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(ho-mam'), (ζ) Pegasi, "the lucky star of the hero, or the whisperer."
synopsis: While watching Matt, he finds a new variable he's never seen before: you.
word count: 11.0k+
pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader
notes: oh man oh man oh man... the first chapter of this lovely series/baby of mine, ahh i'm so nervy! i truly adore this series, so i hope people like it as much as i do! without further ado, here's the first chapter of a long journey :) and also fuck this country celebrate my fic instead of 4th of july!!!!!!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader is implied to be matt's sister (not bio), told from dex's pov!, stalking, mentions of St. Agnes, mentions of Doctors Without Borders, some small mentions/insinuations of reader not properly eating, yeah this is pretty much just dex stalking you lol
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Dex had already been watching them long enough to know what “normal” looked like on Foggy’s face, which mostly meant loud and animated and a little too pleased with himself, especially when he was carrying a drink he didn’t need and talking like he owned the sidewalk. Karen walked like she was pretending she wasn’t looking over her shoulder, even when she wasn’t actually doing it, and she kept her bag close the way people did when they’d learned the hard way that a city took whatever you gave it. Matt was harder, not because he was mysterious, but because he was disciplined, and discipline was annoying when you were trying to predict someone who insisted on having control over every inch of himself.
Dex held still in the shadowed recess between a pharmacy window and a closed gate, a spot that gave him the whole corner without putting him in anyone’s line of sight, and the street noise did the rest of the work for him. The air smelled like roasted coffee and exhaust and someone’s perfume trailing behind them, and it made his teeth ache in that faint way that meant he was too aware of everything all at once. He watched Matt’s head angle a fraction toward Foggy’s voice, watched the cane tap a steady rhythm, and then watched Karen’s hand flick out to swat Foggy’s shoulder when he said something that made her roll her eyes.
Foggy’s voice carried clearly over the traffic, because Foggy didn’t do anything quietly. “Tell me you’re at least going to let me buy you dinner,” Foggy said, dragging the words like he was bargaining in a market. “You come back and you’re like, ‘hi, I’m here,’ and then you disappear into the lab. That’s criminal.”
Karen laughed, warm and sharp at the same time. “Foggy, you’ve known her for like five minutes again. Calm down.”
“Five minutes is all I need,” Foggy shot back. “It’s a gift.”
Matt’s mouth pulled into something that looked like a smile but didn’t reach his eyes, the kind he used when he was amused and exhausted at the same time. “It’s not a gift,” he said, mild enough that it sounded like he was humoring a child. “It’s a warning sign.”
Then Dex saw you, properly, instead of as a shape that had been there but hadn’t registered as important, and the shift hit like a sudden change in pressure.
You were walking on Matt’s right side with your arm linked through his, not pulling him, not steering him, not doing the gentle, careful guiding thing people did when they wanted to prove to themselves that they were kind, you were just there, close enough that it would have looked intimate to anyone who didn’t know better, and comfortable enough that it would have looked like habit to anyone who did. You had a tote bag slung over your shoulder, the kind that got heavier the longer someone insisted on carrying their life in paper and books, and you were talking while you walked, your head turning between Karen and Foggy like you belonged in that triangle without needing to ask permission.
Dex’s first thought was simple and sharp: she wasn’t part of the pattern.
He’d mapped the pattern; he’d watched it from rooftops and parked cars and the mirrored glass of storefronts, and he had never once seen you with them. Not with Matt, not with Foggy, not with Karen, not near the church, not near the office, not near any of the places that mattered. New faces happened, sure, but not like this, not inserted neatly into the center of the group like you’d always been there and someone had just forgotten to mention you.
You said something that made Foggy groan dramatically, and Dex narrowed his eyes, listening for the exact cadence. “You can’t just show up and declare dinner,” you told him, voice steady, amused, and not at all impressed by his performance. “I get asked questions all day by eighteen-year-olds who think mitochondria is a brand of Italian food. I’m not doing negotiations right now.”
Foggy made a wounded noise. “That’s a lie,” he said, scandalized. “No one is that stupid.”
Karen tilted her head toward you. “You’d be surprised.”
Matt’s hand shifted on the cane, not because he needed it, but because he used it like punctuation when he was choosing his words. “She’s not exaggerating,” he said, and there was something in his tone that Dex couldn’t place at first because it wasn’t flirtation and it wasn’t annoyance either—it was fond, but not soft, the way you sounded with someone you had known long enough to stop pretending.
You bumped your shoulder lightly against Matt’s, the movement small and practiced, and you didn’t let go of his arm. “Don’t team up on me,” you said. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side,” Matt replied, and he said it with that calm certainty he used when he was telling the truth and didn’t feel like decorating it. “I’m also on the side of reality.”
“Traitor,” you said, but you were smiling as you said it, and Dex could hear it, not just see it.
Dex felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, the same kind he got when something didn’t line up, when a number was off in a sequence, when a shot was too easy and that meant it was a trap. You were too close to Matt, too familiar. If you were new, you weren’t acting new, and if you weren’t new, then Dex had missed you, which meant his surveillance had holes, and he didn’t tolerate holes.
He followed the line of you walking like that, like you’d done it a thousand times, like it didn’t matter that the contact would read as romantic to strangers, and he found himself focusing on Matt’s reaction instead of yours. Matt didn’t stiffen or adjust, and he didn’t do the careful thing men did when they were worried about how it looked. He simply let you keep your arm there, and he matched your pace without thinking about it.
You didn’t guide him, Matt guided you.
Dex watched the moment your foot hesitated near the curb when a cab surged past too fast, and Matt’s body angled just slightly, subtle enough that no one else would notice, putting himself between you and traffic without breaking the conversation. You didn’t even look at him when you stepped forward again, like you trusted him to handle it.
Karen glanced at you and lowered her voice, though not enough to stop Foggy from hearing because no one could stop Foggy from hearing anything. “Did you talk to your department chair?” Karen asked.
You exhaled, the sound full of tired patience. “I did,” you said. “He wants me to take on an extra section next semester because apparently being short-staffed is my problem now. I told him I’d rather chew glass.”
Foggy snapped his fingers like he’d been waiting for an opening. “Speaking of glass,” he said, brightening, “you know what fixes academic despair? Pasta. And wine. And someone else paying.”
“I knew you were going to say that,” you replied, and there was a warmth in your voice that didn’t match the way you were shooting him down. “Foggy, I’m not letting you spend money on me the first month I’m back.”
Karen’s eyebrows lifted, and she looked between you and Matt. “First month,” she repeated, like she was filing it away. “You really did just land and immediately get dragged into his gravitational field.”
