Dustin Henderson sat at the kitchen table, absently poking at a bowl of cereal that had long since gone soggy. Every few seconds he glanced toward the hallway like he expected something to explode.

From upstairs came a muffled groan.

Dustin winced.

“Yep,” he muttered to himself. “Still alive. Still angry.”

The front door suddenly opened without much ceremony, and the familiar heavy thud of boots echoed through the entryway. A moment later, Billy Hargrove stepped inside like he owned the place—denim jacket slung over his shoulders, curls slightly windblown from his drive.

“Yo, Henderson,” Billy greeted casually, tossing his keys in his hand. “Your sister around?”

Dustin slowly looked up at him like someone watching a man unknowingly walk toward a landmine.

“…Yeah,” he said carefully.

Billy smirked. “Great.”

Another groan echoed from upstairs, louder this time, followed by the sound of something hitting a wall.

Billy raised an eyebrow.

Dustin immediately stood up and pointed a finger at him.

“Before you go up there, I feel morally obligated to warn you.”

Billy leaned against the counter, amused. “Warn me?”

Dustin nodded very seriously.

“Aunt Flow is visiting.”

Billy blinked once.

Then again.

“…I’m sorry—what?”

“You know,” Dustin said awkwardly, waving his hands. “That time of the month. Shark week. Code red. The crimson tide. Pick a metaphor.”

Billy’s mouth twitched, half fighting a laugh.

“And?”

“And,” Dustin emphasized, “she’s not exactly… sunshine and rainbows right now.”

As if on cue, another irritated groan came from upstairs, followed by your muffled voice shouting something that sounded suspiciously like “I swear if someone breathes too loud—”

Billy chuckled under his breath.

Dustin pointed harder. “I’m serious, man. Proceed with caution. She almost bit my head off earlier because I asked if she wanted soup.”

Billy pushed himself off the counter.

“Henderson,” he said confidently, running a hand through his hair, “your sister loves me.”

Dustin snorted.

“Yeah, normally.”

Billy shot him a cocky grin and started toward the stairs anyway.

“Relax. I can handle it.”

Dustin watched him go with the same expression someone might have watching a horror movie character walk into a dark basement.

“Famous last words,” he muttered.

Upstairs, your bedroom door was mostly shut, the room dim except for the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The curtains were drawn, the world outside muted, and the air carried the quiet heaviness of someone who just wanted to be left alone.

Underneath a mountain of blankets and your comforter, you were curled tightly into yourself, clutching a heating pad against your stomach.

Everything hurt.

Your head. Your back. Your patience.

You barely even heard the door creak open.

Billy stepped inside quietly, something rare for him. His blue eyes immediately scanned the room until they landed on the small lump on the bed that was very clearly you.

For a moment, the usual smirk on his face softened.

He walked closer, sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress.

The movement made the bed dip slightly.

From under the comforter came a muffled, grumpy voice.

“…If that’s you, Dustin, I swear—”

Billy chuckled softly.

“Relax, princess,” he said in that familiar low drawl. “Just me.”

There was a pause under the blanket.

Then the comforter slowly lowered just enough for your tired eyes to peek out.

Your hair was a mess, your face flushed from the heat pad, and you looked about five seconds away from either crying or throwing something.

Billy tilted his head, studying you.

“…Damn,” he said gently, a teasing softness in his voice. “You look like you fought a demogorgon and lost.”

From downstairs, Dustin immediately yelled—

“I HEARD THAT AND SHE’S IN A BAD MOOD, DUDE!”

Billy rolled his eyes toward the ceiling before looking back down at you, amusement flickering across his face.

Then he reached over and brushed a stray piece of hair away from your forehead.

“…Cramps?” He asked quietly.