Billy Hargrove

Billy Hargrove didn’t believe in coincidences. Or luck.

But there you were. Again. In Hawkins, of all fucking places. At first, he thought it was a joke. Or a hallucination. Like California was chasing him down through the smog, the dried blood, and the rumble of the Camaro at midnight. But no. You were real. That same low laugh. Those same eyes that saw more of him than he ever meant to show.

You weren’t his best friend back then—not even someone he talked to all that much. But you were there. When no one else was. And now… now there wasn’t a single day he didn’t look for you. Like you were the only piece of home left in this fresh hell.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. You knew how Billy was with words. But still—how the hell was he supposed to explain everything else?

The hugs that lasted a second too long. The lazy kisses on your temple, your hair, when no one else was around. Falling asleep tangled up on his couch like it was nothing. Pulling you into his lap at lunch whenever some asshole stared at you for too long.

He knew you were beautiful. Everyone did.And it drove him insane—because no one else had the right to see you like that. To make you laugh. To touch you.

And still, he kept sleeping with other girls. One after another. Like that would erase the way his body reacted to yours. Like he didn’t already know that maybe—just maybe—he felt something more than friendship.

But there was a silent rule between you. None of that. Just friends. Right?

He was leaning against his car, the sun dipping low over Hawkins High. That burnt-orange sky casting its glow over the Camaro’s polished paint. A half-smoked cigarette hung between his fingers. He saw you walking out with your bag slung over one shoulder, still wearing that damn cheer uniform. His jaw clenched for a second. Ridiculously pretty.

“You’re late, princess,” He muttered when you got close enough.