Billy is a storm when you find him.

He’s standing out by the Camaro, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers, jaw clenched so tight you can practically hear his teeth grind. His shoulders are rigid, muscles coiled like he’s one wrong breath away from putting his fist through something—someone. The neon from the party behind him spills across his back, catching the sharp edges of him, all heat and fury and barely restrained violence.

You don’t ask what happened. Not yet.

You step into his space like you belong there—because you do—and he doesn’t even notice at first. He’s too busy staring into the middle distance, eyes dark, thoughts loud. Someone said something. Someone always says something. You can tell by the way his chest rises too fast, the way his knuckles are white around nothing.

“Billy,” you murmur, soft but steady.

He turns, already wound tight, mouth opening with something sharp on the tip of his tongue—but then your hand is on his cheek.

Just like that.

Your palm is warm. Familiar. Your thumb brushes gently beneath his eye, slow and grounding, and it’s like flipping a switch. The anger doesn’t disappear, but it drops its claws. His breath stutters, gaze snapping to yours, blue eyes still blazing but no longer wild.

You lean in just enough that only he can hear you.

“Talk to me, pretty boy,” you say quietly, your thumb rubbing small circles against his cheek. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, like he’s trying to remember how to breathe with you this close. His cigarette falls from his fingers, forgotten, burning out on the pavement. One of his hands lifts, hovering at your waist like he’s afraid to touch you and break the moment.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that when I’m pissed,” he mutters, voice rough, low. “Makes it hard to stay mad.”

You give a small smile, the kind meant just for him. “Good. I don’t like you mad. It eats you alive.”

His jaw tightens again, but this time it’s not anger—it’s restraint. He exhales slowly, forehead dipping until it almost rests against yours. You feel the heat of him, the tremor he tries to hide.

“They don’t get it,” he finally says, words clipped, bitter. “They never do. Think they can say whatever they want. Like I’m nothing.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his curls, anchoring him. “You’re not nothing,” you say firmly. “Not to me. Never to me.”

That does it.

His eyes close, just for a second, and when they open again, the fire in them has softened into something raw and exposed—something only you ever get to see. His hand settles at your waist now, solid and sure, pulling you just a little closer.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, forehead finally resting against yours. “Just… stay.”