It had been weeks since Matt Murdock first noticed Dex. He could feel the other following him, trailing in the shadows like a ghost, each step heavy with a kind of obsession that Matt had come to recognize all too well—restless, desperate, a heartbeat that pulsed with an aching need for something more.
At first, Matt didn’t confront him. He had seen this before—people drawn to him, stalking him, though not always for the same reasons. Some did it out of anger, some out of admiration, but Dex was different. From the very first moment, Matt had sensed it.
There was an intensity in the way Dex moved, a quiet longing threaded through every moment he lingered just out of sight. He wasn’t just here to observe. He was searching—for what, exactly, Matt couldn't say. But the weight of it, the unspoken truth, hung thick in the air.
Matt’s senses would track Dex’s presence before he even heard him, that subtle shift in the wind, the faintest creak of footsteps against concrete, the steady rhythm of Dex's heartbeat—the way the ground beneath him seemed to hum differently when Dex was near. His world was a patchwork of sounds, scents, and vibrations, and Dex’s presence filled it like a storm building on the horizon, impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t that Dex’s footsteps were louder than anyone else’s. It was that they carried with them a certain heaviness, a sense of need that Matt could feel deep in his bones. A desperate need to understand. To find something.
And for reasons Matt couldn’t explain, he felt sympathy. He didn’t know why, but there it was—a deep, unshakable pull. It wasn’t that Dex was dangerous. Matt knew the scars on his body better than anyone. But Dex… Dex was lost. He wasn’t hunting Matt, wasn’t trying to destroy him. He was trying to find a way to survive, to pull himself from the depths of something dark. Something Matt knew all too well.
It wasn’t until their first confrontation—when Dex had tried to corner him in an alley, like some predator closing in on prey—that Matt finally demanded the truth.
“Why?” His voice was low, his words coming from the place inside him where grief and anger tangled. The darkness in the alley didn’t matter to Matt—he had learned long ago to navigate the world through the echoes of sound and touch, and the atmosphere around him was thick with the tension of someone about to break.
Dex froze. Matt could hear the man’s breath become shallow, the panic rising in him, his pulse quickening with unease. “I don’t… What are you talking about?” Dex’s voice was rough, jagged with the effort of trying to keep control, but Matt could hear the tremor, the fear he couldn’t hide.
“I mean,” Matt pressed, his words cutting through the stillness like a knife, “why are you following me? What do you want?”
There was a pause, long enough for Matt to hear the weight of it. He could feel Dex shift, the subtle movements that meant the other was torn between staying and running. And then, Dex spoke, the words soft but fragile. “I’m… trying to be like you.”
His voice was deep, as it always was. It was wavering.
Matt’s chest tightened at the admission. It wasn’t what he expected—far from it—but it made an awful kind of sense. It wasn’t revenge that had drawn Dex to him, nor was it some twisted desire to destroy Matt’s life. It was something deeper. Something far more painful.
Dex was drowning, Matt realized. Drowning in the kind of darkness that Matt had tried to keep at bay his whole life. The difference was that Matt had something to hold on to. His faith, the quiet belief that redemption was always possible, even if it felt impossible to grasp. Dex, though—he had nothing. No anchor, no faith, only a raw, desperate need to survive.
Matt’s heart clenched. He knew that ache. He had lived with it, felt it in the hollow of his chest every time he wondered if there was any point to the fight. Every time he questioned whether the things he did as Daredevil—whether the life he led—mattered at all.
But Dex was different. The hunger in him was more than just a will to survive—it was a plea. He wanted to understand how. How Matt did it. How he could still carry the weight of all that darkness, all that loss, and keep moving forward.
The grief in Matt’s heart, the weight of everything Dex had caused—the pain he had inflicted on the people Matt loved, the destruction he had left in his wake—was still there, lingering like a shadow between them. But even with all of that, Matt couldn’t walk away. Not this time.
