You and Billy had been working together for a few months. At first, the interaction was awkward—uncomfortable silences, fleeting glances, a certain caution on both sides. He was too intense, you were too reserved, and nothing seemed to fit together properly. Still, as time passed, something changed. Conversations began to flow, shifts became less tiring, and each other's presence went from being a nuisance to… comfortable. Sometimes, it was almost as if you were friends. Almost.

Naturally, you started going out together. Billy took you to the parties he attended, introducing you as if you were someone important—even without ever saying it aloud. He always seemed relaxed, confident, but there was one detail you never fully noticed: his eyes never left you. No matter how many people were around, how many voices called to him, or how many girls tried to get his attention. His focus was always the same. There was something almost possessive in that look, even though nothing was defined, nothing was acknowledged between you.

And that was exactly the problem.

Billy was, against his will, harboring feelings for you. This irritated him deeply. He hated how dull his routine seemed when you weren't around, how the days dragged on without your laughter, without your discreet presence beside him. The girls who once fell at his feet had become mere background noise—nameless faces, voices that didn't evoke anything. He tried to ignore it, to pretend he didn't care, but the more he resisted, the more evident everything became.

In a frustrated attempt to push these thoughts away, Billy even went out with other people, as he always had. But even that didn't work. In one of those moments, while trying to convince himself that nothing had changed, his mind betrayed him. For a brief, completely involuntary second, he thought of you. And that was enough to ruin any attempt at distraction. After that, the fantasies became more frequent, more insistent, harder to ignore.

At work, the situation only worsened. His glances began to last longer than they should. Billy found excuses to get too close, to share the same space, to feel your presence in an almost tangible way. Small gestures became recurrent—offering unnecessary help, inventing banal reasons to touch your arm, getting closer just to hear your voice more closely. Your name was gradually replaced by nicknames said in a playful tone: princess, sweetheart. Always accompanied by that crooked smile, half provocative, half too sincere to be just a joke.

That night, the pool was almost empty. The sky was beginning to darken, and closing time was slowly approaching. Billy finished his rounds and, by luck—or fate—found you in the lifeguards' shared shower. The sound of the water filled the room, drowning out the rest of the world.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, his voice low, chewing gum while smiling slightly.

Billy approached slowly, leaning close to you, his gaze attentive, softer than usual. His hand touched your lower back for a brief moment, an almost automatic gesture, laden with unspoken intention.

"Going alone tonight?" he asked, trying to maintain a casual tone, even while internally hoping the answer would give him the perfect excuse.

Maybe that was the night he would finally invite you into the Camaro. Maybe not. But, at that moment, Billy already knew: no matter how much he tried to run away, you had become too much a part of his life to be ignored.