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It starts as an accident. That’s the thing you’ll tell yourself later—over and over again—like it somehow makes this whole situation less humiliating. Because the truth? You really didn’t mean to walk in.
You barely even knocked. Just a quick rap against the doorframe before pushing it open, already halfway into your sentence—
“Hey, have you seen—”
And then you stop. Completely. Butcher. In his room. Standing with his back half-turned toward you, digging through a duffel bag like a man on a mission. Shirtless. Your brain goes blank. Not slow. Not buffering. Just gone. Short circuits. Broad shoulders. Scars scattered like stories you don’t get to hear. Muscles shifting under skin like he doesn’t even realize what he looks like. Or worse like he does.
“Door’s not just for decoration, love.” His voice snaps you back so fast it almost hurts.
You jerk, eyes darting anywhere but him. “I knocked!”
“Didn’t wait.” He turns then. Slowly. And that oh my FUCK, that’s worse. Because now it’s not just seeing him, it’s him seeing you seeing him.
That crooked smirk spreads like he’s been handed a gift. “…bit early in the day to be starin’, ain’t it?”
Heat floods your face. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Course you weren’t,” he hums, completely unconvinced. He doesn’t move to grab a shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to. Instead, he leans casually against the table, arms folding like he’s settling in for a show. “Go on then,” he adds. “What d’you need?”
You forget. Actually forget. “…what?”
“What. Do. You. Need?” he repeats, slower this time, eyes sharp with amusement.
Right. Right. Focus. “I—uh—I was looking for—” you gesture vaguely, brain scrambling, “—a file. Frenchie said you had it.”
“Mm.” He pushes off the table, walking past you. Too close. Way too close.
You can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and something darker, something that sticks. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.
“Next time,” he says quietly as he passes, voice brushing your ear, “might wanna keep your eyes up here.”
You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you do, you’re not sure you’ll look away.
You tell yourself it won’t happen again. You’re smarter than that. More careful. Which is why the second time you see him half naked is somehow worse.
You knock. You wait. You even call out, “Butcher?”
“Yeah, come in.”
Clear invitation. Safe. You open the door. And immediately regret every life choice that led you here. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed this time. Still shirtless. Hair damp like he just got out of the shower, a towel draped lazily around his neck. Water still clings to his skin, trailing down in slow lines that your eyes absolutely should not be following— But they are. Oh, for fuck's sake, they are.
“…you do this on purpose?”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
He looks up. Grins. “Do what?”
You gesture at him, vaguely furious. “This!”
He glances down at himself like he’s just now noticing. “Oh,” he says, deadpan. “Forgot my shirt.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Swear on it.”
You give him a look.
He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him, completely relaxed under your scrutiny. “Funny though,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face, “you keep showin’ up for it.”
Your stomach flips. “That’s not— I knock!”
“And I answer.”
“That’s not the same as—” you stop, exasperated. “You could put a shirt on!”
He tilts his head, considering. “Could,” he agrees. Doesn’t move. Silence stretches.
Your heartbeat gets louder. And louder.
Then—
“You done lookin’?”
Your eyes snap up to his.
He’s watching you. Really watching you now. Not just teasing. Not just joking. Something sharper underneath.
You swallow. “I wasn’t—”
“Right,” he cuts in softly. “Still not starin’.”
There’s a beat. Then he reaches for a shirt beside him. Pulls it on. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact. “…happy now?” he asks.
You should be. You’re not.
After that, you start avoiding him. At least—you try to. Butcher makes that difficult. He’s always around. Always close. Always watching just a little too close, like he’s waiting for something. For you.
There’s the third time. You don’t knock. You should. You know you should. But you don’t. You push the door open cautiously, peeking in. “…Butcher?”
Silence. You step inside. Empty. Relief washes over you so fast it almost makes you laugh.
“Right,” you mutter to yourself. “Finally—”
“Miss me, did ya?”
You jump. Actually jump, spinning around— And there he is. Behind the door. Shirtless. Again.Of course. Your hand flies to your chest. “Are you serious?!”
He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Bit jumpy today.”
“You were hiding!”
“Wasn’t hidin’,” he shrugs. “Just standin’.”
“Behind the door.”
“Details.”
You stare at him. He stares back. And something shifts. Because this time— You don’t look away. Not immediately. Not at all, really. Your eyes flicker over him but you don’t flinch. Don’t scramble. Don’t pretend. You just… stand there.
And he notices. Of course he notices.
That smirk falters. Just a fraction. “…well,” he says slowly, “that’s new.”
Your arms cross over your chest, more for something to do than anything else. “What?”
“No running off,” he says, studying you now. “No excuses.”
You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere dangerously close to bold. “Maybe I got used to it.”
His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Interested. “Yeah?” he murmurs.
You nod. Big mistake. Because he steps closer. Slow. Measured. Like he’s testing something. And you don’t move. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But you don't move. You stand there.
“Used to it,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Or just enjoy it?”
Your breath catches. You should joke. Deflect. Do literally anything other than what you do next. “…maybe I do.”
Silence. Heavy. Charged.
His gaze sharpens, something darker flickering underneath the usual cocky amusement. “Careful,” he says quietly. “That sounds a lot like an invitation.”
Your pulse stutters. “Maybe it is.”
The words hang between you.
You don’t even recognize yourself right now. But you don’t take them back.
For a second— A long second— He just looks at you.
Then he huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. And suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough that the air feels thinner. “Been wonderin’ how long it’d take,” he says.
“For what?”
“For you to stop pretendin’.”
Your stomach flips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Always am.”
“Cocky.”
“Gets results.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when you can feel the heat of him again, stronger this time, intentional.
