Roxanne Hart had cleaned blood out of Cherry Diner before. Saint Hollow was not exactly the kind of town where people solved problems with calm conversations and handwritten apologies. Men got drunk. Men got angry. Men threw punches in parking lots beneath flickering neon and then stumbled inside at two in the morning like coffee and a plate of fries could put their lives back together.
But Dean Mercer's blood felt different.
It was on the counter.
On the floor.
On the white napkins clenched in her hand.
And somehow, stupidly, annoyingly, it felt personal.
"Sit down," Roxanne snapped.
Dean stood in the middle of the diner with rainwater dripping from his dark hair and blood sliding from the corner of his mouth. His chest rose and fell too hard, like the fight was still living inside him, begging to continue. His eyes stayed on her. Not the broken table. Not Marlene cursing under her breath.Not the truckers pretending not to watch.
Her.
"I said sit down," Roxanne repeated.
Dean's mouth twitched.
"You always this bossy after midnight?"
"You always this stupid after getting punched in the face?"
That made one of the truckers cough into his coffee. Dean glanced over. The man immediately looked down. Roxanne pretended she did not notice. Dean Mercer had that effect on people. He did not even have to speak. He just looked at someone with those dark, mean eyes and people remembered every bad thing they had ever heard about him.
Roxanne hated that.
She hated it even more that he seemed used to it. Finally, Dean slid onto the stool at the counter. He moved like every inch of him hurt, though she knew he would rather swallow glass than admit it. Roxanne grabbed the first aid kit from beneath the register and slammed it onto the counter. Marlene looked at her from beside the broken table.
"You sure you want to deal with him?"
"No," Roxanne said. "But if he passes out, you'll make me drag him outside."
Dean smiled around his split lip.
"You'd drag me?"
"I'd try."
"Cute."
Roxanne popped open the first aid kit.
"Keep talking and I'll use rubbing alcohol."
"You were gonna use it anyway."
"Now I'll enjoy it."
Dean leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. His hands were awful. Split knuckles. Swollen fingers. Blood drying in the creases of his skin. Grease under his nails like he had come straight from the garage to the fight and then from the fight to her. She hated how familiar that thought felt already. Like this was a routine. Like he belonged there after ruining himself.
"You need a doctor," she said.
"No."
"That was not a suggestion."
"I've had worse."
"That does not make you sound tough. It makes you sound damaged."
His eyes flicked up. For half a second, the diner noise disappeared. Rain. Thunder. Marlene sweeping glass. The low hum of the neon sign. It all blurred behind the way Dean looked at her, sharp and still. Then he smiled again, but this one did not reach his eyes.
"Careful, Hart. Keep talking like that and people might think you care."
Roxanne pressed an alcohol pad against his split knuckles. Dean hissed.
"There," she said sweetly. "Enjoying it."
He let out a rough breath through his nose, but he did not pull away. That was the thing that got to her. Dean Mercer fought like a man who could not feel pain, but he sat still beneath her hands like he was afraid if he moved too quickly, she would stop touching him. Roxanne pushed the thought away as soon as it came.
Dangerous.
Dean Mercer was dangerous. Everyone said it and tonight had proved it.
"You cannot do that in here again," she said.
"Was not planning on it."
"You never plan anything. That seems to be your problem."
His eyebrow lifted.
"You got me figured out already?"
"Not hard."
"No?"
"No." She wrapped gauze around his hand tighter than necessary. "You walk around like you want people to be afraid of you, then act surprised when they are." Dean's jaw flexed.
Good.
Maybe something could get through that thick skull.
"You do not know anything about me," he said.
Roxanne looked up at him. The words should have warned her away. Instead, they made her feel like she had stepped too close to a locked door and heard something breathing on the other side.
"I know enough."
Dean leaned closer. The counter between them suddenly felt too small.
"You know rumors."
"I know you just turned my diner into a boxing ring."
"Your diner?"
"I work here enough that I have emotional ownership."
That almost got a real smile from him.
Almost.
Roxanne finished wrapping his hand and reached for his face before she thought better of it. Dean went still. Completely still. Her fingers hovered near his jaw. The cut across his cheek was not deep, but it was bleeding. She could leave it. She should leave it. She should hand him the alcohol pad and let him handle the rest like the grown man he apparently insisted on being. Instead, she touched his chin and tilted his face toward the light. Dean did not not breathe and neither did she.
His skin was warm beneath her fingertips. Rough with stubble. His dark hair curled damp against his temple, feathered and messy in that careless way that probably made half the women in Saint Hollow lose their minds. Roxanne focused on the cut.
Not his mouth.
Not his eyes.
Definitely not the way his gaze dropped to her lips again, slow this time, not even pretending it was accidental.
"Stop that," she whispered.
His voice came low.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you are trying to start another fight."
Dean's mouth curved.
"With you?"
"You would lose."
His eyes darkened with amusement.
"I might let you win."
Roxanne pressed the alcohol pad to his cheek. Dean flinched and cursed.
"Oops," she said.
"You are mean as hell."
"You walked into that one."
He laughed softly, but the sound faded when she wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. That was the mistake. Touching him there. Her thumb brushed too close to his lower lip, and suddenly the air changed.
It thickened.
He watched her with the kind of intensity that made everything inside her go quiet and loud at the same time. Roxanne pulled her hand away.
"There. You are not dead."
"Disappointed?"
"Extremely."
Dean looked at the gauze on his hand, then back at her.
"You always work nights?"
"That is none of your business."
"So yes."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Do you always get beaten half to death and crawl into diners afterward?"
"That is none of your business."
"So yes."
His grin came slow.
It should have annoyed her. It did annoy her. It also made her stomach do something she refused to name. Marlene appeared behind Roxanne with a broom in her hand and murder in her eyes.
"Mercer, you owe me for that table."
Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out more crumpled bills. He dropped them on the counter without looking away from Roxanne. Marlene counted them.
"This covers half."
"I'll bring the rest tomorrow."
"You better."
"I will."
Marlene studied him a moment, then huffed and walked off. Roxanne crossed her arms.
"Look at that. You can be responsible."
"Do not tell anyone. I have a reputation."
"Your reputation is trash."
"Then I have nothing to lose."
He said it lightly.
Too lightly.
Roxanne heard the truth beneath it anyway. Nothing to lose. That was the kind of thing people said before they drove too fast on wet highways. Before they stepped into underground fights with men twice their size. Before they walked around covered in blood like pain was the only thing that still made sense. She hated that she wondered who had taught him to think that way. The clock above the kitchen window ticked toward three thirty.
The Miller brothers were gone. The truckers had left cash on their table and slipped out during the cleanup. Marlene disappeared into the back to call her husband about the broken table, which left Roxanne alone with Dean beneath the buzzing diner lights. Rain blurred the windows. The jukebox clicked, then switched songs.
A slower one this time.
Something with a guitar that sounded lonely.
Dean looked toward the window.
"You need a ride home?"
Roxanne blinked.
"What?"
"When your shift ends."
"I heard you."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because that is a weird thing to offer after destroying my workplace."
Dean shrugged, but his shoulders looked tense.
"Storm's bad."
"I have walked home in storms before."
"Not tonight."
The words came too quick. Too hard. Roxanne stared at him. There it was again. That strange shift from arrogance to something darker. Not kindness exactly. Something more possessive. More instinctive. Like he had decided something and expected the world to get out of his way.
"You do not get to tell me what to do," she said.
Dean's eyes returned to hers.
"No?"
"No."
For a second, neither of them moved. Then he leaned back, lifting both hands slightly like surrender.
"Fine."
Roxanne did not believe that for one second. The back office door opened and Marlene stepped out.
"Roxie, go home. I'll close."
Roxanne turned.
"What? No. I can finish cleaning."
"I said go home. Storm's getting worse, and I do not need your mama haunting me because I kept you here until sunrise."
Roxanne sighed.
"She would not haunt you."
"She would if she knew this place had boys bleeding in it."
Dean's gaze sharpened. Roxanne felt it before she saw it.
Mama.
People always reacted to that word differently around her. Like grief was a bruise they could see through her uniform. She untied her apron and shoved it beneath the counter.
"I'll walk."
"No, you will not," Marlene said. "Mercer, you still got that car outside?"
Dean stood.
"Yes, ma'am."
Roxanne gave Marlene a betrayed look.
"You cannot be serious."
Marlene pointed at the rain streaked windows.
"I am very serious. He may be trouble, but even trouble is useful in a storm."
Dean looked amused. Roxanne grabbed her jacket from the hook near the kitchen.
"I hate this town."
Dean followed her to the door.
"Thought you hated me."
"I can multitask."
He opened the diner door for her. Cold rain scented air rushed in. Outside, his light blue Camaro sat crooked beneath the neon sign, shining wet under the pink glow. It looked too pretty for someone like him. All sharp lines, chrome, and danger. Like it had been built for speeding away from bad decisions.
Roxanne hesitated.
Dean noticed.
"You scared of cars too?"
"I am scared of men who drive like they have unfinished business with God."
His smile flashed in the dark.
"Smart girl."
She should have walked home. She really should have. Instead, she stepped into the rain. Dean moved beside her without touching her, but close enough that she felt him anyway. Close enough that when thunder cracked overhead, his hand lifted slightly toward her back before he stopped himself.
She noticed.
He noticed her noticing. Neither of them said a word. The Camaro door creaked when he opened it. Roxanne slid inside, instantly surrounded by the smell of leather, smoke, and rain. Cassette tapes littered the console. A black jacket lay in the back seat. The dashboard glowed faintly blue. Dean got in beside her and started the engine. It roared to life like something waking angry. Roxanne buckled her seat belt.
Dean glanced at her.
"What?"
"I like living."
"Did not say anything."
"You looked."
"You always this defensive?"
"With men who bleed on my floor, yes."
He pulled out of the parking lot. The tires hissed over wet pavement. Saint Hollow passed in streaks of neon and darkness. Closed shops. Flickering gas station signs. Empty sidewalks shining with rain. Somewhere in the distance, lightning lit the hills silver. For a while, neither of them spoke. The quiet felt worse than arguing. Roxanne watched Dean's hands on the wheel. One wrapped in her gauze. The other bruised and tense. He drove fast, but not recklessly. Not with her in the car. That realization sat strangely in her chest.
"You live on Magnolia, right?" he asked.
Roxanne turned slowly.
"How do you know that?"
Dean kept his eyes on the road.
"Small town."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only one you are getting."
Every warning bell in her head rang. But beneath the unease was something else.
A thrill.
Because Dean Mercer knowing where she lived should have scared her. Instead, it made her wonder what else he had noticed. The Camaro slowed at a red light, though there was not another car for miles. Rain streamed down the windshield in silver lines. Dean looked over at her.
In the dark, bruised and cut and soaked in neon, he looked less like a town disaster and more like a secret that had learned how to hurt people first.
"You should stay away from me," he said.
Roxanne's breath caught.
It was the first honest thing he had said all night.
Maybe ever.
She looked at him for a long second. Then she gave him the truth right back.
"I was planning on it."
The light turned green. Dean looked away, but his jaw tightened. The car moved forward through the rain. And Roxanne knew, with a sinking feeling she could not explain, that neither of them believed her.
That was the first thought she had when Logan's black truck disappeared down Route 17 and left the parking lot soaked in rain and silence. She should have stayed behind the counter. She should have ignored Dean when he told her to come outside. She should have kept pouring coffee, taking orders, and pretending the dangerous man who looked at her too much was not slowly becoming the center of her entire night.
Instead, she stood beneath the Cherry Diner awning with wet air clinging to her skin and Dean Mercer blocking her view of the road like trouble had a body and it belonged to him.
He had not moved since the truck left.
His shoulders stayed tense. His jaw worked like he was grinding down words he did not want to say. Rain dripped from the edge of the awning between them. Roxanne crossed her arms, mostly because she needed something to do with her hands.
"Who was that?"
Dean did not look at her.
"Nobody."
She laughed once. It came out sharp.
"Nobody does not pull into parking lots at midnight to threaten people."
"He was not threatening you."
"He looked at me like he wanted to."
That got his attention. Dean turned slowly.
His eyes moved over her face in one quick sweep, like he was checking for damage even though no one had touched her. It made her stomach twist.
"He will not," Dean said.
Roxanne stared at him.
"You say that like you control him."
"I control what happens around you."
The words hit the air too hard. Too serious.
Too much like something he had not meant to say out loud. Roxanne's breath caught before she could stop it.
Dean noticed. Of course he did.
His gaze sharpened.
"Do not look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you are deciding if I am crazy."
"You parked outside my apartment last night and just told me you control what happens around me."
Dean looked away first. It should have felt like winning.
It did not. It felt like standing too close to something broken.
"I should not have said that."
"But you meant it."
His silence answered. Roxanne looked toward Route 17.
Rain turned the highway black and glossy beneath the neon glow. Logan's truck was gone, but it felt like it had left something behind. A warning. A shadow. A reminder that Dean's world was not just bruises and pretty cars and sharp smiles across diner counters.
It was men in trucks.
Fights in warehouses.
People who knew things Roxanne did not.
"Friday," she said quietly.
Dean's face changed. Just enough.
"What about it?"
"Logan mentioned Friday."
"No, he didn't."
"Yes, he did."
Dean dragged a hand through his rain damp hair, pushing dark curls off his forehead. The movement exposed another bruise near his temple, yellowing at the edges.
Roxanne hated noticing. She hated caring even more.
"Go inside," he said.
"No."
"Roxanne."
"Dean."
His eyes flashed.
She should not have liked that.
She really, really should not have.
"You do not want to know," he said.
"You do not get to decide that."
"I do if knowing puts you near it."
"Near what?"
Dean stepped closer. Not enough to touch her. Enough to make the space between them feel suddenly smaller.
"The kind of thing girls like you should not be near."
Roxanne's temper sparked instantly.
"Girls like me?"
"You know what I mean."
"No. Explain it."
Dean's mouth tightened.
"You have a life."
She laughed bitterly.
"I work night shifts at a diner in a town that smells like cigarettes and regret."
"You are better than this place."
The words were quiet.
Honest.
They landed harder than any insult would have. Roxanne stared at him. For a second, she could not speak. Dean looked almost angry with himself for saying it. Like honesty cost him more than blood did.
"You do not know me," she whispered.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then lifted again.
"I know enough."
There it was. Their cursed sentence. The one they kept throwing at each other like a challenge. This time, it sounded less like arrogance.
More like a confession.
Marlene's voice suddenly shouted from inside the diner.
"Roxie, if you are done flirting with disaster, I need help with table six."
Roxanne closed her eyes.
Dean's mouth curved slightly.
"Flirting with disaster?"
"Do not look so proud."
"Too late."
She stepped back toward the door, desperate for distance. Dean caught the handle before she could reach it and opened the door for her.
The gesture was small. Almost normal.
That made it worse.
Because Dean Mercer being rude was easy. Dean Mercer being gentle made her feel like the floor had shifted beneath her. She brushed past him without a word. But she felt his eyes on her the entire way back to the counter. The rest of her shift passed in pieces.
A coffee refill.
A plate of fries.
Marlene muttering about broken men and worse choices. Dean staying at the counter until almost closing.
He did not try to explain Logan.
He did not ask for forgiveness.
He just sat there, quiet and watchful, drinking coffee he barely touched while rain crawled down the windows. Every time the diner door opened, his eyes moved first. Every time someone looked at Roxanne too long, his jaw tightened.
She noticed.
She wished she did not.
At two fifteen, Marlene locked the front door and flipped the sign.
CLOSED.
Dean stood immediately. Roxanne pointed at him before he could speak.
"No."
His eyebrows lifted.
"I have not said anything."
"You were about to."
"Maybe I was going to say goodnight."
"You were going to offer me a ride."
He looked almost amused.
"Do you want one?"
"No."
"Raining."
"I have legs."
"And a terrible sense of survival."
Marlene walked past carrying a tray of dirty mugs.
"For the love of God, just let the man drive you home before I have to listen to this all night."
