Billy Harrington filled the doorway like a storm cloud, chest rising in sharp, furious breaths, sweat and rain plastering his hair to his forehead. The air in the Byers’ living room snapped tight — like the house itself sensed trouble coming.

Lucas barely had time to move before Billy’s hand clamped around the front of his jacket. The kid’s back slammed into the china cabinet so hard the glass rattled like teeth.

“Don’t you ever come near my sister again, you little—”

“Oh hell no.”

Your voice cracked through the room before Steve could even step forward. You were already moving. Fast.

Billy turned just in time for your fist to collide with his jaw. The sound echoed through the living room — a brutal, clean shot that forced his head sideways with a spray of spit and blood.

He staggered, stunned, eyes wide. “What the—?”

“You touch my brother. You touch my friends.” You didn’t raise your voice; you didn’t have to. Each word was a nail hammered in. “But you do not put your hands on Lucas.”

You shoved him back before he could fully regain balance, your forearm pinning across his chest. Billy tried to grab your wrist, but you knocked his hand away and drove your knee into his ribs. The air left him in a choked sound.

“You crazy bitch—”

Another punch. This one split his lip.

Behind you, Steve froze halfway into a heroic dive he apparently no longer needed to make. His eyes were huge. The kids were silent — except Dustin, who whispered a stunned, “Holy crap.”

Billy swung at you, sloppy, disoriented. You ducked easily and rammed your shoulder into his stomach, sending him crashing backward into the same cabinet he’d thrown Lucas into. The wood creaked, glass chimed, and Billy sucked a breath in through his teeth.

He lunged again out of pure anger, not strategy. You caught his arm, twisted, and slammed him onto the floor so hard the rug bunched under his weight.

You didn’t hit him again. You didn’t need to.

You stood over him, chest heaving, fists still curled and ready. “Get up,” you warned. “Go ahead.”

Billy’s eyes burned with humiliation, rage, and something almost like fear — because he didn’t understand how he’d just lost a fight he didn’t expect to have.

Steve stepped forward finally, planting himself beside you, one hand hovering near your back as if afraid you might launch yourself again. “Billy,” he said, voice low, steady, “you need to leave. Now.”

Billy glared up at both of you, lip dripping blood, pride shredded more than his skin. He spat a red streak onto the floor and pushed himself upright, wobbling slightly.

“This isn’t over,” he snarled.

“Yeah,” you shot back, “it is. You walk through that door, Hargrove. And don’t come near Lucas again. Or any of these kids. Or my brother. Or me. Because next time? I won’t stop this early.”

For a long second, no one breathed.

Then Billy backed away, stumbling once, eyes cutting to Max — who was glaring at him with tears of fury in her eyes — before he finally stormed out into the rain.

The door slammed behind him.

Silence.

Steve let out a breath he’d clearly been holding for years. “Remind me,” he said lightly, voice a little awe-struck, “to never piss you off.”

Your knuckles ached. Your adrenaline buzzed. And for the first time all night, the house felt safe again.