Matt made a sound that could have been a laugh if he allowed himself the indulgence. “I didn’t drag her,” he said.
You squeezed his arm, not hard, but just enough that Dex could see the contact. “He absolutely did,” you said, and the way you said it didn’t sound angry. It sounded like something old between you, something that could survive teasing.
Foggy leaned closer to Karen, stage-whispering like he was sharing a secret even though he wanted everyone to hear it. “He missed her,” Foggy said.
Matt’s head turned toward Foggy with that quiet warning he did so well. “Foggy,” he said, and the name was enough to shut him up for about half a second.
You didn’t look embarrassed, and you didn’t look flattered either, you just looked… steady, like Foggy had said something obvious and you didn’t feel the need to perform a reaction for it.
Dex pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth and forced himself to keep breathing evenly, because his instincts wanted movement and closeness, and for him to cross the street and get a better look at you without relying on distance. He didn’t do it; he stayed in the shadow and watched like he always did, because watching kept him clean, calm, and in control.
You were still talking, and Dex focused on details that mattered because details were how you turned a person into something manageable. Your posture was relaxed, but not careless. Your eyes scanned without looking paranoid, like you’d trained yourself to be aware without letting it eat you alive. Your hands moved when you spoke, not wildly, but precisely, and when you adjusted the strap of your tote bag, you did it the same way twice, like you had habits that repeated without you thinking about them.
Habits were useful. Patterns were comforting.
Dex’s gaze went back to your linked arms, and he caught himself calculating the angle of Matt’s wrist, the point where your elbow rested against his forearm, how easy it would be to separate you if he wanted to. The thought came automatically, a reflex, and it didn’t make him feel better.
Karen stopped walking and pointed across the street. “There,” she said. “The place with the ridiculous pastries.”
Foggy made a noise of immediate approval. “Finally,” he said. “A woman with taste.”
You tilted your head. “I’m not eating a pastry the size of my face.”
“You’re absolutely eating a pastry the size of your face,” Karen replied, and she started walking again with purpose.
Matt shifted with the group, and as he did, he let his cane sweep forward, not searching, not needing it, just letting it exist. Dex’s jaw tightened at the sight, because the cane was part of a performance and Dex hated performances that worked.
You tightened your link for a second as you stepped off the curb, and Matt’s hand rose a fraction like he was bracing for you to tug, but you didn’t. You moved with him as though you’d learned the rhythm years ago and never forgot it. He could read enough from the way you moved and the way Matt’s shoulders eased when you were close. He could also read enough from Foggy’s familiarity and Karen’s tone. You weren’t a date or a new girlfriend, and you weren’t a fling. You were something that had existed before Dex started watching, which meant Dex had been late and he hated being late.
Foggy kept talking as they crossed, voice loud enough to bounce off the building fronts. “Okay, okay,” he said, “here’s the deal: pastry now, dinner later, and you can’t say no because I’m invoking the sacred law of ‘I missed you.’”
You laughed, a real laugh, not the polite one people used when they wanted to keep someone happy. “You can’t invoke laws you made up,” you told him.
Foggy spread his hands like he was presenting evidence. “Watch me.”
Karen looked over her shoulder at you again, something cautious behind her eyes that Dex couldn’t place, and her voice softened. “Are you okay, though?” she asked, quieter than before. “Really. Being back.”
You didn’t answer immediately, and Dex watched the pause like it mattered. Then you said, “yeah,” and the word wasn’t light, but it was honest. “I’m okay. It’s just… weird. Everything feels the same and different at the same time, like the city kept moving without me.”
Matt’s expression changed, small but visible, and Dex saw that he wanted to say something that wasn’t meant for the sidewalk. “It did,” Matt said carefully, “but you’re here now.”
Your fingers flexed where they rested on his arm. “Yeah,” you said again, and this time you sounded steadier. “I’m here.”
They reached the pastry shop, and Foggy immediately began arguing with the person behind the counter about how many pastries were “reasonable” for four people, which was not a real argument because Foggy didn’t believe in reasonable. Karen leaned in closer to you while Matt turned his head slightly, listening, but not inserting himself, and Dex watched you in that warm indoor light spilling onto the sidewalk.
You looked like you belonged with them, and Dex couldn’t stop the irritation from settling deeper, because belonging was something you earned, and you hadn’t earned it in Dex’s eyes, not yet. You had simply arrived and taken up space at Matt Murdock’s side like it was yours by right.
Dex stayed where he was, half-hidden, and let himself watch longer than he meant to, because the sight of you next to Matt made something in his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like. The feeling wasn’t clean enough to name quickly, and Dex didn’t tolerate unnamed things.
Foggy’s voice burst out again, triumphant. “Two boxes,” he declared. “One savory, one sweet. I’m a genius.”
Karen rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “You’re going to regret that.”
“I regret nothing,” Foggy said, then glanced at Matt. “Matt, back me up.”
Matt didn’t even pretend. “I’m not getting involved,” he said, and he angled his head toward you. “You tell him.”
You looked at Foggy, then at Karen, then back at Foggy, and Dex watched your mouth curve. “You’re going to regret that,” you told him, repeating Karen’s line with perfect timing.
Foggy clutched his chest dramatically. “Betrayal,” he said, but he was laughing too.
Dex’s eyes narrowed, and he memorized the way you smiled, not because he cared about smiles, but because it was another data point, another piece of you he could file away. He was already building a schedule in his head, already imagining where you’d go after this, already thinking about what it meant that you were “back” and that you hadn’t been here before.
He didn’t move when the group turned away from the shop, pastries in hand, heading down the block with the lazy ease of people who thought the day belonged to them. He waited until they were far enough that the crowd swallowed them again, and then he stepped out of the shadow, crossing the street with the flow of pedestrians like he’d never been there at all.
Dex looked in the direction you’d gone, and he set his mind to the new problem you represented, because a new variable demanded attention, and Dex never did well with anything he couldn’t account for.
Dex picked a different spot the next week because the city punished anyone who got lazy, and he wasn’t in the mood to be punished for something stupid like repeating himself. He stayed across the avenue this time, tucked into the mouth of an alley that smelled like old garbage and rain-soaked cardboard, with a clear view of the sidewalk and the building entrances Matt used when he wanted to avoid being seen. People moved around Dex without noticing him because people always did, and he watched their faces slide past like they were part of the background, because they were.
