The air in the mansion’s kitchen was thick with the scent of fresh coffee and something sweet, something that clung to the back of Logan’s throat and made his stomach do a slow, lazy roll. He stood in the doorway, a silent observer, a man out of time in more ways than one. His world was one of ash and regret, a future painted in shades of grey where hope was a luxury he’d long since forgotten how to afford. But here, in the warm, sun-drenched kitchen of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters in 1973, there was you.

You were a dream come true.

You were humming. A soft, tuneless melody that seemed to drift from your lips as naturally as breathing. You were bustling around the kitchen, a whirlwind of energy and life. A slightly singed apron was tied over your simple, comfortable clothes, and your hair was escaping from a messy bun, framing your face with wispy tendrils. You were making pancakes. Not just any pancakes, but the kind of chaotic, multi-colored, sprinkle-laden creations that only a person with an unshakable joy could produce.

Logan had been in this time for only a handful of days, his mission a heavy weight on his shoulders. He was supposed to be finding Charles, convincing him to believe, to fight. He was supposed to be a soldier, a weapon aimed at the past to save his future. He’d seen the mansion empty and cold, a monument to a dream that had failed. He’d seen Charles broken and lost. And then, there was you.

He hadn't known you were here. He hadn’t known there was a you, at all. You were not on the present, now future, he came from. But you were a detail, a brilliant, impossible detail that had no place in the grim narrative he carried with him. You were a ghost in his history, a piece of a puzzle that made the whole picture make a different kind of sense.

You were the reason the kitchen didn’t feel like a mausoleum. You were the reason the coffee pot was always on, the reason there were daisies in a cracked vase on the windowsill. You were the bright, shining heart of the place, the thing that had kept the last embers of Charles’s hope from going out completely.

You, a mutant whose power was a rare and beautiful thing, had been a teacher here. Your power was energy, pure and simple. You could manipulate light and warmth, channeling the sun’s rays, or even your own inner vitality, to heal, to soothe, to comfort, and to protect. When you smiled, the room actually seemed to get a little brighter. When you were near, the cold that had taken root in his bones during the long, bleak future he came from began to thaw. You were like an antidepressant, but better. You were like a solar flare given human form, a source of constant, steady, reliable warmth.

Every morning, you’d be the first one awake, the first to greet the day. You’d move through the silent hallways like a ghost of joy, opening curtains, letting the light pour in. You’d sing in the shower, your voice echoing off the tiles, a sweet, pure sound that would reach his room and pull him from the tangle of his nightmares. It was the only alarm clock he needed. You’d make breakfast, always making sure there was enough for him, even if he swore he wasn't hungry. You’d set a place for him at the table, and if he was late, you’d wait, your patience a quiet, powerful force that made his chest ache with a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

And you had no idea who he was, what he was carrying. You just saw a grumpy, scarred stranger with a permanent scowl and eyes that had seen too much. And you treated him like he belonged.

Someday, he didn't know how, he hopes you'll hear his plea. Maybe in the new future he was trying to rebuild there'd be a place for you, he sure hoped so.

Someday, he hoped, even if he didn't know how, you'd bring your love to him.

“Logan, stop lurking!” you called out, snapping him out of his throughts, not even turning around, your voice light and teasing. “You’re making the shadows jealous. Come and eat. I made enough for a whole pack of wolverines.”

A simple joke. A simple thing. And it hit him right in the chest with the force of a freight train. No one called him a wolverine with such affection. No one had ever made a joke about his nature that wasn’t laced with fear or disgust. You didn’t see the monster. You saw the man, and you didn’t even seem to try.

You were making pancakes because you knew he was hungry. You always knew. You glanced up, catching him in the act of his quiet vigil, and a smile—that smile—bloomed across your face. It was like watching the sun break through the clouds after a storm. It illuminated everything. It illuminated him, chasing away the shadows that were a permanent part of his soul.

