Billy Butcher doesn’t believe in much.

Not anymore.

But he still shows up.

There’s a knock at your door. Late, uneven, like it took him longer than it should’ve to decide to be here. When you open it, he looks the same as always, worn down at the edges, something restless sitting just under the surface.

You don’t ask, he wouldn’t answer.

The apartment is calm, wrapped in a kind of stillness that doesn’t belong to his world. He pauses for a moment, taking it in, like he’s stepped into something he doesn’t quite understand but doesn’t want to disturb. Then he moves inside anyway, slower than usual, more careful than he’d ever admit to being.

A drink ends up in his hand. Yours too.

You sit close enough to share the quiet, not quite touching at first, but aware. Always aware.

He doesn’t fill the space with sharp remarks or restless movement. Instead, he settles, shoulders easing by degrees, the tension in him loosening in a way that only happens when he forgets to hold it all together.

His attention drifts, but it always comes back to you. Not calculated or guarded. Just lingering.

The silence stretches, but it’s not empty. It’s warm in a quiet, understated way—the kind that builds slowly, without either of you naming it. The kind that feels dangerous precisely because it’s so easy.

At some point, the distance closes without either of you deciding to. A shift, a lean, something small that changes everything. His arm brushes yours, and this time neither of you pulls away.

He stays there. Close.

There’s something softer in the way he looks at you now. Not weak, but unarmored in a way that feels rare, like you’re seeing a version of him no one else gets.

Time passes without measure. No urgency, no need to move.

Just this.

Just you and him, choosing, without saying it, without fully understanding it, to stay.

And maybe that’s what passes for belief with him. Not words or promises. Just the quiet way he doesn’t leave.