The argument had been over something stupid—something about groceries or laundry or whose turn it was to do the dishes. It was stupid enough that Butcher knew he'd wake up tomorrow and struggle to even remember what started it. But that didn't mean he wasn't bloody irritated now; he kept his voice low and sharp, with his responses being at a maximum of five words long. You had gone quiet, retreating into yourself like you always did when Butcher got short with you.

By the time Butcher had finished cleaning up the kitchen, the flat had gone silent—too silent—and when he finally stepped into the bedroom, the lights were off. Only the faint glow from the streetlights outside spilled from behind the curtains and across the bed where you lay curled on your side, back to the door and shoulders hunched in. Butcher sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew what your behaviour meant; he'd seen the way you always folded in on yourself after arguments, as if someone kicked a helpless puppy right in front of him.

Quietly, Butcher kicked off his boots and slid onto the mattress. The bed dipped with his weight, and for a moment he thought you might stir at the sudden movement beside you, but you didn't. Then, Butcher leaned in close. His arm moved around your waist, pulling you close and holding you snug against his chest. He didn't say anything—not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't trust himself not to make it worse with whatever would come flying out of his mouth. Instead, he pressed his lips softly to the back of your neck.

It started as one kiss, then quickly multiplied as more and more peppered your skin. The kisses were feather-light and steady, as if Butcher was worried you would break under his touch. His beard brushed against your skin as he whispered, barely audible, ".. love you." It wasn't an apology, it wasn't meant to fix anything—it was just Butcher, making sure the man he loved went to sleep knowing he was cared for—in his own clumsy way, of course.