Roxanne gave her a betrayed look.
"Marlene."
"What? He has not killed you yet."
Dean's mouth twitched.
"High praise."
Roxanne snatched her jacket from the hook.
"I hate everyone."
Dean followed her outside anyway. The rain had softened into mist. The parking lot glowed under neon and puddles. The light blue Camaro waited near the diner sign, all chrome and wet paint, looking like it belonged on a movie poster instead of in Saint Hollow.
Roxanne stopped beside the passenger door.
"I'm not helpless."
"I know."
Dean's voice was closer than expected.
She turned.
He stood just behind her, one hand resting lightly on the roof of the car. Not trapping her. Not touching her. But close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the rain chilled air.
"Then stop acting like I am."
"I am not."
"You are."
His eyes lowered to hers.
"I am acting like this town gets ugly after midnight."
Roxanne hated that he was right. Still, she did not want to give him the satisfaction.
"You are part of the ugly."
Dean's expression did not change. But something in his eyes did. Like the words found an old wound and pressed down.
"I know."
She regretted it immediately. Which made her angry again because regretting hurting Dean Mercer felt impossible a week ago.
Now it felt too easy.
Dean opened the passenger door.
"Get in, Hart."
She should have argued more. Instead, she slid into the Camaro and hated how familiar the leather seat already felt. The engine roared beneath them as Dean pulled onto Route 17.Saint Hollow passed by in wet streaks of red and blue light. Neither of them spoke for the first mile.
The radio played low, something soft and aching beneath static. Roxanne did not know the song, but it made the silence feel heavier.
She watched Dean's hands on the wheel.
Bandaged knuckles.
Silver rings.
Grease still caught beneath his fingernails.
"What happens Friday?" she asked.
Dean exhaled through his nose.
"No."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the one you are getting."
"Do you fight?"
He did not respond.
That was answer enough.
Roxanne turned toward him.
"Underground?"
His jaw ticked.
"Who told you that?"
"Saint Hollow has like five hobbies and gossip is three of them."
Dean kept his eyes on the road.
"Stay away from it."
"From what? The fights?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because men there do not care who gets hurt."
"And you do?"
His grip tightened on the wheel. Rain misted across the windshield. The wipers dragged back and forth.
"I care who hurts you."
Roxanne went still. The words slipped through the car like smoke.
Quiet.
Dark.
Possessive in a way that should have made her demand he pull over. Instead, her heart beat harder.
"You cannot say things like that," she whispered.
Dean laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
"I know."
"Then stop."
"I am trying."
That made her look at him. Really look at him.
Dean Mercer in the blue glow of the dashboard looked tired.
Not just physically.
Tired in his bones.
Like every fight, every rumor, every bad decision had settled under his skin and stayed there. For the first time, Roxanne wondered if Dean was not chasing violence. Maybe he was trying to outrun something worse. The Camaro slowed near her apartment building. He parked across the street but left the engine running.
Roxanne unbuckled slowly.
"Do not sit outside my building tonight."
Dean looked toward the windshield.
"I should not have done that."
"No, you should not have."
"I did not like thinking about you walking in alone."
"You do not get to not like things about my life."
His eyes found hers.
"I know."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I keep knowing things and doing them anyway."
That silence between them felt dangerous.
Not loud dangerous.
Quiet dangerous.
The kind where one wrong move changed everything.
Roxanne reached for the door handle.
Dean spoke before she could open it.
"Friday night. Stay home."
She turned back.
"Do not tell me what to do."
"I am asking."
"No, you are not."
He leaned closer, just enough for the dashboard light to catch the bruise along his cheekbone.
"Then I am begging."
That stopped her.
Dean Mercer did not beg.
Not a man like him. Not the boy everyone in Saint Hollow whispered about like he was both warning and temptation. But he looked at Roxanne now like pride meant nothing if it kept her safe. And that terrified her more than Logan ever could.
"Why?" she asked softly.
Dean looked at her for a long time. Then he said, "Because if you show up there, I will not be watching the fight."
Her throat tightened.
"What will you be watching?"
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
Then back to her eyes.
"You."
The car felt suddenly too small.
Too warm.
Too full of everything neither of them should want. Roxanne opened the door before she could do something stupid. Rain mist touched her face. She stepped onto the curb and turned back once. Dean watched her from the driver seat, hand still tight around the wheel.
"You are a problem, Mercer."
His mouth curved faintly.
"So you keep telling me."
She shut the door and walked toward her building. This time, she did not look back until she reached the entrance. The Camaro was still there.
Of course it was.
Dean waited until she unlocked the door and stepped inside. Only then did the engine rumble louder. Only then did he pull away from the curb and disappear down the wet street. Roxanne stood in the dim hallway with her hand still on the door.
Her pulse had not slowed.
Not even close.
Friday.
Underground fights.
Logan.
Dean begging her to stay away. Every instinct she had told her to listen.
To lock her windows.
To keep her head down.
To stay far away from bad men and broken roads. But Roxanne Hart had always had one terrible flaw.
The more someone warned her away from something, the more she needed to know exactly what they were hiding.
-Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are so greatly appreciated. I really want people to enjoy this gory as Iโm working so hard to make it good!
At the stupid way her chest tightened every time she thought about his Camaro sitting outside her apartment in the rain. He had not texted. Not that she gave him her number. He had not called. Not that he knew her phone.
Still, the image stayed stuck in her head like cigarette smoke trapped in curtains. Dean Mercer sitting beneath a storm watching her window like he belonged there. Like she belonged to him. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
"Earth to Roxie."
Roxanne blinked hard and looked up from the coffee pot. Marlene stood across the counter with crossed arms.
"You poured the same cup three times."
"Maybe they really like coffee."
"That man left ten minutes ago."
Wonderful.
Roxanne sighed and shoved a hand through her dark curls. Cherry Diner buzzed with late afternoon noise around her. Plates clattered. Country music crackled softly through old speakers. Outside, the sky glowed orange with summer heat settling over Saint Hollow. Storm clouds brewed again in the distance. Of course they did. The entire town felt wrapped in thunder lately.
"You look tired," Marlene said.
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
Roxanne grabbed a rag and wiped down the counter aggressively.
"I slept fine."
"You look like somebody ruined your life."
"He did not ruin my life."
Marlene went suspiciously still. Then slowly smiled.
"Oh my God."
Roxanne froze.
"No."
"You are thinking about him."
"I would rather die."
"Mhmm."
"Marlene."
"That boy got under your skin fast."
Roxanne pointed the rag at her.
"He is a violent maniac who hangs around parking lots and fights strangers for fun."
"Sounds like your type."
Roxanne nearly choked.
"He is absolutely not my type."
Marlene looked unconvinced. Before Roxanne could defend herself further, the diner bell chimed.Both of them looked up automatically. Not Dean.
Relief flooded her chest so quickly it irritated her. The group of teenagers who entered filled the booth near the windows while Roxanne tried very hard not to think about how disappointed she suddenly felt.
Pathetic. Actually pathetic.
The rest of the shift dragged slowly.
No Dean.
No Camaro.
No dangerous looks across the counter. By eight o clock, Roxanne convinced herself she was relieved. By nine, she started glancing toward the windows every few minutes anyway. By ten thirty, she hated herself.
"Just go outside and wait for him," Marlene muttered while counting receipts.
"I hate you."
"Sure."
The diner quieted closer to midnight. Rain started around eleven. It started soft at first, then got heavier. Roxanne stood near the jukebox refilling sugar jars while thunder rolled outside. Her mind kept replaying last night over and over.
You should stay away from me.
The way he said it mattered more than the words themselves. Dean sounded serious, almost like he trying to warn her.ย Like he knew exactly what he was capable of. The diner door opened suddenly. Roxanne looked up too fast. Dean noticed immediately.
Heat flooded her face.
Wonderful.
He leaned against the doorway dripping rainwater onto the tile floor with that slow dangerous smirk she already wanted to punch off his face.
"You expecting somebody else?"
Roxanne grabbed the sugar jar.
"No."
"Could've fooled me."
He looked unfairly good tonight. Dark curls damp from rain. Black shirt stretched tight across his chest. Grease staining his hands again. Bruises fading yellow beneath low diner lights.
He looked rough. Real.
Like every polished boy in Saint Hollow would break standing next to him. Roxanne hated noticing that too. Dean slid into his usual stool at the counter. Like it belonged to him now.
"You know," she said while pouring coffee, "normal people eat dinner before midnight."
"Normal people bore me."
"That line getting old yet?"
"You still talking to me?"
Unfortunately.
Dean accepted the mug from her carefully this time. His wrapped hand looked better. Not good, but better.
"You change the bandage?" she asked quietly.
Dean lifted one eyebrow.
"There she is."
"Do not start."
"You worried about me again."
"I'm worried about infection."
"That sounds romantic."
Roxanne rolled her eyes hard enough to hurt herself. Dean laughed softly into the coffee mug.
God.
That sound was becoming a problem. Rain hammered harder outside. Thunder cracked loud enough to shake the windows. Dean looked toward the storm briefly before glancing back at her.
"You scared of lightning?"
"No."
"You jump every time thunder hits."
"I jump because you keep appearing out of nowhere like a serial killer."
"That hurt my feelings."
"You do not have feelings."
Dean leaned his elbows against the counter.
"You know, Roxanne Hart," he said slowly, "you are meaner than me."
"Impossible."
"You wound people emotionally."
"And you wound people physically."
"Only when they deserve it."
The words came out darker than before. Roxanne studied him quietly. There were moments when Dean stopped acting like the cocky town disaster everyone expected him to be. Moments where something heavier slipped through.
Something angry. Lonely.
It unsettled her every single time.
"What happened to your face?" she asked finally.
Dean's jaw tightened slightly.
"Fight."
"No kidding."
"Thought you said I looked pretty."
Roxanne snorted before she could stop herself. Dean smiled immediately like he won something. That stupid smile looked dangerous on him.
"You should smile more," she muttered absentmindedly.
Silence. Roxanne froze.
Dean stared at her. The diner suddenly felt way too warm.
"What?" she asked defensively.
"Nothing."
"You're looking at me weird."
"You just complimented me."
"I absolutely did not."
"You said I should smile more."
"That is not a compliment."
Dean looked unconvinced. Roxanne grabbed the coffee pot and escaped toward another booth before she embarrassed herself further. What was wrong with her?
Seriously.
Dean Mercer was exactly the kind of man her mother spent years warning her about before she died. The kind who burned through people like cigarettes. The kind who left damage behind without even meaning to. So why did every nerve in her body wake up the second he walked into a room?
"Roxie."
She turned. Dean tilted his head toward the door.
"Come outside for a second."
Absolutely not.
"No."
His mouth curved slightly.
"You scared?"
"I'm smart."
"Debatable."
Roxanne narrowed her eyes.
"What do you want?"
"Five minutes."
"No."
"Three?"
"You negotiate like a criminal."
"Come outside."
"Marlene would kill me."
Dean glanced toward the kitchen.
"Marlene's smoking behind the building."
Roxanne blinked.
"How do you know that?"
Dean shrugged.
"I notice things."
Again with that. Still, curiosity tugged harder than common sense.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"You get one minute," she muttered.
Dean stood immediately. Like he knew she would say yes. That irritated her more than it should have. Rain cooled the air instantly when they stepped outside beneath the diner awning.Neon reflected across wet pavement in streaks of pink and blue. Route 17 stretched dark and empty beyond the parking lot.Thunder rolled low overhead as Dean lit a cigarette beneath the buzzing OPEN sign.
The flame illuminated bruises along his jaw briefly before darkness swallowed them again. Roxanne crossed her arms.
"Well?"
Dean leaned against the railing beside her. For once, he looked strangely uncertain.
"You always stare at people's windows?" she asked before he could speak.
Dean almost choked on smoke. Interesting.
"You saw me."
"You parked outside my apartment like a creep from a horror movie."
"It was raining."
"That explains absolutely nothing."
Dean rubbed his jaw slowly.
"I was making sure you got home safe."
Roxanne stared at him.
"You do realize that sounds insane."
"Probably."
"You sat outside my building."
"You live alone."
That answer hit harder than expected. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it.
Quiet.
Careful.
Like the thought bothered him. Roxanne looked away toward the highway. Rain fell softer now. Cars hissed through puddles in the distance.
"You barely know me," she said quietly.
Dean took a slow drag from the cigarette.
"I know enough."
There it was again. Those same words.
Roxanne leaned against the railing beside him. Close enough now that his shoulder brushed hers lightly every time thunder shook the awning. Neither of them moved away.
"You always watch girls from your car?" she asked.
"No."
"Just me?"
Dean looked at her then. Really looked at her.
Rainwater glistened across his dark hair beneath neon light. His expression looked stripped down somehow. Less cocky. More dangerous because of it.
"Just you."
The honesty in his voice made her chest tighten painfully. Roxanne swallowed hard.
"You are a problem."
Dean's mouth curved slowly.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"And yet."
"And yet what?"
"You came outside."
Damn him. Roxanne looked away before he could see the effect he had on her. The cigarette glowed between his fingers as the rain tapped softly against metal railings.For a second, the whole world felt suspended around them.Then headlights swung sharply into the parking lot.
Dean went still beside her. Not relaxed stillness.
Alert.
A black truck rolled slowly past the diner windows before stopping near the edge of the lot.
Three men sat inside. Watching.
Roxanne frowned.
"You know them?"
Dean flicked ash onto wet pavement.
"Go back inside."
"What?"
"Roxanne."
His tone changed completely. Sharp now. Cold.
The truck engine rumbled low. One of the men stepped out into the rain.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Mean looking.
Dean moved slightly in front of her without thinking. That small motion did something strange to her chest. The man smirked when he spotted Dean.
"There he is."
Dean's voice dropped dangerously low.
"Not tonight, Logan."
Logan glanced toward Roxanne. Recognition flashed across his face immediately. Then amusement.
"Well, hell," he laughed. "Mercer finally got himself a girl."
"I'm not his girl," Roxanne snapped instantly.
Logan grinned wider. Dean did not smile.
"Get back in the truck."
"What's the rush?" Logan asked. "Thought maybe we could talk about Friday."
Every muscle in Dean's body tightened.
Friday.
Underground fights.
Roxanne realized it instantly. Logan looked her up and down again.
"She know what you do yet?"
Dean stepped forward. Rain poured harder suddenly.
"Heard me the first time," Dean said quietly.
The threat in his voice chilled the entire parking lot. Logan raised both hands mockingly.
"Relax."
Then he smirked toward Roxanne one last time before climbing back into the truck. The tires screeched against wet pavement as they disappeared onto Route 17.
Silence settled heavily afterward. Roxanne looked at Dean slowly.
"What was that?"
Dean crushed the cigarette beneath his boot.
"Nothing."
"That did not look like nothing."
His jaw flexed.
"Go back inside."
"Dean."
"Roxanne."
The way he said her name this time sounded rough. Frustrated. Almost desperate.
And suddenly she understood something terrifying. Dean Mercer was not dangerous because he liked violence. He was dangerous because violence followed him everywhere. And somehow, without noticing when it happened, Roxanne Hart had stepped directly into its path.
Roxanne barely slept. Not because of the storm and not because thunder kept rattling her bedroom windows all night long. Because every time she closed her eyes, she saw Dean Mercer bleeding beneath neon lights with that look on his face.
That dangerous look. Like he had already decided something about her.
Morning in Saint Hollow arrived gray and humid. Rain still clung to the streets outside her apartment building, leaving the sidewalks slick beneath weak sunlight. The whole town smelled like wet asphalt and gasoline. Roxanne stood in front of the bathroom mirror dragging eyeliner beneath tired eyes.
"You are being ridiculous," she muttered to herself.
Dean Mercer was just another town disaster.
Saint Hollow had plenty of them. The difference was Dean looked at her like she mattered. And somehow that felt worse.
Her apartment sat above an old hardware store on Main Street. Small kitchen. Thin walls. A fire escape overlooking the alley. Not much, but it was hers. At least for now.
