Yeah...

Fuck both of you. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Eddie murmurs, dropping his arm around you, heavy and comforting and him. 

You stare at your meagre lunch, and rest your cheek against Eddie’s shoulder for a moment, just the one. You’ve built so many walls around yourself over the years. One brick at a time for every time you’ve run into casual cruelty of your existence (poor, a woman, smart in a way that makes men feel inadequate), and it’s only with him and a few others that you allow yourself to be soft, if only for a moment. 

“Fine,” you reply distantly, pressing closer for a breath. “Just—fine.”

You’re not fine, and you both know it.

. . .

Tuesday, you glimpse Billy in the hallway between third and fourth period.

He’s got Tina Morrison pressed against the lockers, hand braced above her head, leaning in close enough that their mouths are almost touching. She’s giggling at whatever he’s saying, twirling her hair, and Billy is smiling with his teeth but not his eyes. You hate the fact that you recognise the difference now. 

You force yourself to keep walking. Force yourself not to look or linger, or give him any indication you’re watching. But you feel his attention snap to you like a rubber band pulled taut. Feel the weight of his gaze tracking your movement down the hallway, heavy and deliberate, a physical touch between your shoulder blades.

You don’t turn around.

In calculus, he shows up fifteen minutes late, his hair mussed and his collar skewed. Doesn’t look at you once as he swaggers across the classroom, all eyes on him. Just sprawls on his chair in the back row and stares out the window like he’s planning his escape route in his head. 

There’s a new bruise on his knuckles when his skin catches sunlight. Fresh. Purple spreading across the ridge of bone and tendon.

You wonder who he hit. Wonder if it helped. Wonder if anything helps when you’re Billy Hargrove and your Neil’s voice lives in your head. 

Mr Martinez calls on you to solve a problem on the board. You stand, move to the front on automatic, and as you’re writing out the equation, you feel it—that prickle at the base of your skull that means someone’s watching. No, not just someone. 

You glance over your shoulder. 

It’s him, of course, because it’s always him. Billy is looking at you, sprawled back into his seat, the chain around his throat winking in the afternoon light. His eyes are flat, empty, and when you meet his gaze head-on, he doesn’t look away. Just holds it, unblinking, until you’re the one who breaks first, something like shame curdling inside your chest, strange and unfamiliar. 

Your hand trembles as you finish the equation.

“Correct,” Mr Martinez calls, but you barely hear him over the buzzing in your ears.

You return to your seat with your pulse throbbing in your throat.

By Wednesday, everyone is talking about the party at Tina’s and, even more importantly, the Halloween bash next week. 

You cut through the hallways like a minefield, ignoring the bodies and the noise. You’ve been good; work, scholarships and grants, helping Eddie with his homework, ignoring the unspoken weight between you. 

Billy hasn’t so much as spoken a word to you, and a part of you is glad, while another part keeps you awake late into the night, staring at your ceiling, mulling over your words. How easy it was to reach for something you knew would hurt him. 

You sigh, lift your eyes from the floor, and stop dead in your tracks. 

Billy is half-leaning, half-slamming his weight against the locker beside yours, one hand flat on the dented metal, the other braced on his hip. His head tips back, laughter spilling out of him in a rough, deep spill that makes several girls down the hall turn reflexively towards the sound. 

There’s a girl under his arm. Blonde. Cheerleader skirt, perfect hair, lip gloss that catches the fluorescent light. She’s laughing too, high and breathy, one hand pressed to his chest like she’s trying to keep herself upright.

Your stomach does something unpleasant.

You’ve seen her before. In the halls, at games you showed up to only for Eddie—on those rare occasions you went at all—holding pompoms and cheering loudly. She’s not mean, as far as you’ve seen, not the way some of the others have been, treating you like a stain, a freak. She’s just… one of them. The ones who know precisely how to move through this world: eyes forward, lip gloss perfect, never bumping into the edges, an ease to her life you’ve always envied rather than resented. But it feels, oddly enough, like a slap to the face to see them together near your space. Because of course this is the type of girl Billy goes for, he’s been consistent if nothing else, and you’re just…

A stain. 

“—you’re terrible,” she giggles, swatting at his arm.

“I know,” Billy drawls, sounding delighted, a devilish grin tugging upwards. “That’s why you like me.”

“I never said I liked you,” she argues, but it’s a weak, unconvincing statement, and Billy knows it, too. 

“No?” he poses lightly, dipping his head closer in that cocky, confident way. “Could’ve fooled me Friday night.”

Your eyes flicker down her neck before you can stop yourself. And there it is—a faint bruise at the curve, half-hidden by her glossy hair. His handiwork. 

You slam your locker door a little harder than you strictly need to. They both look over at you due to the proximity of the sound. For a split second, his expression does something strange when he recognises you—surprise, then something else, darker and hotter, predatory around the edges. 

Then the mask slides back, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, hey,” he says as if you’ve just wandered into his living room. “Didn’t see you there, grease monkey.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You’re shouting. The entire hallway sees you, Hargrove.”

His jaw pulses, once, gaze darkening further, growing more stormy by the minute as he drags his eyes over your features. Perhaps because he was expecting this conversation to go differently, but your tongue won’t obey, and you’re not sure how to backtrack on what you said to him that night outside of Gareth’s place. And another, smaller part of you is unsure whether he deserves an apology, given everything he’s said and done since getting to Hawkins. To you, to Max, to others. 

The girl under his arm looks between you, evaluation flashing in her eyes. She’s pretty in that effortless, catalogue way. Blue eyes, small button nose, hair glossy and smooth in the overhead light. 

“Hi,” she says, a little uncertain. “Do you… need the locker?”

“No,” you reply, briefly flicking your attention towards her. “Already got my stuff. You’re fine.”

“Oh. Okay.” She smiles, tentative but surprisingly sincere. “I’m Jessica. Jess for short.”

You know who she is. Everyone in Hawkins knows who Chrissy Cunningham’s best friend is. The two best cheerleaders at Hawkins High, beautiful and intelligent, both from good families. 

You give her a shallow nod. “Yeah. I’ve seen you around.”

“You’re the mechanic girl, right?” she asks, recognition sparking. “You fixed my dad’s car last fall. And for a lot cheaper.”

“That’s me. Cheap labour.”

“That’s really cool,” she says, and you can tell she actually means it, not just performing. “Thanks again. It’s running great.”

Something in your chest eases a fraction, defences folding back an inch or two. Billy’s eyes flick between you and Jess, like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Look at you, grease monkey,” he huffs, amused, but there’s something edged in meaness about how he rolls his words. “Making friends.”

You adjust your weight, cutting a brief look at him, then force your gaze away. “I have friends.”

“Sure you do,” he begins, and there’s something soft and cruel about his tone. He’s looking for a fight, you realise, nothing about your last interaction has left his mind. “Little brats and a local freak—”

“Don’t talk about Eddie like that,” you snap automatically, fire flushing through your system. 

Your gazes clash, and he grins, teeth on display. It’s his victory, you realise angrily, he’s forced you to meet him toe to toe again. “Jealous?”

The look you shoot him is withering at best, the air between you pulling taut, prickly with heat. 

You’re not running because you like this. 

The urge to prove him wrong, to shut out his voice from your head, wins out, working your tongue before you can pull the words back. “Of what? Your ability to turn any girl in a ten-foot radius into a cautionary tale?”

Jessica’s confused little smile falters. You see it, feel it, the way her fingers curl tighter on the strap of her bag as if holding on means she can brace for what’s coming.

“Hey,” Billy begins, but there’s no gravity in his voice, no incredulous anger on Jess’s behalf. You think, deep down, that he enjoys this, seeing you throwing back the same viciousness he can. “Be nice.”

You snort. “That’s a bit rich, coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jess whispers, frowning faintly as she tracks the tension between you two.

You hesitate, your tongue frozen behind your teeth. In truth, you don’t know her. She’s not your friend. She’s just some girl with perfect hair who picked the worst possible guy to hang out with. That’s on her, not on you. Not your business, not your headache. And yet…

You could let it go. 

You don’t.

“It means,” you begin deliberately, levelling your gaze on her, “he goes through girls like cigarettes. Enjoy the attention now, because once he’s bored, you’re just another stomped-out butt in the parking lot.”

Her face flushes red. “Excuse me?”

Billy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Damn,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Don’t act like it’s not true,” you snap at him, nostrils flaring, hating the knowing, smug little curve of his mouth, as if you just proved something right. “We’ve all seen it. You show up, you turn on the charm, you drag them into your car or some sad corner of a party, and then you move on. Next name, same boring game.”

“That’s not—” Jess starts, then stops, gulping down a breath. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know him.” And it’s frightening how certain you sound, how Billy’s expression tenses, eyes blackening like he’s considering wrapping his hand around your jaw again, dragging you towards him until you’re sharing oxygen again. “And guys like him don’t suddenly become relationship material because you wear a bow in your hair.”

Her eyes flash. There’s no mistaking the hurt beneath the anger, and you immediately hate yourself a little. She straightens, shoulders pulling back, drawing away from Billy altogether. He doesn’t stop her. 

“You’re just jealous,” she exhales, loud enough that several people around you look in your direction. “You’re jealous because he’s with me and not with some… grease-stained weirdo from the auto shop.”

“Ouch,” you say mildly. “There she is.”

“You don’t know what he’s like when it’s just us,” she pushes on, ignoring you. “He’s actually… he’s really… he’s nice.”

You risk a glance at Billy. He’s watching you with that familiar, intense stare. Not her. You. Something in your stomach twists, constricting painfully, leaving your skin tight and hot. 

“I’m sure that’s what he wants you to think,” you say quietly, weakly.

“You think you’re so much better than everyone,” Jess scoffs, voice going shrill at the edges. “Like just because you work with cars and hang out with those kids and know big words, you get to judge everyone else.”

You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. “I don’t think I’m better,” you articulate in such a painfully flat way, you hope she realises how ridiculous her assumption sounds. “I’m the resident freak, okay? I’m fully aware of my social standing. I just think I know how this ends. Spoiler: not well.”

Jess swallows, folding her arms over her chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” You shrug, conceding the fact. Sighing, you attempt to soften your expression. “Which is why I’m telling you to be careful, not to stop. You wanna keep hooking up with him, go for it. But understand it’s not because you’re special. It’s because you’re available.”

A couple of students whisper under their breath, exchanging looks, sensing drama. Your spine prickles, tension coiling tighter around you. 

