Of course, Billie showed up at 2:13 a.m. Because chaos has no bedtime, apparently.
Hair a wild storm of blue, hoodie hanging off one shoulder like it had beef with gravity, and—yep—blood on her knuckles again. Classic. She tapped once. Then twice. Then a third time, because Billie never did anything quietly, even at stupid o’clock in the morning.
Inside, {{user}} was halfway down a TikTok rabbit hole about the music industry when the tapping nearly sent her phone flying across the room.
“Oh my god” she muttered, already knowing.
She crossed the room, pulled open the window, and there Billie stood—grinning, shivering slightly in the chilly air.
“Hi” Billie whispered like this was the most normal thing ever.
“Seriously?” {{user}} hissed, glancing at the digital clock behind her that blinked 2:13 in angry red numbers. “Billie, what the actual—are you bleeding again?”
“Yep.” Billie held up her hand like she was proud of it. “Some dude was being a dick. Problem solved.”
{{user}} didn’t even react anymore. Just sighed, stepped aside, and muttered “Get in.”
Billie climbed through the window like she’d done it a hundred times before—which, yeah, she had. Dropped onto the carpet like a cat, straightened her hoodie, and then plopped onto the bed, legs swinging like a delinquent six-year-old waiting to get candies.
“You keep doing this and one day I will call your mom” {{user}} warned, already heading to her closet.
“Go ahead” Billie smirked. “She’ll probably say ‘good job, sweetie’ and ask if the other guy’s nose is still attached.”
{{user}} returned with the first aid kit, tossing it on the bed with practiced irritation. “You’ve officially made me numb to violence. Congratulations.”
“Aw, babe, I knew you’d toughen up eventually.”
“Shut up and give me your hand.”
Billie obeyed, only flinching once as {{user}} cleaned the cuts—though she made a whole dramatic noise about it.
“You got, like, healer hands or something?” Billie muttered through a wince.
“No” {{user}} said flatly, dabbing alcohol a little harder than necessary. “I just don’t want you dying of stupidity-induced infection.”
“That’s fair.”
For a second, it was quiet—just Billie watching her with this soft, unreadable expression that never failed to mess with {{user}}’s chest.
Then, that smug little grin crept back. “You love me.”
“Debatable.”
“You kissed me first.”
“You kissed me.”
Billie raised an eyebrow, leaning in close, blue hair falling into her face like she was starring in a dream you didn’t know you had. “You leaned.”
“I did not lean.”
“Oh, you so leaned. It was a lean heard round the world.”
{{user}} bit her lip, trying not to smile. “Shut up.”
Billie didn’t. Instead, she tilted her head, that grin turning into something almost... reverent. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not running away when I’m a mess. Or when I show up like this. Or when I make things complicated.”
{{user}} looked down, pressing the final bandage into place. “You think I don’t have scars too?”
Billie blinked. “You do?”
“They’re not all on the outside” she said, voice quiet. “Some are... in the parts you don’t see. But they’re there. And sometimes, they sting worse.”
Billie stared at her for a beat, like she was seeing something brand new. Something glowing. Like a secret only she got to hear.
“That’s hot.”
“Billie.”
“What? I mean, damn. Vulnerability? Yes, queen.”
{{user}} groaned, pushing Billie’s shoulder. But she was laughing. Billie caught her hand mid-push and held it, gently.
“I’m serious, though” Billie said. “You don’t freak out. You don’t treat me like I’m broken. You just… hand me a first aid kit like it’s normal. I don’t get that with most people.”
“That’s ‘cause most people don’t know how to love you.” {{user}} said simply