“You’re staring again, Logan,” you said, your voice a gentle, teasing lilt that was smoother than the batter you were mixing. “It’s impolite.”

He couldn’t help the low, rumbling chuckle that escaped him. It was a sound he hadn’t made in what felt like years. “Can’t help it, sunshine. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Flatterer.” you chided, but the smile on your face told him you didn’t mind one bit. You were a beacon of pure, unadulterated warmth. 

He shoved off the doorframe, walking into the kitchen like a man approaching a campfire. It felt so warm, so safe. He felt the weight of his adamantium-laced bones, the centuries of pain, the decades of fighting. He was a man forged in battle, a creature of instinct and survival. He was a black hole of trauma. And you were a sun, radiating light and warmth, completely unaware of the celestial body you were pulling into your orbit.

Every night he'd spent in this precious pocket of a time before, he hoped and prayed that you would come his way in the future. A girl to hold in his arms, and further learn the magic of your charms.

You slid a plate piled high with pancakes across the island counter, the syrupy scent filling his senses. He sat on a stool, watching you as you turned back to the stove, flipping another pancake with a flourish. You were so alive. Every movement was an expression of vitality. You were happy to be alive, to be cooking, to be here. It wasn’t a forced cheerfulness; it was a natural state of being. It was as if the light was not something you absorbed, but something you radiated from a core of pure, unquenchable fire.

Yes, he wanted a girl to call his own. He wanted a dream lover, so he wouldn't have to dream alone.

“Charles is having a rough morning,” you informed him, your voice softer now, laced with a gentle concern. “He’s in the library, he’ll come out when he’s ready. He said to tell you that your ‘genius plan’ is just as crazy today as it was yesterday.”

Logan grunted, a flicker of something akin to respect for Charles’s stubbornness. He forked a piece of pancake into his mouth. It was perfect. Fluffy, sweet, and warm. It tasted like something he hadn’t realized he was hungry for. Not just food, but this. This feeling of simple, domestic peace.

He watched you as you poured yourself a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter opposite him. Your smile was effortless, and it was directed at him. He felt like a man who had been lost in a blizzard for a century, suddenly stumbling into a warm, safe cabin. He’d been so frozen for so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to feel the heat.

Oh, dream lover. Where are you? Where were you in his future, that he had never met you in the grey landscape he came from? With your love, oh, so true, and a hand that he could hold?

“You’re staring.” you snapped him out again, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Just trying to figure you out,” he hummed, his voice a low husk. “How can you be so… happy? All the time?”

Your smile softened, becoming something more reflective. “I’m not happy all the time, Logan. That would be exhausting. But I can’t afford to not be bright. The world is a heavy place. It’s a lot of dark. The kids that used to live here, Charles, Hank… they all need a little light. A little hope.”

“And you just… give it away? For free?”

“Why would I charge?” you asked, genuinely baffled. “That’s what it’s for. To be shared. To be given. What’s the point of having it if you just keep it for yourself?”

It was such a simple concept, so profound in its innocence, that it left him speechless. He was a man who had taken for survival. He had hoarded his anger, his pain, his strength. He never gave anything away. He barely had anything left to give. But you gave everything, freely and without hesitation. You were like a wellspring of hope, and he had been wandering through a desert. He was parched, and he had finally found an oasis.

He wanted to drink you in. He wanted to be the one who got to orbit your warmth. He looked down at his plate, the pancakes a testament to your kindness, and he felt something inside of him unclench. The knot of tension he’d carried in his gut for as long as he could remember loosened just a fraction.

Later that afternoon, he found you in the old library, a book open on your lap. Dust motes danced in the shafts of late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the tall windows. The scent of old paper and polished wood was a comforting, familiar perfume. You were curled up in a large armchair by the window, the fading light painting you in gold.

He stood in the doorway, watching you. He had spent the rest of the day wandering the mansion, learning its nooks and crannies, trying to find a way to reconcile the ghost of its future with its vibrant, hopeful present. But he kept gravitating back to wherever you were. He was like a compass needle, and you were magnetic north.

