The Hawkins night air is humid, heavy, and still when the soft thud hits your bedroom floor.

You freeze halfway through pulling your shirt over your head.

A curse — low, unmistakably Billy — slips in the dark behind you.

You spin around, shirt bunched in your fists, heart slamming in your chest. He’s standing by the window he clearly just climbed through, one boot still half-caught on the sill, hair wild from the wind of driving too fast like he always does.

“Jesus, Hargrove—” you start, breathless, “—ever heard of a door?”

He smirks, that usual cocky tilt of his mouth ready to fire off something stupid and charming— But the smirk stops. Dies. Completely drops from his face.

Because you haven’t pulled your shirt down yet.

Because he’s seeing everything.

The long, silvered scars. The newer ones that haven’t quite faded. The stories you never said out loud.

And for the first time since you met him, Billy Hargrove doesn’t look angry or cocky or bored. He looks wrecked.

His voice is low, rough in a way you’ve never heard. “Who the hell did that to you?”

You swallow hard, arms instinctively wrapping across your ribs. “Billy. Don’t.”

But he steps forward anyway — slow, cautious, like he’s approaching something fragile even though he’s never handled anything gently in his life.

“When?” he asks, barely audible. “Who?” His jaw is clenched so tight it shakes. “Tell me.”

“Billy… it doesn’t matter.” Your voice cracks. “It’s over.”

“No.” His eyes flick up to yours, blue and burning, a storm breaking loose behind them. “Someone laid their hands on you. On you. And you think I’m just— what? —gonna walk in here, see that, and drop it?”

He exhale-laughs, but it’s not really a laugh. More like disbelief and fury and something softer he’s trying hard not to show.

You try to turn away, but his hand shoots out— not grabbing, not pulling— just ghosting lightly over your shoulder. A question, not a demand.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “Not you.”

You stand there trembling, not from fear, but from being seen for the first time in a very long time.

Billy moves closer still, his shadow warming your bare skin. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter than you thought he was capable of.

“You can tell me who did it.” Another pause. “But you don’t have to. Not unless you want to.”

Your lips part. “Billy…”

He shakes his head, eyes still on the scars. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just…” His throat bobs. “I wish I’d been there.”

The air between you feels different now — charged, intimate, a battle line crossed without either of you meaning to.

Billy finally meets your gaze again.

“Put your shirt on,” he says gently. “You’re shaking.”

He stands there, watching, protective in a way he never lets himself be with anyone else.

And for the first time, you realize Billy Hargrove didn’t climb through your window to flirt or stir trouble.

He climbed through because, somewhere along the way, you became the one person he couldn’t stay away from.