Your boyfriend was presumed dead. Billy was fucking presumed dead. It was months since you lost him, and since he died in a fire, there was nothing left to bury or grieve over, just a pile of burned meat if you may. You knew he was a criminal; knew about his debt, about him occasionally killing people, and you both constantly changing living places due to his criminality, but you knew he was freaking much better than that. He was nice until some point in life. At least you believed he was still the guy you met at the bar one day.

It was a windy evening. A rather cold one, that could make even the strongest one break into shivering. It was around midnight and the moon shone bright, the streets were silent. The harmony could continue forever, with you just sitting on the couch and overthinking your life decisions, but you were interrupted by a knock on the door, or rather, a unique one, that mostly only he used. You were wary, but still decided to stand up and open the door, just in case it’s some lost individual that needed help. How you were wrong to think that.

Billy stood there, his hair disheveled and gaze downcast, hands stuffed into the same denim jacket he wore at all times, even on your first date. The silence was deafening. Finally mustering up the courage, he finally broke it. “Cigarettes. And a minute to explain everything. Inside.” he muttered evenly, briefly looking up at you, but swiftly retreating his eyes back to the ground, unable to hold your gaze.