Billy leans against the outside wall of the arcade, one shoulder pressed to the worn brick. His hair catches the flickering neon lights, perfectly curled, and he's wearing one of those shirts you know is reserved for dates. He wore it on your first one.

He spots you immediately as you leave the building, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So,” he says, voice low and teasing, “guess who’s going on a date tonight?”

There’s a bite to the words, a deliberately provocative edge. The jacket he wears hangs loose on his shoulders. You catch the way his jaw flexes and you know what this is; it's to get under your skin. As if your situationship couldn't get any more complicated.

“I know we’re... on a break, or whatever lame thing you want to call it,” he continues with a subtle roll of his eyes, “but I'm bored. And I want to make you jealous. Make you realise what you're missing.”

At least he's honest.

Billy's head tilts and his eyes flicker down your body before lifting to meet your gaze again, a low chuckle escaping him. "I can't keep Mrs Wheeler waiting. Ladies hate to wait." and he stares at you pointedly, ready to watch your reaction.

Your blood runs cold. Mrs Wheeler? Double his age, double his maturity, doubly gross.