Matt showed up alone at first, cane in hand, suit jacket open, moving like he had somewhere to be and time to waste at the same time. Dex tracked him without shifting his weight, kept his eyes loose, let the traffic lights and passing buses break sightlines so he didn’t look like he was staring when anyone glanced his way. Matt’s head tilted toward the street as though he was listening for something particular, and Dex knew what he was doing even if nobody else did, because Matt never stopped measuring the world.
You came out of a building entrance a minute later, tote bag on one shoulder and a paper cup in your hand, and Dex felt the immediate, familiar jolt of irritation when your arm slipped through Matt’s again like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t ask permission; you didn’t even hesitate. You moved into his space like you belonged there, and Matt didn’t move away.
“I’m telling you, you’re going to hate it,” you said, voice clear enough to carry between the cars. “It’s not a big deal until the week you realize you’ve spent three days straight explaining the same concept to people who are absolutely committed to misunderstanding you.”
Matt’s mouth curved in that restrained way it always did when he was amused but refusing to show too much of it. “That sounds like being a lawyer,” he said, and the words came out easy, like he was comfortable.
“You don’t have to deal with pre-med students,” you shot back, and the edge in your voice wasn’t anger. It was affection, which was worse, because it meant you’d earned the right to be sharp without it turning into a fight. “They’re relentless. They’re convinced every question is a trick question designed to ruin their lives.”
Matt angled his head toward you, and Dex caught the shift in his posture, like he was checking in without making it obvious. “Are you sure you’re not projecting a little?” Matt asked.
“I’m not projecting,” you said immediately, and then you added, “okay, maybe I’m projecting, but it’s justified. One of them asked me if bacteria are basically, like, tiny animals that want to be people.”
Matt let out a breath that could have been a laugh if he didn’t keep everything so controlled. “They said that to your face?”
“Worse, they said it with confidence,” you replied, and Dex watched you gesture with your coffee cup, careful not to spill. “They said it like they were waiting for me to congratulate them on being brave.”
Matt’s cane tapped the pavement, steady and deliberate, and Dex noticed the way it never caught on cracks, the way it never searched, the way it existed as a signal more than a tool. Your arm stayed linked through his, and the contact looked close enough that strangers would read it wrong, but your body wasn’t angled toward him the way lovers did when they wanted more space than the sidewalk gave them. You were facing forward, matching his pace, letting him set the rhythm.
A delivery truck rolled up too close to the curb, engine rattling, and you slowed half a beat because the sound and the bulk of it made you hesitate. Matt stepped first without any visible pause, not dragging you, not pulling you, just moving like the street belonged to him, and you followed his lead without thinking. Dex watched that exchange, watched the way Matt’s shoulder shifted, subtly, blocking you from the vehicle’s path as it edged forward, and you didn’t even glance at him like you needed reassurance.
“You’re doing it again,” Matt said, and he didn’t raise his voice, but Dex heard the change in it anyway.
“Doing what?” you asked, and your tone went lighter, like you already knew what he meant and wanted him to say it.
“You’re skipping breakfast,” Matt said, and the simple statement landed like it had a history behind it.
You made an offended noise. “I had coffee,” you replied.
“That’s not breakfast,” Matt said, and Dex couldn’t tell if he sounded annoyed or protective, but he knew it wasn’t flirtation. It didn’t have the softness of that, instead it had the steadiness of someone who was used to being responsible.
“I had a granola bar at like… nine,” you argued, and you sounded like you were smiling while you lied.
Matt didn’t even pretend to be fooled. “That’s not breakfast either.”
“Since when did you get so bossy?” you asked, and Dex watched you tilt your head as if you were trying to look at him directly even though you knew you couldn’t really catch his eyes the way you wanted.
Matt kept walking, unbothered. “Since you moved back and started pretending you can run on caffeine and stubbornness,” he said.
You clicked your tongue and squeezed his arm, quick and familiar, the kind of touch people didn’t do unless they’d done it a hundred times before. “You missed me,” you said, and it came out like an accusation and a joke at the same time.
Matt didn’t answer right away, and Dex saw the pause, saw the way his jaw tightened for a second like he’d swallowed something he hadn’t meant to. “Yeah,” Matt said finally, and it was quiet enough that the traffic should’ve eaten it. It didn’t. “I did.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it, which was almost worse than if you had. You just nodded once, like he’d confirmed something you already knew, and you kept walking with him like that simple admission didn’t matter, like it wasn’t weighty, like it didn’t give you any kind of leverage. Dex hated that, too, because it meant the connection between you wasn’t fragile.
A group of college kids shoved past in a cluster, laughing too loudly, and you and Matt shifted without speaking, letting them flow around you. Dex tracked the movement automatically, noting how Matt angled his body again so the crowd would hit him first if it came to that, and you didn’t even notice you were being protected. You trusted the street because you trusted him, and Dex kept staring until the angle forced him to move if he wanted to keep you and Matt in sight.
Two days later he saw you with Foggy, and the difference in energy was obvious before Foggy even sat down. Foggy was louder in daylight, like he thought being seen was a human right, and he took up more room than the chair gave him by sheer force of personality. The place was a little café near campus with too many students and not enough space, and Dex stayed outside, just far enough that no one would clock him as a loiterer, close enough that he could hear through the half-open window when it mattered.
Foggy leaned forward over the table, elbows wide, talking with his hands like he was trying to physically convince you of something. “I’m just saying, it’s criminal that you’re back and you haven’t come to the office,” he insisted. “Like, I get it, you’re busy, you’ve got your fancy professor schedule, whatever. I’m not jealous, I’m not, but Matt is acting like a kicked puppy.”
You snorted, and Dex saw you rub your forehead with two fingers, like Foggy was giving you a headache you’d had before. “Matt isn’t acting like a kicked puppy,” you said. “Matt is acting like Matt.”
Foggy pointed at you like you’d personally betrayed him. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” he said, and his voice lifted, drawing a few annoyed looks from nearby tables that he ignored completely. “You say that like it’s normal, but it’s not normal. He’s sitting there being all… all stoic and quiet, and then I bring you up and suddenly he’s doing this thing where he—”
Foggy stopped mid-sentence and waved both hands in front of his own face, as if mimicking Matt’s expression could explain it. “He does that face,” Foggy finished, frustrated. “That ‘I’m fine’ face that is not fine, y’know that face.”
You leaned back in your chair, and the way you looked at Foggy wasn’t indulgent the way Karen looked at him sometimes. It was direct, familiar, and slightly unimpressed. “Foggy,” you said, “I’ve known him since I was ten, he has had the ‘I’m fine’ face for most of his life.”
