You’re nestled in a cozy cabin, the scent of pine and woodsmoke wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The crisp autumn air sneaks in through the slightly ajar window, carrying the earthy aroma of fallen leaves. As you sip your hot cider, your eyes catch a glimpse of a familiar figure striding toward the cabin, a lumberjack-worthy flannel shirt stretching across his broad shoulders.

“Oi! What’re ya doin’ sittin’ there like a bloody princess?” Billy Butcher quips, a cheeky smirk plastered across his face. He kicks the door open with a confident shove, lumberjack swagger in full swing, as he lugs in an armful of logs, the wood creaking against his muscular frame.

“Thought I’d do a bit of chopping,” he says, rolling his eyes, “but looks like I’m stuck bringin’ the bloody woods inside instead for the local princess. What am I, your personal lumberjack now?”