He watches as Billy cuts the engine, one hand draped over the wheel, the other brushing through his hair as he leans back in the seat. He’s talking about nothing— music, some fight he got into, the usual— and Steve’s only half-hearing it, half-watching the way the light catches the curve of his jaw when he drags on the cigarette.
“You good?” Billy’s voice snaps him out of it, he’s giving him this knowing look, smirk tugging.
Steve blinks eyelids suddenly feeling very heavy. His eyes flicking away to stare out the windshield, slouching down in the seat. “Yeah,” Steve muttered. “Just—fried.”
“That’s the whole point, Harrington.”
The car is warm and for a long moment it’s mostly quiet besides the low hum of the radio and the ticking of the engine cooling. Eventually he glances back over and Billy’s looking right him—steady and unreadable.
For a second Steve thinks he might be about to say something that matters. Instead Steve looks away, breaks the silence between them.
“You ever think we hang out too much?”
Billy raises his eyebrows, exhales through his nose, laughing softly. “Why, you getting tired of me?”
“No. Just thinking, I guess.”
Billy reaches over settling his hand on Steve’s knee, deliberately sliding higher, thumb pressing slow circles into the denim, dragging across the seam of his jeans in a slow absent line. “Well how ‘bout you stop thinking. Probably not one of your strong suits.”
Steve can hear the shift in Billy’s breathing, feels it echo in his own chest. He’s closing the space between them and Steve knows— they weren’t just here to smoke.
“You gonna look at me or just keep pretending you don’t want to?” Billy murmurs.
Suddenly Steve is definitely too high. Doesn’t stop him from turning his head, and that’s all it takes. Billy’s cigarette ends up in the ashtray, his hand moving to the back of neck. The air between them shifting—warm, close, humming with static. Just like the last time it’s already almost too much.
Billy doesn’t waste much time before leaning in, so close he can feel every exhale. “Still good?” Steve nods his fingers catching on Billy’s jacket.
He can smell smoke, weed, and something clean under it— maybe shampoo or detergent—Steve doesn’t know but it’s messing with his head.
When Billy kisses him, it’s soft at first—unhurried, almost thoughtful. But it’s not long before Steve’s on top of him, straddling his lap in the cramped space, his jeans bunched around one leg and Billy’s sweatpants halfway down his thighs. Billy murmuring in his ear, fingers digging into his hips, gently guiding his movements. And it’s good—so fucking good that Steve doesn’t know why he was ever pretending in the first place.