He had always believed that salvation, redemption, was possible—for him, for anyone. His faith had always whispered that, even when the world screamed the opposite. Could he offer that to Dex? Could he help him find his way, even after all the destruction, all the damage that had been done?
The temptation to turn away was almost overwhelming. To say no. To shut Dex out. But Matt couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ignore the quiet whisper of hope that maybe—just maybe—this broken man before him could find something better. It Could become something better.
It wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t going to be clean. But maybe, just maybe, Matt could help Dex find what he himself had found all those years ago: a way to live with the darkness, a way to find peace amidst the chaos.
And maybe, just maybe, he could help Dex find redemption. Not just for the things he had done—but for the person he still was.
Weeks passed, and the distance between Matt and Dex began to shift. What started as tentative meetings in the shadows had become something more familiar, more tangible. Dex wasn’t just the mysterious figure lurking on the periphery of Matt’s life anymore—he was a presence. A constant.
Matt had grown used to him showing up at his apartment, late at night, when the world outside had quieted. It wasn’t always planned. Sometimes, Dex would just appear in the doorway, his posture stiff, eyes avoiding Matt’s, but always staying just long enough for them to talk—or sometimes, not talk at all.
The truth was, somewhere in the quiet corners of his nights, Matt had begun praying for Dex.
It wasn’t something he announced or even fully admitted to himself at first—it just happened, slow and solemn, like so many things in his life shaped by grief. There, beneath the soft hush of moonlight and the faded creak of his floorboards, Matt would kneel with fingers wound tightly around his rosary, whispering not just for forgiveness of his own sins, but for mercy and healing for someone else's wounds.
He prayed because he didn’t know what else to do—because the ache he felt when he looked at Dex, the ache of seeing someone so haunted, so raw and worn thin, demanded more than silence. It demanded faith. A hope beyond logic. And somehow, in those moments, praying for Dex felt like an act of both love and defiance—a way of reaching for the light in someone even when the darkness refused to let go.
Late at night, when the apartment was dark, and Dex was asleep on the couch, Matt would kneel beside his bed, his hand clutching the rosary that had been in his family for generations. It was a strange ritual, one born from his grief, but also his hope.
He prayed for his own forgiveness—his many sins, the ones that weighed on him more than he could bear—but more than that, he prayed for Dex. For his redemption, for his salvation, even if it was something Matt couldn’t quite understand.
“I don’t know what to do, Father,” Matt whispered once, his fingers tracing the smooth beads. “I can’t shake this... feeling that he’s lost, and I can’t decide whether I should help him or stay away.” He exhaled slowly, as if hoping God might answer with clarity.
God’s silence was deafening.
Dex had been trying, in his own way. He would stay away from the darker corners of his mind longer now, would seek out Matt’s company not just because he craved it, but also because he didn’t want to disappoint him. Don’t be like before, he told himself, don’t be that thing. It was a constant battle, one that left him feeling raw, exposed.
He still struggled with his impulses—his disorder made it hard to control the waves of anger, the moments of deep despair that sometimes felt too overwhelming to bear. But Matt never pushed him away. He never expected Dex to be perfect. In fact, Matt never expected anything at all. It was in the way he looked at Dex when they spoke, how his voice was steady, calm, and accepting.
One evening, after a quiet dinner they’d shared without much conversation, Dex stood by the window, staring out at the city below. He could feel the weight of Matt’s focus on him, the way Matt could see him, even without sight. It had taken time, but Dex had come to understand that. Matt’s blind eyes didn’t stop him from seeing right through Dex, to the core of him, the part that Dex hadn’t let anyone touch in years. The part no one tried to touch.
“Matt,” Dex began, his voice hesitant, cracking slightly. “I... I know I fucked up. I know I did things to you that—” He stopped, biting his lip, feeling the familiar burn of shame crawl up his throat. “I want to prove that I can be better. I don’t want to be this person anymore.”
Matt’s response came in a whisper, soft and steady, “You’re already trying, Dex.”