“Wow,” Jess says, eyes shining. “You must be really fun at parties.”

Humiliation burns your skin. “I don’t go to parties.”

“That explains a lot,” Billy mutters knowingly.

You glare at him. “Stay out of it.”

“You’re talking about me,” he replies boredly. “Kind of hard to.”

“That’s because you make it about you,” you snap, sucking in a breath, and it’s so much easier to do this with him. To argue, to fight, because you know which buttons to push, because you know he’ll push back. “You treat girls like… like they’re accessories. Something to hang off your arm until you get bored, then toss them aside. And everyone just goes along with it because you’re good-looking and you have a nice car. You’re not some bad boy, Hargrove, you’re just a bad person.”

The word “girls” comes out harder than you intended. Everything about your words slips out, knife-sharp, ready to tear and cut. 

Jessica flinches; a small, troubled thing, shoulders slanting downward. Billy spins fully to face you, stalking a step towards you, a feral glint in those blue eyes. You try to ignore the way both your chests expand simultaneously, as if something has loosened between you now that you’re near each other again.

“And what?” Billy poses, his voice going quiet in that way that makes your pulse spike. “You want me to take them to church instead?”

“I want you to stop acting like they’re disposable,” you argue, breathing hard. “Like they don’t walk away from you feeling smaller than when they met you.”

Jess’s face goes paper-white, her mouth wobbling. 

“Stop it,” she says suddenly. “Just stop.”

Your mouth snaps shut, your pulse deafening in your ears.  Jess looks between the two of you, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You don’t get to talk about me like I’m not here.” She looks towards Billy, but he’s still glaring holes into your face, ignoring her. “You don’t get to talk about him like he’s some… some monster and I’m too stupid to see it. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

“Yes,” she shoots back fiercely. “And if he… if he doesn’t feel the same way about me as I do about him, that’s my business. Not yours.”

The word feel hangs in the air like smoke. You see Billy’s jaw clench, something about his expression cooling immediately. 

“I didn’t say you’re stupid,” you say, a little softer. “I’m saying he’s… not good at this, with anyone. He doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t care to learn. And you deserve someone who doesn’t have to unlearn treating you like trash.”

“Shut up.”

You look towards Billy. There’s a raw edge to his expression again, half-frozen, half-feral. The one from your drive when he backed you into your truck, the one outside Gareth’s house. The one that says you’ve hit something raw. Again. 

Jessica notices too. You spot the way her hand curls into his jacket, like she’s not sure if she’s holding back from putting his hands on you or anchoring herself.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks you, her eyes narrowing. “Did he reject you or something? Is that why you’re so obsessed with what he does?”

You actually laugh at that. You can’t help it. The sound comes out sharper than you intend. Meaner, too. “He didn’t reject me. He wouldn’t know what to do with me if he tried.”

“Try me,” Billy snaps, no hesitation. 

There’s a beat of silence. He looks like he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth, but it’s too late. Jess’s face crumples, cracking around the edges. Her fingers jerk away from Billy’s jacket as if he burned her. But this is worse, so much worse. A breath scrapes down your throat when you suck it in, your eyes still locked. 

“You’re disgusting,” she whispers, and the quiet devastation in her voice makes you wince.

“Hey,” he says, turning toward her. “Jess—”

“No,” she snaps, stepping back. “You are. And you—” she hisses at you, tears bright in her eyes, burning in a way that makes something cramp in your stomach, “—you’re cruel.”

She snatches her books out of her locker with shaking hands and slams it so hard the metal rings. Then she pushes past both of you and disappears into the stream of bodies, one hand up to her face. You stand there, the echo of the slam vibrating through your chest, ringing in your bones. The hallway noise rushes back in like coming up from underwater. Snatches of broken conversations. Laughter. A locker door slamming shut two rows down.

Billy turns on you. Right there, too close, physically in your space in a way that makes your skin tingle. 

“What the hell is your problem?” he snarls, low and furious.

You blink, trying to process everything that’s just transpired. “My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem,” he repeats, more snarling this time, his head bowed towards you. “You see a girl smiling for five seconds, and you gotta come in and piss all over it?”

“You’re the one who said—”

“I know what I fucking said,” he snaps. “You think I don’t hear myself?”

“Funny,” you say, heat rising up your throat. “Because you sure act like you don’t.”

He steps in even closer, crowd tightening around you like you’re both generating your own gravity. You’re aware of people watching, pretending not to, the whispers, but breaking eye contact now would mean his victory. 

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” he snarls, low and furious. “You stand there with your big brain and your big mouth, acting like you’re better than everyone. You treat people like projects. Fix this, fix that, fix them. And the second they don’t work the way you want? You write them off as faulty parts.”

Heat creeps up your throat, your glare clashing with his. “I see patterns. And I’m not gonna stand there and watch you chew up somebody who actually seems nice just because you’re bored.”

“Maybe she’s not bored,” he says. “Maybe she likes it.”

Something about the way he says she likes it lingers in your mind, the implication blatantly clear. You cross your arms over your chest. “Maybe she thinks you’re capable of more than this,” you reason, voice dropping. “Maybe she’s wrong.”

His eyes flicker.

There it is—the nerve.

“You really think I’m that bad?” he asks scornfully, a laugh caught in his throat. “That I just… what, go around ruining lives for fun?”

“I think you go around making sure no one gets close enough to see you,” you argue back, equally as scathingly. “So you treat people like crap before they have a chance to expect anything from you. That way, when you bail, you can tell yourself they’re better off.”

He scoffs, but it’s weak. “You’re projecting. Daddy bailed, so now you walk around with a chip on your shoulder.”

You don’t bother asking how he found out, if someone told him, but the words are barely out of his mouth before you go for his throat in return. “Or maybe you just like being like him.”

His hand moves so fast you barely see it. Billy slams his palm into the lockers next to your head, hard enough that the metal dents. Several people jump. Someone gasps. You don’t move an inch; no blink, no gasp, just steady, hard eye contact. Your heart rockets, though, beating so loud you fear he might hear it due to your sheer proximity, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you shrink.

He’s inches from your face, breath hot, eyes wild. Your lips tingle where his breath fans over your skin. 

“Don’t fucking talk about things you don’t know,” he hisses through his teeth. “Or next time I won’t just hit the locker.”

He peels his hand away from the metal with a screech of protest and takes a step back, raking a hand through his hair. He turns and strides down the hallway, shoulders tense, head high.

You lean back against the cool metal and let out a breath caught in your windpipe, dizzy from the rush inside your head. The dent next to your head stares back at you. You slide your fingers over it, almost a caress. The metal is warm to the touch. You should feel shaken, and you do, but not in the way you expect. Because under the adrenaline, under the anger, there’s this stubborn, stupid ache.

You hurt him. Again. You meant to hurt him because he hurts everyone else. To make him feel, just for a moment, what it’s like to be on the receiving end of it. 

You also didn’t. It’s a tangle you can’t unravel properly. He brings out the worst in you, he’s an itch you can’t scratch, and yet… 

His face springs to your mind, the split second before his hand flew free, the series of small decisions and their outcome. It would be so easy to hate him because he’s a hateful person, because he fucks up, because he uses people and treats them like shit. He could choose to be better, but he doesn’t. Maybe because it’s all he knows, maybe because this is easier. His pain isn’t an excuse, you know that. 

You gather your books with hands that only shake a little and head to class.

. . .

After school, the shop feels more like home than your actual trailer.

The air is warm with the familiar mix of oil, rubber, and metal. The radio on the shelf keeps drifting between classic rock and static. The big bay door rest rolled halfway up, letting in a band of cool autumn air that smells faintly like wet leaves and something vaguely rotten. 

You brace one knee on the bumper of a sedan, elbow deep in the engine, fingers slick with grease as you retighten stubborn bolts. Your shoulders protest, but your brain never does. You like this part—problems with clear causes, clear solutions, parts that either work or don’t. Machines you’re good at, excellent at, even. 

If only people came with specs and wiring diagrams. If only you didn’t care about the damage your mouth can do. If only you could fold time back and choose less poisonous words. 

You get the bolt finally, the wrench slipping just enough to bang your knuckles against metal.

“Shit.”

You suck the sting, shake out your hand, and grin despite yourself. Pain makes sense when you can see where it comes from, when the price for it is success. 

“Everything alright back there?” Frank calls out from the office.

“Peachy,” you shout back.

You’re just leaning back from the hood when you hear it, a soft crunch of bike tyres on gravel. Your eyes skim towards the bay doors. A small figure on a bike slows to a stop just outside the concrete lip. The kid dismounts awkwardly, one foot hitting the ground before the other, hands wringing the handlebars like he’s reconsidering this whole endeavour now that he’s here.

Will Byers.

You recognise his rounded shoulders, the bowl-cut hair, the way he seems to fold in on himself like he’s practising taking up less space. You also recognise the hesitant half-wave he gives when he spots you looking.

“Hey,” he says, voice light but thin. “Uh. Is this a bad time?”

You wipe your hands on a rag and toss it onto the cart, searching for Mike or Dustin or even Lucas behind him, but it’s only Will, and after last year, the lonesome sight pings something like worry in your chest. “That depends. Did you bring snacks?”

His mouth twitches, eyes widening. “No?”

“Then yeah,” you say, mock-seriously. “Terrible time.”

His eyes bulge further before he catches the smile you can’t entirely hold back. He gives a huff of relieved laughter, visibly relaxing. 

“Oh. Right. I forgot you do that.”

“Joke?”

“Say things like you hate everyone when you actually really like us,” he replies sheepishly, wandering a little closer, eyes scanning the tools with an endearing kind of awe. “Dustin insists he’s your favourite person in the world.”

“Bold assumption,” you muse, tracking the unsure way he lingers, not entirely committed to staying yet. “What did you need, Byers? You’re a bit far from Castle Byers.”

The way his shoulders twitch at the mention of his hideout makes you wince inwardly. After the horrors he’s been through last year, the word castle must burn like a brand. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Habit.”

His feet shuffle, and you’re struck again by how small he is, even now, and your anger returns, fresh and hot. “It’s okay,” he whispers, avoiding your eyes.

You nod toward his bike to change the subject towards safer waters. “She holding up okay?”

He glances back at it like he’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh. Yeah. Mostly,” Will explains quietly. “Chain slipped earlier. But that’s not why I came.”

You lean back against the workbench, crossing your arms. “Alright. Lay it on me.”

