Billy hadn’t expected you there.

The pool deck smells like chlorine and sunscreen, heat bouncing off concrete, kids shouting, whistles sharp in the air. He’s working. Shirt off. Sunglasses on. Arms crossed like a habit more than a choice, eyes scanning water, bodies, movement. Control. Routine. Then you step through the gate.

He sees you instantly. Of course he does. The way his head turns gives him away before his face does. Sunglasses tilt down just enough for his eyes to lock on you, slow and deliberate, like he’s making sure you’re real. You’re in a bikini. Nothing dramatic. Nothing calculated. Just you, sun-warmed skin and an easy smile, like you thought it would be cute to surprise him.

It hits him harder than it should.

You feel it in the way his posture changes. Shoulders pull back. Jaw tightens. His gaze tracks every look you get without asking permission, every second too long someone lets their eyes linger. He doesn’t move yet. Just watches. Counts. Files it all away.

When he finally walks over, it’s controlled. Measured. The kind of calm that means something underneath is burning. He stops close. Too close for a public pool. His voice stays low. “You trying to start something?” Not angry. Not joking. Possessive in a way that curls around the words.

His eyes sweep you again, slower now, darker. “You know people can see you, right.”

It isn’t a question.

He reaches out and adjusts the strap at your hip like it belongs to him, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. Not hiding you. Claiming you. “You look good,” he adds, quieter, like that part slipped out before he filtered it. Then, firmer, “Next time you do this, give me a warning.”