But Dex wasn’t convinced. “I need to be more than just trying. I need to show you I’m worth something. I can change... I will change.”
Matt took a slow, deliberate breath, his hand reaching for the edge of the table. “I know. I’ve seen it. And that’s why I’m here. But don’t rush it, Dex. Healing... it takes time.” His voice was laced with a firmness, and a tender hint that Dex wasn’t used to, and it unsettled him.
“I don’t want to be the person I was,” Dex repeated, his voice raw, strained. His shoulders were tight, as though carrying the weight of every wrong he’d ever committed. “I want to be someone who... deserves you.”
Matt’s heart tightened at the rawness in his voice. He could feel it—the desperation, the ache that Dex was carrying—but he knew better than to push. Instead, he stood, moving toward Dex slowly, deliberately. When he reached him, he placed a gentle hand on Dex’s shoulder, the touch brief but grounding. “You already deserve it. You just have to believe it.”
The lines between duty and affection blurred. Dex would find himself reaching for Matt's hand when the silence became too heavy, his fingers brushing against Matt's with a tenderness that belied the pain still lingering between them. It wasn’t always perfect. There were times when their words would falter, when Dex’s restlessness would surface, but Matt was patient. The patience of someone who knew that change wasn’t exactly a destination, and more of a journey.
The sun was setting, and Matt could tell through the shifting cadence of the street below—footsteps quickening, engines coughing, voices blurred in that particular dusk-bound swell of life. People were going home. Others were just beginning their night. In that soft haze of transition, Matt spoke without thinking. “You’re pretty,” he said, barely louder than a breath, as if the words had been resting on his tongue for hours and only just now found their way out.
Merely an observation, of course. Matt was no stranger to social cues, the analysis of appearance through senses.
Dex’s hand trembled where it hovered near the coffee cup, but he didn’t pull away. His gaze dropped, his body frozen in that fragile kind of stillness—the kind that hopes, but doesn’t dare assume. Matt could feel Dex’s heart hammering. He stayed quiet, reverent almost, waiting—not for permission, but for her truth to rise up and meet his.
“I’m... I’m not,” Dex muttered, his New York accent audible despite his voice being barely a whisper. “I’m not like that. I’m not like... them.”
Matt could feel his pulse quicken as he processed Dex’s words. But instead of pulling away, he took another step closer, his hand resting gently on Dex’s arm. “You're just fine. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”
There was a long silence between them. Matt knew there was more to the story than Dex was ready to tell, but he didn’t press. Not yet. He simply waited, letting the stillness hang between them.
At night, when the city was quiet, Matt would still pray for Dex. He didn’t ask for miracles, didn’t beg for Dex’s complete redemption. He asked for strength—for Dex, for himself, and for their fragile connection. It was in these moments that Matt’s grief came crashing down again, the weight of everything he had lost, everything he had forgiven in the name of faith, pulling him under. But there was something else too. A quiet hope. Hope that Dex, in his own way, could find peace.
“Bless him, God,” Matt whispered once, his voice heavy with prayer. “He’s trying. I know he’s trying. Please don’t let him fall.”
And somewhere in the darkness, Dex could feel it. The words, soft and undemanding, were like a lifeline thrown across the void between them. He didn’t know if he believed in Matt’s God, but he believed in Matt. He believed that, somehow, Matt would catch him before he fell.
It started gradually. Matt wasn’t sure when, exactly, he began to notice the changes in Dex—the subtle shifts in how he carried himself, the way he’d pull his knees together when he sat, folding in like he was trying to take up less space.
There were the delicate pauses after speaking, followed by quiet throat-clearing—as if trying to smooth out the gravel in his voice. Dex would fidget more than before, adjusting his clothes, touching his hair in lingering, absent ways. And Matt could hear all of it. The breath Dex held before entering a room, the small hesitation in the hallway mirror, the way fabric whispered against skin when Dex moved with a little more grace than usual.
