Billy Hargrove wasn’t trying to be anyone’s idea of careful.

He stood outside the party like he owned the night, shoulder against brick, cigarette lit, one boot braced behind him. The music bled through the walls in a dull, constant thud, but out here it softened, filtered through cold air and smoke. He looked calmer away from people. Not gentler. Just contained. Like a storm pacing itself.

He noticed you before you reached him. He always did. His eyes lifted first, sharp and instinctive, jaw tightening a fraction like your presence flipped a switch he never bothered hiding. You stepped into his space without asking and took the cigarette from his mouth, the move familiar, intimate, almost careless. It lasted half a second.

His hand snapped up and closed around your wrist midair. Firm. Precise. No hesitation. He stopped you before the filter touched your lips. “No,” he said, low and flat, like the word didn’t need company. He took the cigarette back himself, two fingers reclaiming it, his grip staying on you a beat longer than necessary. Thumb pressed once against your pulse. A warning. A claim.

“You’re not smoking,” he added, voice quieter now, edged with irritation rather than anger. He turned slightly, shoulders angling between you and the open door behind you, like the party didn’t deserve a clear view. He took a drag, eyes still on you. “I don’t care if I do.”

The cigarette burned down faster than usual. He crushed it out early against the brick, grinding until the ember died, jaw tight like the act cost him something.