Butter

“Who cares,” you muttered, smoothing down your dress. “Apparently drinking with his friends was more important.”

“His loss, my gain,” Holland replied with an easy grin, flicking his cigarette into the street before pulling away from the curb. “And lucky for you, I know a really cool place.”

That “really cool place” turned out to be one of the trendiest clubs in town. You’d heard about it before, but every time you suggested going, your boyfriend claimed you’d hate it, that it was trashy, loud, disgusting. But the second you walked inside with Holland, you realized he’d been completely wrong.

Music pulsed through the room, impossible not to move to. The bar looked stocked enough to bankrupt a college student, and everywhere you looked there were beautiful women, handsome men, flashing lights, and clouds of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling.

“C’mon,” March said, resting a hand against the small of your back as he guided you toward a table. “Let me buy you something. Sweet drinks seem like your thing.”

“Are you judging me already?”

“Absolutely,” he said with a grin.

You laughed despite yourself, and a second later he disappeared into the crowd toward the bar.

A few drinks later, you were laughing at Holland’s terrible jokes and letting him drag you onto the dance floor. Somewhere between the music, the alcohol, and his ridiculous confidence, the night had started feeling good. Better than good, actually. Maybe exactly what you’d needed. You were just beginning to think that when someone suddenly dropped into the seat beside you.

“Healy,” you muttered, setting your glass down.

Jackson Healy leaned back in his chair and nodded toward you. “Nice dress.” Then he leaned closer to Holland. “I talked to the guy,” he said quietly. “He says Simpson’s got a place outside the city. We should check it out.”

“Great,” Holland muttered, though his voice had gone strangely tight. His eyes flicked nervously toward you. “Tomorrow, Healy. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow? We should go now.”

“I…”

Holland hesitated, and suddenly you understood, you were still sitting there.

This hadn’t really been a night out. Definitely not for him. You’d just been convenient, someone to fill the empty seat while he watched the room, worked a lead, played detective. He hadn’t picked this club by accident. And maybe he hadn’t picked your table by accident either.

“Go,” you said quietly, because apparently you were the only one willing to make the decision. “I can get home myself.”

“No.” Holland straightened immediately. “I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t…”

“We should go now,” Healy interrupted, already impatient. Then he glanced at you. “Sorry. Important client.”

You shrugged, suddenly too tired to care. Standing up, you grabbed your purse from the chair and froze. A few tables away sat a painfully familiar figure.

“Peter?”

Holland turned so fast he nearly knocked over his drink. “Shit,” he hissed under his breath. “Listen, maybe don’t…”

But you were already staring. Your boyfriend, the same man who’d supposedly been out drinking with friends, had a red-haired girl half in his lap, kissing her like he’d forgotten the rest of the world existed. She looked young. Too young.

Anger surged through you so quickly it made your head spin. You took a step forward, then another. Before you could reach the table, a hand wrapped firmly around your arm.

Healy.

“Get her outta here, March,” he said flatly. “We don’t need a scene.”

“Maybe I do,” you snapped, alcohol sharpening every word. “Maybe I wanna tell him exactly what I think…”

“Take her out.”

A second later, Holland’s hands were on you, steering you toward the exit before you could protest. You struggled against him the entire way, but between the alcohol and his grip, it was useless.

Only once the cold night air hit your face did you finally wrench yourself free.

“Leave me alone,” you hissed. “You’re all the same!”

“Hey… hey, hold on.” Holland raised both hands defensively. “What does that even mean? I didn’t do anything to you.”

You spun to face him fully, chest rising hard with every breath. Heat crawled up your neck, humiliation mixing violently with anger.

“You brought me here because you needed cover,” you snapped. “Don’t deny it. Healy practically admitted it. You probably knew Peter would be here too, and…”

“I didn’t plan that!” Holland shot back immediately. “I swear to God, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Without another word, you turned on your heel, determined to find a cab that would take you home. But before you could get far, March’s hurried footsteps caught up to you again.

“What are you doing?” Holland called after you. “I’m driving you home.” He fell into step beside you. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be walking around the city alone. Somebody could…”

“Could what?!” You spun around so suddenly that Holland nearly walked straight into you. “Someone could use me? Humiliate me?”

“Jesus!” Holland threw his hands up. “I didn’t plan any of this!”

You couldn’t stop yourself. Still clutching your purse, you swung it hard into his shoulder.

