Warning: Just a heads up that towards the end of this chapter, there is a (non graphic) discussion of domestic abuse.

Karen's footsteps were quick and eager coming into the office. "We have to talk to Heather Fisk."

"Good morning to you too," Foggy said from his place near the coffee machine. He'd been quick to make the coffee that morning, saying he wanted to get it going before Karen could try to poison them again – a harsh but not totally unjustified assessment of Karen's coffee making skills.

"I thought we were just researching her right now," Matt said. It was easier to stay somewhat neutral about Karen bringing up Heather today. Now that Heather was hidden away, Karen wouldn't actually be able to talk to her, which hopefully meant she'd stay off of Fisk's radar for a little longer.

Karen dropped her bag on her desk. "I have been researching her, even after we left the office last night." She dug a sheaf of paper out of her bag.

"That is a lot of paper," Foggy said. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Yes, I slept, that's not important," Karen said impatiently.

Matt filed that as a no. Apparently Foggy did too, because he poured another cup of coffee and carried it over to her. "Okay, okay. So, what'd you find?"

Karen took the cup from him and took a sip before replying. "She's a Hell's Kitchen native. Her parents were Bill and Marlene Fisk."

"Were?" Matt asked, catching the past tense.

She set the cup down on her desk and shuffled through the papers. "Yeah. It looks like her father vanished about twenty-five years ago." She separated a couple of the papers and handed them over to Foggy. "He borrowed money from some mafia guy, Don Rigoletto. Bill Fisk couldn't pay Rigoletto back, and then he vanished. They never found a body, so it's unclear if he just ran away, or if Rigoletto actually had him killed. Then, about four years later, Marlene Fisk died. Not sure from what."

Matt frowned; that didn't match what Heather had told him. She'd never said anything one way or another about her father, but Matt distinctly remembered Heather commenting that her mother lived in the area. She hadn't been lying about that, so how had Karen found records of Marlene Fisk's death? Something wasn't adding up.

"Well that is definitely tragic," Foggy said, "but I'm not sure how her being an orphan means we should talk to her."

"I'm getting there!" Karen said. "After her mother's death, all records of Heather Fisk just vanish, no indication of what happened to her. Until suddenly, she's enrolled at NYU."

"That's not necessarily suspicious," Matt said. "She was a minor. Records wouldn't be easy to get a hold of." And possibly nonexistent, if Marlene Fisk was actually alive.

"She probably just moved in with another relative," Foggy said. "That wouldn't leave a big paper trail."

Karen shook her head. "There aren't any relatives. But she was just a kid, someone had to take her in."

Guess she didn't find any records of Fisk then. Matt wasn't surprised by the gap; he hadn't managed to find anything about Wilson Fisk either when he'd gone looking.

"It sounds like you're trying to lead us somewhere, but I'm not following," Foggy said.

"Neither am I," Matt said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Karen heaved a sigh. "Okay, look. We know that her dad had connections to mobsters. We know that Heather Fisk has some kind of connection to the Kingpin, close enough that she thought she'd be safe from retaliation for that article. I think what happened was that after her parents died, the Kingpin took her in for some reason. It would explain a lot; why the Russians kidnapped her in the first place, and why she didn't want to reveal his identity."

Foggy's weight shifted, his heart speeding up slightly as he caught on to Karen's idea. "If you're right, that would probably also mean that she'd know inside information about the Kingpin's operations, even if she isn't actively a part of them."

"Exactly!" Karen said. She turned to Matt. "We need to talk to her."

Matt tilted his head, considering his response. "Even if you're right," he said, "are we just forgetting about the way the media trashed her reputation yesterday? Say you convince her to come forward with information. Who would consider her a credible witness?"

"That's why we don't use her as a witness," Karen said. "We just use her information to track down proof of the Kingpin's identity and his illegal activities."

