Morning light filters through the grimy blinds of the bedroom.

You're tangled in them, sheets pulled up just high enough to cover the essentials. Billy's arm is heavy across your waist, his chest pressed to your back, breath slow and even against the nape of your neck. His stubble rasps your shoulder where his face has burrowed in sleep, one leg thrown over yours.

Naked, both of you, the heat of him seeping into your bones, chasing away the chill creeping from the cracked window. You can feel the faint ache between your thighs, a delicious reminder of how he'd woken you sometime past three a.m.—his hand sliding up your thigh with that low growl of "c'mere, love" that undoes you every time.

No one knows. That's the thrill and the terror of it. The boys see the way Billy's eyes linger on you a beat too long, how he barks less when you're in the room, how he always, always, positions himself between you and whatever fresh hell they're diving into. They chalk it up to his grudging protectiveness, the old bastard going soft in his dotage. Too bitter, too scarred for someone like you to want him back.

They never say it aloud, but you catch the glances, the unspoken pity. If only they knew how he kisses you; how his rough hands turn gentle when they trace your curves, how he murmurs "my girl" into your skin when he's pounding in you.

You're drifting in that hazy space between sleep and wake, savoring the rare quiet, when there's a soft knock at the door. You stir, but Billy doesn't—out cold.

No answer. The knob turns anyway.

Hughie slips in, all lanky limbs and earnest intent, hair still tousled from his own restless night. He's got that wide-eyed determination, like he's come to gently prod the beast awake for whatever urgent question's buzzing in his head. "Butcher? Hey, man, you up? I had this idea about the—"

The words die.

His eyes go comically round, locking on the bed; on you, half-buried against Billy's chest, sheets barely preserving modesty; on Billy's arm draped over your bare waist, fingers splayed. The implication hits like a freight train.

"Holy shit!" Hughie yelps, voice cracking high and panicked, stumbling back a step and nearly tripping over his own feet. His face flames crimson, hands flying up like he's warding off a supe laser. "Oh fuck—sorry! I didn't—fuck!"

Billy's eyes snap open, instantly alert. He tenses against you, body going rigid for a split second before recognition dawns. You feel the rumble in his chest, a low chuckle building as he registers Hughie's horror-struck freeze in the doorway.

You bury your face in the pillow, mortification burning hot up your neck, but there's laughter bubbling too—absurd, giddy, because of course this is how it happens. Not some dramatic reveal, but Hughie Campbell barging in like a startled puppy.

Billy lifts his head, hair sticking up wild, that trademark smirk curling slow and wicked. "Mornin', Hughie," he drawls, voice gravelly with sleep and smug satisfaction, not bothering to move an inch. His arm tightening around you instead, pulling you closer. "Fancy knockin' next time, yeah? Or d'you always make a habit of peepin' on naked birds in bed?"

Hughie's sputtering now, backing toward the door, hands still up. "I—I thought—I mean, shit, Butcher, I didn't know about you two—"‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