly to your pulse points like he wanted to feel exactly what he was doing to you.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured, and for a second, you realized, holy shit. He really didn’t do these one night flings often. 

Still, the only thing you managed to say was: “You’re overdressed.”

His mouth found your neck, and your answer dissolved into a breathless laugh. He smiled against your skin. You felt it more than saw that private satisfaction, and then his hands moved again with a precision that made your knees feel unreliable. He never grabbed thoughtlessly. He touched with the same focus he had watched you with downstairs, learning what made you arch, what made your fingers dig into his shoulders.

By the time he walked you backward toward the bed, you were hot and irritated by how badly you wanted him. Dex seemed worse off for trying to hide it. His shirt was open, his hair no longer perfect because your hands had been in it, and his breathing had gone rough, making you smile against his mouth.

You pulled him down with you.

After that, the night turned feverish. It became his mouth on your skin, your dress pushed away, his hands gentle until you guided them, and suddenly they were not. He was careful in ways that made you ache and rough only when you dragged it out of him, and the first time you felt his composure slip, you laughed breathlessly because you could not help it.

Dex lifted his head, eyes narrowed. 

“You’re not as controlled as you look.”

“No,” he said, his mouth brushing yours. “Not like this.”

You believed him, though you had no reason to. Maybe that was the point. All you knew was that this was just a bad day with bad timing and a dead man upstairs whose absence had left the door to the evening just  open enough for a stranger to step through.

Later, when the room was dark and your body fell beside his, you lay with your cheek against his chest and traced one of the old scars near his ribs. He was quiet under your hand, but not asleep. You knew the difference. 

His fingers moved slowly along your spine, almost absent. “Dex?”

“Mm.”

“Were you really there for Shaw?”

His hand paused for less than a second before it continued.

“Briefly,” he said again.

You smiled into the dark because you knew he was giving you nothing, and for tonight, only tonight, you decided to let him.

You should have gone back to your own room. You should have asked better questions. You should have treated this as a stupid one night stand and pretended this never happened.

Instead, you closed your eyes and stayed exactly where you were.

—

Six months after that night, you moved to New York.

Officially, it was for work. A Broadway production had brought you on to choreograph the stage combat for a lavish, over-funded revival with sword fights, balcony falls, and a dramatic death scene that had to happen eight times a week without sending the lead actor to hospital. 

It was a good job. You even put it on exclamation points and sent it to your agent like you had made a responsible career decision.

It had absolutely nothing to do with Dex being based in New York.

Mostly.

Fine, maybe a little.

Your sister was there too, which made the decision feel less incriminating. Elektra had an apartment in Manhattan, three passports in names you were not supposed to know, and an art studio collecting ancient weapons, because technically, that was her job. 

You knew better than to ask where the acquisitions came from, and Elektra knew better than to ask why you had suddenly accepted a Broadway job in the same city as a man who called himself a security advisor and looked at you like he would happily ruin his life if you asked sweetly enough.

You and Dex had been officially dating for three months.

It was a good three months of late-night dinners, hotel room mornings, flowers delivered to rehearsal with no card because he knew you would know. It was three months of you pretending not to notice when the news mentioned a man connected to Shaw’s circle dying strangely overseas. Three months of Dex pretending his work calls were about security logistics and not whatever thing he did for people rich enough to afford him.

You knew what he was. Dex carried violence too naturally for it to be a hobby, and sometimes, when he came to you after work, the calm around him was too emptied out. He would shower before touching you, scrub himself raw, come out with damp hair and bare feet.

Your moral compass had raised one weak little hand in protest, but then Dex had kissed you against your kitchen counter, murmured sweetheart like a prayer, and made your entire sense of right and wrong pack a bag and leave the state.

Maybe that made you terrible. Maybe it made you Elektra’s sister after all.

Or maybe Dex was just so unfairly, stupidly, devastatingly hot that you just kept getting distracted.

And Dex knew that you knew after the first month or so, when you jokingly called him Hot John Wick.

Dex had always expected you to figure it out sooner or later. He knew you were a smart girl. He just didn’t realise you’d figure out this soon. 

Instead of being shocked though, he just raised his eyebrows and said, “John Wick is already hot.”

You chuckled and pulled him close. “Shut up and take it as a compliment that I find you even hotter.”

