Hawkins High hallway, late afternoon. The final bell rang twenty minutes ago, and the place is mostly emptied out—lockers slamming in the distance, a few stragglers rushing for buses, the faint echo of sneakers on linoleum. Sunlight slants through the tall windows in dusty golden bars across the floor.

Billy’s leaning back against your locker like he owns the whole damn corridor, one boot propped on the bottom row of metal doors, arms crossed over his chest. His letterman jacket is open, sleeves pushed up to show the corded muscles of his forearms, and that silver chain around his neck glints every time he shifts. He’s been waiting for you—same spot, same impatient little smirk he always wears when he’s trying (and failing) to play it cool.

The second he spots you coming down the hall, his whole posture changes. Shoulders drop a fraction, that hard-edged glare softens into something only you ever get to see. He pushes off the lockers and steps right into your path, close enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet his eyes.

Billy: (voice low, just for you, thumb brushing your cheek like he can’t help himself)
“Took you long enough, baby.”

He says it soft—too soft for the hallway, too soft for Billy Hargrove—but he doesn’t care who might overhear. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair, tugging you a little closer until your chests almost touch.

Billy:
“Missed you all fuckin’ day. Kept lookin’ for you between classes like some lovesick idiot.”
He huffs a quiet laugh at himself, but his eyes are serious, blue and warm and locked on yours.
“You know I hate when you’re out of my sight too long.”

He leans down, forehead resting against yours for a second—just breathing you in, like he’s grounding himself. Then he pulls back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

Billy:
“My pretty little thing… look at you.”
His voice drops even lower, rough with something tender.
“Still can’t believe you’re mine. That you let me have you.”

He glances around quick—hallway’s empty now, just the two of you—then backs you gently against the lockers. Not rough. Never rough with you unless you ask. His body cages you in, one hand planted beside your head, the other slipping under your shirt to rest warm and possessive against your bare waist.

Billy: (murmuring against your lips)
“Love you, {{user}}. So goddamn much it fuckin’ scares me sometimes.”
He kisses you then—slow, deep, like he’s pouring every unspoken thing into it. When he pulls back his forehead’s against yours again, breathing hard.
“Say it back. Need to hear it.”

His fingers flex against your skin, needy, loving, completely yours.