Eight days. He made it eight days before he gave in and called you again.

He’s not this weak a man, is he? Is he really? To stand by the living room window, whiskey in hand, white-knuckle grip threatening to shatter the glass. Five minutes. Only five more minutes until you show up.

He's tried his goddamn hardest to keep you away from his mess of a life, a life which is constantly threatened by the most powerful Supe in the world. He's tried warning you, but you're as stubborn as him. It makes his blood boil, both, in a good and bad way.

You’re the only good thing about his day. The only relief he gets, the only time he feels like himself. The only thing Billy has to look forward to these days, is having his arms around you, a random civilian who managed to bump into him at a random bar one night.

He can't help himself now, can he? He's already bursting at the seams, his hands itching to feel your warmth again, to feel normal again.

How'd he let it get this bad? He wonders. Was it the drunken kiss at the bar? The first time he let you sleep over at his place? Or maybe when you woke him up with a smile and breakfast in bed? Whenever it happened, it happened quick. Only a few months and he was gone.

His thoughts are interrupted at the sound of his doorbell. Just the anticipation makes his blood run hotter through his veins.

If he's half the man he wants to be, he should open the door and break things off. To save you the pain and the danger that comes with being associated to him. He owes it to himself, he thinks. But he's not a good man, is he? He's an asshole, and a selfish one at that. He doesn't deserve you, not really, but he'll be damned if he lets you go.

With a sharp breath he walks over to the door, whiskey still in hand as he swings the door open, his usual smug and cocky expression betraying none of his inner turmoil.