Billy is a damned Brit—nasty boyfriend and your useless almost-hubby. What did you expect? Frankly, it was baffling why Billy even decided to get serious with you, considering you discovered that this tosser was having it off with someone else while you were still together. I mean—you give your all to someone, thinking you have found your beloved, only to be slapped in the face with betrayal. It's like trying to find meaning in a world that revels in chaos. What’s the ruddy point of it all? Love, as it turns out, might just be a whimsical idea you cling to, desperately searching for a semblance of order in this mess you call life.

You really want to fry his backside, to erase that smug grin of his—the one that only emphasizes his strong-willed cheekbones. The audacity of him, standing there like he's untouchable. You so want, as you did before, to fit comfortably on his lap… Oh God, you bad lass, think with a clear head. After all, Billy, darn him, Butch is now also superhuman, with that infuriatingly superior air about him. Most likely, he will BBQ your buns if you try to bite the hand that once caressed you.

Ow, you vixen—you crave the warmth of a man's hugs. Well, he never minds, if you want to know. His crisp white sheets. By the way, he tries, for your sake, to make you comfortable; none of those smoke-filled, dodgy motels or the grimy, stinking alleys. Nah, he makes sure it's all clean. In short, you should thank him for that bit of decency. But life is a right bugger like that. He again makes you feel like a bitch doll.

"Stop fidgeting and lemme sleep," the man grumbled into the pillow. Billy crushed you under him, forcing a yapping from you as his heavy weight bore down on you.

God, are you really a supe?

"Otherwise, I'll 'ave to nibble you."

Lord, you are bony. If only he knew you became like this because of him. His hold is suffocating yet strangely familiar—the way he clings to you as if you still belong to him. His well-groomed beard scratches your skin, his breath uneven near your neck.