He bites his lip, clearly rearranging thoughts in his head.

“Can I… hang out here for a bit?” he blurts finally. “Just… until my mom’s shift is over? Jonathan’s at work and… I don’t really wanna be at home alone right now.”

Something in your chest folds.

“Yeah,” you say immediately. “Of course. You don’t need a reason. You wanna sit, sit. You wanna help, help. Just don’t touch the welder unless I say so.”

His face loosens minutely. “Okay. Thank you.”

A pang goes through your heart at the shaky gratitude in his soft voice. You pat the stool near your bench instead, swallowing. “Parking spot for visiting royalty.”

Will climbs up, swinging his legs a little, eyes darting around the shop like there might be monsters hiding in the racks of tyres. You go back to the sedan, but not entirely. Your attention splits—half on the engine, half on the quiet shape perched on the stool.

“You wanna talk about it?” you ask casually. “Or just rest in mutual silence and pretend the world isn’t awful?”

He huffs. “The second one sounds really good, actually.”

“Done. Silence it is.”

The radio crackles through songs while you work. Will examines his surroundings with curious eyes, now a little looser, less sharp angles and trembling shoulders. You work quietly, falling back into your familiar rhythm, cycling through tools like they’re extensions of your hand. He watches you with a solemn sort of silence. If it were Dustin, he would be asking you a thousand questions right now, but Will has never been a loud audience, not even the few times he’s shown up alone. This feels different, though. Like something’s been fundamentally stripped from him since last November. 

“Do you ever feel…” he starts, then stops.

He’s quiet for a second, but you don’t rush him, keeping your attention on the engine in front of you. You hear him pick at the edge of the stool, fingernails clicking softly against metal.

“I feel… wrong,” he exhales finally. Small voice, yet bigger than the shop.

You put the wrench down.

“Wrong how?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs, shoulders hunching. “Like… like everyone else got given a script, and I missed rehearsal. So I’m saying my lines too early or too late, or I don’t know them at all. And they—” he gestures vaguely toward the world outside “—can tell and they judge me for it.”

Your throat tightens.

“And also,” he adds, voice dropping, “there’s the… other stuff.”

You know what he means. The shadows. The Upside Down and its stain. The lab visits Joyce and Hopper barely talk about. The way his eyes go somewhere else sometimes, dark and far away.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’ll do it.”

“Kids at school think I’m weird,” he blurts out, as if now that the dam burst, he can’t stop. “They always did, but now it’s… worse. They look at me like…” He fumbles for words. “Like I’m freak. Or cursed. Or… crazy.”

You drop the hood of the sedan with a careful thump and turn to face him fully, leaning back on your hands against the bumper.

“You’re not crazy.”

He shoots you a look that’s halfway between sceptical and please.

“I’m not saying you’re not dealing with some serious supernatural nightmare bullshit,” you explain carefully. “Because you definitely are. But reacting to that? That’s not crazy.”

He lets out a breath, shoulders shaking a little. He shoots you a wide-eyed look, panic and desperation, small beacons lit with frantic need.

“Sometimes I just want to be… normal,” he whispers shakily. “But then that feels wrong too. Because if I were normal, I wouldn’t see things. I wouldn’t be able to help.”

“Exactly,” you say calmly.

He blinks, swallowing. “That’s not what everyone else says.”

You hum knowingly. “What do they say?” 

He shrugs one shoulder, scrubbing jerkily across his face. “‘It’ll be okay.’ ‘It’s over now.’ ‘It’s all in your head.’”

You make a face. “Yeah, that last one’s my favourite. Like, no shit it’s in your head, Brenda.”

He snorts, surprised.

You soften your tone. “You know why they say that?”

“Because they don’t believe me?” he guesses.

“Maybe some of them.” You search his expression until he’s looking at you, making sure he takes in your following words. “But mostly I think it’s because they’re scared. The idea that what’s happening to you is real? That it could happen to them? That breaks their whole brain. So they try to shove you back into a box where everything makes sense—‘oh, he’ll get better, everything’s fine.’ It’s not fair to you. But it’s easier for them.”

Will’s eyebrows crease. “That’s… messed up.”

“People are messed up,” you say, nodding. “I diagnose them all the time.”

He studies you for a moment. “Do you feel like that?”

“Like the world is wrong?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a little shyer now. “You don’t… I mean you… You don’t seem like everyone else.”

A small snort escapes you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” he says quickly.

You let your gaze drift over the shop. The stains on the concrete, the pegboard lined with tools, the calendar with a girl in a bikini leaning on a sports car that you keep threatening to take down.

“I’m a girl mechanic in a town that thinks women should only touch cars to wash them.” You swallow over the lump in your throat, sniffing once. “I’m poor. I’m smart in a place that doesn’t know what to do with smart without it becoming about a man. So yeah. I get it.”

The groove between Will’s brows deepens. “Do people… treat you differently?”

You huff. “You mean besides the customers who ask to ‘talk to the man in charge’ when I tell them what’s wrong with their cars?”

His eyes go wide. “They really do that? Still?”

“Weekly,” you confirm flatly. “Sometimes daily. Had a guy last month call me sweetheart three times and explain to me how the engine works while getting every single part wrong. I finally let him finish and then told him I’d put his air filter in his glove compartment if he didn’t shut up.”

Will laughs out loud—a real laugh, not the strained kind.

“What did he do?” he asks.

“Got red,” you say. “Left. Came back two days later when the car stalled out on the highway, like I said it would. Didn’t call me sweetheart that time.”

Will’s smile fades into something more thoughtful.

“But,” you continue, “being treated like I don’t belong? Like I must be confused about what I want? Yeah. That’s… constant.”

Something about that clearly hits close to home because he follows that up with, “How do you handle it?” 

“Badly,” you admit. “Yell a lot. Get into arguments I shouldn’t. Say things that are too sharp.”

Your jaw remembers the pressure of Billy’s fingers. Your tongue remembers the taste of every nasty thing you hurled at Jess. At Billy. How easy it is to judge, to tear down because you’re so used to baring your teeth, to biting, so you won’t be hurt first.  

You swallow again, a discomfort blooming inside your chest, alongside realisation you shouldn’t have done what you did. 

“But sometimes,” you add more carefully, shaking off your spell, “I use it.”

“How?” Will asks curiously.

You dip your head in a nod, rubbing the edge of your thumb, oil sunk deep into the groves of your skin. “Everyone underestimates me. That’s their first mistake. They talk over me, so they don’t hear the part where I’m right. Then, when the car fails—or whatever metaphorical car they’re driving—I’m the only one who knows how to put it back together. That gives me leverage. Options. And someday, if I play it right? A way out.”

“A way out,” he echoes, more thoughtful.

“Yeah,” you say. “I wanna be an engineer. Or… something like that. Fix bigger things than transmissions. Design stuff that doesn’t break in the first place. But college costs money, and money costs time, and time is currently measured in overtime pay and how much sleep I can sacrifice without turning into a zombie.”

“You’d be a really good engineer,” he says, earnest in a way that punches clean through you.

“Tell the scholarship committee,” you choke out, but the warmth lands anyway, warming you from inside.

He hesitates, eyes dropping to the floor. “Do you… ever feel guilty for wanting to leave? Like you’re abandoning people?”

You think of your mom, asleep in her small bed with her back to the wall. You think of Dustin and Lucas and Max and Will himself. Of Eddie, his warmth all encompassing, his laugh thawing something cold and jagged inside you. You think of Hawkins, with its rotting underbelly and monsters both literal and metaphorical. That horrible, belly-deep sense that what happened last year isn’t concluded, not really. 

“Yeah,” you exhale heavily. “All the time.”

“But you still want to go,” he says slowly, a question there.

“I have to try.” You shrug, kicking the floor with the tip of your boot. “If I stay here forever just because other people need me, I’m gonna end up resenting them. Or myself. Or both. And that’s… not fair.”

He looks down at his hands. “I want to go too. Sometimes. But it feels like the other place is tied to me. Like if I leave, it might follow.”

“That’s not on you,” you say immediately. “You didn’t ask to be kidnapped by a monster and kept in another dimension.”

He laughs weakly. “No, guess not.”

“If anything,” you go on, “you’ve done more than anyone to keep the rest of us alive. You’ve survived, Will.”

He looks up, eyes dark and too old for a face so young. “Then why do I still feel so…” He scrunches his face, searching for the right word, exhaling a shaky, “Broken.”

You exhale slowly.

“Because people keep treating you like you are. Because kids are jerks. Because adults are cowards. Because what happened to you was horrible, and it’s not a light switch you can flip off when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Depressing is telling you everything’s fine when it obviously is not.”

He considers that. Then: “Is that why you told Jess those things? Yesterday?”

You blink, thrown by the sudden change in conversation. “How do you—?”

“People talk,” he answers, tips of his ears going red. “Also, Lewis Brown’s older sister saw the whole thing, and he overheard her on the phone last night with a friend.”

You press the back of your wrist to your brow, trying to rub out the dull ache suddenly forming there. 

“He said it was kind of awesome,” Will adds hastily, seeing the twist of your mouth. “In a terrifying way.”

You grimace. “I was… not nice.”

“You told the truth,” he says, echoing your own words.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “But…”

You picture Jess’s face, the way her eyes filled with tears, the tremor in her voice when she said, That’s my business, not yours.

“I talked about her like she wasn’t there. Like she was stupid. Like she needed me to tell her what was good for her.”

“She kind of does,” Will says, frowning. “You were just being honest, right?”

“That’s not the point,” you say with a tired groan. “Honesty is great. Necessary, even. But there’s a line between being honest and being cruel. And I stomped right over it.”

He swings his legs a little, the soles of his sneakers scuffing the stool. “You were trying to protect her.”

You wish it were the case. Because maybe, yeah, a part of you was. But this wasn’t about Jess, or even doing the right thing. It was about Billy. Everything in your life is about him these days. “Maybe. But I was also… angry. At him. At the way he uses people. At how everyone lets him. At how normal it is. Jess caught the shrapnel for that.”

Will watches your struggle play out, frowning thoughtfully, then, “Do you feel bad?”

“Yeah,” you admit quietly, the response immediate. “I do.”

He looks at you for a long beat. “You should tell her.”

You huff out a breath. “I know.”

“You’d tell me to,” he insists, giving you a pointed look. “If I yelled at Mike because I was mad at the world and made him cry, you’d say I should apologise. In fact, that’s exactly what you did last summer when Lucas and Mike had their fight.”

