The Hargrove house always feels tighter when the sun goes down, like the walls lean in to listen. Billy’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as he pulls into the driveway, engine idling a second longer than necessary. The porch light flicks on before either of you reaches the door.

“Remember,” he mutters, jaw set, eyes forward. “You don’t gotta stay long.”

But you both know that’s not how it goes. His dad insists. Always does.

Dinner smells heavy—overcooked meat, cheap cologne, control disguised as hospitality. Neil Hargrove smiles too wide when he sees you, claps Billy on the shoulder a little too hard. “Good of you to bring her, son. Sit. Sit.”

Billy’s chair scrapes louder than necessary as he pulls it out for you, a quiet, instinctive thing he never thinks twice about. He drops into his own seat stiffly, shoulders tense, leg bouncing beneath the table. He doesn’t look at his dad if he can help it. He watches his plate, listens too closely to every word, every shift in tone.

Conversation crawls. Questions aimed at you that feel more like inspections. Compliments that land wrong. Billy’s foot taps faster, his hand curling into a fist in his lap. You feel the coil of him tightening, anger and fear braided together so tight it makes your chest ache.

So you do the one thing you can.

Your hand slips beneath the table, warm and deliberate, resting on his thigh.

Billy freezes.

Then he exhales—slow, shaky, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. His leg stills under your palm. He glances sideways at you, blue eyes sharp and soft all at once, a flicker of something vulnerable he’d never show anyone else. You give his thigh a gentle squeeze, grounding, steady.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, barely moving your lips.

His fingers twitch, then settle over your wrist, thumb brushing your skin in a silent thank you. He leans back in his chair just enough to look casual, but you feel how his muscles slowly unknot beneath your touch. The edge dulls. The storm quiets.

Neil keeps talking. Billy keeps nodding. But his focus shifts—anchored to the warmth of your hand, the quiet promise that he’s not alone in this room, not tonight. Every time his dad’s voice sharpens, your thumb traces a small, soothing arc, and Billy steadies again.

By the time the plates are cleared, Billy’s calm looks convincing. Even to himself.

When you finally stand to leave, he’s already got his jacket in hand, already halfway between you and the door. Outside, the night air hits like freedom. He doesn’t speak until you’re back in the car, doors shut, engine humming.

His hand finds yours without looking.

“…Thanks,” he says, rough and quiet. Then, softer, almost embarrassed “Don’t know how you do that.”

You smile, giving his hand a squeeze as he pulls out of the driveway.

Billy Hargrove would never admit it—but with you there, with your touch anchoring him, even the worst parts of his world feel survivable.