Chapter Text
Fourth floor.
The top floor of the building.
They weren’t in Hell’s Kitchen anymore — now they were, maybe, fifteen minutes from Josie’s at best.
It was the closest and most discreet place Karen had found, with Barry’s help — an old friend she trusted. He had even been her landlord a few years back.
“I left the keys under the doormat, right in front of the door. It’s apartment 404. I also texted you the entry code,” Barry said over the phone.
“Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Karen sighed, feeling a little of the weight lift from her shoulders.
“Anytime, Miss Page.”
“Talk soon… and thank you again.”
She hung up, a little more at ease.
After spending the night at Josie’s, sleeping on a lumpy pullout couch, getting to sleep in a real bed felt like everything they needed.
When Matt and Karen opened the door, they found a small studio — maybe around 800 square feet.
Yeah, it was simple. But surprisingly cozy.
The outside of the building was old and worn, but inside, it had been renovated with modern finishes that didn’t match its weathered look.
The kitchen and living room shared the same open space, divided only by a narrow counter.
There was a small table pushed up against the wall and a two-seater couch facing a basic shelf.
In the back, there was a bedroom area separated by a light wood partition, and next to it, a small bathroom with an old but clean tub.
“Looks good to me,” Karen said as she stepped inside, her eyes scanning the place with quiet relief.
“It’s great. Thanks for finding us somewhere to stay,” Matt said, giving her a shy smile.
“Of course.”
She nodded, dropping the keys onto the kitchen counter.
For a moment, the silence settled into the apartment like it belonged there.
Karen walked over to the window and pulled the curtain aside a little.
It was already dark outside.
City lights spilled soft shadows across the walls.
She slipped off her shoes by the door and started unpacking one of the backpacks.
Matt stood still for a moment, fingers brushing the doorframe before he started moving slowly around the place.
His hand passed over the couch, then the counter.
It felt good to take his time — to map out the space without rush, without danger waiting around the corner.
“There’s a bathtub,” Karen said, almost surprised.
“A bathtub?”
Matt raised his eyebrows, a small smile playing at his lips.
“Yeah. It’s small, but it’ll do.”
She tried not to think about how, once, silence between them had been filled with endless conversations.
Now, everything felt heavier. Thicker.
Not hostile — just full of everything they hadn’t said yet.
Karen crossed her arms, leaning against the side of the counter.
“Well… at least now we have a place. A starting point. We can figure things out slowly, plan how we’re gonna take Fisk down.”
The mention of that name — still hanging over everything like a shadow — made Matt lower his head a little.
He nodded slowly, but the tight clench in his jaw gave away everything he didn’t say.
Even now, even safe, he wasn’t at peace.
Karen saw it.
She knew any relief he felt was shallow at best.
Because under all that silence, there was still anger.
Pain.
And a relentless hunger for justice — or maybe revenge — for Foggy’s death.
“You wanna shower first or should I?”
Her tone was light, almost casual.
“You go ahead.”
His half-smile was brief but real.
She grabbed a towel from her backpack and headed toward the bathroom.
Before stepping in, she paused and looked back at him over her shoulder.
“If you want… I can make some coffee after. I’ve still got a few pods in my bag.”
“Coffee sounds good.”
___
Karen stepped out of the bathroom with her hair still damp, tied up in a messy bun.
She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton shorts — the most comfortable things she could find in her small suitcase.
Matt turned slightly on the couch, his senses locking onto her.
The scent of soap, the soft creak of the floor under her bare feet, the way her heartbeat still raced a little after the hot shower — all of it wrapped around him like a familiar song.
“You didn’t go,” she said, pointing at him with a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Was waiting for you to come back,” he answered simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Karen just nodded and moved to the small kitchen, setting about making coffee with automatic motions.
She opened her backpack, found the pods, and loaded them into the machine Barry had left there.
Matt stood up silently and followed her, stopping close — too close to be casual.
He didn’t touch her — not yet — but his presence was steady, warm, unmistakable.
“You still stay quiet for way too long,” she said, not turning around, her eyes fixed on the steam rising from the coffee maker.
“And you still fill up the room like no one else.”
His voice was lower now, rougher. Almost intimate.
Karen turned slowly, finding his face closer than she’d realized — close enough that their breaths mixed in the air between them.
The coffee machine hissed behind her, but in that moment, the world had narrowed down to just him — or more precisely, to the way he looked at her without seeing, his head tilted slightly, memorizing the distance between them.
Matt lifted a hand and gently tucked a loose strand of her damp hair behind her ear.
“You’re exhausted.”
“And you’re blaming yourself all over again.”
He smiled, but didn’t argue.
His fingers lingered for a moment against her skin, tracing lightly along her jawline.
It was a delicate touch, almost reverent.
And even though neither of them said it out loud, there was a silent question hanging in the air — a plea for closeness, maybe for forgiveness, or just for a little bit of peace in the middle of all the chaos.
Karen didn’t pull away.
The coffee machine clicked off with a loud pop, shattering the moment.