Roxanne grabbed her diner jacket from the chair near the window and headed downstairs. The bell above the hardware store door jingled softly as she stepped outside. Heat hit immediately. Last night's storm left the air heavy enough to choke on. Main Street looked half asleep already. Old men drinking coffee outside the gas station. Pickup trucks rumbling through intersections. Country music drifting faintly from somewhere nearby.
Saint Hollow always felt stuck in time. Like the town forgot how to move forward years ago.
Roxanne hated that feeling.
She crossed the street toward Cherry Diner just as a motorcycle roared past the intersection too fast. People turned immediately. Not because of the bike, but because of who rode it. Dean Mercer glanced toward her beneath dark sunglasses before disappearing down the road.
Roxanne stopped walking.
Her pulse kicked once.
Hard.
"Lord help that boy," someone muttered nearby.
An older woman outside the bakery shook her head.
"He'll end up dead before thirty."
Roxanne kept walking. She ignored the strange irritation crawling up her spine. Cherry Diner smelled like coffee and bleach when she stepped inside. Marlene looked up from behind the counter immediately.
"Well."
Roxanne narrowed her eyes.
"What?"
"You got home alive."
"Unfortunately."
"Mercer scare you?"
"No."
Marlene smirked knowingly.
"That's what worries me."
Roxanne rolled her eyes and tied on her apron. The morning dragged slowly.
Truckers.
Locals.
Coffee refills.
Greasy plates.
The usual.
But Dean Mercer somehow stayed everywhere anyway. Women whispered about him in booths. Somebody mentioned another fight outside Miller's Bar two weeks ago. One man claimed Dean once broke someone's wrist during an underground match outside town.
Roxanne tried not to listen.
She failed.
"You know Mercer?" one waitress asked during lunch rush.
Roxanne almost laughed.
"Not really."
"He comes in here all the time."
"Unfortunately."
The waitress leaned closer.
"My cousin dated him."
Roxanne regretted asking immediately.
"And?"
"She cried for like six months after."
That should have been enough warning. Instead Roxanne heard herself ask, "Why?"
The waitress shrugged.
"He just kind of ruins people."
Wonderful. Exactly the kind of man she should avoid. So naturally she spent the next three hours thinking about him.
Pathetic.
By late afternoon, clouds rolled back over Saint Hollow again. Thunder muttered faintly in the distance. Roxanne wiped down the counter while Marlene counted receipts near the register. The diner door opened. Roxanne looked up automatically. Dean Mercer stepped inside wearing a faded black shirt with the sleeves ripped off and grease streaked across his hands.
Her stomach betrayed her instantly. Stupid thing.
Dean noticed her looking immediately. Of course he did. His mouth curved slightly as he walked toward the counter.
"No blood this time," he said.
Roxanne kept wiping the counter.
"Congratulations."
"You sound disappointed."
"I was enjoying the peace and quiet."
Dean slid onto the stool directly in front of her.
Too close.
Way too close.
"You think about me today, Hart?"
Roxanne snorted.
"In your dreams."
"Probably."
God.
She hated him already.
Dean rested one forearm against the counter while she poured coffee into a mug. Up close, the bruises from last night looked darker. Purple along his jaw. Split skin across his knuckles beneath her gauze.
Her gauze.
That realization felt strangely intimate.
"You should not be working with your hand like that," she muttered before she could stop herself.
Dean glanced down.
"Thought you didn't care."
"I don't."
"Liar."
Roxanne shoved the coffee mug toward him harder than necessary. Dean caught it easily.
"You always this angry?"
"You always this annoying?"
"Mostly with you."
That should not have pleased her as much as it did.
Roxanne leaned against the counter.
"Why?"
Dean lifted his eyes slowly.
"Why what?"
"Why me?"
For the first time since meeting him, Dean actually looked caught off guard. Like he had not expected her to ask directly. The silence stretched between them. Then his mouth tilted slightly.
"You don't scare easy."
"That's your reason?"
"It's one of them."
Roxanne looked away first. Because there was something dangerous about the way Dean Mercer watched people when he meant what he said.
Like he looked too deeply.
Like he noticed things nobody else bothered to see.
"You should find a hobby," she muttered.
"I got hobbies."
"Punching people does not count."
His laugh came low and rough.
"You always judge everybody this hard?"
"Only people who deserve it."
Dean leaned closer across the counter. Close enough now that she could smell gasoline and cigarette smoke again. Close enough that her pulse started acting stupid.
"And what exactly do I deserve, Roxanne Hart?"
The way he said her name should have been illegal.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like he enjoyed the sound of it.
Roxanne held his stare anyway.
"A therapist."
Dean barked out a laugh loud enough that Marlene glanced over.
"There she is," he said softly.
"There who is?"
"The girl who thinks she's mean."
"I am mean."
"No." Dean took a slow sip of coffee. "You just want people to think you are."
That irritated her immediately because it felt too close to true. Roxanne grabbed a tray from beneath the counter.
"You know what your problem is?"
"Probably lots of things."
"You think you know everyone."
Dean's eyes stayed locked on hers.
"I know enough."
The exact same words she told him last night. Heat crawled up her neck.
Dean noticed.
Again.
He noticed everything.
Roxanne escaped into the kitchen before she said something stupid. Her heart thudded annoyingly hard while she loaded plates onto the tray.
This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.
Dean Mercer was exactly the kind of man women warned each other about. And somehow that made him harder to ignore.
"Roxie," Marlene called.
"What?"
"That boy staring holes through the kitchen wall for you."
Roxanne nearly dropped a plate.
"He is not."
Marlene smirked knowingly.
"Mhmm."
Great.
Wonderful.
Perfect.
Roxanne carried the tray back out.
Dean still sat at the counter watching her. Not casually either.
Intently.
Like he forgot everything else existed once she walked back into the room. Her stomach flipped hard enough to annoy her.
"You got a staring problem," she said.
"You got nervous all of a sudden."
"I do not get nervous."
"You play with your rings when you lie."
Roxanne froze.
Dean's eyes dropped briefly toward her hands. Sure enough, she was twisting one of her silver rings unconsciously.
"How did you even notice that?"
He shrugged.
"Told you. I notice things."
That should not have sent heat through her chest. Outside, thunder cracked loudly. Rain began tapping softly against the diner windows again. Dean looked toward the storm briefly before standing.
Roxanne blinked.
"You leaving already?"
The second the words came out, she wanted to die. Dean looked amused instantly.
"Wanted me to stay?"
"No."
"Another lie."
Roxanne crossed her arms.
"You're exhausting."
Dean pulled cash from his pocket and tossed it onto the counter beside the empty mug. Then he looked at her again.
That look.
Like he was trying to memorize something.
"You work tomorrow night?" he asked.
"Why?"
"Answer the question."
"Maybe."
His mouth curved slowly.
"I'll take that as yes."
Roxanne hated the weird anticipation blooming in her chest already. Dean headed toward the door before pausing. Rain poured harder outside now. Neon reflected across wet pavement beyond the windows. Without turning around, he spoke quietly.
"You should lock your apartment windows tonight."
Every nerve in Roxanne's body tightened.
"What?"
Dean finally glanced back over his shoulder. His expression looked unreadable now.
"Storm's getting bad."
Then he walked out into the rain. Roxanne stared after him long after the Camaro and disappeared from view.
"What the hell was that?" Marlene muttered.
Roxanne honestly did not know.
But something about the warning stayed beneath her skin all evening. By midnight, rain hammered Saint Hollow again. Roxanne climbed the stairs to her apartment with aching feet and exhaustion dragging through her bones. The hallway lights flickered weakly overhead as thunder rolled outside. She unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside.
Everything looked normal.
Tiny kitchen.
Couch near the window.
Record player beside the bookshelf.
Nothing out of place.
Still, Dean's words echoed in her head.
Lock your windows tonight.
Ridiculous. He was ridiculous.
Roxanne changed into an oversized shirt and shorts before opening the fire escape window slightly for fresh air. Rain cooled the room instantly. Thunder cracked somewhere close enough to shake the glass. She crawled into bed with a book she never actually read. Instead her mind replayed every interaction with Dean Mercer over and over again.
The way he looked at her.
The way his voice dropped when he said her name.
The strange softness buried beneath all that violence.
Dangerous.
Dangerous dangerous dangerous.
Around one in the morning, headlights flashed briefly across her ceiling.
Roxanne frowned.
A car slowed outside beneath the apartment building.
Curiosity dragged her from bed before common sense could stop her. She crossed quietly toward the window overlooking the street.
And froze.
Light blue Camaro.
Parked across from her building.
Rain poured across the windshield. The engine idled softly.
Dean Mercer sat behind the wheel smoking a cigarette beneath the storm.
Waiting.
Her heart slammed painfully hard.
What the hell was he doing?
As if sensing her staring, Dean slowly lifted his head toward her window. Even through rain and darkness, she felt the moment his eyes found her.
Neither of them moved.
Dean took one final drag from the cigarette before crushing it out in the ashtray. Then, without looking away from her window, he drove off into the storm.
Leaving Roxanne standing there breathless beneath flickering lightning with one terrifying realization settling deep in her chest.
The mechanic with blood on his knuckles and trouble stitched into his skin.
By day, he works at his father's garage just outside town. By night, he disappears into underground fights held in abandoned warehouses off Route 17,leaving with bruises, broken ribs, and more rumors trailing behind him than anyone can keep up with.
People say Dean Mercer is dangerous.
They say he drinks too much, fights too hard, and ruins every girl stupid enough to get close to him.
Roxanne Hart has no interest in becoming one of them.
Working late shifts at Cherry Diner and saving every dollar she can is supposed to be her way out of Saint Hollow. She doesn't have time for town disasters in leather jackets and dirty white tank tops, especially ones who walk into her diner at two in the morning covered in blood and acting like they own the place.
But Dean Mercer looks at Roxanne differently.
Too intensely. Too long.
Like she's something worth wrecking himself for.
What starts as sharp insults and slammed coffee mugs turns into midnight drives beneath neon lights, bruised knuckles in diner kitchens, and a dangerous attraction neither of them can seem to escape.
Because beneath Dean's violent reputation is something far worse than anger:
Obsession.
And in a town filled with secrets, storms, and people who never outrun their pasts, Roxanne is about to find out just how dangerous it is to be the only soft thing in Dean Mercer's world.
Blacktop Hearts is a gritty 80's dark romance featuring enemies to lovers tension, underground fighting rings, neon lit highways, small town secrets, and a love story messy enough to leave scars behind.
Chapter 1: Cherry Smoke
Rain hit the window panes hard enough to sound like rocks.
Roxanne Hart barely glanced up from the coffee pot as thunder rattled the windows of Cherry Diner. The neon OPEN sign buzzed faintly above the glass, throwing pink and blue light across the empty booths.
Three in the morning in Saint Hollow looked exactly how it sounded.
Dead.
The diner smelled like burnt coffee, fryer grease, and cigarette smoke soaked into the walls from twenty years of truckers passing through town. The jukebox near the bathrooms crackled low with an old Fleetwood Mac song while rain hammered the parking lot outside.Roxanne leaned against the counter and rubbed tired eyes with the sleeve of her uniform.
"Tell me again why we stay open this late," she muttered.
Marlene snorted from the register.
"Because drunk idiots and truck drivers keep this place alive."
Roxanne hummed.
"Depressing."
"Welcome to Saint Hollow."
The older woman shoved a cigarette between painted lips before disappearing into the back office. Roxanne watched her go before turning back toward the rain streaked windows. Everything outside looked blurry under the storm. Streetlights glowed gold against wet pavement. Water rushed along the gutters. Thunder rolled somewhere deeper into town.
It should have been peaceful. Instead, Roxanne felt restless.
Like something bad was coming.
The bell above the diner door suddenly chimed.
Cold wind swept inside first.
Then him.
Dean Mercer stepped through the doorway looking like violence wrapped in denim. Rain soaked his dark hair flat against his forehead. His white tank top clung to his chest beneath an open leather jacket streaked with blood and grease. One side of his mouth was split open.
The entire diner went quiet. Roxanne straightened immediately. Two truckers sitting near the window exchanged looks before dropping their eyes. Dean ignored everyone. He always did. He moved through the diner slow and heavy like his body hurt. Like pain was something he carried around so long he barely noticed it anymore.
His knuckles were shredded. Fresh blood dripped down his fingers onto the checkered floor.
Jesus Christ.
Roxanne crossed her arms before he could say anything.
"You planning on bleeding all over my floor tonight or what?"
Dean lifted his eyes toward her. Dark brown. Almost black in the storm light. The kind of eyes that looked mean even when they were calm. His mouth twitched slightly.
"Nice to see you too, sweetheart."
Roxanne rolled her eyes immediately.
"There's a five dollar charge for pet names."
"Put it on my tab."
"You don't have a tab."
"Guess I should start one."
He slid into the booth near the back window like he owned the place. Rainwater dripped from his boots onto the floor. Roxanne grabbed a coffee pot and walked over before she could stop herself. Dean leaned his head back against the booth, eyes half closed. Up close, he looked worse. His jaw was bruised purple already. A cut ran across his cheekbone. One of his hands looked swollen.
"You look terrible," she said.
Dean opened one eye.
"You always this friendly?"
"Only to violent criminals."
A rough laugh left his throat. God. That stupid sound did something annoying to her stomach. Roxanne poured coffee into his mug harder than necessary.
"You're welcome."
Dean looked at the black coffee before looking back at her.
"You flirting with me, Hart?"
She almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead she leaned one hand against the table.
"You couldn't handle me flirting with you."
For the first time all night, Dean looked genuinely interested. Not cocky. Interested. It made something hot twist low in her chest. Dangerous. Marlene appeared beside Roxanne suddenly. Her eyes widened slightly when she spotted Dean's face.
"Mercer," she sighed. "You get in another fight?"
Dean shrugged one shoulder.
"Something like that."
"That boy's gonna end up dead one day," Marlene muttered toward Roxanne before walking away again.
Dean smirked faintly into his coffee. Roxanne hated that smirk. Mostly because she noticed it every time he walked in. Which was pathetic. She grabbed the order pad from her apron.
"You eating or just sitting there looking homicidal?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"How nice you ask."
Roxanne stared at him flatly. Dean stared back.
The tension stretched strangely between them. Electric. Annoying. Way too noticeable. Finally Dean leaned back again.
"Burger. Fries."
"You got money this time?"
He pulled a crumpled twenty from his pocket and slid it across the table. Their fingers brushed briefly. Warm skin. Rough hands. Roxanne pulled away first. She hated that she noticed how cold he looked.
"You got blood on my money," she muttered.
Dean smirked again.
"You still taking it though."
Unfortunately, he had a point. Roxanne disappeared into the kitchen before he could say anything else. The cook looked up immediately.
"Mercer again?"
"Unfortunately."
The older man laughed under his breath.
"Boy's got a death wish."
Roxanne leaned against the counter while the burger cooked. Outside, thunder cracked hard enough to shake the windows. She glanced back through the kitchen opening toward Dean. He sat alone in the booth staring out at the rain. Still. Quiet. Not what people expected from Dean Mercer. Saint Hollow talked about him constantly.
The fights.
The arrests.
The drinking.
The way he nearly beat some guy unconscious behind Miller's Bar last summer. Girls loved talking about him too. Mostly because he looked like sin standing under neon lights. Roxanne understood the appeal. That didn't mean she trusted it. Dean Mercer looked like the kind of man who ruined lives accidentally. The kind people loved too hard before realizing too late they should have run.
The cook slid the plate toward her.
"Careful with that one."
Roxanne grabbed the basket.
"I can handle myself."
"That's what worries me."
She ignored that entirely.
Dean looked up when she returned. The storm outside flashed white through the windows for half a second. Lightning illuminated every bruise on his face. Roxanne sat the basket down in front of him.
"You know normal people sleep at night."
Dean grabbed a fry.
"Normal people are boring."
"You're exhausting."
