The party is too loud, too hot, and already halfway to ugly when Billy notices you standing alone by the kitchen counter, fingers worrying the edge of a red plastic cup like you’re afraid it might bite back. Bodies press and laugh and shout around you, but there’s a hollow space where your boyfriend should be—again. Billy’s been clocking it all night: the way you keep glancing toward the hallway, the way your shoulders fold inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller, easier to ignore.

He sees him, too. Your boyfriend, already half-drunk, already leaning too close to someone else, talking with his hands like the world is a stage built just for him. Billy feels that familiar heat crawl up his spine, the itch under his skin that usually ends with broken knuckles and blood on his rings. Except—then he looks back at you.

You don’t look angry. You look tired. Like you’ve practiced forgiving so much it’s worn grooves into you.

“Hey,” Billy says, low and rough, appearing at your side. He doesn’t touch you at first. Just leans in close enough that you can hear him over the music. “C’mon. We need air.”

You bristle, already defensive. “I’m fine.”

He scoffs softly. “Yeah. You look it.”

Before you can protest again, he steers you down the hall and out the back door, the noise cutting off like a slammed trunk. The night air is cool, merciful. You spin on him the second you’re outside.

“What is your problem, Hargrove?”

Billy laughs, sharp and humorless. “You want the list or the highlight reel?”

“That’s not fair,” you snap. “You don’t know anything about us.”

His jaw tightens. “I know he ditched you. Again. I know you keep apologizing for things that aren’t your fault.” He steps closer, eyes blazing. “And I know I’ve heard him say this—” Billy mimics the voice with cruel accuracy, “‘I would die for you. I would kill for you.’”

Your breath stutters.

Billy’s anger falters, just for a second, when he sees your face. He exhales, runs a hand through his hair, then does something unexpected—he cups your face, hands warm and steady, like he’s afraid you might shatter if he grips too tight.

“I would die for you,” he says quietly. “I would kill for you.” His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle. Reverent. “But that’s not the point.”

You meet his eyes, pulse roaring in your ears.

“I would be kind for you,” Billy continues, voice low and fierce. “I would reject the impulses to indulge in my violent nature for you.”

The words hang between you, heavy and terrifying and sincere. Billy swallows, forehead resting briefly against yours, like he’s grounding himself.

“You don’t have to earn space,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to apologize for breathing. And anyone who makes you feel like you do?” His eyes darken. “They don’t deserve you.”

For once, Billy Hargrove isn’t asking to be forgiven. He’s asking you to see him—and offering, for the first time, to be better.