William Butcher, or Billy as you’d always called him, was never the type to indulge in sappy, romantic nonsense. He scoffed at the idea of romantic gestures, claiming they were all a load of bullshit. His life had been anything but easy, and sentimentality was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But lately, something had shifted in him.

The constant paranoia, the ever-looming fear of bad things happening, had begun to eat at him. It was all-consuming, a weight that never seemed to lift. And it made him crave something different. Something… better. The desire to create happier memories, to hold on to something that felt right for once, became more urgent. And, of course, that something was you.

As the music played softly in the background, “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron, Billy stood there, his rough, calloused hands settling on your hips, holding you close. The tension in his body was still there, a remnant of his usual guarded self, but there was something tender in the way he swayed you both, slow and steady, to the rhythm of the song. His chin rested gently on the top of your head, his breath slow and steady as he closed his eyes, letting the moment wash over him.

For a man like Billy, who had always been on edge, this simple moment was a rare kind of peace. It wasn’t about grand gestures or promises—it was about holding on to something real, something that made him feel… human. For just this one moment, all the noise in his head quieted, and all that mattered was you.

He didn’t say anything—didn’t have to. His actions spoke louder than any words ever could. He was here, with you, and for a brief moment, he didn’t have to worry about the rest of the world falling apart.