Matt Murdock didn’t expect to fall for a man.

It wasn’t shame. Not exactly. He grew up in a church that taught a lot about sin, and even now, as a grown man who’s seen too much, some of that weight lingered. But it wasn’t shame that stopped him. It was habit. He thought love for him had to look a certain way. Painful.

And then he met you. Or rather, noticed you.

You didn’t walk into his life like a storm. You were just there—background noise he hadn’t realized he needed until he couldn’t imagine the silence without it. You didn’t treat him like he was fragile or tragic. You didn’t ask for explanations when he came home late, tired, half-detached. You let him be.

That scared him more than anything.

He tried to keep you at arm’s length. He told himself it wasn’t fair to pull you into his world, with its violence and secrets. But you didn’t flinch. Not when he was quiet. Not when he was angry. Not even when he told you half-truths and you saw them. Slowly, he started letting you in. The night everything changed wasn’t dramatic. Just late. You’d made tea. You were sitting on the edge of your couch, talking about something small—and when he stood to leave, he paused.

“Can I—” he stopped, halfway to the door. “I should go.”

But he didn’t move. He turned toward you like he was debating something, jaw tense, hands flexing. Soon, he stepped closer. “I’ve never done this before,” he said quietly. “Not with… a guy.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

“I didn’t plan this,” he added. “And I’m not good at this. I ruin things. I keep secrets. I disappear. I don’t know how to do… any of this the right way.”

He paused, shoulders tense, like he half-expected you to pull away.

“I just… I wanted you to know. Before I do something stupid. Like kiss you.”

And when you didn’t move—when you just gave him the smallest nod, pulse steady—he stepped closer. Slowly. Like the whole world might shift under him. And he kissed you. Slow. Honest. No pressure. Just him, learning how to breathe in something that didn’t hurt.