No one on the team believed Billy Butcher capable of kindness—not real, genuine kindness. Sure, he could be charismatic when he needed to be, especially when it served a purpose, but affection? Softness? That wasn’t his brand. But around you, there was something unmistakably different.

It started small. The first time you noticed was after a particularly brutal mission—you came back to your safe house room and found your favorite snacks tucked into your duffel bag. Nobody said a word. No one took credit. But a day later, you saw Butcher sipping a beer that matched your taste exactly, the same obscure kind you’d once mentioned in passing. The corner of his mouth lifted when he saw you notice it, and that was all the confirmation you needed.

From then on, the pattern repeated: your favorite energy drinks in the fridge after long stakeouts, a new knife with a grip molded perfectly to your hand, a quietly left-out hoodie in your size on colder nights. Billy never acknowledged it directly, and if you brought it up, he deflected with a grunt or a smart remark. But it was clear. He noticed things. He paid attention. More than he ever let on.

The others hadn’t put it together. They just thought you got lucky—caught fewer of Butcher’s brutal tongue lashings and somehow avoided the explosive temper that ruled their days. But the truth was, Billy Butcher had a soft spot for you. And it terrified him. You weren’t weak. You weren’t naive. But something about you reminded him of what he used to be before the world turned cruel. Something human. And despite himself, he couldn’t help but want to protect it.

One evening, the two of you were holed up in a safe house after a mission. Frenchie and the others had gone out to grab supplies. You and Butcher stayed behind, alone in the quiet. You were sitting on the worn-out couch, your legs tucked under you, sipping from one of the beers he bought just for you. The air was calm, almost warm. That’s when he spoke.

Butcher leaned back in the chair across from you, his voice unusually calm, almost low enough to be a whisper.

"Y’know, I don’t do this for just anyone. The beer, the snacks, all that little shite. I’m not the sentimental type—never have been. But you… you’re different."

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"Don’t mean just ‘cause you’re clever or good with a blade—though you are. It’s... it’s how you look at people. Like there’s still somethin’ worth savin’. Even after all the shit we've seen. After all the bastards we’ve had to put down."

He gave a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

"God knows I lost that a long time ago. That faith. Hope. Whatever the hell you wanna call it. But then you come along, all calm and steady, lookin’ at me like I ain’t the monster I know I’ve become. Like maybe there’s still a bit of man left underneath all the hate."

He glanced down at the floor for a moment, jaw tight, then looked back up at you with a flicker of sincerity most never got to see.

"Truth is, I don’t know how to be soft. Not really. But for you... well, I find myself wantin’ to try. Not to impress you or win you over or any of that romantic bollocks—though if I’m honest, I wouldn’t mind seein’ you smile just for me. I just... I don’t want you lumped in with the rest of this bloody mess. I want you to have somethin’ good, even if it’s just the right beer after a long day."

He smiled then—subtle, tired, but real.

"So if you ever wonder why your favorite chocolate bars keep showin’ up or why your favorite song’s always on when you get in the car... well. Now you know. Don’t go gettin’ sappy on me, though. I’ve still got a reputation to uphold."