A frown pulled at Matt's mouth. Karen's logic made sense, given what she knew. Talking to Heather would be the next logical step, if she was there to talk to. But even though Matt knew Heather wasn't at her place anymore, he still wasn't thrilled with the idea of Karen and Foggy going there. There was no way to know if Fisk had noticed Heather's disappearance yet, and he might have people watching Heather's place.

"Matt, I know you don't want us to get hurt," Karen said, noticing his hesitation, "but if we're going to go after Kingpin, there is going to be risk involved."

"I know," Matt grudgingly agreed. That didn't mean he had to be okay with it. "Do you know where she lives?"

"Not yet," Karen said. "I'm still looking for that."

That was good news at least. While they went about their work that day, Matt turned the problem over in his mind, trying to figure out a way to keep Karen and Foggy away from Heather's apartment. When the answer came to him, it was simple.

Karen wanted to know who the kingpin was. Matt Murdock couldn't tell her that, but the Devil of Hell's Kitchen could.

Cleaning up the breakfast dishes didn't take long, and Heather found herself wondering how she was going to fill her day stuck in Matt's apartment. "Guess I can start by getting out of my pajamas." Heather went into the bedroom and dug through her suitcase for what she needed. She could already tell that tying to live out of the suitcase for however long she was here was going to be kind of a pain.

I wonder if Matt would let me use a drawer?

It'd make Heather's life easier, but she hated to ask. He was already going to ridiculous lengths to help her, so she wanted to minimize the inconvenience to him as much as possible.

Though…he didn't seem to mind? He hadn't hesitated to help her even once since she'd met him, whether that meant rescuing her from mobsters, helping her hide from Wilson, or simply making her breakfast. And he never acted like he resented any of it. Matt just helped her. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

If I ask for a drawer, I'm pretty sure the answer will be yes. Heather wasn't sure if that made it easier or harder to ask.

She shook herself out of her thoughts, and scooped up her stuff. Crouching there thinking wasn't going to get her day moving. Heather took her time getting showered and dressed. There was no point in rushing, since she had nowhere to be and no one waiting on her. She did her best to avoid her reflection in the mirror though; the bruises had just started to fade, but were still glaringly noticeable for the most part, and Heather preferred not to look at them.

Once she'd finished dressing and repacking her stuff in her suitcase, Heather bit her lip, trying to decide what would be next. "Guess I could sort of…explore?" The idea of poking around Matt's apartment felt a little uncomfortable, but she needed to know where stuff was, and she'd rather look around on her own than while Matt was home.

She didn't go through his room – that felt too personal – but Heather did poke through the closets in the apartment's main areas. That was how she found the washer and dryer. The detergent caught her eye; it was a brand she didn't recognize. Curiosity pricked at her, and feeling a little silly, Heather impulsively unscrewed the cap so she could sniff. Unscented. At least it was to her. Heather wondered if it still had a smell to Matt. His shampoo is unscented too. Not that Heather had smelled that, but she'd noticed the label.

Heather frowned as she put the detergent back. "I hope he was telling the truth when he said my shampoo didn't bother him." She wanted to believe he was being honest, but the fact that all his stuff was unscented sort of argued against it.

When she went through the kitchen, she found that it wasn't just the fridge that was well organized; every cabinet and the pantry were also carefully arranged. She also noticed that he didn't have any microwavable or instant foods. "Huh. He actually cooks everything?" How did he have the time to do it?

Her exploration complete, Heather glanced at the clock on the stove and was dismayed to see that it was still only midmorning. She groaned. "This is harder than I thought."

Staying at her home all day wasn't necessarily unusual for Heather, where she was comfortable doing whatever she wanted; despite what Matt had said, she still felt like a guest and wasn't comfortable doing just anything in his home. Plus, she always had the option of leaving her place if she wanted. That wasn't really the case here.

