The rain hit the motel window in slow, rhythmic taps, the kind of drizzle that soaked into your bones and made everything feel heavier. Billy Butcher sat on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the other running through his mess of dark, unkempt hair. He looked tired—more than usual. Like something had finally caught up to him.

Like you had finally caught up to him.

“Bloody hell, love.”

His voice was rough, gritted with something that wasn’t quite anger but wasn’t far off either. He didn’t look at you right away, just stared down at the amber liquid in his glass like it had all the answers he was too much of a coward to say out loud.

“Why’d ya have to go and make this so goddamn difficult?”

It had been months now—months of this push and pull, of his hands gripping your hips like he needed you just as much as the air in his lungs, only to shove you away the moment things got too real. Months of stolen glances, of touches that lingered too long, of nights spent in silence because neither of you could find the words.

And now? Now, it felt like something had finally snapped.