She moved first, grabbing two mugs with slightly trembling hands.
“It’s hot,” she warned, handing him one, as if grounding herself back to reality.
Matt took the mug, but his fingers stayed over hers for a second longer than needed.
“Thanks,” he said softly — and he wasn’t just talking about the coffee.
____
Later, exhaustion had taken over both of them.
Karen walked over to the bed and pulled back the covers while Matt went through his usual nighttime routine.
“I’ll take the couch,” he said casually as he came out of the bathroom.
“Matt…”
Karen crossed her arms. “You got shot just a few days ago. And I know you’re still in pain. You’re not sleeping all twisted up on that tiny couch.”
“Karen, I—”
“No discussion.”
She pointed at the bed. “Just sleep here, okay? It’s just a bed. You need real rest.”
Sleeping next to her, hearing her heartbeat, breathing her in…
It was all Matt had wanted for so long.
But being so close to her, not able to touch her — at least not the way he wanted — would be its own kind of torture.
And yet, how could he say no?
She stood there, beautiful even in her simplicity — tired and vulnerable, but still so stubborn in every word she spoke.
And you didn’t argue with Karen Page.
Not when she looked at you like that.
So he just nodded, silently.
Karen went into the bathroom to grab the first aid supplies.
Matt was already sitting at the edge of the bed when she came back.
“Take off your shirt.”
He obeyed without a word.
The fabric slid off his shoulders in one slow movement, revealing a body carved by pain, discipline, and survival.
The muscles in his arms and torso flexed slightly as he moved, each line catching the faint light like it was meant to.
There was nothing showy about him — just the body of a man who had fought through hell and made it back.
A body marked by scars, by stories untold, by sheer endurance.
Karen swallowed hard.
She had seen him like this before — she knew every curve and scar by memory — but now, in the tight silence of that small room, it felt different.
The air between them was heavy, charged with everything they had pushed down for too long.
Maybe it was exhaustion.
Or maybe it was just simple, inevitable desire.
Heat rushed through her, making her breath catch and her thoughts blur for a moment.
She sat down next to him on the bed, turning her body to face him, and started cleaning the wound carefully.
Matt watched — not with his eyes, but with his senses.
Her scent.
The rhythm of her breathing.
The slight tremble in her hands.
“You’ve done this a lot,” he murmured, lowering his head slightly as she worked around the healing scar.
“And I still hate every time,” she replied quickly, firmly.
But her touch was gentle.
She dabbed the antiseptic-soaked cotton over his skin with steady hands.
The heat radiating from his body was impossible to ignore, and although she tried to focus, she couldn’t block out just how deeply intimate this moment felt — painfully intimate.
Her thigh brushed against his by accident, and neither of them moved.
Her fingers paused for a second against the bandage before she forced herself to continue.
Matt didn’t need his sight to know she was holding on to more than just the gauze — she was holding fear, exhaustion, maybe even guilt.
And he…
He was holding back the urge to pull her closer.
“All done,” she said, her voice low, almost breaking.
Karen stood up slowly, walked to the small table, and grabbed her phone.
She unlocked the screen and, for the third time that night, checked for a message from Frank.
Nothing.
He had vanished after the task force operation against vigilantes.
And even though she wanted to believe he was just lying low, something told her it was worse than that.
Just let me know you’re alive, she whispered, typing and sending a message before locking the screen and pressing her lips together tightly.
She walked back to the bed.
Matt was already lying down.
She slipped under the covers beside him, pulling the sheet up to her waist.
The bed was narrow, and even though they tried to leave space between them, there wasn’t much room to spare.
Matt turned his face toward her, listening carefully.
“You’re worried about something,” he said suddenly.
Karen froze for a second.
“It’s nothing.”
“Karen…”
“I’m just tired, Matt.”
“Your heartbeat changes when you lie.”
She bit her lip and looked away.
“I’m fine. Really.”
She wasn’t about to tell Matt. Not now.
Matt didn’t push.
He moved closer, slowly lying on his side, and reached out.
With a hesitant touch, he placed his hand on her shoulder, then gently slid it up into her hair.
His fingers tangled lightly in her messy bun, beginning to stroke her hair in slow, rhythmic motions — like it could calm them both.
Karen didn’t pull away.
“I still dream about him sometimes,” she whispered.
“So do I,” he answered quietly.
The silence between them returned, but it was different now — softer, closer.
Karen closed her eyes.
Matt’s fingers kept moving through her hair, slow and steady, until little by little, she gave in to the exhaustion.
Her breathing evened out, deep and slow.
Matt stayed awake for a while longer, feeling her warmth beside him, the familiar scent of her shampoo mixed with the kind of comfort only she could bring.
He could guard himself against the world — but not against her.
When he finally felt her body fully relax into sleep, he whispered:
“Good night, Karen.”
She didn’t answer.
She was already asleep.
And for the first time in days, Matt let his own body go slack against the mattress, letting himself forget — just for a few hours — the weight of everything still to come.