The living room smelled faintly of Billy’s cologne and the salt of his sweat, the low thump of whatever mixtape he’d thrown into the stereo filling the space as he finished another set of curls. You lay curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies—huge on you, drowning your frame in soft cotton and the warm scent of him—your knees tucked under you as you read. Every so often, you’d glance up just to admire the way the muscles in his arms flexed beneath the sheen of sweat, the way the chain around his neck glinted with each movement.

Billy caught you looking once, smirking, breathless. “What?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

“Nothing,” you murmured, though the smile tugging your lips said otherwise.

He shook his head and went back to lifting, muttering something about you being trouble. The soft, easy domesticity of it all settled around you like a blanket—warm, unexpected, precious.

Then a sharp knock cut through the music.

You blinked, lowering your book. “I’ll get it,” you said, leaning over as Billy straightened up from his reps.

He paused long enough for you to press a quick kiss to his cheek—warm, a little salty, familiar. He smirked again, softer this time. “Hurry back, sweetheart.”

You padded toward the front door, tugging his hoodie tighter around yourself as the cool draft from the entryway brushed your legs. The knock came again—sharper, impatient—and something in your gut tightened, though you couldn’t place why.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Your stomach plummeted.

Jason Carver stood on the porch.

Not in a letterman jacket, not with that smug smirk he used to wear around school—no, tonight he wore something far uglier: that cold, controlled expression you knew too well. The one he used when he wanted something. When he wanted you afraid.

The porch light carved shadows across his face, highlighting the dark bruise blooming on his jaw, the twitch in his clenched fists, the restless, jittery energy you recognized instantly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jason said, voice low, too smooth, too familiar. “Long time no see.”

Your breath froze in your chest. The air felt thick, heavy. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the door without you realizing it.

“What are you doing here?” you forced out, hating that your voice shook even a little.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over you—Billy’s hoodie, your bare legs, your bare feet on the porch floorboards. His lip curled, something sharp and jealous flickering behind his eyes.

“You didn’t answer my calls,” he said. “Figured we should talk face-to-face. You owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” you whispered.

Jason stepped closer.

And behind you, inside the house, you heard the faint clatter of a weight hitting the carpet. Then boots. Heavy, deliberate footsteps.

Billy’s voice—low, dangerous—rolled across the living room.

“Baby… who’s at the door?”

Jason’s jaw flexed.

Your pulse thundered.

And before you could answer, before you could even breathe, Billy appeared behind you—shirtless, sweat-slick, muscles tense, blue eyes locked on Jason like a loaded gun.

The air snapped tight as wire.

Jason’s face paled.

Billy’s lip curled.

And the world held its breath.