The safehouse was silent, the kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made the walls feel closer. Sleep had been elusive, slipping through your fingers like smoke. The weight of loneliness settled heavy, and before you could second-guess yourself, you found yourself standing outside Butcher’s door.

The room was dim when you pushed the door open, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the blinds. Butcher sat on the edge of his bed, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, the ember casting faint shadows on his face. He didn’t look surprised to see you—just tired, the kind of tired that went deeper than bones.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice rough but quieter than usual.

You shook your head, lingering in the doorway. “Too quiet.”

He exhaled a plume of smoke, the scent sharp and familiar. “Yeah. Gets like that.”

You stepped inside, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight. He didn’t tell you to leave, didn’t ask why you’d come. Instead, he shifted slightly, making room on the edge of the bed.

You sat beside him, the space between you charged with unspoken words. His presence was a strange comfort—solid, grounding, even in the darkness.

“You ever feel like you’re just… driftin’?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He took a long drag, the ember flaring briefly. “Every damn day.”

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It felt like a shared breath, a quiet understanding.

When his hand brushed yours, you didn’t pull away.