"You keep talking to me though."
That irritated her because he sounded smug about it. Roxanne crossed her arms.
"You walk in looking like you escaped a murder scene. Hard to ignore."
Dean bit into the burger without breaking eye contact. Something about him felt too intense all the time. Like he watched people too closely. Like he knew things he shouldn't. It made her nervous in a way she secretly hated.
"You gonna tell me who won?" she asked before thinking better of it.
Dean swallowed slowly.
"You asking because you care?"
"No."
"Liar."
Roxanne scoffed.
"You're unbelievable."
Dean leaned forward slightly. Close enough now that she could smell rainwater, gasoline, and cigarette smoke clinging to him.
"Other guy stopped swinging first."
"Shocking."
His eyes flicked down toward her mouth briefly.
Quick.
Almost unnoticeable.
Except she noticed it instantly. Heat crawled up her neck. Dean noticed that too. Of course he did. A slow grin tugged at his bruised mouth. Roxanne stepped back immediately.
"You're bleeding on the booth."
"You worried about the booth or me?"
"The booth."
"Cold."
"You'll survive."
Dean looked unconvinced. Thunder rolled again outside. The lights flickered once. Roxanne glanced toward the windows. Rain was coming down harder now. Saint Hollow storms always felt violent in summer. The kind that flooded roads and knocked power out across town.
Dean watched her quietly.
"You scared of storms, Hart?"
"No."
"You keep looking outside."
"I keep hoping lightning hits this place so I can go home."
His laugh came low this time. Rough. Real. Not the arrogant smirk he usually wore around town. It caught her off guard enough that she stared at him. Dean noticed. Again.
"You do that a lot."
"What?"
"Look at me like you're trying to figure something out."
Roxanne grabbed the coffee pot off the table too quickly.
"You think highly of yourself."
"You keep proving me right."
God, he was irritating.
And worse, he knew exactly how irritating he was.
The diner door opened again suddenly. Three loud guys stumbled inside dripping rainwater and cheap beer. Roxanne recognized them immediately.
Miller brothers.
Wonderful.
The tallest one spotted Dean instantly. His expression darkened.
"Well, shit," he laughed. "Look who's here."
Dean didn't even turn around. Roxanne felt the tension shift immediately.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
The brothers approached slowly.
"You got a problem, Mercer?" the tallest one asked.
Dean finally looked over his shoulder.
Calm.
Too calm.
"Nope."
"Funny. Heard you broke Tyler's nose tonight."
"Then you heard right."
The guy stepped closer.
"You think that makes you tough?"
Roxanne spoke before Dean could.
"Take it outside."
Nobody listened.
Dean stood slowly from the booth. Tall enough that the room suddenly felt smaller. Rain hammered the windows harder. The entire diner went silent again. Roxanne's pulse kicked unexpectedly, not fear exactly, but something sharper.
The tallest Miller brother shoved Dean first. Big mistake. Dean moved fast. One second he stood there calmly. The next his fist slammed into the guy's jaw hard enough to send him crashing into a table. Everything exploded after that.
Shouting.
Glass breaking.
Marlene screaming from behind the counter. The second brother swung wildly. Dean ducked before driving his shoulder into the guy's stomach. Roxanne stumbled backward as a chair skidded across the floor.
Jesus Christ.
Dean fought like he hated himself.
Violent.
Brutal.
Like getting hit didn't matter.
The third guy grabbed Dean from behind. Dean slammed backward into the counter hard enough to crack dishes. Roxanne reacted before thinking.
"Dean!"
He turned at her voice instantly.
That split second distraction let the second brother swing again. The punch caught Dean directly across the mouth. Blood sprayed across the floor. Something inside Roxanne snapped hot.
"Enough!"
Everyone froze briefly. Roxanne stepped between them breathing hard.
"You want to act like animals, get the hell outside."
The Miller brothers hesitated. Mostly because Dean looked ready to kill someone. Blood ran down his chin now. His chest rose hard beneath the soaked tank top. Thunder shook the diner again. Finally the brothers backed toward the door.
"This ain't over," one spat.
Dean wiped blood from his mouth slowly.
"It usually is."
The door slammed behind them.
Silence followed.
Rain.
Flickering neon lights.
Roxanne turned toward Dean furiously.
"What is wrong with you?"
Dean stared at her.
"You jumped in front of me."
"You destroyed my diner."
"Technically they started it."
"You punched somebody through a table."
He looked down briefly.
"Fair."
Roxanne grabbed napkins aggressively from the counter and shoved them against his chest.
"You're paying for damages."
Dean looked at the napkins before looking back at her.
"You worried about me again?"
"I'm worried you're gonna bleed to death on my floor."
A slow smile spread across his bruised face.
Small.
Dangerous.
Like he liked hearing her say it. And somehow that felt worse than the fight itself. Because for the first time since Dean Mercer walked into Cherry Diner months ago, Roxanne realized something terrifying. He was looking at her the same way men looked at storms right before they walked straight into them.
-Comments, likes, and reblogs are so greatly appreciated. I truly want people to enjoy the story๐ฉท
BASIC BIOLOGY - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART THREE | FINAL PART) | PART ONE | PART TWO
word count: 9492 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list
Summary: you're paired with billy for a biology project. you only visit his house once, but it's enough for you to understand why he doesn't want you to come over again. when he starts showing up more and more in your life, you realize that it's basic biology: you were made for him, and he was made for you.
Contents: mentions of injuries (healed/healing), trauma, discussions of billy's past, angst with a fluffy ending, cows !
A/N: oh my gosh ! the end ! it feels like i've been working on this forever and thinking about it even longer, and as a new-ish writer on the billy scene, i just want to thank you all for how sweet you've been, in response to this fic and many others. your support is so important to me, and i'm so glad that many of you enjoyed this fic. i hope that you like the ending, too, please tell me what you think!
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
You wake up beside Billy Hargrove differently than youโd fallen asleep beside him. Where his face had been previously tucked snug to your neck, his breath fanning out over your collarbones, his cheek is smushed to your chest now. His arm is slung over your stomach, one of his legs thrown over your own as his torso lays slumped up against yours. His cheek chubs up where itโs resting on your breast, and- god, his eyelashes are beautiful. The eyes behind them are just as gorgeous, but for now youโre glad theyโre shut. He looks so relaxed, so peaceful, and youโd stay still for an eternity beneath him if it meant heโd be able to stay in that drowsy state of serenity.ย
His curls are mussed with sleep, bent out of shape and frizzy where theyโd typically be slicked. Thereโs still bruises littered over his face but theyโve already begun healing, shifting in color to be lighter and less jarring.ย
Your fingers come up without you noticing to brush over one of his curls. Itโs soft to the touch, and you give it an experimental squeeze, watching as it bounces back. You notice that itโs tangled slightly with another strand, and brush your pinky between them to separate the tangle.
It must tug lightly on Billyโs scalp, because he heaves an unconscious sigh. You wait for him to frown, to wake and snap at you for touching his precious hair, but he never does. Instead he settles again, eyes still firmly shut.
You canโt help it; you reach for his scalp. Your nails scrape gently, ever-so-slightly over his skin, brushing over hundreds of individual strands of hair rooted there and curled together.ย
Your breath catches in your throat as he moves. He hums, deep, soft, and low in his throat, the sound vibrating in his chest thatโs pressed to your side. It sends a shiver up your spine, but itโs quickly quelled with the warmth that comes from his face as he presses it even further into your chest. Now his cheek is practically invisible, buried in your breast and angling his nose to one side. He tightens his arm around your waist, hoisting himself up and over you even further than heโd been before. He reminds you of a cat, purring and leaning into soft touches.
He seems to like it, so you donโt stop. You rove your fingers through every inch of his scalp, scratching and stroking and smoothing through his curls until theyโre a mass of individual strands instead of grouped twists. Itโs ridiculously soft, and you wonder how youโve been able to refrain from touching his hair before now.
Thereโs nothing youโd rather do than stay here for eternity. Holding him, brushing through his hair, loving him. But your bladder has other wishes.ย
Wrestling yourself out from under him is difficult, but he accepts a pillow in exchange for your torso. He burrows his face into it just the same, and you canโt help but brush over his curls one last time as you stand over him, tucking the blankets up and around his shoulders.
When heโs securely tucked into your covers and snoozing away, you pad out of your bedroom, thankful that your parents work early shifts.
You seem to have woken up at a perfect time to make a breakfast larger than you normally do. It takes double the time to prepare a meal for the two of you, and youโre thankful that you think to group the eggs together in a pan to cut that extra time down. Youโre setting plates at the table, stuffed with eggs, toast, and fresh fruit when Billy emerges from the hallway, staring cautiously at you where he stands.
His hair is haphazardly smoothed, but thereโs no fixing the frizz that your fingers had worked out of it. Your clothes look good on him, even if the sweatpants are stretched over his upper calves instead of at his ankles from how heโd shifted in his sleep. Your shirt is riding up at his stomach and you politely avoid looking at his toned torso, even if you really want to.
โBreakfast,โ You hum, pointing your spatula at the table, โOrange juice or milk?โ
โUh-โ He flounders, blinking rapidly, โWater, please. Or- I can get it.โ
He makes to step towards the kitchen but you whirl your spatula around to face him, intent on pampering the boy, โNo, just go sit down. I can do it.โ
He looks properly chided, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he ducks to hide it from you.
You set an ice cold glass of water at his place and notice that heโs waited to begin eating until you sat down. You give him the go-ahead, digging into a chunk of egg with your fork.
โSleep good?โ You glance up at him, a questioning glance shot through your lashes. He nods, silent and careful, and you realize that he seems to have closed himself off since last night, and you think that maybe leaving the bed before he woke wasnโt the best idea, even if it was just to make breakfast. You try remedying it by knocking your foot against his under the table, and he nearly chokes on his water. You leave your foot pressed flush to his own, a constant reminder of your touch on his skin.
โDoes your stomach still hurt?โ You try again, gulping down OJ.ย
โA bit,โ His morning voice is raspy and you know youโre going to fawn over it later, even if youโre trying hard not to take advantage of his vulnerability.
โItโs mostly a cut up here,โ He reaches a hand under his (your) shirt, rubbing at a patch below his left pec. You can see his fingers move under the shirt, and you remember the wound thatโs there from last night.
โThat probably means your ribs arenโt broken,โ You conclude, relief washing over you at the fact that his bruises are just that.
โNah, not broken,โ He shakes his head, stuffing fruit into his mouth and ignoring the way juice drips down his chin, โI know what a broken rib feels like.โ
You still, looking up suspiciously at him with your head ducked to your plate. His shoulders slump, โJust some kid from school. He had rings on, and he hit hard.โ
โOh,โ You supply lamely, โIโm glad they healed.โ
You eat in silence for a few bites, but he doesnโt shy away from your touch beneath the table, and youโre thankful for that. He even shifts his foot to press more against yours, his sock slightly itchy against your skin. Right after he leans into your touch, he speaks.
โMy dad doesnโt usuallyโฆ do this. This was bad, he tries not to leave marks. I think-โ He hesitates, and you nudge his foot with your own again, encouraging him, โI think heโd be even more angry if I missed school than whatever he was mad about in the first place. So he has to keep things inconspicuous. And if anyone sees anything I just have to make excuses.โ
โIโm sorry,โ You say, not out of pity, but sympathy, โIโฆ I really donโt know how you do it. Youโre strong, Billy, yโknow that?โ
He scoffs into his honeydew.
โI mean it,โ You press on, โYou justโฆ take it. You let him do that to you because if you fight back other people might get hurt, and that takes strength. Even if it feels weak to get beat on, just know youโre saving your stepsister and her mom, andโฆ Iโm proud of you.โ
He stills for a moment, jaw stiffening in the middle of a chewing motion. He swallows dry, but whatever it is goes down fine, and he clears his throat without meeting your eye.
โHe used to hit my mom,โ Billy admits, voice now hoarse from emotion rather than sleep. He scrunches his eyes shut momentarily, โI.. I couldnโt stop him. I was too young. And she left. So I guess I justโฆ got bigger. Just in case.โ
You recall seeing a set of weights in his living room. You had presumed they were his, but hadnโt bothered to ask among discussions of mitosis. Now, though, you realize heโs bulked himself up to combat his dadโs abuse, even if he uses it to protect others rather than himself.
It spreads a thin layer of mist over your eyes, the thought of preteen Billy experimenting with handheld five-pounders in hopes of blocking a punch. What hits you even harder is his current image, a toned teen who still doesnโt have the heart to hit back.
You canโt figure out how to respond. If you say youโre proud of him again, he might shut down. If you sound like youโre pitying him, heโll be angry. So instead you reach over the table, your fork clattering to the wood as you take his free hand.
Heโs startled by the sudden movement paired with the noise, but he makes up for his momentary flinch by ghosting his thumb softly over the back of your hand. His fingers donโt curl against yours, so itโs not a mutual gesture, youโre just holding his hand. Slowly, surely, his fingers move inch by inch, slipping between your own and settling against your skin.
You wonder if itโs the first time anyoneโs ever held his hand.
โThanks,โ He breathes, his breath a huff of cantaloupe scent. He sniffles, hard, aggressively, and you know he doesnโt want you to acknowledge the tear that streaks fast down his cheek.ย
You let him wipe it away without saying anything, even though you want to tell him itโs okay. You hope that the way you squeeze his hand tells him that, though, because itโs true. Itโs okay for him to cry, and youโre glad that, even if he tries hiding it around you, he feels safe enough to let the tears fall in the first place.
The rest of your breakfast is filled with mindless chatter, a few gossip strands weaving their way through an otherwise pleasant conversation. He learns that Amanda Weaver has been telling everyone he gave her a promise ring, but youโd seen her fish the plain silver band off of her keychain.ย
โI donโt even know her,โ He snorts, โAnd promise rings are dumb.โ
Your nose wrinkles, โI donโt think so. Theyโre cute.โ
โTheyโre pointless,โ He insists, shoveling egg into his mouth, โHaving a ring to chuck in the garbage is gonna hurt a whole lot more when they leave.โ
โIf.โ You murmur.
โHm?โ He glances up at you, mouth full.
โIf they leave.โ You correct him quietly, โSome people stay.โ
Heโs frozen. Baby blues unblinking, he stares at you like a deer in headlights. You hold his gaze with your own steady one, waiting until his brain wraps around what youโre really trying to tell him: Iโll stay.
Heโs quiet, for a long time. He keeps his eyes on his eggs, roving over every crease and hill in their structure. Then he mumbles so soft you can barely hear it, โRight.โ
Thereโs a thousand things you want to say. A thousand promises you want to make, a thousand reassuring words you want to mumble against his skin so that theyโre absorbed. But the not-so-nice blare of your kitchen timer kindly reminds you itโs time to get to school, and you settle for none at all.
โShit,โ You mumble, shoveling your last bite of melon into your mouth and standing, โIโll get my-!โย
You glance back at him when you feel a tug, and heโs sitting in place, hand still entwined with yours. Heโs cautious, frozen, and you melt into a smile, squeezing his hand.
โMy bag.โ You clarify, โAre we taking the bus, or walking to your place?โ
โLetโs walk,โ He decides, his hand never letting up in its grip on yours. Itโs bold, itโs forward, itโs healing.
โOkay,โ You grin, keeping your fingers tightly curled around Billyโs and tugging him up through the shared embrace, โLetโs go! Iโve gotta be on time today, weโre taking a quiz in first period.โ
โWe donโt have to go in, we can just get my car.โ He lets you drag him to the living room, โThe only thing I keep in my bag are cigarettes, anyways. I can bum a few.โ
โBilly,โ You scold, โWhere do your papers go?โ
โIn the trash.โ
โNice,โ You scoff, wincing as you step outside and the harsh sunlight hits your eyes. You fumble with your house keys, slipping them into the lock to close up the house, โIโm gonna buy you a binder. And youโre gonna put your school stuff in it, nice and neat, and youโre gonna carry a pencil, and youโre gonna bring water, and youโre gonna-โ
โAnd youโre gonna fall,โ He yanks on your hand, pulling you tight to his side as he points at a rock youโd been headed for, โPay attention, clumsy.โ
โOh.โ You flounder, his toned arm against your cheek as you struggle to right yourself, โThanks.โ
โAnytime,โ He flashes you a grin youโve seen before, primarily aimed at his basketball teammates or a girl heโs chatting up. Itโs confident, shit-eating, and it sends a wave of butterflies through your stomach.
