The room is dimly lit, the only real light coming from the neon sign humming quietly above Billy’s desk. You’re still on his bed, stretched out, half-wrapped in his sheets like you live there. You basically do. His scent—smoke, motor oil, and something unmistakably him—lingers in the air.

Billy’s sitting on the edge of the bed, rolling a lighter between his fingers, the flick-flick sound filling the quiet. His knuckles are split, dried blood flaking against the ridges of his tattoos. His black eye is already darkening, his lip still swollen, but he hasn’t said a word about it since earlier. Hasn’t said much at all, really.

The fight was because of you. You don’t know who said what, but Billy didn’t let it slide. He never does. He just showed up at his place, tossed his keys onto the counter, and muttered, “Should’ve hit harder.”

Now, hours later, the tension in the room has settled into something familiar, something warm. His knee bumps against yours as he leans back on his hands, exhaling slow. You glance at him, watching the way his fingers twitch like he’s still in the fight, still hearing whatever was said.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence. Low, rough, a little hoarse. “You gonna stay the night, or am I driving you home?”