“Ow!” Holland stumbled backward, letting out a strangely high-pitched yelp. “What the…ow! Hey! Ow!”

“You’re — exactly — like — him!” you shot back, punctuating every word with another hit of your bag.

Only when Holland finally caught your wrist did the assault stop. A few strands of dark blond hair had fallen over his forehead, and he was breathing almost as hard as you were.

“Calm down,” he muttered, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “People are gonna think…”

“I’ll start screaming.”

Instantly, his other hand clamped gently, but firmly over your mouth.

“Jesus, woman,” he hissed. “You really shouldn’t drink. And honestly, I probably should’ve tied you up before trying to talk to you.”

You let out a string of muffled, furious sounds against his palm.

“Apology accepted,” Holland announced immediately.

Your glare could’ve killed him.

“Now,” he continued, still trying, and failing, not to sound amused, “you’re getting in the car, and I’m taking you home. Then tomorrow morning, when you’re slightly less terrifying, we can talk.” He pointed at you. “Deal?”

The two of you held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Holland March wasn’t the type to give up easily, you knew that better than anyone.

Eventually, you caved. With visible reluctance, you gave a small nod.

He slowly removed his hand from your mouth, though he immediately took half a step back, clearly expecting another attack from your purse. But you didn’t swing at him this time.

Something about you had changed, and Holland noticed it instantly, he noticed more than people gave him credit for.

Your eyes glistened beneath the streetlights, and your bottom lip trembled just slightly. And suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to pull you into his arms.

The drive home was painfully quiet. Neither of you spoke. The radio played softly in the background, drowned out by the hum of the engine and the occasional noise from the street outside. Holland kept both hands on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead, though every now and then he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

At one point, he was almost certain he heard quiet sniffles. But when he looked over, you had already wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, staring stubbornly out the window like nothing had happened at all. Like you refused to let him see you cry, and for some reason, that hurt worse.

Holland liked you. More than he probably should’ve.

You were smart, patient, kind to Holly, and somehow still willing to tolerate him even on his worst days. Seeing you like this, heartbroken, humiliated, made something twist painfully in his chest.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, neither of you moved right away.

“I didn’t know Peter was gonna be there,” he said, his voice unusually sincere. “I swear. I really didn’t plan that.”

“I know...” you answered quietly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I just want to take off this dress, shower, and crawl into bed.”

“Way too many details,” Holland said immediately. “Way, way too many.”

You rolled your eyes, but he still caught the tiny twitch at the corner of your mouth.

Success.

“See?” Holland pointed at you like he’d just won an argument. “That’s better. Tiny smile. We’re making progress.”

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, reaching for the door handle.

“Yeah, well. That’s kinda my thing.”

For a second, neither of you moved again. The street outside was quiet, washed in the pale glow of streetlights. Holland tapped his fingers nervously against the steering wheel before finally clearing his throat.

“I’m gonna come by tomorrow,” he said. “Check on you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You looked at him then, properly this time. His tie hung loose around his neck and his hair was a mess.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked softly. “I was awful to you tonight.”

Holland frowned immediately, like the question itself bothered him. “You had a bad night.”

“I hit you.”

“With a purse. I’ve survived worse.”

“Holland.”

He sighed quietly, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. This time there was no teasing grin, no sarcastic remark waiting behind his eyes. Just honesty.

“Because you’re worth it,” he said simply.

The words hit harder than they should have. And judging by the way Holland immediately looked uncomfortable afterward, like he regretted letting something real slip out, he felt it too.

“So,” he added quickly, pointing at you again to cover the sudden sincerity, “tomorrow. I’m bringing coffee. And maybe donuts if I feel emotionally generous.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly.

— — — —

The next morning, you ignored every phone call. You were almost certain it was Peter. You already felt humiliated enough.

The apartment still smelled faintly like yesterday’s perfume and cigarette smoke. Your dress lay discarded on the floor exactly where you’d thrown it after stumbling home, and every time you looked at it, you remembered the club and what you saw.

You buried your face deeper into the pillow with a groan. A loud knock echoed through the apartment. You froze. Another knock followed, more impatient this time.

“Okay, either you’re dead in there,” a familiar voice called through the door, “or you’re dramatically avoiding society. Both are concerning.”

Holland.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment before slowly dragging yourself out of bed. You looked awful. Your hair was a mess, your eyes still puffy from crying, and you’d thrown on the first oversized sweater you could find.