Foggy’s mouth fell open. “Okay, yeah, sure, but still,” he said, and Dex watched him grab his drink, then set it down again like he couldn’t sit still. “You can’t just waltz back into the city and not let us see you. Karen’s been weird about it too.”
Your posture changed at Karen’s name, not dramatically, but enough that Dex clocked it. “Weird how?” you asked.
Foggy hesitated, and for once he looked like he was choosing his words. “Not bad weird,” he said quickly. “Just… careful. Like she’s worried you’re going to vanish again. Which, honestly, fair. You did vanish.”
You stared at your cup for a second, thumb tracing the cardboard edge, and then you exhaled. “Doctors Without Borders isn’t exactly a nine-to-five,” you said, and Dex couldn’t hear pain in your voice, but he heard the weight of it, the kind of fatigue that came from living in a place where danger was normal. “I didn’t vanish because I wanted to. I just… didn’t have the kind of life where you can pop back for brunch.”
Foggy’s face softened in a way Dex didn’t like on him, because it meant Foggy was capable of seriousness, which was inconvenient. “I know,” Foggy said quietly, and he didn’t joke for a whole two seconds. “I’m not mad. I just missed you.”
You blinked at him like you didn’t know what to do with sincerity from him. “Yeah,” you said, a little awkwardly. “I missed you too.”
Foggy immediately seized the emotional high ground like it was a weapon. “Great,” he said, brightening. “So you’re coming to dinner Sunday. I’ll cook.”
“You can’t cook,” you replied.
Foggy slapped his hand to his chest again, dramatic as ever. “I can cook,” he insisted. “I cooked in college.”
“You cooked frozen pizza in college,” you corrected, and Dex watched you smile, small and genuine.
Foggy jabbed a finger at you. “That counts,” he declared. “Also, you owe me. I have been carrying Matt’s emotional baggage for years.”
You gave him a look, and Dex could practically feel the history in it. “That’s not a real thing,” you said. “And you love it.”
Foggy grinned, shameless. “I do love it,” he admitted. “But that’s not the point.”
Dex stayed outside long enough to see you stand when lunch ended, long enough to watch Foggy hug you without it looking like he was trying to make a point. It was quick, familiar, and brotherly in a way that didn’t match Dex’s first assumption about you, and Dex walked away before the two of you came out onto the sidewalk because he didn’t like the way his brain wanted to label what he’d just seen.
Later in the week he found you with Karen, and that took more effort because Karen didn’t move like Foggy; Karen blended when she wanted to, and she chose places where the light was low and the door was close, and Dex had to stay two blocks away and shift angles twice before he got a clean view through the bar’s front window.
You were sitting across from her with a drink that looked untouched, and Karen was talking with both hands wrapped around her glass like she needed something solid. Your face was turned toward her fully, not distracted, not scanning the room the way Karen kept doing, and Dex watched you nod slowly, taking in whatever Karen was saying without interrupting.
Karen’s voice didn’t carry as well through the glass, but Dex caught pieces when the door opened and a gust of noise spilled out. “—not the same,” Karen said at one point, the words clipped and tense. “Sometimes I think it never will be.”
You said something back that Dex didn’t hear, and Karen’s shoulders dropped a fraction, like she’d been holding herself too tight. She shook her head once, and her mouth twisted the way it did when she was trying not to let emotion show too much. You reached across the table and touched her wrist, not lingering, just contact for a second, and Karen’s eyes closed briefly like she’d been waiting to feel something simple and human.
“You don’t have to do that,” Karen said, louder this time, and Dex caught it clearly when someone walked out past the window. “You don’t have to take care of everyone.”
You leaned back, and Dex saw you tilt your head, expression dry even from a distance. “Says the woman who will literally bleed before she asks for help,” you replied, and your tone wasn’t cruel, it was the same steady bluntness Dex had heard from you with Foggy and Matt, like you didn’t do delicacy when honesty would work better.
Karen let out a humorless laugh. “Fair,” she admitted, and then she looked at you like she was trying to understand you. “Do you ever regret coming back?”
You didn’t answer immediately. Dex watched you lift your glass, take a slow sip, then set it down carefully. “No,” you said, and the word was even, not dramatic. “I regret leaving the way I did, sometimes, but I don’t regret coming back.”
Karen’s eyes stayed on you. “Matt’s happy you’re here,” she said, and the way she said it made it sound like she was testing a truth.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, like you were trying not to be affected by it. “Matt doesn’t do happy,” you replied.
Karen’s mouth lifted, small. “He does,” she said, and then she added, “not often, not loudly. But he does.”
You looked down at your hands for a second, and Dex saw you roll your thumb over the edge of your glass the way some people did when they were thinking. “Okay,” you said, and you sounded like you were accepting the statement more than agreeing with it. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Karen leaned forward, elbows on the table now, voice dropping again. Dex couldn’t hear what she said, but he saw the shift in your posture, the way you went still for a beat, and then you nodded once, sharply, like she’d told you something you didn’t like but needed to know. When you answered, Karen’s expression changed, relief mixing with something more complicated, and Dex watched the two of you sit there for another long stretch, talking like the noise of the bar didn’t exist.
Dex left before you did, because he didn’t like standing in one place for too long, and he didn’t like the way his attention had started to stick. He’d meant to watch Matt and his orbit, but now he was spending days tracking where you went and who you met, and he didn’t have a clean reason for it that would satisfy anyone who asked. He told himself it was still about Matt, because everything came back to Matt, but the truth was that he kept finding you even when Matt wasn’t there, and that was becoming its own pattern.
When he saw you again with Matt the following weekend, arm linked through his while you talked over the top of the crowd like you weren’t afraid of the city at all, Dex stayed far enough away that he could pretend it didn’t matter. He watched anyway, not because he had to, but because the question of you didn’t sit right in his head, and Dex had never been good at leaving questions unanswered.
Dex didn’t go back to the same places he’d watched you in, not right away, because repeating patterns got people noticed and noticed got people caught. He picked a public library two neighborhoods over, one of those old branches that smelled like carpet cleaner and paper dust, where nobody looked twice at a man with a hoodie and a cheap pair of glasses sitting at a computer terminal. The librarians were busy shushing teenagers and directing tourists, and the security guard by the entrance spent more time staring at his phone than at anyone who walked in, which was exactly the kind of negligence Dex preferred.
He logged on with a guest pass and the screen threw a pale glow across his knuckles, and he kept his posture loose, bored-looking, like he was killing time between errands. People believed boredom more readily than intensity, and Dex had learned that long before he ever wore a badge.