The walk to his house isnโt terribly long. Itโs a trek, for sure, but youโre there in under a half-hour, laughing all the while. Billyโs hand is still firmly gripping yours, and heโs funny, you remember, when heโs not crying.
โDadโs not home,โ He clocks the car missing from the driveway, โI can get mine and go.โ
โGet your bag,โ You order, face stern and brows scrunched, โAnd donโt throw away any of your school papers today!โ
โNo promises, babe,โ He teases, his own key in his pocket as he jams it into the door. Youโre thankful that he turns away to step inside so that he doesnโt see your eyes widen at the nickname, but you hope your hand doesnโt begin to sweat, or heโll notice.
โMaxine?โ He calls, shouting through the house. Thereโs no reply, and her sneakers arenโt by the front door, so you presume sheโs not home.
โProbably skated,โ Billy shrugs, โMy bagโs in my room.โ
He doesnโt have to drag you there, you know the way. You send a withering glare towards the room at the end of the hall, where you know Billyโs dad sleeps, as if itโll cast a curse over the doorway and land him seven years of bad luck. You see the fireplace poker on your way, set neatly back in its place. Thereโs blood on it.
He changes quick, and you occupy yourself with the collection of tapes by his closet. Heโd yanked your shirt right off of his head like you werenโt standing there, but when youโd turned with burning cheeks to give him some privacy, he hadnโt said anything.
Billyโs persistence on holding your hand is sweet, but surprising. The last thing youโd have expected from him was a clingy puppy-boy, but his head turns to track you whenever your hand nearly slips out of his own, and he wrestles with his bag one-handed instead of dropping the embrace. Youโre just glad heโs finally holding onto something good in his life instead of pushing it away.
You think itโs a massive inconvenience that he canโt drive while holding your hand. He tries, at first, resting them on the center console, but when he changes lanes and almost overshoots it, you pry your hand out of his own.
โTwo hands,โ You laugh bashfully, โItโs okay, we- uh, laterโฆ later we canโฆโ
โLater,โ He turns his head to grin at you, a brilliant display as he slaps his now-free hand onto the wheel,ย โLaterโs good.โ
Unfortunately, later gets pushed back a lot. When Billy pulls into the parking lot, the bell rings. He knows youโre going to be late for your quiz, so he doesnโt try to keep you, smiling softly, โJust go. See you in bio.โ
Then between classes, you catch a glimpse of him in the hall. Your stomach starts acting up again, butterflies coming in droves, mind reeling with the thought of him grabbing your hand in public. He almost does, eyes widening as he catches sight of you, broad shoulders muscling everyone out of the way. But before he can reach you, a similarly-toned man steps up beside him, a basketball jersey slung over his frame.
He talks, and talks, and talks and talks and talks, all waving arms and loud jeering. Billy tries holding your gaze over his shoulder, nodding mindlessly along to whatever the boy is saying, but the warning bell rings and you send him a soft, defeated smile.
โLater,โ You mouth, and his eyes dim when he nods.
Your efforts are futile at lunch, too. He has the class period before with a few of his friends, loud and brash, not your style. It means that you occupy your normal seat, a corner of a bench that the group to your left isnโt using, and tug out a book to entertain yourself. You feel his gaze burning against the side of your head, but if you get caught staring at him, his friends will turn it into some wild story about how youโre infatuated with him, and youโre not the type of person that makes that observation a compliment, at least, not to Billyโs friends. You almost hope he stops looking at you, too, because if they catch him staring, you donโt know how theyโll torment you.
It almost kills him to wait until youโre seated together in biology to reach for your hand. Youโd never seen him arrive to class earlier than today, heโs even there before you are. He doesnโt bother to hide his staring, icy eyes tracking you from the second you walk through the door to the second you sit beside him.
Youโre thankful that youโre officially seated together now, and youโre thinking that maybe you donโt hate group projects as much as you thought you did.
โHey,โ He murmurs, sliding his hand across the back of yours under the desk.
โHey,โ You hum, flipping your hand over to meet his palm-to-palm.
Everything seems right with the world again.
Thereโs a certain security you get from Billyโs touch, even if he probably gets more from yours. Having someone to hold grounds you, and you hope it does the same for him. Itโs strange, feeling such a strong connection to someone youโd only started talking to days before, but you suppose thatโs what happens when you remove all of the formalities of friendship. Your first sleepover just happened to be in an effort to keep him alive, not to eat junk food and watch movies.
You try to pay attention to the teacher, you really do. But sheโs nowhere near as interesting as the soft scratching of Billyโs pencil on your paper, and you canโt help but watch as he writes.
You need a ride home?
You reach for your own pencil, scrawling your answer and sliding the paper to him in response
I can take the bus. You should take Max, she skated this morning.
He nearly breaks his pencil writing: Sheโs got tutoring after school today, she skates home anyways.
Okay, You decide, and you see him smile out of the corner of his eye as you write the word, Thanks, Billy.
He squeezes your hand, and he doesnโt need to write โYouโre welcomeโ for you to know itโs what heโs saying.
Biology typically drones on. You try to stay on top of your schoolwork, of course, but that doesnโt mean you enjoy it. The class is suddenly a lot less dreary with Billy beside you, and it becomes a game of stifling giggles. He steps on the toe of your shoe beneath the table, you tug at one of his curls. He crowds your space with his shoulder and nudges you to the edge of your seat, you let go of his hand to pinch at his thigh. He has to stifle a groan at that one, and to do so he thumps his head forwards on his desk, using the cool plastic against his forehead to quell his rugged laughter.
The thunk of his head against the desk alerts your teacher, and you sit up straight, eyes on your paper thatโs covered in doodles as you try not to laugh. She scoffs, seeing Billy slumped over the desk, and probably assumes heโs fallen asleep. When she turns away, you elbow him, dipping your head down to where his rests on the desk to whisper in his ear.
โCut it out,โ You hiss, kicking his foot beneath the desk, โShe almost saw!โ
โOh no,โ He gushes, turning his head so that a sliver of his face shows, glinting with a shit-eating grin, โDo you think weโll get in trouble?โ
โItโs not funny!โ You insist, keeping your voice as hushed as possible, โIโve never been in trouble before, and if I get sent to the principalโs office, Iโll-โ
โY/L/N! Hargrove!โ You stiffen at the voice of your teacher, your eyes widening where Billyโs only sparkle with excitement, โYou two seem distracted. Anything on your minds?โ
โNot mitosis.โ Billy quips, straightening up from the desk and leaning back in his chair. He earns a few laughs from his scattered friends, and the teacherโs face hardens. Your stomach drops.
โYou think youโre funny? Youโre one missed homework assignment from failing this class. And now youโre dragging Y/N into this, too? Both of you, head to the front office. This ends here.โ
There are tears burning at your eyes. Youโre not the best student in the world. Hell, youโre not even in the top ten. But youโre not a bad one either, at best you slip through the cracks. Youโve never had disciplinary action taken against you, and gathering your things amongst the tense silence of your peers feels like a death sentence.ย
Billy barely remembers to get his own bag, and he pointedly leaves his papers scattered over his desk. You scoop them up in your own handful, and he waits diligently by your side as you pick up your things. When youโre finally packed up he snatches your hand from where itโs hanging at your side, marching the both of you to the door.
He offers the teacher a very quaint, very polite middle finger as he drags you out of the door, and thatโs what does it. The second the door shuts behind you, you burst into tears.
He looks up, alarmed at the sob you let out. The classroom youโd just exited has a row of windows that your back is facing, and heโs worried that if you turn slightly, your classmates will see you cry. As much as youโd told him it was okay to cry this morning, heโs sure you wouldnโt want your peers witnessing the meltdown youโre having. He acts fast, using your intertwined hands and yanking you into the nearest bathroom.
Your sobs echo off of the tile, and he pulls you haphazardly into his chest. Your head rests there pitifully, shoulders slumped as you cry.
โJesus, okay,โ He pants, peering under the few stalls in the back to make sure youโre alone, โWhatโs wrong?โ
โI- I donโt know!โ You do know, but it feels embarrassing to say it out loud, โI just- Iโve never been in trouble before, and itโs going on my-โ You break to quell another sob, tamping it down in your chest, โPermanent record, and-!โ
โOkay, calm down.โ Billy scoffs, and youโre surprised to find that itโs not a derogatory one, but a fond one, โItโs fine. All we were doing was talking, itโs not like we were smoking weed in the bathroom.โ
Your head shoots up and you recognize your surroundings. You glare at him suspiciously, โYou donโt have any weed on you, right?โ
โNo!โ He laughs incredulously, โI do not have any weed on me. Now,โ He takes your shoulders in his broad hands, and your fingers go cold now that his arenโt intertwined with them anymore.
โYou and I are gonna calm down,โ He tells you, voice slow and steady. Youโre the only one that needs to calm down, but you appreciate his cooperation.
โThen weโre gonna leave this bathroom, and do you know where weโre gonna go?โ
โThe front office,โ You recite, but he breaks into a grin, shaking his head so that his curls fly.
โBut thatโs where she told us-โ
โShe can suck my dick.โ Billy scoffs, โShe made you cry. Forget her.โ
โBilly, I canโt just forget her,โ You insist, eyes wide and teary, โSheโs our teacher!โ
โTodayโs Friday,โ He reminds you, โSheโs not our teacher again until Monday.โ
โFine. Where are we really going?โ You look at him skeptically, raising your hand to wipe your nose against its back.
โOkay, first, ew.โ Billy wrinkles his nose, yanking your hand away from your face and wiping it with a paper towel that he jerks out of the machine. He wipes your nose next, but he does it aggressively, smearing the paper towel against your face and pushing your head back until youโre laughing, trying to swat him away. The sound makes him smile, and it doesnโt fade as he continues talking.
โWeโre gonna go see a movie,โ He decides, hiking the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder. Your face darkens slightly, goofy grin dimming.
โWe canโt.โ You protest softly, โShe told us to go to the front office. You said it yourself, Billy, we were just talking. But if we ditch, weโll be in more trouble, real trouble.โ
โIโm always in trouble,โ He huffs, โAnd youโre never in trouble. You really think thisโll be a breaking point for either of us?โ
โWhatโs gonna happen when we donโt show up to the office?โ
โTheyโll give us detention.โ
โWe have to go, then!โ Your eyes go wide, and you start for the door. He lunges for your hand, grabbing it just before you can push your way out, and this time he doesnโt drop it when he pulls you back inside.
โDetention means weโll get to sit together for two hours and mess around.โ
โNo we canโt,โ You scoff, โThey monitor you. So we canโt just mess around.โ
โHey.โ He snaps, begging your attention with those icy blue eyes of his, โHave you ever been in detention before?โ
โNo.โ You admit quietly.
โRight. I have. They donโt care. They donโt want to be there, and they know we donโt either. Theyโre not gonna punish us any further, โcause then theyโd just have to sit there with us for longer. Trust me, this will be fun.โ
โFun,โ You groan, slumping forwards into his chest rather than covering your face with your hands. Itโs a bold move, but a well-received one, and you feel his firm chest shake as he chuckles.
โYes, fun.โ He promises, โBut if you really wanna walk up to that office and get lecturedโฆโ
โBilly,โ You bite the inside of your cheek, lifting your head up so that your chin rests against his chest, โI.. I do. Iโm sorry, I know you want to have fun, and- and you can go to the movies if you want! But I donโt want detention on my record. Even if it wonโt do anything, I just- it sounds bad.โ
โOkay.โ He says, after a moment of tense silence. His grin fades, but he doesnโt scoff or push you away. He sighs dramatically, โYouโre changing me, yโknow. Normally Iโd be halfway home by now, but youโve got me hauling myself in to see the principal, this is bullshit.โ
โI told you you could go to the movies!โ You gush, laughing weakly at his dramatic display. He brings one of his large hands up to your face, smearing his rough thumb beneath your eyes and wiping away the sticky tear tracks there.
โNo,โ He sighs again, huffing and puffing, โIโm the one that got you in trouble, Iโm not gonna ditch you. Weโll just suffer together.โ
His words strike something in you. Heโs chosen to change himself, to face consequences for his actions when heโd normally flee. Youโre proud of him, so insanely proud that you decide to change yourself as well, and when he leads you towards the office by your intertwined hands, you turn sharply and drag him the other way.
โWha- Woah.โ His eyes widen as you yank him down the hallway, your feet slapping against the shitty linoleum flooring. You beeline for the door, bursting into the daylight with your adrenaline-pumped chest heaving. You come to a stop just outside the building, looking back at him with a thrill glowing in your eyes.
โWhat movie are we seeing?โ You pant, and his grin reappears.
โYouโre trouble.โ He declares in a laugh, โLetโs go.โ
Billy drives fast. This time it doesnโt seem like recklessness, though, but fun. The windows are rolled down, and wind whips through the car and ruffles your hair. His own blonde curls are flying, in his face and over his shoulders against the seat.
โSlow down!โ You shriek, laughing through your words, โWeโre gonna crash!โ
โWhat are we gonna crash into,โ He gestures to the empty road in front of you, all farmland and dust as the same laughter bleeds into his own voice, โA haybale? You want me to slow down so you can admire the scenery?โ
There is no scenery. Thereโs fields, half-dead grass rolling on for miles and miles and passing by so fast that it looks like the sand on a beach. The sky is your ocean, blue and foamy white where clouds streak across it. You pass isolated barns, groves of trees, and-
โCows!โ
โWhat?โ
โCows! Thereโs cows up there,โ You gush, pointing aggressively at the pasture, โStop!โ
โI canโt-! Uh, okay,โ Billy rushes to step on the brakes, wheels screeching against the poorly-paved asphalt as he skids to a stop.
Youโre surprised he doesnโt burn through his tires with how fast he stops. Youโre out of the car before he can even turn to look at you, seatbelt long unbuckled in favor of dashing for the cows. Theyโre grazing aimlessly in their pasture, only a weak white fence standing between you and them.
โHey- Hey!โ Billy shouts, rushing to get himself out of the car. Heโs panting slightly when he finally stands beside you, regarding you with an indignant look, โWhat the fuck was that about?โ
โCows,โ You croon, sticking your hands over the fence and reaching for the animals, โCome pet the cows with me, Billy!โ
One of them seems very interested in any potential snacks your hand might be hiding. Its large, wet nose bumps against your skin and you laugh, long and loud and free, letting the animal explore your scent and petting along its face when it finally realizes you have nothing yummy to offer it.
Thereโs damp bits of grass stuck to your arm from where its mouth nuzzles against you,, and its tongue is purple when it comes out to swipe along your skin. You shriek, the sound morphing into an elated giggle.
โOh,โ Billyโs nose wrinkles and he takes a step back, โGross.โ
โItโs not gross!โ You insist, pulling your arm away to wipe the grass on your jeans, โThatโs just what cows do. Youโve never pulled over to pet some?โ
โNo,โ He scoffs, โThatโs the most โcountryโ shit Iโve ever heard.โ
โYeah,โ You nod gleefully, and he thinks maybe youโve misinterpreted the scathing tone of his voice, โCome on, Billy, come pet the cows!โ
โNo thanks,โ He shakes his head, โIโm gonna go smoke in the car. Jusโ come back when youโre done.โ
You let him head back to the car only for long enough to get a few more scratches in under the chin of a cow to your right. Then you beeline for the passengerโs side, and Billy looks surprised at your arrival.
