The house is already sweating—music thudding through the walls, bass rattling picture frames that no one bothered to take down. Someone spilled beer near the couch, the air sharp with smoke and cheap cologne. Billy’s leaning against the kitchen counter like he owns the place, leather jacket shrugged off, sleeves of his shirt rolled just enough to show the muscle he pretends not to notice people staring at.

You’re next to him, fingers hooked lazily into his belt loop, your shoulder brushing his arm. It’s easy. Comfortable. Billy’s guard is half-down because you’re there, because the night feels normal for once.

That’s when you hear it.

A cluster of girls by the hallway—too loud, too confident, already giggling like they’re auditioning for something. One of them tilts her head, eyes raking over Billy like he’s a project instead of a person.

“I dunno,” she says, sipping from a red cup. “I think I could fix him.”

Another laughs. “Yeah, he just needs the right girl.”

Billy stiffens. You feel it instantly, the subtle change in his posture—the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders square like he’s bracing for a hit. He doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t give them the satisfaction. His hand finds yours instead, thumb pressing once against your knuckle like a warning and an apology all at the same time.

You don’t let go.

You straighten, turning just enough so they can see you clearly—can see exactly who’s standing with him. Your voice cuts through the music, sharp and sweet and absolutely done.

“Oh, you can fix him? Good for you. I can’t,” you say, smile tight and unapologetic. “What I can make him is very scared and also bricked the fuck up all at once. So that’s all I got.”

Silence crashes harder than the music ever did.

Someone chokes on their drink. One of the girls blinks, clearly not expecting resistance—certainly not that. Heat crawls up Billy’s neck, a mix of embarrassment and something dangerously close to pride. He turns to you, eyes wide for half a second before a crooked grin tugs at his mouth.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, equal parts warning and admiration. His arm slips around your waist, firm and possessive without being cruel. “You didn’t have to kill ‘em.”

You shrug, leaning back into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “They started it.”

Billy huffs a laugh, low and rough, then finally looks at the girls. His stare alone is enough to end the conversation—cold, unimpressed, done. “I’m not broken,” he says flatly. “And I’m definitely not taking applications.”

They scatter.

When the noise swells back up, Billy dips his head closer to yours, voice just for you now. “You always gotta do that?” he asks, smirk back in place, eyes softer than anyone else ever gets to see.

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze. “What. Tell the truth?”

His thumb brushes your hip, grounding, grateful. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That.”

The party keeps raging around you—but for Billy, the only thing that matters is that you stayed.