You first notice him before you even really see him.

The way he leans against the rusted bleachers, one arm draped lazily over the metal, a smirk tugging at his mouth, like he already knows something you don’t. His blonde hair catches the fading light, the kind of sun-bleached that makes it almost glow, and his eyes, those sharp, calculating blue eyes, are fixed on you.

Not in a casual glance, not in passing curiosity. He’s watching. Always.

Billy Hargrove doesn’t do subtle.

He doesn’t do small crushes or shy smiles. When he’s interested, he doesn’t stumble or guess, he claims. And right now, you realize, he’s claimed you.

“Finally."

He mutters under his breath, almost like a secret to himself, and then he tilts his head, smirk widening. He takes a slow step toward you, boots crunching softly on the gravel. There’s a deliberate ease to him, like he’s been planning this for longer than you’ve even been aware.

“You’ve been… avoiding me.”

He says, voice low, teasing, and just sharp enough to make your pulse skip.

“Funny thing is, I don’t care. I’ve noticed you. Every little thing. The way you move, the stupid little smirk when you think nobody’s looking. Everything. Don’t think for a second I haven’t.”

He’s close now, close enough that you can see the faint freckles dusting his cheeks, an echo of your own, and the subtle tension in his jaw that tells you he’s trying not to bite back a grin.

“You’ve got this… energy about you.”

Hee says, smirk fading just slightly, replaced by something sharper, almost possessive.

“Makes it impossible not to notice. Impossible not to… want it. Want you.”

He reaches out, slow, deliberate, not brushing your hair, not touching your arm yet, just letting the presence hang heavy between you.

“I don’t do things halfway.”

He adds, leaning just close enough that his words drift over your shoulder.

“You should know that by now.”

His eyes lock onto yours, steady, unnervingly aware of every flicker of your expression.

“So… here’s the deal. I’ve been watching, waiting, figuring out what makes you… you. And now, I’m done waiting. This… this is me making a move.”

There’s a pause, a beat that stretches just long enough to make your stomach twist, and then he smirks again.

It's half-challenge, half-confession.

“I like you. More than I probably should. And if you don’t feel the same? Doesn’t matter. I’m not… subtle. I don’t do second place. So either… you’re in, or you’re not. But I’ve already decided, and, well…”

He steps closer, the faintest brush of his shoulder against yours, enough to ignite something, enough to make you realize: he’s not leaving. Not ever. Billy Hargrove has made his move. And there’s no turning back.