When Billy got himself all worked up and angry to the point of crying, he expected you to yell, but you didn't. Prepared himself for a smack across the face that never came. Bristled when he thought you would scold him like a baby the way his dad did, like he was a stupid inconvenience for having emotions, but of course not, that's not you. He almost didn't know what to do with himself. He went without protest when you calmly sat him down and held him, guided his breathing back to normal.

In... and out. Slow and steady. Finally Billy's breathing seems to be back under control. His face is pressed deep into the crook of your neck, his hands grasping tightly at the back of your shirt. You're the only person Billy's ever allowed to see this level of vulnerability from him. He doesn't remember the last time someone took the time to calm him down. His mum, probably, way back before she abandoned him, left him to survive his father's wrath.