Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

San Francisco, February 2018

By the bay, the mornings start soft.

Fog comes in low over the Presidio, quieting the gulls and the traffic and the part of Natasha that still listens for sirens in languages she doesn't speak. It swallowed the bridge until only slivers of orange steel cut through the haze. The reformed headquarters perched on the cliffs like a crown, glass walls glowing against the dark. Inside, it was quieter than New York ever was. The nights here didn’t hum with the heartbeat of a thousand strangers pressed together in the streets. Out here, the air tastes clean, salted by the ocean instead of choked with smoke and sweat. The silence felt foreign on Natasha’s tongue. She told herself she liked it.

She told herself she liked a lot of things these days.

The gym was never empty, not with this crew. Sam and Rhodey had claimed one side of the mats, circling each other with that mix of competitiveness only they could pull off.

Wanda sat cross-legged on a bench nearby, earbuds dangling around her neck, pretending to read while her eyes glowed faintly red. Every so often, she’d flick her fingers and nudge Sam’s footing just off-balance, earning his curses and Rhodey’s loud laugh. Vision hovered in the background, literally, arms folded behind his back as he monitored with the patience of a teacher in detention.

Natasha smirks at the scene.

It’s the kind of routine she had never had the luxury of before. 

She is standing barefoot on the mat, circling Steve Rogers.

The mat smells faintly of rubber and saltwater. The fog outside is only half-dissolved, gray light filtering through the tall windows that look out toward the bay. 

Natasha tightens the tape around her knuckles, flexes her hands, and glances across the mat. Steve’s already waiting—barefoot, sweats hanging low on his hips, shirt clinging damp to his chest from the warm-up. He’s rolling his shoulders like he’s not showing off, which of course means he is.

“Light or mean?” he asks, that half-smirk tugging at his mouth.

Natasha cocks her head, stepping onto the mat. “You really want me to answer that?”

He chuckles. “Guess that’s my answer.”

They circle each other, silent for a few beats except for the squeak of bare feet on the mat. Natasha strikes first—fast, a jab meant to test. Steve blocks, lets her momentum spin her shoulder, and grins.

“Telegraphing,” he mutters.

She feints left, sweeps right, nearly hooks his ankle. He stumbles half a step. “Or maybe you’re just getting slow.”

That earns her a quick advance. He surges forward, chest brushing hers, and she pivots out, catching his wrist. Their arms tangle, muscles straining, breath sharp between them. His grip is firm but not punishing, familiar.

“You holding back?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t dare,” he says. But his voice dips low, playful.

She twists, jerks his arm behind his back, but he spins with it, catching her waist. For one suspended heartbeat they’re flush, her back against his chest, his hand splayed wide over her stomach. She can feel the heat of him through her thin tank, the steady rhythm of his breath.

She inhales, sharp. Shakes it off. Slips out of his hold and flips him neatly onto the mat.

He lands with a grunt and a laugh. “Cruel,” he says, flat on his back, but his eyes are gleaming.

Natasha stands over him, one hand on her hip, catching her own breath. “Told you.”

Steve props himself up on his elbows. Sweat curls at his temple, his chest rising and falling. For a second, neither of them moves. The tension hangs there, humming.

Then he breaks it with a grin. “Dinner tonight?”

She arches a brow. “That’s your follow-up after I threw you on your ass?”

“Figured it’s safer than asking for a rematch,” he says, climbing to his feet.

Natasha rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say no. “Depends what’s on the menu.”

His smile softens, quieter now. “Whatever you want.”

And there it is again—that pull. Not the wildfire that once left her half-destroyed, but something steadier. A warm hearth instead of an inferno. She tells herself it’s better this way. Safer. Saner.

But as she untangles the tape from her wrists, she feels the ghost of his hand still on her waist, and for a moment she almost misses the burn.

After, he makes coffee in the compound kitchen, sleeves shoved to his elbows, damp hair pushed back. She filches strawberries from a bowl Wanda left on the counter. Vision floats in, offers an unsolicited but sincere evaluation of pancake ratios. Sam wanders through in a hoodie, salutes a mug. Rhodey taps a knuckle against her shoulder on his way to debrief. It feels—dangerously, defiantly—like a home.

The work is grounded out here.

No aliens. No sky-rending holes. Just people with ambition and guns and bad timing. The week belongs to port-side sweep-and-grabs: Stark-adjacent components reappearing in warehouses that should be empty, encryption cores stamped with numbers that shouldn’t exist anymore. Natasha goes in low and quiet, comes out with a thumb drive in her pocket and a bruised knuckle she’ll forget about by dinner.

Rhodey handles airspace, cool and authoritative over comms. Wanda’s hands glow steady as she disarms a tripwire without blinking. Vision’s voice is a soft metronome in her ear. Sam keeps it light—“that was a great zip-tie knot, Romanoff, truly art”—and she lets herself smile because he wants her to.

At night, there are charity events and dull briefings and movie nights that devolve into Wanda heckling whatever Steve picks. Sometimes there’s cooking. Steve’s good at it in the way he’s good at everything—focused, patient, hands steady. She lets him tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Sometimes she kisses him for it. It’s easy. It fits. It makes sense.

Safe is not a swear word anymore.

It doesn’t make her skin burn. It doesn’t make her insane. It doesn’t feel like someone dragged a live wire through her ribs and dared her to touch it twice. She can live in this kind of heat. She can sleep after it.

And yet.

There are small betrayals she commits against her own peace. The way she stands a second too long in the compound armory when the coffee and aftershave from some agent hits right; the way she braids her hair badly one morning and remembers the feel of clumsy fingers learning. She keeps that memory where she keeps the cross on a silver chain—in a drawer she never forgets is there and never, ever opens by accident.

The phone is a small animal that lives face-down on her nightstand. She charges it every evening, like a ritual of surviving. Sometimes she lifts it. Sometimes she even unlocks the screen and scrolls to a number that isn’t labeled anything as obvious as his name. She could press it. They both could have, at any point. Six months is a long time to not call someone you once would have burned down a city for.

Her thumb hovers. The screen times out. She lets it.

When it’s time to run, she and Steve take the path along Crissy Field. Wind lifts the edges of her hoodie; the bay looks like hammered steel. Steve doesn’t comment when she pushes the last hill hard enough to burn. He matches her stride and lets her pretend she’s racing no one.

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The compound kitchen smells like garlic and olive oil, a rare change from Sam’s usual fried experiments or Vision’s bizarre attempts at “human cuisine.” Natasha leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching Steve slice peppers with military precision. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing with every cut, the kind of unconscious show of strength that used to make her roll her eyes. Now it makes her throat tighten.

“You’re chopping like you’re interrogating them,” she says, tilting her head.

He glances up, smirking. “Gotta keep ‘em in line.”

“Poor peppers,” she mutters, though the corner of her mouth lifts.

Steve nudges the cutting board toward her. “Make yourself useful?”

She sighs, but she steps forward anyway, brushing past him to grab the skillet. The space between them is small, almost deliberately so, and she feels the warmth of his body at her back. He doesn’t move away.

“Not bad,” she says as the peppers hit the pan with a sizzle.

He leans on the counter beside her, close enough that their shoulders bump. “High praise, coming from you.”

From the doorway, Wanda pipes up, “If you two burn dinner again, I’m ordering pizza.” She ducks out before Natasha can throw a dish towel at her.

Steve chuckles, shaking his head. “She doesn’t trust us.”

“She’s right not to.” Natasha stirs the peppers, pretending her heart isn’t beating faster at how easily this all fits—the two of them in a kitchen, teasing, working side by side. Normal. Domestic.

After a while, the compound quiets. The others scatter—Wanda and Vision vanish into their own little orbit, Sam disappears with Rhodey. It’s just her and Steve at the table, plates between them, the soft hum of San Francisco night through the open window.

Steve pours them each a glass of wine, his movements unhurried. Natasha watches him for a moment, the way he settles in his chair, broad shoulders relaxed, expression open. It feels… easy.

He catches her staring. “What?”

She shakes her head, lips twitching. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he says, but his tone is gentle. He takes a sip of wine. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

She arches a brow. “Dinner?”

He smiles faintly. “This. All of it. The quiet. The… normal.”

Natasha swirls her glass, pretending to study the deep red inside it. She knows what he means. The compound. The team. Training together. Meals that don’t end in explosions or betrayal. It’s steady. Safe. The kind of life she used to think she couldn’t have.

Her throat tightens. “Yeah,” she says softly. “It is.”

Steve’s gaze lingers on her, steady and warm, and for a moment she lets herself sink into it. Into him.

It feels right.

Not complicated. No serious labels or titles required. He would take exactly what she would give him. Never demanded more.

The dishes are rinsed and stacked in the sink. The compound is quiet now—too quiet. Somewhere down the hall, Sam is probably snoring in front of the TV, Wanda and Vision have vanished entirely, and Rhodey’s music hums faintly from his quarters.

Natasha carries her glass of wine into the lounge, padding barefoot across the cool floor. Steve follows, jacket slung over his shoulder, the picture of casual ease.

“Movie?” he asks, nodding toward the stack of DVDs someone (probably Sam) left scattered on the coffee table.

Natasha smirks. “You actually watch those?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Helps me catch up. Still haven’t seen half of what people quote at me.”

She settles onto the couch, curling one leg under her. “Alright, Rogers. Impress me. What’s your pick?”

Steve rifles through the pile, frowning with concentration that’s far too serious for this task. He eventually holds up one. “The Princess Bride?”

Natasha raises a brow. “Didn’t peg you for a fairy-tale guy.”

“It’s supposed to be funny,” he says, feigning offense. “And I like a good sword fight.”

“Fine,” she mutters, lips twitching. “But if you start quoting it later, I’m out.”

The movie starts, the flicker of the screen washing them both in pale light. For a while, they’re quiet—just the hum of dialogue, the occasional chuckle. But somewhere in between, Steve shifts closer. Not much—just enough that his knee brushes hers.

Natasha doesn’t move away.

She tells herself it’s nothing. Just proximity. Just comfort. But when she steals a glance at him, he’s already looking at her. Not with fire or frenzy—just that steady, warm gaze that feels like sunlight.

Her stomach twists. She takes a sip of wine to cover it.

The movie flickers in the background, long since forgotten. Natasha swirls the last sip of wine in her glass, the corner of her mouth tugged up as Steve leans back against the couch, arms stretched along the backrest like he owns the place.

“You know,” she says lightly, “for a guy who was frozen in ice for seventy years, you’re surprisingly good at domestic dinners.”

Steve chuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.” She smirks, sipping her wine. “Your knife skills could use work. And don’t even get me started on your seasoning.”

“Seasoning?” He tilts his head, mock offense in his voice. “I used garlic and olive oil. Classic. Can’t go wrong with that.”

“You can if you burn it,” Natasha fires back.

His lips twitch. “We didn’t burn anything.”

“Yet,” she says.

Steve shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “You’re impossible.”

Natasha leans closer, eyes glinting. “And you keep inviting me back. What does that say about you?”

He raises a brow, grin tugging at his mouth. “That I’m a glutton for punishment?”

“Or you like a challenge,” she shoots back.

Their eyes hold a second too long. Steve breaks first, his smile softening. “You know, I think I’ve sparred with you enough to know I don’t win those challenges.”

Natasha shrugs, pretending to study her nails. “Maybe you’re improving.”

“Is that your version of encouragement?”

She smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head, but when he looks back at her, there’s something steadier in his gaze. “I like this, you know. The training, the dinners… you.”

Her stomach flips. She hides it with a scoff. “Careful, Rogers. You’re starting to sound sentimental.”

“Guess you’re rubbing off on me,” he says easily.

Her lips twitch again—because God, it seems so right. And maybe that’s why her chest tightens.

She shakes her head, teasing to cover it. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the smooth one.”

Steve leans a little closer, smirk deepening. “You saying I’m not?”

“I’m saying…” Natasha sets her glass down, turning toward him fully. “…if this is your idea of smooth, you’re out of practice.”

His gaze flickers to her mouth for just a heartbeat before meeting her eyes again. “Then maybe you should tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

Her breath catches—just a flicker—but she keeps her voice steady. “I don’t give lessons for free.”

Steve’s grin softens into something warmer, and before she can add another quip, he leans in, slow, deliberate, giving her time to stop him.

“You’re not stopping me,” he murmurs, close enough that she feels his breath.

Natasha smirks, heart thudding. “Maybe I just want to see if you’ve improved.”

And then his lips brush hers—soft at first, testing—before she kisses him back.

Steve’s mouth brushes hers, tentative, testing. Natasha smirks against it — because she knows better. This isn’t their first kiss, not by a long shot.

“Improved,” she murmurs, lips grazing his, “but still rusty.”

Steve huffs a laugh that dies against her mouth as he kisses her again, firmer this time. His hand lifts, warm against her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he can’t help himself. Natasha tilts her head, deepening the kiss, letting herself sink into it.

Her hand slips over his chest, fingers hooking the collar of his t-shirt as if tugging him closer will spark more. He responds instantly, arm sliding around her waist, pulling her snug against him.

Her nails graze the back of his neck, and his breath stutters. For a second, the kiss sharpens, heat coiling tighter between them. She lets him push her back into the cushions, lets herself sigh against his mouth. Steve’s mouth lingers on hers, steady and warm, but the weight of him pressed against her side sparks something more dangerous. Natasha tilts her head, bites lightly at his lip, and the sound he makes — low, surprised — pulls a smirk from her.

“You’re distracting me from dessert,” she teases, breath brushing his jaw.

“Thought we skipped dessert.” His voice is rougher now, humor frayed around the edges. His hand slides from her jaw to the line of her waist, thumb tracing slow circles through her shirt. “Unless this was your plan all along.”

She lets out a soft huff of laughter, tugging him closer by the collar. “What if it was?”

Steve kisses her again, deeper this time, steady rhythm breaking under the weight of something sharper. Natasha shifts, legs curling beneath her as she leans into him, her nails grazing the back of his neck. His hand flexes at her hip.

And that’s when she hears it — the muffled sound of Sam’s laugh echoing faintly down the hall.

Natasha pulls back, lips swollen, smirking. “Careful, Rogers. You really want to give the team that kind of show?”

His ears flush instantly. “That’s— not— I wasn’t—”

She grins, sliding off the couch with feline grace. “Relax, soldier. Didn’t say I was complaining.”

She offers her hand, cocking her head toward the hallway. “Come on.”

Steve takes it without hesitation.

Her room is quiet, dimly lit by the city glow bleeding through the blinds. The door clicks shut behind them. Natasha leans against it, arms crossed, lips quirking when Steve freezes halfway across the room like he’s not sure what to do next.

“You’re still terrible at pretending this is casual,” she says softly.

He swallows, taking a step closer. “I’m great at casual.”

Her smile falters for just a second — just long enough for him to see it — before she closes the distance and pulls him down into another kiss. This one isn’t safe or steady. It’s hungry, impatient, the kind of kiss that makes him stumble until her back hits the dresser.

Steve braces one hand beside her, the other sliding up her ribcage, under her shirt, knuckles brushing bare skin. She exhales against his mouth, almost a sigh, almost a laugh, like she hates how easy it is to let him in.

“You’re getting better at this,” she whispers.

“Practice,” he murmurs, lips moving down to her jaw, her throat, finding the spot that makes her inhale sharp and unsteady.

His laugh is short, almost disbelieving, before her mouth cuts it off again. The kiss deepens, teeth scraping, tongues tangling, until she’s pulling him down with her onto the mattress.

Steve braces himself above her, careful as always, but Natasha doesn’t let him play gentle for long. She tugs him down by the nape of his neck, teeth grazing his jaw. “You always hesitate,” she whispers.

“Not tonight,” he breathes, and he proves it. His hands roam — steady, sure — sliding beneath her shirt, across the lines of muscle and scar. She arches into his touch, sighing when his lips trail down her throat.

Her laugh comes low, throaty, when he mouths at her collarbone. “You’re getting cocky.”

“Learning from the best.”

She flips them suddenly, straddling him with a fluid grace that makes his eyes darken instantly. Her hands press into his chest, pinning him like she did in training, except there’s nothing playful about the way she leans down and kisses him hard enough to make him groan.

“You like this,” she teases against his lips.

“Maybe I do,” he admits, voice wrecked already.

Her grin is wicked as her hands slide lower, tracing the grooves of muscle, teasing, testing how far he’ll let her go. He lets out a hiss of breath when her nails graze lightly down his ribs, and she bites her lip at the sound.

His hand comes up, steadying her at the waist, but his thumb strokes small, grounding circles. She realizes it’s instinct — he’ll always anchor her, even now.

The clothes start to vanish between kisses and laughter. Natasha’s hair falls loose, framing her flushed face as she hovers above him, her breath coming quick. Steve watches her like she’s the only thing in the room, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling under her palms.

“Natasha,” he murmurs, searching her eyes.

She leans down, brushing her mouth against his, slow and deliberate and kisses him again, deeper, letting the rest of the night blur into heat, gasps, and whispered names.

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Natasha’s hair is damp when she steps into the kitchen, a loose sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, coffee mug in hand. She’s trying for casual, but she catches Wanda already sitting at the island counter, one brow arched like she’s been waiting.

“Morning,” Natasha says, pouring herself more coffee than is probably advisable.

“Morning,” Wanda replies, all singsong, stirring sugar into her tea. “Sleep well?”

Natasha doesn’t flinch. She takes a slow sip, pretending the mug is a shield. “Like a baby.”

“Mm.” Wanda hums, not looking up. “Funny. Babies cry all night. That’s not what I heard.”

Natasha nearly chokes on her coffee, narrowing her eyes. “You were eavesdropping?”

Wanda shrugs, a mischievous smile tugging her lips. “Thin walls. Enhanced hearing. You two aren’t exactly subtle.”

Natasha sets her mug down with exaggerated care. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“A little,” Wanda admits, grinning now. She leans in conspiratorially. “So… should I start calling you ‘Captain’ or is that weird?”

Natasha rolls her eyes but can’t help a small laugh. “Shut up.”

Wanda just smirks, tilting her head. “I like seeing you happy.”

That lands heavier than the teasing. Natasha softens, lips twitching into a faint smile. “Do I look happy?”

Wanda studies her for a moment, red-painted nails tapping against the mug. “Sometimes.” Then, gentler, “But you don’t look… lit up?”

Natasha blinks, caught off guard. “Lit up?”

“Like something’s on fire inside you,” Wanda says simply, but arching a brow at the subject she never allowed to share since she came back from a mission in New York six months ago. “You’ve felt that before. Haven’t you?”

There’s a silence — brief, but telling. Natasha recovers with a smirk, slipping back into armor. “Not everything has to be fire, Wanda. Sometimes warm is good enough.”

Wanda doesn’t press. She just nods, sipping her tea. “Maybe.”

But the way her eyes linger says she’s not convinced.

Wanda doesn’t press, just adds gently: “You’re allowed to want safe. And you’re allowed to miss complicated. One thing kind of doesn’t cancel the other, you know.”

For a moment, Natasha doesn’t breathe. Then she forces a smirk, trying to shake it off. “When did you get so wise?”

Wanda shrugs, smiling faintly. “Comes with the accent.”

Natasha snorts, brushing past her to grab toast from the counter. “Eat your breakfast, sestra, before it gets cold.”

She returns to her bedroom. She barely closes the door behind her when Steve knocks gently and leans against the frame. Hair still damp from the shower, shirt sleeves rolled, that easy smile that always looks like sunlight breaking through.

“Forgot this,” he says, holding out her jacket — the one she left in the training room last night.

Natasha quirks a brow, crossing the room to take it. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably catch a cold,” Steve teases, and then, almost shyly, he dips down to kiss her. Just a brush of lips, warm and steady, before he straightens and clears his throat. “See you at debrief.”

He leaves as casually as he came, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Natasha exhales. Stares at the jacket in her hands.

Solid, golden, a steady warmth that doesn’t scorch. A kind of affection that feels easy, like standing in sunlight — warm on her skin, never too much. She likes it. She does.

But then— 

She remembers what it felt like to burn.

To ache in her bones, to unravel at a single touch. The sharp edge of wanting someone so much it bordered on ruin. That wasn’t safe. It was reckless. It was red.

That fire doesn’t last; it only consumes.

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Nelson & Murdock, New York

The blinds are half-open, letting the late afternoon sun stripe across the conference table. Case files sprawl everywhere — depositions, witness statements, a stack of motions Foggy swears is taller than him. The place smells like ink, burnt coffee, and Karen’s floral hand cream.

Matt sits at the head of the table, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, braille notes spread neatly before him. He looks like the picture of calm focus, the perfect partner. But Karen’s seen enough late-night arrivals and half-hidden bruises since he told her the truth about Daredevil to know better.

“You’ve been humming under your breath all morning,” Karen says, sliding into the chair across from him. Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp. “That usually means either you’re happy… or hiding something.”

Matt smirks faintly, fingers grazing the raised dots under his hand. “What if it’s both?”

Before Karen can answer, Foggy bursts in carrying a box of bagels like it’s evidence in a federal trial. “Don’t answer that, Karen, because the real crime is that our esteemed partner here—” he points at Matt with a bagel, “—hasn’t slept since God knows when. Again.”

Matt lifts his chin, amused. “I slept.”

“On a rooftop doesn’t count,” Foggy fires back, plopping down into his chair with the theatrical sigh of a man who carries two partners’ worth of worry. “And don’t try to lawyer me, Matt. I’ve known you since you had a haircut like Kurt Cobain.”

Karen hides a smile behind her coffee cup. “He’s right. You’re burning the candle at both ends.”

Matt leans back, hands folding neatly in his lap. “The firm’s thriving, the Defenders are keeping the streets clean, and we’re about to win Delgado’s case. I’d say the candle’s doing just fine.”

Karen smiles, warmth flickering in her eyes. “Then I’m happy for you.” And she means it. For once, she believes him.

Foggy doesn’t. He tears into his bagel, muttering under his breath, but he doesn’t push further. He just watches Matt a little too closely, like he’s waiting for the catch.

On paper, Matthew Murdock is thriving. His firm is bustling, his team unstoppable, his city safer than it’s been in years.

And yet, under all that polished control, he’s already counting down the hours until the silence of his apartment swallows him whole again.

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The alley stinks of piss, smoke, and adrenaline. Broken glass crunches underfoot, the remnants of a gunfight that never finished.

Matt breathes it in. Heartbeats. Four men left, scattered. Fast and panicked. Desperate. Easy.

“Two around the corner with semis,” he says, voice steady under the cowl. “One on the fire escape, about to reload. Fourth’s still in the van.”

Luke Cage grunts, stepping forward like a moving wall. “I’ll take the van.”

Jessica Jones rolls her eyes, already turning toward the fire escape. “Figures. Leave the acrobatics to me.”

“Not acrobatics,” Matt corrects, tilting his head toward the sound of the man fumbling with his clip. “Timing.”

Danny Rand’s already bouncing on the balls of his feet, fist glowing faintly gold. “So we hit them together?”

Matt smirks. “That’s the point of a team, isn’t it?”

And then they move.

Luke rips the van door clean off, tossing the driver out like he’s nothing more than a ragdoll. Jessica leaps, boots crunching the ladder as she yanks the gunman down by his collar. Danny takes one, his strike sending a ripple of golden energy through the alley as the man crumples.

Matt barely knows how this whole thing really started. It hadn’t been one clean night. It never is.

Hell’s Kitchen had been burning with gang wars, Triad turf battles spilling into Harlem, and some whispered experiment leaking out of what was left of Midland Circle. Too many moving parts for one vigilante, even one who refused to quit.

Matt had been running himself bloody for weeks when Jessica first showed up, drunk and pissed that her own case kept crossing with his. Luke followed not long after, because Harlem wasn’t safe if the Kitchen went under. And Danny… well, Danny was already convinced fate tied them together.

They didn’t like each other, not at first. Jessica called Matt “the melodramatic bat-boy,” Luke told him to get over himself, Danny wouldn’t stop monologuing about destiny.

But then came the warehouse. Dozens of trafficked kids, drugs piled to the ceiling, and a new breed of muscle juiced up on something that made them stronger, faster, meaner. Matt couldn’t take them alone.

And he didn’t have to.

Luke’s unbreakable skin held the line. Jessica tore the roof open when the exits were sealed. Danny punched a hole straight through the reinforced steel doors. And Matt—Matt was the one who heard every heartbeat, called the plays, kept them all alive.

After that, it wasn’t a question.

They didn’t call themselves anything, not at first. But the press needed a name, and “The Defenders” stuck.

Now? It’s routine. Patrols split across boroughs. Shared safehouses. A rhythm that feels almost professional, if you can ignore the swearing and bruised egos.

Matt won’t admit it out loud, but being with them—it steadies him. Reminds him that maybe the world doesn’t end if he lets other people carry the weight with him.

Back to the present, Matt hears the trigger click before the man squeezes, dodges, and sweeps his legs out in one smooth motion. A baton cracks against the concrete, ricochets, and knocks the second man out cold.

Silence follows. Just the sound of labored breathing, boots scuffing the alley, Jessica muttering about broken nails.

Luke wipes his hands. “That it?”

Matt listens. Heartbeats fading. Sirens a dozen blocks away but not here yet. “That’s it.”

Danny claps him on the back, grinning. “You make this look easy.”

Matt allows himself the faintest smile under the mask. “It is.”

For a moment, it feels good. Clean. He’s not the broken man Foggy worries about, not the hollow shell Karen can’t quite see through. Here, he’s necessary. Precise. The city breathes because of them.

Jessica lights a cigarette with shaking hands and exhales toward the stars. “Beer?”

“Always,” Luke says.

Matt holsters his batons. His ribs ache, his knuckles sting, and he knows he’ll wake up tomorrow bruised. But right now, as the sirens echo distant, he feels unstoppable. Whole.

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The place is loud enough to drown out most things. To anyone else, it’s just clinking glasses and bad music. To Matt, it’s a symphony of heartbeats, buzzed laughter, lies too sloppy to hide.

He sits at his usual table in the corner, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled. A glass of bourbon he doesn’t really need sweats under his hand. The rest of the team are long gone.

That leaves him. Matt Murdock, apparently thriving.

Except the word thriving tastes like ash.

Across the bar, a brunette laughs too loud at something one of her friends said. Her perfume is heavy, expensive, cloying.

The bourbon is half-gone when she notices him. Matt can tell — the sharp inhale, the slight pause in her laugh before she leans in to whisper to her friend. Her name, whispered back, lands in his ears just fine: Carly.

She’s not drunk, not sloppy. Just warm, loose, riding that perfect buzz where everything feels a little easier.

She crosses the floor with purpose, heels tapping out a rhythm Matt hears before he smells her perfume — citrus top note, vanilla underneath. Too sweet. Not what he’s been craving for six months.

“You look lonely over here.” Her voice is playful, practiced. She’s done this before.

Matt turns his head slightly toward her, giving the impression he’s been waiting for her all night. His mouth curves into that easy half-smile, the one Foggy calls his “closing argument” face.

“Looks can be deceiving.” His voice dips lower, warm, intimate, like he’s telling her a secret.

Carly laughs, sliding into the seat across from him without asking. “Oh? So you’re not lonely?”

He tilts his glass, listening to her pulse quicken just a little. “Not anymore.”

Her laugh is sharper this time, more genuine. She leans forward, chin in her hand. “That’s good, because sitting alone in a bar makes you look like the brooding type.”

Matt smirks, swirling the bourbon. “What if I am the brooding type?”

“Then I’d say you’re pulling it off.”

His smile widens — barely. It’s the restraint that kills. He tilts his head, like he’s studying her, even though his gaze is unfocused behind the red glasses. “And what type are you?”

Carly grins, biting her lip. “The fun type.”

“I had a feeling.”

It’s too easy. Always has been. He doesn’t have to force it — just drop his voice, let his smile hit at the right angle, ask the kind of question that sounds like he’s peeling her open, even if he’s barely paying attention.

She laughs again, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “Do you always pick up girls with riddles?”

“Only the ones worth the trouble.” He leans in now, close enough that his words hit like a current. “And you do sound like trouble.”

Her heartbeat spikes. She’s already in.

Carly touches his hand on the table, her skin hot from the wine she’d been drinking. “Want to find out?”

Matt downs the rest of his bourbon in one smooth motion, smile never slipping.

“Lead the way.”

The door clicks shut behind them, Carly’s laugh tumbling into the dim light of her apartment. Matt’s already shrugging out of his jacket, his lips finding hers before she even finishes locking it.

She tastes like cheap merlot and sugar lip gloss. Not bad. Not memorable either.

Carly gasps against his mouth when his hands slide down her waist, tugging her closer. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Matt smirks, crowding her back against the door. “Not usually.” His voice is low, teasing, a confession wrapped in charm.

Her fingers toy with the buttons of his shirt, clumsy from nerves, but Matt helps her out, guiding her hand, brushing knuckles down his chest. She shivers at the touch.

“God, you’re—” she whispers, staring at the scars crisscrossing his body as the fabric falls away.

Matt interrupts with another kiss, biting gently at her lip until she moans into his mouth. He doesn’t want to hear the word perfect. Not tonight.

The trail moves fast — the kitchen counter, the hallway wall, finally the bedroom. Clothes scatter, shoes kicked off in haste. Carly laughs again, high and breathless, tugging him down onto the bed.

Her hands are already dragging at his belt. Matt’s grin flashes as he leans down to her throat, mouthing at the soft skin just below her ear and her back arches at the scrape of his teeth. His hands roam, practiced, sure. He knows exactly where to touch, how to angle his wrist, when to drag nails instead of fingertips. He always has.

Carly’s breathy moans fill the room as his mouth trails lower, tasting, teasing, coaxing every sound he can out of her. She’s responsive, eager — but she’s not—.

He shakes the thought.

He flips them suddenly, Carly gasping as she lands on top of him. His smile is easy, unreadable. “Your turn.”

She rides him hard, desperate, chasing the high he gives her without even trying. He holds her hips, groans at the right moments, whispers just enough filth to push her over the edge. And when she falls apart above him, her head thrown back, her voice wrecked — he lets go too, burying his face in her neck, pretending the scent of her perfume doesn’t choke him.

Later, Carly is curled against his chest, still buzzing, still glowing. “That was…” she laughs softly, kissing his jaw. “Wow.”

Matt hums noncommittally, already reaching for his shirt on the floor.

“You’re not staying?” she asks, more curious than hurt.

He gives her a crooked smile, slipping his glasses back on. “I don’t sleep well.”

Carly sighs, resigned, already rolling to her side. “Guess I’ll take the win.”

Matt lingers at the door for just a second, hand on the knob. Her heartbeat is already steadying into sleep. Easy. Forgettable.

He walks out into the night and doesn’t go home, the city loud and alive around him.

And for one reckless second, he wishes the phone in his pocket would buzz with a number he’s never dared to dial.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The sun’s barely up, the city still shaking the sleep out of its bones. Foggy Nelson is balancing a brown paper bag of bagels and two coffees in his arms as he climbs the familiar stairwell.

He knocks once, then twice. No answer. Shrugs, fishes the spare key out of his pocket — because of course he has one — and lets himself in.

The apartment is dark, quiet. Too quiet. No telltale hum of the coffee machine, no faint shuffle of a man already in motion. Matt’s usually up by now. Foggy frowns, sets the bag on the counter.

Then—footsteps.

From the hall outside the apartment.

Matt enters, cane tucked under his arm, tie loose, hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He’s still in last night’s suit — jacket missing, shirt wrinkled, collar open just enough to show the hint of lipstick smeared on his throat.

“Morning,” Matt says smoothly, though his voice is hoarse. He doesn’t flinch at Foggy’s heartbeat spiking. Just tosses his keys in the bowl like it’s any other day.

Foggy blinks. Once. Twice. His jaw drops.

“Oh my God.”

Matt arches a brow, unbothered. “What?”

“You—” Foggy points at him with a bagel like it’s evidence in a trial. “You did not just walk in here looking like the dictionary definition of ‘walk of shame.’”

Matt’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. “It’s not shame if you enjoyed it.”

“Unbelievable,” Foggy groans, flopping onto the couch. “You used to be subtle. At least pretend you came from morning mass or something.”

Matt smirks, loosening his tie as he moves toward the bedroom. “Maybe I did.”

“Uh-huh,” Foggy calls after him, shaking his head. “Mass doesn’t leave lipstick on your neck, buddy.”

Matt tosses his cane against the wall, loosens his tie, disappears down the bathroom, still smiling faintly, while Foggy stares at the coffee table, muttering: “Saint Matthew, patron saint of manwhores. Somebody call the Vatican.”

Foggy stays frozen on the couch, bagel mid-air, blinking like he’s trying to reboot.

Finally:

“You know,” he calls out, “they make these things called condoms. Pretty useful when you’re doing the Catholic manwhore tour of Manhattan.”

Matt’s voice floats back, maddeningly calm: “Thanks, Fog. Always appreciate your legal counsel.”

Foggy snorts, shaking his head. “I’m not your lawyer, I’m your friend. And your friend is telling you that you’re about three one-night-stands away from a Lifetime movie.”

Matt reemerges, barefoot now, jacket slung over one arm, like he’s unbothered. He grabs a coffee from the counter, takes a sip, and has the audacity to smile.

“Relax,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Foggy squints at him, bagel forgotten. “Yeah. You look real fine. Dead eyes, lipstick hickeys, and a suit that smells like Chanel No. 5.”

“I’m a free man.”

Foggy tears into his bagel, chewing like it’s his personal form of protest. “Sure,” he says after a beat, voice dry, “let’s not pretend this is about something else.”

Matt freezes mid-sip of coffee. His jaw tenses. “This isn’t about Natasha.”

Foggy stops. Slowly lowers the bagel. Then, with the fakest innocent face in New York:

“…Didn’t say it was.”

Matt exhales through his nose, a little too sharp, and turns toward the window like the view’s going to save him. “You implied it.”

“Nope.” Foggy leans back on the couch, enjoying himself way too much. “Didn’t say her name. Didn’t even think her name. But the fact that you just jumped to it? Kinda telling, buddy.”

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Foggy…”

“No, no, keep talking. This is the part where you tell me all those random hookups are healthy coping mechanisms and definitely not you trying to drown out the echo of one very specific Russian spy.”

“Former spy,” Matt mutters.

Foggy stares at him. “That’s your defense? Really?”

Silence. Matt sets his mug down harder than necessary, shoulders tight.

Foggy sighs, softer now. “Look, man. You can lie to me, lie to Karen, fuck, lie to yourself all you want. But you can’t screw your way out… whatever this is.”

Matt’s lips twitch like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs his jacket and moves to the bathroom to take a proper shower. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says flatly. “Lock up when you leave.”

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The church is quiet. Just the soft hiss of candles burning, wood creaking as it settles, and the faint shuffle of someone kneeling in the back pew. Matt sits near the front, hands folded loosely in his lap, head tilted like he’s listening to something only he can hear.

It isn’t prayer. Not exactly. It’s just… stillness. A place where the chaos doesn’t press so hard. Where the city’s heartbeat dims enough for him to breathe.

Father Lantom’s voice breaks the silence, warm and wry:

“You know, for someone who hasn’t confessed in a while, you’ve been spending an awful lot of time on my pews.”

Matt huffs out a humorless laugh, doesn’t turn his head. “Old habits.”

Lantom steps closer, sliding into the pew beside him with the ease of a man who’s done this dance a thousand times. “Care to make new ones? Booth’s still open. The door even works.”

Matt shakes his head. “Not today, Father.”

The priest studies him for a long moment. “Not today,” he repeats softly, like he’s weighing the words. “Meaning… maybe tomorrow?”

Matt smirks faintly, bitter at the edges. “Meaning the sins are piling up faster than I can unload them.”

“That’s kind of the point of confession, Matthew.”

“Confession doesn’t erase anything.”

Lantom leans back, watching the flicker of candlelight play across Matt’s face. “No. But it helps you stop carrying it alone.”

Matt doesn’t answer. His jaw works, hands tightening slightly on his cane. Somewhere in the rafters, a dove flutters, and he focuses on that instead of the sting behind Lantom’s words.

“Not today,” Matt says again, quieter now.

Lantom sighs, but he doesn’t press. “All right. Not today. But when you’re ready… you know the door is always open.”

Matt finally turns his head, gives the priest the faintest nod of gratitude. Then he leans back against the pew, face unreadable, but inside—he’s tallying sins like rosary beads.

Lantom pats his shoulder gently as he rises. “I’ll hold you to tomorrow.”

The sound of his footsteps drifts down the aisle until it’s just Matt again, alone with the hush of the church.

Matt exhales, slow. Lets his head fall back against the pew.

The list starts immediately.

He thinks of the last woman’s perfume still clinging faintly to his shirt, musky and expensive. Her laughter in his ear, the scrape of her nails, the emptiness afterward when he left without asking for her number.
Lust.

He thinks of the men he put in the hospital this week. Ribs cracked, teeth broken, pain that will keep them from standing straight for months. He tells himself it was justice, but part of him knows he pushed too far. Let the Devil out because it felt good.
Wrath.

He thinks of Foggy, eyes too sharp when he jokes about Matt’s late nights and bruised knuckles. Of Karen, who believes him when he says he’s fine because she wants to. And the way he lets them.
Dishonesty.

And then—always—her.
Natasha’s voice still branded into his bones, her heartbeat echoing in the quiet spaces. Six months and he still catches himself turning his head, expecting to hear it in the crowd. Six months and he still hasn’t called, even though her number is burning a hole in his phone. Simply because she didn't, either.
Pride.

He digs his palms into his knees until his knuckles ache, like maybe he can hold the weight of it there instead of letting it crush his chest.

Not today, he’d said. But really?

He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready.

Chapter Text

San Francisco

The ballroom glittered like it had something to prove. Chandeliers dripped gold light onto polished marble, strings hummed in the background, and the smell of too-expensive perfume clung to the air. It was the kind of event Natasha had attended a hundred times in a hundred different lifetimes — each one blurring together with champagne, shallow smiles, and people asking for photographs like proximity to her might rub off.

Tonight, she stood with her team. The Avengers looked annoyingly camera-ready, even when half of them would rather be in the field.

Sam played the role best — grinning wide, charming donors with ease, slipping jokes in between serious handshakes. Wanda lingered close to Vision, her red dress matched by the faint glow in her eyes when anyone looked too long. Rhodey was sharp in his uniform, exuding authority without saying much.

Steve, though. Steve owned the room without trying.

Natasha hated to admit it, but the man cleaned up dangerously well. Navy suit tailored close, tie knotted like he actually cared. He carried himself with the kind of effortless grace that made strangers stop mid-sentence just to stare.

He caught her looking, of course. He always did. His lips quirked like he’d just won something.

Natasha sipped her champagne, ignoring it.

“Smile, Romanoff,” Sam muttered at her side, teeth flashing for another photographer. “You’re supposed to look like you’re having the time of your life.”

She smirked faintly. “This is me smiling.”

“Terrifying,” he shot back, but his grin softened the jab.

They made their rounds — shaking hands, answering questions, nodding politely when some tech billionaire dropped a check with too many zeroes. Steve was the picture of composure, charming old donors and shy interns alike. Natasha played her part too, slipping into whatever version of herself the room needed: poised, aloof, unshakable.

But when they stopped at the balcony to breathe, away from the flashing cameras, the act cracked.

“Miss the field yet?” Steve asked quietly, leaning on the railing, city lights scattered like jewels behind him.

Natasha’s lips curved. “I never stop.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

For a long beat, they stood side by side in silence, listening to the muffled hum of the gala behind them. His shoulder brushed hers once, lightly, and he didn’t move away.

Natasha told herself she didn’t either.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Wanda at the far end of the balcony, watching them with that knowing little smile — the one that said she saw more than she should. Natasha exhaled, turning her gaze back to the skyline, willing the moment into something casual.

Natasha nursed her third glass of champagne, the bubbles sharp against her tongue, the burn softer than vodka but heavier in her chest. Free booze at a charity event was supposed to dull the edges, but it only blurred the wrong places.

Steve was talking beside her — something about Stark’s speech, about how half the donors probably didn’t know what they were funding, about the awkward kid who asked him for an autograph mid-speech. His voice was warm, steady, golden. Safe.

She tried to listen. Really, she did. But the music from the quartet drifted through the open balcony doors — a slow, aching jazz riff she recognized too well. She could almost hear the scratch of vinyl instead, echoing in a dark New York apartment.

She swallowed hard, gaze slipping past Steve to the crowd inside. Suits everywhere, crisp lines, silk ties. A man laughed across the room — deep, low, the kind of laugh that reminded her too much of another voice, another smirk in a bar booth.

She tipped her glass higher.

The next inhale carried roasted coffee from the catering cart, dark and bitter, and suddenly she was standing barefoot in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, lips sticky with strawberry syrup, his shirt hanging off her shoulders.

“Nat?” Steve’s voice cut in, gentle, curious. His hand brushed her elbow, steadying.

She blinked, pulled back, found his blue eyes watching her with quiet concern.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Sorry. Long day.”

He nodded, accepting it, offering her that soft half-smile like it could fix anything.

But Natasha’s grip tightened on her champagne flute, because the truth was she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Not really. Every bubble in her glass only brought her back to a heartbeat she hadn’t let herself chase in six months.

The quartet slid into another number, smooth and deliberate. The kind of music that demanded couples drift onto the floor. Flashbulbs caught the first brave pair, donors eager for a photo op.

Steve glanced at her glass — almost empty again. He didn’t comment, just set his own untouched drink aside and offered his hand. “One dance?”

Natasha arched a brow, lips quirking. “You volunteering to make us the main attraction?”

“Occupational hazard,” he said with a grin. “Might as well look good doing it.”

She rolled her eyes but let him lead her out anyway, slipping her hand into his. The champagne made her limbs loose, her laugh easier. They stepped into rhythm — his movements steady, practiced; hers sharp, graceful. To the crowd, they probably looked perfect. Captain America and the Black Widow, gliding under chandeliers like the golden couple they were supposed to be.

Her throat tightened. She tipped back the last of her champagne as Steve twirled her, forcing herself to smile when the room clapped.

