#becca

Butcher doesn’t look at you when you sit beside him. Not properly, anyway.

He’s there — solid, breathing, knee pressed close enough that you feel the heat of him through the couch, but his eyes stay fixed on nothing. A bottle sweats in his hand, untouched for once, knuckles pale like he’s gripping it too tight.

You’ve learned not to ask questions when he goes quiet like this. It’s not that he doesn’t hear you. It’s worse than that. He hears everything and chooses silence anyway.

“You’re bleedin' tense,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. Like it hurts to talk. You almost laugh. Almost.

“You’ve been like this all night,” you say instead.

That’s when he finally looks at you.

And there it is — that flicker of something raw and dangerous in his eyes. Guilt.

His jaw tightens. He leans back, creating space that wasn’t there a second ago, and it stings more than it should.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what?” you ask quietly.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Like you see him. Like you want him. Like he might want you back.

He exhales sharply and rubs a hand over his face. When he drops it, his voice is colder.

“You deserve better than… this.”

You shake your head slowly.

“You don’t get to decide that for me” you say. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true.

That makes him flinch.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” you continue, voice steady even as your chest tightens. “You pull back. You snap. You act like you’re poison just so I won’t get close enough to get hurt.”

He scoffs under his breath, but there’s no bite to it.

“You’re beatin’ yourself up for somethin’ that doesn’t need punishin’,” you say. “Loving her doesn’t make you broken. It just makes you human.”

That’s when it hits him.

His eyes drop to the floor, shoulders sagging like he’s finally too tired to keep holding himself upright. The fight drains out of him all at once, leaving something exposed and painfully raw behind.

“She was everything to me,” he says quietly. The words scrape on the way out. “And I couldn’t save her.”

You don’t argue. You don’t try to fix it.

You just reach out, looking at him as if you can empathize with that pain yourself.

Your fingers brush his wrist first — tentative, like you’re asking permission without words. He inhales sharply, like he didn’t realize how badly he needed the contact until it was there.

“But you’re still here,” you murmur. “And so am I.”

That’s all it takes.

He looks at you then — really looks — and something in his restraint finally snaps.

His hand comes up fast, gripping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with a reverence that doesn’t match the roughness of his grip. He kisses you like it’s a mistake he’s already too deep into to stop.

For a moment, the world narrows to the press of his mouth, the hitch in his breath, the way his forehead drops to yours when the kiss breaks — like he can’t stand the space but can’t stay either.

Then reality slams back in.

He pulls away abruptly, standing so fast the couch creaks. He turns his back to you, hands braced on the counter, breathing like he’s just run headfirst into a wall.

“No,” he says. Firm. Shaky. “That can’t happen.”

You sit there, heart pounding. “Billy—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now. Defensive. Afraid.

He turns, eyes hardening as he reaches for the only weapon he has left.

“You think you’re special?” he says cruelly. “Think you’re the first bird who thought she could fix me?”

The words land like a slap.

“I’m not Becca,” you say quietly.

“I know,” he fires back — and immediately regrets it.

Because what he really meant was that’s the problem.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

His jaw tightens. His gaze flickers anywhere but your face.

“I don’t want ya,” he lies. His voice is flat, rehearsed. "Don't confuse this for somethin' it ain't".

You stand slowly. Every movement feels deliberate, like if you rush you might break.

“Then don’t kiss me like that,” you say. Not accusing. Just honest.

That finally breaks him.

His shoulders slump. He drags a hand down his face, voice dropping to something almost unrecognizable.

“I can’t lose someone again,” he whispers. “And if I let myself want ya—” He doesn’t finish.

You step closer anyway. Not to touch him this time. Just close enough to be felt.

“I’m not asking you to forget her — or any of it,” you say softly. “I’m asking you to stop hurting both of us because you’re scared of feeling something good.”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t move.

And that hurts almost as much as the words did.

You turn away — not angry, not bitter — just tired. But before you leave, you stop. Steady. Certain.

“When you figure it out,” you say, voice barely above a breath, “I’ll still be here.”

He stays where he is long after the door closes, staring at the space you left behind.