Billy Hargrove had exactly zero patience for science projects, and even less for the neat, quiet girl sitting two seats ahead of him in AP Biology.

You.

At school, you were untouchable in a way that had nothing to do with popularity. Perfect posture. Soft cardigans. Hair always neat, eyes down when teachers spoke. The kind of girl guidance counselors loved and guys barely noticed because you didn’t invite attention. You took meticulous notes, raised your hand only when you were certain, and spoke like every word had been rehearsed twice before leaving your mouth.

So when the teacher cleared his throat and said, “Hargrove. You’ll be working with her,” Billy assumed it was a punishment.

He leaned back in his chair, boots hooked around the desk legs, blue eyes dragging over you with open boredom. “Lucky me,” he muttered.

You turned. Just once. Polite smile. Calm eyes. “Looks like it.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Because three days later, Billy found himself standing in front of your house—clipboard under his arm, Walkman humming low—fully expecting lace curtains and a cross stitched pillow that said Bless This Home.

Instead, your bedroom door swung open and his entire world tilted sideways.

The walls were plastered with band posters—his bands. Metallica. Mötley Crüe. Judas Priest. Van Halen. Vinyl records stacked carefully in milk crates near a turntable that had clearly been loved. A terrarium sat by the window, heat lamp glowing softly over a small ball python curled lazily inside.

Billy stopped dead.

“What the hell…?” he breathed.

You glanced back at him, suddenly different. Relaxed. Barefoot. Your cardigan gone, replaced with a cropped tank that revealed a silver bellybutton ring that caught the light when you moved. When you reached up to pull your hair into a messy knot, he caught the flash of a tongue piercing when you smiled—real this time, not the polite one from school.

“Oh,” you said lightly, noticing his expression. “Yeah. I guess I should’ve warned you.”

He stepped in slowly, like the room might vanish if he moved too fast. His eyes tracked everything—the faint edge of a tattoo peeking above your hip when you turned, the way another curved delicately along your sternum when you leaned over your desk, the promise of ink trailing down your back when your shirt shifted.

“You hiding a whole damn life in here, princess?” Billy drawled, though his voice was rougher than usual.

You shrugged, kneeling to open the snake’s enclosure, utterly unbothered. “School’s just… school.”

The snake slid easily into your hands, calm and familiar, and Billy stared—not at the reptile, but at you. At the girl who memorized formulas by day and listened to the same music that rattled his Camaro by night. The girl who hid fire beneath pressed collars and perfect grades.

Something dark and intrigued curled low in his chest.

This wasn’t just a science project anymore.

And Billy Hargrove had a feeling he was about to fail spectacularly—at keeping his distance.