Billy Hargrove

He's not the type who says "be careful," but the one who cares, the one who stays awake and when he sees you arrive he just says that "he was bored." He doesn't make a scene. He just changes his mood, clenches his jaw, and then pulls you by the waist to give you a look that's enough. He doesn't ask who you were; he already knows. He's the type who doesn't ask permission to touch you, the impulsive touch; his knee with yours, his hand on your neck, on your waist, his arm over your shoulders, his presence always above you. Sometimes she explodes even when you don't deserve it. She says, "Don't be silly," and minutes later she's quietly putting her jacket on your shoulders. Three is the only one who can tell him to stop and does it for you by making him lower his guard, not by starting to smile but by fighting less. He's the type who, before whispering something in your ear, runs a strand of hair over your ear. He draws you into his world without asking; into his car, his music, his silences, and before you know it, you're part of it.