You’re late again. Time doesn’t mean anything to you anymore, but for him it’s been an eternity. Billie is sprawled on the bed, the guitar half-played still leaning against the wall, the lights dim, and that smell of cigarette smoke trapped in the room like a reproach.

When you walk in, he barely looks at you. His green eyes are heavy with that dangerous mix of fury and sadness. You know him too well: that silence isn’t indifference, it’s a scream that hasn’t exploded yet.

“Did you have fun?” his voice comes out hoarse, ironic, but it cracks at the end.

You don’t answer right away, and that only sets him off more. He sits up a little, elbows resting on his knees, fists clenched like he’s trying to hold himself together. The deal between you two was simple, free, no chains or promises. But it slipped out of his hands.

“Fuck, do you know what you’re doing to me?” he throws at you, with a bitter laugh. “This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t supposed to… get this fucked up over you.”