Revenant Momma

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It took a while for Eddie to notice that his t-shirts were going missing. He couldn’t understand why his favorite Judas Priest shirt hadn’t resurfaced after weeks of searching or where his Metallica tank top had disappeared to. It was like his personal wardrobe was dwindling down to nothing. After a month of this, he finally found the culprit- you.

“Fuck, baby. You’re so hot.” He pants as he drives his hips into you, causing your back to arch off the mattress. It had been going on like this for at least an hour- after you had opened the front door of your apartment to let your boyfriend in. When he laid his eyes on you wearing only a pair of black panties and his Iron Maiden t-shirt, he couldn’t help himself. He had you pinned against your mattress in less than five minutes flat.

“Fuck, Eddie.” You whine, your arms grasping onto his biceps as he snapped his hips into your wet core- fucking you hard enough to make it difficult for you to walk tomorrow.

“Yeah, baby?” He whispers “That feel good?”

“So good, Eds.”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you look so good.” He moans, pulling away a bit to stare down at your hardened nipples poking through the fabric of his shirt. He pinches a part of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, admiring.

“Tell me again,” He breathes “Who does this belong to?”

He was asserting dominance and you loved it. You loved when your boyfriend put you in your place in the bedroom. Especially when he was so sweet to you any other time.

“Yours, Eddie.” You squeak as he hits a particular spot inside of you that had you seeing stars “It’s y-yours.”

“Damn right.” He says, grabbing your legs to hitch them over his shoulders to fuck you at a whole new angle.

“Oh shit! Holy fuck!” You scream out as Eddie smiles down at you cockily.

“You know, sweetheart, I usually don’t like to share but I’ll make an exception just for you. Because you look so damn cute. How does that sound? What’s mine is yours.” He smirks seductively.

“F-fuck!” You stammer, taking Eddie’s hard cock as he thrusts into you with fervor.

“Isn’t that right, baby? Hm? What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine? Isn’t that what they say?”

You were too cock drunk and stupid to respond with more than desperate nods.

“Good.” Eddie purrs “Guess that means this pussy is mine, right?”

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You and Billy have a lot in common.

Bad families.

Bad friends.

Fighting. Pain. All the scare no one talks about.

You learned early on that life didn't hand out second chances. Billy? He wore that lesson like armor. Loud, reckless, untouchable. Everyone knew him as the guy you avoided if you didn't want trouble.

And yet, somehow, you saw through it.

You saw the fear hidden behind the madness in his eyes. And somehow, that made him human.

At your locker, he leans against the metal with that trademark scowl, jaw set, and eyes narrowing like he was daring anyone to come near. To the rest of the hallway, he looked like trouble, like he might snap at the next person who breathes too loud.

But to you, his voice is low and careful, soft enough that no one else could hear.

"You coming over tonight?" A small smile tugs on his lips, soft enough for you and you only.

"Yeah. Max needs my help with something, but other than that, I might be able to." You smile, closing your locker up and twisting the lock.

"I can not believe you are friends with her." He says playfully.

"Just think... if we were friends, me and you wouldn't be together." You back lightly, walking down the hallway.

He stumbles forward, catching up to you. "Woah- woah. No. I think we would be together any other way. Not just through that redheaded little punk."

Your mouth drops open, a small laugh slipping out. "Aren't you just confident?"

"I am. I am also... charming and delightful." He smirks.

You round the corner into the hallway next to the gym, dropping your bag down on the floor. Billy follows closely behind.

"You are charming. I'll give you that." You point, looking around as the class sits in a half-circle. You lower your voice. "But delightful? I mean... a little."

"A little?" He echoes, smirk widening. "Right. Right. We'll see about that."

"Mr. Hargrove! Ms. Y/L/N! Welcome! Glad to see you are late once again!" Coach Thomas shouts, making all heads turn to you.

He walks toward you, away from the demonstration he was performing. "Why are we late again?"

"We were just... talking to a teacher." You deadpan.

"And do you have a hall pass from this teacher?"

"No." Billy says instantly.

"And why not?"

"Because."

Coach Thomas blinks, glancing between both of you. "Points off your grade today. Go sit with the others." He snaps, turning to walk away. "Quickly, please!"

"Yessir." Billy mumbles sarcastically.

You shake your head, silently walking over and sitting behind the crowd of students.

