#dacre

.”

Billy Hargrove is not gentle.

He’s loud, reckless, all heat and swagger. He burns too hot and too fast and leaves smoke behind him everywhere he goes.

But the next week, something shifts.

It starts small. Almost invisible.

Billy shows up to chem early. Not on time...early. He’s sitting in his seat, the lab manual open, pencil in hand. When you walk in, he doesn’t smirk. He just… looks at you.

Not like you’re a challenge or a joke.

Like he’s taking inventory.

“Morning,” you say, cautious but polite.

Billy grunts something that might be a greeting. His eyes flick to your shoulder, checking, making sure the bruise is gone. He looks away quickly when he catches himself.

You notice, but you don’t comment.

You’re used to Billy being a lot of things. Concerned isn’t one of them. You don’t know what to do with it.

Class starts. You half-expect him to slack off again, or flirt with some girl from across the room, or ignore the worksheet entirely.

But Billy is focused.

Actually focused.

When you explain a step in the procedure, he listens. When you hand him the beaker, he takes it carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll break something important.

At one point, your hands brush. You pull back quickly.

Billy doesn’t.

His fingers flex like he wants to reach for you. He stops himself.

You pretend not to notice the way his jaw clenches.

A Few Days Later

Rumors spread fast in Hawkins High. Rumors about Billy spread faster.

By Wednesday, people have decided you’re either:

Billy’s new target

Billy’s new toy

Or someone Billy will chew up and spit out by Friday

You ignore it, because ignoring things is what you’re good at.

Billy pretends to ignore it. He’s not good at it.

You’re grabbing books out of your locker when a group of girls passes by, ones who used to giggle whenever Billy walked near.

“Poor thing,” one says loudly. “She has no idea what he’s like.”

Another snickers. “He’ll get bored. He always does.”

You keep your eyes on your locker, refusing to react.

Billy hears everything.

He’s halfway down the hallway before he realizes he’s moving. He steps in, slamming his locker shut just a little too hard, the metal echoing like a threat.

The girls jump.

Billy doesn’t even look at them ... he looks at you.

“You ready?” he asks, like nothing happened.

You nod. “Yeah. Just need to grab a pencil.”

The girls scurry away.

Billy watches them until they’re gone, shoulders tense, breath uneven, the vein in his temple pulsing.

“Billy…” you say gently. “I can handle them.”

He scoffs. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean they get to talk.”

You pause.

“You don’t have to defend me.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and something unguarded crosses his face before he masks it.

“Maybe I want to.”

You open your mouth, but he walks ahead before you can respond.

His ears are red.

The Ride

You shouldn’t get in Billy Hargrove’s car.

It’s a bad idea. Everyone knows it. Your friends side-eye the Camaro like it’s a black hole. Steve hesitates every time he sees you heading that direction.

But Billy keeps offering. And you keep saying yes.

Today, he waits for you leaning against the hood, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He looks like trouble wrapped in denim.

You can feel the eyes on you as you walk over.

“Rough day?” Billy asks.

You shrug. “Normal day.”

He opens the passenger door for you.

That’s new.

You blink. “Uh… thank you.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but he looks away too fast.

When you get in, you see a jacket folded on the seat — his — moved just for you.

Also new.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, rings glinting in the afternoon light. The radio hums low. It’s almost peaceful.

Almost.

“What happened to your shoulder?” he asks suddenly.

You turn to him. “I told you. I bumped into a shelf.”

“Yeah, but how hard were you walking? Jesus.”

You laugh softly. “Why do you care?”

He doesn’t answer.

Billy tightens his grip on the wheel until the leather creaks.

“Just… don’t like seeing you hurt,” he mutters.

You look out the window to hide the way your stomach flips.

He glances at you, barely, quickly, like he’s afraid the moment will bite him, then looks back at the road.

You’re closing up the store where you work, sweeping, counting registers, flipping off lights one by one.

You step outside into the cool air, tired and ready to go home.

Billy is leaning against the brick wall.

You jolt. “Billy? What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, but something is tight in his shoulders. “Picking you up.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

You should be annoyed. You should tell him you’re fine, that he doesn’t need to babysit you.

But something in his face stops you.

Billy looks… unsettled.

Not angry. Not cocky.

Lost.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

Billy hesitates, and Billy never hesitates, then says quietly:

“My dad was home early.”

You don’t know everything about his father, but you know enough to understand.

And suddenly his presence outside your workplace makes sense.

He needed to get away. He didn’t want to be alone. And somehow, that meant coming to you.

“Do you want to sit in the car?” you ask, voice soft.

Billy nods once, sharp, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t move now, he won’t move at all.

You walk to the Camaro together.

Inside, the silence is different. Heavy, but not suffocating.

Billy rests his forehead against the steering wheel. His breath shakes once, quietly, like he’s ashamed of it.

You reach out before you can think and touch his arm.

He flinches, not away from you, just from the gentleness.

After a second, he exhales and leans back.

“You don’t have to deal with my shit,” he mutters.

“I don’t mind,” you say.

He looks at you then, eyes tired and raw in a way you’ve never seen.

“You should,” he whispers.

You hold his gaze. “I don’t.”

Billy swallows hard.

For the first time since he started this whole game, he isn’t smirking. He isn’t charming. He isn’t performing.

He’s just… Billy.

And he’s looking at you like he doesn’t understand why you haven’t run yet.

His voice breaks low. “I didn’t mean for this to—”

He stops himself.

You wait.

Billy shakes his head, frustrated with feelings he doesn’t have the language for.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he finally admits.

“This?” you repeat, heart thudding.

Billy meets your eyes.

“This,” he says, voice rough but sincere. “You.”

The car is quiet.

Too quiet.

You don’t know what to say. Billy doesn’t either. He rubs his thumb over the steering wheel, tense and waiting, for rejection, for confusion, for anything.

You don’t reject him.

You just say, “Okay.”

Billy frowns. “…Okay?”

You smile softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Something in his chest loosens, so suddenly, so visibly, that it almost hurts to watch.

Billy turns the key in the ignition, trying to hide the way relief washes over him.

“Good,” he says, softer than he intends. “’Cause I’m not done trying.”