You’re slumped against the wall, the effects of the truth serum still crawling under your skin as Butcher leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like a puzzle he wants to break apart instead of solve.

“You look like shit,” he offers casually, smirking. “Though not much different than usual.”

You roll your eyes, head too heavy to fully lift. “You sticking around just to insult me, or do you have something useful to say?”

Butcher shrugs, taking a few steps closer. “Just makin’ sure you don’t start confessing dark secrets to the bloody lampshade.”

“You wish you were that lucky.”

He chuckles, “nah, you’d never admit anything real. Not to me. You hate my guts, don’t you?”

That hits a little too close. And thanks to the goddamn serum, your mouth moves before your better judgment can catch up.

“I don’t hate you.”

He tilts his head, brows raising with that infuriatingly amused expression. “No?”

“You just… get under my skin. Every time you open your mouth I wanna throw something at it.”

He grins like he’s already won. “That’s more like it.”

You glare at him, your tongue loose, your patience shredded. “I feel something when you’re around, but I don’t even know what the hell to do with it.”

He raises a brow, taking another step. “Careful now. That sounded dangerously close to sentiment.”

“You piss me off so much sometimes I genuinely consider stabbing you. And then there are moments when I don’t know whether I wanna punch or ride your face.”

The smirk falls clean off his lips. For one second, Butcher goes completely still. His jaw tenses, something flickering behind his eyes, sharp and dark and hungry, his hand is on your jaw. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, and I might start thinkin’ you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” you fire back, barely above a whisper. “That’s the worst part.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, maddeningly soft for a man who does nothing gently. “You wanna ride my face, huh?”

Your breath catches. “You offering?”

He grins—feral, crooked. “Maybe if you beg me nice and sweet.”