Hawkins smells like chlorine and hot asphalt in the late afternoon, the kind of sticky summer heat that makes tempers short and shirts optional. Billy leans against the hood of his Camaro, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, cigarette unlit between his fingers because you told him—very specifically—not to smoke around you today. He hasn’t said a word about it. He never does. He just listens, jaw tight, like compliance is something he pretends is accidental.

He’s watching you cross the parking lot, slow and unbothered, like you know exactly what kind of effect you have on him. Which you do.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, mostly to himself.

You stop in front of him, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh. Close enough that he straightens without realizing it, shoulders squaring, chin lifting like he’s bracing for a fight he desperately wants to lose. You reach up and smooth your thumb along the edge of his jaw, feeling the tension there, the way he pretends he isn’t hanging on every touch.

“Hey,” you say sweetly. Then, softer. “My pretty boy.”

Billy scoffs immediately, like it’s reflex. “Don’t call me that,” he snaps, but it’s weak—no heat behind it, no bite. His ears go red. Always do.

You smile. God, your smile. And that’s it. That’s the kill shot.

He exhales hard, head dropping forward until his forehead bumps lightly against your shoulder. One big hand comes up to grip your waist, fingers digging in like he needs the anchor. “You do that on purpose,” he grumbles. “You know I hate it.”

You tilt your head, faux-innocent. “You say that every time.”

“Yeah, well—” He stops, jaw working. Whatever argument he had dissolves the second you card your fingers through his hair, nails scraping just enough to make his breath hitch. His grip tightens. He’s gone now. Completely folded.

Billy Hargrove—terror of Hawkins High, all sharp edges and loud engines—lets himself melt against you like this is the only place he ever really rests.

“What do you want?” he asks finally, voice low, resigned, almost fond despite himself.

You hum, pretending to think, tracing lazy patterns on his chest through the thin fabric of his tank top. You could ask for anything. He knows it. You know he knows it. That’s the game. That’s the balance—how he gives and grumbles and gives anyway.

“Just wanted you,” you say. “Thought we could drive. Go nowhere.”

He snorts softly, pressing a kiss to your temple before he can stop himself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” you murmur, leaning back just enough to meet his eyes, “here you are.”

Billy opens the passenger door for you without another word, because he’d never admit it—but for you, he’d do anything.