“You’re enjoying this,” Steve teased, voice pitched low so only she could hear.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” she smirked, but the edge faltered when his hand steadied at her back, broad and unyielding. 

She laughed too quickly, reached for another flute from a passing tray as the dance ended. The bubbles fizzed sharp against her tongue, but it wasn’t enough to drown the ghost of memory rising in her chest.

Steve leaned in, voice warm, safe: “You clean up well, Romanoff.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she shot back, smirking again. But she raised the glass too fast, her smile hiding the truth — that no matter how much champagne she poured down her throat, the fire in her ribs refused to go out.

It was always like this when she drank.

The night air hit colder than expected when they stepped out of the marble hall. The city lights blurred a little around the edges for Natasha — expensive champagne still humming in her blood, the laughter of strangers still caught in her ears.

Wanda looped her arm through Vision’s and fell into step beside her, eyes glinting mischief in the glow of streetlamps. “Someone’s happy,” she sing-songed, a sly little grin tugging at her lips.

Natasha arched a brow, too slow to smother her smirk. “Just making the most of Stark’s open bar.”

“Mm-hm.” Wanda’s tone made it clear she didn’t buy a word of it.

Steve, already at her side, steadied her elbow when her heel caught on a crack in the pavement. “Easy,” he murmured, the picture of steady warmth.

“Don’t hover,” Natasha muttered, but she didn’t shake him off either.

Sam jogged ahead to flag down the SUV, Rhodey muttering something about never wanting to see another tux in his life. Vision commented on the inefficiency of champagne as a beverage, and Wanda rolled her eyes, tugging him toward the car.

The group piled in, all chatter and exhaustion. Natasha slid into her seat, the champagne glow ebbing into something heavier. She leaned her head back against the cool leather, let her eyes flutter shut for just a second.

Steve’s shoulder brushed hers, grounding and golden.

The SUV ride back was loud enough to cover for her silence. Sam cracked jokes about donors who thought “hydrodynamics” had something to do with yachts, Rhodey grumbled about Stark dodging all the speeches, and Wanda hummed under her breath with her head on Vision’s shoulder. Steve sat solid and steady beside her, his arm stretched along the seatback, his shoulder brushing hers whenever the car bumped.

It should’ve felt comfortable. It did. That was the problem.

By the time they reached the compound, Natasha’s head was pleasantly light, her smile too easy. She thanked Sam when he offered her a hand out, waved off Wanda’s conspiratorial smirk, and let Steve steady her with a hand at her back as they climbed the steps.

“Drink some water before you crash,” Steve said quietly, like it was a secret between them.

She smirked. “What, no bedtime story?”

His laugh rumbled low in his chest. “Only if you ask nicely.”

She rolled her eyes and disappeared down the hall before she had to answer.

Her room was dim, city glow bleeding through the blinds, heels kicked off near the door. She tugged her dress loose, dropped the champagne-sticky earrings on the dresser, and stood for a moment in the hush. The party smell still clung to her—perfume, champagne, someone else’s cigar smoke.

The phone waited on her nightstand, face-down. Like it always did.

Natasha filled a glass with water, set it untouched on the counter, and sat on the edge of the bed. For a long moment, she just stared at the phone. Her pulse thudded louder than it should.

One swipe. One call.

Six months was a long time. Too long.

Her thumb hovered. The screen lit, blinding. She scrolled to the number, the one she never named. The one her body remembered like muscle memory.

She almost pressed it. Almost.

The champagne burned in her veins, and she wanted the fire. Just once.

The screen dimmed out before she touched it.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Hell’s Kitchen, New York

She doesn’t even wait for the door to click shut before her hands are on him, fumbling with his tie, giggling into his mouth like she can’t believe she’s here. Matt lets himself be dragged in, lets the door slam, lets her lips crash against his with a hunger that feels borrowed.

Emily tastes like cheap vodka and cherry chapstick. Her heartbeat hammers wild against his senses, faster every time his hands slide over her waist.

“Wow, you’re—” she breathes when his shirt comes off, eyes darting over scars she doesn’t ask about. She kisses them instead, sloppy and eager.

Matt chuckles low, steering her toward the bedroom. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“You complaining?” she shoots back, bold now.

“Not even a little.”

Clothes scatter fast. She’s tugging at his belt before they hit the mattress, but he slows just long enough to tear open a foil packet from the drawer — habit.

After that, Emily straddles him first, hair falling into her face, riding him like she’s out to prove something. “Fuck—” she gasps when he thrusts up to meet her, nails biting his chest. “You feel so good—”

Once it’s over, the room is filled only with her ragged laughter. “Holy shit,” Emily pants, voice muffled by the sheets. She rolls over, grinning, hair a mess, kissing his jaw. “You’re… ridiculous.”

Matt huffs a chuckle, low and easy. “I’ve heard worse.”

She snuggles closer, her heartbeat finally slowing against his ribs. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who bolts the second it’s over.”

Matt shakes his head, brushing her hair back absently. “No. You can stay.”

Her smile blooms wide at that, sleep already dragging her eyelids down. “Good,” she murmurs, voice thick with drowsy satisfaction. “’Cause I don’t think I could walk right now anyway.”

Matt doesn’t answer. Just pulls the blanket over them both and listens until her breathing evens out, soft and steady.

He stays awake longer. Staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of a body that isn’t hers pressed against him. The scent of cherry lip gloss still clings to his lips, but underneath it he swears he can still taste something else.

When sleep finally drags him under, it’s shallow, restless.

The smell of fresh coffee drifts into the hallway by the time Foggy lets himself in with the spare key. He’s balancing a paper bag of bagels in one hand, two cups of coffee in the other, already rehearsing some crack about Matt burning himself out.

Instead, he stops dead.

Matt is standing at the counter, barefoot in sweats and a soft t-shirt, hair damp from a shower. He looks maddeningly well-rested, sliding mugs into place like the perfect host.

And that’s when the bedroom door clicks open.

Emily emerges, tugging her skirt back into place, cheeks flushed, hair still tangled from last night. She glances between the two men, blush deepening, then beams at Matt. “Call me, okay?”

Matt offers a polite half-smile. “Sure.”

She sees Foggy and waves, sheepish but grinning. “Uh… hi.” And breezes out the door while Foggy is frozen like a statue with bagels in hand.

The silence hangs for exactly three beats before Foggy blurts:

“Dude. She looks twelve.”

Matt exhales through his nose, amused. “She’s not twelve, Fog.”

“She’s, what, nineteen? Twenty? I swear she had calculus homework in her purse.” Foggy sets the bagels down with exaggerated care, glaring. “You’re killing me here.”

Matt smirks faintly, reaching for his mug. “She’s an adult.”

“Barely,” Foggy shoots back, tearing into a bagel like it personally wronged him. “God, I feel like I should be calling her RA to make sure she got back to the dorm okay.”

Matt sips his coffee, unfazed. “She lives in a sorority.”

Foggy freezes mid-bagel, slowly turning his head. “I’m sorry—what?”

Matt just shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

Foggy slaps a hand over his face. “Not a big deal? Jesus, Matt, do you hear yourself? You’re doing the walk of shame out of Sigma Kappa Chi now? What’s next, prom?”

Matt smirks faintly, leaning against the counter. “She’s twenty. Legal. Responsible. Very… enthusiastic.”

Foggy groans like he’s aged ten years. “Oh my God. You’re bragging about it.”

Matt chuckles quietly into his mug.

“Unbelievable.” Foggy waves his bagel like it’s a gavel. “You’re that guy now. The one every dad at move-in day is glaring at from behind the minivan.”

Matt smirks. “You don’t have to worry.”

“I do have to worry, because apparently you’re running a one-man frat house in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Matt sets the mug down, pretending to consider it. “Not bad branding, actually.”

Foggy wipes his hands on a napkin, still smirking. “So, meaningless sex to deal with the breakup. Classic Murdock coping mechanism.”

Matt frowns, setting his mug down harder than he means to. “What breakup?”

Foggy blinks innocently. “Oh, sorry — my mistake. The totally not a breakup with the woman you haven’t called in six months but still brood over like you’re auditioning for a Springsteen ballad.”

Matt exhales through his nose. “It wasn’t a breakup. There wasn’t… anything to break up.”

Foggy snorts. “Right. You two were just… what? Study buddies? Long-distance pen pals who made out sometimes?”

“Foggy—”

“No, no, help me out here,” Foggy interrupts, leaning forward with a grin. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looked a hell of a lot like something. And judging by your face right now, it still does.”

Matt runs a hand over his jaw, frustrated. “We weren’t… official. It wasn’t like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Foggy chews another bite of bagel, pointing it at him. “Tell that to the part of you that winces every time someone says her name.”

Matt goes quiet, the muscle in his jaw twitching. He doesn’t take the bait. Just picks up his coffee again, pretending the conversation’s over.

Foggy leans back, satisfied. “Master of denial, ladies and gentlemen.”

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Night sits heavy on the Kitchen—wet brick, neon smear, the river breathing cold. Four shadows move the way a team does when they’ve bled together long enough to stop arguing about tempo.

“Two vans, south loading bay,” Matt says, crouched on the lip of a warehouse roof. “Eight heartbeats outside, four inside. The ones outside are calm—measured. Not twitchy. Military calm.”

“Great,” Jessica mutters, hands jammed in the pockets of her leather jacket. “I wore my ‘please shoot me with trained discipline’ boots.”

Luke huffs a laugh beside her. “Those the same boots you wore when you punted that guy through a deli sign?”

“Allegedly.”

Danny bounces on the balls of his feet, already vibrating. “We go loud or quiet?”

“Quiet,” Matt says, and Jessica groans.

“Your version of quiet ends with a skylight.” She tilts her head, studying his face under the red lenses. “And you’ve got that extra-broody forehead vein out. You hearing Russians or ghosts?”

“Russian,” Matt answers. “And… cadence. They’re not posturing. They’re working.”

The radio hisses again, clipped syllables rattling in sharp Russian. Matt tilts his head, translating under his breath. “Bay three secure. Oakland shipment in forty-eight hours. Mendocino lab on standby.”

Jessica blinks. “Wait. Hold up.” She plucks the radio from Danny’s belt, stares at it like squinting harder will make sense of the noise. Then she shoots Matt a look. “You speak Russian?”

Matt shrugs, too casual. “Enough to follow.”

“‘Enough to follow,’” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “Christ. Of course you do. What, did you learn it in law school night classes or something?”

He hesitates, jaw tight. “…Ex-girlfriend. Long story.”

Jessica blinks, then bursts out laughing. “Of course it was.”

Danny looks between them, utterly lost. Luke just mutters, “Focus.”

Jessica smirks, pointing a finger at Matt. “This story better involve vodka and at least one bar fight, or I’m asking for my money back.”

Matt shakes his head, moving on, but the faint curve at his mouth betrays him.

They move.

Luke drops from the roof like a wrecking ball, boots denting the bay with a crack that turns heads. The nearest guard draws and fires; the bullets slap Luke’s chest like wet towels. He grimaces, grabs the man by the vest, and deposits him into his friend.

Jessica’s already sprinting along the roofline. The sniper swings his rifle; she’s there first, one hand around the barrel, the other closing on his collar. “Hi. I hate rooftops.” She knees him, flips him into the gravel, and snaps the rifle in half over her thigh just to make a point.

Danny slides under a wild punch with dancer grace and plants a glowing palm in a sternum; the shockwave rattles the bay door. “Sorry,” he says reflexively to the unconscious body. “Kinda.”

Matt drops into the dark like he belongs to it, baton pinging off a crate to ricochet into a wrist mid-trigger pull. He catches the second guard’s arm, turns it, and lets momentum do the breaking. Inside, four more scramble among crates stamped with shipping codes and an ugly smear of ground-off logos.

“Don’t shoot the cases,” Matt snaps, already moving. “They’re—”

One man panics and fires anyway. The bullet kisses steel and sparks; a chemical sting floods the air. “—pressurized,” Matt finishes tightly. He takes the shooter’s knee and throat in two clean beats and listens.

“Two coming left!” he calls.

Luke answers with a door—literally ripping one from its hinges, using it like a shield to plow through bodies. Jessica drops through the broken skylight in a rain of glass and sarcasm. “Told you: skylight.”

“Wasn’t me,” Matt says, catching a baton on the rebound and snapping it into its telescoped form with a flick that knocks a pistol away.

Thirty seconds later, it’s over. Bodies groan. A radio hisses on the floor, spitting static and a clipped voice in accented English: “—Bay three secure. Oakland shipment—forty-eight hours. Mendocino… lab—”

It cuts. Matt kneels, listening hard, head tilted. He finds the radio by its interference and hands it to Danny. Jessica is already prying a crate open with a bent crowbar and bad attitude.

“Tell me we just risked tetanus for artisanal pickles,” she says, flipping the lid.

Foam. Nestled inside: matte-black modules the size of a thick book, each with a recessed port and a sticker where a logo was once—ground down to bare plastic. The edge of one label’s missed a sliver: ST—K IND—STR— and a string of numbers.

Luke rips the side off the crate like it’s cardboard. Jessica peers inside, muttering, “Please tell me it’s just vodka.”

It’s not.

Matt runs his hands along the smooth casing of a device, brow furrowed. He traces the sharp edges, the weight distribution. “Stark?”

Danny leans in. “Shit. This is huge.”

Jessica whistles low. “Great. Russians with Iron Man toys. What could possibly go wrong?”

Luke lifts a smaller device — some kind of power core, pulsing faintly. “Why would they need this stuff?”

Matt tilts his head, listening to the faint buzz of the core. “They’re not using it right. It’s been rewired.”

Jessica throws her hands up. “Fantastic. Evil IKEA instructions.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t just gang work anymore. Somebody’s arming them.”

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The “HQ” looked more like an abandoned warehouse that had lost a fight with a rat colony — but with Wi-Fi and Danny’s money, it worked. The Stark tech was humming in the corner under one of Jessica’s jackets, like a glowing paperweight they didn’t know what to do with.

Jessica was pacing with a beer in hand, eyes rolling so hard it was a miracle they stayed in her skull. “So what’s the plan? We hand this back to Stark Industries with a fruit basket and hope they don’t send us a cease-and-desist?”

“Assuming Tony Stark doesn’t sue us first,” Luke muttered, arms crossed.

Danny perked up. “Or we could work with the Avengers.”

That got him a round of looks like he’d just suggested karaoke.

Jessica barked a laugh. “Right, yeah, let’s call up Stark and his merry band of assholes. Maybe the soldier from the 1940s can give us a lecture while the literal god and the green rage monster level another city block.”

“Or,” Jessica says, “I’m sure they’ve got a hotline for ‘Dear Earth’s Mightiest, sorry your unregulated death batteries are in my neighborhood.’”

“Hard pass,” Luke replies. “Last time Stark ‘helped’ Harlem, three buildings disappeared and a deli still hasn’t reopened.”

“And Captain America,” Jessica adds, “will give us a speech about teamwork and taxes.”

Jessica lifts her bottle. “Love the Hulk smashing through my rent-controlled apartment.”

Danny turns from the whiteboard. “You’re describing isolated incidents outside the larger pattern of—”

Jessica points her bottle at him. “Don’t say fate.”

He clamps his mouth shut… then tries again. “I was going to say ‘global-scale threats they’re uniquely qualified to handle.’”

Luke folds his arms. “Well, one thing’s for sure: we’re not on a global scale.”

Danny frowned. “They save the world.”

“They break it first,” Jessica shot back. “Pass.”

The room settled into grumbling silence. Matt sat quiet, jaw tight, listening. He wasn’t defending the Avengers, but he wasn’t laughing, either.

Danny gestures at the gutted case, the photos pinned to the board. “Stark tech doesn’t go missing on accident. Whoever did this has reach. Logistics. Funding. This isn’t just our corners anymore.”

Jessica blinks. “Did Rand just make sense?” She looks around. “Somebody write that down.”

“It happens,” Danny mutters, offended.

Foggy chews his pen cap. “Look, as much as I enjoy dunking on the celebrity hero set… if this crap explodes like a science fair project, I don’t want my firm’s conference room glowing in the dark.”

“Conference room?” Jessica says. “You mean the hallway where we keep the dying ficus?”

“The ficus is thriving,” Foggy lies.

Matt finally speaks, voice even. “They’re moving the pieces fast. Triad muscle on the ground, Bratva supply lines, and a shell company in Long Island moving containers that never clear the manifest. Whoever’s coordinating has no reason to stop.”

“And we’re four people and a lawyer,” Luke says. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Foggy says. “I’m a very delicate flower.”

Jessica jerks her chin at the crate. “So. Option A: we keep doing what we do—kick in doors, bleed a little, hope the big bad trips on a staircase. Option B: we invite the varsity team and pray they don’t level the borough.”

Danny, gentler now: “Or option C: we pick one Avenger. Quietly. Someone who won’t drop a helicarrier on us. We just… ask for intel.”

Jessica stares at him. “That’s astonishingly reasonable and I hate it.”

Luke exhales, thinking. “If we had a line that wasn’t Stark’s PR department…”

Foggy looks between them, then at Matt. “Wow,” he says, too casual to be accidental. “Imagine if we actually had one on speed dial.”

Silence swallows the room.

Jessica’s eyebrows climb. Luke’s mouth tilts like he’s not sure if this is a joke. Danny brightens, hopeful for once.

Matt doesn’t move. But Foggy can feel the warning glance without seeing it—just the tiny shift in air when Matt turns his head. His jaw ticks. Fingers flex once against his knee, a tell some people mistake for restlessness.

Jessica squinted at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

Foggy just smiled into his coffee, way too pleased with himself.

Matt’s jaw tightened. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mm-hm,” Foggy said, not looking up. “Sure it doesn’t.”

Luke frowned. “Are we missing something here?”

“Apparently,” Jessica deadpanned.

Matt cut across before anyone else could press. “The point is, we don’t need Avengers. We handle this ourselves. We’ve done it before, we’ll do it again.”

Foggy slapped the file closed with a little more force than necessary. “Matt. This is too big. You know it’s too big.”

Matt didn’t even look up from the braille notes under his hands. “We can handle it.”

“Handle it?” Foggy scoffed, leaning across the table. “You’re tracking black-market Stark tech with half the NYPD in the mob’s pocket and Russians crawling out of whatever Cold War basement they’ve been hiding in. We are not equipped for this.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “We’ve faced worse.”

“Have you?” Foggy shot back. “Because last I checked, ‘worse’ didn’t include military-grade arc reactors being moved around like hot potatoes. You want to keep playing street-level lawyer-vigilante? Fine. But don’t drag everyone else into your pride spiral.”

Jessica raised a hand, dry as ever. “Uh… translation, please?”

“Don’t bother,” Luke muttered, watching the two of them like a tennis match.

But Foggy wasn’t done. He jabbed a finger toward Matt. “You could fix this with one phone call.”

Matt’s head snapped up, his voice low and sharp. “Not happening.”

“Why?!”

“Because it’s not necessary.”

Danny frowned, looking around. “What phone call are we even talking about?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Matt cut in, fast, shutting it down before Foggy could open his mouth again.

Foggy jabbed a finger toward Matt, frustration dripping from every word.
“You’re unbelievable. You’d rather run yourself and this team into the ground than admit you need her help.”

The room went still.

Luke’s brow furrowed. “...Her?”

Jessica blinked. “Wait, who the hell is her?”

Danny tilted his head, curious. “Ex-girlfriend?”

“Not your business,” Matt snapped, sharper than intended.

Jessica leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Oh my God. It is an ex.”

“Drop it,” Matt growled.

Jessica’s smirk spread, slow and vicious. “Ohhh. Her.” She pointed a finger at Matt like she’d cracked some impossible case. “This is about Natasha Romanoff.”

Matt froze, jaw tight. “I didn’t say—”

Luke let out a low whistle. “Damn. The Black Widow? She’s way out of your league, man.”

Danny blinked between them, impressed. “Wait—you dated her?”

Matt’s lips pressed thin. “We’re not talking about this.”

Jessica leaned forward on her elbows, practically gleeful. “No wonder you’ve been extra broody. You got dumped by an Avenger.”

Luke shook his head, chuckling. “Explains a lot.”

Matt’s lips pressed thin. “We didn’t— it wasn’t— I did not get dumped.”

Foggy, without missing a beat: “Well…”

Matt’s head snapped toward him. “No. Don’t start. It was mutual.”

Jessica snorted. “It’s the best thing I’ve heard all week.”

Foggy cut in, trying to reel the circus back. “Guys, focus. This isn’t about Matt’s love life, it’s about the mission.” He turned to Matt, voice firm. “But you do need to consider it. You said it yourself, this is bigger than us. She’d have the intel, she’d have the resources. And you and I both know she would come if you got your head out of your ass and actually called her.”

Matt stood, jaw set, already moving toward the door. “We’re not talking about this.”

The second the door shut behind him, Jessica leaned back with a wicked grin. “He totally got dumped.”

The door thudded shut behind him, muffling the laughter that was already echoing off the walls. Matt pressed his palms flat against the railing in the stairwell, breathing hard like he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring.

She’d come if you called her.

Foggy’s words wouldn’t stop circling, gnawing at him worse than any punch he’d taken tonight. Because it was true. He knew it was true. Natasha Romanoff didn’t leave things unfinished—not missions, not fights, not… people. Not him.

His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching as he ground his teeth. Six months. Half a year of silence. He told himself it was mutual. That she had her world, and he had his. That the space was necessary. Safer. Cleaner.

And yet—every time the phone buzzed in his pocket, some part of him still expected it to be her. Every time he walked into his apartment, he still listened for her heartbeat before he could admit it was empty.

He dragged the mask out of his pocket, tugged it on like armor, and let the city’s noise crash back into him—heartbeats, footsteps, sirens, screams. Easier than thinking about the silence she left behind. Easier than thinking about how much he wanted to hear her voice again.

Matt vaulted up onto the nearest rooftop, baton clattering softly back into its holster. The night was cold and sharp in his lungs, but it wasn’t enough to burn out the memory of her. It never was.

So he did what he always did—let the Devil out.

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The apartment door creaked open sometime after two in the morning.

Matt slipped in like a shadow, suit still damp with sweat, gloves spattered with blood he hadn’t bothered to scrub off yet. His gait was steady to anyone else, but Foggy Nelson had lived with him long enough to know the difference between steady and holding himself together by sheer stubbornness.

“Jesus, Matt,” Foggy said from the couch. His voice cut through the dark. “You look like you crawled out of a blender.”

Matt froze in the doorway, jaw tightening under the cowl. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting.” Foggy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The lamp beside him was the only light, throwing long shadows across the room. “Because I had a feeling you’d do this.”

Matt pulled the mask off, tossed it on the counter with a clatter. “Do what?”

“Go out there and beat the living hell out of someone because you’re too pissed off to admit you’re scared.” Foggy’s eyes flicked over him — split knuckles, bruised cheek, the way his chest was heaving like he hadn’t stopped moving since the sun went down. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Matt didn’t answer. He headed for the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, twisted it open with too much force.

Foggy exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. You’d rather run yourself into the ground than—” he stopped himself, then said it anyway, firm and deliberate. “—than admit you need her help.”

Matt’s shoulders went rigid. The silence between them buzzed like a live wire.

Finally, he muttered, low and sharp: “She hasn’t called either.”

That landed heavy between them.

Foggy softened, but didn’t back down. “Yeah. Maybe she’s just as stubborn as you. But you know she’d come if you asked. And you know she’d have the intel. The resources. The connections. All of it.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “You said it yourself, this thing is bigger than us. You can’t just—” he gestured to Matt’s torn-up hands— “punch your way through this one.”

Matt braced his palms against the counter, head down. His breath came out shaky, more tired than angry now.

“She’d come if you called her,” Foggy repeated, quieter. “You know she would.”

Matt’s fingers curled tighter against the countertop. He didn’t deny it. But he didn’t agree either.

The silence stretched.

Finally, Foggy stood, grabbed his coat off the chair. “Think about it,” he said, heading for the door. “Before you get yourself killed trying to prove a point.”

Matt dragged a hand over his face, knuckles still split from patrol. He didn’t even bother to rinse the blood off. “I know it’s the right thing to do, Foggy. I’m not an idiot.”

“Then why—”

“Because I can’t afford it.” His voice cut sharper than he meant, and he exhaled hard, trying again. “I can’t afford her. Not right now.”

Foggy leaned on the back of the couch, searching his face. “Matt, this isn’t just about you—”

“I’m not saying never.” Matt’s jaw tightened. “Just… let me take a look at it first. A few recon runs. See what we’re really up against. If it gets out of hand—” He paused, swallowing like the words were glass. “Then I’ll make the call.”

Foggy’s eyes narrowed. “You swear you’re not just stalling because your pride can’t handle dialing her number?”

Matt’s laugh was short, humorless. “I’m not stupid. This is too big. I’m not blind to that.” He tilted his head, bitter smile tugging at his mouth. “But I’d rather bleed for a week trying to be sure than drag her back into this mess if it’s something we can handle.”

Silence stretched.

Finally, Foggy huffed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Fine. Recon. But you don’t get to play martyr when it all goes sideways.”

Matt’s mouth curved, weary and wry. “Deal.”

Foggy muttered something about Catholic masochists under his breath as he grabbed his coat and finally left.

Matt stayed where he was, listening to the quiet settle in like ash.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Natasha’s room was dim, lit only by the flicker of the old sitcom Wanda had queued up on her laptop. They were cocooned under a blanket, both in sweats, mugs of tea balanced precariously on the nightstand. Wanda was curled at the other end of the bed, bare feet tucked beneath her, eyes soft in the glow of the screen.

“This one’s my favorite,” Wanda murmured as the laugh track trilled. “It’s simple. Everyone’s problems are solved in thirty minutes. Imagine that.”

Natasha smirked faintly, swirling her tea. “Thirty minutes sounds optimistic.”

“Maybe an hour for you,” Wanda teased, nudging her knee under the blanket.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that felt like family. Wanda’s quiet hum, the canned laughter, the way the blanket pooled around them—it was safe, ordinary. A word Natasha didn’t often let herself claim.

A knock tapped lightly against the door. Neither of them moved until it creaked open and Steve leaned in, hair damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up, balancing a plate and two forks in one hand.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said gently.

Wanda grinned instantly. “You cooked again?”

Steve lifted the plate as he stepped inside. “Chicken and rice. Nothing fancy.” His eyes flicked toward Natasha, holding for just a beat longer than necessary before shifting back to Wanda. “You’ve got enough leftovers to feed half the compound.”

Wanda accepted the plate, already spearing a bite. “This is why we keep him around,” she said, mouth full.

Natasha smirked, tucking her chin into the blanket. “And here I thought it was for his leadership skills.”

“Clearly secondary,” Wanda declared, handing a fork over to Nat.

Steve balanced the plate in one hand and, with the other, set down a sweating glass on Natasha’s nightstand. Pale pink, ice cubes clinking, lemon wedge hooked neatly over the rim.

“Pink lemonade?” Natasha asked, arching a brow.

Steve gave the kind of shrug that was almost shy. “They had lemons in the kitchen. Figured you’d like it.”

Natasha fought the twitch at the corner of her mouth, muttering, “Thanks,” before spearing a piece of chicken.

Steve smiled, soft, and let himself out.

The second the door clicked shut, Wanda’s head whipped toward her, eyes wide. She pointed at the glass like it was damning evidence. “Are you kidding me?”

Natasha blinked, sipping it with maddening calm. “What?”

“He just brought you your favorite drink, Natasha. With a lemon wedge. That’s—” Wanda threw her hands up. “That’s practically a love letter in glass form.”

Natasha smirked faintly, tucking herself deeper into the blanket. “It’s just lemonade.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes like she was watching a suspect lie on the stand. “No, it is not just lemonade. It’s pink. With garnish. Do you know how many people in this building even know you drink this stuff?”

Natasha shrugged, unbothered, and took another slow sip. “One, apparently.”

Wanda groaned, flopping back against the pillows.

The laugh track on the sitcom buzzed through the room until Wanda suddenly stabbed the remote, freezing the screen mid-frame. Natasha glanced over, mid-bite of chicken.

“Why’d you pause it?”

Wanda set her fork down with deliberate slowness, tilting her head. “Because I need to understand how you—” she jabbed her spoon toward the pink lemonade on the nightstand “—are not a puddle on the floor right now.”

Natasha smirked, chewed, and swallowed with infuriating calm. “It’s a drink, Wanda.”

“No. No.” Wanda leaned in, dark eyes sparkling with outrage. “It’s Steve Rogers making your favorite drink and walking it all the way up here like some golden retriever boyfriend, and you—” she made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan “—you didn’t even blink.”

Natasha stabbed another bite, unmoved. “Maybe because I don’t melt on command.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes and set her plate aside, folding her legs under her. “Alright. Enough dancing around. Spit it.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Spit what?”

“New York,” Wanda said, matter-of-fact, like she’d just called checkmate. “What happened there.”

Natasha barked a soft laugh, leaning back against the headboard. “You’re going to have to narrow it down. New York’s a big place.”

Wanda crossed her arms, eyes glinting. “Don’t play dumb. You disappeared for weeks, came back with that look in your eyes like you’d swallowed fire. And every time someone mentions the city, you change the subject.” She tilted her head. “Like right now.”

Natasha took an exaggerated sip of her pink lemonade. “Maybe I just don’t like the pizza discourse.”

“Nat.” Wanda’s voice dropped into something quieter, more insistent. “I can feel you deflecting. You might fool the others, but not me.”

Natasha stared at the TV, sitcom characters frozen mid-laughter. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.” Wanda leaned forward, practically gleaming with triumph. “There’s someone. I can see it—like… like a shadow when you think too hard. All jagged, all red.” Her smirk softened into something gentler. “You don’t have to give me details. Just… tell me I’m not crazy.”

Natasha sighed, head tipping back against the wall. For a long beat, she said nothing, her fingers tracing the condensation down her glass.

“Ha!” Wanda grinned, jabbing her finger like she’d won a prize. “So there is someone.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

Wanda’s grin turned sly, the kind that always meant trouble. She scooped another bite of Steve’s chicken and said, “Sooo… what’s his name? Or her?”

Natasha froze mid-sip of lemonade. Her brow arched, unimpressed. “Really?”

“What?” Wanda asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m progressive. Could go either way. Whoever managed to make you blush like that must be… impressive.”

Natasha glared at her, but the silence that followed was louder than any denial. She stared at the blanket bunched over her knees, lips pressing tight.

And then—after a long, tense beat—she exhaled through her nose, defeated.

“His.”

Wanda’s jaw dropped like she’d just been handed the season finale of her favorite show. “Ohhh my God. I knew it.” She leaned forward, eyes glowing faint red in her excitement. “Tell me everything. Who is he? What does he do? Is he broody? He’s broody, isn’t he?”

Natasha groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re deflecting again,” Wanda shot back, sing-song. She reached for the remote, pausing the TV again. “I want details. Come on, Nat. You never talk about this stuff. So if you’re admitting it, even this much, it must have been serious.”

Natasha’s lips quirked at the corner, but it wasn’t amusement—it was pain she tried to fold into something lighter. She shook her head. “It was complicated.”

Wanda’s grin softened. “Complicated usually means worth it.”

Natasha looked away, jaw tight, eyes catching the faint city lights bleeding through the blinds. For a long second she didn’t say anything. Just toyed with her glass, fingers tracing idle circles.

“…his name’s Matt,” she said finally, so quiet Wanda almost thought she imagined it.

The sound of it felt like dropping a stone in still water—rippling out, impossible to take back.

Wanda didn’t say I told you so. She just leaned back against the pillows, smile gentler now, voice quiet. “Matt,” she repeated, testing it, tasting the weight of the name. “Well… now I definitely want details.”

Natasha toyed with her glass again, eyes fixed on the faint pink swirl of the lemonade Steve had left her. Wanda just waited—patient, steady, with that knowing smirk that said she wasn’t letting this go.

Finally, Natasha sighed, giving in. “We met in New York, years ago. At Columbia.”

Wanda’s brows shot up. “You went to college?

Natasha gave her a look, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Undercover.”

“Hot.” Wanda grinned, settling deeper into the pillows. “So, Columbia undercover. And this Matt?”

Natasha hesitated. She couldn’t say he could hear a lie in the space between her heartbeats. Couldn’t say he saved her life a dozen times before she even trusted him with her real name. So she went with the lie that was close enough to the truth.

“He was… connected to my target.”

Wanda tilted her head, curious. “So you used him?”

Natasha’s throat tightened. She didn’t answer right away, and that silence spoke louder than anything. “It wasn’t supposed to go anywhere, I wasn’t supposed to—” she said finally, voice low. “But he… he got under my skin.”

Wanda studied her. “That doesn’t sound like just ‘complicated.’ That sounds like you fell.”

Natasha let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t fall in this line of work. Not if you want to get back up again.”

Wanda didn’t argue. She just reached over, resting her hand lightly on Natasha’s arm. “Still sounds like he mattered.”

Natasha’s eyes softened, unfocused, drifting somewhere years away. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Yeah. He did.”

Natasha balanced her plate on her knees, eyes fixed on the plate Steve had left them. She wasn’t really hungry anymore, but it gave her hands something to do. Wanda, meanwhile, had gone full little-sister mode, curled against the pillows with that infuriating mix of patience and mischief.

“So you had to leave Columbia,” Wanda said softly, testing the waters. “And you never told him why.”

Natasha nodded once, sharp. “I couldn’t. Mission was compromised. By the time I got out, walking away was the safest option.”

“Safe,” Wanda repeated, almost rolling her eyes. “You love that word.”

Natasha ignored that. “He never knew who I really was. He thought I was just… Natalie. A girl from Queens who liked Thai food and studied law. I left him believing that.”

Wanda frowned. “And then last year…?”

Natasha’s throat tightened. “Fury sent me on a mission when I asked to step away from the team.”

“Well… That part we know.”

“Anyway, I had a mission target. Matt was defending him.”

Wanda sat up straighter, blinking. “Wait. The same target?”

Natasha gave a humorless smile. “The universe has a sick sense of humor.”

“So you reconnected.” Wanda tilted her head. “And?”

For a moment, Natasha didn’t answer. Her chest rose and fell, slow, like she was weighing every word before it left her. “And it was… different. He wasn’t just some kid in a dorm anymore. He’d been through hell and made it out the other side. Stronger. Smarter. He saw me for who I was.” She paused, her voice dipping. “Or at least, who I let him see.”

Mission accomplished at keeping the blind vigilante part out of it.

Wanda studied her quietly, sensing the way Natasha’s aura flickered between warm and sharp, burning red.

“So what happened?” Wanda asked at last, blunt but gentle. “If he mattered that much… why aren’t you with him now?”

Natasha let out a long, tired laugh — not cruel, but wrecked around the edges. “Because I left. Again. Because that’s what I do. I run before anyone can run from me.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Natasha forked a piece of chicken, chewed it like it might buy her some time. “But we’re good. Really.”

Wanda arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Good.”

Natasha shrugged, eyes fixed on her plate. “Yeah. It’s… over, but good.”

There was a pause. Wanda let her stew in it for a second before she asked, very evenly, “When was the last time you two talked?”

Natasha stilled. Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth. The seconds dragged before she finally muttered, “We don’t. Not anymore.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, pushing her plate away like she’s done. “You haven’t talked in six months? Nat, that’s insane.”

Natasha scoffs, trying to play it off. “It’s not insane. It’s… logical.”

“Logical?” Wanda repeats, throwing her hands up. “You let someone get under your skin, and then you just—what? Pretend he doesn’t exist?!”

Natasha stabs a piece of chicken a little too hard. “Exactly.”

Wanda leans forward, incredulous. “Natasha, you miss him.”

Natasha finally looks up, arching a brow, that smirk tugging at her lips. “Funny. Thought you were team Mr. Pink Lemonade five minutes ago.”

Wanda sputters, half laughing, half exasperated. “Yes, fine. I’m all for Steve. He’s my guy, I root for him, and whatever you two have going on — that thing you won’t name — I don’t hate it.” She pauses, leveling Natasha with a look. “But…”

Natasha raises a brow, wary. “But?”

“But I’ve seen you, Nat. You laugh, you flirt, you spar until one of you limps into breakfast, and it’s good. It is. But it’s not—” Wanda gestures vaguely, searching for the right word. “—it’s not the kind of thing that makes your whole aura light up.”

Natasha sets her fork down, tilting her head. “Oh, so now you’re a psychic and a critic?”

Wanda smirks. “I don’t need to be psychic. I was gone for a few weeks last year, remember? When I came back… you were different. Like someone had already flipped a switch.”

Wanda twirls her fork like she’s winding up. “Okay. So... how serious it was? Really.”

Natasha hesitates, just long enough to give herself away. She pushes a piece of chicken around her plate. “He wanted it to be.”

That catches Wanda’s full attention. “Wanted?”

Natasha exhales through her nose, shoulders tight. “He was… honest. Too honest. He said things I wasn’t ready to hear. Things I didn’t think anyone could mean about me.”

Wanda tilts her head. “Like what?”

Natasha huffs a humorless laugh, eyes flicking away. “That he wanted me — not the safe version, not the spy who disappears when it’s convenient. Me. That he didn’t care about the ledger, or the Red Room, or what I thought I ruined.” Her throat works. “He said he’d rather stand next to me and lose than not stand with me at all.”

Wanda’s eyes go wide, fork forgotten. “And he let you go??”

Natasha finally looks at her, half-smiling like it’s some cruel joke. “No. I left. He didn’t get a choice.”

Wanda just stares at her, mouth open. “You’re telling me there’s a man out there who confesses like that and you ran away?!”

Natasha leans back against the headboard, lips twitching at Wanda’s outrage. “Welcome to my tragic love life.”

Wanda shakes her head, muttering in Sokovian before switching back to English: “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. “He didn’t call either!”

That lands in the room like a slap. Wanda blinks, processing, then leans forward, incredulous. “So… both of you are just sitting on opposite sides of the country waiting for the other one to break first?”

Natasha stares into her pink lemonade like it might save her. “Pretty much.”

“Natasha,” Wanda groans, dragging a hand down her face. “That’s… that’s not tragic, that’s stupid.”

Natasha shrugs, the faintest curve of her mouth not quite masking the ache in her eyes. “Maybe he figured out he’s better off without me.”

Wanda softens instantly, voice gentler now. “Do you really believe that?”

Natasha doesn’t answer. She just tips her glass back and drains the last of the too-sweet lemonade.

Wanda taps her fork against the plate like a judge ready to pass sentence. “Okay… so you had this guy in New York who clearly set you on fire. You both let your pride choke you for six months. Fine. But then—” she leans in, eyes narrowing, “—what about Steve?”

Natasha looks up sharply. “What about him?”

“You know what about him,” Wanda says, voice deceptively light. “You two are always sparring and smiling at each other like a toothpaste commercial. You disappear for hours. He brings you your ridiculous pink lemonade like it’s a bouquet of roses.”

Natasha exhales, long and tired. “Steve is…” She trails off, picking at a loose thread on her sweatshirt. “He’s safe. He’s good. He’s… easy.”

“Easy doesn’t sound like a feeling,” Wanda points out.

Natasha glares at her, but Wanda just raises a brow.

Finally, Natasha admits, low: “I care about him. I like being with him. He doesn’t ask for more than I can give, and sometimes… I really want that.”

Wanda studies her face carefully, then asks, softer: “And is that the truth, or just what you want it to be?”

Natasha doesn’t answer. She just grabs the remote, presses play, and lets canned laughter fill the room again.

The sitcom runs for another few minutes, laugh track echoing too loud in the otherwise quiet room. Natasha settles back, hoping Wanda’s finally done dissecting her love life.

Wanda is chewing the last bite of Steve’s chicken when she shrugs, almost too casually. “I think you should call him.”

Natasha freezes. Slowly, deliberately, she grabs the remote and pauses the screen mid-joke. “Excuse me?”

Wanda blinks innocently, licking her fork clean. “You heard me. Six months is long enough for stubborn pride. Call him.”

Natasha stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “That’s—no. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Wanda asks, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “If it’s nothing, you’ll know. If it’s something… then at least you’ll stop wondering.”

Natasha shakes her head, heart thudding against her ribs. “You make it sound so easy.”

Wanda plants her mug down with a little thud, eyes glinting. “Come on, Nat. Don’t you want to know how he’s doing?”

Natasha scoffs, too sharp, too quick. “No.”

“Liar,” Wanda sing-songs, leaning against the dresser like she’s settling in for the kill. “What’s your plan, then? Keep wondering for the rest of your life? Wait around until fate decides to be funny and throws him into your next mission, defending your next target in court?”

Natasha narrows her eyes, heat creeping up her neck. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Wanda grins, all teeth. “Yeah, well, call it a hunch.”

For once, Natasha has no quip. Just silence — sharp, heavy. Wanda lets it hang there before softening, voice low, almost kind:

“You should call him.”

And then she’s gone, slipping out with her tea, leaving Natasha staring at the paused TV like it’s mocking her.

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The office is quiet. Too quiet. Everyone else went home. Matt sits at his apartment desk, files scattered in a halo around him — depositions, intel, reports from their recon. He reads them in braille, fingers dragging over the dots faster than his brain can keep up. Again and again. None of it adds up. None of it matters.

He tells himself this is the right way. Work harder. Dig deeper. Find the missing link and he won’t have to make the call. He won’t have to admit he needs her.

But the pattern refuses to surface. Every page just another brick wall. Every heartbeat outside his window another reminder that time is running out.

He leans back, runs both hands over his face, exhales sharp. His head pounds, his chest heavier than any bruise.

She wouldn’t even answer. She didn’t call for six months. Why should she? Why should I?

Still, the phone is there. Right there.

He pulls it closer, thumb hesitating over the screen. A long pause, then—click. Speed dial.

Her number is still at the bottom of the list, untouched but never erased. His thumb hovers over it. Just one press.

The voice assistant speaks first.

“Natasha Romanoff. Incoming call.”

He freezes.

The phone vibrates in his hand, her name echoing in the quiet like a gunshot.

And Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

He stares blindly at the screen like it’s mocking him.

“What the fuck…” He mutters under his breath, throat dry.

He answers faster than he means to. Too fast. Almost desperate.

“Hello?” His voice is low, controlled, but his pulse is a war drum.

For a beat, silence. Then:

“Hi, Matt.”

Chapter Text

“Hi, Matt.”

The sound of her voice after six months is a punch to the ribs. Too familiar. Too far away. She sounds steady—of course she does. Natasha Romanoff doesn’t stumble. But under the calm, he can hear it. The catch in her breath, the way her heart kicks faster when she says his name.

“Natasha.” It slips out, rawer than he intended. He clears his throat. “It’s… been a while.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “I just… wanted to know how you’re doing.”

That stings. Because she called first, just to check. And here he was, phone in hand, about to use her like a lifeline because of the case. Because he needed something from her.

He forces a small laugh. “You surprise me.”

“That’s new?” she asks lightly, but her tone is too careful.

He leans back in his chair, fingers tightening around the phone. “I was about to call you.”

She goes still on the other end. He can hear it. Her heartbeat stutters. “Really.”

“Really,” he says. Her chest warms for half a heartbeat — until he adds, steady, deliberate: “Not for the same reason.”

Her stomach drops. “Oh.” She swallows, forcing her voice level. “So you need something.”

Matt doesn’t flinch. “Maybe.”

Natasha stares at the ceiling, hating the way it burns. She called because she missed him — his voice, his steadiness, the way he always knew exactly how to set her off. And he? He only called because he had to. Because he needed her.

“Six months,” she says flatly. “Not a word. And the first time we talk is because you want something.”

“Six months,” Matt counters evenly, “and you didn’t pick up the phone either.”

That shuts her up for a moment. She hates how he always does that — flips the knife before she even feels it go in.

Finally, her voice steadies, cool as ice. “Tell me what you need.”

Matt exhales through his nose. “There’s chatter in the Kitchen. Russian. High-level. They’re moving stolen tech from your buddy Stark through the boroughs. Too organized for the usual gangs.”

She leans against her nightstand, nails tapping the wood. “So you thought of me.”

“Foggy thought of you,” he corrects, clipped. “I’m just delivering the message.”

That lands like a slap. She forces a dry laugh. “Good to know I’m still your last resort.”

“You’re not,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re the one with access to intel we can’t get. That’s it.”

Silence. Her heart hammers, but her voice is ice. “You don’t have to sell it, Matt. I know how this works. Six months of nothing, and now it’s business.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t rise to the bait. “Are you in a position to help or not?”

She closes her eyes. She hates him for asking like that — like it’s a legal brief across a table, like none of what burned between them matters. But she hates herself more for wanting to say yes anyway.

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” Natasha says finally. Her tone is crisp, professional, as if they’re strangers. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Matt says, level. Unmoved.

The line clicks dead.

The screen goes black.

She sets the phone down like it’s hot iron, flexing her fingers as if that might burn the echo of his voice out of her skin. Six months. Half a year of silence, of swallowing down every instinct that told her to break and call him, and the first words she gets from him are business. Clinical. Empty.

She tells herself she doesn’t care. She tells herself this is what she wanted — clean lines, no mess, no fire to consume her. But the ache under her ribs doesn’t listen. She wanted to know if he was okay. Just that. She wanted to hear his voice without a mission clinging to it. And now? Now she feels stupid. Weak. Like she gave him a piece of herself just by dialing, and he handed back a file folder.

Her reflection in the dark window looks steady enough, but inside? It’s all burning red again.

Across the country, the phone is still in his hand, screen dimmed, voice-assistant whispering the call ended. He sits there, elbows on his knees, head bowed, like a man caught mid-prayer and too ashamed to finish it.

He hadn’t planned to call her for this. Not like this. God, he almost convinced himself he wouldn’t call at all. But hearing her voice — after six months of silence — it rattled him. Calm on the outside, sure. But inside? His pulse betrayed him, hammering in his throat like he was twenty-one again and she smelled like lavender and gunpowder.

He hated how fast he picked up. Hated how much relief hit him just hearing her say his name. And he hates most of all that she thinks he only called because of the threat.

But isn’t that the truth?

Matt grips the phone tighter, jaw locked. Not today, he tells himself. Not the memories, not the temptation, not the burn of what he lost.

Just the mission. Just the work.

And if that lie feels like penance? He’ll take it.

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Nelson & Murdock, New York

Foggy sets two coffees on the table, eyeing Matt like he already knows something’s off. Matt’s posture is too still, jaw set just a little too tight, like he’s rehearsing neutrality.

“So,” Foggy says, sliding into his chair, “you look like a guy who either didn’t sleep or slept with regret. Which is it?”

Matt exhales slowly, tapping his cane against the leg of the chair. “I called her.”

Foggy nearly chokes on his bagel. “You what?”

Matt keeps his voice calm, clipped. “Last night. We talked.”

“And when’s she coming to town?”

Matt pauses just long enough for Foggy’s brows to shoot up. “…She’s not.”

“You didn’t ask?” Foggy’s voice jumps half an octave. “Matt, we’re knee-deep in Russian mobsters with Stark tech and you didn’t ask the one Avenger you actually know to get on a plane?”

Matt’s lips twitch, defensive. “She said she’d dig into it on her end and let me know if she found anything.”

Foggy stares at him. “Oh my God. You delegated her.” He throws his hands in the air. “Matthew. You had one shot, one golden ‘press the Avenger button,’ and you used it to… to assign homework?”

Matt grips his coffee a little tighter, muttering, “I’m not dragging her into this.”

“She’s already in it!” Foggy explodes. “She’s the Natasha Romanoff. You don’t ‘drag’ her anywhere, you just… maybe politely suggest she save our asses!”

Matt doesn’t answer, his jaw set in that way Foggy knows means end of discussion.

Matt doesn’t even flinch, just takes a sip of coffee like it’s any other morning. “She’s looking into it from her end. Pulling intel.”

“Matt—”

“She’s helping,” he cuts in, calm, almost sharp. Then, quieter, like he’s daring Foggy to argue: “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Foggy blinks. “That’s not—” He throws his hands up. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

Matt shrugs, leaning back like the discussion’s over. “We don’t need her on the ground here. Not yet.”

Foggy stares at him, exasperated. “Oh my God. You’d rather fight an army with a stick than admit you actually want her here.”

Matt just sets his jaw, lips pressed thin, and goes back to his files.

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A couple days goes by. It’s past midnight. The apartment’s dark except for the pool of light over Matt’s desk. Case files sprawl everywhere, his glasses set aside, tie hanging loose around his neck. He’s been staring at the same page of notes for twenty minutes, mind circling back to that clipped phone call.

The soft ding of his inbox cuts through the silence. Matt tilts his head, listening to the faint buzz of his laptop. A new email.

From: Romanoff, N.
Subject: RE: Tech trail
Attachment: three heavily encrypted files.

No greeting. No sign-off. Just intel. Coordinates, manifests, whispers out of Europe she must’ve pulled through SHIELD channels. Clean, efficient, precise.

Nothing else.

He runs his fingers across the braille display, lips tightening. No “how are you.” No “good luck.” Not even his name. Just data.

It’s useful, exactly what he needs. And it feels like a slap.

Matt leans back in his chair, jaw tense. For a long beat he just sits there, listening to the hum of the fridge, the rain pattering against the window, the sound of his own heartbeat refusing to slow.

He whispers into the quiet, bitter as whiskey: “Cold as ever, Romanoff.”

But his hands are already opening the files.

Matt leans back in his chair, fingers pressed to his temples like he could rub the thought away. It’s just intel. Nothing more. That’s what he tells himself, but his heart isn’t listening.

He wants to call her.

Wants to hear that sharp inhale she makes before she speaks.

Wants to know how she’s really doing — not the surface-level “I’m fine” she’d hand anyone else, but the truth.

Wants to tell her he hasn’t been sleeping. That the apartment feels too empty. That six months without her voice has been its own kind of punishment.

Wants to fucking ask her to come see him.

His thumb ghosts over the screen again, hovering on her name. He imagines her here — hair damp from a shower, boots left by the door, curled up in that spot on his couch she always stole like it belonged to her.

His throat works around a dry laugh. “Don’t be pathetic,” he mutters, letting the phone drop back onto the desk with a sharp clack, jaw tight. He can’t afford it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So he sits in the dark, drowning in want, and tells himself it’s restraint.

The email still burns when he slams the laptop shut and heads out. Cheap bar, cheaper whiskey. He wants burn, not memory.

By his second glass she’s on his arm — too loud, too sweet, not her. He leans in anyway. Pretending’s easier than calling.

Minutes later she’s on her knees in the alley, eager, messy, and Matt closes his eyes, pretending harder.

When it’s over she grins, asks when she’ll see him again.

“Don’t,” he says. Half-smiles like he means it. “You don’t want to make a habit of me.”

She struts off, perfume clinging.

And it’s not enough. It never is.

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The flight is booked before she lets herself think too hard about it.

Natasha tells herself it’s the mission. That what she dug up doesn’t just fit into Matt’s case file—it cracks it open. That someone needs to be boots-on-the-ground in New York, someone who can get into places the Defenders can’t. That she’s the only one with the right clearance, the right skill set, the right network.

But when she sits back in the cab to JFK, sunglasses pulled low, coat collar high, she knows she’s lying.

Because the truth is, she already sent him the intel. Her part was done. He didn’t ask her to come. He never even hinted at it.

And still—here she is.

Her thumb hovers over her phone the whole drive. She could text him, warn him. I’m coming to New York. Meet me at the office. Or the church. Or wherever you haunt these days.

But she doesn’t.

Because the second she does, she’ll hear that carefully even tone of his, that calm control that hides just how much he resents the silence between them. And she’s not ready for that.

She stares out the window at the blur of city lights. It’s different here—louder, dirtier, sharper in all the ways San Francisco isn’t. She told herself she liked the quiet out west. That safe was good. That safe was enough.

But she’s back in New York now, and her chest feels like it’s caught fire again.

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Josie’s is loud tonight, too loud for Matt’s taste, but the Macallan in front of him is smooth, earned. The firm won a big case, and Foggy had insisted on celebrating. Karen too. But they’d both gone home hours ago, leaving Matt alone with his half-finished drink and the buzz of a hundred heartbeats ricocheting through the bar.

He sits in the corner booth, tie loose, jacket folded beside him, sleeves rolled up. His cane leans against the table like a third companion.

That’s when he hears her.

The quick rhythm of heels against sticky floorboards, the breath of someone just tipsy enough to be bold, the hitch of nerves under a practiced laugh. She smells like peach schnapps and floral shampoo. Barely legal, probably using a fake ID Josie waved through because the bar doesn’t care as long as she pays.

“You look like you could use company,” she says, sliding into the booth before he can answer.

Matt tilts his head toward her, lips tugging into that easy half-smile. The one Foggy calls his “closing argument” face. “Do I?” His voice is smooth, warm, practiced.

She laughs, too high-pitched to be genuine but eager. “Well, you’re sitting here alone with whiskey and a face that belongs in GQ. What girl wouldn’t want to fix that?”

Matt smirks faintly, swirling his glass. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to make her fidget, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “What’s your name?”

“Emily.”

He hums, tasting the lie in her tone, but he doesn’t press. “Nice to meet you, Emily. I’m Matt.”

Her hand brushes his forearm, tentative but hungry for a reaction. “So, are you always this serious, or do I get to see you smile tonight?”

Matt lifts his glass, lips quirking. “Depends. Are you worth smiling for?”

Her breath hitches. She’s hooked.

“Buy me a drink and maybe you’ll find out,” Emily teases.

The girl laughs too loud at one of Matt’s dry little one-liners, her perfume cloying as she leans across the booth. She can’t be older than twenty-two, and her pulse is sprinting like she’s already halfway drunk on the idea of taking him home.

Her giggle is sharp, eager. “Smooth.”

He leans in slightly, lips close to her ear, his voice low enough to curl under her skin. “That’s the point.”

Her heartbeat spikes, exactly as he knew it would. She’s eating it up. And maybe—maybe tonight he’ll let himself follow through, because it’s easier this way. No expectations. No fire under his ribs. Just distraction.

Then—

He feels it.

A shift in the air, the faintest trace of a perfume that doesn’t belong here. Clean leather. Powdered steel. A heartbeat he knows as intimately as his own—steady, sharp, humming with suppressed energy.

His hand stills around his glass.

And before she even crosses the threshold, before the heels of her boots strike the sticky floorboards, he already knows.

Natasha.

It hits him like a sucker punch. Six months of silence collapsing into a single moment, one long breath where the bar noise fades and all he can hear is her. The low swoop of her exhale. The brush of her jacket as she shoulders her way inside. The ache of recognition slamming into him so hard his chest tightens.

His smile falters, gone before the girl across from him notices. His head turns, disbelieving, caught between instinct and denial.

And then—her footsteps. Closer. Unmistakable.

Matt mutters under his breath, voice rough, stunned:

“…No fucking way.”

The girl blinks. “What?”

But Matt isn’t listening anymore.

The girl blinks at him, confused, just as a new shadow stretches across the table. Natasha steps up, cool and effortless, eyes flicking over the scene with a smirk tugging at her lips. Leather jacket still on, hair loose, and that look—like she already knows the punchline to a joke nobody else has caught.

She tilts her head, appraising the girl with lazy interest before flicking her gaze to Matt. Then back to the girl. Her smile is razor sharp.

“Careful,” Natasha says, voice velvet and lethal, like she’s offering friendly advice instead of a warning.. She tips her chin at the girl without even glancing at Matt. “This one’s a full-time job you can’t quit.”

The girl blinks, confused. “Uh… excuse me?”

Natasha’s smile is polite, but her eyes glitter. “You’re what—twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-two,” the girl says, defensive.

Natasha hums like she’s solving a puzzle. “Mm. So you probably still believe hangovers go away with greasy food and a nap.” She lifts her glass of champagne. “They don’t. Especially not after him.”

Matt mutters under his breath, “Nat—” but Natasha keeps going, silky smooth.

“He looks like fun,” Natasha says, tilting her head toward Matt, “but trust me, you’ll be crying in your sorority bathroom before midterms.”

The girl frowns, cheeks pink. “I wasn’t even that interested.”

Natasha barks a soft laugh, sharp and knowing. “Yeah. Right.” She leans her elbow on the bar, smiling like the cat that caught the canary. “That’s why you’ve been twirling your hair for ten minutes and leaning in every time he talks.”

The girl huffs. “Okay, maybe I was, but you don’t have to be so—”

“So honest?” Natasha finishes for her. She clinks her glass against the girl’s water like a toast. “One day, you’ll thank me.”

The girl blinks between them—Matt looking like he’s swallowing down a migraine, Natasha looking smug as hell—and finally mumbles something about meeting her friends before scurrying off.

Natasha watches her go, then turns to Matt with a sweet, fake-innocent smile. “Guess you’re free for the night.”

Matt sets his glass down a little too hard. “What the hell are you doing here, Romanoff?”

“Nice to see you too, Murdock.”

“You didn’t answer the question.” His tone is sharp, but his grip on the glass is too tight, like he’s holding himself together by inches.

She tilts her head, studying him with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Relax. I’m not here to ruin your… extracurriculars.” She gestures vaguely toward the direction the girl disappeared. “That was just a bonus.”

Matt huffs out something between a laugh and a growl. “Unbelievable.”

Natasha leans in slightly, lowering her voice so only he can hear. “Six months of silence and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

His jaw works, and for a second, she thinks he won’t answer. Then—quiet, dangerous: “Yeah. Because it’s the only question that matters.”

Natasha slides onto the stool beside him like she owns the place, plucks his glass of Macallan out of his hand, and takes a slow sip. Her smirk is razor-sharp.

“Plus, have some decency, Matt. You’re thirty. She looked sixteen.”

He turns his head toward her, jaw tight, but she can hear the faint exhale he does when he’s trying not to smile.

“Happy belated birthday, by the way,” she adds casually, raising his glass in a mock toast. “I’m afraid I let it pass.”

Matt’s mouth curves into something dangerous. “Yeah, that would’ve required you picking up the phone and actually calling me.”

Natasha chuckles, sliding the whiskey back toward him. “Touché.”

“She was legal.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, hand on her heart like she’s genuinely moved. “Let me rephrase: she looked like she just printed out a fake ID on her dorm printer.”

He shoots her a dry look. “Glad to see you still have the maturity level of a raccoon with a grudge.”

Natasha smirks. “Only when provoked. And you were absolutely provoking me by making sad, flirty lawyer faces at someone who probably had glitter lip gloss in her purse.”

Matt leans in, dropping his voice with a mock challenge.

“You sure this is about her? ‘Cause it’s starting to sound a lot like you’re jealous.”

She laughs. Not soft. Not kind. It’s dangerous.

“Matt,” she says, slow and dripping with sarcasm, “you could bring home a Victoria’s Secret model and I’d still intervene if she looked like she calls her dad ‘daddy.’”

He leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “God, I hate how you still do this.”

Natasha hums. “Do what?”

“Get under my skin like it’s nothing.”

Something shifts.

Just a flicker. Barely there. But real.

Because she meant to come here, tease him, unnerve him, maybe shake him up a little. What she didn’t mean was to sit this close and feel her pulse jump every time he opens his mouth. What she didn’t account for was the way he smells the same, sounds the same, feels the same across the distance of a single barstool.

And now he’s looking at her with that smug little smirk—like he knows exactly how far under her skin he is too.

Like he never left.

She swirls the last of his whiskey, covering the moment with another jab. “Honestly, I thought you had higher standards.”

“Apparently not,” Matt fires back. “I slept with you, didn’t I?”

She barks a laugh, sharp and a little too loud. “Wow. So that’s where we are now.”

He shrugs. “Just following your lead.”

Goddammit.

She presses the glass to her lips. Cold. It helps. Barely.

This was a mistake. She should’ve stayed on the damn compound. Or gone to her hotel. Or at the very least, not let her feet lead her to the one place in this city where her heart always acts like it still belongs to someone else.

And yet—here she is. Sitting next to him like she didn’t spend the last six months trying to forget the taste of his name.

He leans in, just enough that she can feel the warmth of him again.

“So,” he says softly. “You done ruining my night?”

She looks at him.

Smiles.

“Not even close.”

Matt swirls what’s left of his Macallan, smirk tugging at his lips like he hasn’t just been caught red-handed.

“You really flew across the country to interrupt my drink?” His tone drips with mock-innocence. “That’s… flattering.”

Natasha rolls her eyes so hard she swears she sees the back of her skull. “Don’t flatter yourself, Murdock. I came here to ruin your night, not inflate your ego.”

“Mm.” He leans an elbow on the bar, turning just slightly toward her, that infuriating half-smile curving his mouth. “Feels like you’ve already done both.”

He’s all easy confidence, and she’s the idiot who walked into it willingly.

Natasha grips the edge of the bar, forces her lips into a smirk. “You think you’ve got the upper hand, counselor, but newsflash: I’m not here for you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His voice dips lower, smooth and smug, the kind of tone that used to unravel her in seconds.

And the worst part? Her body remembers it. Every cell screaming: he looks good, he sounds better, and you’re in trouble.

Natasha tips back the rest of his Macallan like it’s hers now, grimaces at the burn, and sets the glass down with a little clink.

“I did you a favor,” she says, tone breezy. “That girl wasn’t even your type.”

Matt tilts his head, lips quirking. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then,” Matt says, turning toward her, propping one elbow on the bar. “What exactly is my type?”

Natasha pauses.

Oh no.

She did not think this far ahead.

But now he’s focusing on her like he’s got all night, like he can hear the war going on in her heartbeat, and she’ll be damned if she lets him win this round.

She tilts her head, smirks right back.

“Smart,” she starts, lazy and confident. “Sharp tongue. Little dark. Complicated.”

Matt hums, amused. “Love complicated. Go on.”

“Walks like she owns every room. Has a thing for leather. Maybe a little dangerous, maybe a lot. Probably fluent in six languages, but fluent in sarcasm first.”

Matt’s smile is growing, and she hates it.

“Anything else?” he says, voice low.

Natasha shrugs, still pretending she’s fine. “Tragic backstory. Horrible coping mechanisms. Can take a man apart in under thirty seconds—with or without weapons.”

He laughs, full and unfiltered. “Wow. Sounds oddly specific.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says innocently, turning the glass in her hands. “Just a wild guess.”

Matt huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

Then, smooth as sin:

“You forgot redheads.”

Natasha freezes. The smirk falters just slightly, just enough.

Just for a second. Barely noticeable to anyone who isn’t Matt Murdock. But he’s already grinning like he felt the exact moment her brain blue-screened.

“Mm.” She leans on her elbow, eyes dropping to his lips, then back up.

“Did I?”

“Mmhmm.”

He lifts his drink but doesn’t sip it. Just holds it. Like he’s suddenly aware that if he gives his mouth anything to do besides talk to her, he might say something he can’t take back.

But she can’t quite look him in the eye.

Because now that she is looking—really looking—she’s realizing just how much worse this is than she expected.

He looks good.

Not just “oh, he’s still hot” good.

No—rude good.

His beard is a little fuller now, edging into that unfairly attractive ‘I’ve been through shit and it made me hotter’ category. His hair’s shorter—cleaner lines, tighter fade, like he’s been trying to keep himself sharp. And his body?

Yeah.

He’s been working out more.

The lines of his shoulders under that dark button-down are sharper. His forearms flex as he lifts the glass, veins prominent like he’s been stress-lifting his feelings away for six months.

She hates how fast her brain is cataloging all of it.

Worse—how much her body remembers every inch of him like muscle memory. Like she could close her eyes and still know exactly where her hands used to go.

Shit.

Matt turns his head slightly, sensing the shift.

“You okay?” he asks, and he knows. That bastard knows.

Natasha recovers, forces a dry smile.

“Just trying to decide if the beard is hot or if I’ve just been out of the field too long.”

He smirks. “Well, you did show up in a bar to sabotage my love life, so… signs point to the latter.”

Natasha tips Matt’s glass toward Josie with two fingers. “Refill, please. Heavy hand.”

Josie arches a brow but shrugs. “On his tab?”

“Obviously,” Natasha says, flashing a wicked grin.

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, “God, you’re infuriating.”

She smirks, propping her chin on her palm. “You’ve missed it.”

“Missed what? You hijacking my whiskey and my night?”

“Your life would be boring without me.”

“Debatable.”

Josie slides the fresh drink over, and Natasha takes a slow sip, eyes dancing over the rim of the glass. “Not debatable. You’d still be here, pretending to brood in silence while some poor girl tried to figure out how to get your number. You’re welcome for the rescue.”

Matt’s lips twitch. “You’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“Subtlety’s overrated,” she says, shrugging. “Besides, I didn’t see you stopping me.”

There’s a beat where his jaw tightens, and then he exhales a laugh, dry and sharp. “Unbelievable.”

Natasha leans an elbow on the bar, eyes gleaming. “Only because I’m right.”

The air between them hums, thick with everything unsaid. They’ve edged right up to the line of an argument, but neither seems willing to step back. Natasha takes another sip of whiskey, eyes narrowing at him over the rim.

“You grew your beard,” she says finally, tone lighter but no less pointed. “Looks good.”

Matt tilts his head, hiding the way his mouth twitches. “And you… sound the same.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “God, you’re ridiculous.” But the laugh spills out anyway — because she always laughs at his blind jokes, even when she shouldn’t.

“You walked into that one,” he murmurs, and the smirk is back, sharp and smug.

“Fine,” she concedes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But for the record, my hair’s shorter now. You’d know if you ever bothered to—” she stops herself, lips quirking into something between a smirk and a dare, “—check.”

Matt’s head tilts, and though he can’t see her, she feels the weight of his attention like a touch. “How short?”

Natasha twirls the end between her fingers, holding his gaze. “Little below my shoulders. Less trouble to braid before a mission.”

He hums softly, as if committing that image to memory. “Practical. Figures.”

For the first time all night, the silence between them isn’t cutting. It’s heavy, yes — but softer, threaded with something dangerously close to nostalgia.

It doesn’t last much.

Matt groans like he can’t help himself keeping it in, turning toward her fully now. “You don’t get to disappear for six months and then show up like this—insulting me, hijacking my whiskey, burning my evening to the ground with a smile.”

“I didn’t disappear,” Natasha fires back. “You’re the one who—”

She cuts herself off.

Matt catches it. “I’m the one who what?”

She narrows her eyes. “Forget it.”

“No, go on,” he says, tilting his head. “Say it.”

Natasha stares him down, jaw tight. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

Matt’s expression doesn’t change—much. Just a small twitch in the corner of his mouth, the kind he gets when something hurts but he won’t give it to you.

He picks up his glass. “Phone works both ways, you know.”

She laughs—sharp and bitter. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Oh, I’m unbelievable? You’re the one who ghosted me after a war zone and a bloodbath like we were just… nothing.”

“I was trying to give you space,” she snaps.

“I didn’t need space, Natasha. I needed you to stop acting like I’m some side quest you finished.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “You think that’s what I did?”

He shrugs, voice flatter now. “You tell me. You left. No call. No message. Nothing.”

Natasha folds her arms. “Well, I figured you’d be busy… dating literal sorority girls and growing a tragic beard.”

“Oh, so you do like the beard.”

“Matt.”

“Just want to be clear on what level of moral crisis we’re operating on here.”

Natasha crosses her arms, her tone still sharp. “So what, you wanted me to crawl back on my knees?”

Matt scoffs. “I wanted something. A call. A message. A sign you didn’t just vanish like I meant nothing to you.”

“You think this was easy for me?”

“I think you’re really good at disappearing when things get real.”

Her jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. They’re officially past snark and heading straight into the we’re yelling in public and pretending not to care who hears us stage.

“You really think you’re innocent in all this?” she throws at him, brows furrowed. “You didn’t call either. You didn’t try.”

Matt laughs bitterly. “Right, because I’m the one who vanishes into thin air with zero explanation. Sure. My bad for not telepathically sensing when it was safe to care again.”

“You always do this,” she says, stepping closer now. “You twist everything until it’s my fault.”

“Because it usually is!”

She stares at him.

He stares right back.

The fire between them isn’t anger anymore. Not really. It’s something uglier. Or maybe something worse: familiar.

Her eyes drop.

A quick flick down his chest—broad, solid, that damn shirt fitting him like it was tailored to piss her off. Her gaze drags across the rolled-up sleeves, the way his forearms flex as he leans against the bar. Then—lower still—to the way his thighs strain slightly against his jeans.

And then—

Her eyes land on his mouth.

Full. Frustrated. Ridiculously kissable. That little scar still at the corner. The one she’d once traced with her tongue.

Natasha’s heart does something stupid in her chest.

And suddenly—fuck it.

She looks up at him, breath slightly unsteady, and says—

“Do you want to do something stupid?”

Matt blinks.

One heartbeat. Two.

His mouth opens. Closes. His jaw works like he’s trying to formulate an argument against it—but there’s none.

She’s standing right there, looking at him like that.

And he’s never been strong when it comes to her.

“Desperately.”

The word lands like a spark to dry tinder.

Before she can think twice, he’s already tossing a few bills onto the bar with one smooth motion. She knocks back the last of his whiskey like it belongs to her, sliding off the high bench as they both stand in perfect sync.

“Later,” she mutters, brushing past him with that infuriating smirk. “We can fight about it later.”

Matt tilts his head toward her, lips twitching, heartbeat slamming louder than the jukebox in the corner.

“Promise?”

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The apartment door clicks shut behind them.

The air inside is warm, still carrying the scent of coffee, old books, and the faintest trace of something smoky and bitter—bourbon or regret, depending on the day.

They step in like strangers pretending they haven’t memorized each other’s bodies.

Matt shrugs off his jacket, tosses it toward the hook. Misses.

Natasha, of course, takes her time.

She slips her coat off slowly—too slowly—and drapes it neatly over the arm of the couch, eyes scanning the room like she’s evaluating a mission site.

Matt watches her from the side, pretending he’s not doing exactly that.

She cocks her head and, with maddening nonchalance, says—

“Did you redecorate?”

Matt blinks. “What?”

She gestures vaguely, lips twitching. “I don’t know. Feels... sadder.”

He turns to face her, deadpan. “You have a lot of nerve.”

Natasha smiles—soft, dangerous, infuriating. “You missed me.”

It’s not a question.

Matt doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not when she’s standing there in that fitted black top, hair tucked behind one ear, eyes burning straight through him like she never left his bed six months ago.

She takes a slow step forward. “You gonna stand there all night, or...?”

He closes the distance in three.

Grabs her by the waist, voice low against her ear. “You’re insufferable.”

She breathes out a laugh, breath ghosting over his jaw. “You’re easy.”

Natasha raises a brow like she’s unimpressed, even as her heart pounds against her ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Three steps,” she murmurs, smirking. “You’re losing your edge, Murdock.”

Matt leans in, voice rough. “I took my time. You were clearly enjoying the tour.”

Her eyes flick toward the couch. “Hmm. Still depressing. Same whiskey stains on the table.”

“Some things are timeless,” he says. “Like your attitude.”

She smiles sweetly. “And your emotional damage.”

They’re so close now she could tilt her head and graze her lips along his throat. She doesn’t. Yet.

Instead, she reaches up—slow, deliberate—and traces the line of his collar, fingers ghosting over the first button of his shirt. She doesn’t undo it. Just rests there.

Her voice drops to something almost dangerous. “So what happens now?”

Matt’s jaw tightens. His hands don’t move. “You tell me.”

She studies him. The beard. The muscles. The fresh tension sitting behind his eyes like he’s one step from begging or breaking.

“Don’t you dare pretend this changes anything,” she says softly, still not moving her hand.

“I’m not pretending anything,” Matt says, his voice barely a whisper. “But if you take off one more piece of clothing, I might forget how angry I am at you.”

Natasha tilts her head. “You’re always angry at me.”

His hands tighten just slightly at her waist. She finally unfastens the top button of his shirt.

One.

Only one.

Then she looks up at him again, eyes glinting.

“Still time to change your mind.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Not happening.”

Her hands move slowly to the hem of her top. She pulls it over her head in one fluid motion—measured, effortless. No drama. No seduction. And now she’s standing there in nothing but her black bra, cool and composed, like she didn’t just blow every fuse in his brain.

Matt inhales like he’s been punched.

Natasha quirks a brow. “Still angry?”

He laughs once—sharp and low. “I don’t know what I am right now.”

She walks back to him, eyes flicking down. Her fingers find the second button.

Click.

Two undone.

Matt reaches up and brushes her hand away—gently. Then slowly starts undoing his own buttons.

Her eyes drop again. The shirt slides off his shoulders.

Jesus.

He’s broader. Leaner. More definition. Like he’s been trying to outrun her in the gym.

She clears her throat—tries to sound casual and fails. “You’ve been... training.”

Matt smirks. “What gave it away?”

Natasha gestures vaguely at his everything. “The fact that you look like you could break a bedframe.”

Matt steps forward, crowding into her space again. “You offering?”

She just smiles—slow and wicked—and reaches for his belt, lips brushing his jaw—not quite a kiss, not yet. “Careful, Murdock. You keep talking like that and I might actually believe you missed me.”

His hand slides to her hip, grip tightening, pulling her just a little closer. He doesn’t bother to hide the truth this time.

“I did.”

And before she can snark it away, his lips are already there—finding that place just below her ear, the spot only he ever seemed to know, brushing against it like a secret.

Natasha shudders, the air catching in her chest, knees just a little weaker than she wants to admit. Her fingers, traitorous and hungry, curl into his shoulders like she can anchor herself against the surge of heat rolling up her spine.

“Matt…” It slips out sharper than she intended, closer to a gasp than his name, and God, she hates that he still has this power. That after six months, one graze of his mouth and she’s unraveling like he never left.

He feels her pulse flutter against his lips, steadying himself on it like he’s memorizing the rhythm all over again. “Still the same,” he murmurs, almost to himself, teeth grazing her skin just enough to make her breath hitch.

Her hands push at him half-heartedly, only to hook him closer by the waistband of his pants. “You’re—” she swallows, smirks weakly, trying to save face, “—you’re cheating.”

He lifts his head just enough for her to see the wicked curve of his mouth. “Not my fault you still melt right here.” His thumb brushes her jaw, slow, deliberate, reminding her he knows every place she breaks.

But then Matt exhales, rough, like the restraint in him finally snaps. He finds her mouth at last, and the kiss is devastating.

It’s not soft, not cautious—he takes her lips like a man who’s been starved for months, like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he doesn’t claim her now. His hand slides into her hair, fist curling tight as he tilts her head to deepen it, and the sound that tears from her chest is half-moan, half-relief.

Natasha clutches his shoulders, arching against him, letting him pour every bit of that impossible, unbearable yearning into her. His tongue brushes hers, desperate and claiming, and she tastes the whiskey still on his breath, bitter and familiar, as if no time has passed at all.

When he finally pulls back, both of them gasping, his forehead rests against hers. His voice is low, wrecked, raw:

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this again.”

Natasha’s lips are still parted, her eyes dark and shining, and she whispers back, “We’re both awful at that.”

The second her whisper cuts the air, Matt’s mouth is back on hers—rough, needy, like he’s punishing her for the six months of silence. Natasha matches him beat for beat, biting at his lip, dragging him closer until their bodies collide. Her nails scrape down his chest as she shoves his shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it aside without looking.

He growls low in his throat when her teeth catch his jaw, and then she’s laughing breathlessly, wicked and triumphant, like she’s winning something. That laugh breaks him—he lifts her with effortless strength, her legs locking around his waist as he stumbles them backward toward the bedroom.

“Still angry?” she taunts, lips brushing his ear.

Matt drops her onto the mattress hard enough to make it bounce, looming over her with his eyes blown black, his voice ragged. “You have no idea.”

It’s not tender. It’s not careful. It’s six months of denial, six months of anger, six months of wanting crashing down in one furious, filthy reunion. Clothes scatter across the floor—her underwear, his belt, everything in a trail that could burn them both alive.

When he puts on the condom and finally thrusts into her, Natasha cries out, nails clawing at his back, dragging him closer. His rhythm is relentless, all control burned away. She moans against his lips, half-breaking, half-daring him for more, whispering filthy encouragements into his mouth.

“Harder,” she gasps, and he doesn’t even hesitate—snapping his hips harder, faster, like he’s been waiting to hear that command for months.

Matt’s lips are hot against her throat, his thrusts sharp and relentless. Natasha digs her nails into his back so hard he hisses, but instead of pulling away, he drives harder, like the sting just eggs him on.

“Fuck, Nat—” he gasps, voice jagged, forehead pressed to hers. “I thought about you every night. Every. Goddamn. Night.”

Her laugh is breathless, mocking, even as she moans with every snap of his hips. “Yeah? While you were busy fucking half the city?”

His jaw tightens, his hand sliding up to grip her jaw, tilting her face so he can bite at her lip. “Doesn’t matter. They weren’t you.”

Natasha growls into his mouth, kissing him back bruising-hard, and her hand fists in his hair, yanking harder than she means to. He groans, low and filthy, rutting into her deeper. “Christ, you’re really mad at me.”

“You didn’t call,” she spits, even as she gasps when his fingers slide down between them, rubbing her exactly the way she likes it, maddeningly precise.

“You didn’t either,” he fires back, his rhythm never faltering. “Guess we’re both cowards.”

Her laugh breaks into a moan as he circles her clit just right, her body already trembling. “You’re—fuck—you’re still an asshole.”

“And you still love it.” His teeth graze her shoulder, his voice going rougher. “Say it. Say you missed me.”

“Go to hell,” she gasps, her back arching when he presses harder with his fingers, thrusts rougher now, angrier.

“Already there,” he growls, his mouth hot on her ear. “But I’d drag you with me.”

Her hand claws down his chest, almost punishing, nails leaving marks. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d love it,” he mutters, voice breaking as he slams into her harder, faster, until her legs are shaking around his waist.

The words, the fury, the fire—it all crashes through her at once, and Natasha shatters, crying out his name, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping her from breaking completely apart.

The sheets twist under Natasha’s knees as Matt flips her hard, forcing her forward until she’s braced on her hands. She growls, half furious, half turned on, but the second his hand knots in her hair she gasps, arching back against him.

“You think you can just—” his voice breaks, rough, hot against her ear as he drags her head back to kiss her neck, “—walk back into my life like this?”

She smirks, even through her ragged breaths. “Seems like you didn’t mind me ruining your little date at the bar.”

His laugh is dark, bitter, as his other hand digs into her hip and slams her back against him. “She wasn’t you.”

Her moan comes out sharp, angry, because goddammit that does something to her. “You’re pathetic.”

“And you’re—” he yanks her hair back just enough to make her spine curve, then angles her head so he can crush his mouth over hers. It’s messy, bruising, wet—more bite than kiss. When he pulls back, panting, his jaw’s locked so tight she feels it under her tongue. “You’re still mine.”

Natasha laughs against his lips, breathless, breaking on a moan when he thrusts harder. “You wish.”

His hand slides from her hair to her shoulder, anchoring her so he can slam deeper, angrier. His voice is guttural, right in her ear: “I don’t have to wish. You’re here.”

Her retort dies in a gasp, nails clawing the sheets. The tremor in his hands doesn’t feel weak—it feels furious, desperate, like he’s holding on to her with everything he has.

She gasps, laughing brokenly through the sound. “I hate you,” she spits, even as she grinds back against him, every roll of her hips betraying her.

“Liar.” His palm cracks across her ass, sharp enough to sting, and she shudders instead of pulling away. “You came back to me. You always do.”

Her head falls forward, hair sticking to her flushed face, and she bites her lip to keep from moaning. He hears it anyway. “Shut up,” she snarls, twisting just enough to throw the words back at him. “You think you’re the only man who can—”

His hand knots cruelly in her hair and yanks her head back again, cutting her off with a brutal kiss—mouths colliding, teeth scraping, tongues fighting like they’re still sparring instead of kissing. It’s messy, angry, filthy, and it tastes like blood and bourbon and every word they never said.

Matt’s grip on her hip tightens, then suddenly he flips them with a rough twist, his back hitting the mattress as he drags her on top of him. She lands straddling his waist, breath punched out of her in a gasp.

“Ride me,” he orders, voice low and wrecked, trembling at the edges with too much want and too much fury. His hands stay on her hips, thumbs digging into bone hard enough to bruise.

Her chest heaves, hair wild around her flushed face. She glares down at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

He smirks through gritted teeth, head pressed into the pillow. “You’re already doing it.” His thumbs flex against her, coaxing, taunting. “Because you want it just as bad as I do.”

Her nails scrape across his chest, dragging red trails over his scarred skin. “You’re insufferable.”

“Say you missed me,” he breathes again, chest rising under hers, every word heavy as a prayer and a curse.

“Not in a million years.” But her hips shift anyway, sliding down on him slow and punishing, like she’s the one in control now, like she’s proving him wrong.

The sound he makes—half-growl, half-moan—undoes her composure more than she wants to admit. His head falls back, jaw tight, and his hands clamp on her waist, guiding her in spite of her resistance.

Natasha grinds down harder, nails dragging over the planes of his chest, his throat, like she wants to carve her fury into him. Her breath comes ragged, lips swollen from his mouth on hers, hair sticking to her temple. She wants to believe she’s the one setting the pace, that she’s in control—except his hands won’t let her go. They’re everywhere. At her hips, her waist, her ribs, guiding, commanding, branding her in ways she’d never admit out loud.

“You think you’re running this,” Matt growls, breath hot against her jaw as his grip tightens, dragging her down harder onto him. “But you’re not.”

Her laugh breaks, a jagged sound, half-moan, half-mockery. “Big talk for a man flat on his back.”

“You’re here,” he bites back, lips catching the shell of her ear, teeth scraping the tender skin until she gasps. His voice cracks low, trembling but certain. “You’re still mine.”

She wants to snarl that she isn’t. She wants to tell him she moved on, that she doesn’t think about him every goddamn night when she’s alone and restless. But her nails are clawing into his shoulders instead, and her hips are rocking like her body’s already confessed for her.

And Natasha knows she’s losing. She knows he’s the one in control—because that’s exactly where she wants him.

Matt’s hands steady at her hips, pulling her down slower now, forcing the frantic rhythm into something deliberate. He leans up, mouth catching hers, kissing her like he’s starved for it—slow, deep, lingering in a way that makes her whole body stutter.

The anger, the clawing, the sharp edges—they blur under the heat of it, his tongue tracing hers like he’s trying to remind her that underneath all the fury, this is what’s real. This is what’s always been.

Natasha shivers, her nails digging into his chest just to ground herself. Her breath hitches against his lips, and she hates how much she melts.

When he finally breaks for air, his mouth brushes her jaw, his voice low, husky, wrecked and teasing all at once: “You sound wrecked, Romanoff.”

Her laugh is hoarse, half a moan, half a curse. “Fuck you.”

His lips curve against her throat, soft, dangerous, reverent. “That’s the plan.”

And he kisses her again—slow, sure, like he’s not just consuming her but anchoring her, dragging her back down to earth every time she threatens to break apart.

“God, look at you,” he rasps, voice dark and broken with need. “So fucking gorgeous. You feel—” he cuts himself off, kisses her rough, filthy, reverent all at once. His thumb brushes her lower lip, prying it apart. “Talk to me, Nat.”

Her head tips back, a choked laugh spilling from her throat as she moves on him, shameless. “What do you wanna hear?” she throws back, breathless. “How good you are? How much I missed you like this?” She leans down, bites his lip, smirks against his mouth. “Because I did.”

His growl is sharp, guttural, vibrating against her mouth. He guides her through it, steady hands on her waist, but his touch never stays put—palming her ass, sliding up her spine, curling around her throat just enough to make her pulse race. He squeezes, thumb tilting her chin back down so he can devour her mouth again.

Her fingers curl into his jaw, nails biting into his skin harder than she realizes, holding him in place like she’s not letting him go, not this time. He feels it—the pressure, the fury humming in her grip.

He smirks mid-kiss, breaking just enough to murmur against her lips, smug and reckless:

“You really wanna slap me right now, don’t you?”

