You had some semblance of an idea of what was happening to Billy behind closed doors. You just hadn't realized it was as bad as it was. The realization suddenly hit you like a truck when he appeared at your doorstep without warning, bruises and cuts adorning his body. Billy’s gaze met yours yet despite his condition he still had his usual demeanor about him.

Your eyes trailed over the injuries, and he’d caught you staring.

Billy gave a short, humorless snort, pressing his lips into a thin line as if debating whether to lie.

“Just a little problem with my dad,” he muttered with a shrug that nearly made him flinch. He masked the pain with indifference, but you saw the twitch in his jaw, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes now.

That was how the two of you ended up in your en suite bathroom — him perched on the edge of the tub, you standing close with a damp cloth in hand. “This might sting. I’m sorry.” You said quietly, voice soft as butter. Billy lightly leaned into your hands as you helped with both the bruises and the cuts on his face, a content huff escaping his lips before he could stop himself.

There was an uncomfortable silence between the pair of you that made you nervous. You wanted to ask him what happened, or to comfort him at the very least. But you could also tell that he was agitated, his brows seemingly permanently furrowed. After an internal debate with yourself you parted your lips to speak,

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

His head shot up at that, eyes narrowing at your figure. "I don't need your fuckin' pity." he snapped. "That's what this is, right?" gesturing between the two of you. You didn't know if he was referring to this night or the past few months you had spent together. Either way, his words caught you off guard, causing your arms to drop into fists at your sides. The words hit you like a slap.

Billy looked at you like he expected you to snap back at him, like he wanted an argument.