Calina paused at Matthew's door, her hand raised to knock.

She wasn't sure if this was the right thing to do.

She had slipped again yesterday. Revealed too much about herself. And Matthew's lawyerly instincts - or maybe it was his Daredevil instincts - were leading him closer and closer to the truth about her.

Or at least some of the truth. He now knew that she was good at languages. That she was from Russia, or was at least of Russian descent. He knew she could fight.

It was too much, when he wasn't supposed to know anything about her at all.

And it was too risky to keep seeing him. She should move out of the building. Maybe out of New York. She should think of her safety. She should consider her sisters.

She should do this.

Not do that.

Should. Should. Should.

What about what she wanted?

Wasn't that the whole point of gaining her freedom? So that she could live how she wanted, and not have to do as she was told?

And what she wanted...was to see him again.

So she knocked on the door.

He answered moments later. "Calina?" He sounded surprised to see her. After the way she'd bolted last night, she couldn't really blame him. But was it a good surprise? Or was he sick of the sight of her? They'd spent practically the whole day together yesterday, maybe he wanted a break? She hadn't considered that when debating if this was the right move-

"Are you okay?" he asked, when she didn't reply.

"Yes, sorry. I, um, brought lunch for us. If you want to eat. With me, I mean. But it's okay if you don't. I can just leave this with you." She thrust the paper bag at him, prepared to run away again.

But he caught her arm. Smiled at her. "I want to. Come in."

She followed him to the kitchen, where he unpacked the meatball subs and loaded them onto plates. "Did you get these from that new place that just opened round the corner?" he asked.

"Yeah. It always smells so good when I pass, so I thought I would try it today."

"I'm glad you did. I'm starving."

He carried both plates to the dining table. She joined him, and they tucked into their sandwiches. "You seem like you're feeling better," she commented after swallowing a bite. He had more energy by the looks of things, although his voice still sounded raspy and congested.

"I am. I meditated for a while this morning, and that helped."

"Really?" She frowned at him. "Are you buddhist, or something?"

He laughed. "Catholic, actually. The meditation is more of a...non-denominational mindfulness. I've been doing it since I was a kid."

"Oh. Who taught you to do that?"

"A...teacher...that came to the orphanage one year. He was also blind, and it helped him focus. So he showed me how."

"I didn't realise you were an orphan. I'm so sorry." And she was. She knew what it was like to grow up without parents. To have that connection to your heritage ripped away; to have no home to anchor you as you drifted through life. She wished she could say that to him - to let him know that she understood the depths of that particular pain, and that he wasn't alone in it. But her cover-story included two, very much alive and loving parents who were living in Illinois.

So she had to settle for generic platitudes that he'd probably heard a thousand times before. His response confirmed as much. "Thanks," he said, giving her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

This hadn't been the right thing to do after all. Because this wasn't what she truly wanted.

She wanted to be herself around him. She wanted to form a connection - a friendship - with someone based on truth, and honesty and trust. She didn't want to second guess her answers or have to skirt around the secrets stacked up between them.

She wanted something real.

And that just wasn't possible with Matthew. Not when they were both keeping their true selves hidden from one another.

It probably wasn't possible with anyone.

Depressed at the thought, she tried to find a way to make a dignified exit - at least more dignified than her escape last night. Her eyes landed on the pile of documents on his coffee table and she used them as an excuse. "It looks like you have a lot of work to do today. I'll leave you to it."

She rose from the table, but he stopped her from leaving with a hand on her arm. The pads of his fingers just barely touched her skin, but she could see the corded muscle of his forearm. That contradiction was one of the things that drew her to Matthew Murdock - the gentle kindness, mixed with brutal strength.

And just like last night, the contact between them made her heart race and her mouth go dry. It was embarrassing, how easily he affected her.

It was another reason why coming here had been a bad idea. Her body betrayed just how attracted to him she was - and it was clear he didn't feel the same. He never stuttered or stammered in her presence. His breathing never changed when they were close. And his hand on her arm didn't seem to bother him one bit.

A harmless crush had been one thing. But this...situation...was at risk of devolving into unrequited love.

Which was infinitely more pathetic.

"Wait," he said. "If you're not busy, I could actually use your help."

"With what?" she asked, intrigued despite herself.

"We have a big trial coming up this week and I've been working on my opening statement. I need a sounding board. If you don't mind?"

She bit her lip. Her resolve to leave and stop this thing between them from getting any deeper evaporated in the face of his earnest plea.

God, she really was pathetic.

She nodded. "Okay," she said. "What do I need to do?"

He took her hand and led her over to the couch. "Just sit here, and pretend you're a member of the jury. I need to convince you that my client is innocent."

She took a seat. "What's the case?"

"Nope. I'm not going to tell you. I want an unbiased reaction."

She smiled and settled back against the cushions. "Okay. Hit me."

