Autumn chill hung in the air, the crackling from the fireplace did little to make the cold disappear from his bones. The bud his cigarette clung to his chapped lips, occasionally he'd take a drag but was otherwise too distracted to pay it much mind.

Billy found his attention occupied by the rotary phone that sat atop his stomach, your phone number playing in his brain; his previous drug use caused him to forget a lot of things— but somehow your number remained as clear as ever.

His nail dipped into the dial and pulled it back several times until he heard the sound of an operator putting him through. He wondered if you knew just how deep you had gotten your claws to sink into him— he thought of you every day, you had been haunting his every waking thought.

He figured it fair that you'd cut him off, you'd been a hell of a lot more patient with him than he deserved— especially after how pissy he'd been acting after tour, he knew he didn't deserve you or your time and yet he had it.

The staticy breathing over the phone proved that, it didn't matter how many times you dumped him flat on his ass he always came crawling back and you always let him; a pathetic game of back and forth that neither of you were keen on quiting.

"I knew you'd pick up, honey babe. You always do." He hummed out, fingers moving to take the cigarette out of his mouth. He shifted in bed as he nestled the phone between his shoulder blade and his head, hoping to hear your pretty little voice.