Butcher leans in the doorway, shoulder against the jamb, arms crossed so tight the leather of his coat creaks. He’s been standing there ten minutes, maybe fifteen, watching you transform yourself into bait.

You standing there leaning over the sink in nothing but black lace underwear and one of his old T-shirt. The dress for tonight—some slinky crimson number Frenchie swiped from a Vought stylist’s discard pile—waits on a hanger hooked over the shower rod.

“Absolute fuckin’ sleaze, that one,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the careful way you blend eyeliner into a perfect wing. “Vice President of Branding, my arse. More like Vice President of Starin’ Down Cleavage. Bet he’s got a whole folder of creep shots on his phone.”

You don’t answer right away; just purse your lips at the mirror, blotting cherry-red lipstick with a tissue. The silence stretches, thick with the unsaid thing that’s been humming between you since that night three weeks ago: the storage room at the Flatiron, his mouth on yours, tasting of whiskey, hands fisted in your hair until Hughie burst in with some crisis about temp-V side effects.

He pushes off the doorframe, steps into the cramped space. You can feel his stare like a physical weight as you dust highlighter along your cheekbones, making your skin glow like you’re lit from within for every bastard in that ballroom to see.

“Gonna have every suit in there droolin’,” he grumbles, closer now, breath stirring the baby hairs at the nape of your neck. “And that prick—Ellison—what’s-his-face—he’ll think he’s in with a shot ‘cause you smile at him. Flash those pretty eyes. Laugh at his shite jokes.” His voice drops, rougher, lips gently brushing against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Makes me wanna put his head through a wall.”

His fingers brush your bare arm; barely a touch, just the pads sliding along your skin.

“Billy,” you say quietly, turning to face him properly. “It’s just a job. Fake smiles, fake laughs. I’ll be wired the whole time. You’ll hear everything.”

“Yeah,” he rasps, stepping between your knees, hands settling on the porcelain edge either side of your hips, caging you in. “And I’ll hear that wanker breathin’ too close to the mic. Tellin’ you how stunning you look....I don’t like sharin’ what’s—” He stops himself, swallows hard, eyes searching yours like he’s looking for permission to finish the sentence.