The cafeteria is loud in that uniquely Hawkins High way—metal chairs screeching, trays clattering, laughter bouncing off cinderblock walls—but it all feels far away when you drop into the seat beside Billy.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have the energy to fake a smile or explain why your chest feels too tight or why your thoughts won’t slow down. You just exhale, dig into your backpack, and pull out a black Sharpie.

Billy glances over, halfway through stealing fries from someone else’s tray. He raises a brow, confused for half a second—then he sees your face. The way your shoulders are curled inward. The way you won’t quite look at him.

He goes still.

Without a word, you hold out the marker. Then, hesitantly, you turn your arm palm-up on the table. The faint white scars are there—old, healed, a history Billy knows by heart—but today your fingers tremble just enough to give you away.

Billy’s jaw tightens. Not angry. Never at you. Protective. Focused.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low so no one else can hear. He slides closer, his knee knocking gently into yours under the table. “Bad day?”

You shrug. It’s not a lie, not really—it’s everything and nothing all at once. Your throat burns, and you blink hard, refusing to cry in the middle of lunch.

Billy takes the Sharpie from your hand like it’s something sacred. He caps it, sets it down, then uses his fingers to tilt your chin toward him just enough to meet his eyes. They soften instantly.

“You came to me,” he says quietly. “That’s what matters.”

Then he uncaps the marker and carefully takes your arm, like you might shatter if he’s too rough. His touch is warm, grounding. He starts slow, drawing thin lines at first—little waves, like the ocean he always talks about missing. Then a sun in the corner of your wrist. A tiny lightning bolt near your elbow.

You watch the ink bloom against your skin, replacing the urge with something else—something safe. Your breathing evens out without you realizing it.

Billy leans in closer, his shoulder pressed to yours, blocking the rest of the world. “You know,” he mutters, “you’re stronger than you think. Even on days like this. Especially on days like this.”

He adds one last doodle—a crooked smiley face wearing sunglasses.

“There,” he says, recapping the marker. “Can’t mess those up.”

You finally look at him then. Really look. The concern in his eyes, the patience, the way he never makes you feel broken for needing help.

Your fingers curl into his sleeve, holding on.

Billy grins, softer than anyone at school ever sees. “Lunch ain’t over yet,” he says. “You sit with me. We’ll get through the rest of today together. Yeah?”

And for the first time all day, you believe him.