The Camaro’s engine ticks angrily as it cools, heat curling up from the hood like it’s got something to say back. Billy slams the driver’s door shut hard enough to make the whole car shudder, boots crunching against the gravel driveway as he stalks toward you. The sun’s dipping low, bleeding orange and red over the trees, and everything feels too loud—cicadas screaming, your heart pounding, Billy’s breath coming sharp and fast.

Your fingers are tight around the keys. Too tight. Your knuckles are white, but you don’t let go.

“I’m not a child,” Billy snaps, hand out, palm up, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle twitch. “Don’t take my shit.”

You step back without thinking, spine hitting the side of the house. The wood is warm against your shoulders. “You’re acting like one!” you fire back, voice shaking despite yourself. “I’m trying to help!”

He laughs, short and bitter, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, you’re trying to piss me off.”

“That’s not—” You cut yourself off, chest tight, eyes burning. You can see it already, the way his foot would hit the gas too hard, the speedometer climbing while anger sits shotgun. You’ve seen it before. Felt it. “I’m trying to keep you alive!”

Billy freezes for half a second, but you don’t stop. The words have been clawing at your ribs, begging to get out.

“I hate when you’re mad!” you say, voice cracking now. “You scare me! It scares me that you drive recklessly already and you do it twice as much when you’re mad and I can’t have another funeral!”

Silence crashes down like a wave.

The cicadas fade into the background. Billy’s breath stutters, his shoulders going rigid. His eyes flick up to yours, something raw and unguarded flashing there before he can stop it. For the first time since he stormed out of the house, he doesn’t look angry—he looks wrecked.

“You don’t get to say that,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just hurt.

“Yes, I do,” you whisper. “Because I’ve lived it. Because I watched two coffins get lowered into the ground and then had to move into my aunt’s house and pretend I was okay for Dustin’s sake.” Your grip loosens just a little, the keys jingling softly. “I can’t lose you too. I won’t.”

Billy looks away, jaw working, swallowing hard. His hands curl into fists, then slowly relax. When he looks back at you, his eyes are glassy, red around the edges.

“…I wasn’t gonna crash,” he says quietly, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Maybe not,” you say. “But what if you did?”

The question hangs there between you, heavy and unanswerable. Billy exhales, long and shaky, then drops down onto the front steps, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

After a moment, he holds his hand out again. Not demanding this time. Just tired.

“Keys,” he says, softer.

You hesitate—then step forward and place them in his palm.