Part of you considered pretending you weren’t home. But Holland knocked again.

“Also,” he continued loudly, “I brought coffee, so if you ignore me, I’m gonna be emotionally devastated.”

You snorted despite yourself and finally opened the door.

Holland March stood there holding a cardboard tray with two coffees and a paper bag tucked under his arm. His tie was crooked again, sunglasses sliding down his nose despite the cloudy weather.

The moment he saw you, his expression softened. “You look terrible,” he said.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He held up the bag. “I also brought donuts because apparently emotional support requires sugar.”

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in. 

Holland walked into the apartment like he’d been there a hundred times before, setting the coffee and bag down on the kitchen counter. You noticed him glance toward the phone ringing again on the table.

Peter.

The ringing stopped after a few seconds. Holland looked back at you carefully. “You gonna answer that?”

“No.”

“Good choice.”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “If you came here to tell me I embarrassed myself last night, trust me, I already know.”

Holland blinked at you. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I came here to tell you your ex-boyfriend’s an idiot.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “You talked to him?”

“Maybe.”

You looked at him suspiciously.

He sighed dramatically, already reaching for one of the coffees. “Okay, technically I went there intending to have a calm, mature conversation.”

“And?”

“And then he opened the door and started talking.”

You stared at him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing illegal.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Holland pointed at you with his coffee cup. “For the record, I showed incredible restraint.”

Despite everything, you felt your mouth twitch slightly. He noticed immediately.

“There it is,” he muttered proudly. “I knew I could get at least one smile today.”

You looked away, suddenly feeling stupid again.

“Honestly,” you murmured quietly, “I don’t even know why I’m this upset anymore.”

Holland’s expression shifted.

“He cheated on me. He lied to me. And somehow I’m still sitting here feeling miserable over him.” Your laugh came out hollow. “That’s pathetic.”

“No,” Holland said immediately.

You looked up.

“It just means you cared.”

The apartment fell quiet. And annoyingly enough, he sounded completely sincere. Holland leaned against the opposite counter, watching you carefully now.

“You know what Peter said when I went to see him?” he asked.

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“That you were ‘too emotional.’”

Your stomach twisted. Holland scoffed before you could even react.

“Meanwhile, the guy’s out there cheating on his girlfriend with a girl who looked like she still needed permission to stay out past midnight.”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“See?” Holland pointed at you triumphantly. “Now we’re healing.”

You rolled your eyes, but this time the smile stayed. And Holland, God help him, looked absurdly pleased about it.

You wrapped both hands around the warm coffee cup, sitting at the kitchen table while Holland made himself strangely comfortable in your apartment. Not that he seemed to notice.

He was currently digging through the donut bag with the concentration of a detective examining evidence.

The annoying part was that he looked good too. Too good.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up messily to his elbows, his tie hung loose around his neck again, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it about twenty times already that morning.

He looked exhausted. And still unfairly charming.

“You flirt with everybody, don’t you?” you muttered before thinking too hard about it.

Holland blinked. Then, unexpectedly, he went quiet. That alone made you look up. He leaned one hip against the counter, slowly turning the coffee cup in his hands.

“That’s not true,” he said after a moment.

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Something in his voice softened. “There are people I can’t flirt with at all.”

You frowned slightly. “Why?”

Holland looked at you then, and for one strange second all the usual humor disappeared completely.

“Because I actually care what they think of me.”

Your breath caught. The apartment suddenly felt very small. Holland seemed to realize what he’d just admitted at the exact same moment you did, because his eyes widened slightly before he immediately straightened up.

You stared at him, but he refused to look back at you. And that was the moment you realized something deeply unsettling: Holland March was nervous.

“Holland.”

“What?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Were you just flirting with me?”

He froze, actually froze.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I feel like that question lacks legal fairness.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Oh my God. You were.”

“No,” Holland said immediately. Then, after a beat: “Maybe a little.”

“Holland March.”

“In my defense, you’re very easy to flirt with.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “I literally hit you with a purse less than twelve hours ago.”

“Yeah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “And somehow that wasn’t a dealbreaker.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile again, but it was impossible.

Holland watched you carefully over the rim of his coffee cup, and for once he wasn’t hiding the fact that he liked looking at you. That realization made warmth creep embarrassingly into your cheeks.

“You know,” you said slowly, “I genuinely thought I was just your neighbor.”

“You are my neighbor.”

“You know what I mean.”

