The argument had burned itself out two nights ago, leaving behind that awful, heavy silence that felt worse than the yelling ever did. The kind where every shared room felt too small and every glance felt like a challenge. It had been over something stupid—so stupid you couldn’t even remember who’d started it anymore. Pride, probably. His temper. Your refusal to back down. A perfect storm.

You’re standing in the living room now, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it personally wronged you. Billy lingers behind you, restless. You can feel his frustration radiating off him, the way it always does when he doesn’t know how to fix something but knows he’s the one who broke it.

“Hey,” he says, quieter than usual. No bite. No sarcasm.

You don’t turn around.

There’s a shuffle of movement. Then another. Before you can ask what he’s doing, Billy exhales—long and slow—and suddenly he’s there. Not towering. Not crowding your space. He drops down, right there on the carpet, the soft thud of his knees hitting the floor making your breath hitch.

“Billy—” you start, startled.

He slides closer, careful, like you’re something fragile instead of the one who’s been holding your ground for days. His hands rest lightly at your sides, not gripping, not demanding. Then his chin settles against your stomach, warm through your shirt, and he looks up at you with that ridiculous, disarming expression—the one he never lets anyone see.

Those blue eyes are wide and earnest, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The usual cocky grin is gone, replaced with something almost… shy.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Just that. No excuses. No justifications. His voice cracks around the edges, like it costs him something to say it. “I hate fighting with you. I hate it when you look at me like I’m the bad guy.”

Your heart stutters. Billy Hargrove doesn’t kneel. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t soften. Not for anyone. Except—apparently—for you.

His thumb brushes an absent-minded circle against your hip, grounding, reassuring. “I know I screwed up,” he continues, quieter now. “I didn’t listen. I didn’t think. I just… ran my mouth like I always do.” He swallows. “But you’re my angel. And I’ll get on my knees a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make this right.”

He leans in just a fraction more, forehead pressing gently against you, like he’s bracing himself for rejection but hoping—really hoping—you won’t push him away.

“Please,” Billy murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “Talk to me.”