The phone buzzes against your thigh at half-past one.

You were in your flat, the window open to the damp, petrol-scented Brooklyn evening, tracing the progress of a sirening ambulance with a half-conscious dread. Your phone on the couch cushion lit up with an unknown number. A Brooklyn area code.

You answer anyway—habit, worry.

“Yeah, love? This the bird what’s always ringing Billy Butcher?” A man’s voice, gruff New York edge softened by exhaustion. “Bartender at Sunken Harbor Club. Your bloke’s three sheets to the wind and tryin’ to start World War Three with half the punters. You comin’ to fetch him, or do I call a cab and pray for him?”

Your stomach drops like a stone. “I’m on my way.”

Twenty minutes later you push through the scarred wooden door of the dive bar, rain dripping from your hood onto the sticky floor. The place smells of stale beer, fryer grease, and something metallic, (blood, probably). Neon Budweiser signs buzz overhead, casting sickly red over scarred tabletops and the cluster of regulars pretending not to stare.

Billy’s in the far corner, coat half-off one shoulder, shirt untucked and damp with spilled whiskey. His dark hair is a mess, falling over eyes that are glassy but still sharp enough to cut. He’s swaying on his feet, gesturing wildly at two burly lads who look more amused than threatened.

“Oi, you pair of absolute wankers,” he slurs, voice thick and deliciously rough, that East London growl turned syrupy. “Think you’re hard, do ya? I’ll have the both of ya—”

He swings a lazy haymaker that whistles through empty air, stumbles forward, and nearly face-plants into a stool. The bigger guy sidesteps easy as breathing; Billy spins, arms windmilling for balance, and knocks over a tower of empty pint glasses instead. They shatter in a bright cascade, foam and shards skittering across the floor like cheap fireworks.

The bar erupts in half-hearted cheers and groans. Someone yells, “Get him home, love, before he breaks his bloody neck!”

You cross the room fast, heart hammering against your ribs. Up close he’s worse; cheekbone already swelling, lower lip split and shining. But when his gaze lands on you, something in his face softens like butter left too long on the counter.

“There she is,” he breathes, voice dropping to something tender. “My gorgeous fuckin’ girl.”

He lurches toward you, arms opening wide, and you catch him before he topples. He’s heavy but he melts against you immediately, face burying in the damp curve of your neck. Warm whiskey breath fans your skin; his stubble scrapes deliciously.

“Missed ya, love,” he mumbles into your hair, lips brushing your ear. One big hand slides down your back, settling possessively at the base of your spine, fingers splayed wide like he’s claiming territory. “Was just havin’ a laugh, swear down. Then these pricks started mouthin’ off and I thought—nobody gets to talk about my bird like that, yeah?”

Your cheeks burn. The entire bar is watching now, smirking, because everyone’s known for months—everyone except the two of you, apparently.

“Billy,” you murmur, trying for stern and landing somewhere near fond. “Let’s get you home.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and unfocused but fierce with drunken sincerity. “You’re so bloody beautiful, y’know that?” His thumb traces your jaw, clumsy but gentle. “Proper fit. Makes me wanna—” He stops, swallows hard, then leans in again, forehead to yours. “Makes me wanna keep ya safe from all the cunts in the world. ‘Specially me.”

The confession hangs between you, raw and unguarded and smelling of Jameson. Your pulse trips over itself.