The coach begins his demonstration on basketball, going step-by-step as if the others are actually listening.

"So was that a yes to coming over?" Billy whispers, leaning close into you but keeping his eyes locked on the coach.

"If you sit out of class with me... I'll consider." You tease, leaning back on your hands.

"I will. And when you come over... maybe me and you can work out."

You turn, meeting his gaze, expression flat. "Please... you wish."

He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, shaking his head as he faces forward again. The coach's voice fades into background noise as he dismisses everyone from the circle.

You move instantly, walking off to go sit near the main door in the gym. Billy follows closely behind, dropping down against the wall first, legs stretched out, back pressed to the cool cinderblock. You sit beside him, close enough that your arms brush when you shift.

The gym is loud, ball thudding, sneakers screeching, but with the two of you, it's quiet. Billy tilts his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw tight like he's thinking about something he doesn't want to say.

"You still coming later?" He asks, not looking at you this time.

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I told you. Depends on how long Max's thing takes."

He hums in response, low and thoughtful. "Right. The counselor."

There's something softer in his voice when he says it. A silent protectiveness that he doesn't bother showing to many around him.

"You should try it. Might help." You suggest lightly.

He scoffs, looking at you in amusement. "Says the one who quit. What'd you say again?"

He leans closer, waiting for your answer.

A small smile creeps up on you. "Counselors are a bunch of pricks who take your money for shit advice."

"Thank you. So no." He pauses, tilting his head. "Working out is my counselor. Free therapy right at home."

"Right. Right." You smirk.

He huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head like you're ridiculous, like you always are. He shifts beside you on the floor, stretching his legs out farther until his sneaker nudges yours.

"Careful." He mutters. "That attitude's the reason you got stuck in counseling to begin with."

"Oh please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "That was one chair I threw."

"Across the room." He adds flatly. "That you launched."

"It slipped."

He turns his head just enough to look at you, eyebrow lifting. "You've got a real violent definition of 'slipped.'"

You laugh quietly. Billy doesn't. But when one of the guys glances back your way, Billy's eyes flick over. Just once. Sharp enough to make the guy look away.

And then, he relaxes like nothing happened.

"You ever think about actually going?" You ask. "Like counseling?"

He scoffs without missing a beat. "What, so I can sit in a chair and cry about my childhood?"

You wrinkle your nose. "God, no. Please don't do that."

That gets a real reaction. A short laugh, rough and quiet, just meant for you. He drops his chin, looking at you sideways.

"Christ." He mutters. "You're something else."

"Awe," you tease. "You like me."

"Don't push it." He says quickly, but there's no heat behind it. "I just... don't hate you."

"Wow. I feel honored."

"Yeah," he smirks. "You should."

The bell rings a few minutes later, sharp and final. Relief floods the room as everyone bolts for the hallway. Billy stands, offering you a hand without thinking. You take it, letting him pull you up before either of you realizes how normal it feels.

Someone brushes past you too close.

Billy moves before you can even register it, a firm hand at your back, guiding you forward like it's instinct.

"I'll be home." He says, picking up his bag. "Call me when you're done grabbing Max."

You grin. "Worried about me?"

"Just makin' sure you don't punch another counselor."

He hesitates like he wants to say more, like there's something heavy sitting right behind his eyes, but instead he steps back, hands shoving into his pockets. You watch him go, shoulders squared, armor sliding right back into place the second other people come into view.

You head the opposite direction, toward the quieter hallway near the counselor's office. The noise of school fades with each step until it's just the hum of the quiet fluorescent lights and the dull thud of your heartbeat. You take a seat on the bench outside the door, backpack at your feet.

Students walk by quietly as you wait, all heading out of the building for the day or walking toward the field for whatever practice they have.

You cross your arms, glancing down at your watch before looking over at the door to the counselor's office.

Max steps out slowly, quietly shutting the door behind her before glancing at you.

"You... waited?"

You stand up, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "Figured you need company. And someone to give you a ride home."

She nods and starts walking with you. "Thank you."

Max doesn't talk at first, just syncs her steps with yours. The hallway is quiet, your steps echoing off the floors. You push the door open in front of you, holding it out for Max.

Outside, the evening sun shines brightly, gleaming off all the cars in the parking lot. Yells and chants are heard from the football field off to the side of the school, muffling as you walk in the opposite direction.

