Chapter 2
Frank Castle did not have a routine.
Routines were dangerous. Predictable. The kind of thing that could get a man killed if the wrong people were paying attention. Back when he was a Marine, he’d learned to change up his habits—never take the same route twice, never sleep at the same time every night, never let anyone figure out where you’d be before you got there.
And yet.
Every evening, around the same time, Frank found himself stepping into that damn elevator, hoping—no, not hoping, just anticipating—that Matt would be there. And more often than not, he was.
It wasn’t weird. Frank just liked knowing who his neighbors were.
Even if knowing meant spending way too much time memorizing the way Matt tilted his head when he listened, or how his lips curved just slightly before he smiled. Or the way he always turned toward Frank a second before Frank even said anything, like he could sense him before the cologne even kicked in.
It wasn’t weird.
What was weird was the fact that Frank was currently standing outside his own apartment, keys in hand, about to pull his usual wrong key routine like some kind of lovesick moron.
Matt had a habit of getting home a couple minutes after Frank did, and Frank had started this thing where he fumbled with his keys just long enough to make sure Matt would hear. Just so Matt would know it was him.
He didn’t know why he did it.
(He knew why.)
But whatever. It was harmless.
At least, it was until tonight.
Frank slid the wrong key into the lock, jiggled it a little, and—
“Need some help there, neighbor?”
Shit.
Matt was standing just a few feet away, leaning casually against his own door, head tilted with amusement.
Frank froze.
Matt knew.
He knew.
Frank could feel it in the way Matt’s lips twitched, the way his eyebrows raised just slightly, like he’d been waiting for this moment.
Frank yanked the key out like he’d been burned, scowling at the door as if it were the problem and not his own dumbass plan backfiring.
“Damn lock’s stickin’ again,” he muttered.
Matt hummed. “Mmm. That’s funny. I thought I heard you do that every night.”
Frank clenched his jaw.
Abort mission. Walk away. Do not engage.
But Matt was still smiling, still watching him with that too-perceptive gaze, and Frank’s body betrayed him before his brain could catch up.
“Y’know, for a blind guy, you sure see a lot,” he grumbled.
Matt laughed. A full, warm laugh that sent something stupidly pleasant through Frank’s chest.
“What can I say?” Matt shrugged. “I pay attention.”
Frank swallowed, gripping his keys tighter. “Yeah, well. Quit payin’ attention to me.”
Matt smirked. “I would, but you make it kind of hard.”
Frank’s brain short-circuited.
There was no way Matt meant that how it sounded.
Right?
Matt pushed off the door, stepping past him, and Frank caught a faint whiff of coffee and something sweet—maybe vanilla, maybe cinnamon.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on literally anything else.
Matt unlocked his door effortlessly, turning back toward Frank.
“Goodnight, Frank,” he said, voice low and teasing.
Frank cleared his throat. “Yeah. Night.”
Matt disappeared inside, leaving Frank standing there, heart hammering in his chest like an idiot.
It took him a full thirty seconds to remember he was still holding the wrong key.
He cursed under his breath, shoved the correct one in, and practically threw himself inside his apartment.
The second the door shut behind him, he ran a hand down his face.
Jesus Christ.
This was getting out of hand.