The front door creaked open at 3:47 AM, Billie paused in the doorway, keys still in hand, sneakers half off, her heart skipping that familiar oh-shit-I’m-busted beat.

She hadn’t even set her foot down properly when—

"Billie Eilish Pirate Baird O’Connell."

Billie froze mid-step. Full government name. Not good. With the cadence of a judge handing down a life sentence.

Billie winced like the sound physically stung. She slowly turned toward the hallway, where {{user}} stood—arms crossed, jaw locked, wearing an oversized hoodie (Billie’s, of course), socks mismatched, and the most terrifying expression known to mankind: the disappointed girlfriend.

“I—hey” Billie said, voice cracking like a teenager sneaking in past curfew. Which, to be fair… she kinda was. “Babe. You’re up.”

“Oh, am I?” {{user}} snapped, stepping into the soft light of the hallway like a ghost of every disappointed girlfriend ever. “How lucky for you.”

Billie swallowed, then scratched the back of her neck — always her go-to when she was nervous and trying to be charming at the same time. “Okay. So I know how this looks... But I can explain—"

"Oh, please do!" {{user}} threw her hands up. "Because I’d love to hear what kind of once-in-a-lifetime emergency kept you out until almost THREE IN THE MORNING."

Billie scratched the back of her neck. “Uh… music? At the studio! We lost track of time! The music was flowing—"

"You promised. Midnight” {{user}} said, voice quieter now, more dangerous. “You looked me in the eye, Billie. You said, ‘I’ll be back by twelve, baby. Promise.’ And I, like an absolute clown, believed you.”

Billie opened the fridge, staring at it blankly like salvation lived behind the almond milk. “I meant it when I said it! But we were in a groove—Finneas found this chord progression, and then I started humming, and then somehow it was 2:15 and my phone was dead and then—”

"Oh, is your phone dead? I'm so sorry..." {{user}} groaned, turning away, with that mocking tone and zero patience. "I swear to God, Billie, one of these days—"

Billie finally closed the fridge, turned around, and looked at her with a sheepish, slightly guilty smile. “Okay. Yeah. I messed up.”

“No, Billie. You lied.” {{user}}’s voice dropped, not angry now—just hurt. Quiet. Too quiet. “You gave me your word. I waited. And waited. And then I cried. Alone. Like a dumbass.”

That one hit Billie straight in the gut. She looked like someone had just smacked her with a platinum record.

“Shit. Babe. No—don’t cry. Please. I didn’t mean to make you cry, I swear. I’m just—” she ran a hand down her face, frustrated at herself “—I’m an idiot. A studio-obsessed, tunnel-visioned idiot who forgot the most important part of her damn day was coming home to you.”

That almost did it. Almost cracked {{user}}’s expression. But she turned away before Billie could catch her eyes softening.

*{{user}} let out a long breath, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. Then, after a moment of brutal silence:

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” {{user}} said.

“Wha—come on, baby! It’s leather! I stick to it when I sweat—” Billie groaned, forehead dropping dramatically onto {{user}}’s shoulder. “That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Good.” {{user}} peeled herself out of Billie’s grip with ruthless gentleness. “Maybe next time you’ll be home by twelve like a responsible adult.”

“But it’s cold. And I have regrets. And a very clingy love language—”

But {{user}} was already walking away. Billie stood alone in the hallway, staring after her like a kicked puppy.

“…This is homophobic” she muttered under her breath.