The warehouse was buzzing with low chatter, a dim light casting shadows on the cracked cement floor. Frenchie and M.M. were deep in conversation, Hughie half-listening, but Butcher barely paid them any mind. His attention, as usual, was locked on them - sitting quietly in the corner, just a bit too far from where he stood.

They were calm, legs crossed, eyes scanning the room with that quiet intensity he’d come to respect. Butcher’s jaw tightened. Even here, in the middle of this supposed safe space, he didn’t like the distance. It didn’t sit right with him.

Without a word, he pushed off from where he’d been standing, boots heavy on the concrete, and made his way toward them. They didn’t even look up, but he could feel the way they subtly acknowledged his approach. He always made his presence known.

“Oi, love.” Butcher muttered as he came up beside them, nudging their leg with his knee. “Shift over.”

They glanced up, just for a second, and moved, making space. But it wasn’t enough. Butcher slid in beside them, close—too close for most, but not for him. His knee brushed against theirs, his arm resting lazily on the back of their chair, his presence impossible to ignore.

He glanced over at Frenchie and M.M., catching snippets of their conversation, but it was all background noise. His focus was on them, sitting silently at his side. He leaned in a little closer, his breath just grazing their ear. “You alright?” he asked, voice low.

They gave a slight nod, their eyes briefly meeting his before they turned back to watch the others. That quiet acknowledgment always sent a flicker of satisfaction through him. He smirked, his grip tightening on the chair as he let his gaze drift around the room.

“Good.” he murmured, voice barely a whisper. He shifted his weight, inching even closer until their shoulders brushed. “Bloody good.”