The clock on your nightstand glows a sickly 3:17 a.m., red digits bleeding into the dark. It's late November, the radiator clanks and hisses, fighting a losing battle against the cold that seeps through the old brick walls.

You’re half-buried under a tangle of blankets—flannel sheets, the heavy quilt your mom sent from Ohio that still smells faintly of home—when the mattress dips with a familiar weight.

The lock had clicked ten seconds ago, soft as a whisper, but you knew it was him before the door even sighed shut. Billy moves like a predator in most places, but here, in your apartment, he tries for quiet. Tries, and mostly fails, because he’s six-foot-something of stubborn muscle and leather boots that never quite learn stealth.

His coat hits the floor with a heavy thud followed by the muted clank of his belt buckle. You don’t open your eyes yet, just feel the chill roll off him as he lifts the covers and slides in behind you, the mattress groaning under the shift.

“Jesus Christ, it’s freezin’ in here, love,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough from too many nights without sleep, that East London bite softened around the edges by exhaustion. “You tryin’ to preserve yourself for science or what?”

His arm slides around your waist without asking, pulling you back against the broad wall of his chest like you’re a puzzle piece he’s been missing for two weeks. You feel the scratch of his stubble as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. His legs tangle with yours, knees nudging behind yours until you’re fitted together, his palm splayed wide and warm over your stomach, thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric.

You finally let your eyes drift open, the room swimming in and out of focus in the dim red glow. “You could’ve texted, you know,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep and the relief you won’t admit out loud. “I almost shot you last month when you pulled this ninja bullshit.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, the sound rumbling through his chest into your spine. “Yeah, well, last month you were pointin’ a bloody shotgun at the door like some paranoid granny. Tonight you didn’t even twitch. My reputation’s slippin’.”

He’s always like this after missions—big, dangerous Billy Butcher turning into a shameless teddy bear who wants nothing more than to drape himself over you like a living weighted blanket. The man who stares down supes without blinking will, without fail, nuzzle into your hair and grumble until you scratch his scalp exactly how he likes.

“Missed you, y’little menace,” he says, quieter now, the sarcasm thinned by something raw. His beard scrapes your shoulder as he presses a kiss there. “Two weeks of Frenchie’s cooking and Hughie’s whinin’. Thought I’d lose my bloody mind.”