“Yes ma’am.”

And that was that. 

—

Earlier today, you had texted Dex and asked if he could come over and cuddle. 

Ha. 

You were already on the couch when he got in, cozy in sleep shorts and an oversized hoodie, one fuzzy sock half-off your foot, your body tired from rehearsal and your brain still muddled with stage falls, sword cues, and actors who didn’t understand that “again from the top” didn’t mean “try to improvise a stabbing.”

Dex took off his coat and looked at you like he had been waiting all day to come home to you.

“You’re late,” you said.

“‘M sorry.”

He came closer, and you let him pull you up just so you could immediately drag him down with you again. Dex caught himself over you with one hand braced beside your head, his knee sinking into the couch, his body warm and heavy enough above yours to make your whole chest loosen.

He kissed you, mouth moving over yours like he wanted to settle there. Like he needed a minute to remember what it felt like to be wanted without being useful. You went pliant underneath him almost immediately, because apparently that was what you did now. You let murderers kiss you tenderly on your couch and call it romance.

His hand slid beneath your hoodie and you hummed against his mouth.

Dex’s palm dragged up your ribs, then paused over your breast, cupping you through the thin fabric beneath like he was not even trying to pretend the cuddling was innocent anymore. His thumb moved once, and your breath caught hard enough for him to smile into the kiss.

“Dex,” you murmured.

“Mm.”

“That is not cuddling.”

“It’s close.”

His mouth dipped to your throat, and the laugh you tried to give him turned embarrassingly quiet halfway out. He knew exactly what he was doing. 

His hand slid down again over your waist, then your hip, then lower.

He pushed his body down yours, mouth tracing heat along your neck while his fingers found the waistband of your shorts. He tucked himself there, resting under the elastic, knuckles brushing warm skin.

Dex loved having his finger between your legs, knowing he can’t seem to miss the sweet spot, ever. Which meant you knew exactly how to make him suffer.

His fingers started to slip lower, and you caught his wrist.

Dex stopped.

Slowly, he lifted his head, looking offended, as if you had interrupted him mid-prayer.

“Sweetheart,” he said carefully.

You smiled. “My birthday is coming up.”

For a second, he just stared.

His wrist flexed under your fingers as you held it still. “I know.”

His thumb slipped under the edge by half an inch, expecting you to give in, but your hand only tightened, keeping him out of your shorts still.

Then his eyes lifted to yours, already suspicious. “Baby.”

You smiled. “Ah-ah.”

His gaze narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Negotiating.”

“With my hand?”

“With your access,” you corrected

His desire didn’t disappear. It only got interrupted by confusion. “You’re blackmailing me.”

“I’m making a birthday request.”

His eyes flicked down to where you were holding his wrist. “With leverage.”

You held back a chuckle, trying your best to look innocent. “Smart girls use leverage.”

Dex opened his mouth, then closed it again.

You smiled sweetly. “That’s what I thought.”

For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue. Unfortunately for him, he also wanted control of his hand back very, very badly. “What do you want, pretty girl?” he asked.

You knew he meant presents, like actual presents. He was prepared to buy his way out of this. Hitman money in New York apparently paid well enough that Dex looked genuinely prepared for you to name something like a weekend in Paris.

You tightened your grip on his wrist. You looked up at him, very pleased with yourself. “I want you to meet my sister.”

Dex went still, much more still than when you had called him a hitman for the first time, actually, which told you a lot about his priorities.

“Your sister,” he said.

“Yes.”

“For your birthday.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you want?”

“That’s what I want.”

He looked at you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t been hired to solve. Dex looked down at his trapped hand, then back at your face. “You’re really withholding this until I say yes.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

His teeth clenched as your thumb stroked idly over the inside of his wrist. You were not even trying to be seductive with it, but Dex watched the movement like it was actively shortening his lifespan.

“Baby,” he said.

“Mm?”

“Let go of my hand.”

“Say yes.”

“You don’t play fair.”

He made a sound that was half a laugh and half suffering. “You know I adore you, right?”

“Then say yes.”

Dex lowered his head until his forehead rested against yours. His eyes closed briefly, like he was gathering strength. It was ridiculous. He could probably walk into a guarded room and come out alive without messing up his hair, but you asking him to attend one birthday dinner had him acting like you had handed him a bomb with a pink bow on it.