“Don’t use my own logic against me, kid,” you grumble, squeezing your eyes shut.

Will smiles, small but real, slightly crooked. “Then maybe you should stop being so logical.”

You throw a rag at him. He ducks, chortling.

“I’ll… think about it.”

“You’ll do it,” he corrects right away, looking smug and knowing, and you can’t even be mad because it warms you to see him like this again, even if only for now. “Thinking about it is for people who aren’t you.”

You flip him off lovingly and go back to the sedan.

You work until the sky outside the bay door goes from light grey to deep slate. Will sits in his spot, legs swinging, notebook out, scribbling something with a pencil you pulled out of your pocket and passed to him with a sworn promise you’ll get to see the finished thing. 

A soft call of your name jerks your head towards him. You haven’t noticed him pack up, but he stands there, backpack on, no notebook in sight. There’s something about his expression that makes you stand up straighter. 

“What’s up?”

Will sucks in a tiny, wet breath. “There’s…. something else. I haven’t told anyone, but…”

The hairs on your arm prick up, the comfortable air from moments prior dissipating like smoke. You bite your tongue, not pushing him, letting Will process whatever it is in his own time. Will battles with whatever is stuck in his mouth, the words that won’t come out, but you can tell it’s something bad. He’s shaking, you realise with a quiet curl of dread in your stomach. 

“Hey, kid, I’m—”

You both jerk towards the office, where Frank stands frozen in place, his eyes on Will. “Oh, Will. It’s good to see you again, son.”

Will attempts a weak smile. “Mr Hopkins.”

Not waiting for another moment, Will hurries towards his bike. You follow after him, your eyes narrowed. “Will.”

“Thanks,” he blurts out, one foot on his bike pedal, one hand on the brake. “For… you know. Everything.”

You search his face. He drops his gaze first, fingers wringing around the bike handles. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? You wanted to tell me something.”

He jerks his head in a nod. “It’s fine. It can wait.”

He pedals off, light blinking on the back of his bike, disappearing into the early evening light. You watch him go until he’s no longer visible, then turn back to shut the bay.

His words linger.

You should tell her.

You go to bed with them still echoing in your head, and the lingering terror on Will’s small face burned into your mind.

. . .

The next morning, you get to school earlier than usual.

Partly because you finished your shift at the shop on time for once. Partly because you woke up before your alarm with your heart pounding from a dream about pipes bursting and water flooding everything you own.

You see Jess in homeroom. She looks rough in a way that’s unusual for her.

Her ponytail is lopsided today, dark circles linger under her eyes highlighted by too much concealer. Her cheer jacket is wrinkled around her shoulders. Her laugh rings too loud when her friend says something, the sound unusually brittle.

You see Billy later in the hall after the second period.

He looks… fine. Tired, maybe. There’s a scratch on his neck that wasn’t there the other day, and a hickey peeking above his collar that you try very hard not to stare at. His walk is the same, his smile the same. If anything, he seems more relaxed. Loose around the edges, content. 

You hate the way your brain puts two and two together.

After the third period, you march towards your locker, only to find Jess already there. 

She’s in her cheer skirt, a sweater layered over it, hair pulled up into a high ponytail that’s been redone since homeroom to be sleeker. Her back is to you, shoulders hunched slightly, like she’s trying to make herself small even while wrapped in school colours.

You suck in a deep breath, square your shoulders, and walk forward. 

“Hey,” you call out, keeping your voice low.

She stiffens. Slowly, her head turns in your direction. Up close, Jess looks more haggard, drained somehow. There are faint shadows under her eyes, the kind you only notice if you’re looking for them. Her smile sits on her face wrong: polite, small, flat.

“Hi,” she says.

You lick your chapped lips. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re not great at this—apologising, being vulnerable, admitting mistakes. You’re much better at fight-or-flight. Mostly fight.

Still.

“I—” you start, stop, force yourself to go on. “Look, about yesterday.”

Her hands close around the books in her arms. She stares at the locker door. “It’s fine,” she says too quickly. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s not fine,” you cut in. “I was an ass.”

She blinks, surprised enough to look at you.

“I shouldn’t have talked about you like you weren’t there,” you say, grimacing. “Or like you’re stupid. You’re not. It wasn’t my place to make you feel small. I was angry at Hargrove, and I took it out on you. That’s… not okay.”

She swallows. The movement is small but visible. “You were just trying to help.”

“Maybe, but intent doesn’t cancel impact. I meant what I said about him being bad at this. But you didn’t deserve to be collateral damage in our weird little war.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, like she wants to smile but isn’t sure if it’s allowed.

“Your… war,” she repeats.

This time, you grimace for a different reason. “We’ve been… clashing. Since he came by the shop. He brings out the worst in me.”

She nods like she gets it. You lean against your locker, watching her, scratching at the spine of your textbook.

“Look,” you begin, sucking in a fortifying breath. “I’m not gonna pretend to know everything about what’s going on between you two. And I’m not gonna tell you what to do. If you like him? That’s your business. But if he hurts you? If you ever need someone to… not look at you like you’re crazy for feeling how you do? I’m around.”

The words feel clumsy and too soft in your mouth, but you let them sit. Jess studies you, something complicated jumping across her features, as if she’s unsure whether you’re making fun of her. 

“Why?” she asks quietly.

“Why what?”

“Why would you care?” she clarifies bluntly. “You don’t even like me.”

“That’s not true,” you disagree, almost offended. “I don’t know you enough to like or dislike you. I dislike what this place does to girls like you.”

“Girls like me,” she echoes, but there’s less heat this time.

“Ones who are expected to smile,” you explain, watching understanding dawn across her face. “To be pretty and sweet and small and never complain. To date the quarterback or the new guy with the cool car, and be grateful even when he’s a dick. To never be angry in public.”

You pause, cutting your gaze across the moving throng of students around you.

“Girls like me are allowed to be angry. That’s the only thing we get. We do something wrong, and everyone rolls their eyes and says, ‘of course she’s like that, look at her.’ But girls like you? You’re not allowed. So when you do snap, they call you crazy, or ungrateful.”

Her throat works. “You’ve thought about this a lot,” she says.

“Occupational hazard,” you say with a scoff. “I overthink everything. Comes with the wrench, I’m afraid.”

She huffs a tiny laugh despite herself, and it makes you feel at least ten pounds lighter to hear it.

“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat. “What I’m trying to say is… sorry. For yesterday.”

There’s a long pause between you, too much noise, but not enough relief in the tension arcing between you.

“It hurt,” she whispers at last. “What you said.”

“I know.” The admission sits heavily in your chest. “You don’t have to forgive me.”

“I…” She fidgets with the edge of her sweater. “I don’t know. Yet.”

You fight to keep your expression steady. “That’s fair.”

“But,” she adds, so soft you almost miss it, “thank you. For saying it.”

You nod, too, a little stunned by how much lighter you feel just hearing that. How a tight knot in your chest loosens, letting you breathe a little easier. Briefly, your traitorous mind slots Billy in her place, and you almost bite your tongue in retaliation. Would it feel like this? Would forgiveness and communication be even possible between you, or would you default to your usual warfare?

Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice slices down the hallway.

“Jessica.”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. The hair prickles at the back of your neck anyway.

Billy. Like your mind has conjured him up from thin air. 

He’s striding down the corridor like he owns it, denim jacket slung over one shoulder, boots hitting the floor in measured, unhurried thuds. Even at this hour, he looks like he’s been awake for days and doesn’t intend to sleep anytime soon.

Jess goes still.

You watch her knuckles whiten around her books. Billy stops a few feet away, gaze flicking from her to you and back again. There’s a tightness around his mouth that wasn’t there yesterday. He looks coiled.

“Can we talk?” he says to Jessica, not taking his eyes off you.

She hesitates. Then she nods, looking equal parts determined and focused.

“Alone,” he adds pointedly, chin jerking in your direction.

You feel your spine stiffen.

“I should get to class anyway,” you say, catching Jess’s eye as you turn to go. “ You need me, you know where I am.”

Her mouth parts slightly, like she wants to say something, but Billy is already stepping into the space you vacated. You move down the row, pretending to fuss with a poster on the bulletin board around the corner. You’re not proud of it, but you don’t leave, either.

You lean your shoulder against the cool cinderblock wall and listen, the thin metal of the lockers carrying their voices along like a tin can telephone.

“What do you want?” Jessica asks stiffly, her voice small but not weak.

“Yesterday,” Billy says bluntly, as if it explains everything. “We need to clear that shit up.”

“There’s nothing to clear up,” she replies, trying to match his tone. “You made it pretty clear what you think of me.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

This is the part where the charm starts to fray, you think knowingly, tracking the pitches in his voice like weather. 

“I don’t have to,” she says, and there’s a tremor under the steel now. “You said them yourself.”

You close your eyes briefly, remembering his careless, heated, Try me. 

Billy exhales sharply, laughing under his breath. There’s heat under the sound, smoke fanning, but it’s not seductive; it’s heated in an angry, destructive way. 

“I was pissed,” he says. “She was being a—”

“Don’t talk about her,” Jess cuts in, surprising you enough to blink.

“I’m not here because of her,” she continues. “I’m here because of you.”

“What, you believe every word that came out of her mouth?” he demands, mockery creeping back into his tone, pointed and sharp. “You’ve known me what, a few weeks? A couple of nights? You think she’s got me all figured out?”

“No.” Jessica’s voice shakes, only once. “But I think she was right about one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” His tone dares her to say what you’re all thinking. “Which part?”

Don’t do it, you want to warn her. Don’t pick this fight, not with him, because he’ll break you. He will find a way to rip you apart from the inside out. Because a monster raised Billy Hargrove, and the monstrous parts in him keep winning, keep eating the man he could be and spitting out something ugly and cruel. And worse still, you realise how much you’ve done to draw that side of him out.

“You don’t care,” she says, her voice quiet with defeat. “About me. Not really.”

You hear the soft thunk of locker metal. You picture Jessica setting her books down, needing her hands free.

“You’re fun,” he says eventually. “We have fun.”

“I’m not… a toy,” Jess says shakily. “You can’t just pick me up when you’re bored and then drop me when you’re done.”

“I never said—we never said this was anything. You knew what it was.”

Fun. A way to pass the time. A distraction so he doesn’t have to go home and face reality. 

