billy’s house is quiet in the wrong way. not calm. not empty. tense, like the walls are listening.

you’re sitting on his bed, textbook closed this time, knees drawn up, when the yelling starts. it comes from downstairs, sudden and sharp, a voice you’ve never heard this close before. it’s loud enough to cut through the floorboards. not words at first, just sound. anger without shape. then names. then something sharper. something meant to land.

you freeze.

the door to the room vibrates faintly with each shout. you catch fragments you don’t want. tone matters more than meaning anyway. it’s not discipline. it’s not a lecture. it’s the kind of yelling that wants to make someone smaller.

there’s a crash. not breaking, just force. a chair moved too hard. a fist on a table. your chest tightens.

then footsteps. fast. heavy. coming up the stairs.

the door opens hard and billy steps in, closing it behind him too quickly. he doesn’t look at you right away. his shoulders are tight, posture rigid like he’s holding himself together by muscle alone. jaw clenched so hard you can see it jump.

he walks past you, straight to the window, drags a hand through his hair. breathes out once. controlled. practiced.

“don’t,” he says, before you’ve even spoken. not angry. defensive. like he knows what your face looks like right now and hates it.

he turns then, leaning back against the dresser. arms cross. eyes sharp. guarded. the version of him you know from school, from parties, from everywhere else. the one who doesn’t flinch.

but something’s off.

his hands are shaking. barely. enough that he keeps them tight against his ribs. his eyes don’t quite meet yours. they flick, then lock, then look away again. like eye contact is dangerous.

“you didn’t hear anything,” he says. flat. automatic.

another shout echoes faintly through the floor. his shoulders jump before he stops them. the mask slips for half a second. fear flashes across his face, quick and ugly and real.

he hates that you saw it.

he pushes off the dresser and crosses the room in two steps, stopping too close, like proximity can erase what just happened. “i’m fine,” he mutters. “he’s just… drunk.”

it’s a lie. you both know it. he knows you know.

his hand comes up and cups the back of your neck, firm, grounding, more for him than you. his thumb presses once, like checking you’re still there. like checking he is.

“don’t look at me like that,” he says quietly.

but he doesn’t pull away.