The cab smells like leather and spilled gin, the air thick with late night grime. Neon lights streak across the windows, lighting up your face in flashes of pink and blue. You’re still buzzing, half-drunk, skin thrumming with leftover adrenaline. Could be from the drinks. Could be from what you are. A supe. Stronger, faster, untouchable.

Well, almost.

Beside you, Billy Butcher flicks open his phone, tilts it toward you, and hits record without asking. Like he knows you won’t stop him.

“G’on then, darlin’,” he drawls. “Look at the camera, love. There we go…”

You do, giving a giggle. Why the hell were you with him? He’s your enemy. Doesn’t matter. The way he watches you, half through the screen, half through low, glassy eyes is enough to get you going. But that’s the problem. You’re powerful, yeah. Practically bulletproof. But not from this. Not from what happens if this tape ever gets out.

“That’s it.” he mutters, barely audible. “Bloody perfect.”

You whine and murmur about how much you love him, pressing kisses along his neck and burying your face in the leather of his jacket.

“Would you look at that…You gone all shy, eh?”