“You’re lurking again, Logan.” you hummed, without looking up from your book. “It’s a habit, isn’t it?”

He grunted, stepping into the room. “This place is quiet. A man can think.”

You looked up then, your eyes meeting his. And for a moment, the world seemed to stop. There was a gentle curiosity in your gaze, a lack of judgment that was unnerving and intoxicating all at once. “You seem like a man who does a lot of thinking. And not a lot of talking about it.”

“More’s the pity for anyone who’d have to listen.” he sighed, settling onto the ottoman near your chair. He was closer now. He could see the flecks of gold in your eyes, the gentle curve of your smile.

“Oh, I don’t know.” you said, closing your book and giving him your full attention. “I’m a pretty good listener. Better than our telepathic friend, I might boast. He always knows what you’re going to say before you say it. There’s no mystery.”

“Mystery’s overrated.” he muttered, though he didn’t believe it. You were a mystery. You were the most profound mystery he had ever encountered. A woman who could look at him, see all the scars, all the violence, all the broken pieces, and not flinch. A woman who saw him and didn’t want to fix him, but just wanted to share the sunshine.

In that moment, he knew what the future held for him. He knew that if he failed, he would come back to a version of this world that didn’t have you. He would be going back to a future without this bright, beautiful sun. He would be returning to a universe where he would never know the feeling of your hand in his, the sound of your laugh, the taste of your pancakes.

A profound, crushing grief washed over him. It was a pain that dwarfed all the physical agony of his past. It was the pain of knowing he had found his home, his anchor, his sun, and that it was just a dream. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Unless..

Some way, he didn't know how, he brought his love to you.

And so he looked at you, seeing the future he could have.

He was living in that someday. He had found the girl to call his own. You were here, in his arms, in this one moment in time. But it was a borrowed moment. If he wanted you with him, he was going to have to work for it.

But just for a moment, here right now, in the past, he allowed himself to believe in the dream. To hold it close. To let you be his dream lover, just until the dawn.

pre vought, solo work ( 18-19 )

during vought, the seven ( 20-29 )

early post vought, after relocation, patrol work ( 30-35 )

retirement, recruitment by Butcher ( 47 )

The key turns in the lock at 3:47 AM.

You've been counting the minutes. Every single one of them for the past seven days, six hours, and twelve minutes. The last text you got from him was a terse "safe, love you" with a timestamp that feels like a lifetime ago. And then nothing. Radio silence. The kind of silence that makes your stomach drop every time your phone buzzes with a notification that isn't his name.

The door swings open, and there he is.

Billy Butcher, in the flesh. Still breathing. Still whole.

He looks like hell. That's the first thing you notice, the way his shoulders slump under the weight of a leather jacket that seems heavier than it should be, the dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes like someone took a knife to them, the way his jaw is tight with tension that hasn't released in days. Maybe weeks. There's a fresh cut on his cheekbone, still raw and angry, and his knuckles are split and bruised in that particular way that means he's been using his fists far too much.

But he's here. He's here.

And you're across the room, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, the old black one that smells like him even after three washes, with tear tracks still drying on your cheeks.

You didn't even hear him come in. You were too busy staring at your phone, waiting for a call that never came, wondering if this was the time he didn't come back. The time the mission went sideways and nobody bothered to tell you. The time you'd be left with nothing but a shirt and a memory and a love that had nowhere to go.

The little sniffle escapes before you can stop it.

Billy freezes in the doorway.

His eyes find you immediately, and something in his expression crumbles. A landslide of emotion that starts at the corners of his eyes and spreads all the way down to the set of his jaw. His face goes through about a dozen micro-expressions in the span of a single heartbeat: relief, guilt, pain, love, more guilt, exhaustion so profound it seems to weigh him down like an anchor.

"Love." he breathes. Just that one word, cracked and raw at the edges.

You look up at him, and fresh tears spill over. "Billy."

