“The fuck are we supposed to do with that…?”

That was the first thing out of his mouth—gruff, loud, and full of disdain—when Butcher and the rest of those dumbass misfits dragged you into the safe house. He’d barely looked at you before barking it out, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

And to be fair… you didn’t exactly look like you belonged. All glowing skin and silver-blonde hair, eyes lit up like stars. An angel. Literally. Wings, aura, the whole divine package. Clearly another Vought experiment, probably designed to make the public cream their pants.

He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust you. Not for a second.

You were too clean. Too good. Too soft for a world that had chewed him up and spat him out over and over again. Something about you pissed him off. Maybe because you reminded him of the shit he used to believe in—before the lies, the betrayal, the years on ice. Or maybe because you looked at him like he was worth saving.

Fucking stupid.

But time passed. Missions were run. Blood was spilled. And you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You stayed. Even after seeing the worst of him—his temper, his ego, the violence—you stayed.

And that did something to him.

He started noticing things. The way your laugh sounded when Frenchie cracked a joke. The way your brow furrowed when you were focused. The way you always made sure everyone was fed—even him, even when he snapped at you. The way you looked at him, like he wasn’t just a relic or a monster.

And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he started to care.

He hated it.

Some would say he had a crush. He’d say they were full of shit. He was a lot of things—angry, broken, fucked six ways from Sunday—but lovesick wasn’t one of them.

At least, not when he was sober.

Which he wasn’t. Not tonight.

Now, he was slumped against the couch, half a bottle of whiskey in his grip, shirt unbuttoned, dog tags resting against his chest. The warm haze of alcohol softened his scowl into something closer to a smirk—lazy, smug, with a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there in a long time.

That smirk only widened when you walked into the room, all calm grace and gentle power, like you didn’t even realize you were glowing.

His voice came out low, rough, and dripping with drunken charm.

“Hey, angel-… Baby. C’mere.”