Billy’s room was dimly lit, the flickering light of an old TV casting shadows across the walls. The two of you were sat on the edge of his bed, leaning into one another as you held each other tightly. His lips brushed against yours again, firm yet teasing.

As the kiss deepened, his fingers threaded into your hair, tilting your face slightly to meet his. His movements were deliberate, controlled—always controlled, even when they seemed unhinged. His free hand rested against your hip, firm and possessive.

Somehow, the two of you shifted positions without breaking the spell, your weight sinking against the mattress as he guided you to lie back. He hovered right above you, his lips only pausing the kiss to drag down the curve of your neck. The low hum of a horror movie played in the background, almost drowned out by the sound of your breaths mingling.

Billy’s hand wandered then, sliding from your waist to just above your knee, his fingertips brushing bare skin with deliberate slowness. His hand moved higher up your thigh, grazing the edge of your shorts, and his lips curled into a smirk against your neck as his fingers sought more.

Just then, right when his fingertips began to slide beneath the fabric of your shorts, into the warmth concealed beneath it—your hand came up, catching his wrist. It wasn’t harsh—but it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else other than rejection.

His jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration passing over his features; but he remained silent. His eyes began searching, flicking to yours, trying to read the moment, trying to understand why. Billy always wanted to understand. Control was his game, and right now, he wasn’t winning.

Billy wasn’t used to being slowed down, wasn’t used to not getting exactly what he wanted when he wanted it. But for now, he relented, pressing his lips to your temple, then back to your neck, as if to distract himself from the faint sting of denial.