Heather clapped her hands together and spun around on her heel. "I know! I can binge watch something on Netflix!" It would help while away some time, and it wasn't like there was anything else she needed to do. She stopped halfway through the living room though when it suddenly hit her that she didn't know the password to Matt's Wi-Fi.

"Dang it," Heather said, drawing the words out in a whine. So much for that idea. She briefly entertained the idea of calling Matt to ask, but decided that probably wasn't worth bothering him at work.

"Wait…did I bring my cell phone?" Heather brow wrinkled; now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember packing her phone. She hastened to her suitcase and dug through it, but sure enough, her phone wasn't there. Thinking back, Heather thought she'd probably left it on her couch where she'd tossed it after her conversation with Maria.

"Well…maybe it's not all bad that I left it?" Heather mused. She wasn't sure if Wilson had the ability to track people's phones, but she supposed it was possible. Not having her phone was probably for the best.

"I guess I could read." Her fingers brushed over the covers of the books she'd brought, old favorites that she had read many times over. But Heather was pretty sure she'd find it hard to concentrate on them this time.

She groaned and let her head loll back. "No wonder people in movies get bored enough to do those exercise montages." It at least gave them something to do, something that didn't make them think.

Heather considered. "…That might not be a terrible idea."

She'd already been kidnapped once, and she didn't doubt anymore that Wilson would be willing to kidnap her if he thought he had to in order to get her secreted away to whatever place he had planned for her. Not that Wilson should be able to find her, hidden at Matt's place like this, but still. Heather could still remember how easily Vladimir would have managed to kill her, even when he was injured. And while Heather couldn't imagine herself actually fighting anyone, the idea of at least being strong enough to successfully run away held some appeal.

It can't hurt to try, at least.

She wandered back into the living room, pondering how to go about this. Heather didn't know much about exercise in general, and hadn't done it on a consistent basis since high school PE. Whatever she did, it couldn't be noisy, because Matt's neighbors weren't supposed to know anyone was there during the day.

"Push-ups, I guess?" she mumbled. "Exercise montages always include those, so…"

Heather felt a little silly, getting down on the floor, but consoled herself with the knowledge that no one was there to see her. She wasn't sure how many push-ups she should do for a proper workout, and figured she'd just go until her arms got tired. Only it turned out that push-ups were much harder than she remembered from her high school days, and Heather only managed about four and a half before her arms gave out and she flopped down on her stomach.

"Okay," she groaned. "That's pathetic."

Her mind flicked back to Matt, and the things she'd seen him do; fighting and beating four grown men at once, carrying Vladimir, even just carrying her suitcase way further than she'd have been able to. And he makes it all look easy, she thought. Heather was doubly glad that he wasn't around to observe just how helpless she really was.

"Well I can't get any worse," Heather said to herself, "so I can only get better."

She decided twenty was a good number to shoot for, since push-ups were so hard for her. It took forever; she kept having to pause and let her arms rest. Eventually she hit her goal, and the moment she did she let herself collapse to the floor. Heather's arms felt rather like noodles, and would no doubt be sore in the morning, but Heather smiled anyway, pleased that she'd managed it.

"Time for a water break," Heather decided. "Then I keep going."

She did sit-ups, squats, and any other quiet exercise that she could think of. By the time she was done, her stomach was growling and she'd worked up a sweat. She frowned and tugged at the hem of her shirt. "I should have brought more clothes." She hadn't exactly planned for two outfits a day when she'd packed.

I could ask Matt to bring me more…

He'd told her if she realized she needed anything else to let him know and he'd get it for her, but Heather shook her head, dismissing the idea. He'd surely ask why she needed more clothes, and since Heather couldn't lie to him, she'd have to admit the truth, and she wasn't ready to tell Matt about her attempts at exercising yet. She'd just have to do laundry more frequently then she'd initially planned. Which, really, was just fine. It wasn't like she had much else to do.

Heather kept her second shower of the day quicker, and once she was clean and had straightened up her stuff, she made herself a simple lunch. While putting her sandwich together, Heather was struck with an idea. "I could make dinner!"