His boots hit the floor in quick succession and his jacket follows, shrugged off without ceremony, landing in a heap by the door. He crosses the room like a man walking through water, every step an effort, and then he's dropping to his knees in front of the couch. Right there on the hardwood floor, in front of you, like a supplicant at an altar.

His arms wrap around your waist and pull you toward him, and then his face is buried in your lap. His forehead presses against your thighs, his nose nuzzles into the soft fabric of your sleep shorts.

"Fuck," he mutters into the fabric. The word is muffled, barely audible, but you feel the vibration of it through your legs. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, love. I couldn't—the comms were down, and I couldn't risk- I knew you'd be worried, and I couldn't do a bloody thing about it-"

His shoulders shake.

You blink, momentarily stunned, because Billy Butcher doesn't shake. Billy Butcher is solid and unyielding and made of stone and steel and all the hard things in the world. But right now, with his face in your lap and his body pressed against your legs, he's trembling like a man who's been holding himself together with nothing but sheer force of will and is finally, finally letting go.

"Billy." Your voice is soft, your fingers already threading through his hair. It's longer than it was when he left, wild and unkempt, curling at the nape of his neck in ways that make your heart clench. "Billy, look at me."

He shakes his head against your thighs, a small, broken movement. "Can't. If I look at you, m'gonna lose it completely."

"Look at me anyway."

He hesitates. His fingers tighten on your waist, gripping the fabric of his own shirt like it's the only thing anchoring him to this moment. And then, slowly, agonizingly, he tilts his head up.

His eyes are bloodshot. Rimmed with red and glassy. There's a vulnerability in them that you've only ever glimpsed in fragments, in stolen moments when he thought you weren't looking. But now it's laid bare for you, raw and open and terrifyingly honest.

"There you are.." you whisper.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, just a little. Just enough to tilt his head back further, to expose the column of his throat, to make him look up at you from his position on the floor.

The effect is instantaneous.

A shudder rolls through him, visible even in the dim light of the living room. His breath catches, and his eyes flutter half-closed, and a sound escapes him—a tiny, broken little noise that's almost a whimper.

"Oh.." you say softly, realization dawning. "Oh, Billy."

His hips shift. It's unconscious, you think, a movement born of pure instinct. He presses forward, grinding against the top of your boot where it rests on the floor, and the friction makes him gasp.

"Need you-" he rasps. His voice is low and rough, barely above a whisper, but there's a desperation in it that cuts straight through you. "Need you so bloody much, pet. Been gone too long. Been- fuck, been thinking about you the whole time. Every minute. Every second. Couldn't get you out of my head."

"Couldn't get me out of your head, or couldn't get your cock out of your hand?" The words come out sharper than you intended, edged with seven days of worry and fear and the kind of anger that only comes from loving someone who keeps throwing themselves into danger.

But Billy doesn't flinch. If anything, the harshness in your voice makes him press closer, makes him whine softly against your thigh.

"Both," he admits, and there's no shame in it. Just desperate honesty. "Couldn't stop thinking about you. About coming home to you. About—" He breaks off, a flush creeping up his neck. Billy Butcher, the man who's faced down super-powered psychopaths and walked away, is blushing on his knees in front of you.

"About what?" You tug his hair again, just enough to make him gasp.

"About you taking care of me," he whispers. "About you- fuck- about you havin' me. Usin' me. Makin' me feel something other than this bloody mess in my head."

Your chest aches. The Temp V, you realize. He's been back on it, and it's eating him alive. You can see it in the shadows under his eyes, in the tremor in his hands, in the way he's practically vibrating with tension that has nowhere to go.

"Come here.." you say, and you mean it as a gesture of comfort, a way to pull him up onto the couch with you, to hold him and remind him that he's safe.

But Billy misinterprets. Or maybe he interprets perfectly, because he surges forward, pushing your legs apart just enough to press his face between them. His nose nudges at the apex of your thighs, at the soft fabric of your sleep shorts, and he inhales like he's breathing in pure oxygen.