A man two computers down muttered at the screen, volume creeping upward as his frustration grew. “Why do they make it like this?” he complained, tapping the keyboard like it had personally insulted him. “I just want to print the damn form.”
Dex didn’t look over at him, but he spoke anyway, casual enough that it sounded like he was being helpful by accident. “You have to click ‘print options’ first,” Dex said. “Then pick ‘black and white.’ Otherwise it tries to send it somewhere else.”
The man stared, then did what Dex said, and the printer whirred a second later. “Oh,” the man said, a little embarrassed. “Thanks. Sorry, I’m not good with this stuff.”
Dex kept his eyes on his screen. “Yeah,” he replied, and the conversation died the way Dex liked conversations to die.
He searched you the way he searched everything, starting with the obvious and moving into the layers people thought were private. Columbia’s public-facing faculty directory gave him enough to start, not everything, but a clean outline that matched what he’d already seen. Biology department, faculty page, office location, office hours that weren’t really office hours because professors never stuck to their posted schedules unless they were terrified of their students. He clicked through the publications list and scanned titles without reading the full abstracts, because the details of your research weren’t the point yet, but the pattern of your mind was.
When he pulled up a CV, he didn’t smile, but something in his face settled, the way it did when chaos resolved into something catalogable. Degrees, institutions, dates, fellowships, field placements, then a stretch of years where the academic timeline was interrupted by work that had its own documentation. Doctors Without Borders didn’t advertise their staff like celebrities, but they left traces, the kind that existed because bureaucracies couldn’t help themselves.
He found a mention in a newsletter, a bland little paragraph about a field team and a project, and he clicked through the archived PDF without changing his expression. He read your name in a list, then read it again in a different format, then found a photo that had been uploaded with low resolution and worse lighting. You were standing in a cluster of people in front of a tarp-covered structure, sleeves rolled up, face sun-tired but steady. It wasn’t the kind of picture meant to show beauty, but it showed something else Dex cared about more, which was that you looked like you were used to holding your ground.
A teenage girl at the next station leaned too far back in her chair and bumped Dex’s elbow with hers, not hard, but enough to break the rhythm. “Sorry,” she said quickly, eyes wide, like she expected him to yell.
Dex kept his shoulders relaxed. “It’s fine,” he said, voice even.
She nodded, then returned to her screen, and Dex waited until she was fully absorbed again before he continued. He didn’t like interruptions, but he didn’t like attention even more, and attention was what you got when you acted like something mattered too much.
He opened another tab and searched your name alongside “St. Agnes,” then watched as the search engine offered him a handful of irrelevant results, a couple of archived charity posts, and one old article about an old fundraiser at the orphanage. Dex clicked anyway, because sometimes the useless links contained the right names, and names were handles you could grab.
The article didn’t mention you, but it mentioned a nun by name, and that name led to a small obituary on a church website, and that obituary linked to a memorial guestbook full of polite comments from people who’d once been children under her care. Dex scrolled until he found a line that made him stop, because it used your full name and referenced “the kids who came through together,” and it sat there on the screen like a breadcrumb someone had dropped without realizing what it was worth.
He read the comment twice, then copied the name of the commenter into a new search.
That line took him to a LinkedIn profile that still had a headshot from ten years ago and a job title that sounded too important for a person who typed in short, blunt sentences. The profile listed volunteer work at St. Agnes, years ago, and a current position with a nonprofit in the city that handled youth services and adoption placement support. Dex stared at that for a moment, then sat back slightly, not because he was thinking in circles, but because he was deciding which angle was cleanest.
He didn’t call from his phone—he never called from his phone when he didn’t have to. He walked out of the library and down the block, bought a cheap burner from a bodega that didn’t care who you were as long as your cash didn’t stick together, then went back inside the library and sat at a different computer so no one could place his face to the call if they reviewed camera footage later.
When he dialed, he pitched his voice slightly higher, a touch more clipped, like he was a hurried assistant who didn’t have time to be friendly. He waited through two rings, then three, then four, and he didn’t fidget when the line clicked.
“Family Connections, this is Marla,” a woman’s voice answered, weary but professional. “How can I help you?”
Dex kept his eyes on the screen, not because he needed it, but because it kept him steady. “Hi, I’m calling on behalf of Columbia University,” he said, and he made the words sound like they had authority without sounding like he cared. “We’re updating background verification for faculty records and I’m missing a piece related to St. Agnes. I’m trying to confirm dates of residence for a former minor. I have a full name and approximate years.”
There was a pause, not suspicion yet, but caution. “We don’t give out personal information over the phone,” Marla said, and Dex heard the practiced firmness.
Dex didn’t push immediately, he let the silence breathe just long enough to sound mildly annoyed, like he dealt with rules all day and hated them. “I get that,” he said. “I’m not asking for address history or placement notes. I just need confirmation of whether the person was in residence, because the university is cross-referencing for a scholarship record tied to alumni outreach, and the file is incomplete.”
“Alumni outreach?” Marla repeated, and her skepticism softened into confusion.
Dex made a small sound of impatience, like he wished she’d keep up. “The orphanage had a fund,” he said. “There’s an endowment that was used for education grants and I’m trying to confirm eligibility for a donor report. It’s routine.”
Marla exhaled, and Dex imagined her rubbing her forehead the way people did when they were tired. “What’s the name?” she asked, and her voice lowered, like she knew she shouldn’t be asking and did it anyway.
Dex gave it to her, clean and steady, and he listened as she typed. He didn’t move a muscle while she searched, because movement made noise and noise made people look up, and Dex didn’t want the librarian noticing him mid-call.
After a moment, Marla said, “I can’t confirm anything without written consent,” and then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added, “but… if it’s who I think it is, yes, they were.”
Dex didn’t thank her, thanking made you memorable. He kept it transactional. “I’ll send an email request through official channels,” he said, like he intended to, and then he ended the call before she could reconsider.
He never sent an email request.
Instead, he woke the computer up and pulled your Columbia page again, then opened the archived alumni database he’d already accessed once years ago while tracking someone else. Universities kept records like religious texts, and once you knew where the rot was in their systems, you could slide through the cracks without even trying too hard. He searched by graduation year ranges that matched Matt and Foggy’s, then narrowed to the same program clusters, because people who grew up together tended to move in parallel even when they swore they wouldn’t.
Your name popped up with an old email address attached—a dormant one—and a line noting your undergraduate advisor. Dex clicked the advisor’s profile and scanned it, then opened another tab and searched the advisor’s last name with “St. Agnes” just to see if there was an overlap.