Matt obviously tended to cook from scratch, given what he kept in his kitchen, which took time. If Heather cooked instead, she could maybe be a little helpful, and feel a little less like dead weight. Heather was too pleased by the prospect to sit and eat, so she carried her sandwich with her as she looked through the fridge and pantry, trying to plan.

I can't look up recipes online, so it's got to be something I have memorized.

That narrowed her options somewhat. Heather didn't really do a lot of cooking, but there were a few dishes that she could make from memory. "He's got everything for chicken and rice soup. I can do that."

There was a brief moment of hesitation as it occurred to her that she didn't know if Matt actually liked chicken and rice soup, but she did her best to dismiss the concern. He has all the ingredients, so that's got to be a good sign. The chance to help him somehow, even in something this small, was too good to pass up.

"Please," Norris begged from his place tied to a chair, "please don't do this."

Wesley didn't even bother looking up from his phone. Norris had been as good as dead from the moment he'd failed to keep Heather safe from the Russians. His attempt to flee the area had been as predictable as it had been pointless. Of course Wilson had ordered him captured from the moment he'd realized that Norris wasn't dead. "Your fate is quite out of my hands."

The manner of Norris's death would be up to Wilson, once he arrived at the warehouse. If Norris had wanted a say in it, he should have taken matters into his own hands.

"But – but she's okay!" Norris stammered, desperation rolling from him.

Wesley paused, finger hovering over his phone screen as he now looked over at Norris. "Ms. Fisk was taken. She was injured, and her life threatened. It was your job to prevent that."

"There were too many of them," Norris said. "No one could have stopped them! Then when the Devil showed up – "

"What?"

Norris stuttered to a halt.

Wesley took a breath, trying to stay calm. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen knows where Ms. Fisk lives?"

Norris didn't answer, but the way his face paled said enough. Wesley spun on his heel and left the room, already dialing Heather's current protection detail. Picket answered on the first ring.

"Sir?"

"I need you to check on Ms. Fisk," Wesley ordered.

"She hasn't left the building, sir," Picket replied. "We've been sending the hourly updates – "

"I know what you've sent me!" Wesley snapped. "Check on her in person! We need eyes on her! I don't care what excuse you use to get her to open the door. Once you've confirmed she's still there, call me."

"Yes, sir."

Wesley paced the hall as he waited for Picket to call him. They'd known that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen intended to use Heather against Wilson, but they hadn't realized he knew where she lived. If they had, Wesley would never have recommended giving Heather time to adjust to the idea of leaving the area. He would simply have recommended moving her.

The minutes felt like hours as they dragged by. Wesley glanced at his watch. It was taking entirely too long for Picket to call him back.

The moment his phone started ringing, Wesley hit the button to answer. "Well?"

"She's gone, sir." Wesley suddenly found it hard to breathe. Before he could recover himself, Picket kept talking. "There's no signs of a struggle, and some of her stuff seems to be missing. Her phone is still here. Based on the messages she's got, it looks like she told her friends she was going out of town, but didn't give a location. They seem to be worried that she's not responding to their messages. Her window is unlocked. That must be how she left."

He took her.

He must have. Heather wouldn't have run on her own, any more than she'd have put out that article on her own. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen was pulling her strings, using Heather to get to Wilson.

And worst of all, it would work. Once Wilson knew that Heather was missing, she would become his priority. At other times, that might not matter so much, but this was horrible timing. Given the recent troubles they'd been having, their allies would not approve of Wilson's distraction.

Wesley hung up the phone, his mind scrambling to find a solution. There weren't any good ones. They had no idea who the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was, and so there was no way for them to find him or Heather. He could certainly have people scouring the city for Heather, but if she was holed up somewhere, finding her wouldn't be easy. Even worse, if she had already left the city, finding her might be near impossible.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Everything had been falling apart or becoming needlessly complicated, and it was all that damned vigilante's fault.

