The late afternoon sun slants through the open blinds of the living room, striping the walls in warm gold. The house smells faintly like motor oil and Billy’s cologne—something sharp and ocean-clean that always clings to him. Somewhere outside, a car passes, the distant hum blending with the low rock song playing from his cassette player.

Billy’s in the kitchen, shirt half-unbuttoned, leaning against the counter while he nurses a glass of water, muscles still tense from working on the Camaro. He looks annoyingly good like that—effortless, cocky, completely unaware of whatever little thought is sparking behind your eyes.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, trying not to smile too much.

“Hey baby,” you call out sweetly, drawing the words just a touch longer than usual. “Can you come here please?”

He glances over, one eyebrow lifting in that way that always means what are you up to? A slow smirk curves his mouth anyway as he sets the glass down and saunters toward you, bare feet quiet against the floor.

“For you?” he says, voice low and teasing. “Always.”

He stops right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, smell the salt on his skin. His hands automatically find your waist, thumbs hooking like they belong there—because they do. He tilts his head down, eyes searching your face.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head, huh?” he murmurs. “You look nervous.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you step closer and slide your hands up his chest, fingers brushing over his collarbone, feeling his breath hitch just slightly. That alone is worth it. Before he can say anything else, you rise up on your toes and press your lips to his.

It’s soft at first—deliberate. A test.

Billy freezes.

Not pulls away. Not stiff in a bad way. Just… still. Like someone hit pause on him. His hands tighten at your waist, fingers flexing like he’s not quite sure what to do with them, and then—slowly—he melts. His shoulders relax, his chest sinks into yours, and a quiet sound slips from him before he can stop it, almost a hum against your mouth.

When he finally kisses you back, it’s unguarded. No swagger. No teasing. Just Billy, warm and real and completely gone in it, lips moving against yours like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. He leans into you, forehead dropping to yours when you pull back, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.

For a second, he just breathes you in.

“…what was that?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your cheek, voice stripped of its edge.

You smile, heart fluttering because yeah—he definitely melted.