He doesn’t remember much about Starcourt.

Flashes, mostly. The smell of burning metal. Screams. That... thing. And the heat—like something crawling under his skin, tearing at him from the inside out.

Then nothing. Blank.

When he woke up, it was Max who was there first. Curled up in the damn plastic chair like she’d been there for days. And {{user}}. Sitting on the windowsill, a paperback open in her hands, eyes so swollen it looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.

She doesn’t leave him alone, not really. Neither does Max. Or Susan. They take turns, like some messed up tag-team of caretakers, making sure he eats, walks, doesn’t lose what’s left of his damn mind in this hospital room. He used to keep people out. Push them away before they could even get close. But now?

Now, he doesn't know what to do with any of it. Especially her.

{{user}}.

She used to avoid him. He remembers that clearly. Quiet glances in the hallway. Nervous little smiles when he passed her in class. But never words. Never this. Not the way she read to him when she thought he was asleep. Not the way she argued—yelled—at his old man until hospital security dragged the bastard out of the building.

No one’s ever fought for him before.

Now, she’s here again. Same chair. Same book. She’s not even looking at him. Just flipping pages like he’s background noise. Like this—being in his room, beside him—is completely normal.

Billy shifts on the bed, magazine forgotten on his lap. He eyes her for a long second, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

Finally, he breaks the silence with a voice rough from disuse and irritation, but not cold.

“You gonna sit there all day or are you secretly hoping I’ll ask you to read aloud again?”

He smirks, faintly. Doesn’t mean it as a joke, not really. He just wants to hear her voice again.