Wesley slipped the phone back into his coat pocket and took a steadying breath, trying to keep his emotions under control. He could be angry about this later. Right now, he needed to figure out how he was going to explain it to Wilson.

It was still strange, hearing movement in his apartment as he rode the elevator up to his floor. Matt wasn't used to having someone waiting for him when he came home. He couldn't help but focus in, trying to see what she was up to.

She had music playing, though she'd kept the volume low enough that the neighbors wouldn't notice it. Matt didn't recognize the song, but Heather hummed along with it as she moved about the kitchen. She's…making soup? Matt wasn't sure what he'd expected to find when he came home, but it hadn't really been that.

Matt unlocked his door, and Heather started, nearly dropping the ladle she was using in the pot. "It's just me," Matt called out as he closed the door behind him.

"Right, yep," she said. He wondered for a moment if Heather had always startled this easily, or if it was because of what she had just been through.

Considering how she reacted those times she bumped into me, I'm leaning towards that's just how she is. Matt shrugged his suit jacket off as he walked into the living room, glad to be able to dress down after work.

"Um, dinner is almost ready," Heather said, gesturing towards the pot on the stove. "I hope you like chicken and rice soup?"

"I do," Matt said. He draped his jacket over the back of the couch and started unknotting his tie. "Thanks for cooking; it smells good."

"Oh, well, it's no problem," Heather said, turning back towards the pot and stirring the soup. "Hopefully it tastes good too."

"I'm sure it will," Matt said. He made a mental note to tell her it was, regardless of the actual taste. Her heart rate and breathing had suddenly altered slightly, indicating that she was nervous. It was kind of sweet that she had decided to fix something for dinner, and he didn't want to make her feel bad for trying to be helpful.

Matt went ahead and got the bowls and spoons since Heather was busy with the soup. "Were you alright here today?" he asked.

"It was fine," Heather said. "It just felt a little long." She paused for a moment then added, "I was wondering if I could have your Wi-Fi password? Netflix would help pass the time."

And give her something to focus on other than stewing about her situation, which she didn't say, but Matt could guess. "Sure," Matt agreed. "Sorry I didn't think about that."

"It's fine, no worries," Heather said. "Soup is ready."

Sitting down to dinner with her felt just as strange as breakfast had that morning. Not unpleasant, but definitely different. As it turned out, the soup actually was good, and Matt was relieved that he didn't need to pretend to like it.

"So…how was work?" Heather asked as they ate.

Matt didn't answer her immediately. The question was innocent enough, and she was probably just trying to make small talk, but it was not going to lead to comfortable dinner conversation.

"Work was fine," he finally settled on for his opening. "But some things came up that we should talk about."

She tensed at his words, but slowly nodded. "Okay."

"The other day, I found out that my coworkers – Foggy and Karen – have been investigating Fisk," Matt said. Her heart rate picked up, and her breathing hitched, but she didn't try to say anything. "They've been working with Ben Urich. Turns out that Urich figured out you must have some kind of close connection to the Kingpin. They think you're a lead in figuring out who he is, and maybe the key to putting him in jail. They wanted to talk to you after that article came out, but I talked them out of it."

Heather wasn't pretending to try and eat her dinner at this point. She'd clasped her hands in her lap while he talked, her shoulders curling in defensively. "Oh."

"They don't know you're staying with me," Matt said, "and they haven't been able to find anything about Fisk, but…Karen has been researching you, to see if she could find connections that would lead us to the Kingpin. Some of what she found brought up questions."

She didn't respond immediately, and Matt didn't push. Not yet. Heather was already skittish and uncomfortable, and Matt didn't want to make the conversation harder than it needed to be.

Heather bit her lip. Started to say something. Stopped. Then, "What did she find?"