You slide your bag into the backpack, grabbing Max's as she slides into the passenger seat, waiting patiently. You round the car, sitting silently before starting the engine.

"How was your meeting?" You ask quietly, pulling away from the school.

"It was... alright." Max shrugs, glancing out the window.

You look over at her, gaze switching between her and the road ahead.

"It's... stupid." She says suddenly.

"What is?"

She shrugs again, head dipping down. "Crying. Talking about my feelings without getting much help."

"She's not doing much for you?"

"No- I mean, I guess she is. But... there's only so much she can say before it gets old." She admits.

There's a long moment of silence between you; the sound of tires against asphalt is the only thing heard.

"Jesus, I sound like my brother." She mutters, glancing back out the window.

You quirk a brow, trying to hide the smile on your face. "What do you mean?"

"He's always saying how counselors don't do much but take your money and give you shit advice." She breathes out. "For once, he might be right."

You tighten your grip on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah,” you say after a moment. “He says a lot of things like that.”

Max glances at you, really looks this time, like she’s piecing something together. She doesn’t push it. Just nods, leaning back in her seat as the car hums forward, the weight of unsaid things settling between you.

"Maybe it'd be good for him." She blurts out, surprised at her own words.

You bring your hand up from the wheel. "Trust me. I've already suggested that. And I don't hear the end of it."

Max lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "At least you have some control over him, though. So you're not... totally screwed."

"Me? Having control over Billy?" You pull into the driveway, parking quickly before looking over at her. "What are you smoking?"

"Nothing," she laughs. "But like, ever since he asked you out, he's been so nice to people. Well- us. It kind of... creepy, honestly."

You let out a soft giggle. "Trust me. I don't have control over him. I'm just bossy."

She unbuckles her seatbelt, cracking the door open. "You should teach me how to be bossy. Clearly, it works."

You shut the car door softly, slinging your bag higher on your shoulder. Max shuts hers too, lingering for half a second before glancing toward the front of the house.

"He's probably inside already." She says, like it's obvious.

You hum in response, eyes lifting to the front door. The house looks the same as always. Quiet, still, almost too still. The curtains barely move in the faint breeze. No sign of Neil's car in the driveway. That alone makes your shoulders loosen a fraction.

You walk up the steps together. Max reaches for the door first, pushing it open.

Inside, the house is warm, the TV on in the living room, volume low, some random show playing that no one's watching.

Billy's sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the back, shoes kicked off and tossed near the coffee table. He looks comfortable in that rare, careless way he only ever allows when he's sure no one else is around.

His head turns the second the door opens.

"There you are." He says, voice easy, lips tugging into something close to a smile.

His eyes flick over you quickly, instinctively, checking for something you don't think he even realizes he's looking for. When they settle back on your face, his shoulders loosen the slightest bit.

Max groans, already halfway down the hallway. "I'm going to my room."

Billy barely glances her way. "Shocking."

She flips him off without slowing down, her door shutting with a muted thud.

You drop your bag by the door and kick your shoes off, padding farther into the room. Billy shifts, sitting up slightly and making space beside him without thinking about it.

"You hungry?" He asks, nodding toward the kitchen. "There's pizza. From yesterday. Might still be good."

"Might?" You repeat, eyebrow lifting as you sit beside him.

He smirks. "I said might."

The couch dips under your weight, the warmth from his body bleeding into your side. The TV murmurs in the background, light flickering across his face. Up close, you notice the faint crease between his brows, like he's holding something back.

Your knee brushes against his. He doesn't move away. Instead, he leans in closer, shoulder pressing into yours, comfortable in a way that feels almost domestic. Familiar. His arm comes up to rest loosely around you, thumb brushing against your sleeve once.

"So? How'd it go?"

"Max?" You ask.

"Yeah."

You shrug lightly, eyes staying on the screen even though you're not paying attention. "Same as usual. She's trying."

He nods, jaw tightening just slightly, like the word means more than he wants it to. "Good."

Silence settles between you, not awkward, but full. The TV keeps playing. The sunlight shifts lower, shadows stretching across the room. Billy's fingers tap faintly against his thigh, a restless rhythm that gives him away if you pay attention.

"You're quiet." You murmur.

He exhales through his nose. "Am I?"

"Yeah."

