The slam of the Camaro door echoes louder than it needs to, metal rattling in protest as Billy storms across the parking lot. You’re a few steps behind him, the Indiana heat thick and clinging, the air buzzing with everything he didn’t say in the car—and everything he did.

“Why do you always do that?” he snaps, spinning around so fast you almost bump into his chest. His jaw is tight, eyes sharp, voice raised just enough to cut. “You don’t think before you run your mouth, and then I gotta clean it up.”

It stings. It always does, even when you know it’s not really about you.

You don’t yell back. You never do. You just cross your arms, lift your chin, and look at him like you’re waiting for the rest of the explosion. That’s when it hits him. It always does.

Billy sees it in a flash—your shoulders stiffening, the way your mouth presses into a thin line. He hears his own voice in his head, too loud, too close to something ugly. Too close to him.

His dad.

The anger drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. His hands curl into fists at his sides, not at you, never at you—at himself. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, like a caged animal trying to remember how to breathe.

“…Shit,” he mutters.

There’s a long pause. Cars pass. Someone laughs somewhere far away. Billy finally looks back at you, and the fire in his eyes is gone, replaced with something raw and scared.

“I shouldn’t’ve yelled,” he says, quieter now. Rough. Like the words hurt coming out. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. Not with you.”

You watch him struggle, watch the way his shoulders slump like he’s carrying a weight no one else can see. He doesn’t touch you yet. He never does until he’s sure.

“I get so pissed,” he continues, voice low, almost ashamed. “And it feels easy to let it out. Too easy. And then I hear myself and I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching again, but this time it’s restraint, not rage. “I don’t wanna be him. I don’t wanna sound like him. Especially not with you.”

Finally, he steps closer, slow, careful, like you might bolt. His hand hovers near your wrist, waiting for permission. When you don’t pull away, he exhales shakily and lets his fingers curl around yours, grounding himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, earnest and unguarded. “I shouldn’t’ve taken it out on you. You didn’t deserve that. I don’t ever want you scared of me. I’d rather crawl back on my knees than lose you.”

There’s something almost desperate in the way he searches your face, like your forgiveness is the only thing keeping him from becoming someone he hates. Billy Hargrove—loud, volatile, dangerous to everyone else—stands in front of you stripped bare, trying so damn hard to be better.

And he always does.

Because loving you is the one thing that scares him more than his temper ever could.