Her breath stutters, and her laugh is low, dangerous. “Maybe I do.”

His smirk dares her, voice rough and low against her ear:
“Do it.”

For a beat she freezes, chest heaving, eyes locked on his. Then her palm cracks across his jaw, sharp and hot, and both of them groan at the same time. His head tips with the impact, but his mouth falls open on a guttural moan that shoots straight through her like lightning.

“Fuck—” she gasps, thighs trembling as she grinds down harder, desperate now.

His grip tightens instantly. One hand fists in her hair, tugging her head back just enough to bare her throat, the other sliding from her arm up to her shoulder, over the slope of her neck, his touch scorching like he’s branding her.

“God, that’s it,” he groans, pulling her down for a messy kiss. His tongue tangles with hers, tasting the sharp sound she made when she hit him. He breaks away only to mutter against her lips, voice ragged, worshipful filth: “Fucking perfect. So hot like this, losing control for me.”

Her whole body clenches, the praise as brutal as his grip, and it pushes her right to the edge. She’s unraveling, the orgasm tearing through her as she claws at his shoulders, his jaw, nails digging into his skin like she wants to mark him for daring to make her feel this way again. She comes hard, shuddering, collapsing against his chest, and the wildest part? Half of it was his hand on her, the other half was the way he moaned when she slapped him, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever felt.

He’s gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, trying to hold the rhythm, trying to hold himself together, but she sees it — the crack in his composure, the tremor in his jaw when she clenches around him.

“Natasha—” It rips out of him, raw and ragged, not the sharp confidence of Daredevil, not the calm lawyer’s voice — just Matt. Just the man who’s been starved for six months and can’t pretend anymore.

“You think I forgot?” His words tumble, unfiltered, filthy confessions tangled with love. “Think I spent one night without you in my head? Every—fucking—night, it’s you. Your voice, your smell, the way you begged—Jesus, the way you burned me alive.”

It hits her like a blow. For a second she almost stops moving, dizzy from the weight of it. He’s laid bare under her, trembling, wrecked, and it’s not just sex anymore — it’s that fire, that ruinous red fire that only he ever lit in her.

Her chest heaves, lips brushing his jaw as she whispers, voice wrecked but sly, dangerous:
“Yeah? You’re gonna come for me?”

He groans, head thrown back, helpless.

“You want that, huh?” she purrs, rolling her hips just so, her smirk half-broken by her own moan. “Gonna give it to me? All of it?”

“Fuck—yes, yes, Nat—”

Her nails rake down his chest, her tone dipping into that innocent mockery she knows unravels him. “Say it, Matthew. Tell me what you need.”

And he does — with a hoarse, shattered cry of her name, clinging to her like he’ll never let go again.

The room is thick with the sound of their breathing, tangled, uneven, slowly coming down. Natasha’s thighs are still trembling faintly as she steadies herself on his chest, but her eyes betray her before she even realizes it.

She watches him.

The curl plastered damp against his forehead, sweat shining along his temple. The dim amber glow of the lamp makes his hazel eyes gleam molten, almost gold. His hand is still on her waist, trembling faintly, like he hasn’t decided whether to pull her closer or let go. And his lips — swollen, bitten, still so goddamn kissable.

Her chest tightens. She hates it.

Matt feels the weight of her gaze and tilts his head slightly, breath still ragged. “...What?”

Natasha blinks, caught, a smirk tugging at her mouth like armor. “Nothing.”

His brow furrows, faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

She leans down just enough that her hair brushes his jaw, voice low, deflecting, teasing. “Don’t flatter yourself, Murdock.”

“Too late,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lazy circles at her waist — still trembling, but steadying because he has her.

And fuck, that burn in her chest flares all over again.

Chapter Text

Steam curls around them, clinging to their skin, thickening the air until it feels like there’s no world outside the shower—just this closeness they’ve been starving for.

Natasha’s mouth finds his again, insistent, like if she stops kissing him she might break apart. Matt’s hands cradle her jaw, then slide to her throat, holding her just firmly enough to remind her who’s in control, and she lets him. Her arms are locked around his shoulders, nails dragging through the soaked curls at his nape, pulling him closer every time he tries to breathe.

When they finally break for air, foreheads pressed together, water streaming down their flushed faces, she whispers it—almost too quiet for even him to catch:

“I don’t want to step out.”

Matt’s chest rises hard against hers, his lips brushing hers again like he’s already surrendering. He lets out a low, almost wrecked laugh. “Good,” he murmurs, thumb stroking along her jaw. “We can wait.”

So they kiss again, slower this time, mouths lingering, tongues tangling without the frantic edge—like they’re both bargaining with the inevitable. His hand never leaves her skin, tracing her cheekbone, the line of her throat, anchoring her. She fists his hair tighter, tilts her head, and sinks into him like she can hide from the world here, in his mouth, in his touch.

Neither of them says it out loud, but they both know. The second they step out of this steam, the talking starts. The blame, the grudges, the truth.

Eventually, the water runs cold, and even the steam can’t justify staying any longer. They towel off in silence, trading small touches by the mirror, neither brave enough to break the fragile truce.

By the time they make it to the bedroom, both are clean but still damp, skin flushed from more than just the shower. Natasha perches on the edge of the mattress, pulling her hair into a rough knot, while Matt sits opposite her, elbows on his knees, running a hand down his face like maybe if he rubs hard enough he’ll wake up from this.

The silence stretches. Suffocating.

Finally, Natasha exhales, glancing sideways at him. “Do you… want to start?”

Matt turns his head, lips twitching in something that’s not quite a smile. “…No.”

She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Of course not.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he says dryly, leaning back on his hands.

They both fall quiet again, staring at the floor, the wall, anywhere but each other. The weight of everything unsaid presses down heavy, but for a few stolen seconds, they cling to the illusion that not speaking means not shattering whatever this is.

The silence stretches until it’s unbearable. Natasha sighs, grabs one of his pillows, and hugs it against her stomach like she needs something to hold that isn’t him.

“Fine,” she mutters, eyes flicking to his jaw instead of his eyes. “I’ll start.”

Matt tilts his head, patient, infuriatingly calm. “By all means.”

“You didn’t call,” she says flatly. No heat yet, just a statement, like ripping off the bandage.

He huffs a laugh through his nose, bitter at the edges. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

Her head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. “You were the one who swore you—” She cuts herself off, biting the inside of her cheek. “You always make it sound like it’s on me.”

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays low, sharp. “The phone works both ways, Natasha.”

That name. God, the way it drops from his mouth — soft and lethal at once — makes her want to scream.

She laughs once, humorless. “Yeah. I’m sure it was just that easy. Six months. Nothing. Not even a voicemail. But you still manage to make it my fault.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment he doesn’t answer. When he does, it’s quiet but barbed:

“You left. Again. Don’t act surprised I stopped chasing you.”

Her stomach twists, and for a split second she feels the sting of it, sharp and unfair. Her laugh comes sharper this time, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You make it sound like I packed up in the middle of the night and vanished.” She shifts on the mattress to face him fully, pillow forgotten at her side. “We agreed, Matt. You had New York. You had your people. I had San Francisco and my team. We both knew it.”

He exhales through his nose, jaw flexing, like the words sting even if he knows they’re true. “Doesn’t make it hurt less,” he mutters.

Natasha’s throat tightens, but she forces herself to keep her tone even. “It wasn’t about what hurt. It was about what was right. You couldn’t just walk away from your city, and I couldn’t just walk away from mine.”

Matt leans back, head tipped like he’s listening for something only he can hear. Finally, he smirks—small, bitter. “So what? We pat ourselves on the back for being so damn noble while I pretend it didn’t feel like tearing my own skin off?”

Her stomach twists because he’s not wrong, but she doesn’t let him feel it. Instead, she lifts her chin. “I didn’t pretend anything. I just… lived with it.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you’re fine?” His voice dips, quieter now, dangerous. “That you haven’t thought about calling me once in six months?”

Natasha’s silence is answer enough. Her fingers knot into the sheets, her pulse hammering. She hates that he can hear it.

Her silence hangs for too long, and his head tilts, that infuriating little smirk tugging at his mouth. He already knows she’s not fine.

So she snaps. “Funny,” she says, voice razor-sharp, “didn’t look like you were missing me that much at Josie’s.”

The smirk fades. Just like that.

Matt’s jaw tightens, and he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You were watching me?”

Natasha scoffs, folding her arms. “Didn’t have to. Whole bar could see you.” She lets the venom drip. “Different girl every week, wasn’t it? Guess that’s what you call living with it.”

He exhales hard, head tipping back like he’s counting to ten. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, give me a break,” She rises off the mattress, pacing a short line before turning back on him. “Six months of silence, Matt. And when I finally see you again, you’re—” she gestures sharply, “—doing your little manwhore routine with someone who looked like she was barely old enough to buy a drink.”

His mouth opens, then shuts. He drags a hand down his face, voice rough. “It wasn’t about them.”

Her laugh is sharp and humorless. “Oh, I know.” She crosses her arms tighter, nails digging into her skin. “It was about me, isn’t? Every single time it was about me.”

Matt scrubs a hand over his jaw, trying to bite down on the anger chewing through him, but it slips anyway. His voice comes low, clipped.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen anyone in the past six months.”

Natasha freezes. Just for a heartbeat—but that’s all he needs.

Her eyes flicker away, her lips part like she’s about to speak, and then… nothing.

Matt tilts his head, listening. The silence, the catch in her breath, the way her pulse stumbles before it evens out again. He knows.

His chest tightens. Something sour slides into his voice. “You did.”

Natasha’s jaw works, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Her spine straightens, steel slipping into her posture. “What I do with my life when you’re not in it doesn’t concern you.”

“Doesn’t it?” His words cut sharper than he means them to. “Because apparently you feel like it does.”

The air between them hums, thick with everything they don’t want to say, everything they’re terrified to admit out loud.

Matt studies her in the silence, the way she won’t meet his face, the way her pulse jerks when he presses. He doesn’t need words—he’s built on everything unsaid.

His laugh is low, humorless. “It’s Rogers, isn’t it?”

Natasha’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “Don’t.”

But that’s enough. Matt leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice like a blade. “I’m right.”

She holds his gaze, jaw set, the faintest flicker of guilt crossing her eyes. She doesn’t confirm it, but she doesn’t deny it either.

Matt exhales, shaking his head. “Of course. Golden boy. Safe. Makes sense.” The words drip venom, but beneath it—hurt. “Why wouldn’t you go back to him?”

Natasha’s fists curl in the sheets. “It wasn’t about going back to anything.”

Matt scoffs. “Sure.” His voice hardens.

Her chest rises sharply, the words slicing too close. She wants to tell him he doesn’t understand. She wants to tell him he understands too well.

But instead, she swallows the lump in her throat and says, “At least he was there.”

The silence stretches so thin it could snap. Matt’s jaw clenches, throat working, and then his voice comes out low, rough, like gravel dragged across steel.

“How many times?”

Natasha blinks, her stomach lurching. “Matt—”

He cuts her off, sharper now. “Don’t dance around it. How many times?”

Her lips press together, shoulders stiff. She hates herself for the hesitation, because it tells him more than words ever could.

Matt lets out a laugh, bitter and humorless, tipping his head back like he’s trying to breathe through the sting. “Jesus Christ.”

Natasha finally bites out, “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.” He leans forward, every line of him taut, dangerous.

Her pulse hammers. She wants to snap back that it’s none of his business, that they hadn’t spoken for six months, that he forfeited the right. But she can see it in his face—the raw, wrecked need to know. The same need that kept her phone in her hand every night, thumb hovering over his number.

And maybe that’s why she doesn’t lie.

Her jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “You think I kept a tally?”

Matt’s head snaps toward her, sharp enough it’s almost a flinch.

“I wasn’t marking dates on a calendar, Matt.” Her voice is clipped, cold, but there’s a flicker of shame beneath it she can’t quite bury. “It happened. More than once. That’s all you’re getting.”

His laugh is short, bitter, like it cuts on the way out. “More than once.” He repeats it, the words tasting like blood in his mouth.

Natasha forces herself not to look away, even though her chest twists. “What did you expect? Like, really?”

“I don’t know,” His tone is jagged, dangerous. “That we both just—” he breaks off, shaking his head. “God, we’re pathetic.”

Natasha’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

His head tilts, eyes narrowing behind the red glasses. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t get to sit there and play the wounded saint when you’ve been—” she gestures broadly, venom in her voice, “—sleeping your way through half of the city.”

Matt’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t flinch. “That’s different.”

Her eyes widen, incredulous. “Different?”

“Yes.” He leans forward, voice low, like it’s something he doesn’t want to admit but can’t help. “Because they weren’t you. They didn’t mean anything. Not one of them.” His lips curl bitterly. “But Rogers? That’s not meaningless, Natasha. That’s him.”

She scoffs, heat rising to her cheeks. “So what? Because it’s Steve, that’s the crime? That makes me the traitor?”

“You know it does.” The words slip out before he can stop them, raw and jagged.

For a beat, the room hums with their breathing, both of them too stubborn to look away, both furious for reasons they can’t untangle from want.

Natasha rises from the bed, every movement deliberate, her voice low and sharp as glass.

“You think I was trying to forget Steve with you?”

Matt stills.

Her eyes are blazing now, chin tilted defiantly. “You arrogant son of a bitch. You weren’t a distraction, Matt. You never could be.”

The words land like a strike to his ribs, knocking the air out of him. He doesn’t breathe for a second, doesn’t dare move, because if he does he might break.

Natasha steps closer, close enough he can feel the heat of her body, the tremor in her breath. Her voice softens, but it’s no less vicious for it. “Don’t you ever cheapen what we had like that again.”

His jaw works, muscles tight, but he can’t fire back. Not when his chest is burning like this, not when her heartbeat is pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.

Matt’s voice hardens again, like he needs to wound her before she can wound him.

“Fine. Then tell me.” His head tips, unflinching. “Tell me you don’t have feelings for him.”

Natasha freezes, lips parting, but no sound comes out.

The silence is louder than any confession.

Matt exhales through his nose, bitter, almost a laugh. “Exactly.”

Her eyes flash, fury covering the sting of being cornered. “You don’t get to do that—”

“Yes, I do,” he cuts in, voice low and jagged. “Because you won’t say it. You won’t deny it. And that silence tells me everything I need to know.”

Natasha steps closer, jaw tight. “And what does it tell you, Matt?”

“That I was never enough to keep you from looking over your shoulder.”

Her chest seizes, breath sharp. “You think this is about enough? You think I left because of this?”

“Didn’t you?” he fires back, even though it wrecks him to ask it.

Natasha lets out a short, bitter laugh. “You keep circling back to Steve like that’s the smoking gun, but you’re the one who’s been screwing around since I left.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. “I told you that’s different.”

Her eyes flash. “Different? How the hell is it different?”

“It is different,” he growls, stepping in closer, breath hot against her cheek. “None of them mattered. Not one. You know that.”

Natasha’s breath catches, her fury tangling with something more dangerous—something closer to ache.

Natasha lets out a jagged laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, bet you were suffering real bad between women’s legs, Murdock.”

Matt’s nostrils flare, his jaw clenching so hard it could crack. “Don’t.”

She tilts her head, eyes glittering with spite. “What? Don’t point out that your idea of mourning looks a hell of a lot like fucking your way across Manhattan?”

His hands flex at his sides, trembling with anger he can’t ground. “You have no idea what it was like.”

Natasha scoffs, folding her arms. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”

“Yes.” He leans forward, words low and cutting. “Because at least I wasn’t running into the arms of the one man I already knew you had feelings for.”

Her breath hitches, but she forces her voice steady. “So my mistake was not choosing faceless strangers?”

Matt’s lips curl, but there’s no humor in it. “Your mistake was choosing him.”

Natasha’s lips press tight, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t give him silence this time. 

It’s worse. Because she doesn’t deny any of it.

“Fine.”

The words are calm, even, but the weight of them nearly drops Matt to his knees. He clenches his jaw so hard it aches, his chest burning with something he doesn’t want to name.

Her gaze stays steady, though her throat works around the next words. “He’s good. He’s safe. It’s easy.”

Matt swallows, bitter smile twisting across his lips. “And I’m not.”

“No.” Natasha shakes her head slowly, eyes flashing. “You never were.”

The silence after is brutal. He’s trembling with fury he doesn’t know where to put, and she’s standing there like she just set a grenade between them and dared him to move.

Matt’s voice breaks sharper than he means it to, raw and ragged: “Then why the hell are you in my bed, Natasha?”

She opens her mouth, ready to fire back—but nothing comes. For once, no perfect deflection, no clever quip. Just silence, her lips parting and closing as if the words won’t form.

Matt’s chest heaves, pulse hammering. He takes a step closer, demanding, desperate. “If he’s so good, so easy—why the hell are you here with me?”

Her jaw tightens, eyes darting away for the first time. “I don’t know,” she admits, voice quiet but steady. “I don’t know.”

Matt goes still, like the words froze him where he stands.

“You don’t know,” he repeats flatly, no inflection—just hollow.

Natasha exhales through her nose, bracing for his temper, but it doesn’t come. His voice stays calm, too calm, and that’s worse.

“‘Cause I do.” His jaw works, his throat tight. “I’ve always known. What I wanted. Who I wanted.”

Her stomach twists, because there’s no mistaking what he means. His certainty burns hotter than any accusation.

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly. “But you? You don’t even know why you’re here.”

The words land like a slap. She hates how much they sting, hates that he’s not wrong.

Matt’s eyes are unreadable behind the exhaustion and the anger. “Maybe that’s the difference between us. You can afford to not know. I can’t.”

The silence that follows is heavy enough to choke on.

Natasha opens her mouth, but no words come. Not denial, not deflection. Just silence.

And Matt hears it. Feels it. The quiet hits harder than any argument, and the muscle in his jaw ticks as he swallows it down.

“You don’t even have to say it,” he murmurs, voice low and sharp as broken glass. “Your silence does the work for you.”

Her eyes flicker, lips pressing thin. She hates him for being right. Hates herself more for letting him see it.

Matt exhales, steady but ragged at the edges, then turns his face away—like looking at her, even blind, is too much.

The space between them feels like a battlefield littered with things neither of them is brave enough to pick up.

Natasha’s eyes flash. “Don’t you dare.”

He tilts his head, jaw tight. “Don’t I dare what? Tell the truth?”

Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “You don’t get to stand there and act like you’ve got the moral high ground. Not when you’ve spent the last six months drowning yourself in every warm body Manhattan has to offer.”

Her chest rises, falls. “At least I didn’t lie to myself about what I was doing. At least I didn’t pretend it was meaningless.”

That lands. His lips part, no words coming out, because she’s right—she’s always right when she goes for the throat.

Natasha swallows hard, hating how wet her eyes feel, how much of herself she’s giving away. “So don’t you dare act like my silence is proof of anything. You don’t get to define what this is for me.”

Matt finally finds his voice, rough around the edges. “Don’t twist this back on me, Natasha.”

She lets out a humorless laugh. “Twist what? The truth? That you’ve been screwing your way across the city just so you don’t have to think about me?”

His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring. “And you? Running back to Rogers every time you want to feel safe? Don’t talk to me about avoiding things.”

Her lips press tight, fury warring with shame. “You think this is about choosing you over him? God, Matt, you’ve always needed it to be black and white. But it’s not.”

His laugh is bitter, breaking. “No, of course not. Nothing’s ever simple with you.”

“Because you’re not simple!” she fires back, finger jabbing into his chest. “You’re impossible, and infuriating, and you—” she swallows hard, voice catching, “—you make me feel like I’m losing my mind. I hate that.”

Something cracks in him at that. His fists clench at his sides, but his voice dips, softer, almost broken. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

Matt’s voice sharpens, cutting through the charged silence. “You could’ve just sent the intel. Like you did before.”

Natasha’s breath stutters, but he doesn’t stop—he steps closer, towering even though she refuses to back up.

“You could’ve stayed in San Francisco. With your team. With him.” His lip curls, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “But you didn’t.”

His jaw tightens, voice a rasp. “So what is this? Punishment? Curiosity? Or did you just want to see how much damage you could do this time?”

Her pulse hammers in her throat, and Matt hears it, latches onto it like proof.

Her voice drops, a lethal whisper. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She gives him an incredulous laugh. “God, I did not miss this.”

That hits him like a strike to the ribs—his head jerks just slightly, breath stuttering.

Matt’s chest rises sharp, his voice cutting through her words like a whip:

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Natasha. You missed me so bad you came crawling back the second you couldn’t stand it anymore.”

Her mouth opens, fury sparking, but he barrels on, words like fire.

“You don’t get to stand there and act like I’m the only one who tried to fill the void. At least I was honest about what it was—just noise. You? You went running to him the moment you left.”

Matt’s jaw ticks, but she doesn’t stop. “It wasn’t like that. And it’s not like I planned—”

“Oh, please,” Matt spits, stepping in closer, venom dripping off every word. “Didn’t you plan to ever see me again? ’Cause you were doing a pretty damn good job of pretending I didn’t exist.”

Natasha’s breath stutters, but he doesn’t give her room. His head dips, voice dropping low and lethal.

“Or what—” he sneers, the words hitting like a slap— “did you plan to fuck Captain America the moment you left me?”

The air between them scorches, silence so heavy it could break bones. Natasha’s fists clench at her sides, heart hammering, every instinct telling her to hit him—or kiss him.

Her laugh is sharp, bitter, venom-laced. “You arrogant son of a bitch.”

Matt’s nostrils flare, but she barrels on, voice rising. “You think the world revolves around you? That everything I do is somehow some twisted reflection of you?”

She steps in, jabbing a finger against his chest. “Newsflash, Murdock—not everything is about you. Not every choice I make has your name stamped on it.”

Her voice cracks, fury colliding with pain. “You left me just as much as I left you! So don’t you dare stand there and act like I was out shopping for a replacement the second I walked away.”

She’s breathing hard now, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed. “You wanna talk about fucking people to fill a void?” Her lips curl. “At least I didn’t make a sport out of it.”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, jaw working, and for a second his hands twitch like he’s about to move—then he freezes, takes a deliberate step back.

“Maybe I regret it. Maybe I regret walking in that bar at all. Maybe I should’ve stayed in San Francisco, with someone who doesn’t turn every fucking thing into a war.”

Her chest rises and falls fast, eyes blazing. “At least with him, I don’t feel like I’m bleeding out every second I let him close. At least I don’t have to wonder if love means destroying myself.”

The words hang between them, brutal and final, her own breath trembling in her throat.

“You want regret? Fine.” he says, pacing a tight line at the foot of the bed. “I regret that shitty frat party. I regret walking into that stupid, loud room and hearing your heartbeat. I regret talking to you instead of going home. God, I should’ve gone home!”

His chest heaves, anger and grief lacing together. “I should’ve listened when you said no the first time. I should’ve turned around the second I knew what you do to me. Should’ve kept the fucking door closed when you came back last year, pretending you weren’t going to tear me apart all over again.”

His voice cracks, just slightly, and it makes it worse—makes the words cut sharper. “God, I should’ve never let you in.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, both of them bleeding from words they can’t take back.

Natasha doesn’t move. Her breath catches—just once—but she clamps down on it, forces her face into steel. No comeback, no smirk, no defense.

Matt’s chest is still heaving, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. He doesn’t realize he’s gripping the edge of the dresser until his knuckles blanch white.

For the first time all night, neither of them speaks. Just the hum of the city bleeding in through the window, their heartbeats like war drums in the quiet.

And the sting of it—God, it lingers.

Something ugly flickers across his face. “You’re a ghost. You vanish when things get real.”

She smiles without warmth. “That’s rich, coming from a man who only knows how to love things he’s already losing.”

He tilts his head, like he’s listening for mercy and not finding any. “You don’t get to talk about love like it’s a recipe you memorized, Romanoff.”

“At least I admit what I am.” She folds her arms. “You call it justice. It’s addiction. You need the pain. You love the fall. You don’t want a partner—you want a penance. I was just a prettier mirror to watch yourself bleed in.”

He actually flinches. Then the restraint snaps.

“At least I feel it,” he says, the words coming cold. “At least I show up and feel it. You—” his hand slices the air, searching, landing on venom— “you flip a switch. You shut down. You… execute. It’s mission, tactic, exit. Program run, program terminate. Half the time you don’t even act like a real person.”

The room goes dead quiet.

Her breath stops. Not a tremor, not a twitch—just a cut to the bone. When she speaks, it’s so calm it hurts.

“There it is.”

“Natasha—” it’s almost an apology, almost, but he’s too far out on the wire to climb back.

“No,” she says, and the softness evaporates. “Don’t walk it back. That’s what you think. Robot. Weapon. Not real.” A brittle, amused sound slips out.

He drags a hand over his jaw, regret slicing in and swallowed down. “I didn’t—”

“You did.” She moves to the chair, starts dressing with surgical efficiency: panties, jeans, the black tank dragged down over bruises he put there and she welcomed. “It’s good, actually. Answers a lot of questions.”

“Like what?” he grinds out.

“Like why you think it’s ‘different’ when you screw strangers but I sleep with a man I trust.” She yanks her bra strap straight under the shirt. “Because I’m not a person in your head. I’m a trigger you pull and put away.”

“That’s not—”

“Save it.” Boots. Zipper. Jacket. Every sound is a final period. “You love the part of me that lets you be the Devil. You don’t love me.”

He takes a step toward her like muscle memory, like prayer, and stops himself. “You don’t get to rewrite this because you’re scared.”

“Oh, I’m terrified,” she says lightly. “Of ending up the way you like your women: reverent, ruined, and gone by morning.”

His mouth flattens. “You weaponize everything that scares you and call it strategy.”

“And you canonize everything that hurts you and call it faith.” She flicks a glance at his chest, where the cross is hanging. “You wear God like an alibi and me like an excuse.”

He laughs once, no humor in it. “You should put that on a briefing. Sounds cleaner than ‘I ran the second it asked me to feel.’”

“And you should put yours on your headstone.” She slings her bag over her shoulder. “Here lies Matthew Murdock. Loved the fall more than the landing.”

They stare each other down. The radiator ticks. Somewhere below, a car alarm yelps and dies.

He breaks first—only a fraction, only enough to sound human. “You’re leaving.”

“You made sure of that,” she says, voice steady. “Twice.”

“Where are you going?”

She smiles with all her teeth. “To be a robot somewhere else.”

He flinches again, smaller this time. “Natasha.”

She reaches for the door. Pauses. Looks back just enough to be cruel.

“You know what I regret?” Her eyes are flat glass. “I regret that I ever thought you were the one safe place I could set the gun down.”

He has nothing for that. Nothing that isn’t a plea, nothing he’ll allow himself to say.

“Good night, Matthew,” she adds, a knife slipped between ribs with courtroom politeness.

The door snicks open. Cold hallway air spills in. He hears her heartbeat move away, steady and unhurried, the way professionals leave scenes: no rush, no guilt you can see.

He stands in the wreck of the room, jaw locked, hands shaking only after there’s no one left to feel it. The lamp hums. The bed’s still warm where they’d been, the shower still dripping, one of her stray hairs curled on his pillow like a scratch mark.

He doesn’t go after her.

He doesn’t move at all.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Foggy shows up with the Sunday-paper weight of a deli bag and two coffees, knocks twice, and lets himself in without waiting.

“Nelson &—holy hell.” He stops. Takes in the living room: a shirt flung over the arm of the couch, two glasses on the coffee table, one heel half under a chair, a lamp crooked like it survived a small earthquake. “Did a raccoon break in or did you… entertain?”

Matt’s by the sink rinsing out a mug he isn’t using. He looks like he didn’t sleep and did a lot of thinking instead. “Morning.”

Foggy shuts the door with his hip. “If that was a good morning, the crime scene unit is gonna be pissed.” He sets the bag down, narrows his eyes. “Okay, what’s wrong. You’ve got that ‘I can taste copper and regret’ face.”

Matt dries his hands. “Natasha’s in town.”

Foggy blinks. “As in… Romanoff? Our theoretical Avenger-on-speed-dial Avenger?”

“Yeah.”

“You called her.” It’s half statement, half prayer.

“Not exactly.”

Foggy’s eyebrows climb. He looks at the heel. Looks at the glasses. Looks at Matt’s throat. “Oh my God. She came here?”

“We ran into each other at Josie’s.”

“And then you—” He makes a helpless circle in the air with the coffee cup. “—celebrated the reunion with… vigorous debate.”

Matt exhales. “Yeah, something like that.”

Foggy nods like he’s bracing a witness. “And then?”

“And then we said terrible things to each other,” Matt says quietly. “She left.”

Foggy winces. “How terrible?”

Matt’s jaw tightens. “Bad enough that I don’t get to call it a fight. I said something I shouldn’t have. A lot of somethings.”

Foggy studies him. No flippancy now, just concern. “Dude, when you’re scared you turn into a porcupine with a law degree.”

Silence. The radiator ticks.

Foggy tries again, gentler. “Did you, at any point, do the thing we needed? Ask for help on the case?”

Matt shakes his head once.

“Matt.” Foggy drops into a chair, head in his hands for a second, then looks up. “We were right. This thing is bigger than us. If she’s here, you coordinate. Even if you two are… whatever the opposite of coordinated is.”

“She sent intel last week,” Matt says. “She’ll probably keep sending it.”

“Cool,” Foggy says flatly. “Can’t wait to cite ‘probably’ in our next funeral eulogy.”

Matt’s mouth twitches—almost a smile, gone fast. “I’ll reach out. Later.”

Foggy lingers by the coffee table, fingers drumming the lid. He squints. “What did you two actually fight about?”

Matt exhales, long. “Six months and a phone that never rang.”

Foggy winces. “Ah. The Mutual Standoff. Classic.”

“And… Something else,” Matt adds, jaw tight.

“That is…?”

Foggy’s halfway into his bagel when Matt finally mutters, “We… fought about Steve.”

Foggy freezes. “Steve… who.”

Matt rubs his jaw. “Rogers.”

Foggy blinks. Once. Twice. Then he sets the bagel down like it’s hazardous material. “I’m sorry— Captain America Steve Rogers? Stars-and-Stripes? Smithsonian exhibit with a pulse? That Steve?”

Matt exhales. “Yes.”

“But why—,”

“They’re a thing. It’s been a while.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“The theories on the internet are right then?”

“What?”

“Forget about it.” Foggy leans back like he’s been shot. “Unbelievable. My best friend is in a love triangle with a 6’2”, blond super soldier. What do I even do with that? Send a fruit basket? Get you a shield?”

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Foggy.”

“No, no, give me a second.” Foggy points between them. “So your competition is an actual national monument with abs. Great. Love that for my blood pressure.” He squints. “How many times did they—?”

Matt’s silent.

Foggy tilts his head. “C’mon. Ballpark.”

Matt grinds out, “I didn’t ask.”

“You did.”

“I did.”

Foggy’s eyes go wide. “So… more than once.”

Matt stares at the floor.

Foggy gasps theatrically. “Many?”

A beat. Then, flat: “…Many.”

Foggy throws an arm over his eyes and sinks into the couch. “Oh my God. You got out-Americaned by America.”

Matt huffs. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now!” Foggy sits bolt upright, counting on his fingers. “He can bench-press a Buick, he says ‘ma’am’ without sounding gross, and he probably bakes perfect pies. What’s your counter-offer—case law and Catholic guilt?”

Matt opens his mouth, closes it, scowls harder.

Foggy keeps going, delighted. “Did he— I’m sorry, I have to ask—”

“Foggy.”

“Right, right, boundaries.” He leans forward, palms on knees, still grinning. “Okay, okay. But seriously, buddy… wow.” He whistles. “You picked the one guy in the world whose jawline could legally run for office.”

Matt deadpans, “Done?”

“Never.” Foggy grabs his coffee. “But I’ll pause for hydration.” He sips, then softens. “Look—jokes aside—this explains the nuclear jealousy. You’re not mad she saw someone. You’re mad she saw him.”

Matt looks away. “It’s… complicated.”

Foggy nods. “Yeah. Predictable. The golden retriever of romances.” He claps once. “But! You’re you. She flew across the country for you, not the World’s Most Polite Bicep.”

Silence. Matt’s jaw tightens.

Foggy points at him. “So. You said dumb, hurtful things. She said dumb, hurtful things. Now you either fix it or let Captain America win by forfeit. And I refuse to live in a world where my best friend taps out to a man that’s like 100 years old.”

Matt stays silent.

Foggy slides Matt’s phone across the table. “Here’s what we’re doing: Two tracks. One: professional. ‘Here’s what we know, here’s what we need, here’s how to not get dead.’ Neutral ground, clear ask. Two…” He waits until Matt looks at him. “You apologize.”

Matt huffs. “For what? All of it?”

“For what you meant,” Foggy says. “You don’t have to solve six months in one text. But you don’t get to torch her and then pretend it was weather.”

Matt leans his hip against the counter, head tipped like he’s listening to something far away. “She’s… not exactly eager to hear from me.”

“Then you start with the case. You put the city first like you always do. And when— not if— she shows up again, you put your pride in a drawer and you tell her the truth.”

Matt nods once, slow. “Okay.”

“Okay like ‘you’re right and I’ll do it’ or okay like ‘I’ll brood on a rooftop for six more nights and then text her at 3:17 a.m.’?”

Matt’s lips tug. “Split the difference.”

Foggy points at him. “Matthew. Don’t be cute. Send the professional message. Today. And… maybe the smallest human line at the end. ‘Thank you for last week’s intel. It helped.’ You can manage that without combusting.”

A long breath. “I can.”

Foggy stands, pats his shoulder as he passes. “Good. Eat a bagel. Shower. Put on the suit that says ‘competent counselor’ and not the one that says ‘I slept two hours and fought a ninja in my living room.’ We have clients.”

He gets to the door, pauses, looks back. “And Matt? If you want to not blow this up a second time… try wanting to fix it more than you want to win it.”

The door clicks shut. Matt stands in the quiet, the apartment still smelling faintly like her shampoo and the steam from a shower that didn’t wash anything away.

He reaches for his phone. He says the clean, careful message about drop sites, serials, names. His thumb hovers.

Then, at the end, he adds one line Foggy would approve of.

Thanks for the intel last week. It helped.

He weights at it. Sends it.

And only after it’s gone does he let himself sit down, press his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, and breathe.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The safehouse guest room is dark, curtains drawn against the neon haze of New York. Natasha sits propped against the headboard, laptop balanced on her knees, files glowing across the screen.

Her phone buzzes once. She doesn’t move at first, finishing the line she’s reading, disciplined as ever. Then she flips it over.

Matt
One message.
Thanks for the intel last week. It helped.

That’s it. No warmth. No softness. Just business, clipped and clean, like the last six months hadn’t happened, like she wasn’t sitting in his apartment forty-eight hours ago, saying things sharp enough to draw blood.

Her lips twist into a humorless smile. She sets the phone back down without typing a single word. Face-down, like she’s done with it. Like she doesn’t care.

But the silence is calculated.

She knows him well enough to know it’ll sting. He’ll check. He’ll wait. And when there’s nothing? That’ll hurt more than anything she could write.

She closes the laptop and slides it off her lap, leaning back against the pillows.

Her phone buzzes again—not Matt this time. Steve. Calling.

Natasha stares at the screen, then answers with a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Hey.”

Steve’s voice is warm, steady. “Hey. Just checking in. How’s New York treating you?”

She lets out a breath, forces a lighter tone. “Still standing.”

They slip into familiar banter. Steve teases about how soon she’s coming back to San Francisco, what movie night she’s missing, what dinner they’ll cook together when she’s back. It’s nice. Safe. Normal.

And for a while, she lets herself lean into that. She laughs at his jokes, promises she’ll bring Wanda chocolate, brushes off Sam’s background heckling through the phone.

But when the call ends, the room is quiet again.

Her phone sits heavy on the nightstand.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

It’s been two days.

Matt sits on his couch, files still open across the coffee table, the glow of his phone screen the only light left in the room. He’s told himself three times he doesn’t care whether she replies. Four, maybe. The voice in his head isn’t convincing.

Foggy’s digging through Matt’s fridge like it’s his own, pulling out leftover Chinese and muttering, “You know, for a guy who claims he’s thriving, your diet says otherwise.”

Matt ignores him, thumb sliding over the phone screen one more time. No new messages. No reply.

Nothing.

He exhales, long and controlled, like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t scrape.

Foggy notices, of course. He shuts the fridge and points a chopstick at him. “You’re brooding at your phone. That can only mean Natasha Romanoff hasn’t texted you back.”

Matt’s head tilts, jaw tightening. “It’s not.”

“Oh, so it’s the second option—” Foggy snaps his fingers. “—you’re lying to me.” He plops onto the armchair, cracking open the takeout box. “What’d you send her, anyway? Something friendly, I hope.”

Matt’s voice is flat, almost bored: “Thanked her for the intel.”

Foggy stares at him like he’s insane. “Wow. Riveting. Really pouring your heart out there, Shakespeare.”

Matt doesn’t answer, just slips the phone into his pocket like he’s done waiting.

“Uh-huh,” Foggy says, chewing, “except you’re gonna check it again in five minutes, because you can’t help yourself. And when she still doesn’t reply, you’re gonna act like it doesn’t bother you while drinking half a bottle of Macallan.”

Matt smirks faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You think you know me so well.”

“I do know you.” Foggy jabs his chopsticks toward him. 

Matt leans back, face unreadable, but inside his chest feels hollow.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The Defenders’ HQ is a mess of half-empty takeout boxes, pinned maps, and a whiteboard so chaotic Jessica’s handwriting alone could be classified as a war crime. They’re mid-debrief, voices overlapping as usual.

Jessica leans back in her chair, boots on the table. “We’re circling the same drain. We don’t have the manpower. What we need—” she smirks.

Luke groans. “Oh, here we go.”

Danny nods, earnest as ever. “It’s not the worst idea—”

Jessica cuts him off with a laugh. “Right. Let’s just ask Captain America to come down from his star-spangled tower and hold our hands.”

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose, already tired of the debate. He’s about to speak when Foggy clears his throat a little too loudly.

Foggy, seeing it, lifts both hands. “Okay, so—full disclosure—”

Matt goes very still. Head angled. The city noise falls away and there it is—steady, exact, a rhythm he’d know in a warzone or a whisper: her heartbeat. A breath after that, the ghost of lavender cut with autumn.

And then his jaw tightens. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Foggy winces. “I was going to tell you—”

Three light knocks. A polite rhythm that still manages to make the room hold its breath.

Jessica slouches deeper into her chair. “If that’s a thunder god, I’m out.”

Foggy hustles to the door and swings it open with a grin that’s all dimples and relief. “My favorite law-abiding superspy.”

Black jeans, leather jacket, hair straight a little below her shoulders, eyes exactly as sharp.

Natasha Romanoff smiles like she means it and steps into a hug. “Hey, Foggy Bear.”

Over Foggy’s shoulder, her gaze slides past the maps, the mess, the team—and lands on Matt.

Tight jaw. Hands too careful on his cane. Not moving.

Across the room, Jessica’s eyebrows shoot up. “Foggy Bear?” she whispers, scandalized.

Foggy points without looking back. “Shut up, Jones.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she says mildly. “Heard you needed a hand.”

“Understatement,” Danny blurts, then immediately regrets having a mouth. His heartbeat rockets from 78 to 126. “I mean—uh—hi. Big fan. Of justice. And… strategy.”

Jessica tips her chin at Natasha, unimpressed and curious in equal parts. “So we’re just inviting the A-list to our crime scrapbook now?”

Luke folds his arms by the window, neutral as granite, eyes weighing. “Avengers don’t usually knock.”

“Off-book,” Natasha replies. “I’m here as me. Not the logo.”

Jessica slouches. “Do they teach brand-safe entrances, or is that elective?”

“Wednesdays,” Natasha deadpans.

Jessica snorts. “Sure. And I’m here as a people person.”

Foggy steps in, beaming with host-energy. “Right. Introductions. Natasha, you’ve got Luke Cage—Harlem’s finest, unbreakable skin, unshakeable patience.”

Luke gives a short, respectful nod. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Natasha nods back.

“Jessica Jones—PI with a thirty-foot vertical, professional skeptic, part-time heckler.” Foggy gestures.

Jessica two-finger salutes. “Put that on my business cards.”

Foggy gestures at Danny. “Danny Rand—bilionaire punches things so hard they become other things. Also drinks a lot of tea.”

“I make really good tea,” Danny says too fast. “Like… do you want some? Before we—uh—plan?”

“Hi, Danny,” Natasha says, and Danny’s soul leaves his body, bows politely, and ascends. “Maybe after,”, and his heart does an alarming little rabbit kick Matt tries not to grimace at.

Jessica clocks it, grins like a shark. “Relax, Goldfish. She eats billionaires for breakfast.”

“Used to,” Natasha says. “Now I’m more of a coffee person.”

Foggy gestures, last, toward the man with the white knuckles on the cane. “…and Matt. But you already know that.”

“I do,” Natasha says simply.

Matt: “…Hey.”

“Hi,” she replies, utterly unbothered, like she hasn’t detonated half the room just by existing in it.

The silence that follows is not quiet. It’s loaded. You could shelve it.

Foggy clears his throat, trying to pry the train back onto rails. “We were… just debriefing. On the Stark parts thefts. The Bratva angle. The mystery muscle.” He waves helplessly at the chaos-wall.

Natasha steps closer, scanning the board. She doesn’t need to; she already has half their threads in her head. “I did some digging,” she says, calm. “What you’re missing isn’t at the docks. It’s in the middle.”

Luke, peacemaker: “You bring something or just here to roast our décor?”

She pulls a slim envelope from her jacket and sets it on the table between takeout cartons. The room leans in. Matt hears the whisper of paper, the faint metal rasp of a tiny flash drive against cardstock.

She glances at him without fully turning. “Shell company in Brighton Beach fronting the acquisitions. You’ve got the tail and the head. That’s your neck.”

Jessica plucks the paper, flips. “Who the hell is Novatek?”

