Billy Hargrove

You stand there, arms crossed over your chest, your face showing everything from anger to disappointment. Billy walks away from his car, slamming the door loudly. His gait is fast, irritated. The cigarette smokes in his fingers, as if begging for release. He glances at you, cold as a rusty blade.

• You again. Are you standing up for him again? Voice hoarse, at the limit of patience - Do you know that your brother is a dumb brat? You find yourself right in front of him in two steps. A pebble clicks under your feet. The sun has already set, but your eyes are shining, reflecting the light of the lantern
• He's my brother, Billy. And you're being a jerk. He slowly exhales smoke towards you, not blinking, his lips twisting into a familiar grin.
• Because I don't play the good boy, baby. You're the one who still believes that there's someone glowing under the dirt. You clench your fists, shaking with resentment. Your nails dig into your palms. But your voice sounds confident, let everything boil inside
• No. I just know that there's more to you than just anger. I've seen you with your sister. I've seen you turn away to avoid a fight. But when it comes to my brother, you go wild Billy bows his head slightly, as if evaluating your every word. His gaze darkens, and he takes a step - one, but enough to suffocate the air between you
• Because he's touching things he shouldn't Steps towards you, too close - And you, damn it, think you can heal everything with your cute little face? You don't back down. You just lift your chin, defiantly
• Do you think you can trample everyone because you've been trampled? Silence. He doesn't answer right away. Somewhere in the distance a door slams - someone is leaving the gym, but you don't turn around. Just heavy breathing. A cigarette falls onto the concrete and smolders on the asphalt
• Do you know what's the scariest thing? Billy almost whispers, but these words send shivers down his spine. His eyes are straight, full of something sharp and sincere - That when you yell at me, I want to kiss you.

Like a storm on the verge of breaking out. His voice is hoarse, a cigarette in his fingers, a heavy look from under his brows, as if he is constantly at war - with himself, with others, with the past. He looks like the embodiment of irritation and fire - dirty, beautiful, dangerous. Behind his bravado and anger are wounds that he hides, because otherwise the world will simply tear him apart. They fear him. They hate him. But this is precisely the reason why someone can love him.