The Wheeler house is quiet in that soft, suburban way that only exists after midnight. Mike’s door is shut, probably barricaded by comic books and bad decisions, and the TV hums low in the living room as Karen folds laundry with practiced precision. You sit at the kitchen table, one knee pulled to your chest, Billy Hargrove’s jean jacket still draped over your shoulders.

It smells like him. Cigarettes, leather, something warm and reckless.

Karen watches you over the rim of her wine glass, eyes lingering on the jacket. She doesn’t say anything at first, just folds a towel, sets it down, folds another. You can feel the moment coming.

“So,” she says gently, “you want to tell me what happened at Tina’s party?”

You shrug, fingers curling into the denim sleeves. “Nothing. Just… some idiot who didn’t know when to keep his hands to himself.”

“And Billy?” Her mouth quirks, not unkindly. “He had something to do with that.”

You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself. The memory flashes sharp and bright—Billy’s hand on the guy’s collar, the crack of a fist, the way the whole room seemed to freeze while Billy burned like a wildfire in human skin.

“He handled it,” you say simply.

Karen sets the laundry down and finally looks at you fully. “He seems like a nice boyfriend, sweetie. Defending you like that.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Karen arches a brow, unconvinced. “I think you better tell him that.”

“What?” Your stomach flips, sudden and unpleasant.

She gestures toward the jacket, toward you. “Only love makes you that crazy, sweetheart. And that damn stupid.”

You swallow.

Because after the fight, after the shouting and the broken glass and the way Billy’s knuckles split open, he’d driven you home with one hand on the wheel and the other tapping nervously against his thigh. The radio was off. His jaw was tight. And when you’d shivered—just once, from the night air—he hadn’t said a word. Just pulled over, shrugged out of his jacket, and draped it over your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Don’t,” he’d muttered. “Don’t take that guy seriously. Or me.”

You’d wanted to ask him why he cared so much. Why he’d looked at you like that when the guy touched you. Why his hands had shaken after.

Now, sitting under your mom’s knowing gaze, the weight of the jacket feels heavier.

“He’s just… intense,” you say weakly.

Karen smiles, soft and a little sad. “So is your father. So was I, once.”

You stare down at the denim, thumb brushing over a frayed seam. Somewhere across town, Billy Hargrove is probably pacing his room, knuckles throbbing, replaying the night over and over.

And you can’t help wondering who needs to have that conversation first.