You slam the door so hard behind you, the glass rattles in its frame. The supe sympathizer—definitely not worth it by Butcher’s standards—left in the hands of MM, while you went to take a breather. Butcher just stares. Jaw locked. A vein throbbing in his temple. “You fucking disobeyed me.”

“You were gonna leave him to die.”

“Yeah, because he’s dead weight,” he growls, stepping closer. “He’s a fucking liability.”

You plant your feet. “So am I, according to you.”

Butcher scoffs, “don’t tempt me.”

Your brows knit, pulse ticking harder. “You told me this was about saving lives. But apparently only the ones you pick and choose.”

He’s right in front of you now. Close enough to feel the fury radiating off him like heat from a furnace. “You don’t get to play martyr, love,” he bites out. “You broke formation. You—”

“Spare me the speech, Butcher,” you snap. “You don’t get to talk about danger when your whole existence is a death wish with a bad accent.”

That does it.

He grabs your arm—firm,—but it’s enough to whip you around and press you back into the nearest wall. Your breath hitches, but you don’t back down. You glare at him like you could tear him apart with your stare alone. “You finished?” he growls.

You shove at him, but he doesn’t move. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

“Say ‘please,’” he sneers. The tension warps. “I should’ve left your arse there,” he says. “Would’ve saved me the headache.”

“And I should’ve let you get shot six missions ago,” you shoot back. “But I didn’t. Because I’m not like you.”

His gaze drops to your mouth. Just for a second. Long enough. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Then stop looking at me like you want to bend me over every surface in this safehouse.” He lunges before either of you can blink. Mouths crash. Teeth click. Hands claw. It’s violent, messy, soaked in leftover adrenaline and too much unspoken heat. He fists your shirt. You grip his collar. He kisses like he fights—feral and relentless—and you give just as good as you get.