“You haven’t told me anything about her,” he said.

“She’s my sister.”

“That’s not information.”

“She’s important to me.”

It managed to shut him up. 

You sighed, just a little, though you still didn’t let go of his wrist. “I want her to meet you. Isn’t that enough information?”

Dex opened his eyes, and he looked almost undone by it.

You kissed him lightly. “Please.”

His breath caught.

You knew that would get him.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

“Please, Dex.”

“Sweetheart.”

“For my birthday.”

He stared at you with the exhaustion of a man who had never stood a chance. “Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll meet your sister.”

Your smile bloomed. “You’ll be nice?”

“I’ll be polite.” Dex looked pointedly at his wrist. “Can I have my hand back now?”

You hummed like you were thinking about it.

His eyes darkened. “Baby.” His mouth brushed yours.

Eventually, you released his wrist.

Dex didn’t move immediately, even though he had been desperate two seconds ago.

Dex kissed you first, like he was still thanking you for wanting him at dinner. His hand slipped lower and you gasped against his mouth, laughing breathlessly when you felt his smile.

“Now,” he hummed, “where were we?”

—

You and Dex stood outside Elektra’s apartment door with his hand at the small of your back and enough tension in his shoulders to make you bite back a smile.

For a man who had once admitted, very calmly, that he preferred entering buildings through service corridors because front doors made people too expectant, he had spent an absurd amount of time preparing for your birthday.

He had brought you flowers first, an arrangement of red ranunculus, white anemones, dark tulips, and little sprigs of jasmine tucked between them because he remembered you once saying jasmine smelled like nights in expensive hotels. 

You had stared at it for so long that Dex had asked,  “Too much?”

“No,” you said, already smiling like an idiot. “It’s beautiful.”

Only then had he relaxed.

The second gift was smaller, slim black leather notebook with your initials pressed into the bottom corner in gold, the pages thick enough for blocking notes, sketches, injury reports, and all the frantic choreography scribbles you usually left on call sheets and napkins. Inside the front cover was a thin metal bookmark shaped like a tiny sword.

You had smiled, and he looked painfully pleased with himself.

Then, because he was Dex, he had stopped in a supermarket on the way there and very pragmatically asked, “What kind of wine does your sister like?”

“Expensive.”

He only nodded.

Now he stood beside you holding a bottle that probably cost more than your weekly food shop, his jaw tight, his scarred face composed, his coat immaculate. He looked less like a boyfriend arriving for dinner and more like a man approaching a guarded border with falsified papers and a personal stake in crossing.

“You know she’s not going to fucking kill you.” You nudged him gently.  “She made dinner. That’s basically a peace offering.”

“She made dinner for you,” Dex said flatly. “I’m the complication.”

Right.

Dex didn’t care about charming people for the sake of being liked. He didn’t need Elektra’s approval because he wanted a pleasant evening or a normal story to tell later. He needed it because Elektra mattered to you, and she was the one person whose opinion could matter. Because, in Dex’s mind, your sister was not an enemy. She was a hurdle to get to you more permanently. That’s all.

You turned toward him and straightened his collar, even though it was already perfect. “Be nice.”

Then the door opened.

Elektra stood there in silk trousers and bare feet, beautiful in the effortless way she had always been beautiful. Her eyes moved from you to Dex, then to the flowers in your arm and the wine in his hand.

“Well,” she said, “at least he brings tribute.”

You managed to chuckle. “Elektra.”

Dex offered the bottle and said, very flatly, “Thank you for having me.”

Elektra took it, glanced at the label, and lifted one eyebrow.

You could practically see Dex winning one microscopic point in a war he had invented entirely inside his own head.

“Come in,” Elektra said.

Dex’s hand found your back again as you stepped inside.

He was here. He was trying. 

From somewhere deeper in the apartment, a familiar voice called, “Are they here?”

Dex stopped, and not enough for Elektra to notice, maybe. 

Then Matt Murdock appeared at the edge of the dining room, one hand against the wall, his red glasses reflecting apartment light.

Dex’s voice changed.

“Oh.” he said, “Murdock.”

Matt seemed to recognize the voice immediately because his head tilted in recognition.

Wait.

Wait. 

What?

“You two know each other?” Your voice cut through the apartment before anyone else could decide what kind of lie to tell.

