The hallway of Hawkins High was its usual chaos — lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, someone already blasting a Walkman loud enough to be illegal. You walked in between Nancy and Robin, Nancy mid-ramble about her English paper while Robin was trying (and failing) to master the art of drinking coffee while walking.

You weren’t listening.

Not really.

Because the second your boots crossed the threshold, your eyes locked onto him.

Billy Hargrove, leaning against the lockers like he owned the damn school. Denim jacket, smirk already locked and loaded, hair feathered to perfection. He was laughing at something Tommy H. said, but the second he glanced up and saw you — that smile twitched.

Nancy noticed. “Hey… maybe we should just go to class—”

“Nope,” you said, already breaking off from them.

Robin blinked. “Oh no. Oh no, she’s doing the murder walk.”

You didn’t hear either of them. You heard Mike’s voice from last night — tight, worried, embarrassed. He shoved Max. He grabbed her. He wouldn’t stop. He said you wouldn’t do anything about it.

That was all it took.

Billy straightened, that cocky grin coming back. “Well, well. If it isn’t—”

Your fist collided with his jaw before he even finished the sentence.

A real punch — knuckles to bone, a sick satisfying crack. Billy staggered sideways into the lockers, students around you gasping like someone just set off fireworks.

“What the—?!” he barked, but you didn’t give him a second to recover.

You grabbed his jacket, yanked him forward, and slammed him onto the ground hard enough to rattle the cheap tile. His breath whooshed out of him, shock flashing across those blue eyes — nobody ever touched him, not like this, not without him starting it.

You straddled him, fist already coming down again.

And again.

And again.

Billy raised an arm trying to block, but you were small and furious and not stopping. “Touch my brother again,” you hissed between blows, “touch Max again — I swear to God, Hargrove, I’ll bury you under the goddamn football field.”

Students backed up fast. A couple cheered. Someone yelled “HOLY SHIT!” down the hall. Billy tried to twist his hips and throw you off, but you shoved your forearm under his throat, pinning him, your tattoos flexing as you leaned your full weight on him. Your septum ring glinted as you snarled. The snake bite piercings made your split lip look even more dangerous.

His chest heaved under you.

And for the first time in his entire cocky, swaggering, never-been-challenged life — Billy Hargrove looked up at someone and wasn’t sure if he was about to get killed.

You swung again, but this time two pairs of arms hooked under yours and dragged you backward off him.

“Jesus Christ— she’s feral!” Eddie wheezed as he hauled you up.

Steve, red-faced and out of breath, grabbed your waist to keep you from lunging again. “Okay— okay! That’s enough! He gets it! He gets it!”

You kicked once, then finally stopped struggling, chest rising and falling as adrenaline burned through you.

Billy lay on the floor, lip split, cheek already bruising, hair a mess. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, staring up at you like he’d never seen anything so terrifying… or so stunning.

Slowly, impossibly, he smirked.

“Damn, sweetheart…” His voice was rough, low. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You glared, still breathing hard. “Try me again, Hargrove.”

Billy propped himself up on an elbow, tongue sweeping over his teeth, pupils blown wide. Oh yeah — he was bruised, bleeding… and absolutely into it.

Around you, the hallway exploded into chaotic whispers.

Nancy looked horrified.

Robin looked impressed.

Eddie was laughing his ass off.

Steve muttered, “We are so getting suspended.”

Billy tilted his head, gaze raking over you like he’d discovered fire.

Nobody had ever stood up to him.

Nobody had ever put him down.

And God help him — he’d never wanted someone more.