The air tastes like stale smoke and strawberry wine coolers.

Y/n had been looking for Billy for the past twenty minutes. Pushing through crowds, checking the kitchen, peering down the hallway past the bathroom line. A girl with feathered hair and too much eyeliner had pointed vaguely toward the back of the house with her cigarette. "Saw him heading that way," she'd said, bored.

That way leads to a narrow hallway lined with framed photos of someone's family vacations. A door halfway down stands slightly ajar. Warm light spills through the gap.

Y/n pushes it open.

And stops.

Billy Hargrove is pressed against the far wall, his denim jacket open, his hips pinned between the doorframe and a girl Y/n doesn't recognize. She's got her fingers twisted in his hair, her mouth on his throat, and Billy's hands are gripping her thighs like he's been doing this for hours. His eyes are closed. His lips are parted.

He looks comfortable.

The door creaks.

Billy's eyes snap open. They land on Y/n. For one long, stretched second, no one moves. The girl keeps kissing his neck, oblivious. Billy's expression shifts—not guilt, not shame, not panic. Just irritation. Like Y/n is a fly buzzing at a window he can't be bothered to open.

Billy doesn't chase her. He doesn't apologize. He just straightens his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at Y/n like Y/n is the one who did something wrong.

Steve catches Y/n's eye.

He raises an eyebrow.