Elektra, of course, looked delighted. “Oh,” she raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

You turned on her. “Don’t start.”

Matt’s mouth twitched, but the almost-smile disappeared quickly.

Dex’s hand hovered over your back, not quite touching you now, which irritated you more than it should have. 

You looked at Matt again, your confusion finally catching up with the rest of the room. “I didn’t even know you were coming.”

Matt’s mouth softened when he turned toward you. “Happy birthday.”

You blinked at him. “I didn’t even know you and Ellie were back together.”

Beside you, Elektra took a thoughtful sip of her wine like this was all very normal and not at all insane.

“We are,” she said.

You stared at her.

Matt’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Apparently.”

Despite everything, despite Dex standing beside you like a wire pulled too tight, you felt a laugh threaten the back of your throat, because this was them. This had always been them.

You had known Matt since high school, back when Elektra was in college for art history. Your sister brought him home during holidays with the same indifference she used for all things she secretly cared about. You remembered him at your family table, too stubborn and too principled for his own good, arguing with Elektra about morality while she stole food off his plate. You remembered being younger and thinking their breakups sounded serious until Matt appeared again two months later with flowers.

So no, Matt being here was not strange. Matt being here with Elektra again wasn’t even that strange.

Matt recognizing your boyfriend was the problem.

You looked between them. “How do you know each other?”

Dex went quiet.

“Our paths crossed professionally,” Matt said.

You stared. “How vague.”

“That’s all you need to know,” Dex said. 

Elektra’s smile widened behind her glass.

Matt looked worried, but it wasn’t really dramatic. Matt never looked dramatically anything unless Elektra was bleeding or lying to his face. But you knew him. You knew the slight tension in his mouth, the way he seemed to listen to more than what people were saying.

“You look worried,” you said.

Matt paused. “I’m not worried.”

“Matthew.”

Dex’s eyes twitched at the familiarity in your voice.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You glanced back at him and found him standing there with perfect manners, trying very hard not to strangle a blind man from across the table for no apparent reason.

Elektra noticed too, and naturally, this pleased her.

“Well,” she said, stepping aside to let everyone further into the apartment. “This is already a much better birthday dinner than I expected.”

“It is my birthday dinner,” you said. “Not an interrogation.”

“That depends entirely on your boyfriend.”

Dex looked at Elektra then.

For the first time since the door opened, his attention moved to your sister, realising the human hurdle had a knife in its hand.

You sighed and clutched your flowers a little tighter.

Matt stepped closer. “It really is good to see you.”

Your irritation waned, because he sounded sincere, so you hugged him.

Matt hugged you back, one hand warm between your shoulders, gentle in the way he had always been somewhat of a big brother to you. “Happy birthday, kid.” he said again, quieter this time.

“Thank you,” you muttered. “Even though all of you are being weird.”

“We’ve barely started,” Elektra said.

“That is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

When you pulled away from Matt, Dex was still watching him.

You looked at the three of them and pointed toward the dining room. “Everyone sit down,” you said. “And someone is going to explain what professionally means before dessert.”

—

Dinner began with Elektra leading you to the table, Matt followed by memory, and Dex stayed close enough behind you you could feel him breathing on your neck. The food was already laid out, far more elaborate than she had admitted over the phone, with candles burning between the plates and your cake waiting beneath a glass cover on the counter.

You sat beside Dex. Matt took the chair opposite him, and Elektra sat beside Matt with the calm of someone who had accidentally arranged the most interesting seating plan possible.

For the first few minutes, the conversation stayed on you. Your birthday, your Broadway production, the lead actor who kept trying to make the sword fights faster, the balcony rig that had failed inspection twice. Matt asked intelligent questions and Elektra asked whether anyone deserved to be pushed from the balcony for real. Dex was deathly silent, and you assumed it was for fear of saying the wrong thing and losing Elektra’s favour, which in turn meant losing your favour, too.

Then, Matt mentioned teaching now, and your eyes went as wide as dinner plates. 

“Holy shit,” you managed. “Professor Murdock?”

Matt had laughed under his breath. “That surprised you?”

“A little. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Then you had turned to Dex, trying to make it casual, trying to move the night away from whatever ugly thing was coiling beneath the table. See? this is fine, you tried to say with your eyes 

Well. It was until Matt decided to say, “And Poindexter, you’re still in security?”

