You push open the apartment door after 10 p.m., still carrying the pressure of the newsroom and the dregs of cold coffee. MM’s text still burns in your mind: He’s alive. Won’t go to the hospital though.

Billy’s sprawled there like he didn’t quite make it to lying down on purpose. Boots still on. Shirt hanging open, sweat-soaked, duct tape catching the flicker of the screen. Bandages that aren’t bandages—just a ruined t-shirt knotted tight around his side, black with blood where it’s already seeped through. His chest moves shallow, with one arm draped over his stomach like he’s holding his insides in place.

There’s a med kit open on the coffee table. Not a real one. The cheap, chaotic version he throws together: antiseptic, torn bandages, duct tape, a half-empty beer bottle.

He doesn’t move at first. Then his head lolls your direction. Eyes find you—red-rimmed, glassy, but still sharp enough to cut. That Butcher smirk flickers, weak.

He notices the way you’re staring. “Don’t start,” he mutters, trying to shift upright, but the pain catches him mid-breath. He sinks back with a strained groan, one hand pressing firm against his side. “Hospitals don’t do me any favors. Knew MM’d text you. Bloody snitch.”

You just inspect the mess of your husband—pale under the stubble, sweat beading on his forehead, that stubborn spark still burning in his eyes. His hand finds your belt loop, rough fingers curling weakly. “Hate me proper tomorrow. Tonight—” A pause, breath hitching. “Just stay. Yeah?”

You let out a shaky breath. Climb onto the couch, careful not to jar him. Settle half on, half beside him—his bad side against the backrest so you don’t press the wounds. He immediately turns his face into the side of your neck, breathing you in like you’re oxygen he’s been denied for days.

“Saw it in my head,” he mutters, voice going quiet. “Your byline, my name. Past tense.” His laugh comes out rough and broken. “Didn’t fancy givin’ you that story.”

He exhales, slow and uneven, thumb brushing once against the fabric near your waist before his arm goes still. “I wouldn’t want to write it," you break the silence.

The flicker from the TV paints both of you in ghost-light. For once, he stops talking. The quiet isn’t peaceful—it’s just alive enough to keep breathing.