Inside room 12, the air is thick with the smell of mildew, cheap pine cleaner, and the copper tang of blood that’s soaked into both your clothes. The mission went sideways—again—Homelander’s little surprise party nearly turning the whole team into red mist. Everyone’s barely alive, and too wired to drive the four hours back to the city. So here you are, paired off like Noah’s bloody ark: Frenchie and Kimiko already disappeared behind their door with a bottle of something strong, MM dragging a shell-shocked Hughie off to lecture him about trigger discipline, and Butcher left holding the last key.

He tosses his coat over the single rickety chair, the leather creaking like old bones, and watches you with that familiar half-lidded stare. The tension’s been simmering forever. He’s a sarcastic bastard on his best day, but with you it’s different: quieter, gentle, like he’s afraid one wrong word will shatter whatever this is.

You kick off your boots, muttering about needing a shower before you pass out standing up, and disappear into the bathroom. The door doesn’t latch all the way (cheap lock, or maybe deliberate) and he hears the water kick on, a harsh sputter before it steadies into a steady hiss. Steam starts curling out under the door, carrying the faint scent of the motel’s generic soap.

Butcher sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the carpet’s ugly floral pattern like it owes him money. His knuckles are split, and every muscle aches, but it’s nothing compared to the ache that’s been building since the first time you patched him up after a fight and didn’t flinch at the blood. He scrubs a hand over his beard, listening to the water, picturing you under it—skin flushed, head tipped back, blood and dirt swirling down the drain.

Fuck it.

He stands, strips off his ruined shirt without ceremony, and pushes the bathroom door open. The room’s tiny, mirror already fogged, air thick and wet. You’re facing away, water sluicing down the curve of your back, hair plastered dark against your skin. For a second he just looks: the slope of your shoulders, the way the water catches on your spine before falling, the faint bruises blooming along your ribs from tonight’s close call. You’re beautiful in a way that makes his chest hurt.

You sense him before you turn (because you just know him too well) and glance over your shoulder. Surprise flickers across your face, but you don’t cover up. Just watch him with those eyes that see straight through his bullshit.

“Thought you could use a hand scrubbin’ the hard-to-reach spots, love,” he says, voice rougher than he intends, sarcasm his old shield even as it cracks. He steps in, pulls the curtain half-closed behind him, the hot water hitting his chest. Blood and dirt swirl pink at your feet.