“A puppeted import firm with cute paperwork,” Natasha says. “The ugly paperwork says an ex-Hydra logistics guy is laundering purchase orders through a Bratva cousin. You hit their ‘freight office’ and you’ll find the next shipment’s route. Or a lot of very angry men with titanium knuckles. Both useful.”

Luke peers over Jessica’s shoulder. “What’s in it for the—” he catches himself, nods once. “What’s in it for you?”

Natasha meets his look, straight. “Less black-market Stark tech on your streets means fewer mass-casualty nights for all of us. Believe it or not,  I like fewer mass-casualty nights.”

Danny nods vigorously. “We like that too.”

Jessica eyes Natasha, then Matt, then Natasha again. “And we’re just not going to address the way Lawyer Bats here looks like somebody brought his ex to show-and-tell?”

Foggy coughs into his fist so violently it counts as performance art. Luke’s mouth tugs. Danny inhales like a kid who isn’t sure if he’s allowed to laugh.

Matt doesn’t blink. “Jones.”

“What?” Jessica gestures between them. “It’s palpable. Like a Febreze commercial for unresolved tension.”

Natasha doesn’t take the bait. She steps to the board, picks up a red marker, and marks two tiny Xs along a printed map of Brooklyn. “They rotate security every third night. Different contractors. But the same courier hits both sites—tattoo on his wrist, missing two molars. He carries the keycard. You want him, not the gate.”

Danny, dazzled: “How did you—?”

“Looked,” Natasha says, unbothered. She caps the marker. “I’m free tonight. I’ll help you lift him.”

Luke’s brows rise. “You calling in backup we should expect?”

“No,” she says. “I told you—off-book.”

Jessica leans back, boots knocking the table leg. “So you’re here to consult. And… breathe the same air as our fearless leader, purely coincidental.”

Foggy aims his eyes at the ceiling like prayer might help. “Jess.”

“What?” She smirks, but the edge softens. “Fine. As long as it gets us the keys.”

Natasha turns to Matt at last, fully. It hits sharper than he’d prepared for—her scent, clean soap cut with that thread of autumn, the faint click of the knife in her boot when she shifts her weight.

“Do you have a problem with this?” she asks. Neutral. Almost bored. Only the smallest angle of her throat gives her away.

A dozen answers flare and die. He chooses the safe one. “We move at ten. Luke with me at the back. Jessica on the roof. Danny covers the alley. Foggy runs comms and legal. You—” he swallows the you shouldn’t be here— “you take point on the courier. You spot him, you call it.”

A beat. Two. She studies him, then the map, weighing more than routes.

“Copy,” she says at last, then adds, sugar-sweet: “But just so we’re clear, I’m not taking orders from you.”

Matt’s mouth twitches. “Never said you were.”

Jessica snorts. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Luke gives Natasha a small nod—respect, not warmth. “We all good?”

Foggy claps once, kindergarten-focus mode. “Great. Teamwork, communication, no property damage we can’t blame on Jones.”

“Rude,” Jessica says, already reaching for her jacket.

Danny shoots Natasha a hopeful smile. “If you want tea before we roll out, there’s… some that tastes like grass but in a good way. I can—never mind.”

Luke offers a small, respectful nod. “Good to have you.”

Jessica points two fingers from her eyes to Natasha’s. “If this turns into a lecture about hero branding, I’m stealing your jacket.”

Natasha’s mouth curves. “Try it.”

Jessica grins, sits back. “We’re going to be friends,” she declares, like a threat.

“Looking forward to it,” Natasha says, tone so dry it could be a desert.

Foggy leans in the doorway, points two fingers at his own eyes, then at Matt. “Matt. A word.”

Before Matt can protest, Foggy’s already steering him down the hall and into the supply closet that pretends to be a conference room. Door shuts. Plant wilts silently in the corner.

Foggy: “Okay. Ground rules. Be nice.”

Matt bristles. “I am nice.”

“To juries,” Foggy says. “Right now you’re a cactus in a necktie. She showed up to help. Say ‘thanks for coming.’ Use those exact words. And maybe—wild idea—‘good to see you.’”

Matt’s jaw ticks. “We’re on a clock.”

“Uh-huh. And one more thing.” Foggy points between them. “Keep the sexual tension out of the mission.”

Matt’s head tilts. “There is no—”

“You two fucked and then had World War Three in under forty-eight hours,” Foggy says, crisp as a docket. “Everyone can smell it. Jessica will live-tweet your vibes over comms.”

From outside, Jessica’s muffled: “I heard that.”

Foggy lowers his voice, relentless. “No power plays. Don’t ‘swap assignments to keep her safe.’ Don’t override her on instinct. Treat her like a teammate, not a ghost you’re trying not to look at.”

“She doesn’t need me to keep her safe,” Matt snaps, then grimaces.

“Great. Then prove it. Run the op, not your feelings.” He taps Matt’s chest. “Head in the game. Eyes—well—metaphorically—off her.”

Matt exhales through his nose. “You didn’t tell me she was coming.”

“If I had, you’d have sprinted to the roof to rehearse your fake casual voice.” Foggy softens a hair. “Be the guy I brag about. Professional. Polite. Fully clothed. And for the love of God, if you have to flirt, do it after nobody’s shooting at you.”

A beat. “You okay?” he adds, quieter.

“I’m fine,” Matt lies, perfect as a closing argument.

Foggy squeezes his shoulder. “Then go say ‘thanks for coming’ and ‘copy’ like a normal person.”

Matt’s mouth twitches. “Copy.”

“Go be professional.”

Chapter Text

The HQ looks like a case file exploded and decided to stay: city maps taped to brick, a corkboard tattooed with photos and red string, a folding table sagging under zip ties, burner phones, and Foggy’s dented thermos labeled in Sharpie. Neon from the bodega across the street crawls in through the windows and pools on the floor.

Natasha has been there a couple hours already—quiet, efficient, head bent over a laptop Foggy scrounged from a closet, jotting names and shipment codes like she’d always lived in this mess. Warm nod for Foggy, dry smile for the others. No fuss.

Jessica breezes in first, ripped jeans and leather jacket, ponytail like a dare. She clocks Natasha, then the duffel at her feet. “So… you bring a suit, Avenger, or we doing this in those very intimidating jeans?”

Luke follows, black hoodie, calm like a boulder. “Please tell me it’s not a flag.”

Natasha’s mouth tips. “Traveling light.” She nudges the duffel with her boot. “Give me five.”

She scoops it up and disappears down the hall.

Matt is at the weapons rack, already in red: cowl on the table, gauntlets half-laced, clubs taken apart and checked by feel. He angles his head away from the hallway on instinct—and then his ears betray him.

Fabric whisper. The slide of a zipper’s teeth. The soft whip of a braid being tightened. He tried to tune to the street—sirens three avenues over, a bus groaning through a turn, someone burning onions on the fifth floor—but the quieter sounds kept finding him. Focus. Cite something. “People v. DeBour…” He felt his own jaw clench.

Jessica tosses him an earpiece, casual as a hand grenade. “Channel one is team, two is… hey—focus up here, radar.”

“I’m fine,” Matt says, entirely unconvincing.

Danny arrives last, dark-green suit and mask, tape around his knuckles like ritual.  The suit looks tailor-made and a little too proud of it. “I reinforced the seam on the left shoulder,” he tells Luke, apropos of nothing. “Mobility, but still impact absorption.”

“Neat.” Jessica deadpans without looking up. “I reinforced my jacket by never washing it.”

Footsteps pads back in and the room tilts.

Natasha sets the duffel down and stripped the zipper open. Matte-black tactical suit—flex fabric cut for movement, segmented armor where it counted, thigh holster, the sleek bracers at her wrists humming with contained storm. She tugs the last strap snug and rolls her shoulder like she is sliding into her real skin.

Danny’s heart rate rockets to 130. Matt hears it spike and then feels it—annoyance like a splinter under the skin. He swallows it whole.

Jessica gives a low, impressed whistle she would never admit was impressed. “Alright, catsuit. Points for drama.”

Luke’s eyes tracks the wrist tech. “Those sting as bad as the videos?”

“Worse,” Natasha says pleasantly, checking a mag before snapping it home.

Danny, mortified by his own pulse, stumbles into small talk. “Is that Stark weave in the torso or…sorry, that’s—uh—do you need anything? Water? Tea? I have—tea.” He lifts the tin, dying.

Jessica stares at him like he’d spoken a foreign language. “Daniel. Breathe.”

“After,” Natasha answers him, almost kindly. “If this goes clean.”

He brightens like a labrador who’d been promoted. “Yeah. After.”

Luke makes the rounds with comms, handing one to Natasha as if it is a house key. “Encrypted, push-to-talk. Keep chatter clean. And, uh—thanks for coming.” He shot a pointed look past her.

Matt is by the weapons rack. He didn’t look up right away. When he does, it is brief, precise. “Comms test,” he says, voice even. “Channel one is team, channel two is Foggy. Keep two clear unless it’s urgent.”

No one misses the way the air tightens between him and Natasha. No one mentions it, either.

Luke breaks the beat. “You got a suit for every night of the week, man?”

“Laundry day’s a nightmare,” Matt says, and snaps one club into staff length.

Jessica slides off the couch and circles the table, eyeing Natasha’s layout like a rival mechanic. “You always pack like you’re about to rob a museum?”

Natasha clips a mag home with a satisfying click. “You always pack like you’re about to start a bar fight?”

Jessica’s grin flashes, sharp and quick. “I like to be comfortable.”

Matt puts the cowl on and steps into the center of the room—the switch from lawyer to vigilante so seamless it still knocked Foggy sideways. “Okay, you all know your parts.”

He pivots a fraction. The weight of the next name lands where she stood. “Romanoff, rooftop courier intercept. You see him, you call it.”

A beat. She studies him like the assignment had a flavor.

“Got it,” she says, silk over steel. 

Jessica cuts a look between them, delighted. Luke breathes like a man choosing peace. Danny, oblivious to the live wire, beams. “Team synergy. Love this for us.”

They gear up. Velcro ripped, buckles cinched, weapons settled. Natasha twists her braid tight and slid a slim blade into a hidden sheath; Matt checks the swivel on a billy club joint; Jessica cracks her neck and steals Foggy’s gum; Luke flexes gloved hands; Danny fusses with a carabiner until Natasha flicks hers off her belt and tosses it to him without looking.

He fumbles, catches it, and looks like he might propose. Matt pretends not to hear the way his heartbeat trips over itself when Natasha’s gloved fingers squeezes his forearm in a quick thank-you.

“Okay,” Foggy says, clapping once, nerves tucked behind cheer. “No grandstanding, no capes, no—”

“—no tasing the cops,” Jessica says, pointing.

“No promises,” Natasha returns, dry.

Matt adjusts his gauntlet, not turning to her, not turning to anyone. Her scent threads the room anyway—powder-burn and gun oil over that familiar clean hint of lavender—and he finds a vein on his wrist with his thumb and counts beats like a metronome.

“Eyes up,” Luke adds. “In and out.”

The elevator dings. Everyone fills in, a crooked row of mismatched parts.

As the doors slid shut, Danny blurts, earnest and doomed, “It’s, um…really good you’re here.”

Natasha’s eyes didn’t flick to Matt. “Let’s make it worth it,” she says, steady as a trigger pull.

Matt stares at the elevator ceiling and listens to the cables hum, to her breath, to the drum in his own chest that hadn’t found a normal rhythm since the night she came back.

They had a job to do. Whatever else was burning could wait.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Cold air, wet brick, the slow slap of the East River against pilings. The warehouse sits like a crouched animal on the Gowanus edge—one loading bay lit, two dark, a single security camera yawning lazy arcs across the lot.

Jessica mutters something, already ghosting toward the north alley. Luke falls in beside a stack of pallets, a wall pretending to be a man. Danny bounces on the balls of his feet, fist itching.

Matt tips his head, listening. Three on the catwalk. One in the stairwell texting. Two outside sharing a lighter. And—there—fast steps on the roof, too light for a guard. Courier.

“Romanoff—” he starts.

A tiny breath clicks in his ear. “I heard him,” she says, not unkind. Then, brighter, “Ten seconds.”

She’s already gone—up a rusted ladder, palms eating steel, breath steady. The roof is a patchwork of tar and puddles. She becomes a shadow and waits.

Below, Matt and Danny hit the stairwell door at the same moment.

“It’s locked,” Danny whispers, delighted.

“Don’t,” Matt says.

Danny grins. “I can be gentle.” He isn’t. The chi punches through the bar with a hollow boom that rings the handrail.

“Subtle,” Matt deadpans, sliding past him. “Left landing, one heartbeat—”

A baton ricochets off concrete, clips a forearm, bounces back to Matt’s hand. The guard goes down, wheezing. Danny winces. “Sorry, buddy.”

“Apologize after you zip-tie him,” Matt says, already moving.

In the alley, a skinny kid with a bad tattoo crawls out a bathroom window and lands at Jessica’s boots. She sighs and, with two fingers, hoists him up by his jacket like an angry cat. “Do you even lift, crime?”

“Please don’t—” he starts, and then yelps as she deposits him gently but decisively in a dumpster and closes the lid.

At the loading dock, the van’s engine coughs to life. Luke steps into the headlights. The driver looks up, freezes, and makes the worst decision of his evening: he hits the gas.

Luke plants his feet.

The bumper crumples around him like tinfoil. He sets the hood down carefully and rips the door off.

“Out,” he says, patient as Sunday.

On the roof, the courier—a wiry man with a satchel and new sneakers—sprints for the far ladder, eyes on the fire escape and the street beyond. He doesn’t make it.

Natasha flows out of the dark, clips his knee with a toe, and lets his momentum swing him into her hip. He gasps, flips, and finds a gloved hand on his throat, two fingers at his jaw angle like a promise.

“There it is,” she murmurs, not to him. To the earpiece. “Package in hand.”

“Please don’t say ‘package,’” Foggy whispers. “Trauma.”

The courier wheezes in Russian, “Я не—” and she cocks her head, switching languages as easily as changing knives. “You don’t what? Know? Bleed? Lie? Don’t insult me.”

He reaches for something—stupid—and her bracer pops. Blue arcs dance up her arm, then leap into him. He spasms, sighs, sleeps.

Below, Matt turns a corner into the second-floor catwalk and hears the hiss of a safety flicking off behind him. He pivots, batons up—too slow for the shot.

The shot never comes.

A twin line of electric blue scythes past his shoulder and stitches through the gunman’s chest. The man convulses and tumbles into the grate with a clang that makes Danny whine like a tuning fork.

Matt doesn’t flinch, but the hair at the base of his neck does. “Thanks,” he says into the comm, very neutral.

“You’re welcome,” Natasha replies.

“Hey,” Jessica cuts in. “If you two could keep the flirting to a dull roar, I’m busy committing non-felonies.”

“Sirens two minutes out,” Luke adds, stress bleeding through. “NYPD’s cranky this month. Let’s find the thing and ghost.”

The thing is on level three, in a room pretending to be a maintenance closet and doing a bad job. Matt peels back the door while Danny watches his fists glow in the reflection. Inside: crates stenciled with STARK INDUSTRIES and a helpful serial stamp Matt has already memorized running his fingers over it because it doesn’t match anything a broom closet should have.

Natasha drops down silently beside them, the courier’s satchel already slung across her chest. Up close, Danny forgets English for a second.

“Is this—” he starts.

“Stark Mk II housings,” she says, prying a crate with a flatbar she definitely didn’t have a second ago. “Not current gen. Which means someone bought old inventory or lifted it from a refurb depot. Either way, it shouldn’t be here.”

Matt taps the side of a slim metal case nested in foam. “This.”

She’s already reaching for it. Their fingers meet on the handle.

They move as one—out, down, through. Luke shepherds a whimpering driver like a misbehaving toddler. Jessica tosses a second thug into a pile of shrink-wrapped mulch. Danny holds the stairwell door while Matt ties off a wrist lock with cable ties he pulled from nowhere, the way he always does.

On the roof, Natasha double-checks a tag in the satchel, flicks the courier’s phone apart with a thumbnail, and pockets a micro-SD. “We’re clear,” she says. “Regroup point?”

“Rooftop,” Matt says automatically, then catches himself. “Or—street, if you don’t like heights.”

“I like heights,” she says, just a hair too fast.

They reconverge at the building’s crown. Sirens wail somewhere outside of pain, moving away. The river hums its low note. Foggy’s relief in their ears is a physical thing. “Okay. Okay. That’s…not jail. I’ll take it. Anyone dead? Anyone…extra dead?”

“Just a van,” Luke says, serene.

Natasha crouches by the HVAC hulk and flips open the courier’s satchel. A bundle of receipts—fake. A passport—faker. The metal case—real. She cranks it open. Inside: a thumb-sized loop of cobalt and carbon lattice; a second bay holds an encrypted microdrive labeled in crisp Cyrillic block letters: ОРФЕЙ.

“Orpheus,” Danny reads, proud, then remembers no one can see him and coughs. “I mean…Greek.”

“Cute codename,” Jessica says. “Very overcompensate-y.”

Natasha doesn’t smile. “You don’t put this much cloak-and-dagger on a scrap part.” She plucks the loop free, rolling it lightly in gloved fingers. “Resonant core. Prototype, probably. It completes a larger unit.”

Matt’s head tips, listening to her heartbeat step up a fraction. “You’ve seen one.”

“Something like it.” she says

Luke clears his throat, back to business. “So, two options: hold and analyze, or drop it someplace that won’t get you murdered.”

“Hold,” Matt says. “We don’t know whose hands it lands in if we drop it.”

Natasha closes the case with a clean snap. She stands and steps in, offering it to him.

His gloved hand comes up. They both hesitate that half-second too long; the case stays between them like a dare.

“Try not to break it.” she says finally.

“Not an order, I hope,” he says, and hates that the line comes out warmer than he means it.

“Advice.” she returns.

Silence. Not empty—weighted. The city’s a chorus. Her pulse is steady and sharp; his is a drum under ice.

Jessica groans. “I can actually taste the unresolved tension. It’s like licking a battery.”

“Language,” Luke says mildly, and then, “She’s not wrong.”

Foggy’s relief scrapes over comms. “Okay, everybody not-arrested—HQ time. I have coffee and a sudden urge to triple lock a safe.”

Natasha doesn’t move.

Danny does. “Uh— you’re not coming back with us?”

She gives him a small smile that could slice a throat. “Rain check, Fist. I’ve got threads to pull.”

Jessica squints. “So you just… drop a mystery box and Irish exit?”

“Better than dropping the ball.” A beat. “Cute jacket.”

Jessica huffs, almost a begrudging smirk. “Whatever.”

Luke nods once, a quiet respect. “Appreciate the assist.”

“You don’t flinch,” she says back. It reads as a compliment; it is.

Matt’s still there, knuckles white around the case handle.

“Romanoff,” he says, because anything else is dangerous.

“Murdock,” she returns, bland enough to pass for polite.

He opens his mouth—Stay. Debrief. Don’t vanish—and shuts it again. Pride tastes like copper.

She saves him from figuring it out. “I’ll dig. You’ll get what matters. Use the secure line I gave Foggy.”

“Copy.” It comes out quieter than he means it to.

Her eyes hold his for half a second too long, a thousand unsaid things crowding the narrow space between them. Then she clips a line to the roof anchor like it’s been waiting there her whole life.

Danny gawks. “You just carry a grap—”

“Always,” she says, and steps backward off the edge without looking.

For a heartbeat she’s gone; then the rope hisses, a shadow drops clean down the brick, and somewhere below a bike growls awake—low, feral, familiar. Tires kiss wet asphalt. The engine climbs and fades along the waterfront, a Doppler that feels like déjà vu and punishment.

Jessica blows out a breath. “Okay, that’s hot.”

Luke side-eyes her. “Not the point.”

“Wasn’t saying it was the point.”

Foggy rubs his temples. “My blood pressure is filing a hostile work environment complaint.”

Matt stands there a fraction longer than he should, listening to the lavender-ozone ghost she dragged through the air burn off in the cold. The case handle is cutting a crescent into his palm. He shoves the devil back on—horns, habit, discipline—and turns away first.

“HQ,” he says. “Let’s move.”

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Foggy pushed the door open with his hip, arms full of takeout bags, and wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Matt hunched over the conference table. Files spread everywhere, braille notes in neat stacks, red glasses perched low on his nose like he’d been there all night.

“Knew I’d find you here,” Foggy said, setting the food down with a thud. “You didn’t answer your phone, so I figured the brooding levels must be off the charts.”

Matt didn’t look up. “Needed some time. And… I wanted to go through the files Natasha sent.” His voice was even, too even, but Foggy heard the strain under it.

“Of course you did,” Foggy muttered, pulling out a chair. He sat, watching Matt’s fingers skim across the raised dots with a little too much focus, like if he pressed hard enough he could erase everything else in his head.

They sat in silence for a beat, the smell of sesame noodles filling the room. Then Foggy leaned back, folded his arms, and hit him with it:

“So… how was it last night?”

Matt’s head snapped up, brow furrowing. “What?”

“You know what,” Foggy said, grin tugging at his mouth. “The mission. The fact that Natasha Romanoff walked into our HQ like it was a perfectly normal Tuesday.” He tilted his head, mock casual. “And the two of you, working together again. How’d that go?”

Matt exhaled slowly, jaw tightening, like he was counting beats before answering. “Professional.”

Foggy barked a laugh. “Right. Professional. That why you look like you haven’t slept and your jaw’s about to crack in half?”

Matt’s lips twitched, but he said nothing.

Foggy leaned in, smirking now. “So I’ll ask again—how was it last night?”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like God help me, and finally said, “Complicated.”

Matt leaned back in his chair, lips pressed in a thin line. He didn’t elaborate right away, which was already another answer.

Foggy’s grin slipped into a knowing smirk. “So… not exactly in good terms then?”

Matt rubbed at his jaw, a muscle twitching there. “You could say that.”

“Uh-huh.” Foggy tapped his fingers on the table, eyeing him. “Tell me you at least apologized. Y’know, like I suggested. Crazy idea—try not letting your pride torpedo everything.”

Matt huffed out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Didn’t exactly… get the chance.”

Foggy arched a brow. “Didn’t get the chance, or didn’t take it?”

Silence.

“Oh my God.” Foggy dropped his head into his hands. “You didn’t apologize. You definitely didn’t apologize.” He peeked at Matt between his fingers. “What’d you do, brood at her until she magically forgave you?”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t the time, Fog.”

“Newsflash: with you two, it’s never the time.” Foggy leaned forward, voice softening just a notch. “You said some pretty rough stuff, man. She did too, sure. But if you want her in this—really in this—you’re gonna have to swallow your pride and say the words.”

Matt’s mouth curved into the faintest bitter smile. “You make it sound so simple.”

Foggy shrugged. “It kinda is. Two syllables, buddy. ‘Sorry.’ Won’t even crack your jaw.”

Matt looked away, the faintest trace of guilt etched into his face. “It’s… not that simple.”

Foggy leaned back against the edge of the table, arms folded, eyebrows climbing.

“What?” he asked, incredulous. “It really pissed you off that much that she slept with Steve a couple times because she was lonely? Dude.”

Matt’s head snapped toward him, lips parting like he wanted to argue—but the words caught in his throat. His jaw clenched instead, a muscle ticking.

Foggy spread his hands, exasperated. “I mean, yeah, okay, it’s Captain America, that’s a hell of a rebound choice. But you’ve been sleeping with half of Manhattan, Matt! You really gonna plant a flag on this hill?”

Matt’s voice came out low, sharper than he meant: “It’s not this.”

Foggy blinked. “Not the same?”

Matt rubbed his thumb over the edge of his cane, restless. “I didn’t… I didn’t care about them. Any of them. It was just—noise. Distraction.” He exhaled, jaw tight. 

Foggy whistled softly, shaking his head. “Ohhh. There it is. Hazel-eyed Catholic guilt with a side of jealousy. You’re not mad she hooked up. You’re mad it meant something.”

Matt stayed silent, but his lips pressed thinner, betraying him.

Foggy’s eyes narrowed like he was connecting the final dots on a case file. He let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “This whole time I thought you were mad about the sex. But no, it’s the feelings. It all makes sense now.” He jabbed a finger toward Matt. “You’re terrified she meant it. That Rogers means something to her.”

Matt’s hands tightened around his cane until his knuckles whitened. “Don’t.”

Foggy ignored the warning, leaning in. “So… you really think she still has feelings for him?”

Matt didn’t answer immediately. His thumb dragged over the edge of his cane, restless. “She does.” The words came out flat, controlled, but Foggy could hear what was underneath. “I asked. Didn’t even need her to say it—I could tell.”

Foggy raised his brows. “And that’s why you won’t apologize?”

Matt’s head snapped up, expression sharp. “No. That’s not why.”

Foggy frowned. “Then why?”

Matt exhaled hard, pushing out of the chair like the walls were closing in. He started pacing, bare feet whispering against the floor. “Because if I apologize, if I… open that door even a little, she’s back in. And once she’s in, I don’t get to shut it again.” He stopped, turning sharply, voice dropping rough. “It’s a loop.”

Foggy crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “Okay, let me get this straight. She drops back into town, you two blow up at each other, you’re sitting here acting like you’re bleeding from the inside out—” he leaned forward on the table, voice low, sharp— “so what is this, huh? Are you fully back in Natasha mode again? Because, Matt… we’ve been here before. And it didn’t end well.”

Matt let out a humorless laugh, raking a hand down his face. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then what does it mean?” Foggy pressed. “Because if you’re just gonna spiral yourself into the ground over her again—”

“I can’t—” Matt cut him off, voice cracking around the edges. He shoved the files aside, leaned both hands hard on the table. “I can’t stop it, Foggy. I tried. I tried filling the silence with everything else—cases, patrol, meaningless nights that I can’t even remember in the morning. And still—” His chest rose and fell, too fast, like he’d just sprinted a mile. “Sometimes it physically hurts.” He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, the gesture violent. “Like there’s something tearing me open from the inside out. I’ll be fine, I’ll be steady, and then I’ll hear something, or smell something, or I’ll remember the way she laughed—God, Foggy—and it feels like my ribs can’t contain it.”

Foggy’s face softened, just a fraction.

Matt kept going, voice low, guttural. “I don’t even know if I want it to stop. That burn—it’s the only thing that ever made me feel alive and wrecked and… whole at the same time. And I hate her for it. And I hate myself for still wanting it. But it’s there. It’s always there.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and raw.

Foggy dragged a hand down his own face, muttering: “Jesus Christ, Matt. You don’t do halfway, do you?”

Matt huffed out a bitter laugh, sinking into the chair like the weight of it finally crushed him.

“And I don’t know what to do with it, Fog. With… this.” He gestured uselessly at his chest, his jaw tight. “Every time we get close, it blows up in our faces. Every damn time. And I know that. I know it—” his laugh was sharp, bitter “—but then she shows up, and suddenly I can breathe again. Until I can’t.”

Foggy opened his mouth, but Matt kept going, words tumbling now, helpless.

“All I get are slices. Little pieces. Moments that feel like maybe—maybe this time it’ll be different. A morning. A laugh. The way she says my name. And then it’s gone, and I’m standing in the wreckage again wondering why the hell I let her back in.” His throat worked, voice dropping to a whisper. “But even those slices—” He shut his eyes, shaking his head. “They feel like more than anything else I’ve ever had.”

The silence stretched, thick with the weight of it. Foggy stared at him, jaw tight, chest tight too.

Foggy let out a long, slow breath, his arms crossing tighter over his chest. “Matt… maybe you don’t even realize it. You ever stop to think she might feel the same way?”

Matt’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing behind the tinted lenses. “No.” His voice was raw, clipped. “If she did, she wouldn’t have gone back. Wouldn’t have stayed gone. Wouldn’t—” He broke off, shaking his head hard. “She wouldn’t keep proving how wrong we are for each other.”

Foggy leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching him like he was trying to hammer sense into him with his stare alone. “Or maybe she keeps coming back because she feels the same damn way you do. Maybe it scares the hell out of her too. Ever think of that?”

Matt’s jaw clenched, his throat working. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Matt—”

“It doesn’t.” His voice cracked sharp, final. He pushed back from the table, pacing again like a caged animal. “Even if she does… it’s useless. We don’t work. We’ll never work. All we do is tear each other open and call it love.” He stopped, breath ragged, hands gripping the back of a chair until his knuckles blanched. “We get moments, Foggy. That’s all. And I keep killing myself over them like they’re enough. But they’re not. They’ll never be enough.”

Finally, Foggy muttered, almost to himself, “And yet you’ll take them anyway.”

Matt didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His hunched shoulders and the way his head bowed like a man in prayer said it all.

Foggy sighed, leaning back in his chair, eyes never leaving Matt. “You know… it really boils down to two options.”

Matt stilled, jaw tight, but didn’t interrupt.

“One—you keep doing this. You spiral, you punish yourself, you convince yourself it’s hopeless, and you settle for scraps of happiness until you burn out.” Foggy’s tone sharpened, like a closing argument. “Or two—you admit she’s the one thing you can’t outrun, and you try. Even if it blows up in your face again. At least then you’ll know you didn’t just sit back and let it rot.”

Matt’s hands flexed against the chair, tendons straining. He exhaled through his nose, long and shaky.

“You make it sound simple,” he muttered.

Foggy shrugged. “It is. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

Matt’s voice dropped, rough around the edges. “I don’t know. Maybe I already lost her. Maybe she finally realized how much better things could be with someone else—” He trailed off, jaw tight. “I pushed her away. And maybe that was all it took for her to see it.”

For a second, Foggy just stared at him. Then he shoved back his chair, pointing at Matt like he’d just committed contempt of court.

“Oh, hell no. We’re not doing this ‘woe is me, she’s better off without me’ routine. Uh-uh.” Foggy jabbed his finger at Matt’s chest. “You listen to me, Matthew Michael Murdock—”

Matt groaned. “Don’t.”

“—you go get your girl.” Foggy leaned in, eyes blazing with righteous best-friend fury. “You think Steve Rogers is better? Maybe he’s taller, maybe he’s shinier, shit, maybe he comes with a damn star-spangled warranty. But guess what? Natasha Romanoff isn’t the kind of woman who settles for ‘better on paper.’ She’s the kind who sets fire to the paper and dances in the ashes.”

Matt’s lips twitched despite himself. “That’s… poetic.”

“Shut up, I’m not done.” Foggy waved him off. “If she came back here—here—to this disaster circus of yours, she didn’t do it for free drinks and a good Yelp review. She came because it’s you, Matt. So you either swallow your pride, apologize, and fight for her—or you sit here pretending you’re a martyr while she walks out of your life for good. And if that’s the choice you make, I swear to God, I’m cutting you out of my Netflix password.”

Matt huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, but the sound was shaky.

Foggy grinned. “You’ve gone toe-to-toe with mob bosses, ninjas, and ancient undead cults. I think you can handle one Russian redhead.”

Matt dropped into his chair again, silent, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him—just a ghost of a smile, weighed down by hope he didn’t want to name.

Matt sits at his desk, Foggy’s words echoing in his head like the toll of church bells. He’d been circling for months — denial, bitterness, longing — but tonight the noise finally cut through.

He’s not stupid. Natasha Romanoff doesn’t let anyone charge straight in without a fight, not when she’s still raw and coiled tight from the wreckage they left last time. If he’s going to reach her again, he has to do it in pieces.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The knock comes just as Luke is saying they should break for an hour and eat something that isn’t protein bars.

Matt’s already up.

He’s across the floor before anyone else has even turned their head, because he heard the double-tap rhythm on the stairwell, the way the hallway air shifted—lavender and city and something like cold metal—five seconds before her knuckles hit the door.

He opens it.

“Hi,” Natasha says, chin tipped down, a messenger bag slung crosswise over a black sweater. Her eyes flick past his shoulder, just for a breath, like she’s weighing the room behind him. “Is this a bad time?”

“No,” Matt says—too fast, then steadier. “It’s fine.”

They stand there one heartbeat too long. Civil. Measured. Careful.

“Romanoff,” Jessica calls from the table, dry as ever, “you bring us a fruit basket or the apocalypse?”

“A little of column A, little of column B,” Natasha says, and slips past Matt without touching him.

Foggy meets her halfway. “There she is—my favorite international incident.”

From the couch, Jessica stage-whispers, “Foggy Bear lives,” and Luke pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s already tired.

Danny nearly knocks over his tea getting to his feet. “Hi. Uh—Natasha. Hi. Can I get you—do you want—tea? I made tea.”

“Tea would be great,” she says, a quick curve at the corner of her mouth. Danny’s heart does a hummingbird thing. Matt pretends not to hear it and steps back to give her the space he promised himself he’d give.

She drops the messenger bag on the table and starts unloading: a thin laptop, a stack of printed photos clipped together, a USB, a folded city map with red pen marks that look like arteries.

“I did some more digging,” she says, voice even. “Your warehouse hit spooked them. They pivoted fast. New shipping line, new shell. ‘Kronstadt Forwarding’—Delaware registry, Moscow money, addresses that don’t exist. But they made one mistake.” She taps a photo—overhead, grainy: a crate on a forklift with a stenciled serial block. “They reused Stark-era serial formatting on the housings. Different check digits, same skeleton. I cross-referenced Stark disposal logs. We’ve got a match to vibranium-weave containment frames that were supposed to be scrapped three years ago.”

“Supposed to be,” Luke repeats, unimpressed.

“Tonight,” Natasha continues, “they’re moving a consolidated load through the Navy Yard. Pier 38. Window between twenty-three-hundred and oh-one-hundred. Their courier’s been running a predictable triangle—Greenpoint to Yard to a midtown lab that’s pretending to be a dermatology clinic. He’s careful. Not me careful, but careful.” She slides another photo across—the courier’s face, caught half-turned under a streetlight.

Danny sets a steaming mug by Natasha’s elbow and then immediately takes a step back like he’s worried he’s crowding her. “Thanks,” she says without looking, and he lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Appreciate the intel,” Luke says, flattening the map with a palm. “You’re sure about the time?”

“Sure enough to make it worth your night,” she answers. “They think they’re invisible. They’re not.”

Matt’s been quiet, listening. He lets out a breath. “Okay,” he says, easy, neutral. “We can take it.”

At the table, Jessica leans an elbow on the map. “So. Avengers consultant again, huh?”

Natasha’s eyes don’t flicker. “Temporarily.”

“Does ‘temporarily’ mean until you get bored of us or until we screw up?” Jessica asks, faux-casual.

Natasha takes a measured sip of tea. “You haven’t bored me yet.”

“Hear that?” Luke says. “High praise.”

Danny, earnest: “We’re really glad you’re here. I mean—we’re always glad when anyone decides not to let New York burn, but especially—you.” He clears his throat, backpedals into formality. “We appreciate your time.”

“Danny,” she says, gentler than she intends, “breathe.”

His ears go pink. Jessica rolls her eyes like she’s physically pained.

“Five hours,” Matt says, back to business. “We run loadout, get eyes on by twenty-two-fifteen. If anything changes, we pivot.”

Natasha nods. She doesn’t sit. She doesn’t linger. She slides the USB across to him and lets her fingers leave it like it’s hot.

“There’s more on the drive,” she says. “Employee manifests. The shell’s board. A couple names you’ll want to keep out of the press unless you like Senate hearings.”

“Thank you,” Matt says, low. It’s not the apology—she can hear the shape of it hovering behind the word—but it’s the closest he’ll get with an audience.

She tips her chin. “Don’t thank me yet. We still have to steal a crate from under a dozen men with guns.”

“Tuesday,” Jessica says.

Luke checks his watch. “Wednesday.”

“Days are a construct,” Danny adds unhelpfully.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

He finds her in the little gear room off the main floor—half a locker row, a cracked mirror, a dented steel bench that’s seen better nights. Her civvies are folded on the end of it; she’s just finished zipping black to her throat, gauntlets still loose, hair in wild curls.

He stops in the doorway, cowl in one hand, trying not to listen to the way her pulse shifts when she clocks him.

“Didn’t mean to ambush you,” he says, voice low. “Can I—two minutes?”

Natasha doesn’t look spooked. She never does. She checks the lay of a hidden knife at her ankle, then glances up at him like he’s another piece of equipment to assess. “Two minutes.”

Up close, she sees it immediately. “You changed the suit.”

He huffs a breath. “Melvin did. I just bleed in it.”

Her mouth twitches. “What’d he give you?”

Matt steps in and sets the cowl on the bench. “Lighter plates. Better articulation at the shoulder. He reworked the cowl seam so it doesn’t dig when I pivot, reinforced the grapnel spool so it stops jamming on cold nights.” He flexes his hand; the knuckle ridges whisper. “And he got clever with the baton anchors.”

“Figured,” she says, eyes flicking to the holsters at his back. “How’s he doing?”

“Quiet,” Matt answers. “Keeping his head down. Betsy keeps him honest. He makes lunchboxes and birdhouses between… you know.”

Natasha nods, something like fondness ghosting past. “Tell him his stitching line made the Avengers look like amateurs.”

“I’ll pass that along,” Matt says, and they both almost smile. Almost.

Silence lands—the real thing, the kind that means there’s only one conversation left. He looks at the floor for a beat, then forces himself to meet the space just left of her eyes.

“About that night,” he says. “I owe you an apology.”

Her jaw sets, very faint. She doesn’t bail him out.

“I said things I didn’t mean,” he goes on, steadying. “I was cruel because I was angry, and that’s not an excuse. You didn’t deserve it. Any of it.”

A breath. He keeps his hands at his sides.

“I know how to go for the jugular,” he adds, softer, the truth rough in his throat. “It’s a bad habit when I’m scared. I’m… sorry.”

Something behind her eyes softens, then steels. “We both said shitty things,” Natasha says, even. “I knew where to cut, and I did. That wasn’t fair either.”

He shakes his head once. “You don’t have to carry my part.”

“I’m carrying mine,” she says. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

He absorbs it; nods. “Okay.”

For a few seconds, it’s just the hush of their breath and the distant hum of Luke and Jessica grousing about radios down the hall.

Natasha breaks it first, practical as a knife. “We don’t have to be fine,” she says. “We just have to be clear. On comms. In the field.”

“We will be,” Matt says. He means it like a vow.

Her gaze flicks over him again, quick and surgical—checking lines, checking seams, anything but the places that night left raw. “You still run wired redundancy?”

“Yeah.” He reaches for the little pelican case on the shelf, flips it open, and holds out a bone-colored earpiece. She takes it; their fingers brush, nothing and everything.

“Natasha,” he says, before she can turn. She looks up. He keeps his voice quiet. “For the record—the ‘regret’ line? I didn’t mean it. Not a word.”

It lands. She doesn’t flinch, exactly, but something in her shoulders loosens a millimeter.

“And I don’t think you’re a machine.”

That costs them both something. She nods once, grateful. “Thank you.” She fastens the last strap at her wrist, then tips her chin like they’ve just negotiated a ceasefire. “We good enough to work?”

“We’re good enough to work,” he says. Then, because he owes her the cleanest version of him tonight: “And when it’s over, if you want… I’ll finish the apology properly. Without a clock on us.”

Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. “We’ll see how the night goes.”

He steps back, picks up his cowl. “Copy.”

Natasha turns for the door, then pauses, eyes dragging over the new seams at his shoulder one more time. “Tell Melvin the cowl line’s cleaner,” she says. “Good work.”

“I will,” Matt says.

The door swings open and the two of them step back into the main space, Natasha tugging her gloves tighter, Matt still adjusting his cowl.

Jessica doesn’t even wait a beat. She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, smirking like a cat that’s found cream. 

“Everything alright?” she drawls, tone razor-sharp with amusement.

Natasha doesn’t miss a step. “Perfectly fine.” She doesn’t even blink, slides into her seat and starts checking her sidearm.

“Uh-huh,” Jessica murmurs, eyebrow arched. “Looks like real productive strategizing in there.”

Luke sighs, clearly trying to be the buffer. “Jess.”

“What?” she says, still smirking. “Just asking a question.”

Matt mutters, almost too low for human ears: “Infuriating.”

“Copy that,” Jessica fires back with a grin.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

They split two-and-two. Luke and Jessica drift to the river side for the loud option. Danny vanishes toward the breaker room, muttering something about timing and destiny. That leaves the catwalks.

“Romanoff, with me,” Matt says, already angling for the service stairs.

A beat. She lets him hear the smallest huff—amused, not hostile.

Up the shadowed stairwell, her footfalls ghost-soft behind him, the faint static of her Widow’s comm the only proof she’s there. To anyone else, she disappears. To him, she’s a constellation: lavender and gun oil, the almost-silent drag of a glove seam, the metronome of a heartbeat he will always know.

Below, a pallet jack squeals. Russian. Ten men on the floor, one watching the river, two on the mezzanine—

“Two o’clock,” she whispers, before he can. “Laser sweep, ten-second cycle.”

He feels it an instant later: warm glass on the air. He doesn’t argue when her hand lands flat on his chest and she shoves him flush against a steel strut, her body sealing over his as the red line crawls past his shoulder.

“Left corner—two more,” he breathes at her ear.

“I’ve got them.” Her breath hits his jaw on the exhale. The laser hums away. She peels off him like silk. 

They ghost along the catwalk. She kneels at a keypad, slides a pick from her wrist seam, and has the maintenance door open by the time he’s clocked the foreman’s arrhythmic valve click. He hears her grin without seeing it.

“What?” she murmurs.

“You still beat the lock record.”

“I know.” The lock sighs. “After you.”

Inside, the terminal’s old control room is a casket of dust and wiring. New gear sits ugly against it—portable servers, a relay case the size of a carry-on, cabling snaked toward the vans. Natasha crosses to the relay, flicks a flash-drive spine out of her glove and into a port.

Down on the floor, a guard yawns. Someone complains about the cold in a Chelyabinsk lilt. Matt tilts his head.

“Courier’s not here,” he says. “But the relay’s pushing live. Midtown node.”

“Then this is a pass-through.” Her voice goes focused-flat. “We tag what we can, exfil with a copy, follow the signal upstream.”

He nods. “On three, we—”

The door jerks. Her gun is already up. Matt’s baton flies.

