The bass from Tommy’s living room hits you before the front door even comes into view—heavy, distorted, vibrating through the soles of your combat boots as you step up the driveway with Nancy and Robin flanking you. Porch lights glow like a beacon, silhouettes packed shoulder to shoulder, red cups already littering the lawn.

And then there’s Billy.

He’s leaning against the hood of his Camaro like it’s an extension of his spine, denim jacket shrugged on, cigarette unlit between his fingers because he forgot to smoke it somewhere around the moment you showed up.

Three days. Three whole days of this stupid challenge.

No kissing. Whoever cracks first loses.

Billy’s jaw tightens the second his eyes land on you.

The Van Halen crop top clings just enough to feel intentional. Black jean shorts, mid-thigh, fishnets beneath like you’re daring him to look. Combat boots scuffed and familiar. Your hair’s twisted into a half-do, loose strands catching the porch light when you tilt your head and smile like you know exactly what you’re doing.

Because you do.

Nancy nudges you. “We’ll… go be social,” she says, already dragging Robin toward the door.

“Have fun,” Robin adds, grinning a little too knowingly.

They leave you there—alone, finally—standing ten feet from the most tightly wound boy in Hawkins.

Billy pushes off the car, slow, deliberate. His eyes track you like a heat-seeking missile, dark and dangerous and already losing ground. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he says, voice low, almost drowned out by the music.

You shrug, innocent. “Doing what?”

He laughs once, sharp. “That outfit. Showing up late. Bringing them.” His gaze drops, just for a second, then snaps back to your face like he’s burned himself. “You’re trying to make me lose.”

You step closer. Not touching. Never touching. That’s the worst part. “Relax, Hargrove,” you say lightly. “It’s just a party.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters.

Inside, someone cranks the music louder. Bodies move. Someone whoops. The night smells like beer and sweat and summer heat.

You lean back against the Camaro now, stealing his spot, arms crossed, chin tipped up at him. Close enough that he can feel your presence. Close enough that his knuckles flex at his sides.

Day three, and Billy Hargrove is unraveling.

“You know,” you say casually, “you could always quit.”

His eyes flash. “Not happening.”

You smile—slow, teasing, devastating. “Then I guess you better keep your distance.”

He steps closer instead.

“So help me,” he growls, voice barely restrained, “this challenge is gonna be the death of me.”

You tilt your head, lips hovering just shy of his cheek, your breath brushing his skin without ever crossing the line.

“Good,” you whisper.

And Billy knows—deep in his bones—that this stupid little game is about to cost him everything.