He glances at you sideways, eyes studying your face like he's deciding how honest he wants to be. After a beat, he looks back at the TV.

"Just tired."

You don't push, just simply lean your head against his shoulder. He stills for a second before relaxing, arm tightening around you just barely. The moment stretched, quiet and fragile.

Then he shifts.

Not abruptly. But enough for you to feel it.

"I have to head out." He says suddenly, voice casual but timed too carefully.

You lift your head, blinking as you turn toward him. "What? Why?"

He sits up fully, running a hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly like he's tugging at a thought he doesn't want to hold onto. "Just... the store."

"The store?" You echo, skepticism slipping in before you can stop it.

"Yeah." He lets out a short laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Since when is that weird?"

You narrow your eyes. "Since when do you go to the store?"

"Since today." He says quickly.

You stand too, closing the distance between you. "Billy."

He grabs his jacket from the back of the couch, movements suddenly restless. "My dad asked me to pick something up earlier. I forgot."

"Earlier when?" You ask gently.

"When I got home." He replies too fast.

Something twists in your stomach. You watch the way his foot taps against the floor, the way his jaw tightens like he's bracing himself.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says instantly. "I'm fine."

You hesitate. "I can come with you."

He freezes. For a moment, he actually looks at you, and the mask slips just enough to show uncertainty below it.

"No." He says, sharper than he means to. "I'll be quick. Promise."

You search his face, trying to read what he isn't saying. "You sure?"

He nods. "Yeah. Go hang out with Max or something. I'll be back before you know it."

There's a beat where neither of you move.

"Okay," you say quietly.

Relief flashes across his face. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough to feel intentional.

"Don't get into trouble." He says.

"You're literally the one leaving." You point out.

He huffs a quiet laugh as he walks toward the door. "Lock it behind me."

The door clicks shut behind him moments later. The sound of the car fades down the street, leaving the house feeling too still again.

You stand there longer than you mean to, staring at the door, unease curling low in your chest.

The lock clicks as you turn it, and you walk back down the hallway toward Max's room.

You stop just outside her door, hand hovering just inches from the wood.

You knock lightly. And Max's voice comes from inside, muffled but not annoyed.

You turn the knob and push the door open.

Her room is dim, curtains pulled shut, sunlight leaking through the narrow gap at the top. Posters line the walls full of bands, skate brands, and old movies. Her window is cracked open, letting in the faint sounds of the neighborhood.

Max is sitting cross-legged on her bed, back against the wall, her skateboard leaned up beside her like it belongs there. She looks up when she sees you, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"Oh, hey."

"Hey." You reply softly, closing the door behind you.

She watches you for a second, eyes flicking over your face like she's checking something. Then she nods toward the empty space on the bed. "You can sit. If you want."

You walk over slowly and sit beside her. The mattress dips under your weight. Not too close. Not far away either. Just enough that your shoulders are almost touching.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Outside, a car passes, filling the space.

You sit for a moment, the quiet stretching until it starts to feel like pressure behind your ribs.

"He didn't go to the store." Max says suddenly.

You blink, turning your head toward her. "What?"

She doesn't look at you. Her gaze is fixed on a chip in the paint on her wall, her jaw set.

"He hates the store." She continues. "He complains the whole time. And he never forgets his wallet." She exhales through her nose. "He didn't even grab his keys."

Your stomach tightens. "How-"

"I was in the kitchen." She answers before you can finish.

You sit silent, mind already going other places. "I didn't notice." You admit, fingers laced together in your lap.

"That's because he didn't want you to." Her voice is flat, practiced. Like this is something she's learned over time.

You shift on the bed, fingers pressing into the mattress. "So where do you think he went?"

Max shrugs, but it's sharp. Defensive. "Could be anywhere."

"That's not an answer."

She snorts softly. "Yeah. Welcome to living with him."

She reaches out and drags her skateboard closer, resting it across her lap. Her fingers trace the worn grip tape absentmindedly, grounding herself. "When he leaves like that," she says slowly. "It's usually one of two things."

You hold your breath. "Which are?"

She hesitates. "Either he picked a fight," she says finally. "Or he just... takes off."

"For how long?"

Her shoulders lift, then drop. "A few fours. A night. Sometimes longer."

That sinks heavy in your chest. You lean back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. There's a thin crack running along the corner, easy to miss unless you're looking for something to focus on.

