It’s late — past midnight — when you hear the rumble of a car engine outside your window, headlights slicing across the living room wall. You know that sound before you even move: the Camaro, a little too loud in the quiet Hawkins street, coughing out its familiar growl.

Then comes the sharp slam of a car door, heavy footsteps on your porch, and a rough, hurried knock that’s more a demand than a request.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest before you even reach the door.

When you pull it open, Billy Hargrove is standing there, breathing heavy, chest heaving under the half-zipped leather jacket. Blood runs fresh from a split across his brow; bruises already darkening under his left eye, knuckles raw and angry red. His lip is split too — a smear of blood he hasn’t bothered to wipe away.

Behind the fury in his eyes, there’s something else flickering: confusion, exhaustion, something painfully close to shame.

“You gonna let me in or what?” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You step back, and he brushes past you into the living room, boots leaving dusty prints on your floor. The scent of sweat, cigarettes, and rusted metal clings to him — sharp and familiar.

He doesn’t sit. Paces instead, shoulders coiled tight, as if still halfway ready for another fight.

“Ran into Harrington,” he spits, jaw working. “Fucking golden boy thinks he can keep my sister away from me.”

You say nothing at first, just watch him: the anger rolling off him in waves, masking something deeper and raw. You’ve seen that look before — the edge between rage and something that looks a lot like regret.

You move closer, voice softer than you meant it to be.

“Billy, you’re bleeding.”

“Yeah,” he bites back. “Not the first time.”

You reach out anyway, fingertips brushing the blood at his brow. His jaw clenches, eyes snapping to yours — fierce, almost wild — but he doesn’t pull away.

For a second, the room feels too small, the air too charged. Your breath catches as his gaze softens, just barely, in the hush.

“You shouldn’t let him get to you,” you murmur.

He huffs out a breath, humorless. “You sound like my fuckin’ conscience.”

But his shoulders drop, just a fraction, under your touch. His eyes flick to your lips, then back, fighting the instinct to close the last inch of space between you.

It’s never been simple between you and Billy. Friends, sure. But also the long, loaded silences; the way his eyes linger on you too long; the heat of his hand against yours that neither of you acknowledges. A thousand stolen moments that could tip either way.

Tonight, with blood still fresh on his skin and rage simmering in his chest, that something more feels closer than ever.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“Don’t got anywhere else to go,” he mutters back. The words slip out rough, vulnerable in a way that surprises even him.

Finally, he sinks down onto your old sofa, elbows on his knees, head hanging. You see the way his hands still shake from adrenaline, the thin sheen of sweat at his temple.

You grab the first aid kit from under the sink. Kneel in front of him, close enough to smell the lingering tobacco on his jacket.

“Hold still,” you say, voice soft, thumb brushing dried blood from his brow.

He does. For you, he always does.

And for a moment — just a moment — Billy Hargrove, all anger and broken edges, lets himself be still. Lets you see the boy under the bruises. Lets himself need someone.

Outside, Hawkins is quiet under the weight of its own secrets. But in your living room, under your gentle hands, Billy lets the fight fall away — if only until morning.