———

The request for help had been a spur of the moment idea. Calina had looked ready to flee his apartment again, so he'd invented a reason for her to stay. She was the one who had come to him - with her offer of lunch - but from the moment he'd answered the door she'd looked on the verge of running away.

He wanted them to get back to that place they'd found yesterday. The easy companionship, the relaxed back and forth that they'd discovered. It had served to slowly unravel some of the layers around this mysterious, complex woman, and he wanted it to continue.

So he'd asked her to stay, and to listen to him as he worked through his opening statement. A task he usually performed to an empty apartment, his only feedback being literal - the words bouncing off his bare walls and back to him.

But it was surprisingly useful having her input. She seemed to understand something of human psychology, and was able to offer insights he hadn't considered.

"I wouldn't focus too much on how wonderful and perfect your client is," she suggested after listening to his draft speech. "Even if she really is a 'paragon of virtue', that's difficult for most people to relate to. If you're convinced that she was drugged out of the blue-"

"I am," he confirmed.

"Then make it more universal. Appeal to people's fear. This could happen to them. They could be exposed to this drug, and have to go through something similar. Ask them how they would feel in that situation."

He stopped pacing, hands on his hips, as he considered her approach. "That's...not a bad idea."

"Thank you," she said, and he could hear the pride in her tone.

"Okay, let me try that," he said, his voice croaking. He tried to clear it, which sparked off a coughing fit.

He heard her run into the kitchen. Moments later, she pressed a glass of water into his hand. "Thanks," he rasped.

"I think you should give your voice a rest for a while," she said.

"I need to get this right," he protested.

"What good will having the perfect speech be, if you lose your voice and can't give it?"

He took a seat. "You're right. God, Foggy would kill me if I left him high and dry again."

She joined him on the couch. "Again?"

"Yeah. The last time we had a trial this big, with this much media attention, I- I flaked on him. I missed the opening of the trial and he had to wing it."

"That doesn't sound like you," she said, turning to face him, one leg bent between them.

"Thank you for saying that, but its true. I went through a rough patch a while ago. I tried to take on too much, and my priorities got skewed. I almost lost everything because of it. I did lose everything - at least for a while."

"But you got it back?"

"Yeah," he said. "I have very forgiving friends."

"Are they Catholic too?" she teased.

He laughed. "No. They're just good people. And I don't want to let them down again."

He felt her hand come to rest over his, hesitantly, as if she wasn't sure she should. He turned his hand over to capture hers before she could change her mind. "You won't," she said. "You're obviously working hard not too. But you need a break. You know what they say, 'Work is not a wolf'."

He tilted his head, confused. "Um, who says that?"

"Oh," she sounded embarrassed. "I guess only the Russians do. 'Work is not a wolf - it won't run away into the woods'. It means, your task isn't going anywhere; you can come back to it later."

He smiled at the odd saying. Yet more proof of her Slavic background. "Okay, so what did you have in mind?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"To take a break? What should we do?"

"We? I don't know."

"What time is it, anyway?" he asked.

"Its after five. Oh!" She jumped to her feet, her hand slipping from his grasp. "I need to go. I have a- a thing."

"A thing? Like, a date?" he asked carefully. It hadn't occurred to him that she might be seeing someone. Or even multiple someones. But why not? She was beautiful, intelligent, kind...it would be strange if she wasn't dating.

He just didn't like the thought.

Hated it, in fact.

"Hardly," she laughed, and the tension building within him drained away. "I promised Alma - Mrs. Schneider - that I would help her tonight. She has some paperwork about her stock portfolio that she needs me to translate."

She gathered up her stuff and paused on the way to the door. "But I could, um, come over tomorrow night? If you still want help. The trial starts on Tuesday, right?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow night would be great. Seven o'clock? We could have dinner first."

"Seven sounds good," she said softly. "I'll see you then, Matthew."

"Matt. It's Matt!," he called out. But for the second night in a row, he was too late. The door closed behind her, leaving him alone again.

———

"I got us Chinese food. I hope that's okay," Matthew said, holding open the door the following night.

"Yes," she replied. "It smells great." The aroma of oyster sauce and garlic wafted from the kitchen, making her mouth water. She took off her coat and hung it on the rack, then dropped her bag on the floor. It landed with an audible thud.

"More books?" Matthew asked.

"No. Bricks this time."

He cocked his head, and she could sense his confusion despite the opaque glasses that hid his eyes. He'd been to the office today, so the glasses were on, and the comfortable sweats of the weekend had been replaced by tailored pants and a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the collar loose.

She couldn't decide which version of him she preferred.

"I'm kidding," she said. She would obviously need to work on her jokes. "It's books."

"What are you reading now?" he asked, as she joined him at the table. He started opening the cartons of takeaway noodles and stir fry. "Some Einstein, maybe? A bit of Stephen Hawking?"

She laughed. "No, I'm switching things up with a bit of fiction. I've been on a 19th century gothic literature kick the past couple of weeks."

"Like Shelley's Frankenstein?"

