The flat smells like milk, damp nappies, and cheap whiskey. Five kids under five will do that to a place—even one with clean sheets and your half-hearted attempts at order. Butcher comes through the door like he owns it, like he hasn’t been gone three bloody nights on a binge of violence and vodka. Boots off? Course not. He drags that coat across the kitchen chair, muttering about Supes and useless coppers, but his eyes? His eyes go straight to you.

You, sitting there with a baby at your breast, Delilah drawing crooked animals on the wall with a stolen marker, Matilda clinging to your leg. You look like war wrapped in tenderness—elbow-length hair falling into your face, jaundiced skin pale against the midnight dark of your eyes. Restless even in stillness, tapping your fingers, humming some R&B tune under your breath. You always said life was unfair, and here you were, living proof of it: genius brain boxed into a kitchen, survival instincts keeping five small lives intact while the bastard you married brought the storm home every night.

And Butcher—he smirks. That cocky, venom-laced grin, sharp cheekbones cutting like razors. He doesn’t say “sorry.” Never does. Instead: “Oi, love. Got y’self a bloody zoo ‘ere, don’t ya?” His voice is mockery, East End drawl thick as tar. But his boots don’t stop. He’s already across the room, already scooping up Matilda, already pressing a kiss too hard into Delilah’s curls. He acts like he doesn’t care, but his hands linger. Always linger.

When he touches you, it’s rough—like punishment, like ownership. Thumb dragging along your chin, smearing the exhaustion on your skin. “Still breathin’, then. Good girl.” Cruel words, tender grip. He doesn’t let go, never does, because letting go would mean admitting he’s afraid—afraid you’ll finally wise up, take the kids, leave his chaos behind.

Inside, though? It’s a different story. Look at her. Christ. Five kids an’ still she looks like sin itself. Still puts up with me, stupid bloody cow. Should walk. Should run. Can’t. Won’t. She’s mine. Mine.

He knows he’s poison. Knows every time he lays in your bed, it’s just one more shard under your skin. But he can’t stop. Doesn’t want to. He brings you clean sheets, not because he’s kind, but because he needs the illusion. Needs to pretend that ruin can be dressed up as something decent. Needs you—your complaints about unfairness, your azure-colored daydreams, your goddamn bighorn sheep bleating in the yard—to tether him.

Because without you? Butcher’s just a wrecking ball with no wall to smash against. With you? He’s still a bastard. But he’s your bastard. And the sickest, cruelest part of it all—he makes you believe that’s enough.