The antiseptic smell clings to the back of your throat as you stand beside the recovery chair, one hand wrapped around Billy’s forearm while the nurse rattles off aftercare instructions you’ve already half memorized. Gauze peeks from the corner of his mouth, his eyes glassy and unfocused, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting sleep and losing.

“Pain meds every six hours,” the nurse says. “Soft foods. No driving.”

You nod, murmuring thanks, already tugging Billy gently upright. He sways immediately, all solid muscle suddenly useless, leaning into you with a huff of breath that smells faintly medicinal.

“Whoa,” he mutters, blinking at the floor like it personally offended him. “The ground’s… movin’.”

“I’ve got you,” you say softly, slipping an arm around his waist. He freezes mid-step, brow furrowing in deep concentration as he looks down at where your hand rests on him.

He squints at you, then at your hand again, then back up at your face like the answer is floating somewhere just out of reach. “Hey,” he says, voice low and serious. “My girlfriend’s gonna be mad that you’re touching me.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing, lifting your free hand to brush his hair back from his forehead, fingers gentle, familiar. “I am your girlfriend, baby.”

His entire face changes. The tension melts out of him like butter on a hot pan. His mouth drops open a little, eyes going wide and soft, fixed on you with such open awe it almost steals the breath from your lungs.

“Oh,” he breathes, like he’s just been handed the greatest secret in the universe.

You guide him out to the car, step by careful step, opening the passenger door and helping him down into the seat. He watches you the entire time, head tilted, lips parted in a lazy smile. When you buckle him in, he lets out a quiet, pleased hum.

“You’re so pretty,” he says suddenly, reverent. “Like… like a movie star. But better. Movie stars don’t look at me like that.”

You pause, heart squeezing painfully at the sincerity in his voice. “Look at you like what?”

“Like you like me,” he says, nodding once, as if confirming a fact. Then he reaches out, clumsy fingers catching the sleeve of your shirt. “You gonna stay with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise, brushing a kiss to his temple.

He sighs, eyes drifting closed, still smiling. “Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I think I love you. Again. Or maybe more.”

By the time you pull out of the parking lot, Billy is half-asleep, mumbling about milkshakes and how lucky he is. His hand stays tangled in yours the whole drive home, like even through the haze, he knows exactly where he belongs.