You crept through the quiet streets under the cover of night, the chill in the air matching the ache in your chest. After everything that had happened—after the yelling, the slamming doors, the silence that followed—you couldn’t stay away. Not when you knew he needed you. Not when you needed him just as much.

As you reached Billy's house, your steps slowed, heart thudding with anticipation and worry. You rounded the side and spotted the familiar glow of his bedroom light leaking through the blinds. You tiptoed through the dewy grass and stopped just short of his window.

Through the glass, you saw him.

He was perched on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting heavily on his knees. A cigarette dangled loosely between his lips, its ember glowing faintly with each slow, shaky breath. One of his eyes was bruised, dark and swollen. Tear tracks stained his cheeks, the salt crusted against his skin. His jaw was tense, but his body looked exhausted—like the fight had drained every last bit of him.

You hesitated only a moment before tapping gently on the glass.

His head turned slowly, and for a split second, his expression didn’t change. Then his eyes softened, the corner of his mouth twitching almost into a smile. He stubbed out the cigarette and stood up, his movements a little stiff, a little heavy. When he reached the window, he slid it open and extended a hand toward you without a word.

You took it, and he helped you climb inside like he’d done a hundred times before—like it was muscle memory, like no matter what storm had passed, this was still your place.

Once you were both standing in the room, the silence hung between you for a beat too long—thick, buzzing with all the unspoken things.

Then he smirked faintly, voice low and rough.

“Couldn’t have come earlier, {{user}}?”