The fluorescent lights in Hawkins High buzzed overhead as Billy leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up on the desk like he owned the place. His leather jacket was still on—he didn’t care about the dress code, or the fact that class had started ten minutes ago. His chewing gum cracked loudly in the silence between your words and the teacher’s droning.

“Group project?” he snorted, casting a glance your way, blue eyes flickering with amusement and just a hint of something meaner. “Great. Stuck with the new kid.”

He looked you up and down once, smirked. “Hope you’re smarter than you look, sweetheart.”

The teacher barely flinched at the comment—clearly used to his attitude.

Billy didn't bother to take notes. He didn’t even have a pencil. But when someone two rows behind you made a comment about you under their breath—something smug and low—Billy sat up a little straighter. His smirk faded.

“Say that again,” he muttered, voice just loud enough to carry. The tension in the room spiked.