"He didn't seem mad, though." You say more to yourself than to her. "Just... closed off."

Max's mouth twists. "That's worse."

You glance at her. "Why?"

"Because when he's mad, he explodes." She taps her fingers against the skateboard. "When he's quiet like that, it means he's thinking. And Billy thinking usually doesn't end great."

"You scared?" You ask after a beat.

She scoffs. "Of what? Him getting into another fight? Or him not coming back?"

You don't answer. And she takes that as one anyway.

"I'm not scared." She says, though her voice lacks conviction. "I'm just... tired."

You nod understandingly.

"He's not easy." She continues, finally looking at you. Her eyes are sharp, guarded. "I don't want you thinking he's some secret good guy at home. Or that it's somehow... better."

"I don't." You say softly.

She watches you closely now, searching your face. "You sure?"

You think of the way Billy's arm had fit around you on the couch. The warmth of his shoulder. The way his eyes had gone distant before he stood up, like he was already somewhere else.

"Yeah." You say, steady. "I know who he is."

Something in Max's expression shifts, recognition hinting on her face.

"Good."

She looks away again, gaze settling on the floor between her feet.

"Then you won't romanticize it."

The words hang there, heavier than they sound. She doesn't say it harshly. There's no accusation in her tone. It's tired. Honest. Like she's naming something she's seen happen too many times.

"You won't turn it into something it's not." She adds after a beat. "You won't call his anger 'passion' or his disappearing 'freedom.'" Her fingers tighten around the edge of the skateboard. "You won't make excuses just because you care about him."

Your throat feels tight. "I'm not trying to fix him."

"I know." She reassures. "But people try anyway. They tell themselves stories so it hurts less."

She leans back against the wall, head tipping slightly as she stares at the ceiling. "I don't want to be the bad guy for seeing him clearly."

You shift closer without thinking, your shoulder brushing hers.

I'm not going to do that." You promise quietly. "I'm not one who pretends."

She nods once. Both of you sit there, side by side, listening. Waiting.

Time passes in a strange, stretched way.

You and Max don't do anything at first. You just exist in the same space, the quiet thick enough to press against your ears. The sky outside continues to darken, the last of the daylight bleeding out until the room is lit mostly by shadow and the faint orange glow of a streetlamp.

Max eventually shifts, stretching her legs out and kicking her shoes off. She reaches over to her nightstand and flips on a small lamp.

"So," she says, voice casual in a way that doesn't quite work. "You wanna watch something? Or- I don't know. Play cards?"

You hum softly. "Sure."

She digs around in her drawer and pulls out a battered deck of cards, the edges worn soft. You sit cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, shuffling slowly. The sound of the cards sliding together is soothing. Something to focus on that isn't the front door.

You deal lazily, not keeping score. Half the time, you forget whose turn it is. Max calls you out on it once, rolling her eyes playfully, and for a moment, it almost feels normal.

Almost.

And then, the sound hits.

An engine roars into the driveway, loud and abrupt, cutting through the quiet like a knife.

Both of you freeze.

The cards slip from your fingers, scattering across the bed. Max's head snaps toward the window. Your heart jumps so hard it feels like it knocks the breath from your lungs.

The engine doesn't idle. It cuts off sharply. There's a beat of silence.

Then the front door opens. And slams. Hard enough that the walls shudder with it.

Max flinches, shoulders tensing instantly. her jaw sets, eyes darkening with something you can't quite name.

You swallow, already shifting on the bed.

"Stay," Max says quickly, her voice low but urgent as she grabs your wrist. Her grip is tight, fingers cold against your skin. "Don't go out there."

You look at her. "Max-"

"No." She shakes her head, eyes flicking toward the door like she expects him to come storming down the hall any second. "You don't know what kind of mood he's in."

You gently pry your hand free. "That's exactly why I should check."

She scoots closer, blocking you slightly. "He's probably pissed. Or drunk. Or both. He's gonna start yelling and-" she stops herself. "I don't want you getting hurt."

"I'll be fine." You say softly.

"That's what everyone says."

You pause, then meet her eyes. "I grew up with worse. I'll be okay."

That makes her hesitate. "I know. But that doesn't mean you should have to deal with it."

You soften your voice. "I won't let it turn into something. I promise."

