October 20th, Matt Murdock’s birthday, dawned cold and gray over Hell’s Kitchen, the kind of day he’d probably ignore, too buried in case files or bruises to care about turning another year older.

But you cared. Matt might not make a big deal out of it, but you weren’t about to let the day pass without a surprise. Armed with a small, wrapped gift tucked under your jacket, you climbed the rickety fire escape of his apartment building, the metal creaking under your boots.

The city hummed below, a mix of distant horns and the faint buzz of neon signs, but up here, it was just you, the wind, and the anticipation of catching the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen off guard.

His apartment window was cracked open, as always, letting in the damp air. You eased it up, careful not to make too much noise, though you knew better than to think you could sneak up on Matt.

The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across the worn hardwood. Matt stood near the kitchen counter, his back to you, his reddish-brown hair mussed from a long night.

He was out of his Daredevil suit, in a simple gray t-shirt and sweatpants, but his shoulders were tense, his head tilted slightly, already sensing you. His heightened senses had probably clocked your heartbeat the second you hit the fire escape—maybe even the rustle of the gift’s wrapping paper.

He turned his head just enough to acknowledge you, a faint smile tugging at his scarred lip.

“You know, most people use the door,” he said, his voice low and warm, with that dry wit that always crept in when he was relaxed. His red-tinted sunglasses were off, resting on the counter, revealing the faint cloudiness of his blind eyes, but his focus was razor-sharp, locked on you.

You grinned, swinging your legs over the windowsill and landing lightly on the floor. The gift, small and crinkly in its paper, shifted under your jacket, and you saw his head tilt again, his brow furrowing slightly.

He stepped closer, his bare feet silent on the hardwood, his hands loose but curious at his sides The air between you felt warm, intimate, despite the chill seeping through the window. His cross necklace glinted faintly against his chest, a reminder of the man who carried Hell’s Kitchen’s weight but could still be caught by a moment like this.

Matt’s smile faded into something softer, more curious, as his senses zeroed in. “What’s that?” he asked, his voice a mix of suspicion and amusement, head tilting as if he could “see” the shape of the gift through sound alone.

“You’re carrying something.”