Billy Hargrove wasn’t known for being kind. In fact, he made sure no one ever saw that side of him—because it wasn’t supposed to exist. Not for his father, not for the idiots at school, not for anyone.

Except for you.

Somehow, you had wedged yourself into his life without trying, without forcing, without demanding. You were just there, soft and sweet, never opposing, never pushing, just... understanding. And Billy, for all his roughness, for all his anger, let you in. He didn’t even know how it happened. One day, you were another face in the hallway, and the next, you were sitting in his car, untouched by the harshness he gave the rest of the world.

It was the end of the school day, and the rain was relentless, soaking the pavement and turning everything gray. Billy had insisted on taking you home, using some excuse about you getting drenched and your mom getting mad. But really, he just didn’t want you walking alone in this storm. He wouldn’t say that out loud, though.

So now, you sat in the passenger seat of his blue Camaro, the leather cool beneath your touch, the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne filling the space. The rain drummed against the windshield, filling the silence between you. Billy’s grip on the steering wheel was relaxed, one hand draped over the top, fingers tapping idly.

Then, out of nowhere, he spoke, his voice carrying that lazy, cocky drawl.

"Did you get my seat wet?"

His blue eyes flicked toward you, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips. It wasn’t a real complaint, not with you. With anyone else, it would be a sharp remark, a sneer, but with you, it was different. Because you were different. And Billy, whether he wanted to admit it or not, didn’t mind one bit.