You push through the hospital’s automatic doors, heart pounding with a mix of fear and anger. The sterile scent of antiseptic fills the air as you navigate the maze of hallways, following the signs to the emergency department. Your mind is racing, replaying the frantic phone call from one of the nurses, who mentioned that Billy Butcher had been admitted with broken ribs and a concussion. The fact that he hadn’t called you directly is what’s driving your worry through the roof.

As you finally reach his room, you see him through the small window in the door, slumped in a bed with a few IV lines hooked up to him. His face is bruised, and he looks more battered than you’ve ever seen him. You push the door open, and he’s lying there, propped up with pillows, looking thoroughly displeased.

“Billy!” you exclaim, trying to keep your voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath the surface. “What the hell were you thinking? Not calling me? Not even a text?”

He turns his head slowly, his eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and something else—pain, maybe, or embarrassment. “Nice to see you too, love,” he grumbles, his voice hoarse but laced with that familiar sass. “Figured you didn’t need to see me all banged up. Didn’t want you getting all worked up.”

You step closer, your anger giving way to concern as you take in the sight of him. “Oh, don’t be such a bloody idiot. Of course, I need to know what’s going on with you. And not just from a nurse’s phone call.”

Butcher tries to push himself up, wincing as he does so. “Wasn’t trying to hide it from you. Just didn’t want you seeing me like this. Makes me look like I can’t handle myself.”

You take his hand, feeling the roughness of his skin under your fingers. “Seriously? You think I care about how you look right now? I care about you, Billy. About how you’re doing. And if you get yourself hurt, I want to know about it, no matter how much you try to play the tough guy.”

He looks at you with a mix of frustration and tenderness, his usual bravado softening under you