Matt nudged the bowl out of his was so he could rest his arms on the table. "Your parents were Bill and Marlene Fisk. She found records that your father went missing after –" He stopped abruptly. Heather had flinched at the word 'missing', sucking in a quiet breath that someone other than Matt probably wouldn't have noticed.

"He's not missing, is he?"

She went from having her hands clenched in her lap to curling her arms around her torso. Heather bit her lip again and started to look away before catching herself and facing him. "The official status is presumed dead."

She's actually trying to do this right now? Trying to hide information from him, pretend she didn't know, even though she understood perfectly well that Matt would be able to tell she was hiding things? Matt wasn't amused by her reticence, and it must have shown on his face, because she wilted.

"It won't help," she whispered. "You can't prove any of it."

"Tell me anyway," Matt said. He wasn't nearly as convinced as she seemed to be that the information wouldn't help.

She didn't say anything. For a minute, the only sounds were her breathing, her heart, and the soft music she'd left playing in the background. When Heather finally did speak, the words came slowly, not much more than a whisper.

"I don't actually remember him," she said. "I was only two when…when it all…" She faltered for a moment, then kept talking. "I used to try and ask Mom and Wilson about him, but they never wanted to tell me anything. They'd just say we were better off without him and to leave it at that. Eventually I quit asking."

She shifted in her seat, a hand rubbing her arm. "But then, um. There was a night, when I was about ten, I think. It was just me and Mom at home, and she had gotten drunk. Way more than she usually did. And I got the idea that if I asked her about Dad while she was drunk, that maybe she'd answer, and um. She did."

There was a hitch in her voice at the end of that sentence, and Matt had a sudden, sinking feeling that Heather had learned far more about Bill Fisk that night than she'd bargained for.

"Mom said…she said he was a cruel man. Unlucky, too. Only anytime something went wrong, he somehow made it her fault and he'd. He'd take it out on her. Wilson too, sometimes. But usually her. He'd make Wilson sit in the corner and stare at the wall when he hurt her."

She stopped and swallowed. Matt didn't say anything, letting her take the moment she needed to collect herself.

"Eventually, Dad decided to try running for council. That's why he borrowed money from some mobster, to fund his campaign. Only he lost anyway. And of course, he blamed Mom. She said – she said that we were all in the living room, and I guess the yelling scared me or something, because she said I started crying. Dad yelled at me to stop, but I was two, so that just made it worse. She said he threw a vase at me. He missed, but um. Apparently, it worked to shut me up."

Matt had to work to keep his expression neutral, and he almost wished he hadn't pushed Heather to talk about this at all.

"It was too much for Wilson though. She said when Dad turned around, Wilson grabbed a hammer and." She stopped, and Matt could smell the salty tang that meant her eyes had filled with tears. "He was – he was only twelve. Mom helped him cover it up. She knew people would assume Dad's disappearance had something to do with the mob, so. So they cut him up and dumped the pieces in the river and never talked about it again."

At least not until a ten-year-old Heather had asked questions at the right – or wrong, depending on your point of view – time. Matt couldn't even imagine how awful it would have been for a kid to hear this story about their family. It was no wonder she'd never asked questions about what Fisk did.

And Matt hated to keep pressing, he did. But this could be an in, a way to get to Fisk. "Karen found records that your mother died when you were six." Based on what Heather had just told him, it sounded like those records were fake.

Heather started. "What? No, she's still alive, she's…" Her voice trailed off. "When I was six, she married her second husband."

Matt nodded slightly. "She changed her name?"

"Yeah."

"Makes a good point to fake someone's death," he said, keeping his voice neutral. Fisk had probably done it to keep his mother hidden from his enemies. But he wouldn't have been able to do the same for Heather, not unless Marlene's husband had adopted her, which clearly hadn't happened.

He wasn't sure how to phrase the next question, but he had to ask. "Do you think…would your mother be willing to talk about what Fisk did?"