Dex’s eyes had flicked to Matt for half a second.

“Yeah,” he said, with his hand warm on your knee, “She knows my work.”

Matt had gone still.

Dex hadn’t smiled, but you felt the satisfaction in him anyway. 

You could feel him think, Matt cannot use that against me.

Except Matt kept going.

Matt didn’t sound like he wanted to humiliate him. He sounded worried, and maybe that was what made Dex more anxious. Accusation, he could meet. Concern made him look like an animal.

And because you had no idea what the fuck to do, you blurted out the one thing you probably shouldn’t have. 

“Um,” you choked out. “Would you like to tell us how you met?”

Oh fuck. 

Mistake, you could tell from the way Dex was looking at you now. Big mistake.

“It was years ago,” Matt said finally. “During my work on a civil suit. Nelson, Murdock, and Page represented several former employees of a private security firm.”

Dex’s thumb stopped moving on your knee.

Matt continued. “We found evidence of illegal surveillance, witness intimidation, and coercion.”

Elektra leaned back slightly, actively thinking of Dex’s bad influence on you now. 

Dex’s face didn’t change.

“He worked for them?” Elektra asked.

Matt’s head angled toward Dex. “Ask him.”

Dex’s teeth shifted once.

You felt the violent urge in him before you saw it. His body didn’t lunge and his hand didn't move. But you could tell he was thinking of hurling a fork in Matt’s direction. 

You put your hand over his and squeezed hard.

Dex’s eyes snapped to you.

You didn’t say anything. You only dug your fingers into the back of his hand, right where the skin was thin over bone. It was a warning, a plea not to escalate things. Your nails pressed in harder when his eyes moved back toward Matt.

Dex. You warned with your eyes. 

His nostrils flared.

Please don’t.

Matt kept speaking, unaware or too aware. “His name came up in access logs and reports.”

Dex’s hand flexed under yours.

You pressed harder, until your nails broke skin. A tiny crescent of blood welled beneath your thumb, bright against him.

Dex looked down, and that’s what did it. All the focus in him fractured around the sight of your hand gripping his hard enough to hurt him, your fingers trembling. This was your silent refusal to let him become the thing Matt was describing right in front of you.

Though the haze in his mind didn’t disappear, he turned his face away from Matt. It came back to you and the fact that you were frightened enough of what he might do to stop him with pain.

Dex swallowed. Under the table, he turned his hand over and caught your fingers carefully, like he was afraid you might pull away.

Matt was still talking, though.  “One witness was hospitalised the night before deposition. Another vanished for three days and came back with a different story.”

Elektra looked at Dex. You looked at Matt. Dex looked at nobody but you.

“And nothing stuck,” Dex said.

His voice was too controlled.

Matt paused. “No.”

Dex’s fingers tightened around yours once, not enough to hurt, enough to ask whether you were still there.

You were.

You hated that you were.

Dex’s eyes finally lifted to Matt again, and there it was: you knew he wanted to fucking hurt him, and not because Matt was lying. Because Matt was telling the truth in front of you. Because Matt had dragged a past version of him into your sister’s dining room and set it between the candles.

Your grip tightened again.

Dex breathed in slowly, then he looked at you.

You shook your head once. Please.

The fight went out of his shoulders by force, not surrender. He leaned back a fraction, still holding your hand under the table, your bloodied little nail marks hidden between his fingers like a secret.

Elektra set her wine down. “Dex,” she said. Her voice was smooth. “Can I speak with you?”

You looked at her immediately. “Ellie.”

“Privately.”

Dex didn’t answer right away.

His thumb moved over your fingers once. There was blood on his skin because of you, and somehow that made his touch gentler.

“It’s fine,” he said.

It was absolutely not fine. He stood anyway.

Before he followed Elektra, he bent close enough that his mouth brushed your temple. It was not quite a kiss and more like proof of control. 

Then he left with your sister as the balcony doors shut behind them.

For a second, you only stared at the glass, watching Elektra turn on him with folded arms while Dex stood very still in front of her, hands visible, every inch of him pretending he had not almost lost himself at your birthday dinner.

Matt was still across from you when you turned back to him slowly.

He looked… worried.

You wiped your thumb against your napkin, and tried to breathe like your heart was not still stuck somewhere in your throat.

