#80's

Hawkins High wasn’t big enough for Billy Hargrove’s ego.

Everyone knew it.

Billy strutted through the hallways like the school belonged to him, hair perfect, shirt half-unbuttoned like he didn’t own a button that could reach the top. Girls whispered about him the moment he stepped into view; guys whispered too, usually about whether they could take him in a fight. (They couldn’t.)

You were… not part of that.

You weren’t unpopular, but you didn’t orbit the same sun as Billy Hargrove. Your friends were normal, low-drama types. You had a job after school. You kept your grades decent. You didn’t look when Billy walked by.

And that is what started all of it.

It begins with a dare.

Billy was leaning against his locker, spinning his car keys around his finger while his friends talked shit about Steve Harrington. Who had just walked by with you beside him. You were laughing at something Steve said, not flirty but comfortable. Familiar.

“You know her?” one of Billy’s buddies asked.

Billy followed you with his eyes. He didn’t say anything at first, because he hadn’t actually noticed you until last week. You were quiet, sure, but not in a fade-into-the-wall way. You listened. You paid attention. You were warm.

Too warm.

And Steve Harrington clearly enjoyed being around you.

Billy clicked his tongue. “Yeah. She’s friends with the little freaks Harrington babysits.”

“Heard she’s into guys who treat her right,” the guy teased. “So that rules you out.”

Billy grinned, sharp and practiced. “You think so?”

“Oh please, Hargrove,” another said. “You couldn’t get a girl like that if you tried.”

Billy’s jaw ticked.

He didn’t care about you, not personally, not then. But being told he couldn’t have something?

That was gasoline to a flame.

“Watch me,” he said.

Not one of them expected him to actually try.

You were at your locker, shoving textbooks inside when a shadow leaned over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You jumped, smacking your head on the metal above you. “Ow— what? Oh. Billy.”

He smirked like he’d trained for it. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yes you did,” you muttered, rubbing your head.

Billy blinked. Not many girls talked to him like that.

He leaned against the lockers, casual but calculated. “Harrington said you’re looking for a chem partner.”

You frowned. “I never said—”

“Good,” he interrupted. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“You did now.”

You stared at him. He stared right back like this was the most normal interaction in the world.

“Why me?” you finally asked.

Billy shrugged. “You’re smart. And I’m charming. Thought we’d make a good team.”

He left before you could argue, leaving you confused and slightly annoyed.

He didn’t expect the next thing:

You didn’t chase him. You didn’t blush. You didn’t look back at him once he walked away.

That was new.

And infuriating.

He started showing up places you were. At the store where you worked. In the parking lot after school. In the hallway during your free period.

It was subtle at first. If you were paying attention, he’d lean against something, looking bored until you passed by. If you said hi to someone else, he’d stare too long.

But you weren’t giving him anything.

You were polite, sure. Nice. But neutral.

And Billy didn’t know what to do with neutral.

One day he followed you out to the student lot.

“You avoiding me?” he asked.

“No,” you said honestly. “I just don’t really know you.”

Billy opened his mouth, ready to throw out the usual flirty line, but something stopped him. The way you looked at him. Clear-eyed, steady, not impressed or scared—took the words right out of his mouth.

“Huh,” he said, like he’d just discovered something unexpected. “Guess we’ll fix that.”

The next week, he actually works with you in chem. Not just showing up ... actually doing work. He doesn’t talk much; he watches.

He watches how you treat people. How you help a kid who dropped their papers. How you smile at the teacher when you hand in homework.

You are the opposite of everything in Billy’s house.

And he hates that he notices.

One day after class, you slide the finished lab report across the desk.

“Here. You should look it over before we turn it in.”

Billy blinks. “You’re letting me see it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Nobody trusts him like that. Ever.

He folds the paper slower than he needs to. “Thanks.”

You smile, small but real.

And just like that, Billy feels something he refuses to acknowledge tightening in his chest.

Someone sees you getting into his Camaro after school (you needed a ride home—he insisted, smirking, “don’t worry, I won’t bite unless you ask”).

People whisper. Girls who wanted Billy glare at you. Steve looks confused and a little worried.

You shrug it off, because you still think this is just… Billy being Billy.

Billy, meanwhile, can tell you don’t see what he’s doing.

And that bothers him more than it should.

His friends check in.

“Yo, Hargrove,” one of them calls. “So what’s the deal with that girl? You in yet?”

Billy smirks automatically—but it drops fast.

“No. Not yet.”

“You losing your touch?” “Thought this was for fun.” “Or was Harrington right about you going soft?”

Billy’s stomach twists. Not from the teasing—he can handle that. But because for the first time, he’s not sure this is “for fun” anymore.

He shoves the guy lightly. “Relax. She’ll fall for it.”

He says it loud enough for them to hear. But quietly enough that he almost convinces himself too.

The next afternoon, you show up at school with a bruise on your shoulder from bumping into your shelf at home.

Billy sees it instantly.

“What happened?” he asks, voice too sharp.

“Oh—nothing. I just hit something.”

He steps closer. Too close. “Who?”

You blink at him. “I said it was nothing.”

Billy realizes what he looks like—angry, concerned, protective—and steps back fast. He clears his throat.

“Right. Whatever. Just… watch where you’re going.”

You walk away, confused.

Billy watches you leave with something heavy in his chest that feels nothing like a game.

And for the first time, he thinks: Shit. I’m in trouble.

Part 2