The box is small. Too small to be anything good, if you ask Billy.

He’s leaning against the hood of the Camaro, arms crossed, late afternoon sun catching in his hair like fire. His eyes flick from the box to your face, then back again, suspicious squint settling in like armor.

“You tryin’ to kill me, pretty girl?” he asks, mouth twitching like he almost hopes you are.

You roll your eyes, stepping closer and nudging the box into his chest. “Nooo. Just open it.”

He exhales through his nose, dramatic about it, but his hands come up anyway. Big hands. Careful hands, even if he pretends he doesn’t know how to be gentle. He turns the box over once, then twice, like it might explode if he does it wrong.

“You swear this ain’t some kinda prank?” “I swear,” you say, softer now. “Billy.”

That does it. He pops the lid.

Inside, nestled in the cheap velvet lining, is a chain—simple, sturdy, silver catching the light. His expression shifts instantly, all the sharp edges melting into something quieter. Confused. Almost vulnerable.

He swallows.

“I—” You hesitate, suddenly nervous under his stare. “Yours for your Saint Christopher necklace broke and… I know you care about it. I just wanted to—”

You don’t get to finish.

Billy steps forward and cups your face like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His forehead presses to yours for half a second, breath warm and shaky, then he kisses your forehead. Gentle. Reverent. Like a thank you he doesn’t have words for.

Then your cheek. The other cheek. The bridge of your nose, his thumb brushing your skin like he’s memorizing you.

Finally, your lips.

It’s not rough. Not desperate. It’s slow, grounding, full of something he doesn’t usually let anyone see. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed for a beat longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Two words. Heavy ones.

He looks back down at the chain, turning it between his fingers, jaw tight like he’s fighting something in his chest. Billy isn’t used to people noticing things like that. Isn’t used to someone paying attention without wanting something back. Isn’t used to being cared for without conditions.

“You didn’t have to,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it.

“I wanted to,” you reply.

“Means more than you know,” he admits, barely audible.

Then he smirks, because of course he does. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me now.”

You smile.

Billy Hargrove doesn’t say I love you. But the way he slips the chain back into the box, careful like it’s precious, says everything.