Tabula Rasa

Chapter 57

Over the next few weeks, they found their groove as a couple, their lives settling into a more predictable routine. Matt would go to work during the day, while Calina spent her time either at the library researching the pheromone case, or going to dance classes, baking with Mrs Schneider, or wandering the city trying to find inspiration for what she was meant to do with her life.

In the evenings, they would have dinner - usually in Matt's apartment, although Calina was often the one cooking. Then they would just...be together. She would read to him. They'd play chess or listen to music. Occasionally they went to Fogwells to spar, or to the bar around the corner to play pool and have a quiet drink together.

And when the sky darkened to pitch black, Matt would become Daredevil. The lawyerly suit would switch to red leather, and his kind, beautiful eyes would disappear behind the menacing mask. Calina would kiss her vigilant goodbye on the rooftop and watch him disappear into the depths of the capricious city he loved.

She would wait up for him - either in her bed or his. They still kept separate apartments, though that was the only separate thing about their relationship. She would pass the time reading a book or talking to one of the other Widows on the phone, all the while trying not to think about the danger Matt might be facing.

In the small hours of the morning, he would return to her. Sometimes too exhausted to do more than collapse on the mattress beside her. When that happened, she would help him undress, pulling the tight fitting suit from his body, and guiding him under the covers of the bed. She would stroke her fingers through his mussed hair, the soothing motion causing him to hum with pleasure under his breath. Then she'd give him a soft, lingering kiss to his lips and whisper 'Goodnight, my love'.

Sometimes he would return injured, and as much as she hated seeing the damage to his body, the alternative was him never returning at all.

And that was an unbearable thought.

So she would tend to his wounds with loving care. Cuts and scrapes would be cleaned and bandaged. Pulled muscles would be iced and massaged. Deeper wounds would be sutured and dressed. And afterwards, they would usually make love. A slow, tender, gentle kind of lovemaking that wouldn't pull on stitches or cause him to re-open wounds. She would always protest - not wanting to hurt him any further - but then she would always relent. She needed the intimacy as much as he seemed to crave it. She needed that life-affirming act of connection. The tangible proof that he'd made it back home to her - alive, if not always in one piece.

Some nights, though...

Some nights he would come to her still riding high on adrenaline. He'd stalk through the bedroom door like a predator, his every sense locked on her, chest heaving with deep breaths as if he'd run straight to her side. He'd kick off his boots, wrench the mask from his face and grab her in a bruising kiss.

They didn't make love on those nights.

He fucked her instead.

Fast and hard.

And she loved every exhilarating second.

At the end of the night - whether he came to her tired, or hurt or aroused - they always fell asleep together. Deeply and peacefully, entwined in each others' arms, looking forward to the moment they'd wake and get to do it all over again.

It was a routine. Mundane even, if viewed from the outside. But it was something neither of them had ever experienced before. It was special. Precious and exciting.

And every week - at least once, sometimes twice - they would go on a date.

They took turns to organise the outing, and it became another game between them: who could plan the more interesting date.