She searches your face, fear written all throughout her eyes. "Just... stay here. Please."

You stand slowly, careful not to move too fast, like you don't want to spook her. "I won't be long. Just sit here, okay?"

She hesitates before nodding once. "Yell if you need me."

"I will."

You step out into the hallway, pulling the door mostly shut behind you. The house feels different now. Charged.

You move quietly at first, listening. The living room is empty, the TV dark. Billy's shoes are kicked off near the couch, one of them on its side like it was tossed without care. The air smells faintly of cigarette smoke and something metallic underneath it.

Your stomach twists.

You take another step. Then another.

You hear water running. The sound draws you down the hall, past Neil and Susan's bedroom, past the guest room, until you stop outside the bathroom.

The door is half open. Light spills out onto the hallway floor.

"Billy?" You call gently.

No answer.

You push the door open the rest of the way. And your breath catches painfully in your chest.

Billy leans hunched over the sink, hand gripping the porcelain so tight his knuckles are white. His head is bowed, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Blood runs freely from a cut above his brow, trailing down the bridge of his nose, slipping past his lips, and dripping into the sink.

His shirt is wrinkled, collar stretched, one sleeve torn slightly at the seam. There's a dark bruise already forming along his cheekbone, angry and deep.

When he finally lifts his head and sees you in the doorway, his expression changes instantly. The armor snaps back into place.

"Jesus." He snaps. "What are you doing here?"

You step closer without thinking. "Billy-"

"Go back to Max." He says, turning back to the sink. "I said I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

He scoffs, reaching up and pressing a towel roughly to his face. "I said I'm fine."

Blood soaks through the fabric almost immediately. Your chest tightens, fear and anger tangling together.

"You call that fine?" You say quietly, stepping fully into the bathroom now. "You're dripping blood all over the floor."

He finally turns toward you again, eyes blazing. "I told you to go hang out with Max."

For a second, something flickers in his eyes. Guilt. Shame. Fear.

Then it's gone.

"I got into a fight." He says flatly, like that explains everything. "Big deal."

You don't raise your voice. You don't have to.

"You're not fine." You say quietly, stepping closer. The bathroom light is harsh, catching every cut and bruise in his face. "Sit down."

He lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "No. I don't need-"

Your voice drops, firm. "Sit. Down."

That gets a huff of a laugh out of him.

You soak a clean cloth under the faucet, twisting it until it's damp. "Sit."

He hesitates, pride flaring, then exhales hard and does it anyway. The movement is stiff and uncomfortable. He braces his elbows on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them, head tipped forward like he doesn't want to look at you while you do this.

You step between his knees, lifting the cloth slowly. "Stay still."

The second the cloth brushes against the cut above his brow, he flinches sharply, breath hitching in his chest. A low curse slips out of him, teeth clenched, muscles going rigid like his body expects pain to turn into something worse.

"I know," you murmur, keeping your touch light. "I've got you."

You dab instead of wipe, careful and slow. Blood smears onto the cloth, warm and dark. You clean along the edge of the cut first, following its shape. His breathing is uneven now, shallow and controlled like he's trying not to react too much.

"Jesus." He mutters. "You're gentle."

"Don't sound so surprised."

You move lower, cleaning the blood from the bridge of his nose, then along his cheek. Up close, you can see how tense he is, the way his jaw flexes constantly, the way his shoulders stay hunched like he's bracing for impact that never comes.

After a moment, you speak again. "What actually happened?"

He lets out a breath through his nose. "Guy ran is mouth."

"That's not an explanation."

He shrugs, then winces when the movement pulls at his bruised cheek. "I was already pissed. Stopped for gas. he said something about me and you. Didn't really matter what it was."

You pause, cloth hovering. "And... you didn't walk away."

"No."

You go back to cleaning, quieter now. "Why?"

He doesn't answer right away. You reach for peroxide.

His eyes flick to it, narrowing. "You're kidding."

"I wish." You say. "It's going to sting."

"Sting." He echoes flatly. "Great."

You pour a small amount onto the cloth. The sharp smell fills the bathroom instantly, clean and biting. When you press it gently to his skin, he hisses through his teeth, shoulders locking up as his hands grip his knees.

"Fuck-" he mutters, breath breaking.

"I know," you say, steady and grounding. "Just breathe. Look at me."

