The Henderson house is quiet in that way only late nights ever are—everything holding its breath.

Billy Hargrove knows the routine by now.

The loose board under the window. The squeak if you lift instead of slide. The curtain you never remember to fully close. He slips inside with the ease of someone who’s done this a dozen times before, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the faint smell of gasoline and cigarettes clinging to his jacket.

“Miss me?” he mutters under his breath, already grinning.

Only— Your room’s empty.

Your bed’s untouched, blankets neatly kicked to one side like you’d gotten up and meant to come right back. Billy pauses, brows knitting together as he sets the bag down. He listens. That’s when he hears it—music. Low, pulsing through the wall. Something loud and angry and perfect.

And light. Spilling from under the bathroom door.

Billy’s mouth quirks as he follows it, boots quiet on the carpet. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossing lazily—then freezes.

You’re standing in front of the mirror in an oversized T-shirt, bare feet on the tile, gloves on your hands. Foil crinkles softly as you work with careful precision, tongue caught between your teeth in concentration. One side of your head is already dark, slick with black dye. The other is vivid, bleeding red like fresh paint.

Split right down the middle.

For a second, Billy just stares.

“…Holy shit.”

You jump, whipping around, nearly flinging dye across the counter. “Billy!” Your hand flies to your chest. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!”

He laughs—low and delighted—pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. “Yeah, well. Kinda my thing.” His eyes rake over you, slow and unapologetic, before settling back on your hair. “You doin’ some kinda punk rock science experiment, sweetheart?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you turn back to the mirror. “It’s called split dye. And don’t touch anything or I swear I will kill you.”

“Ooh,” he hums, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Feisty. Must mean I’m early.”

He drops the duffel onto the counter and unzips it, pulling out contraband like it’s treasure—microwave popcorn, candy bars, a couple sodas. Then, triumphantly, two VHS tapes. Halloween. The Evil Dead.

“I brought offerings,” he says smugly. “Figured you’d wanna watch somethin’ that’d make Henderson piss himself if he woke up.”

You snort. “Dustin sleeps like the dead. Mom too.”

“Good,” Billy says, stepping behind you, careful this time. He rests his hands on the counter on either side of your hips, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him. His reflection meets yours in the mirror—blue eyes bright, hair messy, smile soft in a way he never lets anyone else see.

He tilts his head, studying your hair again. “Black and red,” he murmurs. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Why’s that?”

He leans in, voice dropping. “’Cause you’ve always liked chaos.”

Your lips curve despite yourself.

Billy presses a kiss to your shoulder, gentle. “Missed you,” he admits quietly.

You glance up at him in the mirror, dye-stained gloves and all. “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

He grins, wicked and fond all at once. “Good,” he says. “Means I get front-row seats.”