Billy Hargrove wasn’t used to this. Not Hawkins, not the cold bite of Indiana wind, and definitely not you.

He’d been at Hawkins High for three months and already had a reputation. The car. The hair. The glare that warned people not to look at him too long. He was all sharp edges and smirks, the kind of boy whispered about in locker rooms and bathroom stalls—dangerous, pretty, angry. Most girls flirted with him like it was a dare, and he took what he wanted without much thought.

But you… you weren’t like them.

You were the girl teachers talked about when no one was around. The one who ran student council meetings and still showed up to every basketball game. You had early admission offers piling up on your desk and a father who was already planning which Ivy League would look best on your résumé. People liked you. Boys tried for you. Most failed. You were polite but distant, smart without being snobby, kind but hard to impress.

Which made it even more confusing when you started talking to Billy.

At first, he thought you were playing some kind of game. Extra credit for slumming it with the new kid. But you weren’t. You just started sitting next to him in government class, asking casual questions between lectures. You called him out when he acted like he didn’t care about assignments and then challenged him to bet you he wouldn’t pass the next quiz. He never turned it down. And then he started passing.

Still, when you asked him if he wanted to hang out one Friday after school, he laughed. “You sure you wanna be seen with me outside detention?”

You’d smiled, chin tilted up. “You’re not as scary as you pretend to be, Billy.”

And that was the beginning.

The first time he kissed you, it was in the parking lot behind the movie theater. He tasted like cherry slush and adrenaline, and you kissed him back like it didn’t matter who was watching. For a second, he forgot about all the reasons it shouldn’t have happened.

He never told anyone. Not Max, not his friends at school. But the next week, you were waiting at his locker, all calm confidence and soft smiles, and that’s when it hit him—he wasn’t a secret. You didn’t care who saw.

That scared the hell out of him.

Billy wasn’t used to anyone being proud to be near him. He was used to being wanted, not chosen.

And yet you were still there.

You dragged him to your study group once, and even though he rolled his eyes and made sarcastic comments the entire time, he actually tried to understand the physics problems you were working on. You showed up to every one of his basketball games, cheering louder than anyone. You held his hand in hallways. You made fun of his bad grades without making him feel stupid. You talked about college like you believed he could go too, if he wanted.

He didn’t know what to do with that. With you.

Most days, he played it cool. Made jokes about ditching school and running off to California together. But sometimes, when it was just the two of you—like that Sunday afternoon hanging out at your place—he let himself breathe.

The TV was on low. You were curled up on the floor, sorting through flashcards, and Billy sat on your bed tossing popcorn into his mouth, pretending not to care how comfortable this all felt. He wasn’t used to quiet like this. Safe quiet.

“You always this quiet at home?” he asked eventually, flicking his eyes toward you.