He doesn't want to, but he does anyway. His eyes meet yours, dark and glassy, jaw trembling as he forces himself to stay still.

"There. You're okay."

The words seem to hit him harder than the sting.

As you clean the last of the cut, you speak softly, carefully choosing your words. "You lied to me about the store."

His gaze drops immediately. "Didn't wanna drag you into it."

"You already did." You say gently. "The second you walked out the door."

He swallows hard. "I didn't want to disappoint you."

Your hand stills, fingers resting lightly against his cheek. "You think telling me the truth would disappoint me more than this?" You ask quietly.

He laughs under his breath, broken and shy. "You don't get it."

"Than help me understand."

He stares at the floor for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling slowly as if he's trying to calm something inside of him.

"I don't know how to be normal." He admits. "Every time something goes wrong, it's like my body just... reacts. I don't think. I don't stop." His voice drops. "I hate it."

You reach for a bandage, carefully pressing gauze to his brow. He flinches again, but less. You tape it into place gently, smoothing the edges with your thumb.

"You're not a lost cause." You say quietly.

He shakes his head automatically. "Feels like one."

You meet his eyes. "You came home."

That makes him pause.

"You could've stayed gone. But you didn't." You continue.

There's a soft beat of silence.

"I don't want to be this person forever." He says, voice rough. "I don't want Max looking at me like she's waiting for something bad to happen." His jaw tightens. "I don't want you looking at me like that either."

"You don't scare me." You say softly. "You worry me."

Something in him breaks at that. You see it before he says anything. The way his eyes gloss over. The way his breath stutters just slightly, like he wasn't expecting that answer.

He shakes his head, turning away from you, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. "Don't."

You don't move back. You don't chase his face either.

"I want to change," he says suddenly, words spilling out faster now, like once they start, he can't stop them. "I swear I do. I just don't know how to rip this out of me without losing everything else."

His voice cracks. He hates that it does.

You step closer, resting your hand on his shoulder, feeling how tense he is under your touch. "You don't have to rip anything out." You whisper. "You just have to let someone help you carry it."

His shoulders hitch once as he drags a hand down his face, smearing at tears he clearly didn't mean to let fall. When that doesn't work, he lets out a shaky breath that turns into something close to a sob.

"I'm so tired," he admits, voice barely holding together. "I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of being pissed off. I'm tired of pretending it doesn't hurt."

You stay with him, steady and quiet, your hand never leaving his shoulder. And he doesn't pull away.

He leans forward slightly, head dropping, breath breaking as the weight of everything he's been holding back finally catches up to him.

"I don't want to be like my dad." He whispers, the words barely audible. "I'm scared I already am."

"You're not." You say firmly. "The fact that you're scared of it proves that."

He lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, shoulders shaking now, the fight finally draining out of him. He keeps his head bowed for a long moment, shoulders rounded inward like he's trying to make himself smaller, like he's trying to make himself disappear.

You don't rush to fill the silence. You shift closer instead, close enough that your knee brushes his, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you there without you forcing anything from him. Your hand stays steady on his shoulder, grounding, present.

"Billy," you say quietly.

He doesn't look up.

"I know you think you're already too far gone," you continue, voice gentle but firm, like you're speaking the truth you refuse to let him dodge. "But people who are beyond saving don't sit on bathroom floors bleeding and wishing they were better."

His jaw tightens.

"They don't hate the parts of themselves that hurt others," you add. "And they don't cry over the idea of becoming someone they're afraid of."

He squeezes his eyes shut, a tear finally breaking free and sliding down his cheek, catching on the edge of the bruise before dripping onto his jeans. His chest stutters, breath catching painfully, like his body doesn't remember how to do this without fighting it.

"You don't get it." He whispers, voice thick. "I've been like this since I was a kid."

"Then tell me," you say softly. "Tell me what it was like."

He shakes his head at first, slow and stubborn. "You shouldn't hear this."

"I want to." You answer. "And you don't have to protect me from it."

That word makes something twist in his expression. Protect. His fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans, gripping hard, like he needs something solid to keep himself from falling apart entirely.

"My dad," he starts, then stops.

You stay silent.

"He wasn't... it wasn't always loud," He says after a moment. "That's what messes with your head. Sometimes it was quiet. Worse quiet. The kind where you knew something was coming but you didn't know when."

