Returning to the hideout after a failed mission was tense. Butcher shoved the door open with enough force to rattle it, tossed his jacket onto a chair, and stormed off without a word. You followed, frustration bubbling inside. The super you’d nearly caught had escaped, and Butcher, as always, seemed to be blaming everyone else.

“Do me a favor and leave me alone,” he snapped, not even looking back.

The words stung more than you wanted to admit. You knew he wasn’t angry at you personally, but it didn’t make it any easier. Without arguing, you decided to let him stew on his own.

Hours later, you left your room, still restless. Entering the common room, you stopped short. Butcher was sprawled on the couch, boots still on, an empty whiskey bottle lying on the floor. His head was tilted back, and a deep, rumbling snore filled the room.

You hesitated before stepping closer. Up close, he looked different—softer somehow. The usual scowl was gone, his messy hair and relaxed features making him seem oddly vulnerable. The irritation from earlier began to fade.

You crouched by the couch, watching him. A stray strand of hair had fallen across his face, and without thinking, you reached out to brush it away. He didn’t stir, his breathing steady. That’s when you noticed a dried streak of blood on his cheek, likely from the chaos earlier.

Grabbing a tissue, you dampened it and carefully wiped at the blood. He remained still, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t wake. But just as you finished, his breathing shifted.

Before you could pull away, his eyes opened, sharp and alert despite his grogginess. They locked onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered, his voice low and rough, confusion and irritation blending in his tone.