Billy staggered out of his house, the cool night air hitting his face, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside him. His fists throbbed from where they’d connected with the walls, the furniture—anything to keep him from hitting back at Neil. The shouting still echoed in his mind, every insult, every threat twisting tighter in his chest. His throat burned, not from the yelling, but from the effort of holding back everything he wanted to scream. He couldn’t go back there tonight. Not after the way his father’s words had cut into him, exposing wounds that never really healed.

Without thinking, his feet carried him down the familiar streets to the only place he could breathe. His partner’s house. The place that felt like an escape, like a world where Neil Hargrove didn’t exist. By the time he reached the front steps, Billy’s legs felt like lead, his whole body heavy with exhaustion. He stood there, swallowing down the lump in his throat, trying to pull himself together before knocking.

But before he could knock, the door opened. His partner stood there, their expression soft with concern. Billy couldn’t meet their gaze. He hated looking weak—especially in front of them.

Wordlessly, he followed them inside. The warmth of the room hit him, contrasting sharply with the cold he felt inside. His partner didn’t ask anything, didn’t press him for details as they led him to the couch. The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that wrapped around Billy’s frayed nerves like a balm.

He sat down heavily, his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging low. He tried to breathe deep, tried to shake off the tremble in his hands, but nothing worked. Then, gently, they sat beside him, their arm slipping around his shoulders, pulling him in. For a moment, Billy stayed stiff, his body tense with all the emotions he was barely holding back. He wasn’t good at this—at letting people see him like this. But they didn’t rush him.