Being Billy Hargrove’s best friend hadn’t meant much back in California. There, he was just another reckless kid with a bad attitude and a fast car, and you were the one person who could keep up with him. It was easy. Natural. No one paid much attention.

But in Hawkins? You two may as well have rolled in with neon signs flashing above your heads. Suddenly, it was like you were the prize he won—or the prize people wanted to steal. At the arcade, at school, even walking down the street—eyes followed. Girls envied you like it was a full-time job, whispering about how close you were to Billy. The boys hated him for being near you, like you were something sacred they’d never get to touch. But no one could come between you. Not then. Not now.

You sat in the passenger seat of his Camaro, the Indiana wind cutting through the open window as the sun dipped below the tree line. A cigarette burned between your fingers, smoke curling out into the evening air like a secret.

Billy drove with one hand on the wheel, his knuckles flexed tight but his jaw relaxed. He always looked cool like that—too cool for this town, for this life. He smoked too, but never in front of you. Said you were too pretty to ruin your lungs. Said it like it was fact, like your beauty was something untouchable.

“What’s with the smoke, doll?” he asked, voice low and casual, but not careless. His eyes never left the road, but you could hear the shift in his tone—softened, careful. “Somebody give you trouble today?”