โDone?โ
โNo,โ You shake your head, reaching for your backpack, โIโm just getting my strawberries.โ
โUh,โ Billy watches, apprehensive as you pull a plastic bag of the fruit from your backpack, โYouโre not gonna feed those to the cows, are you?โ
โDuh,โ You nod, pulling the bag open and nearly ripping the seam, โCows love strawberries, I feed โem all the time.โ
โYou what?โ Billy looks at you like youโve told him youโre made of the red fruit youโre holding, โYouโre gonna stick your fingers next to those animalโs faces with food in your hands and you donโt think theyโre gonna bite you?โ
โNo, Billy, cows donโt bite! Not like that,โ You insist, hair flying as you shake your head. โIโm not gonna put my fingers in their faces, Iโm gonna hold the strawberries on my palm. Then they canโt bite me. Come on, Iโll show you!โ
โIโm not feeding cows,โ Billy insists, but he moves to get out of the car anyway. When heโs standing at full height he rips the cigarette out from between his lips, blowing smoke into the road, โBut Iโm not gonna let you run off on your own and get mauled by some hunk of beef.โ
โYouโre totally gonna feed the cows,โ You grin, eyes narrowed at him as you turn on your heel and head back to the fence, โYouโll see!โ
Youโre already jamming your hand under a cowโs mouth, a strawberry staining your palm red and sticky, when Billy saunters up to the fence. He watches warily as you let the cow nose at your fingers, then it sticks its tongue out to sweep the fruit off of your skin.
You giggle at the ticklish feeling, but Billyโs mouth falls open in horror.
โOh,โ He groans, nose scrunched and grimace strong, โThatโs so fucking gross. Its tongue is purple.โ
โItโs cool!โ You insist, offering the cow a hearty rub between the ears as it munches on your strawberry, hand slimy with spit, โIs there much farmland in California?โ
โA bit,โ Billy shrugs, blissfully unaware of the curious cow sneaking up behind him as heโs turned towards you, leaning sideways on the fence. โItโs kind of a mix. We didnโt live anywhere near farmland, but sometimes we went to visit Susanโs-!โ
Before he can tell you what random relative lived far out in the California farmlands, thereโs a cow tongue in his ear.
He jolts away from the fence with a squawk, nearly toppling over as one hand comes up to cover his ear. Youโre roaring with laughter even as you help steady him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his waist while he stumbles to a stop a few feet away from the fence.
โHe was looking for strawberries,โ You giggle, pulling your sleeve over your hand to wipe cow spit off of his cheek, โI think that was your official welcome to Indiana, Billy.โ
โLaugh all you want,โ He groans, smearing his own hand over his face to rid his skin of any residual slime youโd missed, โBut if we ever make it to an ocean and you wipe out, Iโm laughing at you.โ
โDeal,โ You grin sideways at him, another strawberry in hand.
Of course, Billy does end up feeding the cows. It takes another round of hand-holding, though, where you place the strawberry in his palm and flatten yours beneath it.ย
โJust be patient,โ You murmur, feeling Billyโs hand tense as the cow noses at his fingers, โHe just wants to say hi.โ
โWeโve been acquainted,โ Billy drawls, grimacing once more as the cow licks the strawberry off of his palm, โHe tried eating the thoughts out of my head.โ
โWhat thoughts?โ You tease, but before you can gauge the situation and figure out whether you need to start running or not, Billy flips his hand over his shoulder to where youโre standing pressed to his back, and smears his sticky palm across your face.
โOh,โ You gasp, eyes squeezed shut and nose scrunched. You stagger backwards, nearly colliding with his car,ย โGross!โ
โOh, really?โ Billy roars with laughter, grabbing you around the waist and leaning his chin over your shoulder as he presses your back to his chest, โI thought it was an Indiana welcome! I thought it was cool!โ
โNot when you do it!โ You canโt help but laugh, trying desperately to hold the cracked pieces of your disgusted facade together, โYouโre not as cute as a cow!โ
Youโre lying, but he doesnโt need to know that.
โAnd to think,โ He scoffs, loosening his hold on you but not letting go completely, โI was gonna buy your movie ticket for you.โ
Youโd almost forgotten your movie adventure. Youโd been so wrapped up in having fun with Billy, soaring down the streets with music blaring from the speakers that youโd completely ignored the way heโd driven miles away from any nearby movie theater.
โHey, yeah,โ You stiffen in his grip, turning your head to knock your forehead with his. You try not to pay attention to how close you two are, keeping your focus on his stunning blue eyes, โWhy are we out here? The theaterโs back that way.โ You jerk your thumb behind you in the direction youโd came, and his face settles into a smirk once more.
โWeโre not going to that shitty theater,โ He boasts, โWeโre going to a drive-in. Itโs a few miles into the next town over.โ
It makes sense, you suppose. He has a cool car, and what better place to show it off?
โIโve never been to a drive-in,โ You gush, excitement brewing in your belly, โWhat are the showtimes?โ
โDunno.โ He shrugs, finally letting you go to saunter back to his car and lower himself into the driverโs seat. You follow to the passengerโs side, tucking the empty plastic bag back in your backpack.
โWeโll catch something.โ He reasons, hands finally back on the wheel as you shut your door and buckle your seatbelt, โPeople around here have nothing better to do, I bet thereโs movies playing every hour.โ
He gets started on the road once more, and you decide to let him drive uninterrupted. Although it hurts you to watch unpet cows whizz by the windows, you know youโll be back too late if you keep stopping. When his tires crunch against gravel, then smooth over dirt, the unlit neon sign of the drive-in looms overhead. He leans out of the window at the counter, ordering a large popcorn and two sodas along with your tickets in that rough drawl of his.
Heโs a bit rough when he stops on the asphalt, but thatโs just how he drives. Heโs used to driving recklessly, itโs not a habit easily broken. You hope you can help him live better, sending him a soft, sweet smile as he passes you your soda.
โThis view good?โ He glances over at you, hand already buried in the popcorn.
You nod emphatically, โMhm! What movie?โ
โNo clue,โ He lets out a huff of a laugh, โDoes it really matter?โ
โNo,โ You shrug, โโGuess not.โ
โItโs almost five,โ Billy glances at his watch, โAre your parents gonna freak if youโre not home by dark?โ
โTheyโre having dinner with friends tonight,โ You recall relievedly, โTheyโll probably be out way later than us. And theyโll just leave dinner in the fridge, they wonโt know Iโm gone.โ
โNice,โ Billy nods, absentmindedly gnawing on a solid popcorn kernel, โMy dad never goes out with friends. He doesnโt really have any, I donโt think. Susan does, work friends, but sheโs probably not eager to show off her husband.โ
He speaks about his dad with a bitter tone in his voice, words coming out brittle like theyโll snap if he tries putting any feeling into them. You hum in understanding; if your husband was like Neil Hargrove, you wouldnโt bring him around your friends either.
โYou have friends,โ You hum, โDonโt you ever eat out with them?โ
โUh,โ He turns his head to stare expectantly at you, โHello? Remember how I drove you a town over to see a movie, and I let you stop us halfway to stage a petting zoo?โ
โI donโt mean me,โ You gush, โLike, your other friends! The guys on the basketball team, or whoever you usually hang out with. That little crowd. You donโt go out with them?โ
โNot really,โ Billy shrugs, โTheyโre not my friends. Not like- um,โ He drops his gaze to his lap, picking at the bucket of popcorn, โNot like you are.โ
โOh.โ Is all you can manage, then you wet your throat to speak again, โThey seemโฆ no offense, shallow. Like- like they only talk about superficial stuff together. Iโve heard some of your conversations, I think.โ
โOh, so youโre updated on the riveting world of Hawkins Highโs popularity pageant?โ He scoffs, reaching for a cigarette, โShitโs so stupid.โ
โYou say that from the top of the food chain,โ You point out tentatively, โYou donโt like it there?โ
โItโs better than nothing.โ He slows his attempts to self-medicate, hand frozen where heโs striking his lighter, โDonโt get me wrong, Iโm glad Iโm not getting pushed into lockers. But, itโs like-โ His fingers tighten slightly around the cig, jaw tight, โI got there because of what I have, not who I am. And not even that, I got there because of what it looks like I have. They think Iโm some kind of rich kid โcause I have a nice car, but weโre lucky we donโt live in the trailer park. They think Iโm mowing my way through the cheerleading team because theyโve seen us talking before. Sure, maybe Iโve flirted with a few, but-โ His face darkens in frustration, nose scrunching slightly, โOn the weekends, my dad makes me do shit around the house. And on the weekdays, Iโm looking after my sister.โย
You donโt point out his slip-up, how in a fit of passion heโs dropped the โstep-โ. Itโs nice to hear.
โI have no time to sleep around,โ He chuckles darkly, disdainfully, โNot often. But because people like me, or- or like what they think of me, they just assume Iโm selling myself out for it.โ
โItโs bullshit,โ He concludes, huffily so, โItโs all bullshit. And itโs not gonna last past high school.โ
A tense silence falls over the car after heโs finished speaking. You suppose you shouldnโt be surprised anymore, not after two days of emotional curveballs from the man, but you think it might be the most youโve ever heard him speak.
He looks nervous, fiddling with the keys in his ignition. Before he can regret opening up, you reach out to take his hand, pulling it away from the keys and linking yours into it on his thigh.
โIโm glad Iโm your friend, Billy.โ You confess, equal parts honest and tender. You want the words to soak into his veins, flow through his bloodstream and bloom sweet blossoms inside that light up his dark world.
โMe too,โ He breathes, eyes glued to your intertwined hands as he tightens his fingers into the grip. As if on cue, the movie screen lights up, and itโs just barely dark enough outside to see the film.
โHere we go,โ You settle in your seat, keeping your hand securely in his own, โPopcorn?โ
Billy uses his free hand to pass the bucket over, and you can feel the heat concealed by the thick paper bucket hovering just above your hands. You munch on the buttery snack, a kernel already lodged in your teeth.
To Billyโs slight disinterest, itโs an old romance movie. He should have known, all that ever plays at these movie marathon nights are romances and beach flicks. He has a fleeting thought that heโd rather be watching women in bikinis, but it seems like something he shouldnโt think while holding your hand, so he pushes it away and tries to focus on the grainy, black-and-white footage.ย
The transatlantic accents and over-dressed main characters only hold his attention for a few minutes. But heโs family to Neil Hargrove, and he knows how to tune out a boring speech. He focuses more on the warmth that your hand pushes against his, sweet and soft and soothing like the blanket he used to get tucked in under at his grandmaโs house. His grandma who knitted that blanket herself, just for him, and who slipped him strawberry sweets anytime his dad got too drunk to notice. And the way you hold his hand feels just like his mother used to, with her thumb stacked on his so that she could stroke it like youโre doing now. Heโs only held his dadโs hand a few times, and heโs not able to remember much. He just remembers his mom had always dropped Neilโs hand in a big dramatic fashion, claiming that it was like holding a dead fish.
Thereโs nothing morbid about holding your hand, though. Youโre not stiff and cold like his father, your fingers curve around his and mold to his skin. You not only reciprocate, you initiate, squeezing at a funny line or brushing over the back of his hand.
Youโre all the best parts of the people heโs loved, and none of the bad parts of the ones he couldnโt. If he was any sleazier, heโd ask if it hurt when you fell from heaven.
You let out a particularly sweet laugh at a scene and the sound takes him back to only a few nights ago, sitting on his bed and feeling safe. Heโd actually forgotten about his father until the man had stormed his bedroom, and he marvels at how youโd managed to suck the terrible thoughts from his head.ย
Your study session puts mitosis in his mind. Then biology, and he wonders if thereโs ever been two organisms more compatible with each other. Personally, he thinks your biology is pretty basic: you were made for him, and he was made for you.ย
Heโs broken out of his scientific reverie when your head falls to his shoulder. You throw a quick glance up at him through your lashes, silently begging for permission for something youโve already done. His heart thuds in his chest as he watches you with curious eyes, and a slow nod of his head is all you need to settle against his side. Youโre at an awkward angle, side arched over the center console to get your head to his shoulder. That makes it better, Billy thinks, that you had to work for it. It means you really mean it, that youโre not just doing it because itโs convenient. Youโre loving him because you want to.
โShitty movie,โ Billy grumbles, his voice hoarse from its prolonged silence.
โGood popcorn,โ You hum, reaching for another piece. Billy leans down to snatch it out of your hand with his teeth, and chews it with a growing grin as you chuckle.ย
โYouโre a monster,โ You tease, and a word that his brain usually whispers at him past midnight, loathing in his thoughts and venom in his veins, becomes nothing more than a nickname.
He thinks he wants to be your monster if it makes you laugh like that, all teasing teeth and careful manhandling.
Youโre almost afraid youโve insulted him with the title until he leans his head against yours, neck bent at an angle. His ear is pressed to the crown of your head, and just in case he can hear your thoughts, you think extra hard: I love you.
You last longer than Billy had, but you lose interest in the film, too. Itโs not that itโs boring, itโs just not particularly interesting, and your brain is moving too slow for you to concentrate on careful dialogue. Apparently, the excitement of the day has caught up with you. Your eyes are starting to droop, and you think Billy might be able to feel your lashes flutter against his bicep. If he can, he doesnโt say anything, he just stays curled around you in his seat.
Slowly, second by second, minute by minute, you fall asleep. You drift away from the world and all that remains is Billyโs arm against your cheek, his hand holding yours. You donโt know if youโre fully sleeping or not, all you know is that Billy is the one constant between your life and your dreams.
Billy feels your breathing even out, the soft puffs of air that hit his arm soft and consistent. Itโs the last thing he wants to do, but he lifts his head to peer at your face, seeing that you are, in fact, asleep.
He has the strongest urge in the world to kiss your forehead. He doesnโt, half because heโs scared youโll wake up and think heโs a creep, and half because heโs not sure heโs capable of loving back. Heโs taking it slow, and heโll stick with leaning his head on you.ย
He does that until the movieโs almost over, and the romantic climax is shining on the screen.
The woman has fallen asleep on the manโs shoulder. Theyโre not in a car, theyโre on a park bench, but her nose is nudged up against his bicep, too, and their hands are intertwined.
The man reaches up to her cheek, and so does Billy.
His hand is warm and slightly rough against the soft skin of your cheek, but itโs his warm breath against your face that wakes you. Your lashes flutter open, and the only thing you can see are Billyโs pretty blue eyes. Youโre almost startled, almost caught off-guard, and then you notice the dark flecks of insecurity in them, ridged between peaks of blue like ocean waves.ย
He canโt speak. Heโs paralyzed, eyes unblinking against your own, unable to ask, to tell, to beg. All he can do is stare, and hope that his hand isnโt shaking against your cheek.
He licks his lips, and you know what heโs trying to muster up the courage to do.
โBilly,โ You breathe, soft and careful, โAre you sure?โ
He manages to hum questioningly, but itโs a choked sound from somewhere deep in his throat.
โYouโre speeding again,โ You let out a breathy chuckle, but you raise your hand to hold his to your face, โIs this because you want me or because you think youโll never get the chance to have me again?โ
โI want you,โ Billy murmurs, and the man on screen echoes his sentiments.
The woman on screen leans in, and so do you.
The kiss you share is unlike anything Billyโs ever felt. What heโs used to is prodding tongues, nipping teeth, below-the-belt grabbing, but this is new. This is the soft, dewy sweetness of lips barely touching, and the watermelon balm spread over your mouth. Itโs tender in the way that you hold his hand to your cheek, and only made more so by the fact that youโre still holding hands between the seats. Itโs less of an active kiss and more of an embrace, lips holding each other in place and noses bumping.
Billyโs never felt safer letting his eyes drift shut. At night thereโs always the possibility that his dad will unlock the door in the middle of the night and take out insomnia-fueled rage on him. In his car heโll get arrested for loitering. Now thereโs nothing but you, and thatโs all he ever wants there to be.
Thereโs muted claps from the other cars around you as the movie ends, and you choose to attribute the closing scene of fireworks to your kiss and not the leadsโ. When you draw away itโs with soft, content sighs, awestruck and breathless.