"No." Her voice was flat, and surprisingly firm. "She wouldn't. I don't know what or how much she ever knew about Wilson's work, but she'd never turn on him. And even if by some miracle you convinced her, I doubt she'd be an effective witness."

Matt frowned. "What do you mean?"

Heather shrugged. Her whole body was still tense. "She lives in a hospice facility. The best Wilson's money can buy. She has Alzheimer's. It's pretty bad at this point. Sometimes when I visit, she doesn't know me."

And there went that hope. If Marlene Fisk – or whatever last name she went by now – would be willing to testify against him, Matt could make the case that Fisk was guilty of murdering his father. But with her illness, it'd be all too easy for Fisk's lawyers to argue that she didn't know what she was talking about, and Heather's testimony wouldn't amount to anything either, because it was a story her mother had told her while she was drunk some seventeen or so years ago.

Frustration ate at him. Every damn time. Every time he thought he was starting to make a little progress, that he might find a way start chipping at Fisk's empire, something happened to make it useless. There has to be a way to get to him.

Matt wasn't completely out of leads. There was still Owlsley, assuming the man hadn't gone to ground after Matt's failed attempt to get a hold of him. There were the two office addresses that Heather had given him, and James Wesley, if Matt could track him down. But all of those options were going to take time, and the longer this dragged out, the more people Fisk would hurt.

"Was there anything else?" Heather asked. There was an almost brittle edge to her voice.

"No," Matt said.

As soon as the word was out of his mouth she stood, picking up her bowl and moving into the kitchen. The bowl was still half full, but Matt guessed the conversation had probably killed her appetite. Guilt pricked at him. He'd needed to ask the questions, but he hated that they'd hurt her.

Matt picked up his own dishes and carried them into the kitchen as well. Heather didn't say anything. She was getting Tupperware for the leftover soup, moving with a surety that told Matt she'd been poking around the kitchen at some point. He set his dishes in the sink and paused.

He should walk away. He had things to do tonight, and he needed to get ready to go out, and Heather wasn't exactly asking for his help. But then, she never asked for help, did she? She hadn't called for help the night the mugger had attacked her, or at any point in the night when Vladimir had kidnapped her. She hadn't asked for help before talking to Ben Urich, or when Fisk had threatened her afterwards.

Matt knew Heather was hurting, and it was partly his fault, and he couldn't walk away from her without at least trying to make up for it. He turned from the sink; Heather had her back to him, closing the lid of the Tupperware.

"Heather."

Her hands stilled when he said her name, but she didn't turn to look at him.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry for what she'd been through as a kid, even if she didn't remember it. Sorry for how and when she'd found out the truth about her father. Sorry he'd had to ask those questions and bring back those hurtful memories. Sorry that there wasn't really a way to fix what was happening to her.

One of her hands came up and pressed over her mouth, and her chest hitched in a way that meant she was trying to hold back a sob. Matt took a step towards her, one hand reaching out, but he hesitated, uncertain if she'd appreciate the gesture or be offended. It caught him by surprise when she suddenly spun around and fell into him, her hands clinging to his shirt and burying her face in his chest. Matt let his arms settle around her, but carefully, mindful of her bruises.

Her tears were mostly quiet tonight, but she was trembling, so Matt held her, willing to stay as long as she needed him to. Slowly, her breathing settled, the trembling came to a stop, and the tension seeped from her limbs. Her grip on his shirt loosened, and Matt finally let go of her as she stepped back. "Thanks," she mumbled, brushing at her eyes. "Um. I guess you probably need to get to your other job."

A part of him was still somewhat reluctant to walk away from her. But Heather was right.

"Yeah," Matt sighed. "I do."

AN: Thanks so much for all the support y'all have given this fic! Life has been pretty hectic (I've moved since I posted the last chapter, and that's been a lot) but hopefully things will settle a little now. Your support and comments have been very much appreciated. Let me know what you think of this chapter!