"Fuck, love." he groans. "Y'smell like home."

His hips are moving again, rutting against the top of your boot with increasing urgency. He's hard, you can feel it through the layers of his jeans and your boot, a solid line of heat that presses against you with every desperate roll of his hips.

"Billy." Your voice is breathless now, caught somewhere between command and tenderness. "Look at me."

He shakes his head, burying his face deeper between your thighs. "Can't. If I look at you, I'm gonna come right here like a fucking teenager."

"That's the idea."

He freezes. His hips stop moving, and his head lifts just enough for him to peer up at you through the fall of his hair. There's something desperate in his eyes, something pleading.

"You want—?"

"I want you to let go," you say softly. "I want you to stop thinking. Stop fighting. Just let me take care of you for once, Billy. Let me have you."

The sound he makes is one you've never heard before. A broken whimper that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest, a sound of absolute surrender.

"Please," he breathes. "Please, pet. Please."

You tug his hair again, harder this time, pulling him back just far enough to meet his eyes. "I need you to use your words. Tell me what you need."

"I need-" He swallows hard, his throat working convulsively. "I need you to take control. Need you to tell me what to do. Need-" His breath hitches. "I need to be good for you. Need to earn the right to come. Please. Please, love, I'll be so good, I promise, just please—"

The desperation in his voice is so raw, so real, that it makes your heart clench. This isn't just about sex. This is about the Temp V eating away at him, about the violence he's been forced to commit, about the things he's seen and done that he can't unsee or undo. He needs to surrender. He needs to give control to someone he trusts, to let go of the weight he carries every single day.

And you're going to give him that.

"Alright, Billy." Your voice is soft but firm, and the shift in tone makes his whole body go still and attentive. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to stay right there on your knees, and you're going to wait. You're not going to touch yourself, and you're not going to come. Is that clear?"

"Yes," he breathes. "Yes, love."

"Good boy."

He shudders like you've just electrocuted him. His eyes fall closed, and his lips part on a shaky exhale. The red on his cheeks deepens, spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

"Now." You reach down and brush your fingers through his hair again, gentle this time, a contrast to the sharp tugs of moments before. "Tell me about the mission."

"Wha-" He blinks up at you, confusion mixing with arousal. "Now? Love, I can't—I'm so bloody hard-"

"And that's exactly why you're going to tell me." Your fingers tighten in his hair again, just enough to make him hiss. "You're going to tell me everything, and you're not going to come until I say you can. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

He's already nodding, his hips twitching against your boot again. "Take it. I'll take it. I'll- fuck, I'll tell you whatever you want, just please—"

"Good. Now talk."

And he does.

The story comes out in fragments between shuddering breaths and desperate little rolls of his hips. He tells you about the Vought facility, about the scientist they captured, about the intel they extracted and the information they couldn't. He tells you about the firefight that went wrong, about the hours of waiting in a safehouse with no communication, no way to reach you, no way to know if you were safe.

The whole time, his hips keep moving, seeking friction against your boot. Every few seconds, a little sound escapes him, a whimper or a gasp, or a broken "fuck, please" that he seems to have no control over. His hands have found their way to your ankles, holding on like you're the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath his feet.

"I was so worried 'bout ya," he admits, the words rushing out in a torrent. "Couldn't stop thinking about you at home, waiting for me, not knowing if I was- if I was-"

"If you were going to come back?"

He nods miserably. "I promised you. I bloody promised you I'd always come back. And then I couldn't even send a text, couldn't- I knew you were probably losing your mind, and I couldn't do anything. Couldn't help you. Couldn't hold you. Couldn't-"

His voice cracks.

"Fuck," he gasps. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- you shouldn't have to see me like this. I'm a fucking mess, love, and you deserve better than—"

"Stop." Your voice is sharp, cutting through his spiral. "Look at me, Billy."

He obeys immediately, his face tilting up to meet your gaze.

