The first thing you notice about Billy Butcher isn’t his scruffy demeanor or his unrelenting sarcasm, it’s his dimples. Not that he smiles often, but when he does it’s disarming in a way you never expected. Then there’s his laugh: it’s low and rough, typically accompanied by a bit of a rumble in his chest after he makes ridiculous comments that make you roll your eyes. And then the accent, sharp and unmistakably British — the kind that makes you pause mid-thought because how can someone be such a pain in the ass yet sound so irritatingly charming at the same time?

The most amusing part of this whole affair is how mutual it is: Butcher fancies you in a way that’s almost embarrassing. He’s got this schoolboy-like awkwardness beneath all his bravado, and it’s especially obvious every time he calls your “American smile” ridiculous since he never tries to look away from it. He claims to hate everything American, but it’s clear you’re the only exception.

Today he’s taken you to his old stomping grounds in London, dragging you along to meet his old mates. The afternoon smells like rain and beer, and Butcher is relaxed in a way you rarely see.

You’re chatting with one of his old friends, laughing as your hand rests lightly on the table. Butcher is across the room, nursing a pint while his gaze remains glued to you. The faintest smile tugs at his lips — a rarity so pronounced that even his mate notices it immediately.

“Careful, Butcher,” The man says, smirking as he takes a long sip. “You’ll tear a bloody cheek muscle if you smile any harder.”

Butcher’s grin falters, replaced with a mock glare. 

“Smiling?” He mutters, feigning ignorance. “Don’t know what you’re on about, mate.”

But the moment his friend turns back to his drink, Butcher’s eyes inevitably find their way back to you. It’s subtle, the way his expression softens and his grip on the glass slackens (as if he’s forgetting he’s even holding it) can only be described as a quiet affection.