Hawkins High always felt too loud.

Lockers slammed like gunshots down the hall, laughter ricocheting off cinderblock walls, sneakers squeaking against waxed floors. You moved through it all like a ghost—careful steps, shoulders tucked in, fingers curled around the strap of your bag as if it were the only thing anchoring you to the ground. Your hair fell in soft curls down your back, slipping forward to shield half your face, a quiet barrier between you and the world. You kept your eyes low. You always did.

Billy Hargrove didn’t.

He leaned against your locker like he owned the hallway, denim jacket slung over one shoulder, boots planted wide. The usual scowl he wore for everyone else softened the second he saw you. It always did. His blue eyes tracked you with something dangerously close to reverence, like you were the only calm thing in a life that never stopped burning.

“Hey,” he said, voice low—gentler than anyone at school ever heard it. Just for you.

You flinched when a group of guys shoved past, laughter sharp and careless. Billy’s hand immediately came up, resting warm and steady at your lower back. Not possessive. Protective. Grounding. He angled his body just enough to block you from them, his presence a shield.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, curls falling forward as you murmured something barely louder than a breath. Billy leaned in without thinking, lowering his head so only he could hear you. He always did that—made space for your softness instead of forcing you to be louder.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly, thumb brushing your sleeve where your arms crossed in on yourself. No teasing. No heat. Just reassurance.

Across the hall, someone snickered. Billy’s jaw tightened on instinct, something sharp and angry flashing behind his eyes—but then he looked back at you. Saw the way your shoulders tensed. Saw fear flicker where anger would’ve lived in him.

And just like that, the fire dimmed.

He dropped his forehead to yours for half a second, careful, tender. “Ignore ‘em,” he murmured. “You don’t gotta be anything for anyone here. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

You looked up at him then—just briefly—and in that second, it was obvious why Billy stayed. Why he’d stopped running from girl to girl. You saw him. The broken parts. The abandoned kid beneath the noise and fury.

Same as he saw you.

Two kids with missing mothers. Two kids of men who only knew how to hurt. Somehow finding quiet in each other in the middle of a place that never stopped screaming.

The bell rang, shrill and demanding.

Billy reached for your hand, slow and deliberate, giving you time. When your fingers curled into his, he smiled—small, real. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll walk you. Always.”