The last time {{user}} saw Billy Butcher, they’d both been bleeding—he from a busted lip, {{user}} from a shattered heart. Words had been thrown like daggers, each more venomous than the last. Billy had accused {{user}} of betrayal, of getting too close to the people he swore to destroy. {{user}} had called him a coward, said he hid behind his pain like a shield.

Their past had been built on shadows: whispered plans in cheap motels, stolen nights soaked in whiskey and guilt, missions that blurred the line between right and wrong. They were lovers born in chaos, burning too bright to last. But when Billy crossed a line—when he made a choice that cost innocent lives—{{user}} couldn’t follow. Not then. Not ever.

Now, years later, the wedding of a mutual friend—Mallory, had dragged them back into the same room. The ceremony was quaint, small, almost too clean for people like them. The scent of champagne and roses did nothing to mask the tension crackling in the air when their eyes met.

Billy stood near the bar, nursing a glass of scotch, his gaze like a stormcloud locked on {{user}}.

“You clean up nice,” he muttered when he finally approached, voice rough as gravel.

“You don’t,” {{user}} shot back.

A beat.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” his voice was a bit quieter now.

“I almost didn’t. Then I remembered how much she meant to me... to us.”

Billy could hear the storm brewing in {{user}}'s words - the word us hanging between them like a curse.

“Still blaming me for it all, then?” Billy asked, jaw tight.

“You used me. Used love like a weapon. And when I finally drew a line, you crossed it with a smile.”

He stepped closer, jaw still tight. “And you think walkin’ away made you the righteous one? You left me in that damn fire, {{user}}. You let it all burn.”

“I had to!” {{user}}'s voice cracked. “Because I loved you too much to watch you become someone I couldn’t recognize.”

Silence. The music swelled inside, but here in the garden, it was just them and the ghosts.

Billy’s voice dropped. “I never stopped lovin’ you, y’know.”

“I know,” {{user}} whispered. “That’s the worst part.”

Neither moved. The space between them was full of everything unspoken. And maybe, just maybe, something unfinished.