“I thought I did,” she says miserably. “But then you said those things in front of her like I wasn’t there. Like it didn’t matter what I felt.”

“What you felt,” he repeats, like the word is a foreign language.

“Yes,” she says, voice gaining strength. “What I feel matters. Maybe not to you, but it does to me.”

Billy lets out a derisive noise, and you hear him moving, maybe adjusting his position, maybe something else. “You’re a cheerleader, Jessica. This isn’t a goddamn romance movie. We hang out. We mess around. That’s it.”

“That’s not it, though,” she argues. “Not for me.”

“So that’s my fault?” he demands with a cold laugh, and you can almost see how he rolls his eyes. “Because you decided to catch feelings?”

You wince. He always manages to find the sharpest possible phrasing. No hold backs, no hesitations. It scares you, just a little, how much of yourself you can hear in him sometimes. How attuned you are to going directly for the throat, directly for the softest bits that hurt the most. 

“I didn’t ‘decide’ anything,” she says. “It just happened.”

“You know what else just happens?” Billy asks, voice going cold and hard. “Gravity. People fall. Doesn’t mean the ground is to blame when they hit it.”

“You’re comparing yourself to the ground? Like you can’t help it if you hurt someone?”

“That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off with a growl. “Jesus, you’re twisting everything.”

You hear her shaky exhale, deep and exhausted. You feel sorry for her standing there with your shoulder against the cool wall, because Billy is a hurricane, pure destruction, and Jess is just a girl folding under his intensity. 

“I’m not twisting anything. I’m just tired.”

“Of what?” Billy scoffs. “Of being seen with me? ‘Cause I can solve that real fast.”

“Of pretending that it doesn’t hurt when you act like I’m… nothing,” she says, voice cracking. “Like I’m just—just some girl you can kiss when you feel like it and ignore when you don’t.”

“You’re—”

He stops. The silence stretches between them. You find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his response.

“I’m what, Billy?” Jessica asks, barely audible. “Say it.”

“You’re pretty,” he grinds out finally. “You’re easy to be around. You don’t nag. You don’t ask questions. Or you didn’t, until she—”

“Don’t,” Jess snaps, and this time her voice rings louder, clearer, syllables more solid. “Don’t blame her. She might be rude, but at least she doesn’t lie to my face.”

“I haven’t lied.”

“Yes, you have,” she snaps back. “Every time you looked at me like I was special when I wasn’t.”

Something in your chest twists. You’re not sure who you’re feeling it for.

“You are special,” he says, frustration bleeding into his tone. “Just not—”

“Not enough,” she finishes for him. “Not the right kind of special.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I like you,” she says. “I know that’s stupid. I know you’re… you. But I do. And I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That you might care. Even a little. Eventually. Not just about how I look in your car.”

“You look good in my car,” he says automatically.

“You’re not listening,” she spits back, “You never listen.”

“I listen,” he protests.

“To what you want,” she stresses, more assured now. “What you need. What you’re angry about. But when I try to talk about me? You change the subject. Or you make a joke. Or you…” She trails off.

You hear a soft thud. Maybe her head against the metal.

“I shouldn’t have slept with you,” she says quietly.

You exhale through your teeth.

“Don’t say that,” he snaps.

“Why not?” she asks, genuinely confused, and you close your eyes. “It’s true. You wouldn’t talk to me if I hadn’t. You’d just find some other girl to climb into the back seat with.”

Don’t say you regret him. Your eyes open, a shaky breath escaping your lips. That’s why he’s angry, why he’s demanding she doesn’t say stuff like that. Because it hurts. Deep down somewhere, it nags at him because it’s one thing when he uses, but another when someone regrets letting him. 

“That’s not—”

“You told her you’d ‘try her’ right in front of me,” Jess snaps, voice shaking with anger now. “Do you have any idea how that felt?”

You hear him move. A shoe squeak, a shift of weight, you stop breathing for a moment.

“I was pissed,” he repeats. “She was being a bitch.”

“Maybe she was.” Jess lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “But she saw something I didn’t want to see. And instead of proving her wrong, you proved her right.”

“She doesn’t know me,” he says, low.

“Do I?” she demands immediately.

Silence. You stare at the chipped paint on the opposite wall, jaw clenched. You could and should walk away, but your feet won’t move. 

“Answer me,” Jess says, fiercer than you’ve ever heard her. “Do I know you?”

“No one knows me.”

There’s no brag in it. No cocky edge. It sounds… empty. Hollow in such a way that it rips clean through you. Once upon a time, you thought the exact same thing: that no one could understand you, that no one saw you. Or ever could. You were an oddity in a world demanding conformity, to be eradicated at first chance, not here to be understood or accepted. 

What must it be like? To live with Neil Hargrove in your house, to fear the hand and voice and presence of a man who should love and protect you, but instead hurts you? It doesn’t excuse the harm Billy does, but does it not explain it? If all you know is fear and hurt, is that not going to be what you put out into the world? Kindness requires the kind of bravery people like Eddie possess. To be open and loving in a world that’s determined to punish you for it. 

“Whose fault is that?” Jess whispers after what feels like a small forever.

Billy laughs once, sharp and humourless. “Yours, apparently,” he replies flippantly. “For thinking there’s something to know.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You want some douchebag who’s gonna write you poems and hold your hand and talk about forever?” he asks, words turning cruel in that quick, familiar snap. “Go find someone else. I’m not your fucking boyfriend, Jessica. I’m not your saviour. I’m not your anything.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she chokes out, voice cracking.

“You wanted honesty,” he spits out. “There it is. Now get lost.”

There’s a sharp, wet inhale, and you hear, more so than see, the hurried retreat. The slapping of feet and the hiccup she sucks in as she runs past, mercifully turning in the opposite direction and not noticing you standing there. Your heart thuds as you watch her retreating back, your brain buzzing, caught in a maelstrom of warring emotions. 

Footsteps draw in your direction, and you tense, hurriedly checking if you can make a quiet escape. 

“This is where you say I told you so,” Billy announces dryly, rounding the corner, his expression closed off. 

Your gaze roams over his profile, the glinting earring at his ear, the tension in his jaw. “How did you know I’m here?”

He barely turns his head, but the electric blue of his eyes is devouring, zapping you until your back brushes the wall behind you. The way he’s looking at you is answer enough. Because you both always know. Because your personal, inbuilt fucked up sensor for one another never seems to fail. 

“And I wasn’t gonna say that,” you add, readjusting your stance.

“Why not?” he sneers, his teeth appearing in a predatory smile. “You were right.”

“Being right doesn’t feel good right now. It just feels… sad.”

He laughs once, bitter enough to sting. “Get used to it, grease monkey. That’s life.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

He shoulders past you. You catch the faintest brush of his arm against yours. No shove. No deliberate hit. Just contact, like he has to have this, even now, when everything is bubbling hatefully between you. 

“You think you’re so different from me,” he throws over his shoulder. “But you’re not. You break things too. You just convince yourself you’re doing it for a good reason.”

You flinch. An hour ago, you would have argued with him until you were ready to drop. But you can’t, not anymore because he’s not wrong. Billy disappears into the flow of bodies, broad shoulders swallowed by noise and colour. Yet he lingers on your mind the entire day. And maybe that’s the real problem.

Because for all the ways you can see him clearly—

You still haven’t figured out how to stop looking.

. . .

Friday arrives with rain and pre-game excitement. 

You spend the day in a fog, going through the motions—classes, lunch with Eddie at your usual table, more classes. Eddie finds you after seventh period with that nervous energy he gets before performances, talking too fast about setlists and amp settings and whether they should open with Zeppelin or Sabbath, or something else entirely.

You let his words wash over you, anchoring yourself to his familiar presence.

“You’re still coming, right?” he asks as you’re walking to the parking lot.

Your elbow meets his ribs gently. “I said I would.”

“I know, but you’ve been weird all week. I just wanted to make sure—”

“I’ll be there, Ed.” You soften your voice, force a smile on your face. “I promise.”

He relaxes instantly, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Good. Game starts at seven, but we go on at seven-thirty. Meet me by the bleachers?”

“Sure. I’ll see you there. Don’t suck or I’m disowning you.”

He flips you off with both hands, but he’s grinning now. Happy, a soft part of you notices, and you watch him climb into his van, watch him drive away with one hand out the window in a wave.

Then you go home, shower off the day’s grease and anxiety, and try to figure out what you’re going to wear to a basketball game you don’t want to attend. You settle on jeans and a sweater—nothing special, nothing that says you tried. This isn’t a performance. You’re just showing up for Eddie.

That’s all this is.

. . .

The gymnasium buzzes with noise.

You forgot how much this town cares about high school basketball. How it’s the only thing that matters from November to March, how everyone shows up to cheer for boys who’ll peak at eighteen and spend the rest of their lives talking about glory days that never were.

The air smells like popcorn and sweat as you push your way through the crowd, the air humid with so many bodies packed together. The bleachers are full already, the band is setting up at one end, and on the court, the team is warming up—running drills, taking practice shots, bodies moving with coordinated precision.

And there, in the centre of it all, is Billy Hargrove.

He’s in his uniform—number 8, white tank top with green and orange trim—and even from here you can see the way his body moves. Fluid and controlled. Every motion is calculated for maximum efficiency. He takes a shot from the three-point line. Swish. Nothing but net. 

The crowd roars.

It’s hard not to admire him, the predatory grace of his body, the subtle, coiled aggression in each gesture. You knew he would be here, of course. He’s the new star of the team, but you’ve never seen him in an actual game, and the last thing you want is for him to spot you. You’ve lost enough hours thinking about what transpired between you and Jess.

No one knows me. 

You find Eddie near the bleachers like you promised. He’s tuning his guitar, fingers moving across the frets with practised ease.

“You made it!” He’s grinning, nervous and excited. “We're on in twenty. You gonna stay for the whole game?”

“Maybe. Depends on how much I can take.”

He glances at the court, and something in his expression tightens. “Well, Hargrove’s been on fire during warm-ups. Coach is probably creaming himself.”

Your mouth refuses to work, so you say nothing, but you make the mistake of looking the same way and freeze. 

Because Billy is looking at you now, across the gymnasium, through the crowd and the chaos, his eyes find yours with that same unerring precision. He’s holding the ball in one hand, subtle tension in the tendons of his hand. Sweat glistens on his tanned skin, his curls pulled back, but there’s something feral in his expression.