“Ummmm,” you said, because if you started with Dex, you might cry. If you started with the lawsuit, you might scream.

Matt turned his face toward you.

“So,” you said, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Are you sticking around this time?”

Matt didn’t answer right away.

That was very Matt of him.

He sat across from you at Elektra’s dining table with one hand curled near his wine glass, head angled faintly toward the balcony doors. Outside, your sister had Dex backed into a conversation you could not hear properly through the glass. Elektra’s arms were folded. Dex’s hands were visible at his sides.

That alone told you he was trying very, very hard.

You watched them for another second, then looked back at Matt.

“So,” you said, because there was no clean way to ask it. “Are you sticking around this time?”

 Matt swirled a bit of his wine. Awkward.

“I… think so,” he said.

You stared at him. “You think so?”

The smile he gave you was small. “I’m trying.”

“Mmm. Very convincing.”

He huffed, almost a laugh, and it tugged at an old memory in your chest.

Because before he was Professor Murdock, he was Elektra’s on-again-off-again disaster boyfriend, and that made him your on-again-off-again big brother. He had been the person who helped you with homework at the kitchen table because Elektra said she was too busy and then corrected every other answer from across the room anyway. He had been the person who let you complain about school and teachers and boys without making you feel stupid for being young. He had been the one who said, very seriously, that no, you probably could not sue your PE teacher for being annoying, but he admired your commitment to the argument.

And then he would leave.

“She was awful last time you guys broke up,” you said.

Matt lowered his head.

You picked at the edge of your napkin. “Not in the fun way. She was actually awful.”

“What do you want me to say?” He sighed.

The candles on the table flickered between you. Elektra had made too much food, of course. Your flowers sat in a vase near the counter, lush and ridiculous and beautiful, and you could still feel the small dent of Dex’s hand where he had held yours under the table.

“She missed you,” you said. “She pretended she didn’t, obviously, but she did.”

His mouth fell.

“And I missed you,” you added, staring very hard at the napkin. “Who else do I get to complain about her to? Mom and Dad don’t give a shit anymore.”

Matt’s laugh was tiny and helpless. “I missed you too.”

That almost made you forgive him.

You looked back at him. “Then stay. Or don’t. But don’t drift in and out like we’re all supposed to just reset every time you and Ellie get bored again.”

He nodded once, accepting the hit. For a second, it felt like being sixteen again. Like he was still family, sitting at your family table.

Then his head shifted slightly.

Toward the balcony. Towards Dex.

And you felt the whole conversation distort.

Matt didn’t pounce. He was much worse than that. He eased into it, like he was only following the evidence where it naturally led.

“You know why I’m worried about your boyfriend,” he said.

You sat back and sighed. “There it is.”

“I’m not trying to start a fight.”

“No,” you shook your head. “You’re building a case.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I know you care about me,” you said. “I do. But please don’t do that... That lawyer thing with your wording. You're making me feel like I’m supposed to realise I’ve accidentally admitted something.”

“I’m not cross-examining you.”

“You are.”

“I’m asking questions.” Matt exhaled.

You hated how much you still wanted his approval, because he was one of those people who had seen you grow up and therefore they had earned the right to worry.

He leaned forward a little.

“How did he tell you about… what he does?”

You looked at him and took a sip of wine to buy yourself time. “I’m not thick.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No,” you said. “But he didn’t have to tell me shit for me to realise his job was more than sit around looking pretty with a gun.”

Matt’s jaw clenched slightly.

Outside, Elektra said something to Dex that made his shoulders go tense.

“He gave you a version,” Matt said.

You laughed once, without much humour. “Everyone gives a version.”

“Some versions are omissions.”

“God, you are so irritating.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” you cocked your head. “You think irritating is fine when you’re right.”

Matt tried again.

“There are patterns,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Patterns.”

“Yes.”

“With Dex.”

“With men like him.”

You looked sharply at him. “Men like him.”

Matt’s mouth tightened. “Men who know exactly how much truth to give you.”

Your throat tightened despite yourself.

He heard it, because damn that freakish hearing of his was apparently still going.

His voice flattened a bit. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Always very generous.”

“I mean it. I think you’re smart. I think you know more than most people would.”

You looked down at your hands.

