The knock wasn’t loud. It never was. Just enough to wake you, soft and desperate against the glass, like even that took effort. He was standing there when you pulled back the curtain—Billy Hargrove, two a.m., blood on his lip and knuckles raw like he’d tried to punch the world into submission and lost. Again.

(He always fucking lost, didn’t he?)

His eyes were wild but tired, like the adrenaline had already left him, leaving just skin and bone and pain behind. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Not when you looked at him like that. Not when you opened the window without a single question and helped him crawl in like it was normal, like this wasn’t the third time this month and the fiftieth time in forever.

Your room was dark, but it smelled like calm. Like lavender or vanilla or whatever that thing was that made his heart slow down just enough to keep from bursting in his chest. He stood there for a second, just inside the windowsill, not quite sure where to put his hands or how to be in a room that didn’t feel like a war zone.

You didn’t ask about the bruises, didn’t wince at the split skin above his brow. You just handed him a wet cloth and waited. No fuss, no pity. Just something real.

(He hated pity. You never gave him that. You gave him presence.)

He sat on the edge of your bed while you cleaned him up, fingers trembling more than he’d admit, breath shallow from where his ribs hurt. It wasn’t always like this—some nights he could hold it together. But tonight? Tonight had been one of the bad ones.

Neil had gotten that look again. The one that said you’re a disappointment before he even opened his mouth. One wrong breath, one smart-ass comment, one flash of defiance—that’s all it ever took. And Billy couldn’t help himself. He never could.

(It wasn’t just rage. It was survival. It was don’t flinch, don’t fold, don’t give him the fucking satisfaction.)

He stared at your hands as they worked, soft and careful and so goddamn gentle, like he wasn’t a loaded weapon shaking apart. You pressed the cloth to his cheek and he flinched—not from pain, but from the fact that it didn’t. The fact that it felt good.

He looked up. And you said it. His name. Just that.

Billy.

Soft. Sweet. Like a goddamn prayer. Like it meant something. And something inside him just—broke.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t messy. It was silent and internal and real, like the slow cracking of ice underfoot, invisible until it swallows you whole. His throat tightened, eyes burning in that way that made him furious, like he was weak for feeling anything at all.

But you said it again. And he nearly fucking dropped to his knees.

(Because no one ever said his name like that. Not like it mattered. Not like he mattered.)

He didn’t even realize he was shaking until you touched his shoulder. Didn’t realize he was breathing too fast, too shallow, like his body didn’t know how to exist in a room full of softness. He wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to stay.

“Say my name like that again,” he whispered, voice rough and low and not meant to be heard.

Say it again. So he doesn’t forget how it sounded. So he doesn’t forget this night. This moment. This feeling.