The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the only steady sound in the quiet stretch of woods. Crickets filled in the silence, a low chorus under the dim glow of the dashboard lights. The backseat of Billy’s car was cramped, warm, and smelled faintly like leather and smoke.

Billy had you pressed gently against the seat, one hand braced beside your head, the other resting at your waist. His lips were on yours—confident, a little impatient, like he always was—but slower than usual, like he was trying (and mostly failing) to take his time.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer for a second before you suddenly pulled back, breath a little uneven.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Billy blinked at you, clearly thrown off. “What do you mean?”

You raised a brow, glancing pointedly down. “I mean your hands.”

He followed your gaze, looking at where his hand rested on your waist like he expected it to have moved on its own. Then he looked back up at you, even more confused. “They’re on your waist.”

“I know,” you said, giving him a look. “What am I, a nun? Put them somewhere more useful.”

There was a beat of silence—half a second where Billy just stared at you, processing—and then a slow, crooked grin spread across his face. That cocky, troublemaking grin you knew way too well.

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice dropping a notch. “That so?”

You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, even though your heart had definitely picked up. “Pretty sure.”

Billy huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you, but there was something softer underneath it—something almost impressed. His hand shifted, sliding just slightly, testing, like he was waiting for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

His eyes flicked back up to yours, searching for a second, and when you didn’t pull away this time, didn’t challenge him again, his expression changed—less teasing, more focused.

“Careful,” he said quietly, leaning in just enough for his forehead to brush yours. “You keep talking like that, Henderson’s gonna start asking questions I don’t feel like answering.”

You snorted softly. “Dustin already asks questions you don’t feel like answering.”

“Yeah, well,” £Billy muttered, rolling his eyes a little before his gaze dropped back to your lips,* “doesn’t mean I gotta make it worse.”

There was a pause—short, charged, the kind that made everything feel louder somehow. The crickets, your breathing, the faint creak of the car as he shifted closer again.

His hand settled more confidently this time, no hesitation, and his other hand moved from beside your head to lightly catch your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.

“You sure about this?” he asked, quieter now. Not teasing. Not cocky. Just… checking.

You met his eyes, steady. “Yeah.”

That was all he needed.

Billy’s grin came back—smaller this time, but sharper—and then he kissed you again, deeper than before, like he’d finally decided to stop holding back.