(Halloween Night, 1984)
The bass from Tommy H’s stereo rattled through the walls, vibrating beer bottles and bones alike. The house was packed — shoulder to shoulder with half-drunk teenagers, the kind of chaos that Billy Hargrove usually fed on. He was in his element, or at least he was supposed to be.
But somewhere between his fifth beer and a round of jeering laughter from Steve Harrington’s corner, Billy started thinking about her.
She didn’t belong here — not in this house, not in this noise. But there she was anyway, standing near the kitchen, her hair pulled half-back with something sparkly, a soft glow under the flicker of orange light. She was dressed as some kind of 1940s movie star, red lips and dark curls and that quiet confidence that made everyone else feel too loud.
Billy took another swig. God, she was something.
She was also too good for him. But he didn’t think about that. Not tonight.
“Your girlfriend looks bored,” Tommy said, shoving him with a smirk.
Billy grinned too wide. “She’s just taking it all in.”
But when he looked again, she wasn’t smiling — she was watching him, her eyes sharp, that half-worried look she always tried to hide. The kind that said you’re doing it again, Billy.
He hated that look. Hated that she could see through him.
So he drained his drink and went looking for another.
She couldn’t stop counting the minutes. Forty-three since they’d arrived. Six since she last saw Billy with a full beer. Three since she decided she’d drive him home.
The music was too loud, the air smelled like sweat and cheap beer, and she was starting to understand why her mom always said nothing good happens after midnight.
She wove through the crowd until she found him — leaning against the wall, head tipped back, his laughter too big, too bright.
“Billy,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise.
He looked at her like she was the only clear thing in a room full of static. “Hey, baby,” he slurred. “You havin’ fun?”
“Let’s get you out of here.”
He frowned, like she’d just suggested canceling summer. “What, you wanna go already?”
“Yes,” she said, steady and soft. “You can barely stand.”
“I can stand just fine,” he shot back — and then promptly stumbled into a half-empty bowl of punch.
She caught his arm before he could hit the table. “Okay. Proving my point.”
She steered him out the door. The night air was cold, clean, and for a second she could breathe again. Billy let her lead him toward his Camaro, muttering under his breath.
When they reached the car, he leaned against the door, watching her with half-lidded eyes. “You’re too good for this, y’know.”
“For what?” she asked, unlocking the door.
“For me.”
She paused. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But it was the first time he sounded like he believed it.
“Billy,” she said quietly, opening the passenger side for him, “get in.”
He did, head falling back against the seat. She started the engine, and the radio hummed something soft and slow. The world outside blurred by — streetlights streaking gold against black.
Billy turned his head, studying her profile. Even in the dim light, she looked unreal. Like she belonged somewhere brighter. Somewhere safer.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re really stunnin’, you know that?”
She smiled faintly, eyes on the road. “You’re drunk.”
“Still true.”
They drove in silence for a while. When she pulled up outside the Hargrove house, he didn’t move right away. He just sat there.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said finally. “Taking care of me.” Because no one ever has. Not since his mother died.
She looked at him then — really looked. His eyes were glassy, but there was something raw there, something real under all the bravado.
Billy leaned forward, kissed her, slow and unsteady. She tasted the beer, the salt of his skin, the ache of everything he couldn’t say. When he pulled back, he whispered, “You make me feel like I could be better.”