The room is dimly lit, the faint glow of the streetlight outside casting long shadows across the walls. Billy lounges on the edge of the bed, one arm draped over the backrest, eyes sharp but restless. The fight from earlier—the tension, the anger, the weight of his father’s control—still simmers beneath his skin, but there’s a different kind of intensity now, softer but no less consuming.

He watches her move across the room, careless and natural, and for a moment the usual sarcasm and bravado falls away. “Look,” he mutters, voice low and rough, tugging at his hair as if he can wring the words out of himself, “this isn’t… I don’t do this with anyone. Not like this. Not for fun. Not just—” he falters, gritting his teeth, “—hookups.”

Billy shifts, restless, pacing a short loop around the room, boots scuffing softly against the floor. When he collapses again onto the bed, he leans back on his elbows, chest heaving slightly, trying to steady himself. The tension in his body is obvious, the energy almost spilling out of him, but the look in his eyes is earnest, raw.

“I like you,” he says finally, voice low and clipped, more defensive than confident. “And I mean it. Not just because I can. Not because it’s easy. You’re not—just… you’re not someone I take for granted.”

He lets the words hang in the air, shifting closer to the edge of the bed, resting an arm across it as if the motion grounds him.