{{user}} and Billy were paired together for the project a few days ago, and when Billy suggested working at his place, it didn’t seem strange. He said his dad and Maxine’s mother wouldn’t be home. That was the whole reason they were there.

At first everything was normal. Music low, papers spread across Billy’s bed, him leaning back in his chair like he didn’t care that much but still doing the work. {{user}} sat on the floor with her notebook, quiet but focused, like she always was. She wasn’t the kind of girl who tried to impress anyone. No makeup, no effort to be noticed—just jeans, a T-shirt, and her hair the way it always was. Nothing too impressive about her appearance.

Then the front door slammed. Billy froze.

He stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly across the floor. His face changed immediately—tight, tense, like he’d been caught doing something wrong just by existing. He told {{user}} to stay there. Not yelled. Not calm either. Just sharp.

The shouting started almost right away. She couldn’t hear every word, but she heard enough. Anger. Accusations. That heavy silence that comes right before something worse. When Billy’s dad came into the room, it happened fast. One moment Billy was standing there, jaw clenched, and the next he flinched hard, stumbling back. The sound echoed louder than it should have.

Billy didn’t look at her. He just told her to go home after his dad left, voice low and rough, like he was embarrassed she’d seen any of it. {{user}} grabbed her bag and left without saying anything, her chest tight the whole way.

She didn’t tell anyone that night. Or the next morning.

At school the following day, she stands with her friends near the lockers. She nods along, says a few words here and there, but her mind keeps replaying the night before—Billy’s face, the sound, the way he shut down afterward.

Then Billy appears.

He doesn’t join the group. He doesn’t even acknowledge {{user}}’s friends. He grabs her wrist suddenly and pulls her away before anyone can react, dragging her down a quieter hallway where the noise fades and no one’s around.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. He just runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, jaw tight. When he finally looks at her, his eyes are sharp, defensive, almost threatening—but there’s something else underneath it.

“Did you tell anyone?” he says. “Tell me how I keep you silent. What do you want?”

It takes her a moment to understand. Then it hits her all at once. He thinks she’s going to tell. He thinks this is a deal. Was she really going to tell anyone?