Thud. The guard crumples soundless.

Natasha lowers her weapon. “You planned that?”

“I heard the key scrape.”

She steps over the body, quick and efficient, and then stops because he does—head cocked, frown sketched between his brows.

“What?” she asks.

“South catwalk. Three. Moving fast.” He rolls his shoulder, listens again. “And our window just got smaller.”

“Jones,” she taps, voice cool. “Ready to make a scene?”

“Thrilled,” Jessica deadpans over comms. A second later, the building shakes with the sound of a door being forcibly redefined. Luke’s laugh follows like thunder.

The floor erupts—shouts, boots, the clatter of guns clearing holsters.

“Lights,” Danny breathes.

And then—click—darkness. The city glows pale through broken panes; below, muzzle flares pop like fireflies.

“Fun,” Natasha mutters.

“Stay on me,” Matt says, because he can’t stop himself. He feels her roll her eyes. He grins and bolts.

They move in a two-body calculus they never had to learn. He hears the inhale before a man explodes out of the stair, and she’s already stepping into the shadow of his swing, catching the wrist, breaking the elbow clean with a twist and a breath. He clips another in the throat; she kicks the first into a bank of lockers, then uses them as a springboard to scissor the third off the rail in a clean, brutal arc.

“Show-off,” he says, a little breathless.

“Projection,” she shoots back, breath fanning his cheek when she lands close. Too close. He feels the smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and has to step away before he does something stupid in the dark.

They reach the relay case. He kneels, fingers finding screws, panel edges. She drops beside him, close enough that the heat off her shoulder lights his nerves.

“Melvin tweak your chest plate?” she asks, low.

“New lattice. He says it’ll take a 9mm at this distance.”

“Let’s not test it.”

“Agreed.”

“Found your courier yet?” Jessica throws in, cheerful in a murdery way. “Because Luke’s out here playing whack-a-mole.”

“West ramp,” Matt says. “Hiding behind the guy with the wheeze. Two louder steps, then a skip. Bad knee.”

“And you’re not just… making that up for flair?” Danny asks, awed and earnest.

Footsteps. Two. Fast. Matt stands and catches the first in the dark like he’s yanking pain out of the air, baton cracking the ulna. The second gets a gun half up—Natasha’s already there, hand on the slide, jam, twist, elbow to the temple, down.

“Ten seconds,” she says, breath syncing with his. It used to calm him. It still does. “Nine.”

Gunfire spikes. A round grazes his side—hot kiss, shallow track. He grunts.

“Matt.” Quiet and edged. Not panic—anger. Her palm is already at the wound, pressure precise. He can feel the tremor she doesn’t let the rest of the world see. “You good?”

“I’m fine.” It’s almost true. “Seven.”

Her touch lingers half a heartbeat longer than tactical. She peels her hand away. He’s grateful and ridiculous about it.

“Three,” she says, pulling the drive, coiling cables in one practiced sweep. “Two. Go.”

They go.

Out the door, into the mouth of chaos—Luke bulldozing a path through flying bodies, Jessica hurling a crate that explodes into packing foam, Danny’s fist flaring gold as he wrecks a stair support with perfect chi-drama.

“Courier’s bolting,” Matt snaps, already turning. “West ramp—”

“I see him,” Natasha says, and then she’s not beside him, she’s motion—a shadow dropping clean from the catwalk, rolling to her feet without a sound. She sprints, vaults a stack of crates, throws her line. The Widow’s Bite zings, catches railing, and she swings low and fast across the ramp, clipping the runner at the waist. He goes down hard. Her knee is in his spine, her forearm at his jaw, a smile like frost on her mouth.

“Hi there,” she says pleasantly in Russian. “We’re borrowing your toys.”

He spits a curse. She punches him and he’s asleep.

By the time Matt reaches them, she’s already stripped the man’s phone, yanked a tag from the sole of his shoe, tucked the relay satchel tight to her ribs. Their eyes catch. It’s too close to the thing they’re not doing.

Sirens bloom in the distance. Danny’s voice breaks in, breathless: “Uh, friendly reminder, the NYPD would love to arrest exactly all of us.”

“On it,” Luke says, already herding Jessica toward the river door.

Matt takes one step closer to Natasha. “We have to—”

“I know.” She hands him the courier’s phone and one extra tag, her fingers brushing his just long enough to count. “You take the relay. I’ll follow the tag upstream.”

She shrugs, already backing away, already a ghost. “I’ll send what I find.”

There’s a million things he could say. None of them belong here with sirens rising.

“Be careful,” he says instead, soft enough that Luke and Jess won’t hear, rough enough that she will.

She pauses. It’s nothing to anyone else. To him, it’s a tectonic shift. Her hand lifts—hesitates—and then finds his wrist, a fleeting press over the pulse he can’t hide.

“You too,” she murmurs, and the words are warm in a way that makes him stupid.

Jessica falls into step beside him as they cut through the busted service corridor, her boots crunching glass with zero concern for stealth. Luke and Danny are already up ahead, arguing over whether Danny’s “perfectly timed chi blast” really saved Luke from catching a bullet.

Matt lingers half a step back, satchel in hand, heartbeat steady in that stubborn way Jessica’s come to recognize.

She side-eyes him, smirk sharp. “God, you’re way far gone for her, aren’t you?”

Matt doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t blush, doesn’t deflect, doesn’t even pretend. His mouth curves, smug and unbothered. “What gave it away?”

Jessica snorts. “Maybe the way you two moved like you’ve been running ops together for ten years. Or the way you froze when she touched your wrist like she’d just blessed you with holy water. Real subtle, Murdock.”

He lets out a low laugh, one that sounds more dangerous for how sure it is. “Guess subtlety’s overrated.”

She raises a brow, impressed despite herself. “Wow. No denial? No tortured Catholic guilt speech? You’re just gonna own it?”

“I know what I want,” Matt says simply. No shame, no hesitation.

For once, she’s the one who looks away first, muttering, “Gross,” though there’s no real heat in it.

He cuts it there, voice firm, redirecting.

Jessica smirks again, but she doesn’t push. She can tell—whatever this thing with Natasha is, Matt’s done pretending it’s temporary.

And for the first time in a long time, he’s not hiding it.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Matt hears her before she knocks—the familiar cadence of her steps on the landing, the shift of weight that means she’s balancing something in her right hand, the stutter in her pulse when she hesitates at his door like she might turn around and vanish.

He exhales once, slow. No sudden moves.

When he opens, she’s framed in the hall light: hair pulled back, plain black tee under a leather jacket, a folder tucked against her hip. Her perfume is faint—clean soap, gun oil, the ghost of jet fuel from somewhere between San Francisco and here.

“Hey,” she says, like it’s neutral.

“Hey,” he answers, and stands back to let her in.

The apartment is mostly shadows and warm lamplight. The city hums through the thin glass; the crucifix over his bookshelf slashes a small dark line against the wall. He’s cleared the coffee table—files stacked, two glasses already set out beside a bottle of water. He does not reach for the bourbon.

She sets the folder down, opens it like armor. “The satchel led to a shell in Red Hook. Deep front. They’re laundering through a charity that doesn’t exist.” Her tone is crisp, field-report clean. “I think the next handoff’s tonight—waterfront, Pier 36. If we hit the courier on the south access, we can pinch the hub.”

“You think or you know?” he asks, gentle.

“Eighty-five percent.” A beat. “Ninety.”

He nods, listening—her breath, the tightness at the top of it. “Food? Tea?” He catches himself before he adds whiskey. “I have chamomile.”

Her mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Of course you do.”

He retreats to the kitchenette, gives her the space she always needs those first minutes. Kettle on. The bloom of steam is loud to him; the silence between them is louder.

The water hisses. He brings the tea, sets it within reach but not too close, then sits opposite her rather than beside. The folder lies open between them like a referee.

She taps a page. “This is the guy from the van—Trieste imports. Your friend Jessica spooked him enough that he moved the schedule up. We can use that.”

“Good,” Matt says. He lets the beat rest, then adds, softer, “Thank you. For coming by.”

Her eyes lift, sharp and unreadable. “It’s the mission.”

“I know.” He holds her gaze anyway. “Still. Thank you.”

They walk the angles—routes, cameras, the best way to funnel a fleeing courier toward Luke without letting Jessica tear down half the pier. They work well like this; they always have. Hands moving in tandem over maps, voices low, thinking three steps past the next hit. It feels like slipping back into a language only the two of them ever really learned.

He pivots to grab a pen and the motion pulls wrong—sharp, low on the right side. He winces before he can school it away.

Natasha’s eyes flick down like a heat-seeking missile. “That your souvenir from the pier?”

“It’s fine,” he says—too fast, too even.

She stares. “Lying is a sin.” Then, softer, “Can I—?”

Her hand hovers at the hem of his shirt. It’s almost funny—she’s stripped him out of far worse in far less time—but she still asks.

“Permission granted,” he murmurs.

Her fingers tuck under the hem of his shirt and his skin jumps. He keeps very still, cataloging the instant lift in her pulse when she bares the bruised ribs and the poorly taped split. Exhibit A: elevated heart rate at exposed skin. Probative value: cruel.

“Electrical tape?” she deadpans.

“Medical-grade electrical tape,” he says. “Cutting edge.”

She snorts—honest, surprised—and God, it’s perilously close to a giggle. He would burn a whole block to hear that again.

“Sit.” She nudges his hip. He drops onto the coffee table edge. She ghosts out, returns in seconds with the kit, and then she kneels between his knees to be eye-level with the wound.

His heart attempts a swan dive. Control yourself. Baby steps.

“Cold,” she warns. Antiseptic kisses the split. It burns. He hisses.

“Dramatic,” she murmurs, steady hands bracketing his waist as gauze flutters.

“Rich, coming from you.”

“Hold still, martyr.” She peels the sad tape away.

“Melvin will be offended I bled through his upgrade.”

“Tell him it held.” She palms fresh butterfly closures. The back of her wrist skims his stomach as she angles the skin. Exhibit B: small intake of breath—hers—on contact. “You didn’t crack. You just… leaked.”

He huffs. “Technical term?”

“Very.” She smooths the strip with her thumb, slow, thoughtless. His breath stutters again. Exhibit C: reciprocal response—hers—one, two, three beats higher. He files it with grim satisfaction: the case for a lost cause he’s building like an idiot.

“Try not to twist like an idiot for the next twenty-four hours,” she says, reaching for the tape.

“I’ll pencil that between ‘launch into danger’ and ‘ignore sound medical advice.’”

“Good.” A smile slips out—real and quick—and it knocks him sideways. He hadn’t realized how long it’d been since that sound lived this close.

They drift closer without meaning to. She’s still kneeling between his knees; he’s still braced on the table. The space between them gets… particular. Her gaze flicks from the gauze to his eyes, to his mouth, back again in a species of telltale triangle. He can smell tea on her breath, shampoo at her collar. Heat radiates off her and his palms itch to touch. He doesn’t.

She keeps talking like they’re not toeing a cliff. “Change it tonight. Don’t re-tape it yourself. If it pulls, sit out the first breach. And if you so much as think about rooftop parkour before this closes—”

“Am I being deposed?” He aims for light. It lands a little ragged.

Her mouth curves. “I’d eat you alive on the stand, you have seen me on a trial before.” She lays the last piece of tape, neat and sure, and the pad of her thumb drags across his skin one more time. Exhibit D: stolen brush, unintentional; Exhibit E: her pulse spikes and steadies like she caught herself.

The wire between them pulls tight. He feels her sway one millimeter closer and stop—Exhibit F: restraint under duress. His mouth wants to misbehave. He doesn’t let it. God, he wants to kiss her until breathing is optional.

Silence spreads, warm and electric. He can hear the tiny click of her swallow. He can feel the heat of her knees against the outside of his calves. He catalogs everything because it keeps his hands where they are.

“I meant what I said yesterday,” he says at last. No preamble. No clever detour. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

Her breath catches so lightly anyone else would miss it. She stares down at the bandage. “I wanna believe you,” she answers after a moment. “I do.”

“Then do.”

A beat. Two. She nods once, then again, as if convincing herself she can accept the offering without surrendering the ground beneath it. “Okay.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I’m not going to make this harder for you,” he adds, careful, each word placed. “I know there are… other considerations. On the other coast.” He doesn’t say a name. He doesn’t need to. “I’m not asking you for anything you can’t give.”

Her eyes flick to his, quick and sharp, like a blade catching light. “What are you asking, then?”

“Honesty,” he says. “From me, first.” A small, wry curve at his mouth. “And maybe… a chance to be better at it.”

The corner of her lip lifts. It isn’t quite a smile; it’s something like recognition. “You’re terrible at easy.”

“So are you.”

That earns him the ghost of a laugh. She sobers quickly, fingers flattening the corner of the recent bandage. “I came to talk about the pier.”

“And we did,” he says. “We can keep doing only that.” A beat. “And when you want to talk about anything else… I’ll be here.”

She blinks first. “All right.” She sets the tape aside but doesn’t move away yet. Her eyes are on his—then his mouth—then back. “You’ll live.”

“Jury’s out.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” She plants one palm on his thigh to push herself up.

Every muscle in his body goes tense, then molten. Her weight in his handprint, the brief press of fingers through fabric. Exhibit G: tactile contact; relevance extremely prejudicial.

She rises, the spell breaking with the soft rasp of cotton against cotton. He breathes again.

“Text me the rendezvous,” she says, slipping the kit back together. “Time, ingress, who’s where.”

He nods. “Copy.”

She hesitates in the doorway—half-second, barely there. “And Matt… don’t re-tape that yourself.”

“I won’t,” he says, and for once it’s not a lie.

Her mouth twitches like she almost believes him. Jacket, phone, that familiar scent of autumn-and-steel, and then the door eases open.

“See you in a few hours.”

“Yeah,” he says, steady and grateful. “Goodnight, Natasha.”

The door clicks. Her steps retreat down the hall, down the stairs, into the city. He stands for a long moment in the quiet afterwards, palms open on his knees, breathing through the ache and the small, stubborn spark that feels dangerously like hope.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The HQ buzzes with quiet chaos—maps spread across the table, Luke and Natasha hunched over one corner as she points out access routes with that sharp, no-nonsense tone that makes everyone listen.

Matt tries—God, he tries—to keep his focus on the conversation in front of him. But his head keeps tilting, ears straining toward the sound of her heartbeat, the scrape of her sleeve against paper, the faint scent of leather and shampoo that’s been haunting him since she walked back into his orbit.

Jessica leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirk carved into her face like she’s been waiting for this moment.

The second Natasha leaves the room with Luke, Jessica doesn’t waste a beat.

“Dude,” she says, low and sharp, “you’re almost worse than Danny right now.”

Matt’s head snaps up, frown immediate. “Excuse me?”

Jessica jerks her chin toward the door Natasha just walked through. “You’re practically wagging your tail every time she breathes in your direction. Danny’s got a crush, but you—” She lets out a low whistle. “You’re hopeless.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. He fiddles with the edge of the file, like the paper might save him. “Shut up, Jess.”

“Not denying it,” she sing-songs.

He huffs, lips twitching despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”

Jessica grins like she’s already won. “And you’re obvious.”.

Jessica narrows her eyes, watching the way Matt’s head turned the second Natasha laughed down the hall. She tilts her head, voice dripping with smug amusement.

“How long has this thing been going on?”

Matt doesn’t even look up from the file he’s pretending to read even though he can’t. “Not telling you.”

Jessica barks out a laugh. “Oh, come on. You think I can’t smell bullshit from a mile away?”

“Jess.” His tone is warning, but it only makes her grin wider.

She leans forward across the table, eyes glinting. “Seriously—months? Years? Don’t tell me it’s some epic star-crossed thing. I’ll puke.”

Matt exhales, tight and controlled, lips pressed into a thin line. “Not telling you,” he repeats, firmer this time.

Jessica straightens, smirk never fading. “That’s a yes.”

Matt mutters, “You’re insufferable.”

Jessica drops into the chair across from him, arms folded, smirk locked in place. “Come on, tell me. I swear I won’t make fun of you.”

Matt tilts his head, unimpressed. “Bold of you to assume I believe that.”

She shrugs. “Okay, fine. I will make fun of you. But only a little.”

He exhales, long-suffering, fingers tapping lightly on the table. For a moment he says nothing—then, almost against his better judgment, his lips twitch.

“…Since 2008.”

Jessica blinks. Then her jaw drops. “Two-thou—are you serious?!”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “It’s… complicated.”

She leans back, laughing so loud Luke glances over from across the room. “Oh my God. Oh my God. You’re telling me this is a ten-year situationship?”

Matt grimaces. “…Don’t call it that.”

Jessica is practically doubled over now. “A decade of this push-and-pull ‘will they, won’t they’ soap opera crap and you still can’t get your shit together?”

“Jessica,” he warns, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

Jessica’s still cackling, wiping at her eyes like she can’t even deal. Matt finally grumbles, “It’s not like we’ve been together this whole time.”

Jessica freezes, then her grin splits wider. “Oh my God. That only makes it worse.”

Matt frowns. “How does that make it worse?”

She leans across the table, eyes glittering with pure mischief. “Because that means you’ve spent a decade in some half-assed, on-again-off-again, situationship-slash-burnout-romance where half the time you’re brooding, the other half you’re pining, and apparently the rest you’re—” she gestures vaguely at him “—in denial.”

Matt presses his lips together, unimpressed. “I’m not denying anything.”

Jessica smirks and tips her beer back, gives him a look over the rim. “But you know what? I like you better when she’s around.”

Matt’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. At least you’re not drowning your sadness between a random woman’s legs every other night.” She grins like a cat who’s caught the canary. “It’s honestly refreshing.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t—” He stops, runs a hand over his face. “Okay, maybe sometimes.”

Jessica smirks. “Sometimes? Buddy, the whole neighborhood was talking.”

Matt leans forward, deadpan. “That is an exaggeration.”

She waggles her brows. “Oh sure, because you were so discreet with the lipstick marks and the 4 a.m. walk of shame.”

Matt sighs, muttering, but the corner of his mouth betrays him with the faintest twitch of a smile.

Chapter Text

The supply closet at the back of HQ isn’t much—mop bucket, bleach, a shelf of bandages and batteries—but it has a door that is stuck halfway and a flickering bulb that makes everything feel closer than it already is.

Matt almost makes it to the shelf when the air shifts—lavender, metal, ozone—and he doesn’t need the faint copper tang to know there is blood.

“Hey,” he says, turning his head toward her as she slips in. “You’re bleeding.”

Natasha tips her chin, unimpressed. 

“You have a real gift for small talk.” The cut along her hairline is small, more nuisance than injury, but a thread of red had tracked to her temple. “Just need a wipe and a strip.”

He steps closer anyway. “Let me check.”

She arches a brow. “Do you even—”

“Cute,” he murmurs, and steps in. “Hold still.”

It is a narrow room; half a step and she is backed to the shelf, his chest a heat line in front of her. He reaches for the med kit by memory, tears an alcohol pad with his teeth. When his free hand lifts to brush her hair back, her pulse skips—eight clean beats, sharp as a metronome jump.

Exhibit A, he thought, because his brain was an idiot: proximity response.

The pad is cold. She hisses as it stings. “Tch.”

“Sorry.” His voice comes out low. Thumb at her temple, the other fingers fanning—light—behind her ear. That spot. The one that always makes her nerves go bright. Her breath shortens and his grip gentles.

“Does it need stitches?” she asks, too even.

He tilts his head, tracking the shallow seep. “No. Steri-strip.” He reaches past her for the box, and she doesn’t move, making him crowd closer. The triangle of her gaze hits him—eyes, mouth, eyes again—like a touch.

Exhibit B: the triangle look.

He smoothes the strip across her skin, then a second, the pad of his thumb following to seal the edges. His other hand had drifted—he realized too late—to the base of her skull, a warm, anchoring weight there.

Exhibit C: micro-lean. One millimeter. Stop.

He takes his hand back like it burned. Behave, he told himself. Wild cat; slow movements. “You’re good,” he says, softer.

“Debatable,” she mutters, but she didn’t step away. Her eyes flicked down, then up. “You here to brood over Band-Aids or…?”

“Aspirin.” He tugs the bottle free, then—

“Did you listen?” she asks, skeptical.

He lifts his shirt just enough to show the flat line of tape over bruised ribs. It’s clean. She gets an unbothered view of everything above it.

Silence. She looks. Longer than strictly medical.

Exhibit D: elevated heart rate at exposed skin again. Duly noted. (He allows himself a very quiet win.)

He eases the hem back down, mouth curving. “You’re staring.”

“You can’t touch my hair like that,” she counters—flicking her eyes from the strip of skin back to his mouth like she hates herself for it.

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly what it does.” Her voice goes silk-slow on exactly.

“I do,” he says, uselessly honest, and proves it—thumb warm behind her ear as he checks the edge of the cut he’s already checked. She slides a millimeter closer before she catches herself.

Exhibit E: involuntary lean. Sustained.

“Stop that,” she murmurs.

“Stop what?”

“Being… you.” A tiny, helpless flick between them. “It’s obnoxious.”

“That’s not specific enough for compliance.”

“Of course the lawyer says that.”

He laughs under his breath, and she does, too—quick, unguarded, the sound like a match strike in the cramped space. 

“Hold still,” he says, palm braced feather-light at her jaw as he wipes away the last smear of blood. The pad drops into the bin. His hand stays. Their voices drop like the temperature did.

“You’re doing it again,” she whispers.

“What, breathing?”

“Being dangerous.”

“To whom?” he asks, and reaches past her for gauze he doesn’t need, just to feel the heat of her shoulder brush his chest. The wire between them draws tight; her gaze does the triangle—eyes, mouth, eyes—and he feels the pull like a hook behind his ribs.

“Matt,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Nothing.” Her mouth tilts. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m behaving.”

“Try harder.”

“Help me out.”

“By leaving?” Her eyes drop to his mouth again, traitorous.

“By staying very, very still.”

She almost smiles; he definitely does. The air crackles.

The door bangs open.

“Do we have—” Foggy squeezes in sideways, freezes, and blinks at the tableau like he’s walked into a nature documentary. “Right. Great. The air in here is fifty percent longing, fifty percent rubbing alcohol.”

Natasha steps back in one smooth, absolutely-not-scrambling motion. “We’re out of steri-strips,” she says, cool as a winter blade.

Foggy plucks a full box from the top shelf without taking his eyes off of Matt. “Crazy. We’re… not.” He nudges it into her hand, then lifts a bottle. “Also, aspirin. Since someone refuses to admit he has ribs.” He backs toward the hall. “Fifteen-minute limit on the closet. New policy. No exceptions. There’s a sign-out sheet.”

The door thunk-squeaks shut.

Matt blows out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “…and we’re done here.”

“Roof in ten,” she says, brushing past him—shoulder, heat, gravity—like it costs her something not to look back. “Don’t be late.”

He listens to her heartbeat recede down the hall and lets the smallest smile happen.

Exhibit F: I’m absolutely not imagining this.

Foggy’s leaning against the wall when Matt finally steps out of the closet, aspirin bottle in hand, shirt straightened like that fixes anything.

“Jesus Christ,” Foggy says, eyes wide. “I was in there thirty seconds and I swear to God I almost got pregnant.”

Matt’s lips twitch. “Congratulations, buddy. Boy or a girl?”

“Twins,” Foggy fires back, pointing at him. “The air was thick, man. Like—cut-it-with-a-knife thick.”

Matt just smirks, cane tapping as he moves past him. “Not my fault you don’t know how to handle atmosphere.”

“Oh, no, no, you don’t get to play it cool with me,” Foggy says, following him down the hall. “You’re practically glowing. If I squint, I can see the smug radiating off you. And I’m not saying I don’t approve. Hell, I’m saying the opposite—this? This is great. Best version of you I’ve seen in months.”

Matt huffs a laugh, low and warm. “Glad I could provide entertainment.”

“I’m serious, Murdock,” Foggy says, clapping his shoulder. “Don’t screw this up. Please. I’m begging you. Because watching you circle her like a moth to a blowtorch is exhausting, and if it’s going to burn anyway, at least burn bright.”

Matt’s grin deepens—unapologetic, smug as hell. “Relax, Fog. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Foggy stares at him, then throws his hands up. “Oh God. That’s even worse.”

Matt just chuckles, heading for the war room, and Foggy mutters under his breath like a prayer: “Please, universe, don’t let this idiot crash and burn…”

But the grin on his face betrays him.

The glow bleeds through the stairwell before they’re even on the roof—sickly, pulsing, wrong. Natasha stops at the landing, fingers catching Matt’s forearm.

“Mask,” she says, low.

He’s already pulling the cowl up, horns catching a glint of emergency red from the EXIT sign. Beside him, Danny knots his own hood and half-mask into place.

They push through.

Hell’s Kitchen breathes cold and damp. The rooftop is a tar and gravel rectangle boxed by knee-high parapets, water tanks hulking like watchmen. In the center sits the device—sleek Stark-brushed metal around a core that does not belong in this decade. It’s the size of a beer keg on a tripod, seams glowing an angry, accelerating blue. The air around it warps with heat.

“Yeah, that seems bad,” Jessica says, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets like she’s at a bus stop. “On a scale of toaster to ‘we all vaporize,’ where are we?”

“Closer to vaporize,” Luke answers, eyes narrowed. “It’s humming like a transformer about to blow.”

Natasha keeps moving, reading angles, lines of approach. “Back perimeter. No one touch it. I called Stark.”

“You what?” Jessica snorts. “You phoned the cavalry? That the plan? We whistle and a billionaire in a tin can—”

A high, ripping whine slices the night. Red-gold lights bloom. Iron Man drops out of the fog, hits the gravel with a hot gust that sets everyone’s coats flapping.

“—shows up,” Jessica deadpans. “Cool.”

The faceplate lifts. Tony Stark’s grin is obnoxious and fully earned.

“Evening, Neighborhood Watch,” he says, visor tilting toward the glowing keg. “And Little Red Riding Horns. Very seasonal.”

Matt doesn’t bite. He’s already cataloguing the harmonics pouring off the core—too smooth, too regular, a charge curve rising on a neat exponential.

Tony’s glance slides to Natasha. “Red,” he greets, then clocking the crew: “And her… book club. You know how to throw a rooftop party.”

“Play nice,” Natasha says, deadpan, but she’s almost smiling. “Device pinged one of your dead SKUs,” she says. “You said, and I quote, ‘if something pretends to be mine and isn’t, call.’ I called.”

Tony’s visor tips toward the glowing keg. “Who let my tech reproduce without permission?” He plants a gauntlet on the housing. “FRIDAY, scan the knockoff and tell me how insulted I should be.”

“Highly insulted, sir,” the AI replies “Core geometry is Stark-derived. Firmware isn’t. External failsafes have been ripped out and replaced with… less robust philosophy.”

“Translation,” Jessica says, “it explodes.”

“Not if I romance it first.” Tony plants a gauntlet over the housing; filaments unfurl, tasting the glow. “Whoever built this reverse-engineered my old arc-coupling but cut the grown-up bits—no thermal throttling, no sane buffer. Which, by the way, is rude.”

Danny’s heartbeat stutters, audible even through the wind. “Uh… Mr. Stark? Love your work.” He’s trying to stand like a mysterious urban legend while also vibrating like a golden retriever who met Santa.

“Thanks, Lime Green Lantern,” Tony says without looking up. “Don’t press your glow stick on anything.”

“It’s not a—” Danny begins, then aborts. “Right.”

Luke folds his arms. “You can shut it down?”

“I can make it take a nap.” Tony’s eyes flick between HUD readouts. “FRIDAY, give me a soft kill path.”

“Route plotted,” she says. “Three staged dampers, reroute to ground. Ten seconds to safe.”

“Everyone not iron or unbreakable, take a half-step back,” Tony says, then glances at Jessica. “You can stay. You’ll complain if you don’t.”

Jessica rolls her eyes and does not move.

The suit’s chest reactor flares; thin arcs snake from gauntlet to chassis. The glow judders, flares, then gutters like a candle in a jar.

“Easy… easy… don’t spike on me, sweetheart,” Tony murmurs to the machine, and then, almost anticlimactic: the blue dies. The roof exhales.

Silence.

“Boom,” Tony says. “Or, more accurately, no boom.”

Natasha’s shoulders drop a hair. She steps in, eyes tracking new seams and the spiderweb of deactivated conduits. “What were they using it for?”

“Short answer? Bad.” Tony taps the shell with two fingers. “Someone raided the Stark Museum of Old Mistakes, copied the parts that go brrr, ignored the parts that go ‘please don’t kill a neighborhood,’ and then bolted on a signal harp I don’t recognize. FRIDAY?”

“Unknown signature, sir,” FRIDAY replies. “Not Hydra. Not AIM. Not Ten Rings. Cross-referencing now.”

“Terrific.” Tony looks up—first to Natasha, then to the strangers. “Names to faces, Red?”

She nods around the ring. “Jessica Jones. Luke Cage. Iron Fist—” 

“Immortal—”

“Dude—” Jessica, Luke and Matt say in unison. 

Natasha resumes, dry: “And Daredevil. Don’t worry about it.”

Tony’s gaze lingers on Matt’s cowl a beat. “Ah. Devil cosplay. Horns are… a choice.”

“So is the metal onesie,” Matt says and the smile is audible.

Toney seals a lock on the device with a flick. “I’ll keep this pacified and stop it from phoning home. You five keep doing your Netflix limited-series thing.”

Jessica squints. “He is as insufferable as advertised.”

“Top shelf insufferable,” Luke confirms.

Tony tuts. “We’re all very witty. I’m leaving this murder drum powered down, encrypted, and broadcast-shy. I’ll have FRIDAY keep a leash on it from above. As for the people who built it—”

“We’ll find them,” Natasha says. It isn’t a boast.

“Obviously you will.” Tony’s smirk softens into something like pride, and then he ruins it with tone. “I’d offer to hold your hand, but it looks like you collected your own quasi-legal task force.” Tony gives them a courtly little bow of the helmet. “Anyhoo, I have a board meeting in six hours and a headache in seven. FRIDAY’ll send you a care package—scanners, some fun acronyms—try not to lick the glowing bits.”

Natasha approaches him.

Tony lifts to the parapet and pauses, faceplate still up, eyes on Natasha. The annoying big-brother grin softens a hair, voice dropping a notch only she—and the man with the hypersenses—catch. “Good to see you, Red.”

“Good to see you too, evil spawn.”

“I’ll take you to dinner next time you’re in New York.”

“I expect something fancy and very expensive.”

“Don’t bring your friends, though. They’re weird.”

“They’re not my friends,” she says breezily.

Off to the side, Jessica mutters, “Wow. Now I’m offended.”

“Be careful.” Tony says.

“I always am,” she lies.

The faceplate seals. Repulsors flare. Iron Man lifts into the fog and is gone, a comet swallowed by city glow.

For a beat, the roof is just wind and the faraway hiss of traffic. Danny exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten minutes.

“Okay,” Jessica says, clapping once, deadpan. “Field trip’s over. We saved the borough. Again.”

Matt tilts his head, listening to the cooled device settle, to Natasha’s pulse steady as she catalogs their next steps. He turns slightly toward her, that half-visible mouth almost—almost—smiling. “Nice call.”

She doesn’t look at him. “Bag it and move,” she says, but it’s warmer than it should be.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The HQ exhales when the roof stops humming. By the time they get back downstairs, the device is a dead weight under a tarp and everyone’s shedding layers, trading quips for ice packs.

Natasha strips out of the tac harness in the hallway and swaps it for a black tee and soft joggers that don’t squeak when she moves. She scrubs Stark’s ozone out of her hair at the sink, ties it back, and pretends she doesn’t hear Danny almost walk into a filing cabinet because he’s sneaking a look.

When she steps into the ops room, Matt’s already there.

Compression shirt. Black. Clean bandage peeking at his ribs where she taped him up. Bare forearms, veins like a map, hair still damp from a quick rinse. It’s unfair. Her pulse betrays her, a quick, bright stutter.

His head tips like he catches it. Of course he catches it. Exhibit whatever, he files away, mouth curving.

“Hey,” he says, low.

“Hey.” She drifts to the table like it was her idea. “How’s the side?”

“Annoyed.” He taps the bandage. “Behaving.”

“Good. Keep it clean. No heroics with ladders.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

She flicks a look at the ceiling. “You and rooftops have history.”

He huffs, almost a laugh, and slides a printout across the table. Courier routes spiderweb Hell’s Kitchen, a dozen red circles like thumbprints. “Stark’s scan gave us a signature. I think the handoffs are masking it in short bursts. We catch the pulse, we catch the courier.”

She leans in, shoulder brushing his for a fraction of a second. “Here,” she says, tapping a cluster even though he can’t see it. “They’re using the avenue noise to bury it. If you were lazy and underpaid, you’d pick the same.”

“Lazy and underpaid is our brand,” Jessica calls, passing the doorway with a bag of frozen peas on her knuckles. “Don’t get precious about it.”

“Thank you for your service,” Natasha deadpans, eyes still on the map.

They work in a comfortable near-silence for a minute—pens, paper, the soft tick of the wall clock. Matt tilts his head, listening to traffic, to the building stretching in the night. When he speaks, it’s careful.

“You headed out after this, or… hanging around for a while?”

She doesn’t look up. “You asking if I want to hang out, Murdock?”

“Trying to make that sound less like high school,” he admits. “We could… go over the Stark tree. Or just—be here. For a bit.”

She knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s not a trap; it’s him laying the ground like you’d approach a wild thing—no sudden noise, no cornering. She could say she’s got a safe house across town and a dozen reasons to be there.

“HQ’s fine,” she says instead, casual. “For a bit.”

He nods like he won a motion and sets two mugs on the table. Coffee, strong and clean. “This one’s decent.”

She takes it, hiding the smile in the steam. “Acceptable.”

Silence stretches, easy. He breaks it with a sideways glance. “So. Stark.”

“Yep.”

“He is…” He searches for the word and lands on the only honest one. “…a lot.”

“He can be a lot,” she concedes. “He’ll still help. He likes pretending he won’t, but he will.”

“Seems like the type who calls you names and then buys your building.”

“Very accurate.”

He turns the map, fingertip landing on another ring. “He also treated me like a party trick.”

“Also accurate.” She bumps his elbow with hers. “Don’t take it personally. He treats everyone like a party trick.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.” Her mouth quirks. “I actually appreciate it. Keeps me humble.”

He hums, skeptical, and for a beat they just stand there shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, looking like colleagues who haven’t wrecked each other before.

Luke sticks his head in. “I’m out. Call if that thing starts singing again.”

“Go,” Matt says. “We’ll lock up.”

Jessica follows, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at Matt, as if he needs the warning. “No roof fights. Or… you know.” She gestures at the air between them, vague and obscene. “Whatever this is.”

“Goodnight, Jessica,” Matt says, patient. The door clicks behind them. The building settles. It’s quieter than it’s been in days.

He whistles the tiniest breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “For the record, I did not plan for Stark to insult my mask.”

“You’ll live.”

“Probably.”

He takes a drink, sets the mug down, and risks it: “Thanks for staying.”

She angles him a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m trying very hard not to.”

A ghost of a smile, gone quick. She taps a street on the map. “If we put eyes here and here at rush, we can catch two birds. I’ll take the north node.”

“We can pair you with—” He stops. Tries again. “If you want a partner, I’ll pull Danny. If you want quiet, I’ll put Jones on the south and keep the channel clean.”

She hears the small adjustment and files it where she keeps all the proofs he’s trying. “Danny’s fine. He listens.”

“Mostly.”

“And doesn’t ask too many questions.”

“He thinks them very loud,” Matt says, deadpan. “But yes.”

Her gaze drops, then lifts back to his face. The compression shirt really is ridiculous. The case file in his head rustles—Exhibit I’m not even counting anymore: she’s still here. She clears her throat like she felt him think it.

“Your… Stark impression was terrible,” she says, mercifully changing lanes.

“I was going more for ‘general nuisance.’”

“Achieved.”

They go back to the work: fold a plan out of red circles and ink. Somewhere between the second pass and the third, the distance between their shoulders evaporates again, a steady hum running the length of her arm where it almost touches his.

They don’t notice how close they’ve drifted until the map runs out of table.

They’ve been building the route like they’re the same pair of hands—her pen circling choke points, his fingertip tracking pulses only he can hear, their voices low, sure, overlapping without stepping on each other. A neat little machine, the kind that makes Jessica mutter about “show-offs” on her way past.

“Courier cuts here to dodge the traffic cam,” Natasha murmurs, tapping the corner of 10th and 49th.

“And picks it back up against the bus stop,” Matt answers, sliding a fresh printout into place. “White noise hides the handoff.”

She leans to bracket a compass on the edge of the map. He leans, too—reaching for a marker beyond her shoulder—and his arm goes out on either side of her, palm landing on the table. The motion cages her in without meaning to. Warm, solid, a wall she could vault if she wanted. She doesn’t.

Exhibit T: proximity tolerated, he notes, a little dizzy from the clean hit of her shampoo and gun oil.

Natasha stills. Then slowly, she turns to face him.

They’re too close. Not a hypothetical. A fact. The kind where her breath skims his jaw and his chest brushes her shoulder with each inhale. He hears the tiny lift in her pulse, and his own answers, traitorous.

Her mouth tilts. “You realize you’re hovering like a suspicious seagull.”

“I’m reaching a marker,” he says, voice more velvet than he meant. “Important distinction.”

“Mm.” She doesn’t back up. Tips her head just enough that the cut at her temple catches the light.

He can’t help it. His hand rises, careful, asking before touching. When she doesn’t stop him, he nudges a few strands of hair back, thumb ghosting the edge of the butterfly bandage she put there herself.

“You checked that two hours ago,” she says, but it comes out softer than a warning.

“I’m very thorough.” He skims just beneath, light as a whisper. “Still clean. Good.”

Her heartbeat flickers, bright. Exhibit U: hair contact permitted; patient complains but does not retreat. He’s smug about it and tries not to be.

“Stop it, Murdock,” she murmurs.

“Stop what?”

“You know what.”

“Pretty sure that’s not in the penal code,” he says, and his fingers are still in her hair, and her gaze does that thing that detonates his restraint every time.

He drags his hand back like it weighs something. “Tell me to move and I will.”

She studies him, the little crease between her brows that means she’s thinking too hard. “You always do what I tell you?”

“I try,” he says, truthful and dangerous.

“Liar,” she says, but there’s no heat in it.

They hover there, the wire between them pulled tight enough to sing. He can hear the building settle, the city roll by below, the distant clack of Danny trying not to eavesdrop and failing. Here, though, it’s just breath and skin and a thousand things they aren’t saying.

He doesn’t add anything smart at all, because his mouth is one bad decision from leaning down the last inch.

He reaches around her for the marker at last, the move drawing her closer along the line of his body. Unapologetic now, deliberate enough to be a question. Her breath stutters; he files it and uses the cap to circle their last pinch point.

“Okay,” she says, steadying herself on the map. “You take south stairwell, I’ll take north. Jones and Cage run the middle. Danny floats where we need noise.”

“Copy,” he says, because work is a life raft and he’s not a complete idiot.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It hums. His head dips without permission; hers tilts like gravity’s playing favorites. They pause there, suspended. His hand has found her hip at some point, resting; her palm is flat on the table but her fingers have drifted until they touch his.

He shuts his eyes. Inhales. Every part of him wants to close the distance and forget how to breathe. The part of him that promised himself to go slow—approach the stray, don’t spook her—wins by half an inch.

Her voice lands low. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

They both hear the lie in it. Her palm turns, slips against his fingers. Not pulling away. Testing the current.

“Probably not,” he agrees, just as low. His thumb brushes once along the side of her hand, like a secret.

She looks at his mouth. He feels her sway that impossible millimeter and stop.

He forces a breath. Steps back a fraction. The cage opens—not a retreat; a promise. “North stairwell it is,” he says, voice even. “I’ll push you the channel key tomorrow.”

She nods, slow, like she has to remember how. “Send it.”

Her eyes stay on his for a beat too long, then she steps past him, brushing his chest as she goes. She pauses at the doorway, half-turned before she’s gone down the hall, light on her feet, leaving coffee steam and map paper flutter in her wake.

He stands there another ten seconds, listening to her heartbeat retreat, steady and sure down the stairs. Then he exhales, centers his hands on the table, and smiles to himself—small, real.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The mission is a success. The freight elevator shudders them down from the roof, steel ribs rattling like a drum. Nobody talks. Boots squeak, Kevlar creaks, adrenaline hums loud enough to taste.

At the HQ level, the gate grinds up. Luke and Danny spill out first, hunting water and a couch. Jessica peels off with a mutter about someone owing her new boots. Foggy welcomes them and heads for the kettle. Matt steps out last, pushing his cowl back, listening to the way the building takes a breath after a fight.

“Good work,” he says to the room in general, voice level. “We’ll debrief in five.”

He turns toward the hall to the lockers—and stops. A gloved hand hooks the inside of his elbow and tugs.

“Come here,” Natasha says, low.

He shouldn’t like how easily his feet obey. She steers him down the utility corridor, past the breaker box, to a narrow storage closet where the fan hum covers everything. The door snicks shut, leaving them with the scent of dust and antiseptic and ozone from one of Danny’s fried toys.

“Romanoff—” he starts, because he promised himself he’d behave.

“Shut up,” she breathes, and then her fingers are in his compression shirt, and she’s rising onto her toes.

The kiss isn’t careful. She gives him the first press, hot and sure, mouth parted like she’s been biting back this exact mistake all night. Matt doesn’t make a sound—just meets her halfway and then some, hands finding her waist with the kind of restraint that hurts.

She tastes like copper and mint and the ghost of champagne he knows is only a memory by now. Her pulse is up in his thumb. Electric. Exhibit not counting anymore: initiated by her. Consent explicit. Adrenaline complicit.

He tries to keep it gentle. He really does. Then her fingers hook his collar and pull—insisting, not asking—and his restraint buckles.