"Yes, and Edgar Allen Poe, the Bronte sisters, that kind of thing."

"No wonder you're not sleeping, if you're reading those before bed," he joked.

She laughed again. "They're not scary. I find them beautiful. The language, the tone, the atmosphere that seeps out of the page...its so transportive. You feel completely immersed in this other world. Its one of the few things that gets me out of my own head these days."

"What else works?" he asked, picking up a shrimp with his chopsticks and popping it in his mouth.

"Recreational drugs."

He spluttered around his mouthful of food, and she grinned in response. "Kidding, again," she teased. That joke had definitely landed.

He swallowed and laughed. "You got me."

"The real answer is dancing. That also helps," she said.

"Dancing?"

"Yeah, I've been going to street dance classes at a studio a few blocks away. Hard to fixate on your thoughts when you've got loud music thumping and you're trying to follow complex choreography."

"I can see how that would help," he commented.

"You should try something like that," she suggested.

"Dance classes? I think letting me loose in a dance studio might classify as a reasonable and sustained threat to other people's safety."

She laughed. "I meant a hobby. An escape. Something to help you get away from your thoughts for a while. Oh!" she said, suddenly realising her error. "You meditate, right? That's your thing."

———

I also put on a red suit and beat up criminals.

The thought came to Matt automatically, but it wasn't really the truth. Being Daredevil didn't silence the thoughts that kept him awake. Those thoughts just accompanied him when he roamed the skyline of Hell's Kitchen. What he did at night...it was a compulsion, not an escape. It was an outlet for the devil in his soul that had clawed at him his entire life. The same devil that his father had wrestled with.

"I box, sometimes," he admitted, the thought of his father revealing another outlet that helped him cope when he felt overwhelmed.

His dad had taught him to box. Stick had taught him to meditate.

Two father figures. Two different outlets.

He'd never realised that before. Nor had he grasped the irony of it. Stick - the most ruthlessly violent man he'd ever known - had taught him to use his mind; and his father - who'd always advocated for him to use his brain - taught him to use his fists.

"Really?" Calina said, propping her head in her hand.

"Yeah, my dad was a professional boxer. I sometimes go to his old gym..." His voice trailed off. He was surprised at how much he was sharing. He rarely talked about his dad, or Fogwell's. Yet again, it struck him how dangerously easy it was to talk to Calina.

He needed a change of subject. "Are you ready to get to work?" he asked, pushing his empty carton to the side.

"Yes," she replied. "Let's do this."

Two hours later, Matt collapsed back on the couch next to Calina. "I think that's it," he said, his voice raspy from practicing and refining his speech. His throat was on fire from the virus, the overuse and the dry air of his apartment. He took a gulp of water to try to soothe it.

"I think so too," Calina agreed. "The argument is passionate, empathetic, but not sensationalised. I think you'll do great."

He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I hope so."

"Hey," she said softly. "You've got this. And you've done everything you possibly can for this woman. Try not to worry."

He sighed. "Easier said than done."

He felt her nod, the dust particles in the air fluctuating at the movement. "I don't suppose you have a spare punching bag hanging around here?" she teased. "Seems like you could go a few rounds with an inanimate object."

Or a real one, he thought. He was itching to don his suit and go patrolling. But his senses weren't back to normal yet, and if anything happened to jeopardise the trial tomorrow, he wasn't sure Foggy would forgive him a second time.

He would have to forgo his nighttime activities again tonight - probably all week, given how packed the trial schedule was. He would have to consciously block out the cries for help beyond his window, and pray that nothing happened to make him regret his choice. It was a major source of his current stress, and the reason he was not looking forward to the night to come. It would be hard to sleep with those thoughts on his conscious. But part of finding balance in this new iteration of his life was occasionally tipping the scales in favour of one aspect of his persona over the other.

This case was important. To the firm, to their reputation, and to Margaret Posen.

"No bag unfortunately," he replied to Calina. Then a thought came to him. "Read to me," he said, the words as much of a plea as a command.

"What?" she asked.

"Read something. Let me escape my thoughts for a while that way. Please?"

She hesitated for a few moments, then got up to grab her bag from the hallway.

"Any preferences?" she asked him, taking her seat beside him again.

"No, you choose." He took off his glasses and rested his head on the back of the couch. He was sceptical that this would help, but there was no harm in getting comfortable anyway.

"Okay, we'll go for some Jekyll and Hyde. You should like this - its mostly told from the point of view of a lawyer."

Matt smiled wryly. Her choice was more apt than she realised. He'd never read the novel, but everyone knew the narrative of Jekyll and Hyde - it was the archetypal tale of good versus evil.

And a classic story about the duality of human nature - perfect for a man who'd spent years trying to reconcile his own darker half.

He heard the rustle of paper as she flicked through the pages. He heard the slide of her tongue as she wet her lips, and he closed his eyes at that particular sound. Then she started to read, her voice soft and low and soothing.

"Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye..."