He wasn't expecting it. Not here, not now, not ever again.
The city was quiet in that peculiar way only Matt Murdock could hear — the usual drone of traffic dulled beneath the weight of a recent storm, neon signs buzzing softly in puddles, distant sirens echoing like ghosts. He walked alone, cane tapping in steady rhythm.
Then it stopped.
The cane clattered to the pavement, abandoned.
Because somewhere, just around the corner, he heard it — a heartbeat. That heartbeat. The one he'd memorized through late-night study sessions, courtroom whispers, rooftop confessions. Steady, a little fast, familiar in a way that knocked the air clean out of him.
No.
It couldn’t be.
But the second he heard a shaky, whispered:
“Matty?”
Matt ran.
The world tunneled around him, senses narrowing to that voice, that pulse. He turned the corner like the street was a lifeline, like salvation waited just out of reach — and there he was.
Foggy.
Standing in the soft streetlight, alive, real, blinking like he couldn’t believe it either.
Matt crashed into him like a storm.
He slammed Foggy against the brick wall, not in violence but desperation — as if anchoring him there would keep him from vanishing again. His hands fisted in Foggy’s hoodie. Their chests collided. And before either of them could speak another word, Matt’s mouth was on his.
Foggy gasped against the kiss, then melted into it. Fingers slid up Matt’s back, clutching him just as tightly, just as breathlessly.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, Matt choked out, “I thought you were dead.”
“I was,” Foggy whispered. “But I found my way back.”
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