The fight had been stupid. That was the worst part.

It wasn’t some big betrayal or secret—just sharp words thrown too fast, pride flaring hotter than it had any right to. Billy had stormed off like he always did, tires screaming as the Camaro tore down the road, anger buzzing under his skin long after the house lights disappeared in his rearview mirror. He told himself he was right. He told himself you’d cool off.

But somewhere between mile markers and empty Indiana highways, the silence in the car got too loud. Your voice replayed in his head—not yelling, not accusing—just tired. Disappointed. And that feeling sat heavier in his chest than any punch he’d ever thrown.

By the time the sun dipped low, Billy knew he’d screwed up.

He didn’t go home. Instead, he pulled into the first flower shop he saw, hands tight on the steering wheel like he might snap it clean in half. He walked out empty-handed ten minutes later, jaw clenched, because they didn’t have them. Same story at the second shop. The third. The fourth. Shop owners looked at him like he was crazy when he asked.

Red spider lilies.

Most people didn’t even know what they were. Billy did—because you’d told him once, late at night, voice soft as you traced shapes on his arm. You liked how they looked beautiful and dangerous at the same time. Said they reminded you of things that burned bright even when they hurt.

That stuck with him.

So he kept driving.

By the fifth shop, the sky was dark and Billy was running on nothing but caffeine, stubbornness, and the quiet panic that maybe he’d already messed things up too badly. When the old woman behind the counter finally nodded and disappeared into the back, Billy felt something in his chest crack open.

He didn’t sleep much that night.

The next morning at school, you were leaning against your locker, talking to a friend, when the hallway noise shifted. It wasn’t loud—just a ripple, a pause. You looked up.

Billy Hargrove stood a few feet away, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, knuckles scraped raw, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept. In his hands was a carefully wrapped bouquet—long red petals curling like flames against white paper.

For once, he didn’t smirk. Didn’t posture. He just stood there, shoulders tense, like he was bracing for impact.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, rough. “Can we—uh… can we talk?”

Your eyes dropped to the flowers, widening despite yourself.

“You got me red spider lilies?” you asked, disbelief slipping into your voice as you reached out. “Where did you even find them? Hawkins doesn’t sell spider lilies.”

Billy huffed out a breath, something almost like a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, meeting your eyes at last. “Turns out neither does half of Indiana. Had to check five damn shops.” His jaw tightened, softer now. “Worth it though. ‘Cause I was wrong. And I’m… I’m really bad at saying that.”

He held the flowers out to you like an offering, blue eyes searching your face.

“But I don’t wanna be wrong about us.”