There was still the faintest mark beneath one nail where you had dug into Dex’s skin hard enough to pull him back. You could still feel the moment he snapped back into himself. The way his fury turned, not gone, just redirected because you had asked without words.

Matt said your name, like he used to when you were younger and trying not to cry.

“I think you’re too close to the facts,” he said. You almost smiled because only Matt Murdock would say something like that at a birthday dinner.

You set the fork down. “You mean I’m biased.”

“I mean you’re involved.”

“I’m allowed to be involved in my own life.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Matt went silent.

You looked at him now, studying his posture “Because it sounds like you think if you arrange the argument properly, I’ll reach your conclusion.”

“I think you’re making a dangerous choice.”

“There we go.”

His face soured. “He is dangerous.”

“So is Ellie.”

“She’s different now.”

“And?” You leaned forward. “And?”

Matt didn’t answer fast enough.

You lowered your voice. “We both know what she’s done. We both know what half of that collection cost before she started using invoices and whatever else she claims is legitimate now.”

“She got out.”

“Good for her.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I,” you groaned. “But she still deserves love, doesn’t she?”

Matt looked pained, and you hated hurting him. 

“You love her with a whole archive of exceptions,” you said. “But I’m supposed to treat Dex like one bad document is the entire record?”

“It’s not just one bad document—“

“It’s close enough.”

“No,” Matt said, and there was that courtroom firmness in him now. “I’m saying you probably know what the record looks like. You're just ignoring the parts you don’t want to read.”

You swallowed.

“I know what it costs,” he said. “To love someone and start making room for things you would have condemned.”

You looked toward the balcony.

Dex had turned his head slightly, like he could feel you looking. 

Matt kept going, though kinder now. “You start with mitigation. Then you start giving out exceptions. I’m just asking you to consider—”

“No.” Your voice cracked a little. “No, you’re asking me to accept your ruling.”

Matt stopped.

Ruling.

Huh. You really have changed over the two years he was gone.

You breathed in shakily. “I’m not saying you’re wrong about him. Maybe you’re not. Maybe there are things I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll regret this so badly I’ll hear your voice in my fucking head for the rest of my life.”

Matt’s shoulders lowered. 

“But my mistakes are mine to make,” you said.

Oh. 

You saw the tiny break in his knuckles. The big-brother part of him, the one who never really had anyone but himself, the part that still remembered you as a teenager at the kitchen table with bruised knees and far too much attitude for your own good, wanting to protect you from yourself because he had loved a more bloody Elektra the way you loved Dex. 

“I don’t want to watch you get hurt,” was all he managed to say, 

You looked down. “You might have to.”

He looked down.

You reached across the table first and found his hand, because touch had always been a sensory experience he reacted to. 

“I’m not blind,” you said, then immediately groaned. “Sorry.”

Matt’s mouth twitched. “It’s fine.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“I know he’s not safe.”

Matt’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles.

“But he listens to me,” you said. “And maybe that’s not enough for you. But it matters to me.”

Matt didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue either.

For once, it felt like mercy.

Outside, you heard a scrape against the balcony table.

Matt’s head tilted. “What’s happening?”

You looked past him through the glass.

Elektra and Dex were no longer standing in their neat little interrogation positions. They looked like they were seated across from each other at the tiny balcony table, elbows planted, hands clasped, Dex’s shoulders covering half the scene. 

You blinked.

Then, despite the ache in your chest, you laughed. “I think they’re arm wrestling.”

Matt closed his eyes.

The look on his face was so exhausting that it only made you laugh harder.

—

The rest of dinner went by quickly after Elektra and Dex came back in from the balcony with no visible injuries, which you counted as a birthday miracle. 

Elektra looked smug and Dex looked composed, but there was a tightness around his lips that made you narrow your eyes. When you glanced between them and asked who won the arm wrestle, Elektra only smiled into her wine. Dex said nothing. Which, unfortunately for him, was an answer.

After that, everyone behaved, mostly. Matt stopped trying to lawyer you out of your own relationship. Dex stopped looking like he wanted to fling Matt through one of Elektra’s very expensive windows. Elektra told a horrible story about you at seventeen trying to jump from the garage roof into the pool and missing by an amount she called “humiliating but educational.” Matt laughed, Dex looked absolutely fascinated, like your teenage stupidity was precious. He asked one follow-up question, and you kicked him under the table.

