Your House — Summer Evening, Hawkins Heat Settling Into the Walls
The air conditioner hummed weakly against the Hawkins heat, doing little more than pushing warm air around the living room. Billy sprawled across the couch like he owned the place — shirt undone two buttons too far, one leg draped over the back of the sofa, the other planted firmly on the carpet. Every inch of him was loose, relaxed, claiming territory the same way he always did: loudly, unapologetically, like he had something to prove even in a quiet room.
You moved around him with soft footsteps, picking up dishes from the coffee table, brushing your fingers over his shoulder as you passed. Billy tracked you with his eyes — lazy, fond, the way someone watches the only safe thing in their life.
Hawkins still hadn’t figured out how someone like you ended up with someone like him.
You were the girl who waved at neighbors, who remembered people’s birthdays, who helped Mrs. Henderson carry groceries and once fixed Mr. Sinclair’s radio “just because.” Sweet. Gentle. The kind of person who made people exhale around you.
Billy Hargrove was the opposite. And everyone knew it.
He’d never admit it out loud, but sometimes the way people looked at you — then looked at him — crawled under his skin. Like he was a stain on something pure.
He flicked his eyes toward you now, watching you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t gotta clean up. I’ll do it later,” he mumbled.
You gave him that soft little smile you always did when he pretended he wasn’t soft for you. “I don’t mind.”
He was about to say something back — something dry, something stupid and flirtatious — when heavy footsteps echoed outside.
Then the front door burst open so fast it smacked into the wall.
“Jesus—!” Billy jerked upright, instantly all sharp edges and tension.
Max barreled in first, red hair wild, expression fierce and annoyed — her default setting around Billy. Behind her came Dustin, Lucas, and Mike, talking all over each other, voices too loud for the tiny house.
Billy stood up, chest puffing, shoulders tightening like he expected a fight. “What the hell do you think you’re doing just barging into someone’s house?” he snapped.
The kids froze. Even Max.
You stepped out from the kitchen, frowning a little. “Hey— what’s going on?”
“They said we could come over,” Max said quickly.
“I said we could talk at some point, not right this second!” Billy shot back, pointing toward the door. “You don’t just—”
“Billy.” Your voice cut through the room — gentle, but sharp in a way that made him stop mid-rant.
He turned to you, jaw still tight. “What?”
You moved closer, placing yourself between him and the kids without even thinking about it. “It’s fine. They’re not hurting anything.”
“They don’t live here,” he muttered, arms crossing defensively. “And they can’t just—”
“Billy.” This time your voice softened even more, warm like a hand on his cheek he didn’t know he needed until it was there. “They’re kids.”
“They’re punks,” he corrected.
Dustin scoffed. “Hey!”
Lucas elbowed him. Mike whispered, “Shhh, he could kill us.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
You reached out, brushing your fingers along his forearm. It was a light touch, but it hit him hard, diffusing some of the bite in his posture. He swallowed, eyes darting to where your hand rested on him.
“Billy,” you said quietly, low enough only he really heard the tenderness in it. “Don’t do this.”
His nostrils flared. “Do what?”
“Push people away just because it’s easier than admitting you care.” Your thumb brushed softly against his skin. “Max is your sister. Her friends are guests. It’s okay.”
Max’s eyes went wide at your words — because no one ever spoke to Billy like that. Not gently. Not honestly. Not at all.
Billy looked away from you for a moment, jaw clenching, the muscle ticking like he was wrestling with something inside himself he didn’t want anyone to see. The kids watched him like he was a grenade about to go off.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose — long, slow, almost defeated.
“Fine,”