Then someone shouts something at him, and the moment breaks.

“Come on,” Eddie urges, pulling you toward one of the last available spots. “Let’s get you a seat before it’s standing room only."

You follow him up, find a spot in the middle section where you can see the court and the band. Eddie lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it.

“I gotta go, but I’ll find you after?”

You try to smile, tap the metal bolt resting against his chest. “For luck,” you remind him, everything you need to say packed into those small words. “Break a leg.”

Eddie’s face softens, but he still rolls his eyes dramatically. “That’s theatre, sweetheart. For musicians, it’s—actually, I don’t know what it is for musicians. Don’t die?”

Despite everything, you laugh. “Don’t die then.”

He bounds down the bleachers, all nervous energy and long limbs, and you’re left alone in a sea of people who all seem to know each other.

The opposing team comes out. West Lafayette. Bigger school, better funding, players who look like they’ve been recruited since middle school. But when the whistle blows, and the game starts, none of that matters.

Because Billy Hargrove plays basketball like he’s trying to kill something.

. . .

He’s vicious.

That’s the only word for it.

He moves across the court with controlled violence, driving to the basket with his shoulder down, taking hits that would flatten other players and bouncing back like they’re nothing. When someone tries to block him, he doesn’t go around—he goes through, all elbows and aggression and the particular kind of rage that can’t be contained.

By the end of the first quarter, he’s scored twelve points and picked up two fouls.

The crowd is going insane.

You watch him intently, and something in your chest clenches tight. Because this isn’t about basketball, maybe it is to everyone else, but you know better. This isn’t about winning or glory or proving he’s better than West Lafayette.

This is about punishment.

Every drive to the basket, every hit he takes, every time he goes down hard on the court and gets back up—he’s hurting himself. Deliberately. Pushing his body past limits because pain is familiar, pain is controllable, pain is the only thing that makes sense.

You’re destroying yourself, you think, and something like anger and grief collect at the back of your throat until you want to push into the middle of the court and shake him.

The buzzer sounds for halftime. The teams head to the locker rooms, heads bowed in discussion. The crowd shifts now that there’s nothing to watch, talking, laughing, heading for concessions.

And Eddie’s band takes the floor.

You watch them set up, watch Eddie adjust his mic stand and make some joke that gets a smattering of laughs. They launch into their set. Covers, mostly, safe choices that won’t offend the parents in attendance, something you know Eddie abhors, but is better than not playing at all.

Despite that, Eddie transforms when he plays. You’ve seen it many times, but it never gets old—the way he becomes larger, more confident, more himself. His voice fills the gymnasium, rough and powerful, and for a moment, you forget about Billy Hargrove and scholarship applications and the crushing weight of wanting things you can’t have.

You simply watch your best friend play, and let yourself feel proud.

The set ends to genuine applause. Eddie catches your eye in the crowd and grins widely. You offer him a thumbs-up with a crooked smile.

Then the team comes back out, and the game resumes.

The second half is worse.

Billy is playing harder now, more recklessly. He takes a hit that sends him sprawling across the court, and he comes up with blood on his lip and fury blazing in his eyes. The ref calls a foul. Billy doesn’t acknowledge it; he just wipes his mouth and gets back into position.

West Lafayette is starting to get scared. You can see it in the way they hesitate, the way they give him space, the way they track him like he’s something dangerous.

They’re not wrong.

With three minutes left in the fourth quarter, Billy drives the lane. A defender tries to block him and gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble. The defender goes down hard. Billy scores.

The whistle blows shrilly. Another foul. But Hawkins is up by fifteen, and Billy got twenty-eight points to his name.

The crowd is chanting his name like it’s a church hymn.

You feel sick to your stomach.

The final buzzer sounds. Hawkins wins, 78-60. The team swarms Billy, slapping his back, shouting his name, celebrating in a hooting, brash way guys often do. He accepts it with that sharp, empty smile, all cockiness and ease, letting the praise soak into his ego. 

Then, for just a second, his eyes find yours in the crowd.

And you see it. The exhaustion. The particular kind of emptiness that comes from pushing yourself past breaking and finding nothing on the other side. You stand before you consciously decide to. Start making your way down the bleachers, moving against the tide of people heading for the exits.

Eddie catches you at the bottom. “Hey, where are you—”

“I'll call you later,” you say, and keep moving.

“Wait—”

But you're already gone, pushing through the crowd, heading for the exit that leads to the back parking lot.

. . .

The back parking lot is nearly empty. Most people are still inside, celebrating or commiserating. The air is cold in a stinging way, making your breath visible in the lights that buzz overhead like dying insects. October in Indiana means the temperature drops deceptively fast after the sun goes down, and you can feel it now—the bite of it against your cheeks, the way it makes your lungs work harder.

Your truck sits parked at the far edge of the lot, under a broken light that keeps flickering on and off. You’re fishing for your keys when you feel it—that particular weight of his attention. 

You turn slowly.

Billy leans against the side of the building, half-hidden in shadow. Still in his uniform—number 8, white tank top dark with sweat, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is damp, curls falling across his forehead, and there’s a bruise forming on his jaw from where someone caught him with an elbow in the third quarter.

He looks exhausted. Hollowed out. Like he’s been running on fumes for so long, he’s forgotten what it feels like to have anything in the tank. In the intermittent darkness, his eyes look more black than blue.

“You waiting for someone, mechanic?” His voice cuts across the space between you, sharp, edged with something mean.

Your hand tightens on your keys. “Good game.”

“That’s why you’re out here?” He pushes off the wall and starts moving toward you. Slow and deliberate. “To tell me I played well? Give me a little gold star on my homework?”

“No.” You force yourself to stand your ground even as every instinct screams at you to get in the car. So much has been said between you, most of it intended to harm, and right now, the weight of those words is like a third person between you. “I’m out here because you’re destroying yourself and somebody should probably say something about it.”

Billy laughs; short, cold, utterly devoid of humour. “And you think you’re that somebody? After what you said last week? After the shit you said to Jess? I’m supposed to believe you give a shit?”

The words hit exactly where they’re supposed to. Your chest tightens, shame and regret twisting together. A week of chewing over your words and their impact, and you try, once again, to find the words that are foreign to you. 

“About that—”

“Save it.” He’s closer now, maybe ten feet away, and you can see the exhaustion written in every line of his body. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your concern. Or for you to try and figure me out through a basketball game.”

A thousand insults and observations burn on your tongue. Yet you think of Will asking you if you feel bad, about the bruises on Billy’s skin, about Jess and the relief of apologising. About that soft, gentle part of yourself you’ve hidden away to keep yourself safe. A side of you very few ever see, and only because they deserve it: Eddie, your mom, the boys, Frank, and, more recently, Max.

Right now, the fire ebbs from you, and instead, you hear yourself say, “I’m sorry.”

Billy goes completely still. “What?”

“For what I said.” The words come out rough, reluctant, but honest. “About your father. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t have the right to use that against you. It wasn’t right.”

He’s staring at you like you just spoke a foreign language. A foreign emotion spasms his face, there and gone in an instant. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump in that trademark way you’re beginning to associate with him.

“But,” you continue, and your voice hardens, “I meant what I said about Eddie. He’s off limits. Whatever you think is happening between us, whatever this is, Eddie doesn’t get pulled into it. Do you understand?"

Something passes over Billy’s face, dark and primal, as he pushes towards you, the distance shrinking.

“So you do think something is happening between us.”

“I—” You falter. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Yeah, it is.” He takes another step, and now he’s close enough that you can smell him; sweat and something else, copper maybe, from his split lip. “You felt it.” 

The light flickers. In the darkness, Billy’s face is all sharp angles and shadows. He chuckles suddenly, looking away, then back at you, a rough, pleasant sound. Real, in a way his performative, arrogant displays of amusement never are. 

“I was pissed at you,” he says quietly, and there’s something dangerous in his voice now. “After last week. After you threw my father in my face like you had any fucking right—”

“I said I was sorry—”

“I’m not finished.” His voice cracks like a whip. “I was pissed. I wanted to make you feel it too. Wanted to make you as angry as I was.”

His tongue drags over his lip again, his stare searing. When he speaks next, Billy’s words tumble out raw, rough in a way that makes your spine tingle. “I wanted you to think I’d hit you, wanted you to believe I would.”

The parking lot light buzzes. Flickers. You can hear your own heart, thudding like a drum inside your chest. His head angles away from you, half-turned away. 

“But I wouldn’t have.” 

“I know.” 

The words are barely a whisper, but they land like a grenade between you.

Billy’s head snaps back toward you. “What did you say?”

“I know.” You’re surprised by how certain you sound, how serene, how true it feels even as you repeat it. “You wouldn’t have hit me.”

“How?” The word comes out surprisingly strangled, a crack you’ve never heard in his voice. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Because you’ve grown up around violent men, you’ve tasted their cruelty. You know how easy it is for them to commit to it. If he truly, deep down, wanted to hurt you, he could have. Would have—many, many times. Despite the cruelty and ego, despite his temper and threats, he hasn’t done anything you could truly hate him for because you’ve returned his fire with fire of your own. 

Because underneath all the rage and posturing and desperate need for control, there’s a line Billy Hargrove won’t cross.

At least not with you.

“I just do,” you say simply.

Billy breathes hard, his fists clenched at his sides. You’re intimately aware of how you’re the only ones here, your truck cold against your back, with him a stride away. You wonder if there will ever be a time when there’s not this torturous electricity between you, capable of destruction and—

“You think I don’t like it?” he asks abruptly. “The way you talk to me. The way you look at me like you see all the shit I’m trying to hide and don’t back away.”

“You act as if you hate it,” you point out, frowning.

“Maybe I do,” he counters with a breathless, dangerous little laugh. “Maybe I hate that I like it.”

You could kiss him. You could shove him. You could do both, one after the other.

“I should go,” you say instead, something breathless in your voice because you want. So much it’s making you dizzy, unbalanced, and wanting is a dangerous thing for a girl like you. 

“You sure?” he asks, low and throaty. Not mocking, not challenging. 

You swallow thickly. This is different, a new shade between you, something you’re not sure is safe to explore, something you doubted you were even capable of. No teeth or snarling, just… this. A prickling heat, simmering steadily between you. 

“No,” you admit despite your better judgment. 

Something like satisfaction licks across his face.

“You’re not good for me,” you say absently.

“I’m not good for anyone,” he says without missing a beat.

You believe that, too.