"Look at you," you say softly, echoing his own words from moments before. "Look at the state of you. Seven days without a word, and I thought you were dead. I thought you'd gone and gotten yourself killed, and I'd never get to say goodbye. I thought.."

Now it's your turn to break. The tears you've been holding back come rushing out, hot and unstoppable, and you pull him up onto the couch with you, wrapping your arms around him and holding on for dear life.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers into your hair. "I'm so sorry, love. I should have found a way. I should'ave—"

"Shut up." Your voice is fierce despite the tears. "Just shut up and let me hold you."

He does. He goes limp in your arms, all that tension draining out of him at once, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck and his fingers clutch at your shirt like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

"I've got you," you murmur against his hair. "I've got you, Billy. You're home now. You're safe."

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Time becomes meaningless when you're holding someone you love, feeling every tremor in their body, every shaky breath against your skin.

But his hips are still moving.

You realize it with a jolt—a slow, unconscious roll of his pelvis against your thigh, his cock still hard and pressing against you through his jeans. He's not even aware of it, you think. It's just instinct, a physical need that persists even when his mind has shut down.

"Still need to come, don't you?" you ask softly.

He nods against your shoulder, a helpless little movement. "Can't help it. Been thinking about you for so long, and you feel so good, and I-" His voice catches. "fuck, love, m'sorry. I know you probably don't want to—"

"Billy." You tilt his chin up to meet your eyes. "I want to. Do you understand that? I want to take care of you. I want to make you feel good. I want to hold you and tell you you're okay and then fuck you until you forget your own name."

His pupils dilate. His breath catches. And then he's surging forward, kissing you with a desperation that borders on frantic.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's hungry and needy and full of all the emotions he can't put into words. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of salt and desperation, and his hands are everywhere—in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like you might disappear if he lets go.

You break the kiss just long enough to push him back. He goes willingly, stretching out on the couch beneath you, looking up at you with wide, desperate eyes.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, pet. I need- I need you to touch me. I need to feel you—"

"Shh." You press a finger to his lips. "I know, baby. I know."

The endearment slips out before you can stop it, and the effect is instantaneous. His eyes flutter closed, and a shuddering sigh escapes him. He's so raw, you realize. So open and vulnerable and desperate for any scrap of affection you're willing to give him.

"Need you, love," he mumbles against your finger. "Need you so fucking bad."

"I know." Your hand slides down his chest, over the fabric of his hawaian shirt, which is still on, you realize, he's still fully (mostly) dressed, and somehow that makes it even more intimate, the idea that he's so desperate he can't even take the time to undress. "I'm going to take care of you, Billy. I'm going to make you feel sooo good, and then I'm going to hold you until you fall asleep. Okay?"

"'kay." The word is a whisper, barely audible.

You shift, positioning yourself more fully over him. Your thighs bracket his hips, and you can feel his cock straining against his jeans, hot and thick and so desperate for attention.

"Pet," he gasps as you rock against him. "Fuck, please-"

"Please what?"

"Please let me feel you. Please let me- I need to be inside you, love. I need to feel you around me, I need-"

"Not yet." Your voice is firm despite the heat pooling in your own core. "You're not ready yet. You need to let go first. I can feel how tense you are, Billy. You've been holding on for so long. Just let it go. Let me take it from you."

His hands clench at his sides.

You shift again, grinding down against his cock, and the friction makes both of you gasp. "You don't have to stop feeling. You just have to stop holding on. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself want it. I've got you, Billy. I'm not going anywhere."

Something in his eyes shifts. The desperation is still there, but there's something else too—a kind of surrender, a letting go. His hands, which had been clenched into fists, relax. His body, which had been rigid with tension, goes soft and pliant beneath you.

"There you go," you murmur. "That's it, baby. Just let go for me."