He kisses her back like he’s been starving: deeper, steadier, mouth opening to hers until the hum of the fan gets swallowed by the blood in his ears. She tilts her head; he follows, mapping old territory like a man who never forgot the way home. She bites his bottom lip light and deliberate. He groans into her mouth, the sound punched out of him.

“Nat,” he manages, wrecked.

“Don’t start,” she says, and kisses him again for good measure.

Her armor presses the shelf into his shoulder; his palm finds the small of her back and fits like it always has. She grips his suit at the hips and drags him closer until there’s no space left to pretend with. He brackets her against the shelving, not trapping, just holding, just anchoring, and she melts and fights at the same time, the way she always does—one hand fisted in his shirt, the other sliding up the back of his neck to the soft hair there like she’s learning it all over.

This is a bad idea. This is oxygen.

He breaks for half a breath and doesn’t step away. “Tell me to stop.”

She looks up at him in the half-dark, pupils blown, breathing fast. “If I wanted you to stop,” she whispers, voice shaking on the honesty, “we wouldn’t be in a closet.”

He swears under his breath—prayer or profanity, he can’t tell—and kisses her again, slower now, like the world will forgive them if they pace it. She answers with a hungry little sound that goes straight to his knees.

His thumb grazes the edge of the butterfly bandage at her temple. “You okay?”

She huffs a laugh against his mouth. “You’re always like this?”

“Mhmm—” He noses along her cheek, presses one soft kiss there just to be cruel to himself. “You’re bleeding again.”

“I’m fine.” She catches his jaw, thumbs at his beard like she didn’t mean to. “This looks good,” she murmurs, and then curses herself for saying anything soft out loud.

He smiles, small and broken-edged. “So do you.”

Something in her chest stutters. She shuts it up by pulling him down one more time, deep enough that he forgets how to stand still. His hands flex at her hips; he wants to lift her, wants to lose his mind, wants— He doesn’t. He keeps it at kisses and the tremor in his fingers and the way he has to breathe her in or suffocate.

Footsteps pass the hall. She stills; he does too, both of them listening while the steps fade.

“Debrief,” she says, a ghost of discipline threading the word. Neither of them moves.

“Debrief,” he echoes, not trusting himself to let go first.

She slips her hand from his shirt with surgical care, smoothing the rumple like that will erase the last two minutes. It won’t. He reaches up and straightens the stray curl behind her ear, because he’s an idiot and he wants to touch her one more time.

“Matt,” she warns, not really warning.

“Right.” He takes one clean step backward. The wire between them hums and holds. He’ll take the win.

She opens the door. Cool hall air rushes in like the world, loud and ordinary. They walk back out side by side and don’t touch, which should feel like control and instead feels like falling.

The conference table’s already a mess of coffee, gauze, and maps. Luke’s got an ice pack balanced on his knuckles; Danny’s making tea like a golden retriever with an electric kettle. Jessica looks up from her chair, eyes narrowing as she clocks both of them at once: flushed, red mouths, hair a little worse for wear.

“Successful op, huh?” she drawls.

“Productive,” Matt says blandly, sliding into his chair.

Natasha is better. She only reaches for a bottle of water like she wasn’t just kissing him stupid in a tight closet.

Foggy drifts a look between them and clears his throat into the agenda. “Okay, so: device down thanks to Stark, courier’s spooked, we’ve got forty-eight hours before anyone grows a new head. Who’s got eyes on the canal run—?”

It settles into the clean order of a debrief. Bullet points. Next steps. They are very good at pretending to be adults.

For a minute, there’s peace. The city is outside. The room is warm. Matt can almost convince himself that restraint is a thing he knows how to keep.

Then Natasha’s phone lights up on the table and starts to buzz.

Jessica leans a fraction to glance at the screen and snorts. “Your boyfriend’s calling.”

Every head turns. On the glass the name of Steve Rogers flashes.

Silence slams the room a shade colder. The name on her screen hits the table like a small grenade. Matt doesn’t move. He can’t—because moving is admitting he heard it, and he’s trying very hard to be the man who didn’t.

Natasha reacts to Jessica’s joke. “He’s not—” But she slips her phone into her palm and stands. “I’ll be right back,” she tells the room, voice even. She chooses the stairs over the elevator—footfalls light, already halfway to the door before any of them can pretend not to watch.

The latch clicks. The stairwell swallows her.

Matt exhales, slow. He sets a hand flat on the debrief map like he can pin himself to the present with pushpins and grid lines. He tells himself, Don’t. He tells himself again, harder. Don’t. Then the rooftop door creaks two floors up, wind takes a breath, and the call connects with a soft, intimate hello he could pick out of a hurricane.

He hears both sides. He always does.

“Hey,” Steve says—warm, bright, steady. Even through a tiny speaker and a city away, the man’s voice barely nudges above resting. Of course.

Natasha’s voice changes—just a shade—when she answers him. Softer at the edges, shoulders loose. “Hey.”

Matt presses his tongue to his molars and tries to tune his world to anything else: Foggy’s pen cap worrying plastic; Danny stirring tea with unnecessary gusto; a radiator ticking awake. Useless. The rooftop is a drum and the phone is a bell.

“Just checking in,” Steve says. “Wanda’s threatening to hex the TV if you don’t come back for part two of her sitcom marathon.”

A breath of a laugh from Natasha, the kind she doesn’t spend lightly. “Tell her I said to save the episode.”

“And eat something,” Steve adds. “Rhodey put together one of his protein care packages. It looks… industrial, but I am assured it’s edible.”

“I can fend for myself.”

“I know.” He lets the smile live in his voice for a beat. “You okay?”

Matt shuts his eyes. Her heart slows a fraction. He hates that he hears it. He hates that it makes sense.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Busy. With friends.”

The word is a scalpel. He doesn’t know whether it’s meant to cut or cauterize, and it does both.

“Good,” Steve says. “I heard about some Stark-adjacent headaches out your way. If you need leverage, Tony owes me two favors and a very expensive dinner.”

“Already cashed the favor,” she says, wry. “Already handled it. With some help.”

Steve laughs quietly. “He’s always a lot.” A pause, gentler. “I’m proud of you.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. The sentence is nothing. It lands and sits there, heavy and undeserved in the middle of the map he’s pretending to read.

“Be careful out there,” Steve goes on, careful like he’s stepping around landmines, “maybe we—well, we can catch up when you’re back. No pressure.”

Natasha’s silence is a practiced thing. It lasts exactly long enough to be an answer and not long enough to be a wound. “We’ll see.”

“Copy that,” Steve says softly. “Call me if you need backup, okay?”

“Promise.”

“Night, Nat.”

“Night, Steve.”

The call ends. The rooftop door eases shut. Her footsteps start down.

Matt pulls his hand off the paper and realizes he’s been creasing the edge into a hard line. He smooths it once, twice. The room sounds wrong now—too bright, too near. He resets the mask: shoulders squared, mouth neutral, voice cooled to courtroom temperature.

Natasha comes back in, face composed, a stray curl damp from the night air. She doesn’t look at him first. That helps. It doesn’t fix anything.

“Alright,” Matt says, and even Foggy glances up at the temperature drop. “We move at 0200. Jones, Cage, intercept on the south approach. Rand, you’re with me on the west fire escape. Romanoff—” a beat too long, then crisp again, “—you’ll ride overwatch. Call it if you see anything we don’t.”

Her eyes flick to his, searching for the softness they’d left in a closet ten minutes ago. There’s none on display. She nods once. “Okay.”

He gives the rest of the orders without turning to her. He doesn’t have to. He can hear her shifting her weight, can feel the ghost of her pulse against his palm from when he’d held her there. It burns clean and mean in his chest, and under it a prayer he doesn’t say out loud:

Stand your ground. Don’t be a hypocrite. Don’t bleed all over the floor because someone else can make her heartbeat slow.

They’re five minutes from wheels-up when Jessica hooks two fingers into Matt’s sleeve and drags him toward the stairwell.

“Hey, Murdock,” she says, voice low, eyes flicking to the others. “You good?”

“I’m fine.” He tries to step past. She shifts, blocking, all sharp cheekbones and sharper bullshit detector.

“Uh-huh. So convincing. Come on.”

He doesn’t turn to her, but he tilts his head just enough to count the beats: Foggy’s anxious click-click pen, Danny’s tea spoon, Luke’s steady patience, Natasha’s pulse right at the edge of the room like a wire drawn tight. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, we will.” Jessica jerks her chin toward the door. “Focus. Not on her. On the job. Don’t make me babysit your Catholic spiral mid-fight.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Copy.”

She thumps his shoulder once—hard enough to sting, soft enough to count as care—and lets him go.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Night peels open over Hell’s Kitchen in cold ribbons of wind. The rendezvous is a block of warehouses by the river—corrugated metal, sodium lamps, and shadows that listen back. The courier’s supposed to run the alley in a two-van relay, hand-off in sixty seconds, gone in ninety.

Everything has been going just fine. They’re almost finishing the job. Matt doesn’t pair himself with her because he can’t trust his words if he does.

The first van noses into the alley, engine note old and abused. Four heartbeats inside; two posted ahead with cheap radios and a bad sense of perimeter.

The back doors of the van blow open. Two more pour out, and Danny meets them with a blur of hands, the low thrum of chi once, twice—measured, disciplined. Matt hears bones give, boots scramble, the dull thunk of a head to metal.

“Hand-off in thirty,” Natasha says. “Second van three blocks out, north approach, cutting through—wait—split route. They’re diverting.”

“Routes?” Matt pivots.

“Primary still north. Secondary just rolled east to Mercer—smaller engine, two inside, one package.” A beat of silence. “The package is hotter. Smaller chassis. Looks like a Stark micro-reactor cradle—jury-rigged. This is the one.”

“Cage, Jones, hold the primary,” Matt orders. “Rand—”

“I’m with you,” Danny says, already moving.

Natasha doesn’t wait for assignments. “I’m taking the east.”

“Romanoff—hold,” Matt snaps, too quick.

A pause. You could thread a needle with it.

“Relax,” she says, cool and lethal. “I’ll call it in.”

She ghosts across rooftops, a whisper of cable and breath. He tracks her by heartbeat. It’s steady—steady—until it isn’t.

“Second van at Mercer,” she reports. “They’ve got a driver and one inside hugging the case like a life raft. They’re not stopping for the hand-off—they’re running hot.”

“Do not engage alone,” Matt says. He can feel Jessica listening to the tone and rolling her eyes from two blocks away.

“Copy,” Natasha says. It sounds like a lie.

Down in the alley, Luke peels the crumpled driver out with two fingers. “We’re good here,” he says. “Go.”

“Rand, with me,” Matt says, sprinting up the fire escape, picking the street by sound. Danny keeps pace, quiet.

“You’re amped,” Danny says between breaths, not unkind. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Try harder.”

They clear the roofline right as the secondary van knifes under the cross street. Natasha is a shadow two buildings ahead, sprinting. The wind strips scent and throws it back. Matt calculates angles, distance, the chatter of panicked men. He hears her anchor line sing out, the snap of a carabiner taking weight—

No.

“Natasha, don’t—”

She jumps.

Natasha drops fast and clean—a dark arc cutting through city light—and lands on the van’s roof in a cat-footed crouch that the suspension hates. Metal screams. Inside, the men do, too. She slaps a mag charge onto the roof, palms flat, blows the hole, and disappears into the van like a blade sheathing itself. Gunfire chokes the comms a beat later; someone yells in Russian; tires squeal.

“Luke, Jess, block Mercer at Ninth!” Matt barks, already in motion, every line in him sharpened to the point of breaking.

“On it,” Jessica says, grimly delighted. “I love vehicular manslaughter.”

“Not manslaughter,” Luke corrects, jogging. “Vehicular… hugging.”

The van fishtails, clips a hydrant, spins. Natasha’s heartbeat spikes once—sharp, bright—then steadies into ice again. She’s exactly herself in the worst possible way.

Matt runs faster.

From the comms: a grunt, a curse, and Natasha’s voice, closer, like she’s got her mouth near a lapel mic and a gun near someone’s throat. “They’ve wired the cradle to a dead man’s switch. Driver’s got the trigger. If he lets go—boom.”

“How big a boom?” Luke asks.

“Stark-adjacent,” Natasha says dryly, breath thin. “Big enough.”

“Romanoff—” Matt’s on the edge of the building now, gauging the leap, the drop, the angle to take the windshield without severing the driver’s hand and the city with it. “Talk to me.”

“I am.” A shuffle, a thud, a hiss of pain she swallows. “I’ve got the passenger pinned. Driver’s panicking. I can’t let him pass out.”

“How do you want to play it?” Danny asks, calm.

A heartbeat’s worth of decision. Natasha takes the most Natasha option available.

“I’m going to climb over the seat,” she says, “and put my hand over his so if he drops it, mine doesn’t.”

“Don’t,” Matt says, already moving anyway. “Natasha—”

The van screams around the corner and Matt is already in the air, baton catching the lip of the roof, momentum swinging him forward. He punches through the windshield with his boots, glass erupting in a glittering sheet. The driver yelps, fingers spasming on the dead man’s switch—

Natasha’s hand is already over his.

“I’ve got it,” she grits, half-folded between the front seats, wedged in tight, gun pressed under the passenger’s jaw. “Do not move.”

The passenger moves. Of course he does.

Steel flashes. Matt hears the knife whisper free, hears the inhale that always comes just before a bad choice. He dives through the ragged frame, grabs the wrist—but the blade still finds her, a quick, ugly slide under her left ribs.

Luke and Jessica step into the street like a closing door. The van fishtails again, tires shrieking; Danny hits the back doors and rips them clean. Matt clamps his hand over the driver’s, over hers, pinning the trigger all together while Natasha drives her elbow back into the passenger’s throat and kicks his knife away. Danny hauls the guy out like a sack. Luke palms the hood and slows the whole machine with a grinding, resentful shudder.

“Cage,” Matt says, jaw tight, “power down.” Luke reaches in, cuts the ignition. The engine dies; the world exhales.

“We clear?” Jessica, bored again.

“We’re clear,” Natasha answers, and now the edge is back in her voice, the kind she only gets when she’s holding herself together by will alone.

They extract slow: Matt takes the switch, guides the driver’s hand to the wheel, then pries his fingers open one at a time while Danny swaps in a clamp from Jessica’s pocket kit. The cradle goes slack to safe; Foggy cheers thinly in their ears from HQ. Cops will be here in three minutes; it takes them two to vanish.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Back at HQ the adrenaline curdles into something mean.

“Sit,” Matt says, peeling his cowl off, pointing at the metal table.

“I can—”

“Sit.” The word was a flat line.

“I can do it,” Natasha says, already unzipping the catsuit to the waist, black tank streaked with blood.

“You were stabbed.” His hands are already in the med kit, bottles clacking. He’s too controlled, too precise. The only thing shaking is the air around him.

“And you jumped through a windshield,” she shoots back, climbing onto the edge. “We all make choices.”

He swabs. The antiseptic hits and she hisses—not from the sting, but from the way his fingers tremble before he locks them into stillness. He doesn’t acknowledge her. He can’t. If he does, the tectonic plate in his chest will slip.

“Were you trying to die?” He couldn’t keep it in. “Be honest. Was that the plan?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she shot back, knuckles whitening on the table edge. “I made a call. It worked.”

“It worked because you didn’t pass out in a moving car with a bomb cradle and a panicked driver,” he said, voice tightening as he poured antiseptic. “If that blade had been a half-inch—”

“It wasn’t.” Her eyes flared hotter. “And if you weren’t busy diving through windshields maybe I could’ve had backup before I climbed into the front seat—”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault you put yourself on the knife?”

“I’m saying I did the job in front of me while you did the job in front of you.” She jerked when the gauze stuck. “Don’t pull rank. You don’t have it.”

He tried to thread the suture. The needle kissed, skated, skittered in his trembling grip. He swore under his breath, set it down, pulled another. The tremor rode up his forearms.

“I wasn’t going to let him black out.” She grips the edge of the table, muscles ticking. “We didn’t have time to run a committee vote.”

He sets the needle. Stitch one, stitch two. His jaw grinds so hard it aches. “You almost died.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That isn’t a metric.” The words are colder than he means them to be. Maybe that’s the only way they come out right now. “You don’t get points for almost, Natasha.”

She glares. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your clients who tried to stab a landlord. This is my job. I made a call.”

“And I’m telling you it was a bad one.”

“Oh, right, I forgot—you’re the arbiter of good calls.” The sarcasm is a blade of its own. “Save it for the confessional, Murdock.”

He ties off the stitch too hard; she grunts. The sound wrecks something in him. He softens—then hardens again, because if he softens he’s going to say I thought I lost you in the span between your breath hitch and the comm going dead.

“Hold still,” he says. It comes out like an order.

“Don’t bark at me.”

“Then stop trying to get yourself killed.”

“Then stop acting like you get to tell me how.”

The door swings wide. “Hey! I brought—oh.” Foggy takes in the scene: Matt’s white knuckles, the bright gauze, Natasha’s steady glare. He sets the takeout on a desk without looking away. “Okay. New plan.”

“Foggy—” Matt starts.

“Matthew.” Foggy’s voice has zero give. “Out.”

“I can do it.”

“You can rip a steering wheel off with your teeth when you’re like this, sure.” Foggy steps in, gloved up in three practiced motions, and angles his shoulder between them. “But you’re about to lace her to the table. Go get air. Go count bricks. I’ll stitch.”

Matt doesn’t move.

Foggy doesn’t blink. “I’m not asking, Matt. Out.”

The cord in Matt’s jaw jumps. He puts the needle down very carefully, then the forceps, then the gauze. “Don’t let her argue with you about lidocaine,” he mutters, because he needs to say something that isn’t I thought you were dying in my hands. He backs out, cowl dangling from his fist, and the door clicks shut behind him.

Silence, softer. The hum of the AC. Foggy’s exhale.

“Mind if I take a look?” he asks, already moving gently to where Matt had been.

Natasha’s tension eases a notch. “Please.”

“Great. Because otherwise I was going to do it anyway.” He peers, winced in sympathy. “Fun spot. You’re lucky.”

“So I’ve been told,” she says dryly.

“By some miracle,” he adds, because someone had to say it who wasn’t vibrating with terror. He irrigates, slow and warm, hands sure where Matt’s had been stubborn. “Okay. Needle’s coming. Four, maybe five stitches. You breathe, I’ll poke.”

She breathes. He pokes. The thread slides and he ties it. “For the record,” Foggy says conversationally, “he’s an absolute asshole when he’s scared.”

A breath she might almost have laughed on. “Noted.”

“And you scared him,” he says, quieter now. “A lot.”

Her eyes flicks away, then back. “I scared me, too.”

“Yeah, well.” He snips the thread. “He heard the knife go in. Heard you clamp down on the sound. Then you went quiet for three seconds while you killed the phone. Those were the longest three seconds of his week.”

“He’ll live,” she murmurs, but it lacked teeth.

“He will,” Foggy agreed. “Mostly because I’m not letting him in here until I’m done.” A beat. “How’s your pain?”

“Four,” she lies.

“Try again.”

“Six.” She sighs. “Seven when you pull.”

“Honesty looks great on you, Nat.” He lays the final butterfly, smoothes gauze, tapes. “There we go.” He peels off the gloves. “I’ll yell at him for you when he comes back. He needs it.”

“He already did enough yelling for both of us,” she mutters, softer than her bite wants to be.

Foggy’s smile tucks in at the corners. “That wasn’t yelling. That was Matt-speak for I thought the world just ended and I don’t know how to say that without ruining everything.”

She huffs. “He should practice.”

“Believe it or not,” Foggy says, packing up the kit, “he is.” He tilts his head, searching her face. “No heroics for forty-eight hours. That means no rooftops, no contortion stunts, no punching through windshields—tell your boyfriend in San Francisco the same if he asks.”

Her mouth twitches. “He’s not—”

“I’m kidding.” Foggy lifts a brow like he was filing that away for later. He strips his gloves, softer again. “You okay?”

She rolls the word around. “I will be.”

“Good.” He gives her the gentlest half-smile. “Because the second you can stand without swaying, I’m sending you home with a lecture for Matt about not trying to suture while at a seven on the Richter scale.”

“Deal,” she says, and finally—finally—lets her shoulders sink an inch as the adrenaline bled out of the room. Outside, on the metal stairs, Matt’s footsteps paces a short, tight line—back and forth, back and forth—like a metronome trying to relearn a calmer song.

The stairwell door wheezes open and shut. Foggy’s footsteps crosses the gravel—steady, unhurried, the way you walk toward a spooked animal.

Matt has his palms braced on the parapet, head tipped to the muffled riot of the city. He doesn’t turn. “How is she?” The words come level; the tremor in them does not.

“Okay,” Foggy says, close enough to be heard, far enough to not crowd. “Five stitches, shallow puncture. Missed anything important by, like, a very rude half-inch. Cleaned, glued, taped, lectured. She’ll be sore, but she’s fine.”

Matt lets out a breath like he’d been holding it for three blocks. The shake in his hands doesn’t stop.

Foggy glances at them. “You wanna pretend you’re not vibrating, or you wanna breathe with me?”

“Don’t,” Matt says, too fast, then winces. “Please. I’m— I’m good.”

“You’re not,” Foggy says, gentler. He moves to Matt’s side, matching his lean on the parapet. “Pick a sound that isn’t her. Fire escape creak, cab idle, the deli slicer two buildings over. In for four, out for six.”

Matt swallows. Found the soft click-whirr of a traffic light cycling. “In for four,” he murmurs, and does it. Again. Again. The tremor eases from visible to contained.

“Better?” Foggy asks.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Because I’m gonna say the thing you don’t wanna hear.” Foggy tilts his head, voice low. “You can’t go back in there like that. Not mad. Tell her you were scared. Say ‘I’m sorry I snapped’ and ‘thank you for not dying.’ Save the strategy debate for when you’re not bleeding adrenaline.”

Matt’s jaw works. “She kept moving after the knife. She didn’t make a sound. Then she went quiet for three seconds and—” He breaks off, fingers flexing against the stone. “I thought—”

“I know,” Foggy says. “Still doesn’t give you the right.”

Silence. The wind lifts, turned the city into a low tide.

“She’ll do it again,” Matt says finally. “Run toward the worst part because it’s the right play.”

“Probably,” Foggy says. “That’s who she is. And you love that about her when you’re not busy wanting to invent a time machine to un-stab her or something.”

A rough breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so tired. “I don’t want to control her.”

“I know.” Foggy nudges his shoulder. “Then don’t.”

Matt huffs.

“And for the record,” Foggy adds, eyes kind, “this isn’t about Rogers or any of your other favorite self-flagellation topics. It’s about you being terrified.”

Matt nods once but doesn’t say anything.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Foggy finds her in the little med room, sleeves shoved to his elbows, the last of the gauze taped clean. “Spare bed’s made up,” he says, voice pitched soft. “Before you argue, your safe house is a walk and you’re bleeding through a very persuasive stab wound. Crash here. I’ll run out for clothes.”

Natasha looks like she wants to refuse on principle. Then the room tilts half a degree and she sighs. “One night.”

Foggy brightens. “Knew you were smart. I’ll raid the communal closet. Jess, you got anything she can borrow?”

From the doorway, Jessica squints over her coffee. “What am I, Rent-A-Runway?”

Foggy clasps his hands. “You’re my favorite grump with excellent taste in black.”

Jessica grumbles, disappears, and returns with a soft, well-worn tee and joggers. “Stretchy. Don’t wrinkle them or I’ll shove you back onto a helicopter with your guts hanging out.”

“Affection noted,” Natasha says dryly, but her mouth softens. “Thanks.”

Danny pops up at her elbow like an overeager golden retriever, a tray in his hands. “I made tea.” His heartbeat spikes hard enough Matt nearly pinches the bridge of his nose from across the hall. “High mountain oolong—good for pain and, uh, mood.”

Natasha takes the mug. Steam and flowers curl up; for a second, her defenses unhook. “Smells good.” She sips and blinks. “It is good.”

Danny beams so hard Luke had to nudge him back before he tips the tray. “Don’t hover,” Luke says, but not unkindly. He sets a cold pack near her elbow. “Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off.”

“Thanks.” She presses it lightly to her side, the sharp ache dulling to something manageable.

Matt doesn’t step in. He stands just outside the threshold, head canted, listening to the kettle hiss down, to the whisper of gauze, to the way her breathing levels when the tea took hold. Every few minutes one of them drifts by—Luke with a rewrapped roll of tape, Jessica with a blanket she disavowed having brought, Danny with a second mug “in case” and then pretending it was his when she declined.

Foggy makes good on his promise—returns with a tote: soft joggers, a zip hoodie, a pack of socks and a brand-new toothbrush. “Guest room’s at the end of the hall. Sheets are clean. If that bed squeaks, it’s lying.”

Jessica snorts. “God, you’re such a dad.”

“I’m everyone’s favorite camp counselor,” Foggy says. “Now, rules: no field ops for twelve hours, text me if you need more pain meds, and if anyone so much as breathes on your stitches, I will sue the oxygen.”

“Understood.” Natasha stands carefully and the room doesn’t sway this time. She takes the tote, slung it one-handed. “Foggy Bear,” she says, soft enough that only two people catch it. Foggy pretends his eyes didn’t shine.

She passes Matt in the doorway. He feels the warm brush of air as she pauses. “Room at the end?” she asks without looking up.

“Left,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Second door.”

“Thanks.”

He stays rooted, hands in his pockets, as she crosses the hall—the measured cadence of her steps, the tiny catch when the ice pack shifted, the soft exhale when she sees the folded blanket at the foot of the spare bed. (Foggy’s doing. Mostly. Matt had straightened it.)

The next hour found the HQ strangely domestic. Jessica sprawled on the couch claiming she was “guarding the halls.” Luke fixed a temperamental lamp. Danny brewed another pot of tea like it was a mission. Foggy worked at the table, laptop open, occasionally getting up to check if the guest room light was still on.

Matt didn’t approach; he orbited. He reviewed files with his fingers, the braille dots a steady drum under his hands. He tuned to the baseline—elevator cable, radiator tick, the city’s heartbeat—then, inevitably, back to hers. When it slowed into the rhythm of true rest, some muscle between his shoulders unlocked.

Every so often, someone pads down to tap softly at her door.

“Need anything?” Luke’s low rumble.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“You asleep?” Jessica (not knocking, obviously).

“Was,” Natasha deadpans through the door. A beat. “Come in.”

“Cute room,” Jess says a minute later. “If you steal my joggers I will sue.”

“Talk to my counsel,” Natasha murmurs, eyes already closing again.

Danny sets a thermos outside like an offering. “For later. Ginger,” he whispers, to no one in particular.

Matt stays away. But as the hallway lamp clicks to its night setting, he carries a bottle of water and a fresh roll of gauze down and sets them quietly on the floor by her door. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t need to.

The handle turns anyway.

She stands there in borrowed joggers and the hoodie zipped halfway, hair twisted up, face a shade paler than usual and still somehow unflinchingly composed. Her eyes drops to the offerings, then lifted to him.

“Quartermaster now?” she murmurs.

“Sometimes,” he says.

A small silence. The kind that could go sharp if you breathed wrong.

“You should sleep,” he adds, gentle, and means: I scared you, you scared me, let’s stop scaring each other for one hour.

Her mouth twitches. “I am. Your hallway has very convincing white noise.”

He huffs the ghost of a laugh. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Another beat. Closer, softer. “Matt.”

He feels it everywhere. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.” She tips her chin at the water, the gauze, the house that wasn’t hers and somehow held her anyway.

“Anytime,” he says, the word simple and solid, not a vow, not yet, but something like it.

She lifts the bottle. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Nat.”

She closes the door. The latch clicks. Inside, the old pipe exhales; her heartbeat, warm and steady now, slips into the cadence of sleep. In the lounge, Jessica mutters, “If anyone breathes too loud, I’ll punch you.”

Foggy dimms the lights. Danny stacks mugs. Luke locks the stairwell. And Matt—Matt takes the chair halfway down the hall, file in his lap, listening to the city and to the one metronome that, for the moment, told him everything was still okay.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The HQ is mostly dark—one desk lamp, the soft buzz of an old radiator, the city murmuring through cracked brick. Matt stops in the doorway of the spare room and finds her propped against a pillow, Danny’s tea cooling on the nightstand, a paperback open in her lap. Bare feet, Foggy’s joggers, one of Jessica’s shirts swallowing her frame. Hair twisted up, a pale line of steri-strips at her side disappearing under cotton.

He lifts a hand to the frame. “Knock, knock.”

Her eyes flicks up. “You own the place, Murdock.”

“Depends which lawyer you ask.” He comes in anyway, keeps a careful distance; the chair scrapes softly as he turns it around and sits. He lets the sounds map her: the even, contained breath; the little hitch when she shifted and pulled at stitches; the slow thaw of hot leaves in her mug.

“I owe you an apology,” he says.

She shuts the book on one finger, thumb marking the page. “For what specifically? You’ve been on a roll lately.”

“Pick one,” he says, without a smile. Then, quieter: “For earlier. For snapping. For acting like you got stabbed at me. For—” the word catches“—for scaring you back with my temper when you were already bleeding.”

The corner of her mouth ticks. “You were an ass,” she agrees, sip of tea to soften it. “But I did jump on a knife.”

His jaw works. “You took a risk. You do the math. I know. It’s just—” he blows out a breath, shakes his head. “I didn’t see an equation. I heard your pulse stutter and I smelled copper and for about five seconds I thought—” He swallows, voice going hoarse. “I thought I lost you. And I… I don’t do well with that.”

Something in her gaze warms, then bristles. “You also don’t do well with my phone ringing.”

“Natasha, it’s not that.”

“You’re sure about that?” 

He goes still. The lamp hums. “You don’t owe me anything,” he says, not asking.

She confirms, eyes on him like a test. “You heard.”

“I hear everything,” he says, dry. “I tried not to.”

“Sure you did.” She sets the mug down, thumb rubbing the porcelain handle. “It wasn’t… a thing. He was checking if I was alive. That’s all.”

“It was enough.” His mouth twisted. “To tip me. Not the call itself. The timing. The soundtrack to me nearly watching you die.”

“You can’t be mad at me for the things that happened in my life when you were actively not wanting to be in it,” she said, flat. “That’s not a great look.”

“I know.” He lets that sit. “I’m not proud of the look. Or the sound. Or… the person I am when I think I’m about to lose you.” He rubs his thumb along the chair back, like he could sand himself down. “I’m trying not to make you the place I put all my fear.”

Her eyebrows lifts. “That a confession?”

“It’s an apology,” he says. “No conditions. I was wrong.”

Silence stretches. She sinks deeper into the pillow, studying him like a puzzle she isn’t sure she wants to solve. “You don’t get to police my risks,” she says at last, even, not cruelly. “You knew me as someone who runs toward the fire just like you. You don’t get to act shocked when it burns.”

“I’m not trying to put you out,” he says, quick, earnest. “I’m asking to be there when it gets hot. To—” he catches himself, gentles the words.

He rubs his jaw. “I know what triggered me. It was fear, and the call sitting in the back of my teeth. It was the way your heartbeat dropped and then came back ragged and I couldn’t make it smooth.” He shook his head once. “I didn’t want to lose you. And I fucking thought I did.”

Her eyes flickers, then softens a shade she never shows a crowd. “I’m hard to lose,” she says, quiet. “Annoyingly so.”

“That’s my favorite thing about you,” he says before he can help it. He stands up to leave, meaning for her to get some rest.

Matt stays silent long enough to be polite, then turns again and lets his fingers rest on the chair back instead of her. “Can I ask you something without starting a fight?”

“That’s ambitious.” She marks her page with a thumb and looks up. “Shoot.”

“Does Steve calling change anything between us?” He doesn’t dress it up. “Does him being there—San Francisco, the team, the… life you have—change this?”

Natasha’s mouth shapes a no that doesn’t quite come out. She leans her head back to stare at the ceiling for a beat, as if the plaster can give her the right noun. “It changes the noise,” she says finally. “That’s honest.”

He stands very still. “And the signal?”

Her eyes come back to him, steady. “You’re not background, Matt.”

It hits like oxygen. He doesn’t let it show. “I’m not asking to be first on your speed dial,” he says, softer. “I’m asking if I’m still on it.”

She huffs, something close to a laugh. “You’re at the bottom of it, but you’re there still.”

“Progress,” he says, dry.

“The rest is messy.” She looks down at the paperback, thumb worrying the crease. “San Francisco is… quiet. Nice. It makes sense. You—” her eyes lifts to his, steady— “you’re gravity. I get dragged out of orbit around you without asking for it.” A tiny, helpless scoff.

“That sounds accusatory.”

“It’s just true.” She worries the corner of the paperback with her thumb. “And sometimes I like that. Sometimes I hate it. Both can live in my head at once.”

He nods, taking it like evidence and not a verdict. “I won’t make you choose tonight.”

“Good. Because I’m not choosing tonight.” She slides the book to the table and reaches for the mug, winces when the stitches pull. Matt is there without thinking, palm hovering, not touching until she tips her chin in the smallest permission.

“Hold still.” He peels the tape back one millimeter, checks the line of the sutures with careful fingers.

“It’s better than it feels, believe me,” she murmurs, breath catching when his knuckles graze her skin. He feels her pulse skip—catalogues it, then makes himself move his hand away.

He clears his throat. “Ground rules, before we get shot at again.”

Her brows lifts. “Go on.”

“No theatrics if your phone rings. If you need to take a call, take it. I’ll keep my head on straight.”

“You sure?” The corner of her mouth curves in a tiny smile. “Because the last time my phone rang you went very broody about it.”

He lets himself smile, small and wry. “I had a moment. I’m allowed one per apocalypse. Rule two: if you’re going to do something heroic and suicidal, give me five seconds of warning so I can be useful instead of furious.”

“Reasonable.” She tilts her head, considering him like a chess problem. “My turn. No pushing. I’m being honest with you. I’m not choosing anything right now.“

“Got that.”

“So you don’t hold me to that.”

“I won’t.”

“And I’m not apologizing for people who care about me checking in.”

“And I promise to try and deal with my feelings like a grown-up if it happens again.” he says. “And I won’t push.” He hesitates. “I am going to be here, though. I don’t know how to be halfway about you.”

Her eyes flicks to his mouth, quick and involuntary, then back. “I know.”

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Just to be clear. Then the call doesn’t change that I’m here. That I want—” he stops himself from saying too much and pares it down “—this. Whatever ‘this’ is allowed to be right now.”

“I’m not asking you to understand it. I’m just saying that—,” Her eyes flicks to his mouth and back. “It doesn’t change that I wanted you,” she says, and his heart does something undignified in his chest. Then she added, ruthlessly honest, “It does mean I don’t know what that wants to look like tomorrow. Or next week. I’m not promising you something I can’t name.”

“I can live with that,” he says. “I can live with honest.”

She huffs, almost a laugh. “Since when do you do simple, Murdock?”

“Since I learned the hard way.” He tilts his head. “Do you regret kissing me?”

Her jaw works once. “No.” The word comes out quiet and clean. “Do you?”

“Not for a second.”

That seems to settle something invisible between them. The room exhales.

She slides the book to the nightstand, fingers lingering on the cover. “We should sleep,” she says, and neither of them move.

He nods, slow. “This is me trying, you know,” he added at the door. “Tto be better at all of this. If I start to mess it up, tell me before I do.”

“That’s not how messing up works,” she says, but softer than before. Then, after a beat: “I’ll try.”

He nods. “Goodnight, Nat.”

“Goodnight, Matt.”

He leaves the door cracked like she’d asked. When he is gone, she presses the heel of her hand to her sternum and swears at the ache. In the hall, he leans his head against cool brick and counts to five before moving, listening—not to the city, not to footsteps or sirens, just to the steady cadence of her breath evening out. It isn’t an answer. It isn't a verdict. But it isn’t a goodbye either.

For now, that is enough for him. He’s still in the game. He’s definitely still in the game.

For that, he lets out a crooked smile in the dark hallway.

Chapter Text

Saturday drifts in lazy and bright through the warehouse windows, dust motes doing slow laps in the sunbeams. Luke fixed the rattling vent. Jessica is pretending to read a dog-eared paperback while actually eavesdropping. The whiteboard still wears yesterday’s plan in half-rubbed marker; a map of the Kitchen is pinned beneath it, bristling with darts.

Natasha rolls her shoulder—no tug, no bite. Stitches neat, skin knitting. Practically new.

Danny appears like a golden retriever who learned stealth, holding a steaming mug. “Anti-inflammatory blend,” he announces. “Turmeric, ginger, licorice root, and—”

“—and the tears of your enemies,” Jessica says without looking up.

Natasha accepts the mug, amused. “Thank you. For this. And for the last… eleven of these.”

Danny’s ears go pink. “Fourteen,” he mutters, then louder, “Anytime. Seriously.”

Across the room, Matt tips his head, listening to the way Danny’s pulse trips, then smooths. He smiles into his coffee.

Luke pokes his head from the kitchen. “Anybody want the last egg sandwich before I declare it mine by eminent domain?”

“Mine,” Jessica says.

“Nat’s,” Danny says, at the same time.

“Give it to Red,” Foggy calls, coming in with a paper bag that smells like cinnamon. “And I brought the thing you asked for.”

He produces a small tin of loose-leaf tea with a handwritten label: EMERGENCY USE ONLY. Danny takes it like it’s a medal. Natasha laughs—light, unguarded—then leans and squeezes his forearm. “You kept me vertical, Rand. I owe you.”

“Can we not reinforce his tea ego?” Jessica flips a page. “He’s going to start assigning everyone spirit blends.”

“Jessica: gunpowder green,” Danny says, completely serious.

“Accurate,” Luke says.

They migrate without deciding to—Natasha and Luke to the broken gear crate, Matt and Foggy to the table of case files, Danny hovering between them with a roll of gaffer’s tape he clearly doesn’t need. Low music hums from someone’s phone; the building breathes.

“Your throw, Romanoff,” Jessica says, nodding at the dartboard. Someone has taped a photocopied mugshot of a fence to the center.

“We’re still doing this?” Natasha asks, sipping the tea anyway.

“Loser does coffee runs for a week,” Luke says. “House rules.”

“I don’t even live here.” She shrugs.

Natasha steps to the line. Matt doesn’t look, but his voice is gentle and maddening: “Two millimeters right.”

She snorts, adjusts a hair (definitely not because he said so), and throws. Bullseye. Jessica groans. Luke chuckles. Foggy claps like a proud dad.

“Cheater,” Jessica accuses, sliding off the couch. “You brought sonar right there.”

“Consultant,” Matt says, unbothered.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha tells Jessica, deadpan. “I’ll buy the good beans. I have standards now.”

“Wow,” Jessica says. “We get an Avenger for five minutes and suddenly we’re a café.”

They sprawl into easy tasks: Luke re-hangs a crooked shelf; Natasha checks the action on a pair of batons Danny swears he doesn’t want but keeps staring at; Matt and Foggy debate whether the Midtown dock angle is a dead end. When Danny starts shadowboxing, Natasha watches the line of his hip and taps his ankle with a knuckle.

“Weight’s escaping,” she says.

Danny resets, focuses. She steps in, adjusts his wrist with two fingers. “There,” she says. “Now your power has somewhere to go.”

Matt’s jaw ticks—just once. He breathes, and lets it pass. “He drops his shoulder before the kick,” he offers, mild.

“I do not—” Danny throws, realizes he does, grins. “Okay. I do. Thanks.”

“Look at us,” Foggy stage-whispers to Luke. “A functioning community center.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Luke says, but he’s smiling.

Later, the kitchen becomes neutral ground. Luke’s skillet hisses. Foggy lays out paper plates. Matt leans against the counter in that black compression shirt that is, frankly, a public safety hazard. Natasha reaches past him for a jar, fingers brushing his. Static leaps. They both pretend it didn’t.

“Eggs,” Luke declares, setting the pan down. “Eat.”

They do. It gets quiet in that comfortable way teams earn. Someone puts on an old Knicks game. Jessica provides color commentary and heckling. Natasha stretches out on the rug, propped on her elbows; Danny sits cross-legged nearby, building an improvised tea shrine from a crate and a portable kettle. When Natasha finishes her sandwich, she nudges him with her foot.

Matt lets the sound of her laugh run through him and ground out. His phone buzzes: Karen’s message in the firm’s group text, a photo of the Delgado verdict blurb. He thumbs back a quick congrats, then senses to find Natasha catching him with that triangle of gaze—eyes, mouth, eyes. He keeps his face polite and his distance exact. Baby steps.

“Okay,” Jessica says, tossing a cushion at Matt’s shoulder. “Since we’re all playing nice and nobody’s actively bleeding, someone pick a movie that isn’t about punching.”

“Rom-com?” Foggy offers.

“Absolutely not,” Jessica and Luke say in unison.

“I don’t really watch movies.” Matt says, very straight.

Natasha’s mouth betrays her. “Of course.”

He smiles, small and private. “It’s supposed to be funny.”

“Oh my God,” Jessica says. “He made a joke. Everybody drink.”

They don’t make it to a movie. They make it to a loose pile of bodies and takeout menus. Danny takes orders with terrifying focus. Foggy loses a ten-minute argument with a soy sauce packet. Luke tells a story about a customer who tried to bench press a refrigerator. Jessica declares herself allergic to sincerity. Natasha, finally, just… rests.

By the time the sun leans out behind the skyline, the HQ smells like scallion pancake and black tea and clean metal. The whiteboard is still messy. The city is still itself. For an hour, none of it demands anything.

As the light goes soft, Natasha gets to her feet. “I’m going to sweep the south piers,” she tells Luke and Danny. “Be back before ten.”

“You going solo?” Luke asks.

“Just looking,” she says, already shrugging into her jacket. “I’ll text if ‘just looking’ becomes ‘running.’”

“Be careful,” Danny says.

She pauses, taps the tin of tea with a knuckle. “I’ll bring this back tomorrow.”

“Keep it,” Danny says, mortified at himself but committed. “Emergency stock.”

She nods, warmed, and turns toward the door. Matt is there before he means to be, not blocking her way—just existing near it.

“Not dead,” he says, quiet.