There wasn’t, but the advisor had published an article years ago about trauma-informed teaching methods for students with unstable childhood backgrounds. The acknowledgments section included a list of students who’d participated in a pilot program, and your name was there, along with Matt’s, which made Dex’s jaw tighten for a second because it confirmed something he’d already suspected but didn’t like seeing in print.
He stared at Matt’s name next to yours, then closed the tab, because he wasn’t here to think about Matt, not right now.
He was here to confirm where you fit, and the pieces were fitting too neatly.
Dex left the library after another half hour, not because he was finished, but because he’d pulled enough to move the work into the physical world, and he preferred the physical world. The digital traces were useful, but bodies were more honest; schedules more reliable when you watched them in person.
He went to Columbia the next day, not on your block, not near your building, but close enough to see the rhythms around it. He wore a cap and a jacket that didn’t fit him perfectly, because perfect fit drew eyes, and he kept his hands in his pockets like he was just another guy passing through campus to get somewhere else.
Outside a biology building, two students stood smoking, their backpacks slung low, and Dex slowed just enough to catch their conversation. “I’m telling you, she’s brutal,” one of them complained. “Like… she doesn’t even care if you’re dying, she’ll just stare at you like you’re a specimen.”
The other student snorted. “That’s not brutal,” she replied. “That’s fair, if you’re wrong, you’re wrong. She’s not gonna coddle you.”
The first student rolled his eyes. “You like her,” he accused.
“I respect her,” the second corrected, and her tone made it clear that the distinction mattered. “Also she brought donuts once, so she’s not a monster.”
Dex kept walking, but he filed that away, because it meant you weren’t a ghost here. You were known, you had a reputation, and you were consistent enough that students complained in predictable ways, and predictable meant trackable.
He moved to a bench across from a coffee cart, bought nothing, and waited.
You came out of the building an hour later with two graduate students trailing behind you, both talking too fast, both trying to impress you by throwing jargon into the air like confetti. You listened without looking rushed, but your stride was purposeful, and when one of them said something incorrect, you didn’t correct it gently, you corrected it precisely, with enough firmness that it wouldn’t happen again, and Dex felt his shoulders ease in a way he didn’t notice until afterward.
You stopped at the coffee cart, and the vendor greeted you like you were a regular. “Hey, Doc,” the vendor said, cheerful. “Same thing?”
You nodded, already reaching for your wallet. “Yeah,” you replied. “And if you have anything with actual protein in it today, I’ll take it, because I forgot to eat again.”
One of your grad students made a small, scandalized sound. “You always forget to eat,” he said, as if it was personally offensive.
You glanced at him, expression dry. “And you always forget to label your samples,” you shot back, and there was no malice in it, just the familiar bluntness of someone who cared enough to be annoying.
The vendor handed you your coffee, then slid a wrapped sandwich toward you. “On the house,” he said. “You look like you’re about to fight Thor.”
You huffed a laugh, and Dex watched it like it was evidence. “That’s just my face,” you replied, then you added, “but thank you.”
You turned, sandwich tucked under your arm, coffee in hand, and Dex watched you walk away with the two students still trying to keep up. Your pace didn’t slow for them, they had to match you, which meant you were used to leading without apologizing for it.
Dex followed at a distance, not close enough to be seen, but close enough to stay locked to you. He watched you split off toward another building, watched the grad students peel away toward a lab entrance, and watched you pause at the crosswalk when the light changed. A car rolled through the intersection too fast, and you didn’t flinch, but you did shift your weight slightly back from the curb, and Dex noted it because it was a small precaution that suggested you were more aware than you looked.
He didn’t approach you, and he didn’t want to yet. He wanted the last piece, the one that would explain how you could slip so naturally into Matt’s world without anyone having to introduce you.
That piece wasn’t at Columbia, that piece was at St. Agnes, even if St. Agnes wasn’t what it used to be.
Dex went there the following evening, when the streetlights were on and the building’s new facade tried too hard to look clean. Dex walked past the entrance like he belonged, because he did belong anywhere he decided to belong.
Inside, the church was quiet. A receptionist sat behind a desk with a mug that said “Be Kind,” and Dex almost laughed at it, but he didn’t. He leaned in slightly, polite in the way that got people to answer questions quickly.
“Hi,” Dex said. “I’m looking for someone who used to live at the orphanage. I’m helping coordinate an alumni event, and I was told there might still be a contact list.”
The receptionist brightened, because people loved feeling useful. “Oh,” she said, eager, “that’s sweet. I wasn’t here then, but we do have a couple of volunteers who were. Are you looking for Sister Maggie?”
Dex kept his expression neutral, interested but not too interested. “Possibly,” he said. “I’m also looking for someone named Marla, last name unknown. She used to coordinate records for placements.”
The receptionist frowned, thinking. “Marla,” she repeated. “I think she still comes in once a week for the youth program, actually. She’s here on Tuesdays.”
Dex checked the day in his head and adjusted without showing it. “Tuesday works,” he said, smooth. “What time is she usually here?”
“Late afternoon,” the receptionist replied. “Around four, sometimes five.”
Dex nodded like that was perfect, because it was. “Great,” he said. “I’ll come back. Thanks.”
He didn’t leave immediately, he walked deeper into the building like he was looking for a posted flyer, and he found a bulletin board with old photos pinned under a title that read “Our History.” There were black-and-white shots of children in uniform clothes, nuns lined up with forced smiles, then later color photos of renovation work, smiling donors, and ribbon cuttings. Dex scanned faces the way he always did, fast and ruthless, then stopped when he saw a group photo with a caption that included a year that matched your timeline.
The picture was grainy, but he could make out a boy near the back with a familiar posture, shoulders squared too young, jaw set like he’d already decided the world wasn’t safe. Matt Murdock, years before he became something else, was still Matt, and Dex stared long enough to feel irritation prick behind his eyes.
Then his gaze slid left, and he found you, smaller, younger, expression stubborn in a way that looked almost like a scowl. You were standing near Matt, not pressed against him, but close, a proximity that wasn’t accidental. You weren’t smiling at the camera, but you weren’t afraid of it either, and Dex took the image in like he’d been handed proof of something that had been bothering him.
A voice behind him interrupted, and Dex didn’t flinch because flinching was weakness. “Can I help you?” an older man asked, cautious.
Dex turned with a polite half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just looking at the history board,” he said. “My uncle grew up here. I didn’t realize they kept photos.”
The older man relaxed slightly, sympathy landing on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “We try. People came through here with nothing. It mattered. It still matters.”
Dex nodded like he agreed. “Do you know if any of them come back?” he asked, casual. “Like, the kids from back then. Alumni.”
