The Hargrove house was silent again but not the peaceful kind. The kind that rang in Billy’s ears after shouting, after fists, after being slammed into walls and told he was nothing. Neil’s voice still echoed in his head, sharp and cruel, even as Billy stood in his dark bedroom, breathing hard through split lips.

His ribs ached every time he inhaled. One eye was already swelling shut, purple and angry, and there was blood crusted along his knuckles where he’d tried stupidly to fight back. The house felt too small, too suffocating, like the walls themselves were pressing in on him. So he did what he always did.

Billy shoved his bedroom window open as quietly as he could, wincing as the movement pulled at bruised muscles. He climbed out into the cool Hawkins night, dropping down into the grass below with a quiet grunt of pain. His Camaro sat useless in the driveway turning it on would mean waking Neil, and that was the last thing he wanted. He started walking.

The streets of Hawkins were empty at this hour, lit only by flickering streetlights and the distant hum of power lines. Billy limped past familiar places, the closed down arcade, the dark windows of Melvald’s, the high school looming in the distance. Each step hurt, but going back hurt worse.

All he could think about was you. Your house was the one place that didn’t feel like a battlefield. The one place he didn’t have to keep his guard up every second. By the time he reached your street, his leg was shaking from the effort and his jacket was pulled tight around him, as if it could somehow hold him together.

He stopped at your front porch, hesitating for just a moment pride warring with desperation before lifting his hand and knocking softly on the door. Billy leaned against the wall beside it, breathing shallowly, hoping you were awake and hoping even more that you’d let him in.