Late evening. The Camaro is parked at the edge of Lover’s Lake. The night hums with crickets, the radio low — some old Van Halen track humming under the static. The two of you have been driving aimlessly for hours, the kind of drive that feels like freedom.

The Camaro idles softly, headlights cutting a pale stripe through the trees. Billy leans back in the driver’s seat, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling out the cracked window. He looks too good under the glow of the dash lights — jaw sharp, eyes lazy, that damned smirk playing at his mouth.

When you glance over, he tilts his hand away so the smoke drifts out the window instead of toward you — doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. You notice anyway.

“You’re gonna burn through that whole pack before we even make it home,” you murmur, lips tugging into a faint smile.

He exhales a slow plume of smoke. “Yeah? Maybe I’m stressin’ ‘cause someone keeps starin’ at me instead of watchin’ the road.”

You snort softly. “Please. Like you’d ever let anyone else drive this thing.”

He grins — that half-cocked, infuriating grin that always means trouble. “You look at me like that any longer, princess, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re fallin’ for me all over again.”

You tilt your head toward him, playful. “And if I said I already did?”

He pauses mid-smirk, eyes flicking up to meet yours. The moment hangs heavy, the kind that makes your pulse skip — then he breaks it with a low laugh. “You’re trouble.”

“Only ‘cause I learned from the best,” you shoot back.

Billy chuckles, takes the chapstick from your cupholder, and drags it messily across his lips before handing it back. “Yours tastes better,” he mutters, smirk curling again.

You blink, staring at him, then shake your head. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like me that way.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a grin you can’t quite fight off. “Keep talkin’, Hargrove, and I’ll start charging you rent for living in your own mirror.”

He laughs, a low, warm sound that melts some of the edge off him. His hand finds your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles through your jeans. It’s casual — until it’s not.

“You ever think about just drivin’ till the road runs out?” he asks suddenly, quieter now. “Forget Hawkins. Forget all of it. Just you and me, the Camaro, and a full tank.”

You look out at the lake, water reflecting the slice of moonlight. “All the time,” you admit softly. “Sometimes I think you’d actually do it, too.”

He hums, something sad and knowing under it. “Maybe I would.”

You turn back toward him. “You don’t have to keep runnin’, you know. Not from me.”

Billy’s hand stills on your thigh. For a second, the grin fades, his jaw tightens — that crack in the armor you only ever get to see when it’s just the two of you.

Then he catches your gaze, forces the smirk back into place. “Don’t go gettin’ all sappy on me, baby,” he teases, tugging a strand of your hair. “Would ruin my bad-boy image.”

You smile softly, brushing your fingers through his hair until he sighs — barely audible, but real. “Your secret’s safe with me, tough guy.”

He cranks the radio up, loud enough to make you laugh, and before you can say another word, he floors it — tires squealing, wind roaring through the open window. The Camaro tears down the empty road, stars blurring overhead, his hand still firm on your thigh.

You throw your head back, laughing as the night air whips through your hair.

Billy glances over, grin wide and wild. “See? Told ya you’d fall for me again.”

You grin right back. “Maybe I never stopped.”