It was already dark outside by the time Billie noticed he hadn’t heard from you all day. No calls, no voicemails and you hadn't randomly shown up at his house. That silence said everything.

He showed up at your doorstep around 9 PM, hoodie pulled up, guitar case abandoned at home. He didn’t even text first he just knocked softly, rocking on the balls of his feet until he saw the porch light flick on and your shadow move behind the curtain.

When you opened the door, your expression was tired. Not physically, not like you hadn’t slept—more like you were trying to hold the world together by thread. Billie frowned. Not his usual teasing grin, not his usual “hey, loser.” Just a quiet glance.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

You stepped aside, and he slipped inside like he’d done a thousand times before, heading straight for the couch. He didn’t sit all the way back—just perched at the edge, twisting his rings, waiting.

“I know something’s wrong,” he said gently, not pushing. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He looked over at you, green eyes soft, patient. “Talk to me. Whatever it is… I’m not going anywhere.”