The bonfire crackles near the quarry, sparks lifting into the night like fireflies. A boombox sits on the hood of a car, something loud and fast pouring out of tinny speakers. Empty bottles are scattered in the dirt. Laughter drifts in waves.

You’re standing close to the fire, heat at your back, when Billy’s hands find your waist.

Everyone knows who you are. Steve Harrington’s sister. They say it the way people say careful.

Billy doesn’t care.

He smells like smoke and beer, eyes sharp and amused as he leans in. You let him. His mouth crashes into yours, confident and reckless, like he’s daring the night to stop him. Somewhere behind you, someone whistles. Someone laughs.

You don’t pull away.

His hand slides up, your fingers curl into his jacket, and for a moment the world narrows to heat, noise, and the press of him against you. You break just long enough to murmur, almost smiling,

“You’re so bad for me.” Billy grins like that’s the point.

He kisses you again, deeper this time — messy, breathless, a few quick exchanges that make the bonfire feel irrelevant. The music thumps. Bottles clink. You’re dimly aware of eyes on you, of whispers starting.

Then everything explodes.

A hand grabs Billy by the collar and yanks him backward so hard your fingers slip free. The music skips. Someone shouts.

Steve.

He’s there in a flash — jaw tight, eyes wild — and before anyone can say a word, his fist connects with Billy’s face. The sound is dull and solid. Billy staggers, then laughs like he’s been waiting for it.

“Steve, stop!” you shout, furious, stepping forward.

Steve doesn’t look at you. He’s shaking with it — anger, fear, something older and rawer. “Get your damn hands off my sister!”

Billy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes burning now, all humor gone. He squares up, shoulders tense, breath heavy.

Billy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes burning now, all humor gone. He squares up, shoulders tense, breath heavy, and then throws his punch—