Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Kinda Wanna Ruin My Life With You

Collin

The digital clock on the nightstand read 4:02 a.m. in fuzzy red numbers, casting a faint glow across the tangled mess of sheets and limbs.

Billie's arm was draped across my waist, his breath warm and steady against the nape of my neck. I hadn't meant to fall asleep like that. Not so close. Not wrapped around him like we belonged there. But apparently my body hadn't asked for permission - just reached for what it wanted.

And now, here we were. Stuck in that hazy space between dreams and daylight.

I didn't want to move. Not just because it felt good - but because I felt good.

No impending existential crisis. No spiraling over what it all meant. No overthinking. Just the soft hum of a motel A/C unit and the warmth of another person wrapped around me like it was second nature.

I stared at the ceiling, letting it hit me - this was what it meant to feel free.

Not reckless. Not lost. But free.

It was the exact word Billie had said to me once. In New York, I think. When we were both staring down some metaphorical ledge. He said he just wanted to see me let go. Not fall. Not fly. Just... feel something that didn't weigh me down.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I did.

A strand of my hair tickled my nose, and Billie stirred slightly behind me, but didn't wake. His grip tightened for a second before relaxing again, like even asleep, his body knew I was there and didn't want to let go.

I smiled into the pillow.

And then I remembered.

The radio interview.

Billie mentioned it yesterday - some early morning promotional thing with a station that couldn't make the show but wanted a few minutes with the "sellout punks from California." Six a.m. sharp, call in time. He groaned about it dramatically, but Dave would kill them if they missed it.

I turned carefully, trying not to jostle him too much. He was curled toward me, face soft, lashes casting shadows under his eyes, lips slightly parted.

God, he looked peaceful. Like someone who'd finally slept. Really slept.

I watched him for a second longer than I should've, then gently whispered, "Billie."

No response.

"Billie Joe," I tried again, quieter this time.

Still nothing.

I bit my lip, debating. If I let him sleep, he'd miss the interview. If I woke him, he'd be pissed at himself later for not getting the extra rest.

I reached out and lightly ran my fingers through his hair, scratching just behind his ear.

He groaned, low and groggy. "M'tired."

"I know. But it's four," I whispered. "Interview's in two hours. Thought you might want a head start on pretending to be a functioning human."

He cracked one eye open, just barely. "You gonna coach me through it? Whisper the smart answers from under the blanket?"

I smiled. "I was thinking coffee. But that's a close second."

He stretched slowly, his arm grazing my ribs as he moved. "You're too good to me."

"Don't get used to it."

He chuckled, voice still sandpaper and sleep. "Too late."

And just like that, he closed his eyes again - just for a second - but his smile stayed.