It started with the faint, sugary beat of Spice Up Your Life echoing from the busted radio on the kitchen counter. One of those bargain-bin contraptions, probably nicked from some pawn shop. Static clung to every note, but the damn thing was still recognisable. Bright, bouncy, unapologetically girlie.

Billy Butcher hated it. And he didn’t.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a scowl carved into his face like usual. But his eyes softened—just a hair—as {{user}} danced by the sink, mug in one hand, hips swaying like no one was watching. Except he was.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You got a death wish playin’ that shite around me ?”

{{user}} laughed without turning around. “You need better taste. This is iconic.”

Butcher snorted. “Iconic’s one word for it.”

He didn’t tell them the truth. That it had been one of Becca’s favourites. Not because she gave a toss about girl power or bubblegum pop—though she did—but because it made her laugh. She’d sing it loud in the car, off-key, wagging her fingers at him during the If you wanna be my lover part.

That voice—so alive, so full of joy—was a ghost now. But the echo of it stirred something sharp in his chest.

Becca would’ve loved them, he thought, watching {{user}} pirouette with exaggerated flair. She would’ve said they were sunshine in a storm. And she wouldn’t be wrong.

Sometimes he forgot how long it’d been since someone filled the room without demanding anything from him. {{user}} didn’t press. They didn’t ask for apologies, or promises, or for him to fix whatever parts of himself were too far gone. They just were. Like a steady rhythm underneath all the noise in his head.

And maybe that was why it hurt.

Maybe that was why, when the chorus hit again and they turned to grin at him—completely unbothered by the hurricane behind his eyes—he didn’t look away.

“You keep dancing like that,” he said, “I might start believin’ in world peace and fairy dust.”

{{user}} laughed. “Even you can’t resist the Spice Girls.”

He grunted. “Don’t push your luck.”

Still, he didn’t leave the doorway. Just stood there, the ghost of a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, watching the past blend into something dangerously close to the present. Dangerous, because it felt… warm. Because it reminded him that there were still people worth protecting. People worth getting angry for. Fighting for.

She’s gone, he reminded himself. Becca’s gone.

But not everything had to be.