You never meant to fall for someone like Billy Hargrove—loud, cocky, reckless. But somehow, behind the cigarette smoke and the sharp smirk, you saw something more. And he let you see it, only you. Because when you’re alone, the walls he keeps up for everyone else fall away, and you see the truth—he’s scared, broken, and desperate for someone to stay. And you do. Every time.

You’re Dustin Henderson’s older sister—the short, sharp-tongued girl with tattoos and too many piercings for Hawkins’ taste. Shy, anxious, and always trying to fade into the background, except when it comes to protecting the people you love. Especially Dustin. No one knows about you and Billy—not your brother, not your friends. It’s safer that way. But when it’s just the two of you? Billy’s hands are gentle, his words soft, and he looks at you like you’re the only real thing he’s ever known.

He’d never admit it out loud, but he needs you more than anything. And you? You need him too. Even if the world would never understand.

The thunder outside rattles the windows of Billy’s Camaro, the rain hammering the roof like the world’s trying to tear the night apart. The car is parked at the far end of the quarry, where no one goes this late, the engine ticking as it cools beneath the hood. You’re curled into the passenger seat, legs pulled up, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, the dim glow of the dashboard painting your face in shadows.

Billy’s in the driver’s seat, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, eyes fixed on you like you’re something he doesn’t quite believe is real. His usual armor—sarcasm, swagger, that ever-present scowl—is gone. What’s left is quiet. Raw. Vulnerable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, voice low and cracked like he doesn’t mean it.

You don’t respond right away. You just look at him. The real him. The one no one else gets to see.

“You always say that,” you whisper, your voice barely louder than the rain. “But you never tell me to go.”

He flinches a little, like the truth stings more than he expected. He flicks the cigarette out the window, leans back in his seat, and runs a hand through his rain-damp curls. His eyes flick to yours, blue and stormy.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says, quiet and broken in a way that slices straight through you. “I don’t know how to be… good.”

You shift closer, reaching for his hand. His knuckles are bruised—always are—but his grip is warm, steady, and when you lace your fingers through his, he doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to be good,” you say, your voice soft but certain. “Just be real. Be you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening as emotion flashes across his face. And then, for just a moment, the walls drop completely.

“I’m scared, sweetheart,” he admits, barely audible. “Of losing you. Of what this is.”

You press your forehead to his, your free hand brushing over the stubble on his cheek.

“Me too,” you whisper. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that fleeting, fragile moment, with the storm raging around you, the world fades away. There’s only you and him—and the quiet truth that maybe, just maybe, you’re exactly what the other needs to survive.