“Let go,” you repeat.

This time, he edges back slowly half a step, still drilling holes into you. He searches your face one last time, like he’s memorising it, seeking something. Like neither of you is entirely certain how to proceed now. 

“Go home, princess,” he calls out after what could be minutes or hours of watching each other. “Fill out your forms. Dream your big dreams. Pretend this is all temporary.”

“And you?” you can’t help but ask. “What do you do?”

Billy smiles; a small and sharp thing. “I play the game,” he replies lazily, mockingly. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

His gaze sweeps over you, a flicker of something there, and you would give anything to know what he’s thinking about right now, as he examines you.

“Night night, mechanic.”

“Night, Hargrove.”

Smirking, he turns, ambling back towards the noise and the lights, the shape of him familiar and magnetic. Sad. Something about him walking away fills you with sorrow you can’t quite explain. You watch him go, hands trembling slightly where they hang at your sides.

You don’t know if he hates this or loves it. You don’t know if you do, either.

You just know that you’ve stepped too close to something with teeth, and part of you is already leaning in for another bite.

When you were a kid, this time of year meant school pictures and your dad promising he’d be around more 'once the season slowed.' He talked about tyres, oil changes, and winter prep like it was a tide he couldn’t control.

Once it slows down, kiddo. We’ll go fishing. We’ll drive up to the lake. We’ll…

He left in October.

You remember the colour of the trees through the kitchen window, every leaf bright and fluttering in the wind. You remember the argument in the next room while you did your homework, muffled at first, then louder, voices sharp and growing more heated. You remember the trailer door slamming, your mom’s breath catching, and the sinking feeling in your chest because you already knew, even before you looked, that he wasn’t coming back. No matter what you did or how much your teachers praised you, he wouldn’t be there to see any of it.

You remember his truck.

It had a distinct sound. Too loud because he cut the muffler to “let her breathe,” a wet cough in the idle because he never quite got around to fixing the carb. You remember that sound fading down the cracked lane, turning onto the main road, getting swallowed by the wind and the traffic. 

You still hear it in your dreams sometimes.

You sit up, rubbing the heel of your hand over your face, shoving the blankets back. Your breath fogs again when your feet hit the floor.

That day, you learned machines were safer than people. You learned to keep your guard up so no one hurts you like that again. Then Eddie came along. He didn’t let you push him away. He was patient, funny, and just as lonely, a crack you noticed in him even then.

You stretch your arms over your head, hearing the satisfying pops in your back. The hallway is a tunnel of cold when you push the door of your bedroom open.

Your mom has the heater door open, a screwdriver clenched between her teeth. She’s in her work uniform already—pink polyester diner dress, cardigan thrown over it, slipper socks on her feet. Her hair is pinned up haphazardly. Despite her best attempts to look put together, her eyes are still puffy with sleep.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she mumbles around the screwdriver.

You grab it before she drops it. “You trying to electrocute yourself before breakfast?”

“Cheaper than coffee,” she says with a laugh. “And I’ve checked, everything in this place kills you slower.”

You snort, twisting the screwdriver between your fingers. “Need help?”

She sighs and leans back on her heels. The heater is open in front of her, showing wires, dust, and signs of old repairs. It’s been patched up more times than you can count, but even you have to admit defeat sometimes.

“I think it’s just the pilot won’t stay lit. Keeps going out. Like me. I called the park office, but you know how that goes. ‘We’ll get someone out there’ means maybe by Easter.”

You crouch in front of the heater, peer in. It’s old enough that the label is worn to almost nothing. You tap a couple of wires and check the thermocouple the way Frank showed you once. The pilot’s out now, but there’s still gas. You can smell it, faint and metallic, sitting at the back of your nose.

“I’ll look at it properly after school,” you say. “We’ll manage for a day.”

She grimaces. “Can’t you just magic it now?”

“Sure,” you drawl, eyebrows pulling upwards. “Let me pull my wand out of my ass.”

She laughs, a light sound breaking through the gloominess of the day. 

“Coffee first,” she decrees, waving you towards the kitchen. “Magic later.”

You trail her into the kitchen.

The window over the sink is fogged at the edges. When you wipe it with your sleeve, you can see your breath on the glass, little circles of warmth that disappear as quickly as they appear. Outside, kids are already leaving for school. The neighbour’s little boy trudges past in a puffy coat that makes him look like a disgruntled blueberry. Two trailers down, a woman smokes on her steps, bare legs goose-pimpled, robe barely tied despite the chill and dampness in the air.

You pour coffee, the familiar bitter smell filling the tiny space of your trailer. Your mom slumps into her chair at the table, reaching for the mug like it’s fuel to get her through the day.

College brochures litter the table. 

They’ve multiplied since early September. Mrs Parker’s folder sits half-open, papers spilling out—financial aid worksheets, scholarship flyers, a copy of your SAT registration. Your own handwriting stands out on one sheet, cramped and precise, answering questions about intended major (mechanical engineering with a minor in physics), family income (practically non-existent), and “special circumstances.”

You’ve been going back and forth on how to best word trailer trash with dad who bailed without sounding pathetic. 

You sigh and sit down, pulling the folder toward you as if it’s too heavy to pick up. It feels that way, with so much depending on the content inside. Today, the reality of what you want and how hard it is to achieve it feels especially heavy.

“How’s the essay coming along?” your mom asks, blowing on her coffee.

“Which one?” you shoot back, rubbing your jaw tiredly. “The one where I sell my soul in five hundred words or less, or the one where I talk about perseverance without sounding like a cliché trailer park sob story?”

She grimaces sympathetically. “Both.”

You pick up the scholarship prompt you looked at last night: Describe a challenge you have faced and how it has shaped your goals. It feels like it wants you to pick one simple story and make it sound neat, as if anything in your life is that simple. 

You could talk about your dad, but you never do. You could talk about seeing a monster from another dimension last year, but you never do. Because you like breathing, and rather not have anyone sniffing around your life, or your mom. 

“It’s… getting there,” you force out reluctantly. “I wrote three paragraphs and then scribbled out two and a half of them.”

“That’s writing,” she says, taking another sip. “When I was at school, my professor said if you don’t hate your first draft, you’re not doing it right.”

“Mom, you went to school when there were still dinosaurs.”

She flips you off without looking up from her coffee, and you grin despite it all. You trace the prompt with your finger, reaching for your mug. 

“You remember when he left?” you ask.

It’s not a question you usually ask in the morning. Or ever. Silence envelops your tiny trailer, pressing in from all sides. Your mom stiffens almost imperceptibly, her fingers tap once, twice, on the cup.

“That’s a fun breakfast topic, sweetie,” she says lightly.

“You always dodge it,” you counter, but there’s no bite in your voice. “I’m supposed to write about shit that changed my life and… that’s part of it. So.” You shrug, slumping into your seat. “What do you remember?”

She stares into her mug for a long time.

“I remember thinking I should have seen it coming sooner,” she says finally. “I remember the way his shoulders locked when he said he just needed some space. Like he already had one foot out the door and was waiting for me to shove the other.”

You swallow, flicking your stare down into your lap where the glossy brochures gleam in the low light.

“I remember you,” she adds, a little thicker now, an old hurt shaking her voice. “Standing in the hallway. You looked so mad. Not sad. Just… furious.”

You force yourself to breathe. “I was ten.”

“You were you,” she replies ruefully, sniffing once. “You’ve always been allergic to bullshit.”

You remember him in fragments, faded but undying. Cigarettes and cologne. The dry rasp of his laugh when the TV reception cut out right at the winning play. The grease under his nails that never fully washed away, even when he put on his “nice shirt” for those occasional nights out.

The way he taught you to listen to an engine. He would sit you on the fender of whatever junker he was trying to resurrect and tell you to close your eyes.

“Don’t look,” he’d say. “Just listen.” Hear that? The little tick on the up-rev? That’s a valve not seating right. That gurgle on decel? That’s air in the line.

And you would sit there and listen for hours. You were good at that, even back then.

You heard every sound that mattered.

You heard him leave.

“You think he ever looked back?”

The question is out before you can force it back, and you hate yourself for it. For the uncertainty. If he were cruel, if he hurt you or your mom, it would be so much easier to hate him, to cut yourself off. But he never did, he was good to you, and then he was gone, leaving behind a hole you've never been able to heal fully. 

Your mom sighs, her expression creasing with pained understanding. You wonder silently if it’s because she’s lain awake at night asking herself the same thing for years.

“I think he looked in the rear-view at his own reflection and liked it too much to notice anything else.”

It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. It’s not gone, just a familiar, dull ache now.

You fold the paper in half with one hand, then fold it in half again, until the prompt is hidden.

“I keep thinking about the truck,” you say with a derisive snort, swallowing over the thickness in your throat. “That night. I still remember the exact sound it made as it left the park. I can’t remember half the shit I did last week, but I remember that.”

“That’s how brains work,” your mom whispers gently. “They keep the weirdest souvenirs.”

You look up at her.

“You think that counts as adversity?” 

She snorts at the dryness in your question. “If it doesn’t, the people reading those essays need to get out more.”

You’re both quiet for a bit, sipping your respective coffees. The rain eases into a drizzle, then stops. 

“Baby,” your mom starts, and you know from her tone that you’re not going to like whatever comes out of her mouth next. “Have you thought about community college? Just for the first two years? Get your gen-eds done cheaper, then transfer—”

You feel yourself fold into something hard and defensive, mouth curving into a harsh line. “Mom.”

“I'm just saying, the money—”

“I know about the money. Trust me.” You don’t mean to snap, but the words come out sharp anyway, brittle around the edges. “I know we don’t have it. I know it’s a long shot. I know I’m probably going to end up at Hawkins Community taking classes I could teach myself. But I have to try.”

Your mom’s face creases, making her look unfairly old in the muted morning light. “I’m not saying don’t try, sweetie. I’m just saying… be realistic. I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“I am being realistic. That’s the problem.” You gesture at the forms, all of them sorted by the likelihood of you getting in. There’s no describing the humiliating bitterness of having to put the big schools, the ones you really want—MIT, Caltech, Stanford, Purdue—right at the bottom, not because you’re not smart enough to get in, but because you’re poor and a woman. “Realistically, I need a full ride or close to it. Realistically, schools don’t give full rides to girls from trailer parks who want to study engineering. Realistically, I’m fucked.”

“Don't say that.”

“It’s true, Mom.”

