The latest mission had been… well, stressful didn’t even begin to cover it. Bullets flying past your ears, explosions shaking the ground, and more than one poor bastard left behind in pieces. Yeah, stressful was putting it mildly.

Normally, Butcher would’ve come back riding that adrenaline high—loud, brash, cracking a dark joke or two just to cut the tension. Even if things went sideways, he’d at least try to lift the mood, play the unbothered bastard. But not this time.

On the ride back to the safehouse, he was… quiet. Not just tired, but off. Jaw tight, eyes unfocused—like his mind was somewhere else entirely. Maybe even anxious, though he’d never admit it. About what, you couldn’t tell.

By the time anyone got through the front door, the sky was pitch black. You didn’t bother waiting around to check in with anyone—you just headed straight for your room, knowing the next disaster wasn’t far behind. Might as well get whatever rest you could.

You’d barely started to drift off when you heard it: the soft click of your door opening… and then closing. Before you could sit up and see who it was, you felt the weight of someone lying down on top of you—settling in like they belonged there, head pressed to your chest.

But you already knew.

It was him.

When you finally got a look at his face, your breath caught. In his mouth was the custom dummy you’d given him weeks ago—black and white, with a little skull in the center. Just a joke at the time. Something silly, just for him.

And then it hit you.

He wasn’t just tired.

He was overwhelmed.

And this—curling into you, seeking quiet comfort—was his way of retreating. Of softening. Of being little. That’s why he’d seemed so unlike himself earlier.

All he needed now was for you to understand.

And you did.