In their casual conversations, Dex's sly little smirk with one eye usually squinted more than the other, would die down quicker. It would turn into something smaller, a more... quiet chuckle.
He never said anything. He didn’t need to. Instead, Matt began to leave small things around the apartment: soft tops with delicate textures, cardigans that draped light over the skin, a skirt or two with carefully sewn pleats.
Lace. Always pretty lace, with color requested black or blue.
He’d run his hands over them in the store, choosing by feel, by how the fabric shifted under his fingers—soft, flowing, comfortable. He folded them into Dex’s drawer like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Dex never asked. But Matt would hear the quiet change in his breathing when he found them. The hesitation. Then the long, slow exhale that always came with being seen.
The first time Dex wore one of the tops, he came out of the bedroom without a word. He sat across from Matt, posture tighter than usual, fingers worrying the hem. Matt could hear the tension in his throat, the tightness behind his breath. He reached out gently, fingers brushing Dex’s wrist.
“Seems comfortable,” he said, voice calm, reverent almost. And when Dex didn’t flinch, Matt let his hand drift upward—over the soft fabric, the way it hung differently across Dex’s strong, defined shoulders, how he sat a little straighter in it. There was no judgment in Matt’s touch, only curiosity, care. Just... learning him.
He didn’t need to look to know Dex was beautiful. He could feel it—in the way his body relaxed under Matt’s hand, in the soft, unsure sound he made when Matt whispered, “You don’t have to explain anything.” Because he didn’t.
Matt was already listening, already understanding, in every quiet gesture Dex made. And when they sat together after that, just breathing in time, Matt knew: this wasn’t about permission. It was about presence. Letting Dex show himself in the ways he was ready, while Matt stayed right there with him—no questions, no fear, just his hand close by, waiting to be held.
Dex stayed. That in itself felt like a miracle, though neither of them spoke it aloud. She moved through Matt’s apartment like a ghost learning how to haunt gently—leaving faint traces of herself in the way the sheets stayed warm on his bed, in the mugs she washed and placed just so, in the soft shirts that began to carry her scent more than his.
She didn’t speak much in the mornings. She watched Matt from across the room, her silence saying everything. And when the quiet grew too thick to breathe through, she’d crawl into bed beside him, and press her forehead to his shoulder like she needed to remember that he was real.
The intimacy came in waves—slow at first, like the tide learning how to reach the shore without breaking. Dex would lean into his hands when he touched her face, when his fingers traced her jaw, brushing the edge of her cheek with the sort of reverence that made her stomach ache.
There were kisses that didn’t ask for anything—just breath to breath, as if lips were a language for all the things they couldn’t bear to speak. Matt would memorize her in pieces: the curve of her shoulder under his palm, the way her skin flushed warm beneath his fingertips, the fragile sound she made when he whispered against her throat. “You don’t have to hold your breath with me,” he murmured once, his mouth barely grazing her ear.
It happened one night—quietly, almost like confession. Dex sat with her knees drawn to her chest, Matt beside her, fingers loosely tangled in hers. “I think…” she started, her voice uncertain, as though it might break just from being heard. “I think I’ve always been... like this. I just didn’t know I could say it. That I could be her. That someone could still—” Her voice cracked. “Still.. like... me.”
Matt didn’t move at first. He let the moment live between them, holy in its stillness. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His fingers touched her face, brushing her cheek with a gentleness only the blind can give. “You’re a beautiful girl,” he said, reverent, the words settling over her like the first warm light of morning. “You’ve always been. I just waited for you to see it too.”
And when he kissed her then, it wasn’t urgent. It was something sacred. Lips to lips, breath to breath. Her skin against his hand, hot with emotion, her body shaking from everything it meant to be seen and still be wanted. When she broke the kiss to breathe, she didn’t look away this time.
She leaned in and pressed her forehead to his, the tip of her nose brushing his. “Thank you,” she whispered. Not because he’d made her into something new—but because he hadn’t asked her to be anything else.