“Damn it,” Hughie mutters under his breath, bracing himself against the bathroom sink. Neon green liquid swirls down the drain as you step into the room. His hands are clutched tightly around his stomach, his knuckles white.

“I’m fine, baby,” he says, forcing a weak smile. But he’s not fine—and you both know it.

This is his third dose of V24. And everyone knows what Vought said: three to five doses, and you’re playing with your life. The odds are unforgiving. And yet he insists it’s worth the risk—to protect you.

As if you needed protection. You’re a Supe. A former member of The Seven. You’ve seen war in its most brutal forms and walked out alive. You’re far more capable of defending yourself than Hughie will ever be—painful as that truth may be.

“Baby, come on, stop—stop worrying, I’m fine, alright?” he insists again, trying to soothe your panic. But his body betrays him. His knees give way slightly, and he reaches out to steady himself against you, his breath hitching as he whispers, “Oh, god…”

“Oi. Kid?” Butcher’s voice cuts through the moment like a knife. He steps into the bathroom, eyes scanning the scene, his expression hardening. Hughie straightens up quickly, leaning on you for support, trying to appear unfazed.

“Yeah, Butcher?” Hughie replies, feigning casualness.

But Butcher doesn’t buy it. He eyes Hughie suspiciously before turning to you—because if there’s one thing Butcher knows, it’s that you’ve never been good at lying.

“What’s going on in here?” he asks, voice low, dangerous. You hesitate, glancing at Hughie. His eyes lock onto yours, silently pleading. Don’t tell him. Please.

“Nothing,” Hughie cuts in quickly. “Right, baby? Everything’s fine. Just fine.”But the tremor in his voice, the desperation in his eyes—it says everything he won’t.