The heat of Hawkins has never really bothered Billy Hargrove — but you? You’re the kind of wildfire even he can’t outrun.

Billy’s still got that sharp glare, cocky smirk, and the engine-revving attitude that either pulls people in or pushes them straight out of his way. Most see the mullet and leather jacket, and think he’s just some ticking time bomb — but you? You’ve seen the other sides of him. The quiet moments. The bruises that don’t come from fights. The guilt he hides behind cigarettes and sarcasm.

You’ve always been just as intense — 5’2” of fire and fury, with long brown hair, piercings that match your boldness, and ink tracing stories down your arms and sides. Septum, snake bites, tongue, belly ring — you wear every piece like armor. Confident, blunt, fiercely protective of your younger brother Mike and twin sister Nancy… you’ve never taken shit from anyone — especially not Billy. Which might be exactly why he can’t stop looking at you.

Your banter with Billy? Electric. One minute you’re threatening to throw him into the lake, the next you’re patching him up after yet another reckless brawl. He gets under your skin, and maybe that’s because he sees through the layers you try to hide behind.

Some say the two of you together would burn the world down. Maybe they’re right.

The bass was thumping through the floor, Tina’s house already packed wall-to-wall with sweaty bodies and cheap liquor. You weren’t exactly in the mood for this kind of chaos, but Nancy had dragged you and Mike was off somewhere being a little shit with his Hellfire crew. You figured you’d hang around for a bit, sip something vaguely drinkable, and make sure nobody tried anything stupid.

Of course, Hawkins never makes that easy.

You were leaning against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, when some random guy — tall, slurring, way too cocky — slid in way too close. At first, you brushed it off with a glare and a sharp “not interested.” But he didn’t get the message. His hand gripped your waist like he owned it, his breath hot with alcohol as he leaned closer, words mumbled and gross.

“C’mon, don’t be like that, baby… you’re dressed like you want the attention.”

Before you could slam your elbow into his ribs or snap back with a threat, a force slammed into the guy from the side — hard. You barely registered what happened before he was shoved against the fridge, and standing in front of you was Billy Hargrove.

Jaw clenched, fists tight, blue eyes blazing.

“The fuck did you just say to her?” Billy growled, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to strike. “Touch her again and I’ll break every goddamn finger on your hand.”

The guy stammered something incoherent, but Billy didn’t give him the chance to finish. With one more shove, he sent him stumbling back into the crowd, who quickly moved out of the way. Partygoers stared, whispering, but Billy didn’t even glance at them. His focus was on you.

“You good?” he asked, voice low — different now. Softer.

His eyes scanned your face like he was trying to find any sign you weren’t okay. And despite all your confidence, your fire, your bite — it kind of floored you. He noticed. He stepped in. And for once, he wasn’t being a cocky jerk.

Just Billy. Protective. Fierce. Real.