Billy Butcher used to hate evenings.

Many nights had been spent drinking himself into oblivion while flipping through albums of him and Becca. Bottles and takeout boxes had taken up space on his counter where Becca's favorite mug used to sit by his. The only reason he'd kept the apartment somewhat clean was because of Terror.

Terror. The bulldog that kept him going, aside from his plans for Vought. And now the reason he had you. He'd gotten away from Butcher on a walk and ran right up to you. The bumbling mutt had made you drop your coffee onto the pavement. So, naturally, Butcher had felt the need to buy you a new one. He didn't know why, just that something had compelled him to make it up to you.

And now evenings were the highlight of his day.

Butcher knew as soon as he pushed the door open that you would be there. Dinner was hot and Terror was snoring away in your lap on the couch. The counters were clear and his hole-in-the-wall place finally felt like a home again. The albums sat on the living room shelf, a sense of closure keeping him from weeping over the worn photos any more.

His woman and his dog. That was all he needed.