Holland looked down into his coffee for a second before exhaling softly through his nose.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You always seemed kinda immune to me.”

You blinked. “Immune to you?”

“The charm.” He gestured vaguely toward himself. “This whole thing.”

“This whole thing?”

“Yeah, this.” He pointed at his face. “People usually react to it.”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh, wow. That hurt my feelings a little.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“No, seriously,” Holland continued, now fully committed to defending himself. “Women like me.”

“You fell through a glass door last month.”

“That was one time.”

“You screamed.” you said.

“It was a very sudden door.”

Your laughter got louder, and Holland couldn’t stop smiling at the sound of it. God, he’d missed this.

Missed you laughing at his stupid jokes. Missed sitting in your kitchen like this. Missed the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled for real instead of forcing it. The realization hit him harder than expected.

“You know what your problem is?” you asked, still grinning.

“Oh, this should be educational.”

“You think being charming means pretending not to care about anything.”

Holland opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because annoyingly enough, you were right. You watched his expression soften slightly.

“But you do care,” you continued more quietly. “About Holly. About people. About me.”

The last words slipped out before you could stop them. Silence settled between you again. Holland’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. And suddenly you became very aware of how close he was standing now. When had he moved closer?

“You know,” he murmured, voice lower now, “you’re really not helping the whole ‘trying not to flirt with you’ situation.”

Your heart skipped. “Well,” you whispered back, “maybe I’m not trying very hard anymore either.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt unbearably warm all of a sudden. Holland was standing close enough for you to smell cigarettes, coffee, and the faint trace of his cologne. His gaze hadn’t left your face once, which was honestly starting to become a problem.

“This is usually the part where I say something charming,” he said softly.

You tilted your head slightly. “Usually?”

“Yeah.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Unfortunately, you make me forget my material.”

“That sounds serious.”

“It’s horrifying.”

You laughed quietly under your breath, and Holland visibly relaxed at the sound. Like making you smile had become his favorite thing sometime during the last twenty-four hours. Maybe it had been longer than that. Your eyes dropped briefly to his lips before you could stop yourself. Unfortunately, Holland noticed everything. His expression changed immediately.

You should’ve stepped back, but instead you found yourself leaning a little closer. Holland inhaled sharply. And suddenly he looked nervous again. That almost made you smile.

Holland March, the man who flirted with waitresses, receptionists, bartenders, and probably parking meters, looked genuinely nervous around you.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “You keep saying all these ridiculous things instead of just…”

“Instead of just what?”

You hesitated for half a second. Then decided to be brave for once.

“Instead of asking me out.”

Holland blinked at you like his brain had completely stopped working. “You think I haven’t been trying to do that for months?”

Your breath caught slightly. “Months?”

“Oh, God,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I sound insane.”

You smiled despite yourself, and Holland looked at you like the sight physically hurt him.

“You seriously didn’t know?” he asked.

“I thought you were like this with everyone.”

“I am like this with everyone,” he admitted. “That’s the problem. I had no idea how to make you understand you were different.”

Something in your chest tightened painfully at that. “Holland…”

“And every time I thought maybe you liked me back, you’d look at me like I was some stray dog that accidentally learned how to smoke cigarettes.”

You laughed softly. “That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.”

Another step. You didn’t even realize Holland had moved closer until his hand brushed lightly against yours on the kitchen counter.

Neither of you pulled away. His eyes flicked down to your mouth again. This time, yours did too. The room felt quiet enough that you could hear both of you breathing. And slowly, carefully, Holland lifted a hand toward your face like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to touch you. His fingertips barely brushed your cheek.

“You know,” he said quietly, voice rougher now, “if I kiss you right now, there’s a very real chance I’m never gonna shut up about it.”

Your lips twitched. “You already never shut up.”

“Yeah, but this would make it worse.”

You smiled faintly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Then maybe,” you whispered, leaning just a little closer, “you should stop talking for once.”

For the first time in what was possibly his entire life, Holland March actually listened. He stopped talking.

His hand remained against your cheek, warm and careful, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. For a second he only looked at you, searching your face for any sign that he’d misunderstood.

Then he kissed you. Soft at first, tentative.

Nothing like the smooth, practiced charm Holland usually hid behind. This felt almost unfairly sincere, like he was trying very hard not to ruin something he’d wanted for a long time.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt automatically, pulling him closer before you even realized you were doing it. That tiny movement completely destroyed whatever self-control he had left. 