โI want you too, Billy.โ You vow, more than happy to let him know heโs loved, โIโm glad we didnโt go to the front office.โ
โMe too,โ Billy breathes, leaning in to brush his lips against yours one last time, just holding them there as his fluttering eyes stare into yours.
The sound of revving engines breaks you out of your trance, and Billy pulls away from your face to look over your head. Heโs still got his hand on your cheek, and youโre cradled to his chest as he watches everyone around you disperse.
โLetโs head home,โ You murmur into his collarbones, kissing the skin there chastely, โYou can stay the night at my house again, if you want.โ
โI should get home,โ He admits reluctantly, โMy dad is probably still freaked about last night.โ
โI wish you didnโt have to go back,โ You hum, tracing the outline of a bandage through his shirt against his stomach.
โMe too,โ He sighs, and finally lets your face go when the overhead lights to the lot flick on, โBut weโll get out soon.โ
โOh? Where are we going?โ You settle back in your seat, turning to face him with curious eyes.
โCalifornia,โ He smiles, and his genuine one is a breathtaking sight, โAnd anywhere you want to stop along the way.โ
โThat sounds perfect,โ You sigh happily, head leaning comfortably back against the headrest. A yawn breaks through your lips and scrunches up your face, and Billy has to fight himself so that he doesnโt pull over and kiss the lines near your mouth.
The silence in his car is peaceful now, serene. Thereโs nothing left unsaid anymore, nothing hidden in your eyes and nothing withheld in your touches. You drift off to sleep wishing you were still holding Billyโs hand, and when you wake up, you are.
โHey,โ He whispers, squeezing your hand where his is interlocked with it, โHey, wake up. Youโre home now, weโve gotta get you inside.โ
โHm? Oh,โ You hum, bleary eyes taking in the outline of your house against the harsh beams of Billyโs headlights. โThanks, Billy.โ
โUh-huh,โ He nods, offering you a hand after you undo your seatbelt, โCโmon, if you can stand, Iโll carry you up to bed.โ
You;re more than happy to let him sweep you off of your feet. He can feel your smile as you bury it in his neck, and he doesnโt even worry about shutting his car off and locking it before he pushes open your front door. Sure enough thereโs tinfoil covered dinner on the counter alongside a note from your parents, and Billy marvels at how well they take care of you even when theyโre not home.ย
โTo the right,โ You instruct him, realizing heโs only ever gotten into your room from the window outside, โAnd itโs the second door down.โ
โGot it,โ He murmurs, chin bumping your cheek.
Your bed is still unmade from that morning, and he yearns to slip beneath the covers again. Heโs jealous when he tucks you in, and youโre glad you wore comfy clothing to school so that you can burrow under your blankets and not worry about changing.
โGoodnight,โ Billy leans down, an inch away from your face, โCan Iโฆ?โ
You lean up to do it for him, pushing your lips against his once more.
He melts into it, and the way that your nails scratch the hair at the base of his scalp only makes it worse.
โGoodnight,โ You mumble, words wonky and misspoken against his lips, โI had fun today, Billy. Iโm glad weโre friends, and Iโm glad weโre more.โ
โMe too,โ He agrees, and the sentiments heโs agreeing to feel foreign to him. Five days ago heโd have been the least likely person on earth to have a friend, and now heโs got a partner to boot. In every sense of the word, he loves you, even if he wonโt say those three words yet.
โPlease be safe,โ You cup his cheek, stroking over his slightly bruised cheekbone with tenderness he doesnโt think heโll ever get used to, โAnd if he hurts you again, stay with me instead.โ
โI will,โ Billy promises, dotting a dewy kiss to the side of your mouth as you settle into sleep, content with his safety.
He tells himself heโs just puttering around, throwing a stray sock into the laundry hamper and straightening a book heโd nearly knocked off of your nightstand on the way in. But really heโs waiting to make sure youโre really asleep, ring already slipped off of his finger and growing sweaty in his palm.
Once heโs sure you wonโt wake, he peels back the covers on your bed, taking your hand in his. Itโs got a familiar weight to it, a fact that he mentally celebrates, and his fingers shake as he slides the metal band onto your finger.
Having a ring to chuck in the garbage is gonna hurt a whole lot more when they leave, he reminds himself. Then, โIfโ.
โIf they leave.โ Your soft voice rings in his ears, and as he treks back to his car, revving the engine in the silvery light of the moon, thereโs a feeling heโs never felt before rising in his chest. Hope: โSome people stay.โ
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
BASIC BIOLOGY - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART ONE) | PART TWO | PART THREE
word count: 4926 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list
Summary: you're paired with billy for a biology project. you only visit his house once, but it's enough for you to understand why he doesn't want you to come over again. when he starts showing up more and more in your life, you realize that it's basic biology: you were made for him, and he was made for you.
Contents: gn!reader (let me know if i made a mistake on that anywhere!), the climax is a scene that's based on 2.8 (?) where billy finds out that max is missing, and neil shoves him into the closet and slaps him. it's not word-for-word, it's about a different scenario, but it's the same fight. please don't read this if it'll trigger you. fluff, angst, eventual happy ending.
A/N: i hope that you enjoy this! it's been a brainworm of mine for a while, and i'm thrilled to have the first part finished. let me know what you think! I honestly think that this could just be read as a one-shot, so don't let the 'part one' deter you ๐
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
To say that youโre not thrilled about your partner assignment for this biology project is an understatement. Billy Hargrove, said partner, is smoking out the window, and youโre not even sure if heโs heard that youโre partners yet. The most he gives you is a steady glance from across the room, but you think that he might have just felt you burning a hole in the side of his head with your imploring gaze.ย
When youโre all released to plan with your partners he makes no move to stand. He only curls his lips tighter around the cigarette and sucks down smoke.
You bite the bullet and stand, clutching your assignment sheet in your hands that are growing sweaty with nerves.
โHi,โ You supply lamely, taking the seat next to him thatโs been vacated by his previous seatmate, โI guess weโre partners, then.โ
โI guess.โ He drawls, tilting his head towards the window to let smoke billow from between his lips. โSo, what, you wanna come to mine?โ
You freeze. Heโs more forward than youโd expected. โUh,โ You thumb through the notes youโd taken, the project rubric, โLike- like today? After school?โ
โYeah,โ He hangs his arm out the window to snuff the cigarette out on the sil, โMy folks wonโt be home โtil late. Weโll have time to work.โ
โOkay,โ You agree cautiously, glancing over at his empty rubric sheet, concerningly devoid of notes, โUh, whatโs your address?โ
โIโll just drive you,โ He glances at the clock, showcasing three minutes to dismissal, โIโve gotta take my stepsister home too, though, so weโll pull into the middle school first.โ
โOh. Thank you,โ You blink, fingers curling tight around your papers, โIโll, uh- go get my stuff.โ
You rush back to your seat to pack your bag with a strange haze over your thoughts. Everyone knew Billy, what he wanted, what he did. He was notoriously forward, and though he had been straight to the point, you hadnโt felt like... prey. Still, something tugged at the pit of your stomach, a warning to be careful.
The bell rings and you turn, finding a pair of worn boots in your line of sight. You glance up at the wearer, finding Billy already waiting for you.
โUh, sorry,โ You stammer, rushing to stand and subsequently hitting your head on the desk, โFuck-!โ
โJesus,โ Billy chuckles, and youโre worried youโll analyze the sound and find components of mockery in it, โCareful.โ
โItโs fine,โ You hiss, but before you can rub at the spot youโd hit, Billyโs hand is there, mussing your hair and pushing you forwards, towards the door of the class. Itโs something youโd do to your clumsy younger brother, and it feels odd coming from the chain smoking California kid everyone talks about.
โMy stepsisterโs out in twenty,โ He informs you, a presence on your left as you walk out the front doors of the school, โSo weโve got, like, fifteen minutes to talk about our plan, if you want.โ
โThatโs good,โ You hum, trailing after him to an impressively flashy car, โI think we should just draw everything. I know she said we could use clay, but that costs more, and Iโve already got colored pencils.โ
โFine by me,โ He makes for the passenger door first, throwing it open and gesturing for you to get in, โYou can put your bag in the back.โ
When youโre seated, he shuts the door for you, and youโre oddly grateful for the gesture. Itโs kind, and once more, out of character for the stereotypes youโve heard about him. Thereโs a tense few seconds of silence in the camaro as he crosses to the other side, and your cheek finds its way between your teeth. But once he gets in and starts the car up, the stereo blares to life with a mixtape youโre sure heโs made himself.
โSorry,โ He grunts, reaching for the dial, โWe can talk.โ
โItโs fine,โ You shake your head, โI donโt mind music.โ
Though he cranks the dial back up, itโs not all the way, and the music becomes background noise to the shuffling of papers in your lap.
โSo,โ You start, thumbing through notes and ideas, โLike I said before, clay is difficult to work with, and messy, plus weโd have to model it and let it dry, and I think leaving clay unattended in my house would result in a disaster. And if we just draw it instead, theyโre simple shapes and thereโs nothing too complicated to draw, whereas clay would be harder to sculpt. And-โ
โOkay, okay! Letโs just draw it,โ Billy chuckles again, checking his rear-view mirrors for oncoming cars as he peels out of the parking lot, โIf you wanna draw it then weโll draw it.โ
โOh. Okay.โ You sit back with a huff, unsure whether to be indignant because you were cut off or grateful that you seemed to be getting along.
โIf you donโt have your colored pencils with you Iโm sure my stepsister has some,โ He theorizes, โBut maybe you should ask her. If I ask her Iโll get one jammed into my eye.โ
You let out a breathy laugh, โSheโs, uh- spirited, then?โ
โMean-spirited.โ Billy drawls, turning a bit harder than he should down a residential street on the way to the middle school, โShe sucks.โ
Youโre sure that Billy wouldnโt be going out of his way to pick her up from school if she sucked. Or at least, if she sucked all the time. Youโre well aware siblings have their feuds, but when she runs up to the car with a skateboard in her hands, you know heโs bluffing. If he really disliked her, she could have skated home. Now you know heโs softer than he lets on, but you keep it to yourself, smiling awkwardly up at her when she pulls open your door without looking first.
โBackseat, dipshit,โ Billy scoffs, โIโve got company.โ
Company. It sounds like a dirty word, at least, coming from Billy whoโs company typically consisted of girls spread eagle over the hood. But you reach for your seatbelt, โI can sit in the back, if you want?โ
โNo.โ He pushes your hand away from the buckle, nudging it into your lap, โSheโs younger and sheโs annoying. Backseat, dipshit.โ
With a huff she slams the door, and youโre suddenly not sure that youโll avoid a colored pencil to the eye, either. Billyโs peeling out of the parking lot before sheโs even buckled her seatbelt, and she sends him a nasty glare through the rearview mirror, one that youโre sure has the power to burn a hole through his head.
โSo, uh,โ You turn slightly in your seat, meeting eyes with the disgruntled middle schooler, โWhatโs your name?โ
โMaxine.โ Billy drawls, at the same time she snaps, โMax,โ.
โMax?โ You echo cautiously, and she snaps out of her glare at Billy to size you up. She seems relieved, almost taken aback that youโd listened to her instead of her stepbrother. She nods, and her lips curl in something that youโll take as a smile, even if itโs barely perceptible.
โI think Iโve seen you around,โ You muse, โYou go to the arcade, right?โ
โYeah,โ She nods, โYou... you wear the green converse, right?โ
โThatโs me,โ You laugh, raising your leg and lifting the hem of your pants to showcase the olive green sneakers.
โYou know what shoes they wear?โ Billy sneers from the front, glancing back at her through the mirror.ย
Her face flushes as she ducks it down to stare at her lap, and youโre quick to swat gently at his shoulder, โBe nice!โ
He looks at the hand youโd used bewilderedly, and Max bites back an amused smirk.
Youโre nervous for a moment, afraid youโd cracked some ancient rift between the two, but Billy just clenches his jaw, shooting her another glare through the mirror and turning down a side street into a residential neighborhood.
Though heโs entered new territory, he doesnโt slow down. Heโs going fast enough to pummel any unfortunate child playing in the street, and your stomach twists uneasily as he only speeds up.
โBilly,โ Your voice is cautious, anxious even, โCan you... slow down? Thereโs too many kids here, itโs making me nervous.โ
โI wonโt hit anyone,โ He assures you, though it does little to calm you, โI know what Iโm doing.โ
โMaybe you- donโt!โ You tense as a toddler veers too close to the street where heโs playing with a ball on his front lawn, your heart racing as he wobbles safely back towards his house, โPlease, Billy?โ
He doesnโt grace you with a response, and honestly, you think youโre lucky he doesnโt snap at you like he does Max, but he eases up on the gas, finally within the speed limit as he curves through neighborhoods in pursuit of his own.
He pulls into their driveway with ease, and it makes you question how often his parents are gone. Surely their cars would take precedence over his in terms of parking, and you worry about him and Max being left alone more often than not. Youโre so caught up in pondering the stability of their home life that you run straight into Billyโs back as he wrestles with his keys, stumbling backwards and apologizing bashfully.
โClumsy,โ He labels you, but it sounds more like a nickname than it does an insult. A mere observation, not a crack.
Max is off to her room before you even step over the threshold, and ignores Billyโs shouts of, โMaxine, we need colored pencils!โ
She slams her door in response, and his shoulders slump.
โShitbird.โ He mutters, and an involuntary laugh slips from your lips. He looks back at you with a sly grin, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a chair.
โInventive,โ You bend down to unlace your shoes, but Billy waves you off, so you keep them on. โIโve never heard that one before.โ
โWeโve got a whole list of โem,โ He boasts, and you admire the rare mention of the two of them as a duo instead of opponents, โI think her favorite is dickwad.โ
โOh, thatโs even better,โ You chuckle, โIโll have to use that.โ
โShe usually pairs it with another insult,โ He speaks as though heโs describing the plating process of a budding young chef, โSomething like insufferable or shit-for-brains really gives it an extra kick.โ
You fall into a comfortable silence while he points you to his room and while the rest of the house you can see seems lifeless and sterile, his room is definitely his. Posters on the walls, laundry on the floor, a discarded shirt, a belt, and- boxers, that you only notice as he kicks them into the depths of his closet. You try not to think about them as he tosses his bag on his bed, prompting you to do the same. You rifle through your papers again, watching as he arms himself with a single pencil.
โWe should plan out what weโre drawing first,โ You propose, hesitant to sit on his bed before he tells you thatโs where youโre working. It feels too personal, youโd almost rather sit on the floor.โ
โOkay,โ He nods, taking the plunge and sitting on the bed with his back against the wall, โSo weโre drawingโฆโ
โMitosis,โ You freeze, glancing up at him apprehensively through your lashes, โHave you been paying attention in class?โ
โIโve been trying to dump enough ashes onto the flowers outside the window to kill them,โ His head jerks upwards to look at you instead of your bag as he drawls sarcastically, and the earring in his left ear dangles, shining in the light streaming in from the windows. You heave a sigh with raised eyebrows, ducking your head to continue searching through your bag.
โHereโs a diagram,โ You offer up a recent class handout, one that youโre sure heโd used to spit his gum out in, โThis isnโt the order the steps are in, though. So we have to reorder them, then draw them all and write about them.โ
โThereโs only four,โ He reasons, โThat wonโt take too long.โ
You neglect to break the news to him that youโre a perfectionist.ย
โYou start with prophase,โ You point to the corresponding picture, โAnd Iโll do metaphase. Then whoever finishes first can divide the last two.โ
He nods once in acknowledgement, โIโll get colored pencils from Max later. She wonโt stab me if I offer her pizza first.โ
You canโt blame him for his apprehension towards the redhead. Sheโs definitely fiery, but you have a sneaking suspicion sheโs equally as sweet. You suppose siblings are always at each otherโs throats, and Billy and Max are no exception. You get to work sketching out your diagram, and after it's formed, without a ruler to make straight lines, you attempt your own freehand ones. Theyโre supposed to be arrows, pointing to each part of the drawing to label them, but they come out lopsided and shaky.ย
Billy glances up from his sketch when eraser shavings fly over it, peering concernedly at you as you nearly rub a hole through the paper with your eraser.