The older man shrugged. “Some do,” he said. “Not a ton. Life gets complicated.”
Dex let that sit, then asked, “Did you know a girl who went by—” and he said your name carefully, like he was testing whether it would spark recognition.
The older man’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh,” he said, and the recognition was immediate. “Yeah, I remember her. Smart kid. Tough. She came back years ago to donate books, and then she was gone again. She came by recently, though, a month back. I think she was looking for Father Lantom’s grave.”
Dex kept his face smooth, but his attention sharpened. “She’s back in the city?” he asked, as if he hadn’t known.
“Seems like it,” the older man replied. “She’s a professor now, I heard. Good for her.”
Dex nodded again, thanked him, and left with the calm of someone who wasn’t burning a hole through the inside of his own skull. Outside, the air felt colder than it had a minute ago, or maybe Dex was just more aware of his skin, of the tightness in his hands, of the way the pieces had clicked together so cleanly it almost felt like an insult.
You weren’t new. You’d always been there.
Dex had missed you because you’d been gone, and now you were back, and you had slipped into Matt’s orbit like a key sliding into a lock that had been waiting for it.
He walked away from the building without looking back, already thinking about Tuesday at four, already thinking about how easy it would be to get more records if he wanted them, and already thinking about the fact that this wasn’t just about Matt’s friends from law school, this was older than that, deeper than that, and that meant your connection to Matt was harder to break than Dex had assumed when he first saw your arm linked through his.
Dex didn’t like being wrong, and he didn’t like problems that required patience, but he adjusted anyway, because adjusting was what kept him alive.
Dex started carrying a small notebook again, the kind that looked like it belonged to anyone with a job and a commute, the kind people wouldn’t remember if they saw it in his hand while he waited for a light to change. He didn’t write in it like someone journaling their feelings, because that wasn’t what it was for, and he didn’t write in it like he was building a case file either, because case files had names and signatures and consequences. He wrote in it the way you wrote down a route you didn’t want to forget, quick marks and times and details that mattered, and then he closed it and put it away like it was nothing.
On Monday morning he got to the subway before you did, because arriving first meant he could choose a spot that gave him the best angle without having to shuffle around once you were there. He kept his hood down and his face neutral, and he stood with his shoulder near a support column where he could see the stairs and the turnstiles at the same time. People hurried past him with their coffee and their headphones and their purposeful little frowns, and none of them looked at him long enough to remember him later.
You came down the stairs with a tote bag that looked heavier than it should’ve been, phone pressed to your ear while you talked like you were already tired and still somehow making space to be patient anyway. Dex watched you weave through bodies without touching anyone, as if you had learned how to move in crowds without letting the crowd claim you.
“I know,” you said into the phone, and your tone had that careful steadiness that meant you were trying not to snap. “No, I know that’s what you want, but that’s not what you’re asking. You’re asking me to sign off on a timeline that’s unrealistic and then you’ll act surprised when it blows up.”
Whoever was on the other end spoke fast enough that Dex couldn’t catch words, but you answered like you were used to this kind of argument. You stopped near the edge of the platform, looked down the tunnel, then adjusted your stance back a few inches when a gust of air rolled through. “I’m not saying no,” you continued, calm but firm. “I’m saying if you want the results you’re asking for, you either give me more people or you give me more time. You don’t get both for free.”
The train screamed into the station, and you stepped on with the same timing you always used, not rushing, not hesitating, but just letting the chaos happen around you while you stayed in the middle of it like a fixed point. Dex stepped into a different car, not far from yours, but close enough to track you through the windows when the train curved. You didn’t sit, even when a seat opened up, and Dex noted it because it wasn’t about fatigue, it was about control.
When you got off at your stop you ended the call and immediately started typing, thumbs moving quickly, expression set in a way that looked like you were already planning your next three hours. Dex followed at a distance through the surge of students and commuters, watching the point where the crowd thinned as Columbia’s edges swallowed people into campus and routine.
He didn’t go into your building; he watched from across the street and let the day unspool with the kind of repetition that made other people bored and made him calm.
Two students came out first, arguing with each other about something that sounded like it had been assigned and not chosen. One of them waved a worksheet around like it was evidence in a trial. “I swear to God, if she cold-calls me again I’m dropping,” the student complained.
His friend snorted. “You’re not dropping,” she said. “You love acting like you’re dropping. Just read the chapter.”
“I read the chapter,” he insisted. “It’s not my fault it reads like it was written by a robot who hates joy.”
The friend rolled her eyes. “She’s not the one who wrote it.”
“Yeah, but she’s the one who looks at you like you’re stupid if you say something wrong,” he replied, voice rising with the righteous outrage of someone who had never been in real danger in his life.
Dex watched the building’s main doors while they bickered, and he kept waiting for the moment you’d appear again, because you always did, eventually. He was learning the intervals, the gaps between your movements, and he didn’t like surprises.
You came out a little after noon, walking fast, sandwich in hand, coffee in the other, and you didn’t look up until one of your students practically jogged to catch you. The kid looked nervous in that eager way that meant he was terrified of disappointing you. “Professor,” the student said, matching your pace, “can I ask you something about the lab report?”
You didn’t slow down. “If it’s about formatting, the rubric answers your question,” you replied.
“It’s not about formatting,” he said quickly. “It’s about the control group. I think I messed it up.”
That got your attention, but not as softness. Dex saw the shift in your face, the way your focus narrowed. You stopped near a trash can, took a bite of your sandwich like you refused to pause your life for anyone, and then you spoke around the bite without apology. “What did you do?” you asked.
The student started explaining, hands moving, stumbling through the logic, and you listened all the way through without interrupting him. When he finished, you took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and then you answered in a tone that wasn’t gentle but wasn’t cruel either, the way people spoke when they wanted the person in front of them to do better. “Okay,” you said. “You didn’t destroy it, but you need to fix it. If your control group isn’t controlled, your results don’t mean anything. You can’t argue your way out of that, and you can’t charm your way out of that, so don’t try.”
The student’s face fell, and then you added, not softer, but more practical, “Come to my office at three and bring your raw notes. We’ll map out what you can salvage and what you have to redo.”
He looked like you’d handed him a lifeline. “Really?” he asked.
You stared at him for a second, expression dry. “Do you want me to say no?” you replied.
“No,” he said immediately, flustered.
“Then stop acting surprised,” you told him, and Dex watched the corner of your mouth twitch like you were amused despite yourself. “Three o’clock.”
