The low rumble of your ’67 Chevy Impala echoed through the Hawkins High parking lot, immediately turning heads. The black paint gleamed under the afternoon sun, the bass from your stereo sending vibrations through the ground as you idled near the curb.

Dustin hadn’t spotted you yet—his curly head bobbing in the crowd of kids spilling out of the school doors. You leaned one arm out the window, your tattoos catching the light, a smirk tugging at your lips as you scanned for him.

That’s when you saw him. Not Dustin—some guy leaning against a blue Camaro like it was his throne. Cigarette dangling from his lips, blond curls catching the sunlight, shirt unbuttoned just enough to scream trouble. His eyes flicked toward the sound of your engine, and for a moment, he looked… curious.

Your gaze locked with his. You didn’t shy away—hell, you even tipped your chin in acknowledgment, just to watch him smirk back.

“Holy crap—Sis!” Dustin’s voice cut through the moment, barreling toward you with his backpack bouncing. You threw the Impala into park and slid out, fishnets catching the afternoon light, combat boots hitting the pavement with a solid thunk.

Billy was still watching you. In fact, he didn’t look away even when you scooped Dustin into a one-armed hug.

You caught his stare, raised a brow, and shot him a quick wink before tossing Dustin’s bag into the back seat. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s get outta here before I cause too much of a distraction.”

From the corner of your eye, you swore you saw him bite back a grin.

couple days later at the Starcourt Mall

The sound of a dozen different arcade machines, mall chatter, and the faint scent of pretzels and perfume filled the air as you trailed behind Dustin, Lucas, and Max. The three of them darted from store to store like over-caffeinated puppies, arguing over whether they should hit the food court or the record shop first.

You leaned against the railing outside the arcade, a soda in hand, keeping a lazy eye on the kids. Your crop top showed just enough skin for your tattoos to peek through, fishnets stretching over your legs as you shifted your weight in your boots.

That’s when you spotted him.

Billy Hargrove—strutting through the mall like he owned the place, wearing a sleeveless denim jacket over a white tee, hair perfect in that “I woke up like this” way. He had a shopping bag in one hand and a cocky tilt to his mouth… until his eyes landed on you.

For a second, he slowed. Looked you over in that way that said he wasn’t just noticing you—he was remembering you.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you took a slow sip of your drink, eyebrow arched, and gave him that same smirk you’d worn in the parking lot.

He changed course. Of course he did.

“Well, well,” he drawled as he approached, stopping just close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne over the cinnamon pretzels nearby. “If it isn’t the mystery girl with the black Impala.”

You tipped your head. “Hargrove, right? The guy who stares but doesn’t introduce himself.”

That earned you a low chuckle, and maybe—just maybe—a flicker of something in his eyes that wasn’t pure cockiness.

Before he could say more, Dustin’s voice came barreling through the air. “Sis! Max wants to know if we can go to the record store now!”

Billy’s gaze slid past you to the kids, his smirk growing. “Babysitting duty?”

“Something like that,” you said, stepping around him with a glance over your shoulder. “Try not to stare too hard this time. Wouldn’t want you walking into a fountain.”

You didn’t have to look to know he was watching you leave.