You reach down and undo his jeans, sliding them down just far enough to free his cock. He's already leaking, pre-cum smeared across the head, and the sight of him like this—so hard and needy, so desperate for you—makes your own core clench.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, love. I'll do anything. I'll be so good. Please let me-"

"I know you will." You wrap your hand around his length, and he bites down on a sound that's half sob and half moan. "I know you'll be good for me, Billy. You're always so good for me, aren't you?"

"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, love. I'm so good for you. I'll do anything. Anything you want. Just please- please don't stop-"

The words are falling out of him now, an endless stream of desperate pleas and broken promises. He's completely lost in it, in the sensation of your hand around his cock, in the sound of your voice telling him he's good and he's safe and he's yours.

"Touch me," you say softly, guiding his hand to the waistband of your shorts. "Let me feel you."

His fingers fumble with the fabric, trembling so badly he can barely grip it, but eventually he manages to push them down just enough to slide his fingers through your slick folds.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so wet, love. So fucking wet for me."

"Always wet for you." You gasp as his fingers find your clit, circling it with a desperation that's almost clumsy. "Always want you, Billy. Even when you're away, even when I don't know if you're coming back, I still want you. I still need you."

"I'll always come back," he promises, and there's a fierce sincerity in his voice that makes your heart ache. "No matter what. I'll always come back to you. I'll always-"

He breaks off as you sink down onto his cock, taking him all the way in one smooth motion. His eyes roll back, and his mouth falls open on a whine that seems to come from the very core of him.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, love. Y'feel- y'feel so good. So fucking good. I can't— I'm not going to last-"

"Then don't." You rock against him, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and devastating. "Let go for me, Billy. Let go, and I'll catch you."

His hands find your hips, gripping them like you're the only solid thing in a spinning world. His eyes are locked on yours, wide and desperate and full of so much emotion it makes your chest ache.

"I love you," he whispers. "I love you so fucking much, pet. I don't- I don't tell you enough, but I do. You're everything to me. Everything-"

Your rhythm speeds up, and his words dissolve into broken moans and desperate gasps. His hips meet yours, thrusting up into you with a frantic need that matches your own. He's so close, you can feel it in the way his body tenses beneath you, in the way his grip on your hips grows almost painful.

"Come for me, Billy." Your command is soft but firm. "Let go. I've got you."

He does.

He comes with a broken cry of your name, his back arching off the couch, his cock pulsing hot and wet inside you. You don't stop moving, don't stop riding him through it, milking every last drop from him until he's trembling and oversensitive and whimpering beneath you.

And then you collapse against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath your cheek, feeling his arms come up to wrap around you and hold you close.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fucking hell, love. That was..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.

The air between you is thick with emotion, with the weight of everything that's been said and everything that hasn't. You feel his chest hitch and realize he's crying. Quiet, helpless tears that soak into your hair.

"Don't cry," you murmur against his skin. "It's okay, Billy. I've got you."

"I don't deserve you, love" he whispers. "I don't deserve any of this. You should be with someone who doesn't disappear for days, who doesn't make you worry, who doesn't—"

"Stop." You lift your head to meet his eyes, and you don't care that your face is tear-streaked and your voice is shaky. "I love you, Billy Butcher. I know what I signed up for. I know you're not perfect. I know the Temp V is eating you alive, and I know you're doing terrible things for what you think are good reasons. And I still love you. I still choose you. Every single day, I choose you."

He stares at you like you've just handed him the sun. His expression is a wreck—vulnerability and love and confusion all tangled up together, as if he genuinely cannot comprehend that someone could look at all his broken pieces and love him anyway.

"Now come here," you say, pulling him closer. "Sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

He doesn't argue. He's too exhausted, too emotionally wrung out, too desperate for the comfort you're offering. His eyes fall closed, and his breathing evens out, and within minutes, he's asleep.

You stay there, holding him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. The worry is still there, lurking at the edges of your mind—what happens when he takes the V again, what happens when the next mission comes, what happens when his luck finally runs out.

But for now, he's here. He's safe. He's yours.

And that's enough.