By the time you left, she kissed both your cheeks, held your face for one second longer than usual, and said happy birthday one more time and told you to call her tomorrow.

Matt hugged you too, while Dex and Matt shook hands, proving to God and each other that they could survive physical contact without committing a felony.

Then Dex took you home.

You were sleepy in the car, full from dinner, cake, and emotional warfare. 

At your apartment, you kicked off your shoes by the door and padded into the kitchen for water. Dex followed, taking off his coat, watching you with that careful quiet he got when he was not sure whether he was allowed to touch you yet.

You leaned against the counter and looked at him over the rim of your glass.

“So,” you said. “Who really won?”

Dex’s expression went flat. “No.”

You smiled. “No?”

Dex flexed his hand once, as if remembering. “She’s irritating.”

You laughed. “Mmm.”

“But you love her,” he said.

Your laugh faded.

Dex leaned back against the counter opposite you, arms crossed. “And she loves you. And she’s capable of protecting you.” He said, as if it was the only metric that mattered. “So I guess I’ll try.”

You stared at him. “That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said about anyone.”

Dex rolled his eyes, but there was no bite in it. He looked tired now. Not physically, more like tired from pretending to be a decent person. 

You walked across the kitchen and took his hand.

The little marks from your nails looked worse up close. There were tiny, red, broken crescents on the back of his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, trailing small kisses on them

Dex looked down at your lips touching the wounds. He shrugged as if you did what you had to do to get the result you wanted, and Dex had always been pragmatic like that. 

That night, Dex fell asleep with his arm locked around your waist.

He slept heavy, going slack against your back, his breath warm at the nape of your neck, his hand spread beneath your sleep shirt like he had reached for bare skin even in his sleep. 

Your phone pinged just after two.

Then again. Then again.

You reached for it carefully, lifting Dex’s arm just enough to drag the screen close without waking him.

It was a text…. From Elektra.

I’m glad he’s on your side.

Then the next text.

That’s still not the same thing as him being safe.

Another message came through before you could answer her.

Make an informed decision. That’s all I’m asking.

Then, she sent a link.

You stared at it for a long time in the dark.

Dex shifted behind you, his arm tightening automatically around your middle, his face pressing closer to your shoulder, still asleep. 

You opened it… and there it was. The lawsuit Dex was allegedly involved in.

The text was dense and written in bloodless language detailing private security and consultants. It detailed alleged intimidation and coercion, resulting in witnesses withdrawing statements and misplaced evidence. 

Dex’s name was there.

You read until the words blurred, until the apartment turned orange in the early morning. Dex slept against you while a colder version of him lived through depositions and sealed complaints and things nobody had ever proved.

But you knew your boyfriend. You knew he was capable of this. 

You waited for the feeling to change.

Maybe, you expected to be disgusted. Fear, more likely.

It didn’t come.

You felt the same about him as you did before. 

And of course it wasn’t fine. Matt was not wrong and Elektra wasn’t worried for no reason.

But you had always looked at the world through rose-tinted glasses.

By dawn, you closed the file.

Dex stirred when you set your phone down, as if even the sound of it against the nightstand was enough to pull some half-asleep part of him back to you.

His arm tightened around your waist first. Then he dragged you closer, face pressing blindly between your shoulder and neck, making it impossible to move even if you had wanted to.

“Sweetheart?” he mumbled, barely awake.

You hummed and covered his hand with yours.

For a second, you lay there with the lawsuit still burning behind your eyes. All those careful words and sealed statements. All those allegations circling the man in your bed like vultures.

And maybe Matt was right.

Maybe Elektra was right.

Maybe Dex was dangerous. 

But Matt had loved your sister through her murderous years, hadn’t he? So who were they to look at you like you were insane for dating an assassin?

You were now thoroughly informed, now, weren’t you?

You turned carefully in Dex’s arms until you were facing him. His eyes stayed closed, his brow furrowing faintly at the movement, but his hand slid up your back on instinct, keeping you close.

“Go back to sleep,” you whispered, kissing him softly.

Dex exhaled against your mouth, already sinking again. You tucked yourself beneath his chin, his arm heavy over your waist.

Informed decision made.

—end. 

NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5. 

That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.

Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if you’re able to give it! Love y’all and thank you for reading!!! <3

buy me a ko-fi here!

Dex taglist part 1: