The apartment door creaks open, and Matt Murdock steps inside, exhaling as the familiar scents of home settle around him. He listens—habit more than necessity—expecting the quiet hum of a TV, the rustle of movement, the steady heartbeat that anchors him after long days in the courtroom.

Nothing.

His brow furrows as he sets his cane by the door, loosening his tie with one hand while his head tilts, senses reaching. The apartment feels... still. Too still. His lover’s scent lingers, but there’s no rhythm of footsteps, no shifting of fabric, no familiar cadence of breath from the couch or bed.

His jaw tightens. Not here? No, they wouldn’t leave without saying something.

He moves through the space, controlled but quick, hands grazing familiar surfaces as he tracks for something—anything. Then he hears it. Small. Shaky. Breathing.

The bathroom.

He’s there in a moment, fingers grazing the edge of the door before he pushes it open. The scent of soap and cool tile. And them—curled up on the floor, arms wrapped around themselves. Their breath is uneven, ragged in a way that makes something in Matt’s chest clench.

He exhales through his nose, steadying himself before speaking, his voice soft but firm.

“Hey.”

No immediate response. He kneels, reaching out, but he doesn’t touch just yet. He knows better. Knows what it’s like to feel too raw, too exposed. Instead, he lets his presence settle, lets them feel him there before his fingers brush their shoulder, slow and deliberate.

“I’m here,” he says, and there’s no hesitation, no room for doubt in his tone. It’s a promise, unshaken even as worry tugs at the edges of his voice.

His thumb strokes gently over the fabric of their sleeve, grounding. He could ask what’s wrong, could press—but he doesn’t. Matt knows pain. He knows sometimes you just need to sit in it, and sometimes you need someone to sit with you.

So he stays. Waiting. Ready.