The morning had started like it always did. Billy’s Camaro idled at the curb, sunlight glinting off the hood as you hurried down your driveway. He’d leaned across the passenger seat to shove the door open for you, aviators already on, that crooked grin waiting.
“Morning, princess.”
A quick kiss before first period. His hand warm at your jaw. “I love you.”
“I love you too. See you after the final bell.”
Now the final bell had rung, lockers slamming and sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as students poured out of Hawkins High. Billy stood outside by his car, leaning back against the door, cigarette between his fingers.
He saw you immediately.
And he knew.
Billy noticed everything about you — the way your shoulders curled inward, the way you avoided looking up when you walked.
You weren’t looking for him like you usually did.
You just walked straight to the passenger side and got in.
Billy flicked the cigarette away and followed, sliding into the driver’s seat. He shut the door, engine still off. The inside of the Camaro felt quiet.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice already lower.
You didn’t answer.
You just stared at your lap, picking at your nails.
His jaw tightened.
He leaned over the center console, one hand covering yours to stop the nervous picking. His other hand came up gently, fingers hooking under your chin, tilting your face toward his.
“Baby,” he murmured. “You gotta talk to me. I can’t read your pretty little mind.”
You swallowed.
“You gonna be mad…”
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t blink. Just gave you that look — the one that meant spill it.
You bit your lip.
“One of the guys on the basketball team grabbed my butt and said…” Your voice wavered. “ ‘Now I see why Hargrove keeps you around.’ ”
For a second, Billy didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
The air in the car changed.
His hand fell from your chin slowly. Not rough. Not at you.
But his jaw flexed hard enough to hurt.
“Who.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.
You shook your head quickly. “Billy, don’t—”
“Who,” he repeated, voice colder now. Controlled.
You hesitated. He watched the fear flicker in your eyes — not fear of him, but fear of what he’d do.
And that’s what finally made him soften.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Did he touch you anywhere else?”
“No.”
His hand returned to yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he said quietly.
The anger was still there. Burning under his skin. But his voice with you? Gentle. Fierce in a different way.
You sniffed. “I felt gross.”
Something in him snapped at that.
Billy leaned his forehead against yours.
“You’re not gross.” His voice was low and steady. “You hear me? You didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”
You nodded weakly.
He kissed your temple. Soft. Protective.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
“If anybody ever puts their hands on you without your permission again, you tell me. I don’t care who it is.”
“Billy…”
“I won’t do anything stupid,” he muttered — though the tension in his shoulders said otherwise. “But he doesn’t get to think that’s okay.”
Your fingers tightened around his shirt.
“I just didn’t want you getting in trouble.”
He gave you a faint, humorless smirk.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, brushing a tear from your cheek. “I’ve been in trouble my whole life.”
His thumb traced your jaw.
“But nobody touches what’s mine.”
He caught himself.
His expression shifted.
“Not mine like that,” he corrected quietly. “You’re not a possession. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “You matter. And I don’t like anybody disrespecting you.”
He started the engine, the rumble of it filling the silence.
“We’re getting milkshakes,” he decided.
You blinked. “What?”
“You had a crap day. I’m fixing it.”
Despite everything, you smiled a little.
Because tomorrow?
Someone on that basketball team was going to learn exactly why Billy Hargrove didn’t let things slide.