โJesus,โ He frowns, looking at the array of gray shavings on his comforter, โAre you trying to bury us?โ
โSorry!โ You groan, sweeping the shavings away into your palm and dropping them into the trash can that heโs got by his nightstand, โI canโt get these lines straight.โ
โUh,โ Billy straightens from where heโd been slouched against the wall, lost in his drawing, โI donโt think I have a ruler..โ
โI figured,โ You rub your eraser clean of pencil lead, โItโs fine, I can just-โ
โHere,โ He cuts you off, lunging for a record sleeve that heโs got propped on a milk crate by the foot of his bed, โYou can trace it with this.โ
You freeze with the sleek, stiff sleeve in your hands.
โAre you sure?โ You glance cautiously at him, ghosting your fingers over the edges, โI donโt want to ruin it.โ
โDon't, then.โ He snorts, โJust trace the edge, you wonโt get pencil on it.โ
You carefully line the pencil up with the side of the sleeve, peering around his room once before tracing the line you need, โDo you have a record player?โ
โNot anymore,โ He shakes his head, his curls bouncing, โIt got- uh, broken when we moved.โ
You hum sympathetically, โThat sucks. Maybe you can find a cheap one somewhere, like a yard sale, or something.โ
โYeah, maybe,โ He glances up at you with a soft smile, but you donโt catch it, too immersed in your task. He takes the time to admire you curiously, his eyes tracing your features just like you do the arrow.
โThere,โ You breathe, handing the sleeve back to him once all of your lines have been drawn, โThatโs perfect.โ
โMineโs done too,โ He decides, tipping his folder so that you can see his final product, โThat okay?โ
โLooks good,โ You nod, scanning the page for any possible mistakes, โThatโs... A lot of detail. Wow.โ
He chuckles, and you think itโs sheepishly, โYeah. I draw fast, I guess.โ
โI guess,โ You parrot, โOkay, next?โ
โActually,โ He slides the paper off of his lap, glancing at the clock on his wall, โItโs getting kind of late. If we want pizza delivery, we should call in now, that way it gets here before we get too hungry.โ
โOh!โ You stiffen slightly, โUh, Iโm- Iโm sorry, I donโt think I have money for pizza.โ
โItโs fine,โ He waves you off, โI got it. Youโre probably the only reason Iโm gonna pass this class anyways, I think I owe you more than two slices.โ
โBioโs hard,โ You laugh lightly, โI think Iโm doing worse in math, though.โ
He groans, running a hand down his face, โFucking math.โ
โThis unit is so confusing,โ You gush, hearing the crunch of tires on gravel from somewhere outside, โI just canโt wrap my head around-โ
โQuiet.โ Billy demands, eyes wide.
โUh- what?โ You glance nervously at him. Youโd started to let your guard down, to forget the rumors about Billy Hargrove, the basketball player with a whole lot of fire inside of him. Youโd been comfortable on his bed, chatting about classes and drawing diagrams. But now, when he hears voices outside, he snaps.
โ-parked in the damn driveway,โ One grumbles, a manโs voice that makes Billy shoot out of his seat when itโs paired with heavy, thumping footsteps across the walkway.
Billy lunges for you, and you donโt have time to scream in shock before his hand, rough and large, slams itself over your mouth.
โGet in the closet,โ He hisses, brow dipped in a ferocious frown, โNow!โ
Thereโs no other way to describe how he moves you than manhandling. He grabs you tight by the arm with his free hand, dragging you up and off of the bed as you try fighting him on instinct. When you hear the front door open your brain catches up to you, and you rush to help his progress, not hinder it, so you stand from where youโd been limp in his arms and dart into the closet.
Heโs barely able to slide the door shut on you before a series of knocks fall heavy on his door. Theyโre the type of knocks youโd only ever heard before in cop shows, the FBI banging on peopleโs doors ready to tackle them to the ground.
Youโre petrified in the closet, squeezed between a series of shelves behind your back and the door pressed to your front. Your breathing is erratic, short, sharp intakes of breath warming your face as they hit the door in front of you and bounce right back.
โYeah?โ You hear Billy swing his door open, the hinges squeaking, โOh, hi, dad.โ
โHi.โ The same voice from before sounds, and it sends a shiver down your spine from how icy it is, โThereโs a blue camaro parked in my spot. Any idea whoโs that is?โ
The question is sarcastic, of course, but your nose wrinkles at how unnecessary it is, not to mention condescending.โ
โItโs-โ Billy tries, but his dad cuts him off.
โIt had better not be my sonโs, whom I have told repeatedly not to park in the driveway. My driveway.โ
โIโm sorry, dad.โ Billy keeps his voice low, guilty, and you think it sounds earnest enough. Your breathing is calmer now, not normal but not panicked. Sure, itโll be awkward listening to Billy get lectured by his dad, but youโd survive.
โThe next time this happens,โ Billyโs dadโs voice grows eerily venomous, โI will get your old baseball bat from our garage, and I will smash that car to bits, you understand? I donโt give a damn if you bought it, youโre parking it on my property and that means youโll do it by my rules.โ
โYes, sir.โ Billy recites, and your heart sinks at how impersonal their relationship seems. Youโd had your concerns from the beginning, because everything about Billyโs home life seemed to indicate that it wasnโt the most conventional, but you pity the boy for his dadโs lack of human decency.
โMove it. And whereโs Maxine?โ
โSheโs in her room,โ Billy supplies readily, โSheโs doing homework. And I was just about to order us pizza.โ
You breathe easier knowing itโs over. That the danger has passed, that youโll be out of the stuffy closet soon. But only silence ensues, thereโs no acknowledgement from Billyโs dad. Not until-
โWhat?โ
โThereโs no spaghetti left,โ Billy tries reasoning, โWe finished it all last night. I just thought that pizza was-โ
โSon,โ Billyโs dad spits, โIt is 6:30. That is well past our familyโs dinnertime. And you havenโt fed your sister?โ
โI was about to grab the phone, dad! To call the pizza place, and order so that they wouldnโt be later than seven. I know itโs later than we usually eat, I just thought that sheโd tell me if she was getting hungry! And she hasnโt,โ Billy huffs, โSheโs been quiet since we got home from school.โ
โYou thought sheโd tell you? Billy, itโs not her responsibility to run this household when weโre away, itโs yours. Iโve told you that time and time again. And sheโs been quiet since you got her home from school? How do you know sheโs even in her room? Do you? Have you checked on her?โ
โNo, dad,โ Billy argues, โI havenโt checked on her. Iโve been doing my own homework, and youโre the one that left, so I donโt know why itโs my fault that-!โ
You thought things were fine. Sure, it was an argument, but thatโs all it was. Until it wasnโt. Until the door in front of you shakes, nearly snaps, as a colossal thud rattles its frame. Youโre not sure how you managed to stay quiet, the door warping in its hinges and pressing tight against your front. You slam a hand over your mouth to muffle your newly-frantic breathing, eyes shut tight as tears bead in their corners.
โHow dare you,โ You hear that voice, the rough, hateful voice of Billyโs dad, only inches away from you. But heโs speaking to you, not away from you, and you come to the terrible realization that heโs slammed Billy into the closet door. Youโd managed to keep up hope, imagining his stereo thrown across the room towards your location, but thereโs no denying now that itโs Billyโs weight against your front, only a flimsy closet door between you.
โHow dare you insinuate that this is my fault? How dare you tell me that I canโt leave my own home, and how dare you shirk your responsibilities to your sister. As if youโre not a grown man,โ Billyโs dad spits, โYou are more than capable of looking after a 13-year-old girl. You just choose not to, and I donโt know how else to get it through your head, Billy! This is your family, she is your sister, and when we are gone, you are her parent! She needs food, she needs attention, she needs care, sheโs not a goldfish. Why donโt you care about her, Billy? Why do you keep acting like you are not a part of this family?โ
Thereโs a moment of silence where Billy tries thinking of something to say. You use it to answer the question for yourself: because he isnโt. This isnโt a family, you realize, your chest still compressed by Billyโs weight, this is a broken home. The three of them, Billyโs dad, his stepmom, and his stepsister, theyโre a family, but Billy isnโt. Not with the way they treat him, not with the things they expect of him. Itโs no wonder he doesnโt like his family, because they really arenโt that.
Itโs too late. Billy takes too long to answer (which you think is unfair with such a loaded question), and your stomach churns as you hear a sharp smack. Youโre unfortunately certain that it hasnโt been Billyโs father on the receiving end, but your biology partner himself.
Thankfully, Billyโs dad doesnโt hear your gasp. Or maybe he does, but he thinks itโs Billyโs. Nevertheless, you know Billy hears it, and you hope that he takes some comfort in the fact that youโre still there, that youโre not selling him out and revealing yourself to get yourself out.
โYou are her brother.โ Billyโs dad breaks the silence, and you try matching your haggard breathing to Billyโs so that he doesnโt hear you, โYou are responsible for her. And if you disobey me again, you will be punished. Do you understand me?โ
โYes, sir.โ Billy mumbles, and you hate how thick his voice sounds in his throat.
โIโm sorry,โ Billyโs dad drawls, and you have the sudden urge to leap from the closet and punch him in the teeth, โI couldnโt hear you. What did you say?โ
โYes.โ Billy repeats, voice strong this time, โSir.โ
โMove your fucking car.โ Billyโs dad spits, leaving him with another shove to Billyโs shoulders that pushes you even further back into the shelves. Your back is going to ache tomorrow, but you canโt bring yourself to care, not while Billy stands petrified against his closet door.
The heavy footsteps recede, and thereโs two pairs, a much lighter one there now, too. But Billy hasnโt moved, and you come to the sickening realization that Billyโs stepmom had been lingering in the doorway the entire time. Or just outside it. You must not have heard her light footfalls when they were so consumed by her husbandโs earth-shaking ones. She had to have known what Billyโs dad was doing to him, why wouldnโt she stop him? Why wouldnโt she say anything?
You donโt have time to prepare for the closet door flying open, and for a split second, youโre afraid itโs Billyโs dad. But itโs not, itโs Billy, and he meets your eye for only a split second. Itโs enough for him to notice the withheld tears in your eyes, and for you to notice his own. He gulps, swallowing a lump in his throat, and his eyes drop to the floor. Thereโs a glaring red mark on his cheek, one that looks like it stings.
โClimb out the window,โ He mumbles, gruff and secretive, โTake your bag, itโs under my bed. Wait for me down the road, Iโll drive you home.โ
You donโt have it in you to argue with him, not when he looks like heโs about to burst into tears. You creep past the open door carefully, even though the footsteps have receded, both pairs, down the hallway and into a different room. You donโt have a difficult time climbing out the window, and you shoulder your backpack after your feet are firmly on the ground.ย
Billy shuts his window behind you, and youโre alone now, in the darkness.
The side of their house is somewhat overgrown, twigs and leaves snapping beneath your shoes as you trek off-property. You follow the path of the street until youโve passed other houses, and donโt seem to be lingering near theirs. Then the roar of Billyโs car travels your way, and his headlights bathe your stiff form.
Heโs gripping the wheel tightly as you open the door, and he doesnโt look at you as you get in. Itโs awkward, tense, and you have to sit on your hands to stop yourself from fidgeting with them and setting him off.
The drive is quiet; heโs shut off his radio. He drives fast, and this time you donโt have the heart to stop him. Youโre still worried, but you think youโve figured out why he drives fast, and youโre not sure you blame him for it anymore. Heโs controlling what he can, because he canโt control most things.
Youโre only five minutes out from his place when you first speak up, clearing your throat experimentally beforehand, โDo you... wanna talk about it?โ
You glance over at him subtly, watching his knuckles turn white on the wheel.ย
โNo.โ
โOkay,โ You breathe, and bite your tongue to stop from speaking for the rest of the ride.
He pulls into your driveway with a rough turn, and youโre sure he only knows which house is yours because heโd seen you getting the mail two weeks ago while he was cruising through your neighborhood. On a different occasion, youโd commend him for his memory, but it seems inappropriate now.
You unbuckle your seatbelt without prompting, careful not to annoy him. But you canโt stop yourself, before you shut the door you peer down at him. Of course, he doesnโt look at you.
โBilly,โ You start, carefully, cautiously, โYou donโt have to talk to me about it. Or- or anyone. But if you ever need a place to stay, a safe place for the nightโฆ you can come here.โ
You think heโs going to yank the door shut himself and speed off. And you wouldnโt blame him, either. But to your surprise, his eyes shift, no longer on the road ahead but on you. He glances at you through the mirror, still too timid to meet your eyes unobscured, but his gaze shatters you. Itโs broken itself, and inside of his pretty blue irises is a child screaming for help. Pain pools in his pupils and threatens to drip down his cheeks in tears you wish you could wipe away before they even start flowing.ย
โI mean it,โ You promise, โAnytime.โ
He holds your gaze, lips parting to whisper shakily, โThank you.โ
You leave him with a soft smile, throwing your bag over your shoulder lightly. You shut the door and watch him leave, much slower and more controlled than when heโd peeled in. When heโs completely out of sight you turn with a sigh, trekking up your front steps and fumbling for your keys. It takes you a minute to get in the door because of how distracted you are, and in your frustration you slump against the wood, remembering the feeling of Billyโs closet door nearly choking you.
Youโre shaken up, you canโt imagine how Billy feels. And thereโs no telling how often his dad does this, after all, it barely took anything to set him off. You hope heโll be okay for the night, and for his own safety you wish heโd stayed with you. You wish heโd parked his car on your driveway, without fear of anyone smashing it, and settled on your couch for the night. But he didnโt, and when you crawl into your bed that night, you hope heโs safe in his own.
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HELLO EVERYONE!!!!! Please go check out my new story on Wattpad! It is called Blacktop Hearts.
Description: Summer 1989.
Everyone in Saint Hollow knows Dean Mercer.
The mechanic with blood on his knuckles and trouble stitched into his skin.
By day, he works at his father's garage just outside town. By night, he disappears into underground fights held in abandoned warehouses off Route 17,leaving with bruises, broken ribs, and more rumors trailing behind him than anyone can keep up with.
People say Dean Mercer is dangerous.
They say he drinks too much, fights too hard, and ruins every girl stupid enough to get close to him.
Roxanne Hart has no interest in becoming one of them.
Working late shifts at Cherry Diner and saving every dollar she can is supposed to be her way out of Saint Hollow. She doesn't have time for town disasters in leather jackets and dirty white tank tops, especially ones who walk into her diner at two in the morning covered in blood and acting like they own the place.
But Dean Mercer looks at Roxanne differently.
Too intensely. Too long.
Like she's something worth wrecking himself for.
What starts as sharp insults and slammed coffee mugs turns into midnight drives beneath neon lights, bruised knuckles in diner kitchens, and a dangerous attraction neither of them can seem to escape.
Because beneath Dean's violent reputation is something far worse than anger:
Obsession.
And in a town filled with secrets, storms, and people who never outrun their pasts, Roxanne is about to find out just how dangerous it is to be the only soft thing in Dean Mercer's world.
Blacktop Hearts is a gritty 80's dark romance featuring enemies to lovers tension, underground fighting rings, neon lit highways, small town secrets, and a love story messy enough to leave scars behind.
Summer 1989.
Everyone in Saint Hollow knows Dean Mercer.
The mechanic with blood on his knuckles and trouble stitched into his skin.
By day,
Summary: Youโre in love with Steve and Robin says he feels the same way back. So why does Steve keep on choosing Nancy Wheeler over you? Why is he trying so hard to impress her?
Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Warnings: ANGST, heartbreak, cuss words, a little rude Steve, maybe more idkk SET IN SEASON 5 SO SPOILERS
โ[โฆ] I pray every night that I may live after him, because this: I would rather be miserable than that he should be- that proves that I love him better than myself.โ
