The house is loud enough to rattle his skull.

Music pounds through the walls, bass crawling up Billy Hargrove’s spine while smoke curls low over the living room. Someone shoves a beer into his hand, someone else laughs too loud, and Billy lets it all blur—because blur is easier than thinking. Easier than wanting something he’s convinced he’ll ruin.

He’s leaning against the counter, cigarette burning down between his fingers, when he sees her.

Not laughing. Not dancing. Not leaning into the chaos like she usually does when she wants to forget something. She’s moving fast, shoulders hunched, pushing past bodies like the room’s on fire and she’s the only one who knows it. Her hair’s a mess, strands stuck to tear-wet cheeks. The shoulder of her shirt is torn, fabric stretched and frayed, skin showing where it shouldn’t be.

Billy’s stomach drops.

She doesn’t see him. She bolts for the hallway, hand over her mouth like she’s holding something back. And then—

A guy stumbles out after her.

He’s got blood smeared under his nose, red dark against his upper lip. One hand wipes at it, the other fumbles with the button of his jeans as he laughs—like this is funny. Like it’s nothing.

The room tilts.

Billy’s beer hits the floor and shatters, glass spraying across tile, but he’s already moving. Loud, violent, just like he’s always afraid of being. His chest burns, pulse roaring in his ears. He sees red, and for once, he doesn’t try to stop it.

“Hey,” Billy says, voice low and sharp as broken glass.

The guy looks up, still grinning, until he really sees Billy. The grin falters.

“What the hell did you do?” Billy demands.

The guy scoffs. “Relax, man. She’s fine. Just got a little—”

Billy doesn’t let him finish.

He grabs the front of the guy’s shirt and slams him back into the wall hard enough to rattle picture frames. The music seems to dim around them, like the house itself is holding its breath.

“You don’t talk about her,” Billy snarls. “You don’t touch her. You don’t even think about her.”

Blood drips from the guy’s nose onto Billy’s knuckles as he shoves him again, fury shaking through his bones. Friends start shouting. Someone grabs Billy’s arm, tries to pull him back.

“Billy! Billy, that’s enough!”

Enough. Right.

Billy lets go with a shove that sends the guy sprawling. He doesn’t watch him fall. He’s already turning, already scanning the hallway, heart hammering with one thought and one thought only.

Her.

He finds her outside, crouched near the back steps, arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s trying to disappear. The night air is cool, the party noise muffled behind the door. She looks up when she hears him, eyes wide and shining.

Billy freezes.

All the words he’s ever swallowed clog his throat. All the reasons he thinks he’s wrong for her—too loud, too angry, too broken—crash into him at once.

He takes a step closer anyway.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. Careful. Like she might shatter if he breathes too hard. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”