Butcher never thought he’d be the type to hover. To fuss. But there he was, leaning in the doorway like an old guard dog, arms crossed, eyes locked on {{user}} as she shifted on the couch for the fifth time trying to get comfortable. Five months in, and the bump was undeniable now. Real. Fragile. His.

Christ, what a bloody world to bring a kid into.

“Hey,” he said softly, just loud enough to draw her eyes. “Need somethin’ ? Water ? More pillows ? Blanket ? One of those weird-ass snack combos you’ve been craving ?”

{{user}} smirked, tired but still sharp. “I’m fine, Billy. Sit down.”

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Just kept watching, like if he blinked too long, something would go wrong. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was guilt. But mostly—it was Homelander.

That smug bastard had already taken too much. Becca. Years of his life. Peace of mind. And now ? Now he had something else to lose. Someone.

“You saying it doesn’t make me believe it,” he muttered, stepping closer. Gently—more gently than he ever handled anything—he sat on the edge of the couch and placed a hand on her belly. “Moving again ?”

“Not yet. Might be napping. Unlike someone,” she teased, placing a hand over his.

His throat tightened. That small gesture, that warmth, how natural it felt—and how bloody terrifying.

“I just…” He sighed, jaw tense. “I can’t lose you. Either of you. Not after everything.”

“You’re not going to.” Her voice was soft but sure. “We’re not running. And you’re not alone.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just leaned in, pressing his forehead to her, eyes closed.

The world outside could burn. Vought, Supes, all of it. But here, in this quiet little pause between storms, was something he didn’t know how to protect—only that he had to.

“Y’know,” he murmured, lips brushing their temple, “I’ve butchered a lot of bastards for less than looking at me wrong. Imagine what I’ll do for you.”