The kid nodded fast and peeled away, and you kept walking like it hadn’t taken anything out of you. Dex followed through the campus paths, then stopped once you disappeared into a different building, because he’d already gotten what he needed: confirmation that you ran your day on schedule and that other people adjusted themselves to fit into it.
Wednesday was the late day, and Dex didn’t need to guess anymore once he’d watched it twice. You stayed in the lab past sunset, and the building’s windows threw pale light onto the sidewalk while most of the campus emptied out. Dex waited across the street near a food cart, pretending to browse the menu without ordering, letting the vendor assume he was deciding, and then letting the vendor get bored of him. Eventually the vendor called out anyway, voice loud and impatient. “You buying or you just reading for fun?” the vendor asked.
Dex glanced up with a look that suggested he was mildly offended on principle. “Give me a pretzel,” Dex said.
The vendor slapped one into a bag and held it out. “Three bucks,” he said.
Dex paid, took the pretzel, but didn’t eat it. He held it like a prop, because props made you look normal and normal was invisible.
You came out around eight, exactly the way you usually did, shoulders slightly tense, tote bag heavier, phone already in your hand. One of your colleagues walked with you for half a block, talking quickly like they were trying to squeeze in a last conversation before going home. “I’m telling you, the department chair is going to push back,” the colleague said.
You let out a tired breath. “He can push back,” you replied. “I’m not taking another section. If they want another section, they can hire someone, or they can stop pretending adjuncts don’t exist.”
The colleague made a sympathetic noise. “You’re going to make enemies.”
You shot her a look that Dex caught even from across the street, and the look said you didn’t care. “I already have enemies,” you replied. “They’re eighteen and they think I’m personally responsible for their GPA.”
The colleague laughed, then peeled off toward the subway. You crossed the street alone, and Dex waited for the moment you’d usually hesitate at the curb, and you did, just a beat, like the city had trained that into you no matter how brave you tried to be.
Saturday was groceries, and Dex didn’t have to work hard to blend in because Amsterdam Avenue on a weekend was full of people who looked like they belonged there. He wore a plain jacket, kept his hands in his pockets, and stayed just far enough that if you turned your head you’d see a crowd, not him. You went into the same store you’d gone into the previous Saturday, and you walked the aisles like you had a list in your head.
You stopped by produce first, and Dex watched you pick up a bag of apples, weigh it in your hand, then put it back and choose a different one like you could feel which one would bruise first. You grabbed spinach, then eggs, then yogurt, and Dex tracked the order because order mattered. You didn’t wander or browse, you moved with intention.
A woman near you dropped a jar, and it shattered, and people froze for a second in that communal moment where everyone decides whether they’re going to help or pretend they didn’t see. You stepped around the spill without stepping through it, then crouched and picked up the woman’s phone off the floor because it had skidded away. You handed it back and said something Dex didn’t hear, and the woman’s shoulders loosened like you’d reassured her without making it a performance.
When you got to the checkout lane, the cashier greeted you like she knew you. “Hey,” the cashier said, scanning your items. “Back again. You’re consistent.”
You smiled in that small way Dex had seen before, the smile that didn’t ask for anything. “I’m predictable,” you replied.
The cashier snorted. “Must be nice,” she said.
You glanced down at the groceries, then back up. “It is,” you said, and you didn’t say it like a brag, you said it like a fact you’d earned.
Dex waited until you left before he moved, because he didn’t want to share the same exit, not yet. He watched you walk home carrying bags with a steady pace, not rushing, not drifting, and he noticed you always adjusted the strap of your tote bag with the same hand in the same motion, like your body had decided on a method years ago and never bothered to change it.
Sunday nights were different, and he figured that out because you didn’t go every week, but when you went, you went with purpose. Twice a month, you ended up with them, and Dex had to admit he liked that it wasn’t random. It was scheduled, intentional, almost ceremonial, like you were making sure you stayed stitched into their lives.
He found the dinner the first time by tracking Foggy instead of you, because Foggy was louder and easier, and because Foggy never checked his blind spots. He waited outside a walk-up building with too many steps and a narrow hallway where the smell of garlic drifted down, and he listened through the thin windows because the building made it easy.
Foggy’s voice boomed first, as always. “Okay, everyone shut up, I have an announcement!” he declared.
Karen’s voice cut in immediately. “If this is about your lasagna again, I swear—”
“It is absolutely about my lasagna,” Foggy said, offended. “Also, it’s not just lasagna, it’s a labor of love.”
You laughed, and Dex heard you clearly through the crack in a window. “Foggy, you bought pre-made noodles,” you said.
Matt’s voice slid in, calm and too controlled. “That’s cheating,” Matt said.
Foggy made a dramatic sound. “You’re all ganging up on me,” he complained.
Karen sounded amused, but careful in the way she always did. “We’re not ganging up on you,” she said. “We’re just united in the truth.”
You replied, and Dex heard the smile in your voice even without seeing it. “It’s okay,” you said. “You can still take credit. No one else is going to cook.”
Foggy latched onto that like it was a win. “Thank you!” he said. “Finally, someone appreciates me.”
Matt’s voice softened, the smallest shift, like he couldn’t help it. “We appreciate you,” Matt said, and Dex could picture the expression even if he couldn’t see it, because he knew Matt’s tells by now.
Foggy went quieter for half a second, then recovered like sincerity was a threat. “Don’t get emotional,” he warned. “I’m fragile.”
Karen laughed, and then she said your name like she was bringing the room back to you. “So,” Karen asked, “how’s the chaos at Columbia?”
You groaned. “Don’t,” you said. “I had three separate emails about the same assignment and every single one of them started with ‘I know you said not to email, but—’”
Foggy cackled. “They fear you,” he said, delighted.
“They should,” you replied, and the line made them laugh again.
Dex stayed outside long enough to hear more of it, not because he needed it, but because it gave him something he couldn’t get from schedules and public records. It gave him your cadence when you were relaxed, the way you teased Foggy, the way Karen’s voice eased around you, the way Matt spoke more freely in your presence without sounding like he was trying to perform anything.
At some point Foggy said, louder, “Matt, tell her,” and Matt answered, “I’m not getting involved,” and you shot back, “coward,” and it all sounded easy in a way Dex didn’t like, because easy meant stability, and stability meant you weren’t temporary.
When Dex finally walked away from the building, he didn’t head toward Hell’s Kitchen rooftops or toward any of Matt’s usual routes. He went the other direction, toward the subway, because the next morning was Monday and you would be on the platform at 8:49 a.m., and he wanted to be there before you again, not because he needed to prove anything, but because he didn’t like the feeling of arriving late to something that was becoming routine.
