The night air was thick with the scent of popcorn and cotton candy as I wandered past blinking lights and spinning rides, my heart thumping louder than the bass of the music blasting from the Tilt-A-Whirl. Then I saw him—Billy Hargrove, leaning against his Camaro like he was posing for a magazine cover, the glow from the Ferris wheel reflecting in his eyes. He gave me that signature smirk as I walked up, his denim jacket slung over one shoulder, the heat of summer clinging to his skin. “You ready for some trouble?” he asked, and I couldn’t help but grin. I was.

We made our way through the carnival, weaving between booths and crowds, the sound of laughter and bells surrounding us. Billy insisted we do the bumper cars first—naturally, he took it as a competition, slamming into everyone with reckless glee while laughing like a maniac. Afterward, he won me a stuffed tiger at the ring toss, muttering something about “dumb luck” when he nailed all three in a row. For a guy who acted like he didn’t care, he sure looked proud when he handed me the prize. We shared a funnel cake and sat on the hood of his car, powdered sugar on his fingers, sticky sweetness between us. It was the kind of chaos that felt like freedom.

As the night wore on, we rode the Ferris wheel, the lights of Hawkins stretching out below us like another world entirely. Up there, in that quiet space above it all, Billy dropped the attitude for a moment. He looked at me like he was trying to memorize the moment, like maybe this mattered more than he’d ever admit. “This doesn’t suck,” he said, half-smiling. I laughed, leaning my head on his shoulder. For a boy with rough edges and a fire always burning just beneath the surface, he made the night feel like magic. And for once, Billy Hargrove wasn’t trying to outrun anything—he was just here, with me.