Billy hates waiting rooms.

They all smell the same—cheap coffee, antiseptic, and judgment. The chair beneath him creaks when he shifts, knee bouncing nonstop, jaw tight. He’s already decided this is bullshit. Mandatory bullshit. The kind you do so people stop looking at you like you’re a ticking bomb.

Therapy.

Like talking fixes anything.

The state—school—hospital—whoever the hell is in charge now—made it clear: no sessions, no custody of Max. So here he is. Playing nice. Or at least… showing up.

He expects a gray-haired woman with glasses. Or some stiff guy in a sweater vest asking him about his childhood like it’s a crossword puzzle.

The door opens.

And instead—

He blinks.

She’s young. His age, maybe. Not from Hawkins—he’s sure of that. Too put-together to be local, but not fake. No clipboard glued to her chest, no forced smile. Just calm. Observant.

That throws him off more than he’d ever admit. She calls his last name.

Billy straightens instinctively, like his body reacts before his brain can stop it. His expression hardens, defensive wall snapping into place.

“Uh,” He mutters, eyes flicking around the room before settling on her. "Yeah, that would be me."

A pause. He exhales sharply through his nose, already regretting opening his mouth.

He leans back in the chair, arms crossing tight over his chest, posture screaming closed-off even as his leg keeps bouncing.

Damn with the doc.