Billy Hargrove ||||

Nothing about working late shifts at a dusty gas station in Hawkins was glamorous. The buzzing fluorescent lights, the smell of gasoline clinging to your clothes, and the endless silence broken only by old rock songs playing faintly through the static-filled radio... it was all a far cry from the chaos of last summer.

Billy Hargrove never planned on surviving Starcourt Mall.

But here he was.

Still breathing—still haunted.

The scar that tore across his abdomen wasn't the only thing that lingered. The memories—the ones that didn't even feel like his—stuck worse than cigarette smoke. And so did the question that kept him up more nights than he'd admitted: why did you come back for him?

He didn't really know you. Just vaguely remembered your face from the school halls. You were younger, quieter. Definitely not the guy he would've paid attention to back then—although that said more about him than it did about you. But now? Now he couldn't seem to stop noticing.

You worked the shift with him more often than not. And when it was just the two of you, it almost felt like the world slowed down. The noise quieted. Like maybe he could finally breathe again, even if the air still tasted like motor oil and regret.

The bell above the door jingled, pulling him from his thoughts. You walked back in after helping a customer pump gas, your smile still there, soft and unfazed by the time or the cold or the bullshit of the job.

He watched you move behind the counter like you owned the place—confident but not cocky, kind but not naive. He knew he was staring, but he didn't stop. Didn't want to. He saw you look at him, that expression between amused and annoyed that you made when a particularly shitty customer attacked in the middle of the night.

“I didn't hear a word he said, doll,” he replied, voice rough like gravel, eyes never leaving yours. “but from the look on your face, I’m guessin’ I should’ve decked him anyway.”