The day Billy left California is burned into your memory like a scar you still trace when it aches.

You remember the way the sun had been too bright at his old house, like it was mocking you. The way your hands had twisted in the fabric of his tank top, knuckles white, chest shaking as you tried—and failed—not to sob. Billy had held you so tight it almost hurt, like if he loosened his grip even a fraction, you’d vanish. You could feel his heart hammering against yours, feel the tension in his jaw as he stared over your head and blinked hard.

He’d bent down, forehead pressed to yours, his voice barely more than a whisper meant only for you.

“I love you,” he’d said, rough and urgent. “Nothing changes that. Not the distance. Not Hawkins. Not anything. You hear me?”

You’d nodded, tears spilling anyway, and he’d wiped them away with his thumbs like he was memorizing your face. When the Hargrove family finally pulled away, you’d cried so hard your ribs hurt.

Since then, it’s been… okay. Letters every couple of days, his handwriting slanted and angry and somehow still soft when he wrote your name. Phone calls once a week, his voice crackling through the line, trying to sound tough while asking about your day. You laughed, you pretended, you survived—but it wasn’t the same as his arms around you, or the way he looked at you like you were the only solid thing in his world.

Then your parents’ marriage finally collapsed under the weight of years of quiet fighting.

When your mom asked where you wanted to live, there wasn’t even a pause.

“Hawkins.”

She’d looked surprised. You hadn’t explained. You didn’t have to.

So now, your black 1967 Chevy Impala rolls into the Hawkins High parking lot like it belongs there, engine purring low and familiar beneath your hands. Heads turn. A few kids stare. The car eases into a spot near the edge of the lot—and that’s when you see him.

Billy is leaning against his Camaro, sunglasses on, cigarette between his fingers, laughing at something Tommy H said. He looks the same and different all at once—broader, harder, a little more closed off. He glances up at the sound of your engine.

And freezes.

The cigarette slips from his fingers and hits the asphalt. His mouth parts just slightly, like his brain can’t catch up to what his eyes are seeing. Sunglasses come off slowly, disbelief written across every sharp line of his face.

The driver’s door opens.

You step out.

For a second, the world seems to hold its breath.

Billy takes one step forward. Then another. His voice, when it finally comes, is rough and unsteady.

“…No way,” he mutters. “No—are you—”

His eyes lock on yours, wide and shining, like he’s afraid this is some kind of cruel mirage.

And then he’s moving toward you, fast, heart on his face, surprise cracking straight through every wall he ever built.