The Invisible String: Matt Murdock/ Daredevil

19

The plates from lunch were still stacked by the sink when the quiet settled over Annalises apartment. Afternoon light spilled across the floorboards, warming the little space, but the air was thick with worry.

Karen lingered by the bedroom door, her arms crossed. Foggy stood just behind her, his hand light on her back, his expression caught between concern and encouragement.

"You're sure he's okay?" Karen asked softly, glancing at Annalise, who was adjusting the pillows behind Matt with professional precision.

Annalise didn't look up. "He's injured, but stable. I stitched him, I'll keep checking him. I promise—he's in good hands."

Karen still looked torn, her gaze flicking to Matt's pale face.

"Karen," Foggy said gently. "She's a nurse. If she says she's got this, she's got it."

Matt sighed, leaning his head back against the headboard. "You two can stop hovering, you know. I'm not dying."

"You scared us earlier, and not to mention after yesterday." Karen muttered, her voice betraying just how badly she meant it.

Annalise softened, her tone quieter now. "I'll tell you if anything changes. For now? Go. Have your 'movie date'." She tilted her head toward the living room, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

That finally drew a reluctant smile out of Karen, who let Foggy lead her back to their makeshift lounge. The sound of their quiet laughter followed, muffled through the thin walls.

Annalise turned back to her patient, who was very obviously pretending to behave.

"You heard them," Matt said, a half-smirk curling his mouth. "Everyone's on my case."

"That's because you don't listen," Annalise replied, reaching for the belt she had left draped over a chair.

Matt tilted his head. "What are you—"

When Annalise looped the belt over his wrist and tugged it tight against the headboard, Matt tilted his head, a smirk already tugging at his mouth.

"Oh," he drawled, voice dipping suggestively. "This is what we're doing?"

She shot him a look, though her lips threatened to twitch. "Don't flatter yourself. You don't know how to stay in bed."

"Could've just asked," he teased, testing the restraint lightly.

She ignored him, looping his other wrist with quick efficiency.

"Are you really trying to make me rest," he asked, grin widening, "or torture me?"

"Bit of both," she muttered, tugging the knot secure.

"This is undignified," he complained.

"This is necessary," she countered, settling cross-legged beside him. "You'll thank me when you're not tearing those stitches."

"You stitched me," he teased. "Don't you trust your own work?"

"I don't trust you."

He gave a quiet laugh, and the smirk stayed on his lips as he sank back into the pillows. The sight made Annalise pause for a heartbeat, taking him in.

His shirt hung loose over his stomach, fabric slack but not enough to hide the way his chest rose with each breath. The neckline had slipped, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone, and the bruises that painted his skin only seemed to emphasize how solid he was underneath. Even tied down, even hurting, he radiated strength — and something else. Something that tugged at her in a way she wasn't sure she wanted to analyze.