She huffs a breath that wants to be a smile. “Not dead,” she echoes, and slips out into the stairwell. “I’ll be back by ten.”

Jessica watches the door ease shut. “You’re almost worse than Danny,” she tells Matt, not unkind. “Almost.”

“Eat your pancakes, Jones,” he says, but he’s smiling.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The roof has cooled to that midnight temperature where the tar holds the day’s heat like a secret. Hell’s Kitchen hums underneath—sirens far off, a couple arguing three buildings down, a radio playing Springsteen somewhere it’s too late to be that loud.

Matt’s on the low ledge, elbows braced on his knees, mask off, the city wind threading through his shorter hair. He cocks his head a degree when the stairwell door whispers open.

He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to.

“Hey,” Natasha says, stepping out into the wash of neon and moon. She stops a few feet away like the distance matters, like it will keep her steady. It doesn’t. She lets her eyes do a treacherous sweep—jaw a little sharper with the beard fuller, shoulders broader, forearms you could bite. Sigh. “You got hotter. Rude.”

His mouth tilts. “Working out. Terrible coping mechanism. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”

She huffs, comes to lean on the parapet beside him. Wind skims her hair back; he’s politely doing that thing where he pretends not to hear the way her heartbeat ticked up when she saw him. He pretends; he catalogs.

They look out at the water towers and the rippling constellation of red tail lights. For a long beat, they let the quiet have them.

“I know what I said,” she starts, eyes still on the skyline. “About not choosing anything. Not yet. Not… naming this.”

Matt nods once. “I remember.”

She rolls the stem of the thought between her fingers. “So consider this… data collection.”

He turns then, just enough to aim that maddening focus at her—like a spotlight that somehow warms instead of blinds. “You’re running an experiment.”

“Don’t make it sound clinical,” she warns, and the corner of his mouth tips more.

“Okay.” He angles a little closer, a thread of humor low in his voice. “Use me.”

Her eyes flick to his mouth. “That easy?”

“For you?” His voice goes softer, truer. “Yeah.”

The laugh she gives is small and helpless and doomed. “Terrible idea.” She says it like a prayer. Then she’s in—one hand at his jaw, mouth finding his like she’s remembered every precise degree of pressure, like six empty months snap taut and reconnect between them.

Matt meets her without flinching, without holding back. He inhales her—clean soap and metal and the trace-sweet citrus of Danny’s tea clinging to her throat. His hand slides to the back of her neck, thumbs up under her jaw, the kiss deepening with that old, inevitable gravity. She tastes like the first mistake he’d make again and again.

“God,” she whispers against him, a sound dragged from somewhere inconvenient. “Your mouth.”

“Yours,” he counters, and kisses her again like that’s a point he refuses to concede.

It gets messy quick—because they don’t know how to do careful with each other. She presses him back on the ledge; he hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her between his knees, breathing ragged when her fingers slip into his hair and tug. His pulse stutters; she smiles against him like she planned it.

“Testing variables?” he says, a little breathless.

“Proving constants,” she mutters, and chases his lower lip with her teeth.

He answers with a quiet, wrecked noise that lands somewhere between relief and hunger. Then he reins it in a notch—just enough to show he can. “Say when.”

“Don’t be careful with me,” she says into his mouth, immediate and unfair.

A rough laugh shakes out of him. “I’m trying to keep you,” he admits, low. “Not scare you.”

The truth of it cracks something open under her ribs. She hates it. She loves it. She tightens her hands in his hair and kisses him like she’s both grateful and mad about the fact that he’s become an ache-shaped habit.

He tips his forehead to hers, catching breath; the city moves around them like a tide. He can hear everything—her heart slewing fast, the shallow catch when his thumb skims that spot just behind her ear. “Evidence,” he murmurs. “Exhibit A: your pulse when I—”

“Shut up,” she says, smiling, and kisses him again to make him.

Minutes blur. Neon strokes across his cheekbones; the wind finds the damp at her mouth. His hands map her waist like he’s relearning a coastline—never presuming, always getting just close enough to get burned. When she breaks for air, he follows, catching her bottom lip, chasing the taste of her like he’s been starving on purpose.

“Matt,” she whispers, and the sound of his name in her throat nearly undoes him.

“Yeah.” His voice is rough velvet. “I’m here.”

She lets her eyes skate over him—swollen mouth, flushed cheekbones, the faint tremor in his grip where he’s throttling himself. It hits like altitude. This man ruins equilibrium.

“This doesn’t prove anything,” she says, because habit, because armor.

“Then you should test again,” he says, smiling against her mouth.

She laughs into him, helpless. “You’re insufferable.”

“You like me,” he murmurs, and then, truer, “You’re allowed to.”

That lands in the soft places. She swallows, and because she can’t let the moment tilt into earnest, she drags her teeth across the edge of his jaw and watches his composure glitch. “I missed this,” she admits, so quiet the wind could have hidden it.

He doesn’t make it bigger than it is. He just breathes, and says like a secret, “Me too.”

They slow themselves down by accident—tiny decelerations, foreheads together, breaths syncing. His thumbs trace circles into the hinge of her jaw. She could stay here—a suspended second between before and after.

Dangerous.

She clears her throat; he eases back half an inch so she can put a name on the space. “We shouldn’t—”

“—pretend this didn’t happen?” he offers gently.

“Pretend this decides anything,” she counters, softer.

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “I’m not asking you to decide on a roof in the middle of the night.”

“What are you asking?”

“For the next five minutes?” His smile goes small, wrecking. “More of this.”

It’s unfair how simple he makes it. It’s worse how much she wants to give it to him.

She does. She leans in and kisses him slow this time—deep and deliberate until his hand tightens at her waist and the sound he makes is half prayer. He drags his mouth to her cheek, to the hinge of her jaw, back to her mouth like he’s memorizing a route. “Tell me when to stop,” he says, meaning it.

She doesn’t.

So he keeps going—mouth sliding from her lips to the hinge of her jaw, then behind her ear where he knows she turns to liquid, then lower to her throat. The first press there steals a sound from her she didn’t intend to make. The second has her fingers curling in his hair, hips tipping closer like gravity remembered their names.

“Matt,” she breathes, and he feels it all the way down. He noses along the soft, dangerous line beneath her ear and sets his mouth there, slow and savoring. Her pulse jumps under his tongue. Exhibit: catastrophic loss of composure. For both parties.

She wants—God, she wants—to drag him downstairs, to the spare room, to the wall five feet away—anywhere she can wreck them both and forget. His hands firm at her waist like a promise and for a heartbeat she nearly lets the promise cash itself.

“Wait.” It scrapes out of her like brakes.

He stops instantly, head lifting, breath rough. “Okay.” No wounded pride, no push. Just okay.

Her eyes are blown, her voice not cooperating with cool. “If we keep going, I’m going to take you to a very unfortunate municipal surface.”

He huffs—wrecked, affectionate. “Tragic for the roof.”

“Tragic for my… study,” she says, trying to find the joke and the line at once. “Sleeping with you would definitely interfere with the choosing part.”

A slow, shameless smile curves his mouth. “So noted.” He taps her hip, gentle, like a gavel. “For the record: if you slept with me, I win the case.”

She rolls her eyes, but the color in her cheeks is admission. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Impossible not to,” he murmurs, and kisses her once, brief and obedient, before easing back that careful inch. Internally, he files it away with ruthless precision: Exhibit B—neck access results in immediate willingness to commit felonies; Exhibit C—subject halts escalation to preserve experimental integrity; Conclusion—closing arguments would be decisive if permitted.

She steadies, breath evening, and the night air slips between them like a necessary chaperone. “Okay,” she says at last, eyes on his. “We stop.”

“We stop,” he echoes—soft, satisfied, and absolutely not discouraged.

Natasha steps back first, because she has to. She tucks hair behind her ear and fails not to smile. “Goodnight, Murdock.”

“Goodnight, Romanoff.”

She turns toward the stairwell. He listens to her hand pause on the push bar, change her mind, and pad back three soft steps. The kiss she drops on him is quick, grateful, devastating; it leaves a heatprint he’ll feel for hours.

“Further testing pending,” she says, all cool again, and disappears into the door with a soft click.

Matt exhales a laugh he didn’t know he’d been holding and tips his head back to the stars no one can really see here. He can feel the ghost of her mouth like a lit match.

He folds forward, elbows to knees, and smiles into the wind. “Control group my ass,” he tells the skyline, hopeless and happy and ruined. “I’m the hypothesis.”

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Nelson & Murdock smells like burnt coffee and printer toner. The ceiling fan wobbles like it’s on a moral journey. A column of case files has colonized the conference table; a stained legal pad bears “JESSICA DO NOT TOUCH” in Foggy’s handwriting and a line through the “NOT” in Sharpie in Jessica’s.

Jessica is perched on the windowsill with her boots on the radiator, flipping through a PI report like it owes her money. “Your guy’s alibi is a deli receipt with half the mustard obscuring the timestamp,” she says, deadpan. “Romantic.”

Foggy looks up from the laptop. “It’s corroborated by the security cam across the street.”

“Which points at the floor,” she says. “Love the angles in this place.”

Matt’s at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, tie undone, fingers riffling a stack of affidavits he’s already memorized. “We can still place him within line of sight of the break-in, but not crossing the threshold,” he says, calm. “It introduces reasonable doubt.”

Jessica squints, then flips another page. “Fine. Doubt established. I’m bored. Time to talk about the interesting stuff.”

Foggy’s eyebrows leap. “Thank God. Finally.” He drops his voice a heroic half-inch. The man looks like he’s been waiting to gossip. “So, Jess. You know.”

She lifts a shoulder. “Had to pry it out of him like a stripped screw. He’s smug now. It was inevitable.”

“So,” he says, like he’s opening statements. “How are things with Natasha?”

Jessica doesn’t look up. “Oh my God, finally.”

Matt doesn’t look up. “Nothing’s going on.”

Two seconds of incredulous silence. Then Foggy and Jessica say, perfectly overlapped: “I don’t believe you.”

Foggy wheels his chair half a rotation toward him. “That sentence is perjury.”

Jessica points her pen like a dagger. “Objection, your honor—counsel is lying with his whole face.”

Matt sighs, very lawyerly. “There’s… something.”

Foggy leans back in his chair. “So, what’s the latest? You two decided to elope? Fight crime? Finally break a bedframe?”

Matt pauses just long enough for Foggy’s eyebrows to rise. “None of the above. We’re taking it slow.”

Foggy blinks like he just saw a unicorn parallel park. “I’m sorry—slow? You and Natasha ‘the floor is lava unless we’re on it’ Romanoff? Since when?”

“Since now,” Matt says evenly.

Jessica slides off the sill, all curiosity. “Define slow. Is this ‘no labels’ slow? ‘We’re just hanging out’ slow? ‘We kiss like starved wolves and then read the Constitution’ slow?”

Foggy points between them, delighted and horrified. “Give me a scale. On one end: respectable hand-holding outside St. Patrick’s. On the other: I have to replace the Nelson & Murdock copier again.”

Matt presses his lips together, patient. “We’re not having sex.”

Foggy’s chair does a full revolution. “I—what—sorry, my inner ear just failed.”

Jessica’s eyebrows climb to the fire alarm. “Look at you. Personal growth with forearms.”

Matt’s mouth twitches. “She has her reasons.”

“Oh, I bet she does. And I bet you’re being very noble about it.” Foggy folds his arms. “Should I start a pool for how long this vow of chastity lasts, or are we already past the betting window?”

Jessica snorts. “I give it a week.”

Foggy is delighted. “I don’t know, maybe two?”

Matt smirks, shaking his head. “You have very little faith in me.”

“Buddy, I’ve known you since you thought three shots of tequila counted as foreplay. I have exactly the right amount of faith in you.”

Jessica finally looks up, predatory curiosity engaged. “Was it really that bad?”

Foggy steeples his fingers like he’s about to argue the funniest motion of his life. “Okay, imagine finals week, caffeine poisoning, and two people who treat restraint like a rumor. Freshman spring: he came to Con Law with a bruise shaped exactly like—”

“Foggy,” Matt says mildly. “Attorney–client privilege.”

“There was no client,” Foggy says. “Just very loud… jurisprudence.” He turns to Jessica, warming up. “Sophomore year Matt had a mattress on the floor and a grand total of one chair. Do you know how many times I walked into our dorm room and immediately walked back out? I developed sonar by necessity.””

“Absolutely not,” Matt cuts in, trying not to smile. “Irrelevant and prejudicial.”

Jessica points her pen at Foggy, ruthless. “Scale of one to ‘property damage,’ how active are we talking?”

Foggy mock-consults a file. “Active like: the fire alarm once went off and they finished and then evacuated—”

Matt drags a hand down his face. “We’re not doing this.”

Foggy leans in, whisper-yelling. “Since when do you two do ‘waiting period’? I was there for the early editions, pal..”

Matt aims a look just left of Foggy’s eyes. “We were… different.”

“You were cardio,” Foggy says. “And now you’re… tai chi?”

Jessica folds her arms, curious but not cruel. “So what changed?”

Matt’s quiet a beat. “We talked.” He doesn’t make a meal of it. “On the roof. We put lines down—hers, mine. She’s not choosing anything right now. I said I’d meet her there. And if we don’t want to set ourselves on fire on day two… slowing down is how we don’t.”

Foggy’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again like a goldfish with feelings. “Okay, I actually like that? I hate that I like that, but I like that.”

Jessica studies him. “And you’re okay with it?”

Matt’s smile is small, honest. “I want her. I also want to keep her. Those aren’t mutually exclusive if I use my brain.”

Foggy points, moved. “Character development. I could cry.”

Jessica smirks. “Also, statistically, delayed gratification correlates with… better outcomes.”

Foggy nods sagely. “Yeah, the… outcomes.” He shudders at his own phrasing. “I need a priest.”

Matt exhales a laugh. “We’re not abstaining from… everything. We’re just not crossing that line yet. What we have right now is—” he searches for a word that doesn’t taste like a sermon “—good. Clear. And I’m not going to push her out of it.”

Jessica’s gaze softens a millimeter. “Look at you respecting boundaries like a big boy. I’m almost proud.”

Foggy tilts his head, counselor tone tucked away. “Okay. That… is different.”

“It is,” Matt says simply. “I want this to be different.”

Jessica studies him another beat, then nods like she’s annoyed at herself for respecting it. “Huh. Growth. Hate it here.”

Foggy taps the table, decisive. “For the record? I am proud of you. Also terrified. But proud.”

That steadiness hangs in the room like a changed key. Jessica clocks it; Foggy does, too.

Foggy wheels back to the laptop, beaming. “Great talk, team. Now let’s keep our client out of jail and our printer alive.”

Jessica taps the mustard-stained receipt with her pen. “Now, can we ruin a landlord’s life? Because that is my love language.”

Matt breathes out a laugh, the kind that sits warmer in his chest than it used to. “Absolutely.” He taps a clause with his finger. “Start with paragraph nine. Then check the notary stamps—he reused a seal he shouldn’t have.”

Foggy grins, buoyed. “That’s my boy.”

Jessica flips the page, muttering, “Celibate devil vigilante who cites notary law. New York really is a sitcom.”

Matt shakes his head, smiling to himself as he listens—to traffic, to the rustle of paper, to Foggy’s heartbeat steady with relief, to the soft click as Jessica finds the clause he flagged. And underneath it, quieter than the city but louder than anything else: the remembered shape of a rooftop kiss and the promise they didn’t say out loud.

Taking it slow. For once, the words sit right in his mouth.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

It barely lasts a week. Jessica was right.

Rain turns the windshield into a thousand silver threads, the wipers ticking a slow metronome. The van smells like wet nylon and coffee. Natasha’s in the driver’s seat, one wrist hooked over the wheel, eyes on the yawning mouth of the loading bay across the street. Matt’s beside her in full suit—mask off, jaw shadowed, throat bare where the collar sits open. He looks… annoyingly good like this. She has to take a breath and look out at the rain again.

“Jones, status?” Matt murmurs into comms, voice pitched low, intimate even when he doesn’t mean it.

Jessica’s reply crackles back. “Two meatheads by the door. Third’s smoking and trying to look important. Bored out of my skull.”

“Copy. Luke?” Natasha asks.

“South alley. Quiet,” Luke says. “Too quiet, if you wanna be dramatic.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Jessica mutters.

“Danny?” Matt tracks him without trying, listening to the steady, eager heart on the roofs. “You good?”

“Roofline’s clear,” Danny whispers back. “Rain’s a pain, but I’m good.”

The channel settles into that watchful hush. Natasha can feel Matt’s attention fanned out—alley, door, roof, street—each sound threaded and cataloged. But she also feels how the rest of him is right here, heat radiating off his suit, knee a breath away from her thigh, the steady measure of his breathing in the quiet.

“You’re doing it,” she says without looking at him.

“Doing what?” A smile in the corner of his voice.

“Listening to everything except me.”

He turns his head toward her, and even the tiny movement pours warmth across the cold night. “I’ve been listening to you since you got in the van.”

It’s nothing. It’s too much. She keeps her eyes forward. “You should put the mask on.”

“I will.” Beat. “When I need it.”

The words hang there—loaded, stupid, irresistible. They sit in the rain and pretend to be patient. The perimeter stays boring. The wipers keep their count.

Her phone buzzes once with a silent reminder—a blank calendar slot she forgot to delete. She flips it over. His head tilts; he hears the tiny swipe of her thumb, the hitch of her breath she doesn’t mean to give him.

“Everything okay?” he asks, so soft she almost misses it under the rain.

“Don’t start,” she whispers, but she’s already turning her face toward him, already letting the breath between them mingle.

He leans in that last inch and kisses her. Not careful. Not tonight. It’s a heat that hits like memory and lightning at once. She exhale-laughs into it, half shocked, half starving, and his hand curves around her jaw like he’s been waiting exactly here for exactly this. There’s rain-streaked glass and damp air and then there’s just his mouth moving with hers, long and hungry and inevitable.

He breaks the seal just enough to murmur, “Tell me when—”

“Don’t stop.” It lands like a command. Or a plea.

She’s already climbing over the console, one knee to the seat, a hand fisting in the black fabric over his shoulder. She ends up straddling him, the plastic buckle of her holster thunking harmlessly against the seatback. His hands find her waist on instinct, thumbs pressing into the slick stretch of her suit as if he can anchor both of them.

“Comms are live,” he reminds her, lips brushing hers between words.

“Then be quiet,” she says, and kisses him like she means it.

He tries. He really does. He keeps one ear on the street—truck three blocks away, a siren that’ll turn on Ninth, Danny’s heartbeat doing hummingbird nonsense—and the rest of him pours into her. He palms up beneath the seam of her catsuit, finds the zipper at the front, drags it down two inches. Cool air hits warm skin. Her sound is small and viciously pretty and he becomes a little obsessed with it on contact.

“Nat,” he breathes, the name wrecked, reverent.

“Yeah?” she whispers, teeth grazing his lower lip like a threat. “God, I missed that.”

He obliges—low, steady, the tone he uses to calm her pulse and set her on fire. “You taste like rain. I can feel your heartbeat in your throat. You’re sitting here like you were always meant to be—”

“Focus, Murdock,” she says, laughing breathless in a way that detonates somewhere under his ribs.

“I am,” he says, and nips the corner of her mouth to prove it.

She gets her hands under the edge of his suit, finds the hidden snaps along the chest panel, unfastens a couple with practiced fingertips so she can slide her palms over skin and scar and heat. Her nails bite his shoulder and he swallows a groan, head knocking back against the headrest.

“Shh,” she teases, wicked-soft. “Thought you said comms are live.”

“Mm.” His mouth goes to her jaw, then the hinge of her jaw, then—God help him—the spot beneath her ear. The instant she tips her head, he threads his hand into her hair, wraps once, and tugs—just enough to make her gasp.

Her reply is half-curse, half-moan, and he catalogs it like evidence. Exhibit H—hair, controlled pull, catastrophic yield.

“Matt,” she says, voice frayed. “Harder.”

He does, slightly. She’s melting—literally, metaphorically—one hand braced on the van window, the other clenched in his suit as his mouth maps her throat in reverent, ruinous passes. He talks to her between them, shameless, quiet filth and praise that only she will ever get. She gives as good as she gets—murmurs that turn his spine to live wire, breathy threats that sound like promises, a low, needy “please” that almost makes him forget the world outside the van exists.

He slides his hands under the unzipped edge of her suit—warm waist, bare back, the line of muscle that jumps when he drags a thumb up her spine. The sound it pulls from her is the one he keeps for bad nights, the one that breaks him open and makes him gentle and greedy at once. He feels her rock against him, slow and helpless, and vows to be a saint for exactly thirty more seconds.

“Two guards swapping,” Jessica crackles in their ears, oblivious. “Showtime in ninety.”

Natasha stills like a soldier catching orders, forehead falling to his as she breathes through it. “We can’t,” she says, and she’s right and it destroys them both.

He kisses her once—deep, bruising, final—before easing her back to the driver’s seat. She moves like gravity forgot her name, zipper trembling between her fingers as she pulls it up, hands not quite steady. He scrubs a palm over his face, breathes, swallows, then glances down at himself and lets out a short, strangled laugh.

“We need to go,” she manages, but Matt doesn’t move. “Do you need a minute?”

“I need five,” he says, eyes a little wild, cheeks flushed, mouth ruined in a way that makes him consider burning the mission down for another ten seconds alone.

He angles his face toward the windshield, inhales rain and cold metal, wrestles his body into something like compliance. Outside: a truck’s idle two blocks over. Inside: the smell of her skin and arousal, the faint sound of her trying to smooth her breathing, the static of his own restraint buzzing like live wire.

“Your fault,” she says, finally, voice almost steady.

“You climbed into my lap,” he replies, perfectly mild.

She secures her holster, rolls her shoulders like she’s putting her armor back on, and gives him one last look that promises this is not over. “Mask,” she reminds, softer now.

He pulls it on, the familiar weight helping lock everything into place. “Danny, on my mark,” he says into comms, voice calm as a church. “Luke, take the south. Jess, you’re with me at the gate.”

Rain drums. Engines hum. Her pulse settles into the rhythm he knows better than his own.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The spare room’s dim, the city leaking in under the blinds. A stack of borrowed towels sits on the chair; Danny’s abandoned tea steams gently on the dresser. Natasha’s half out of her catsuit, boots kicked in a thoughtless line. She’s pulling her hair into a messy knot when the knock comes—polite, almost careful.

She doesn’t answer. The door eases open anyway.

Matt fills the threshold in black—compression shirt, damp curls, the red lines where the cowl pressed his jaw still ghosting his skin. He takes one step in, then another, listening. Her pulse. The slide of her breath. The quiet permission in neither of them telling the other to leave.

“Hey,” he says, like the word might burn if he says it any louder.

“Hey.” It lands low, rougher than she means it to.

They stand there a heartbeat too long, pretending they came to discuss floor plans and exit routes. Then it breaks like it always does: he exhales, she takes one step, and their mouths find each other with all the restraint of a match to tinder.

It’s hot and unpretty and honest. He backs her into the wall, palms braced either side of her head, kissing her like he’s been carrying the ache in his ribs for days and finally got permission to breathe. She answers with a low sound that short-circuits him, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, greedy for skin. He catches her jaw, tilts, deepens—loses the thread, finds it again when she smiles against his mouth like she owns him and knows it.

“Apartment,” he manages between kisses, forehead dropping to hers. “Come back with me.”

Pain flashes through her spine at how easy yes wants to be. She swallows it. “We do that, we won’t stop.”

His answering laugh is wrecked and helpless. “I’m not complaining.”

“I am,” she lies, breathless. “We’re not doing that tonight.”

He nods once. He doesn’t press. He moves his mouth to the curve of her cheek instead, giving her the choice—always the choice. “Then we do this,” he murmurs, voice a scrape that feels like heat. He waits, a breath held between them. “Is this okay?”

It unwinds something inside her, the way he asks. “Yes.” It comes out like confession.

After that, it’s a slow free fall. His hands map the clean lines of her waist where her suit has split; her fingers skate the hard plane of his chest, learning what six months did to him. They tilt and sway in the small room like the air’s turned heavy, like gravity’s something they can set themselves. She drags her mouth down his throat and his control snaps halfway to a prayer—her name against her hair, the kind of sound that used to ruin her and still does.

He crowds closer until one thigh slots between hers and her composure goes glass-fragile. Her breath stutters; her nails find his shoulder and hold. He feels the tremor roll through her and drops his voice to that place he knows she can’t ignore. “Talk to me.”

“Don’t—” She shuts her eyes, fighting a smile she doesn’t win. “Don’t you dare be good at this.”

“I’m out of practice,” he lies, and kisses the corner of her mouth, the hinge of her jaw, the soft place beneath her ear that makes her swear under her breath. “You smell like rain and trouble.”

“Flattery.” Her head tips back of its own accord when he threads his fingers into her hair and gives the slightest pull. The sound she makes is small and lethal. “Not fair.”

“Nothing about you is.” His leg shifts, just enough pressure to turn her grip savage. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Don’t,” she says, and it’s not a dare this time.

It gets blurred at the edges—hands under fabric for heat and reassurance, his mouth dragging along her pulse, hers finding the sharp line of his collarbone and biting down just to hear what it does to him. The dirty little truths slip out like a second language—his voice a low hum at her ear telling her what she does to him, her laugh wrecked and pleased when he loses his breath and has to find it on her skin. She rocks once, involuntary, and a shock skates through both of them.

“Nat,” he says, half warning, half worship.

She answers with his name like she’s wearing it. Her thigh tightens around his hip. He braces a hand on the wall beside her head and feels his restraint stretch taut as wire. She’s close—he can hear it in the catch of her breath, the flutter of her pulse, the way her fingers forget what they were doing and just hold on.

She feels it, too. The edge, the cliff. Her eyes fly open. “Wait,” she whispers, a soft, startled laugh in it. “I—hold on. We should—”

He stills instantly, breathing hard, forehead resting against hers. “Okay.” It sounds like a promise and a penance. He doesn’t move away. He just… breathes with her until her pulse climbs down from the ledge.

“Sorry,” she says, cheeks flushed, mouth blown open in a way that feels like theft.

“Don’t be.” His smile is small and wrecked. “I’m very pro–good decisions.”

“Since when?”

“Since you said no to leaving the room.”

That gets a laugh out of her—bright, unguarded, the one he keeps in his pocket for nights he can’t sleep. It cracks him open all over again.

He kisses her once more, softer, then lets his mouth wander like he’s filing away evidence—jaw, the curve of her throat, the fine edge of her collarbone. He shouldn’t. He does anyway. He finds that vulnerable spot beneath her ear and drags his mouth there in one slow, devastating pass—gentle as a lit match, patient as a prayer. She shivers so hard he feels it, a tremor running the length of her body.

He lets his breath warm her skin for one beat longer, then pulls back an inch. Exhibit: she’s trembling; he’s ruined. “I should go,” he says, voice rough with everything he’s not doing.

“You should,” she echoes, not moving.

He steps back first. Hands fall. Air rushes in like sanity. They’re both a little unsteady; they both pretend not to be. He reaches for the door, then pauses, head tilting toward her. “Text me if you want company,” he says carefully, no pressure at all in the offer and somehow all of it. “Or if you want tea. I’m told we have an endless supply.”

“Mm.” She tips her head, something warm and complicated sparking in her eyes. “Good night, Murdock.”

“Good night, Romanoff.”

He slips out, closing the door with exaggerated care. On the other side, he leans back against the hall’s cool brick, breathes once, and smiles to himself—small, helpless, certain.

Down the line of the room, she presses her fingers to the place he just marked with nothing but his mouth and tries not to combust. Then she exhales, picks up Danny’s tea, and glares at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for gravity.

God damn it.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

Her phone lights the dark like a dare.

Natasha stares at it, hears the rain slip down the window, feels the empty throb under her ribs where a mouth should be. She could sleep. She could also chew off her own arm. She scrolls to a number she pretends not to have memorized and hits call before she can think better of it.

It rings once.

“Hey,” he answers, voice sleep-rough and immediately awake. She can hear the soft hush of his apartment—the radiator ticking, the city moving far below, his breath finding her in the line.

“Hi.” She plays it casual, fails. “You said to text if I wanted company.”

“I did,” he says, smile audible. “And you… called.”

“Trying new things.” She rolls onto her back, watching the ceiling. “Tell me a normal thing.”

He huffs, amused. “Normal: Foggy found three illegal fees in a single lease this afternoon. Jessica called the building’s elevator ‘a malice tube.’ Luke fixed our printer with a butter knife. Danny brewed tea so strong I think it could bend steel.”

“Accurate,” she says, and feels something in her chest loosen. “How’s the side?”

“Annoyed, behaving. You?”

“Barely there. Ego’s bruised. Also I think Jones is serious about invoicing me for her joggers if I don’t return them folded.”

“She is,” he says, fond. “I’ve seen the system.”

Silence, but the easy kind. Rain, breath, the soft little click of him adjusting the phone.

“You couldn’t sleep,” he says, not a question.

“Mm.” She hesitates, then chooses honesty. “Head won’t turn off.”

“Want me to talk you down?” he offers, gentle. “Nothing heroic. Just… stay with you.”

“Yeah,” she says, too fast. “Stay.”

He exhales a laugh. “You called me for entertainment?”

“You’re cheaper than cable.”

“Lower production value, too.”

She laughs—quiet, genuine. He can hear it soften her shoulders through the line.

“What are you even doing up?” he asks.

“Reading the worst mission report known to man,” she says. “Full of typos and poor life choices.”

“So… you wrote it.”

“Funny.”

“Tell me about it,” he prompts. “The report, not the insomnia.”

“You’re really volunteering for a debrief at two a.m.?”

“I’m a masochist,” he says dryly. “And a lawyer. Occupational hazard.”

She hums. “It’s not that exciting. Minor op, no injuries, no explosions.”

“No explosions?” He feigns scandal. “You feeling okay?”

“Figured I’d take a night off from chaos.”

“Clearly,” he says. “That’s why you called me.”

She smiles again, soft. “You’re smug when you’re right.”

“I’m smug always,” he corrects.

She breathes out slowly. “Careful, counselor. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Almost?” he says, voice dropping half a note. “Guess I should try harder.”

They leave it there for a beat—breathing in the same key, letting the rain do the heavy lifting.

“Tell me something true,” she says, voice tilting smaller than she means it to.

“I keep replaying the rooftop,” he admits. “And then I tell myself to be smart and go slow. Both things are true at the same time.”

“Both things are annoying,” she counters, but there’s no heat in it. “I keep… thinking about it too.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and the question is a promise to treat the answer carefully.

“Mm.” She wedges the phone between shoulder and ear, lies back. The spare-room sheets are cool; her skin isn’t. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His chuckle is quiet, wrecked at the edges. “No?”

“No,” she says, and then, because she’s not twenty and not shy, “Thought maybe you could… talk to me.”

He goes very still. She can hear it—the precise way his breath changes, the way he listens. When he speaks, it’s softer, lower, all consent and heat. “I can do that. Tell me what you need.”

“Technically,” she says, a smile cutting sideways through the word, “if you’re not touching me, this isn’t us sleeping together.”

He hums, delighted. “Technically, Counselor accepts those terms.”

“Don’t get cute.”

“Never,” he lies. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Door locked?”

She glances; clicks the bolt. “Now it is.”

“Good.” The word lands like a hand sliding up her thigh. “Where are you?”

“Spare room. Lights off. Rain’s doing the heavy lifting.”

“I can hear it.” A beat. “What are you wearing?”

She huffs, amused and already too warm. “Tank top. Shorts.”

“Lose the shorts,” he says, soft as prayer. “Only if you want to.”

She breathes once, slow. The cotton slides down her legs and off; the sheets kiss bare skin. “Done.”

He exhales like he felt it. “Put me on speaker and set me by your shoulder.”

She does. The phone settles beside her head; his voice becomes the whole ceiling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Left hand in your hair—just hold at the nape. You like that.”

She does. The anchor is immediate. “Bossy.”

“You called me,” he says, and she can hear the smile now. “Right hand, two fingers on your throat. Just feel your pulse. Breathe with it.”

Her fingertips find the warm thrum; her breath stutters and falls into time. He’s quiet a moment, listening to the way her lungs move, the sound the sheets make when her knees bend.

“Good girl,” he says, barely there.

Heat flickers up her spine. “You’re cheating.”

“I’m listening,” he corrects, low. “Slide the hand from your throat down—sternum, ribs, lower. Slow. Tell me what your fingers find.”

“Skin,” she says, breath thinning. “Warm.”

“Lower.”

Her palm skims her belly; muscles jump under her own touch. She sucks in a breath.

“Okay?” he asks, immediate.

“Okay,” she says, and means it.

“Open your thighs a little for me.”

She does, the air cool and obscene. Her body answers like it’s been waiting for his voice all night. Maybe it has.

“Now,” he says, gentle heat, “show me how you want to be touched.”

Her hand slips lower. The first graze of fingers makes her gasp—quiet, involuntary.

His breath catches with hers. “Yeah,” he whispers, words going rough. “There you are.”

She laughs against the sound, wrecked already. “You’re—god—infuriating.”

“Circle,” he says, ignoring that, patient like he’s got all the time in the world. “Small. Slow. No pressure yet. Just wake it up.”

She obeys, because he says it like that—no room for shame, only instruction and want. The slow drag curls heat low in her stomach; the room goes soft around the edges.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Talk to me.”

“Feels—” Her voice breaks. “You feel—”

“I’m not touching you,” he says, and somehow it’s filthier than if he were. “Move a little faster. Not too much.”

She does. The sound she makes is nothing like a lie.

He exhales, helpless, then reins it in. “How wet are you?”

“Ask and answer,” she shoots back, breathless. “A lot.”

“Good.” A beat. His voice drops, intimate as a thumb on her lip. “Wet enough to slide a finger inside?”

Her hips lift; she hisses. “Yeah.”

“Slow,” he cautions. “Ease in. One finger. Say my name.”

“Matt.” It scrapes out of her like a need.

He groans quietly. “Fuck, Nat—okay. Curl. Just a little. Again.”

She follows; heat punches behind her navel. Her mouth falls open.

“There,” he says, wrecked praise. “There you go. You hear that? That’s what I wanted.”

She hears a hundred things—rain, her breath, the scandalous wet sound when she moves, and under it all his breathing, careful and frayed. “You’re… good at this.”

“You have no idea.” His voice goes silk-dark. “Add your thumb. Slow circles. I’ve got you.”

She does, and the world narrows to the simplest math: pressure, angle, his voice threading through her like something holy. He’s quiet except when it matters—tiny course-corrections, praise that lands like a hand at the base of her spine.

“Just like that. Don’t rush. I want to listen to you get there.”

She laughs, dizzy. “You’re insane.”

“For you,” he says, automatic and true. “Natalia.”

Her eyes flutter shut. “Say it again.”

“Natalia.” He pronounces every syllable like a kiss. “You’re doing so well. Breathe. Let it come to you.”

It’s obscene, how much control he has from a city block away. She’s sliding faster now, the ache climbing and climbing until the edge is all she can see. Her heels dig into the mattress. She chokes on a sound.

“Easy,” he whispers, and she wants to hit him for it and worship him for it in the same breath. “You’re close.”

“Yeah,” she gasps, helpless. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping.” The lawyer is gone; this is pure confession. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good. Come for me.”

It detonates. Her back arches off the bed; the phone fuzzes with the force of her breath. She bites her lip and still gives him the sound he wants, the one that sounds like surrender.

He goes silent, listening to the fall. When he speaks again, his voice is ruin. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

She laughs, messy and fond and embarrassed. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, smiling like a sin. “How do you feel?”

“High.” She swallows, pulse still wild under her fingers. “Hot. Ridiculous.”

“Beautiful,” he says simply. “You sounded beautiful.”

She breathes. The rain steadies. For a moment, it’s easy to float there—warm and wrecked and safe.

Then she hears it—the way his breath snags again, the barely-there rustle on his end, the quiet strain in his voice like he’s holding himself on a wire. “Are you—” She grins, feral. “Are you suffering, Counselor?”

He laughs, low and strangled. “A bit.”

Her turn to weaponize mercy. “Touch yourself.”

He exhales, wrecked gratitude. “It won’t take much.”

She hears it then—the soft slide of his palm over skin, the hitch when his hand finds rhythm. Her body sparks all over again.

“Tell me,” she says, throat gone velvet. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” he groans, untidy for once. “Your mouth. The way you say my name when you break.”

She hums encouragement, wicked. “What else?”

“Your hand in my hair.” His breath goes jagged. “How you smell right after a fight. The sound you just made. God—Nat, I want—”

“What do you want?”

“You,” he says, naked as a blade. “Every way you’ll let me.”

Every way you’ll let me.

She makes a small, dangerous sound. “Good answer. Come for me.”

He does. She hears it—his breath knock out of him, the word she loves fall apart on his tongue, the way he tries to smother it and fails. It hits her like heat across a wire; her thighs tighten and she has to breathe through the echo.

Silence after, except for the rain and two ruined heartbeats trying to behave. He’s the first to recover, laugh going soft and shy.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she echoes, smiling into the dark.

“Still technically not sleeping together,” he offers, lawyer-dry.

“Technically,” she agrees, amused and flushed and nothing like calm.

He sobers a shade. “You okay?”

“Fantastic.” She means it. “You?”

“Better than okay.” A pause. “Thank you for calling.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she lies.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he lies back.

There’s a second where they could ruin it with something true. Neither does. She clears her throat. “Good night, Murdock.”

“Good night, Romanoff.”

She taps the screen. The room is quiet again—except it isn’t, because her pulse is still trying to sprint out of her chest and the rain is calling her an idiot. She rolls onto her side, tugs the sheet up, and stares at the ceiling with a helpless, secret smile she’ll deny under oath.

⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∘⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅

The HQ feels like a Sunday: mismatched mugs, open windows, the city breathing in the background. Luke’s reading the paper. Danny’s fussing with a kettle that definitely does not need fussing. Jessica is pretending to nap on the couch with her boots on the coffee table. Foggy’s sorting files into piles that defy all known laws of organization and yet somehow work.

The elevator rattles. Matt steps out in jeans and a black henley, hair still damp from the shower. Natasha’s already there—loose sweater, bare face, legs crossed in a chair by the map wall, looking unfairly composed.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he returns, exactly the same pitch. They hold for a millisecond too long.

“You look… rested,” he adds, innocent as a felony.

One corner of her mouth tilts. “Tea helps.”

Foggy glances up at both of them, blinks, and then very deliberately looks back down at his file like it’s the Magna Carta. Jessica cracks one eye, takes in the air between them, and shuts it again with a slow, incredulous smile.

“Okay, children,” Foggy claps. “Debrief. Then brunch. Preferably in that order.”

They gather. The whiteboard’s a crime collage of red string and Stark part numbers. Luke anchors the practical: “Port Authority logs show a dummy carrier hit Pier 42, offloaded nothing, left lighter. That’s not how boats work.” Jessica’s dry: “Maybe it Marie Kondo’d its cargo.” Danny, earnest: “FRIDAY’s scan on the regulator matched three other serials. Could mean a cluster.” 

Matt nods, all business now. “No confirmed moves today. We pressure paperwork. Luke, call your guy at the dock union. Jess, shake the broker on 12th; he owes you. Danny, keep eyes on rooftops around Pier 42. I’ll pull parcel manifests from the last twelve hours.”

Foggy points a pen. “And we do all of that after food.”

“After food,” Matt agrees.

Meeting breaks with the soft scatter of chairs. Conversations bloom in twos and threes. Natasha lingers by the map wall, fingertip tracing a harmless coastline. Matt drifts over with two fresh coffees like he just happened to have an extra.

“Truce offering,” he says, holding one out. “No strings.”

She arches a brow, takes it. “Funny word choice.”

“Strictly metaphorical string,” he amends. “The board is enough literal string for anyone.”

A beat. The air between them hums with the thing they are not saying. They both sip at the same time to pretend it isn’t there.

“You were right about the Pier,” she says finally, low enough that it’s just for him. “I ran the customs codes again this morning. Two manifests were scrubbed, not missing. That’s intention.”

“Send them to me,” he says. “I’ll have Karen cross them with shell corps.”

She nods. Another sip. Another beat. He tips his head like he’s hearing something only she makes. “You seemed… good last night.”

She gives him the blandest look she owns. “Your memory any good this morning?”

“Unfairly so.”

Her mouth twitches. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Impossible around you,” he murmurs, then clears it with a safer, “Thanks for calling.”

“Thank you for answering,” she smirks.

Silence stretches—a comfortable one, somehow. His sleeve brushes her knuckles when he sets his cup on the cart; neither of them yanks back like the counter just shocked them.

He keeps his voice careful. “There’s a decent coffee place two blocks over. If you… want to step out later. No agenda. Just air.”

She studies his face, then the map, then his face again. “We’re literally holding coffee.”

“Better coffee,” he tries, a hint of a smile. “And worse chairs.”

She huffs a laugh she doesn’t mean to let him have. “Text me the address.”

“Will do.”

Across the room, Jessica sits up, points two fingers at her own eyes and then at them like a middle-school hall monitor. Nat doesn’t look over, too busy checking the map below them. Matt turns slightly, expression saintly.

Jessica mouths, “Seriously?”

He gives her the smallest, smuggest shrug in the tri-state area. She groans and flops back down.

Foggy ambles past with a folder and the most casual whisper on earth: “Be normal.”

“I am,” Matt whispers back without moving his mouth.

“No,” Foggy says, still walking. “You’re not.”

Natasha remains oblivious and sets her cup down, the porcelain click tiny and loud at once. “I’ll email those manifests,” she says. “And the routing notes.”

“Thank you,” he says, and means more.

She turns to go, pauses, glances at his jaw like it’s a bad idea she intends to have anyway. “You should shave,” she says.

He smiles—small, private. “You like it.”

“Don’t weaponize that,” she warns, but her eyes betray the smallest, traitorous spark.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he lies, very politely.

She moves off toward Luke and the map. He listens her go for one heartbeat too long, then forces himself to the table and the work.