The safehouse was cold, the air biting even under layers of blankets. You sat on the couch, wrapped in a robe and a frayed throw, the TV flickering with muted colors. The fever had come and gone earlier, leaving you drained, but now it was creeping back—chills crawling up your spine, your head heavy and throbbing.

Butcher had been in and out all evening, his usual scowl sharper than usual. He’d tossed a thermos of tea at you earlier, muttering something about “not havin’ time for this,” but you’d caught the way his eyes lingered, the way he’d paused at the door like he wanted to say more.

Now, the room was dark, the TV casting faint shadows. You dozed fitfully, the fever pulling you under despite the cold sweat on your skin. Somewhere in the haze, you felt a presence—warm, solid, familiar.

A hand brushed your forehead, calloused and rough but surprisingly gentle. You stirred, your eyes fluttering open to see Butcher crouched beside the couch, his face inches from yours. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable, but his touch lingered, hesitant.

“You’re burnin’ up again,” he muttered, his voice low, almost a growl.

You blinked up at him, too tired to speak, too tired to wonder why he was there. For a moment, neither of you moved, the silence stretching thin between truths neither of you would name.