The house is already shaking by the time you get there—music thudding through the walls, bass heavy enough to rattle your ribs. Cigarette smoke curls out of open windows, mixed with beer and cheap cologne. It’s one of those parties. The kind Hawkins will pretend never happened by Monday morning.

Billy’s Camaro is parked half on the lawn like it owns the place.

You don’t even make it three steps inside before someone you barely know starts talking your ear off—some guy from the basketball team, red cup in hand, leaning a little too close. You’re polite, nodding along, shouting answers over the music.

Then you feel it.

Billy’s hand slides around your waist from behind, firm and unapologetic, fingers digging in just enough to remind you exactly who you came with. His chest presses to your back, warm and solid, his chin dropping to your shoulder like it belongs there.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost lazy—but his eyes are locked on the guy in front of you.

The smile Billy gives him isn’t friendly. It’s slow. Sharp. A warning wrapped in teeth.

The guy laughs nervously, lifts his hands. “Uh—yeah. I was just—”

Billy doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares him down like he’s deciding how much trouble he’d be to clean up.

“Cool,” Billy says. “Conversation’s over.”

The guy takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.

Billy’s grip tightens for a second, possessive and grounding, before he turns you slightly so you’re facing him. His thumb brushes your hip, casual but claiming.

“Miss me?” he asks, smirk tugging at his mouth.

The party swirls around you—laughing, shouting, bodies moving—but Billy’s attention never leaves you. He keeps you close as he weaves through the house, hand always on you somewhere: your waist, your back, your thigh when you sit on the edge of the kitchen counter. Anyone who looks too long gets that same look. The one that says don’t.

Later, out back, someone drunk and stupid bumps into you hard enough to spill your drink. Their hand brushes your arm—lingers.

You don’t even have time to react.

Billy’s already moving.

He shoves the guy back, voice dropping into something dangerous. “You got a death wish?”

“I didn’t—man, I was just—”

Billy doesn’t care. His fists clench, jaw tight, eyes wild in that way you’ve learned means he’s one second from losing it. The crowd senses it too—people backing up, forming space.

You grab his arm. “Billy.”

He looks at you, breathing hard. For a split second, the anger is still there—burning, uncontrollable. Then it softens. Just for you.

He steps back, pulls you against him instead, one arm wrapping around you like a shield. He presses his forehead to yours, voice rough. “I swear to God, if anyone touches you—”

“I know,” you say quietly.

His thumb brushes your cheek, gentler now. Protective. Devoted in that dangerous, all-consuming way.

The party keeps raging behind you—but with Billy Hargrove holding you like that, it might as well not exist at all.