His voice drops lower, almost distant now, like he's speaking from somewhere far away.

"I used to listen for his footsteps," he continues. "The way he'd come down the hall. If they were slow, I knew I had a minute. If they were fast..." he lets out a short, humorless breath. "Didn't matter what I did wrong. Something was always wrong."

Your hand tightens slightly on his shoulder.

"He'd grab me by the arm," Billy says, eyes fixed on the floor. "Not even angry at first. Just cold. Like I wasn't his kid. Like I was a problem he couldn't get rid of."

His breath stutters again. "I learned real quick that crying made it worse." He admits. "So I stopped. Learned how to keep my face blank. Learned how to take it and not give him the satisfaction."

He laughs softly, broken. "Guess that stuck."

"He'd tell me I was weak," he continues. "That I needed to toughen up. That the world would chew me up if I didn't learn how to hit back." His voice tightens. "Sometimes he'd say I reminded him too much of my mom. That scared him."

Tears slip freely now, unchecked, tracing paths down his face. He doesn't wipe them away this time.

"So I did," he says. "I hit back. Not at him. At everyone else. Because it felt better than feeling small."

He finally looks up at you then, eyes red and shining, expression stripped bare.

"I don't know how to turn it off," he admits. "Every time I get angry, it's like I'm thirteen again, standing in that hallway, waiting to see what version of him I get."

You lift your hand from his shoulder and gently cup his cheek, careful of the bruises. Your thumb rests just below his eyes, wiping the tears away. He flinched at first, then leans into your touch without realizing it.

"You survived something that taught you all the wrong rules for staying alive." You say softly.

He lets out a shaky breath.

"But here's the part you don't see," you continue softly, voice steady, unflinching. "You learned how to live through that. You learned how to protect yourself. You learned how to keep going."

You hold his gaze now, making sure he hears every word.

"And those same instincts? They can be unlearned. Redirected. You're not broken. You're just carrying pain you were never supposed to carry alone."

Something in his face crumples completely. He lets out a sound that's halfway between a sob and a gasp, his head dropping forward until his forehead rests against your shoulder. His hands clutch at the fabric of your shirt, fingers trembling, like he's afraid that if he lets go, he'll fall apart completely.

"I don't know how to do this." He admits, voice barely above a whisper.

It's not defensive. Not sarcastic. It's honest.

You feel his fingers loosen when they're gripping your shirt. They don't claw anymore. They just hold.

"I'm not good at this stuff." He continues, words slow, like he has to think about each one before letting it out. "Talking. Letting people see me like this."

You tilt your head just slightly. "You don't have to be good at it. You just have to be real."

That makes him exhale, a long, shaky breath that sounds like relief.

His voice cracks again, softer now. "I hate how mad I get. It feels like it just... happens. Like my body decides before my head does." He swallows hard. And after, I just feel stupid. Ashamed."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes red, lashes wet, face open in a way you've never seen before.

No smirk.

No challenge.

Just Billy.

"I don't wanna scare you." He says quietly.

You reach up, brushing your thumb along his jaw. "You're not scaring me right now."

His breath catches, gaze dropping like he doesn't quite know how to accept it.

"I don't feel tough," he murmurs. "I feel... tired. And sad. And I don't know what to do with that."

There's something almost childlike in the way he says it. Not immature. But unpracticed. Like no one ever taught him what to do with feelings that weren't anger.

You guide his hand to rest against your side, grounding him. He hesitates for half a second, then lets it stay there. His thumb rubs faint circles into your shirt, absent-minded and slow.

"That's okay." You tell him. "You don't have to fix it tonight."

His shoulders sag again, another piece of the wall falling.

"Can I just... sit here? For a minute?" He asks, tentative in a way that feels foreign to him. "Without... being anything?"

Your heart aches at how carefully he phrases it.

"Of course you can." You whisper.

He leans into you fully, weight settling, trust given without words. His breathing evens out gradually, no longer sharp or guarded. When another tear slips free, he doesn't bother hiding it. He just lets it fall, forehead tucked against your neck.

"I don't feel like a screw-up when I'm with you," he admits, voice muffled but clear. "That's new."

You wrap your arms around him, holding him like he's allowed to take up space.

He doesn't joke. Doesn't deflect. Doesn't armor back up.

He stays soft, quiet, and vulnerable, letting himself be held for as long as he needs.