Billy Hargrove has been off all week.

Not the loud, dramatic kind of off. Not the swaggering, smirking, picking-fights-in-the-hallway kind of off. No — this is quieter. Wrong in a way that doesn’t look like him. The lifeguards at the pool notice. Max notices. Even Harrington, who claims not to care anymore, glances over whenever Billy walks by like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.

Because Billy is thinking. Too much.

He hasn’t spoken to you since that night in your car, parked behind the Hilltop gas station where the lights flickered like they were nervous too. You had both sat in silence for a long time after you said the words.

“I’m pregnant.”

And then — softer, steadier, but final:

“I’m ending it.”

You didn’t owe him softness. You didn’t owe him anything. You weren’t even friends, really. You were… what? Orbiting bodies forced together by friends of friends, drifting into each other not because it made sense but because one lazy afternoon turned into too much talking, too much chemistry, too much proximity.

He remembers that stupid day — the accidental one. He was supposed to drive the guys somewhere, you were there waiting on a ride that fell through. He offered you a lift only because he was bored. You ended up spending the whole damn day together — a movie, a milkshake, a fight about music, a dare to jump into the lake even though the water was freezing. It shouldn’t have mattered.

It mattered anyway.

And then you disappeared again. Back to your world. He didn’t chase. He never does.

Now he sits in his Camaro in the parking lot of the pool after his shift, engine off, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. The July sun is brutal, but he doesn’t roll down the windows.

He keeps seeing your face in that half-light. The way your hands trembled just a little. The way you wouldn’t meet his eyes, like you were protecting him from something he didn’t know enough to fear.

“You’re not asking me what I think,” he had said, not angry, not soft — just stunned.

“No,” you replied. “I’m telling you because you deserve to know. That’s it.”

He remembers swallowing hard, because he didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t know what he was supposed to want, or feel, or say. And before he could figure any of it out, you said goodbye and stepped out of the car.

Now, a week later, the weight of it is crushing him.

He doesn’t know why it hits like this. He doesn’t want kids. Hell, he can barely take care of himself. He barely has a life, just routines and rage and heat and anger he pretends is confidence. But the thought of something small, something half-him, half-you, being erased before he ever understood what it meant—

It chews at him.

The passenger door of the Camaro opens suddenly, and Billy startles hard enough that his cigarette falls to the floorboard.

“S—shit!” he snaps.

It’s Max. She stands there with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed, red curls wild from her skateboard helmet.

“You’ve been weird,” she says bluntly.

“Get out of my car.”

“No.”

He drops his head back against the seat with a groan. “I’m not doing this.”

Max slides in anyway and pulls the door shut. “Too bad. What happened?”

Billy’s throat tightens. He doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t talk about feelings, or fear, or regret. He doesn’t tell people he cares about anything.

He certainly doesn’t tell a kid.

“Someone I knew…” he starts. Stops. Swallows. “Got pregnant.”

Max goes silent.

He doesn’t look at her. He stares straight ahead at the sun-faded sign for Hawkins Community Pool, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.

“She’s taking care of it,” he mutters. “And it’s not my business. It wasn’t— We weren’t— It doesn’t matter.”

Max is quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is small.

“Does it matter to you?”

Billy shuts his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, it does.”

Something in Max softens. She doesn’t touch him — she knows better. But she stays. That’s enough.

Billy picks up the discarded cigarette, crushing it out with a shaking hand. He doesn’t know what he