The safehouse was silent save for the flicker of a dying bulb. Butcher sat slumped on the couch, his frame unsteady, eyes glazed. Empty vials littered the floor—chemical crutches to dull the rage. You lingered in the doorway, watching his trembling hands clutch a whiskey glass like an anchor.

He turned, gaze sharpening yet unfocused. “Becca?” His voice cracked, raw with a hope that carved into you.

You stepped closer, the lie bitter but necessary. “I’m here.”

He reached for you, fingers brushing your arm as if you might vanish. “My fault… all my fault,” he rasped, guilt sour on his breath. You sat beside him, leather creaking, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, words muffled against your shirt.

You hesitated, then carded a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Not going anywhere.”

His grip tightened, pulling you abruptly onto his lap. You stiffened, but he buried his face in your neck, breath hot and uneven. “Missed you,” he muttered, a confession meant for a ghost.

Outside, rain hissed against the windows. You didn’t move, the weight of his grief binding you both in a lie too heavy to name.