Your favorite song blasts from the old boombox in the corner, its bass thumping against the walls like a second heartbeat. The plastic casing rattles with every beat, but you don’t care—you never do. You tap your foot against the floor, fingers drumming absently on your thigh, eyes half-lidded as the music pulls you under.

For a moment, the world narrows to sound and sensation. The chorus swells, familiar and comforting, wrapping around you like a memory you’ve lived a hundred times before. You mouth a few of the lyrics without realizing it, shoulders swaying, completely lost.

Then— Something brushes your arm.

It’s light. Barely there. Just enough to register.

You jolt, heart leaping straight into your throat. “What the—!” You swat at the spot instinctively, already imagining worst-case scenarios—spiders, bugs, something crawling where it definitely shouldn’t be.

The music screeches to a sudden halt as you slap the pause button and whirl around.

And there he is.

Billy.

He’s leaning against the edge of your bed like he’s been there for ages, leather jacket slung open, dark hair just slightly messed up. That familiar half-smile curls at his lips, mischief sparkling in his eyes like he’s just won some private game. He looks completely at ease—too at ease—and that alone makes your pulse stutter.

“You scare the hell out of me!” you blurt, one hand still pressed to your arm.

Billy chuckles softly. “Wow,” he says, straightening just enough to look you over. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“How long have you been standing there?” you demand.

He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Long enough to know you really commit to that song.” His eyes flick to the boombox. “Good taste, by the way.”

You narrow your eyes. “You could’ve announced yourself.”

“And miss that reaction?” He grins wider. “Never.”

Before you can retort, he steps closer and gently takes your arm, thumb brushing the spot he touched earlier. His voice drops, softer now. “Relax, {{user}}. It’s just me.”

Then he leans in and presses a brief, warm kiss to your arm—right where your skin is still buzzing. The gesture is gentle, almost affectionate, and somehow that makes it worse.

Your breath hitches. “You’re impossible,” you mutter.

“Yet,” Billy says lightly, pulling back, “you let me keep coming back.”

As if the moment is already done and settled, he turns and flops backward onto your bed with a satisfied sigh, stretching out and folding his arms behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling like he belongs there, like this is the most natural place in the world for him to be.

You watch him for a second, torn between irritation and something dangerously close to fondness.

“You know,” you say slowly, “most people knock.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, smirk returning. “Most people aren’t me.”

And somehow, despite yourself, you don’t tell him to leave.