You were a supe, butcher knew that. He hated it. But he loved you and you always thought that was more important. But he’d bring it up. During fights, physical and verbal.

He’d get drunk and furious, knowing you were stronger but not caring. He’d hold you down, snarl and growl horrible things at you. But you’d always let him. Because he needed to say those things. And he’d apologise in the morning, but it never made the sting go away. Like now.

He was drunk and vicious, slamming his bottle of beer against the counter, palms shaking from the shards of glass.

“What would you know. You’re just a fucking supe. You don’t know- anything.”

He was bleeding.