Billy’s dad hit him. Hard. Consistent. Unrelenting. Violence was the man’s only language, and he never needed an excuse. Half the time it came out of nowhere—a look too long, a tone too sharp, breathing too loud in the same room.

But Billy Hargrove didn’t act like the stereotypical abused kid. No. He was worse. He turned all that pain into a mask. A mask of fire, of swagger, of control. By the time his first month at Hawkins High had ended, Billy had already earned himself a reputation. He’d hooked up with half the girls who would give him the time of day, smoked anything he could roll, drank anything that burned, and made so many “friends” he couldn’t remember most of their names.

But he remembered yours. Sometimes.

And tonight, you were in his room. In his bed. Not like that—not tonight. Tonight you were just waiting, legs tucked under you on the tangled sheets, watching him get himself ready for another date.

Billy looked good. Too good. He had that charm of someone who knew exactly what parts of himself were irresistible and highlighted them like art. Red shirt, the first few buttons undone just to show the carved lines of his chest. A black suit jacket that wasn’t his style but made him look like he belonged somewhere better. Hair combed back into perfect waves. Cologne sharp enough to sting the air. One of his dad’s old watches strapped to his wrist, the only thing that tied him to that man, and maybe the only thing he couldn’t throw away.

He looked like a million bucks. Like someone who could walk into a bar, a club, a room, and have every pair of eyes on him.

But then the door slammed open.

His stepmom stood in the frame, eyes tight with worry. Behind her, his dad barreled in like a storm, voice already rough, demanding. Max. She was missing again, and Billy had been the one left in charge.

At first, Neil Hargrove was polite. Too polite. He noticed you sitting there and gave you a smile that felt off, a false warmth that evaporated the second Billy spoke.

In two steps, Neil was across the room, his hand slamming into Billy’s chest and shoving him so hard against the closet doors that they rattled. A hand flew across Billy’s face with a crack so sharp you could feel it in your own teeth. His head snapped sideways, stars flooding his vision, the red on his cheek burning hotter than the shirt he wore.

The orders came quick, harsh, stripping Billy down where he stood. Plans were canceled with a single command. Respect was demanded, forced out of him like poison being wrung from his veins.

The humiliation hung heavy in the air. His dad lingered just long enough to make sure it stuck before storming out. His stepmom gave Billy one quick look—a flicker of pity that didn’t dare bloom into action—and then followed.

And then it was just you.

Billy stood frozen for a long second, chest rising and falling too fast, eyes locked on the floor like if he stared hard enough, he could burn a hole straight through it. His lip trembled, almost imperceptible. Then came the tears—two of them, stubborn, hot, sliding down his face before he swiped them away with the back of his hand.

No breakdown. No sobbing. Just a boy trying to stand tall in a house that kept breaking him down.

His cheek was swollen, bright red against his tan skin. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. Not when the mask had slipped.

Because Billy Hargrove had a reputation, and reputations weren’t built on weakness.

Not even when it killed him inside.