“Still think you’re not impressed?” he asks, quieter now.
Your throat feels dry. “…didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t deny it either.”
His hand lifts—Just slightly. Like he’s going to touch you. But he doesn’t. Lets it fall. And somehow that’s worse. “Next time,” he says instead, stepping back just enough to break the tension—just enough to make you notice the absence, “try not to take so long to admit it.”
Your breath comes back all at once. “…next time?”
That smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous. “Oh, there’ll be a next time,” he says easily, reaching for a shirt and finally—finally—pulling it on. But his eyes never leave yours. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite audience.”
And then— Just like that— He walks past you. Leaving you standing there, heart racing, thoughts a mess, one very clear realization settling in: You’re definitely going to walk in on him again. And next time? It won’t be an accident.
You last exactly two days. Two. That’s how long you manage to avoid him after… whatever that was. You throw yourself into anything else—helping Frenchie, reorganizing supplies, even willingly sitting through one of Hughie’s rambling explanations just to stay occupied.
Anything to not think about the way Butcher looked at you. The way he stepped closer. The way you didn’t move. Didn’t want to. It’s embarrassing, honestly. You’re better than this. Smarter. More in control. So yeah—two days.
Then you’re standing outside his door again. You don’t even remember walking there. Just suddenly… there. Staring at the wood like it personally offended you. “This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath. You should leave. Turn around. Make literally any good decision.
Instead you knock. Once. Soft. There’s a beat of silence. “Door’s open.” Of course it is. Your hand hesitates on the handle for half a second. Then you push it open. And step inside.
He’s not shirtless. That’s the first thing you notice. And weirdly? That’s disappointing. He’s leaning back in the chair, boots kicked up on the table, shirt on (tragic), sleeves rolled, watching you like he knew you’d show up. Which he probably did. “Thought you were avoidin’ me,” he says casually.
You shut the door behind you. “I wasn’t—”
“Mm.” That sound again. That I don’t believe you for a second sound.
You cross your arms. “I’ve been busy.”
“Sure you have.”
God, he’s annoying.
You take a step further into the room. “You always this full of yourself?”
“Only when I’m right.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Miss me?”
Your stomach flips. You hate that it does. “No.” Too quick. Too sharp.
His smirk widens. “Liar.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“Door.”
You blink. “What?”
“Lock it.”
Your brain stutters. “…why?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I said so.”
That should annoy you. It does annoy you. But something else curls underneath it—something warmer, heavier, pulling at your instincts in a way you don’t fully understand. “You don’t get to just—”
“Either lock it,” he cuts in, voice dropping slightly, “or leave.”
Silence. A challenge.
Your pulse kicks up. You turn. Slowly. Reach back. And lock the door. The click echoes louder than it should.
When you turn back,. He’s already standing. Closer than before. Not too close. But closer. And watching you like he’s finally got what he wanted. “Good girl,” he says quietly.
Your heart is racing now. “Happy?” you ask, trying to sound unimpressed.
“Getting there.”
He takes a step toward you. You hold your ground. Barely. “Y’know,” he continues, circling slightly—not touching, just there, “most people knock, get what they need, and leave.”
“I do that.”
“You wander in, stare at me like I’m somethin’ on display, then pretend you don’t like what you see.”
Your breath catches. “I don’t—”
“Don’t lie.” Soft. Firm.
Your back hits the table before you even realize you’ve been stepping back. He notices. Of course he does.
A flicker of something satisfied crosses his face. “Been real patient with you,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought I’d let you come to it on your own.”
You swallow. “Come to what?”
His eyes drop—briefly—to your lips. Then back up. “To this.” And then he’s there. Close enough that there’s no space left to pretend. Your breath stutters. “Still gonna tell me you’re not impressed?” he murmurs.
Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “…no.”
“Yeah,” he hums. “Didn’t think so.”
His hand comes up again. This time it doens't stop. His fingers brush your jaw, light at first, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You don’t. You can’t. That small touch sends something electric down your spine. “Been watchin’ you,” he admits, almost lazily. “Every time you walk in. Every time you try not to look.”
Your grip tightens on the edge of the table. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“Not really.” Honest. Of course it is.
His thumb shifts slightly against your skin, tilting your chin just enough. “Supposed to make you stop pretendin’ you don’t want this.”
Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. “And if I don’t?” you whisper.
A beat.
“Then I let you walk out that door,” he says. No hesitation. No bluff. “But,” he adds, leaning in just enough that you can feel his breath now, “you won’t.”
Your breath hitches. “…you’re very sure.”
“Always am.” There’s that cocky edge again.
But underneath it, Something steady. Certain. Waiting. And God help you— He’s right. Because you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Don’t make a joke. Don’t break the moment. You just look at him.
And that’s all he needs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he closes the distance.
The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not rushed either. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything he does. His hand shifts from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm enough to keep you there, not enough to trap you.
Giving you the choice.
You make it. Your hands find his shirt—gripping, pulling him closer—and that’s when something in him snaps. The control cracks. Just a little. The kiss deepens, rougher now, more intent, like he’s done waiting, done pretending this isn’t exactly what he’s wanted.
What you’ve both wanted.
Your back presses harder against the table as he crowds closer, heat everywhere, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
“See?” he mutters against your mouth, breath uneven now. “Knew you’d come around.”
You should argue. You don’t. Because right now? He’s right. And you hate that you like it.
When you finally pull back, your breathing is a mess. So is his—just slightly. His forehead rests briefly against yours, a rare pause in all that sharp confidence. “…took you long enough,” he murmurs.
You let out a shaky breath. “You’re unbelievable.”
A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “But you keep comin’ back.”
Your heart stutters again. And this time? You don’t deny it.