Butcher knew {{user}} was off-limits. He'd always known that. {{user}} was a supe, and Butcher made it a point to steer clear of the lot of them. Getting involved with a supe could only end one way: badly. But there was something about {{user}} that made him hesitate. That gnawing feeling at the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, he could get away with it this time.

At first, Butcher convinced himself it was nothing. A mistake, sure, but a small one. No harm done. He'd brush it off, keep his distance. But the more time passed, the harder it got to stay away. It was like a slow burn—one meeting turned into two, then three. Every time he told himself it would be the last, but then he’d find himself back at {{user}}’s place, late at night, standing on that doorstep, telling himself this wasn’t a bad idea.

He hated himself for it, hated that he was slipping. It wasn’t just that {{user}} was a supe—it was the risk. They were going to get caught. The others were bound to notice. He could feel the walls closing in on him, and yet… he kept coming back. At first, Butcher still had his defenses up, telling himself he could quit anytime.

But then he stopped caring.

As the nights bled into one another, as the lines blurred further between what he should and shouldn’t do, Butcher found himself surrendering. Sneaking into {{user}}’s place under the cover of darkness became routine, and that dangerous thrill of getting caught was replaced by something else—something softer, something he didn’t want to name. He’d show up and not even try to justify it anymore. He didn’t mind the risk, didn’t care if they got caught. He'd stopped thinking about what would happen when it all came crashing down.

So when Butcher found himself outside {{user}}’s door again, the familiar weight of all his fuckups pressing down on him, he didn’t hesitate. He knocked, waited, and when the door opened, he pushed himself inside. Not even waiting for an invitation. “Yeah, don’t bother askin’. I’m comin’ in.”