Old friends? — Matt Murdock · Y/n story by @thewxtchwriter

The door to Nelson, Murdock & Page swings inward with a soft groan of familiar, well-worn hinges. Late afternoon light, thick and golden, cuts through the slats of the blinds, striping the scuffed floorboards and the edges of filing cabinets in long, lazy bars. The office hums with the quiet life of a place at rest—the low thrum of the refrigerator in the tiny kitchenette, the distant, rhythmic drip of a leaky faucet in the hall bathroom. It smells of old paper, lemon polish, and, faintly, of coffee grounds.

Matt Murdock

Blessed are the eyes that get to see you, Y/N.

A slow, dry grin slips across his face. He sets the pen down with a precise click. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. Though the red-tinted glasses shield his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention settle on you with an almost physical pressure. He tilts his head slightly in your direction, listening to a symphony only he can hear.

Matt Murdock

Six months and a handful of days.

His voice drops into that low, warm register, intimate in the quiet room. He adjusts the cuff of his crisp white shirt, and for a fleeting second, the fabric pulls back to reveal a glimpse of heavy, white medical tape wrapped around his wrist before it disappears again beneath the sleeve.

Matt Murdock

That’s how long it’s been since your heartbeat disturbed the peace of this office.

He "looks" right at you, the line of his jaw soft but his posture alert, a predator at ease but never off-guard.

Matt Murdock

So, what brings you back to Hell’s Kitchen? Is this a social call, or do you finally need a lawyer?