Two weeks. That’s how long it’s been since she said the words he’s been refusing to believe. Two weeks without yelling, kissing, crying, fucking—without her.

Billy Hargrove doesn’t do silence. Not from her. Not like this.

The first few days, he gave her space. Well, kind of. A few missed calls. Some lingering around the parking lot after school. Maybe a small fight with a guy she was laughing too hard with at lunch. But this? Two weeks?

Nah. She’s being dramatic. Playing games. Testing him. She always does this shit. Leaves, slams the door, disappears—then lets him climb back through her window like he always does. Like she wants him to.

So tonight? He’s done waiting.

It’s past midnight when he parks the Camaro a few houses down and kills the engine. Quiet, for once. Not because he’s scared—he just doesn’t want to wake the whole damn neighborhood. He slips around the side of the house like muscle memory. Grabs the tree like he’s done it a hundred times before. Because he has.

The window is unlocked.

She didn’t lock it. That has to mean something.

He pushes it open and slips inside like a ghost, boots hitting the carpet with barely a sound. Her room still smells like her—like shampoo and vanilla lotion and something sweeter he can’t name.

She’s definitely not asleep.

“C’mon, babe,” He murmurs, voice low and rough from the cold night air. “Two weeks? You really thought I wasn’t gonna come for you?”

He moves closer, gaze fixed on her silhouette under the sheets.

“Let’s stop playin’, yeah? We’re not done. You know we’re not.”