The second kiss was deeper and warmer. And Holland made a quiet sound against your lips that nearly melted your brain entirely. Then suddenly he pulled back.

“Oh, no,” he muttered immediately, breathing hard. “No, this is bad.”

You blinked at him, still holding onto his shirt. “Bad?”

“I need to stop.” He pointed vaguely between the two of you like he was explaining a crime scene. “Because if I don’t stop now, I’m genuinely never leaving this apartment again.”

Despite the heat rushing through your entire body, you laughed softly. Holland looked wrecked already. His hair was even messier than before, his cheeks slightly flushed, and he was staring at your mouth with the expression of a man actively losing a fight with himself.

“This is your fault, by the way,” he informed you.

“My fault?”

“You told me to stop talking.”

Before you could answer, he stepped forward again and kissed you a one more time. Harder. Like he’d already given up pretending he wasn’t desperate for it. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and for one dizzying moment you forgot every single bad thing that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

When he finally pulled away again, he looked genuinely distressed.

“We should go to dinner,” he blurted out suddenly.

You stared at him. “What?”

“A real date,” Holland clarified quickly, still standing far too close to you. “Like adults. I mean…emotionally unstable adults, but still.”

“You’re asking me out right now?”

“Yes.”

“You’re terrible at timing.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

That made you laugh again, and Holland kissed you immediately afterward like the sound itself pulled him back in. This kiss was slower. Dangerously slow. The kind that made your knees feel weak.

When he finally forced himself to step away this time, he dragged both hands down his face dramatically. “Okay. I have to leave.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

“Yes.” He pointed toward the door while still looking directly at you. “Because I’m trying to behave like a respectable person.”

Still muttering under his breath, Holland grabbed his jacket and headed for the door before he could apparently change his mind again. You followed him, arms crossed loosely over your chest, unable to stop smiling now. At the door, he paused and looked back at you. For one terrifying second, it genuinely seemed like he was considering kissing you again.

Instead, he gave you a look somewhere between dazed and deeply offended by his own feelings.

“Dinner,” he repeated firmly. “Tonight. Seven.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Holland nodded.

Then he left. But you barely had time to close the door before it suddenly swung open again. Holland leaned back inside, slightly out of breath like he’d rushed back immediately.

“One question.”

You bit back a smile. “What?”

He pointed at you very seriously. “Is there gonna be more kissing later?”

You laughed. And the completely lovestruck look on Holland’s face told you that asking that question had probably been a terrible mistake for him emotionally.

“That depends,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you planning on getting completely drunk?”

Holland looked mildly offended. “I’ll have you know I can be extremely charming while sober.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Okay, first of all, rude.”

“Okay. And second?”

“And second,” he continued, pointing at you accusingly, “you attacked me with a purse less than a day ago. I feel like we should focus on your violent tendencies before judging my drinking habits.”

You gasped softly. “You deserved that, March.”

“I absolutely did,” he admitted immediately.

That caught you off guard enough to laugh again. Holland smiled the second he heard it. God, he really liked making you laugh.

“So?” he asked after a moment, softer now. “More kissing?”

You pretended to think about it. “Hm. Fine.”

His eyebrows lifted hopefully.

“But only if,” you continued, trying not to smile too much, “you don’t get blackout drunk and forget my name halfway through dinner.”

Holland pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Wow. You think very little of me.”

“I know exactly who you are.”

And strangely enough, that answer seemed to affect him more than anything else had all morning. You did know him, not the version he showed strangers. Not the loud-talking, constantly flirting private investigator pretending he had everything under control.

You knew the real Holland. The exhausted single father,  who tried harder than people realized, who made pancakes for Holly on Sundays and fell asleep on his couch with paperwork on his chest. The one who checked if you got home safe even before any of this happened, and somehow, unbelievably, you still liked him.

“You know,” Holland said quietly, “that might actually be my favorite thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Your heart softened instantly. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed.

You smiled, stepping a little closer to him again. “Seven o’clock?” you asked.

Holland looked at you like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Seven.”

Then, unable to help himself, he leaned down and kissed you one last time. Gentle and warm. The kind of kiss that promised this wasn’t ending anytime soon. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead briefly against yours and sighed.

“I’m definitely gonna ruin this by saying something stupid later.”

“Probably.”

“You’ll still go out with me anyway?”

You smiled softly. “Probably.”

And judging by the helplessly happy look on Holland March’s face, that answer was more than enough.