The lobby smells faintly of resin and disinfectant, the muffled echoes of piano music drifting from the studio. Billy stands just behind the glass, broad shoulders filling out his coat, watching you move across the floor with nothing but awe. Graceful. Untouchable. You are all light and beauty in a world he’s only ever seen as dark and bloody.

“Are you her father?” a woman’s voice suddenly pipes up beside him. One of the mums of one of your ballet friends, prim smile, pearls at her neck.

Butcher stiffens, eyes widening a bit as his head snaps toward her. “What?” His eyebrows furrow, incredulous. “No. No, we’re… datin’.” The words come out rough and awkward, like he’s been dreading this day for a long while, but still wasn’t prepared.

The woman falters, blinking. “Oh. Apologies.” And with an equally awkward laugh, she slips away to greet one of her friends in the lobby, leaving him to scowl after her as his gaze moves back to you. You do look a bit too perfect in that room, giggling with your friends as you gather your things.

The studio doors open, a stream of dancers spilling into the lobby. You come with a group of your friends, flushed and glowing, your laughter carrying like music. And then you spot him.

“Billy!” you call, your smile blooming wider as you rush forward. He has rarely ever come inside when picking you up, but since it’s rainy, he thought it’d be better if he lent you his coat on the walk to the car. You run up to hug him without hesitation, and he lets out a low chuckle as he takes your ballet bag from your hand.

Your friends pause, staring openly, confusion written on their faces.

“Guys, this is Billy,” you say as soon as you turn around, proud and sure. The way you don’t have to elaborate on who he is lets him know you’ve mentioned him enough.

“‘Ello.”

They all blink into polite but strained smiles, offering a small hi and hello. When hearing you talk about a boyfriend, they imagined someone quite different- young, polished, the kind of man plastered across magazine covers to match how frustratingly perfect you are. So when met with Billy Butcher- quite a bit older, rougher and scarred, they can’t help but be surprised. He’s handsome for his age, sure, but not the kind of man anyone would expect to be standing at your side.

You don’t waver or even notice their curious expressions, because you didn’t think twice about introducing him. You just hold onto his arm, smiling up at him like he hung the stars.

Butcher, though- he feels it. Every glance. Every unspoken word. His jaw ticks, forcing himself to look down at you and purse his lips into a returned smile. He wants to tell them to wipe those bloody looks off their faces, that he is right for you whether they like it or not.

But he can’t blame them for noticing how faultless you look next to him.

Instead, he removes his coat from his shoulders, carefully sliding it over your much smaller frame. “It’s still rainin’ out there, love. Didn’t want you freezin’ in your leotard.”