You just wish it didn’t hurt this much. 

“It’s not.” Your mom reaches across the table, covers your hand with hers. Her palm is warm, calloused from years of carrying heavy trays and scrubbing down diner counters. Frail in a way that makes you want to cry, cocoon her in blankets and tell her never to work another day in her life. “You’re smart, baby. Smarter than half this town put together. Your grades are excellent, you’ve got work experience, you’re—”

“A girl,” you finish with sort of finality that leaves her mouth gaping. “A poor girl from Indiana who wants to go into a field that doesn’t want her. Mom, I’ve done the research. The acceptance rates for women in engineering programs are… it’s a long shot, at best. And most of those women have money, connections, and prep schools on their transcripts. I’ve got Hawkins High and a job at a garage.”

“So you make yourself undeniable,” your mom stresses, squeezing your hand tightly. “You work harder, write better essays, show them they would be idiots not to take you.”

You want to believe her. Want to think that hard work and determination are enough in this world. But you’ve lived in this town long enough to know better.

Still, you nod because she needs to see it. She needs to believe her daughter won’t end up like her—stuck, overworked, working nights just to cover the bills, barely. Even though it feels impossible right now, you refuse to let yourself get trapped in this town without giving it everything you have.

You would die slowly otherwise, one day at a time. 

“Yeah,” you say, nodding again, finishing off your coffee in one gulp. “Yeah, okay.”

Your mom looks at you for a long moment. She traces small, soothing circles across the back of your hand, the same way she did when you were little and afraid of storms.

“Your dad used to say you could do anything you set your mind to,” she says quietly, making you tense instinctively, a default when your dad comes up. “Back when he still said things. Before he decided running was easier than staying.” She pauses, and something painful crosses her face, her hand trembling around yours. “He was wrong about a lot of things. But he was right about that. About you.”

She stands, picks up her coffee mug, and moves toward her bedroom. At the doorway, she stops.

“Apply for all of them,” she orders without turning around, something shaky in her voice. “Every scholarship, every grant, every program you can find. Make them tell you no. Don’t tell yourself no first, or let my doubts scare you. If anyone can do the impossible, it’s you, sweetie."

Then she’s gone, door clicking shut, leaving you alone with forms and numbers and the crushing weight of wanting more than you’re allowed to have.

Your fingers move papers aside until you’re left looking down at the Purdue application. At the essay question staring back at you: What obstacles have you overcome, and how have they shaped who you are today?

You pick up your pencil.

And you begin writing.

On your way to your car, you step over a small army of toy soldiers left in a puddle by the neighbour’s kids, their helmets half-submerged. A little girl in mismatched boots is trying to coax a skinny cat out from under a trailer with a piece of bologna.

“Don’t give him that,” you call out. “He’ll never leave.”

She looks up, wide-eyed, freezing in place. “He’s cold.”

“I know,” you reply, nodding your head to her left. “I put an old blanket in that milk crate over there. He sleeps in it when nobody’s looking.”

Her face brightens, pigtails swinging as she turns more towards you. “You did?”

“Yup,” you say, popping the p and placing your finger over your mouth. “It can be our little secret. But if you keep feeding him deli meat, he’ll start knocking on doors.”

She giggles, but still throws the meat before rushing back into her trailer.

As you unlock your car, still shaking your head, you catch motion at the far end of the lane.

Max.

She’s on her board, hoodie hood up against the drizzle, jeans ripped at one knee. The board hums smoother now after you replaced her bushings and lubed the bearings properly. She carves lazy S shapes down the narrow stretch of asphalt, wheels clicking over the occasional crack.

She sees you and veers your way, pushing off with a practised kick.

“Hey,” she says, hopping off as she reaches you. “Watch this.”

Before you can answer, she flips the board down again, rides toward the edge of the pothole near your spot, pops the nose up and over with a small, clean ollie. The board lands with a satisfying thud on the other side. She rolls out, hair flying, a grin pulling at the seams of her lips.

You whistle low. “Very nice, Red.”

She kicks the tail, catches the board in her hand, trying and failing to hide her pleased grin. The praise makes her glow even as she scrunches her nose to hide it. 

“I almost ate it the first few times,” she admits reluctantly, rolling her eyes like it’s a minor detail barely worth noting. “The crack is wide enough to mess with my timing.”

“So that’s why you’ve been half-breaking your neck next to my car every morning?” you ask with a laugh, shoving your bag inside the passenger seat.

“I gotta practice somewhere,” she mutters defensively.

You nod at the board, still fighting your grin. “Trucks holding up okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, and this time her grin shows teeth, demeanour warming. “No more random wobbles. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” You hesitate, then add, “You looked good at the park the other day. The ramp. You figure out that transfer we talked about?”

She brightens further. “Yeah. Didn’t die, so, you know. Progress.”

“Yeah, that’s my favourite kind of trick,” you joke. “The not dying kind.”

Her smile fades a little as she glances back across the treeline to her house, an ordinary structure made to feel more perilous. The curtains are drawn as they often are. The shape behind them is indistinct, but you know what she sees. Don’t want to imagine what she feels.

“You heading in?” you ask casually.

Max’s shoulders tighten a little, her mouth twisting unhappily. “Yeah,” she mumbles, her stare cutting to you, and you’re not sure why, but there’s an intensity as she searches your face. “He’s… in a mood. But I need to go before I’m late.”

You don’t ask which he. You don’t need to. She shifts her board from one arm to the other, eyes flicking to your car, then to you. She looks like she wants to say something else, like something big is lodged in her throat. Instead, she just nods, tugs her hood further down as if to hide whatever is bothering her, and stomps back toward her house with a jerky wave. 

Your attention stays on her until she disappears inside, trying to push back the ache in your breastbone. You fail. 

Your days settle into a pattern that week.

School, work, home, repeat. Half your brain is in the present, half in some essay draft that never feels right.

You get up, you help your mom with the heater, you feed the semi-feral cat when the little girl forgets. You knock on Mrs Martinez’s door two lots down when you see her ten-year-old alone on the steps in a hoodie in the cold. You take Max out to the strip of pavement behind the park office, where the asphalt is slightly less cratered, and time her attempt at a new trick.

Despite the turn of seasons, the kids in the park know you. As do kids around the town. Those who have parents who could afford new bikes or boards, but still choose to come to you instead. 

They call your name excitedly when you pull in. They ask you to fix their bikes, roller skates, or a loose wheel on a skateboard that isn’t Max’s. You keep a growing pile of cheap tools under your porch for them—small wrenches and screwdrivers from the bargain bin, worn and dented.

You grumble, but you show them how to use them properly.

“Righty tighty, lefty loosey,” you tell a boy trying to tighten his handlebars. “Unless someone installed it backwards, which has happened, in which case you cuss a lot and ask me to help.”

“Cuss,” he repeats gleefully.

“Don’t tell your mom I said that,” you say immediately, grimacing. “Or do. I’m not your boss, kid.”

Wednesday morning, you find Eddie leaning against your locker, his knee jigging in a way that tells you he wants something. Badly. 

“Band practice,” he declares loudly the moment you’re in his line of sight. “Gareth’s basement. We’ve been working on some new stuff, and I want—need—an actual audience. Someone with taste. Someone who’ll tell me if we suck.”

“You suck,” you say automatically, nudging him with your boot so you can do your combination.

“See, that’s exactly the energy I need. Come on. Please. One hour. I need you. Sam needs his Frodo.”

You should say no. Should go to work, be responsible and continue your scholarship applications; you should not spend your evening in a basement watching Eddie and his friends fumble through covers of Metallica songs.

But Eddie is looking at you like you’re the only person in the world who matters, and you’re tired. Your mom’s words are still echoing in your head—don’t tell yourself no first—and maybe you deserve one hour of not thinking about scholarship applications and impossible futures.

“One hour,” you consent with a sigh. “And you’re buying me a Coke.”

Eddie’s face splits into a grin so bright it hurts to look at him. “Deal.”

Something catches his attention over your shoulder, his grin melting off his face. You look over your shoulder, following his line of sight. Billy stands surrounded by his little entourage, jocks and cheerleaders, and Billy himself in the middle, all loose limbs and lazy smirk, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. 

“Something is seriously wrong with them,” Eddie mutters under his breath. 

You force your gaze away. “We’ve known that for years, Ed.”

“Hargrove is an asshole. Got into it with Tommy and others, did you hear? Beat the shit out of them and practically strangled Anderson right in the hallway.”

You did hear. From two girls in your English class, whispering about it in hushed tones. “I heard.”

“That guy is unhinged.” Eddie’s voice has gone hard, unusually so. “Probably gets off on it. Probably thinks violence makes him tough. And what’s worse? Those idiots are back to worshipping him like nothing’s happened.”

“That’s high school for you,” you say, but your voice sounds flat even to you. 

Eddie turns to you then, eyes dark, searching for something. His voice softens. “Hey, is he still bothering you? Because if he is…” 

You keep my name out of your mouth at school.

“I got it handled.”

“—I know a guy.”

“Eddie, you are the guy.”

He brightens. “Exactly.”

Huffing, you nudge his shoulder. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Billy and Eddie being in the same vicinity is nightmare fuel to you. Whatever it is between you and Billy is one thing, but Billy’s volatility is destructive, dangerous, and the last thing you want is Eddie anywhere near that. Not because he’s weak or can’t handle himself, but because he’s too important for you to risk Billy marking him. 

“I’m fine, promise.”

Eddie’s small smile grows strained. Never before had the fact that he knows you better than anyone else felt like a weapon, except for right now. But Eddie doesn’t push, it’s not him, never has been. Years together have taught him how you work. 

Your neck pinpricks suddenly, and you force yourself to close the locker door unhurriedly, wipe your expression of emotion, and pretend you’re not acutely aware of Billy Hargrove watching you yet again. 

That afternoon, you’re under your car with your legs sticking out when a familiar voice pipes up from the partially opened bay doors.

“Dude. That is metal as hell.”

You roll out, squinting against the beam of a flashlight.

Dustin grins down at you, curls frizzed by the damp. He’s in his usual half-buttoned shirt, cap askew, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it tried to run off without its owner. 

“How’d you get here?” you ask, surprised. “Aren’t you supposed to be buried in a pile of radios at home?”

“Mom dropped me off,” he replies, shrugging off his backpack and dropping it in a dusty corner where boys typically store their bags when they’re visiting. “She said, and I quote: be back by seven, or I’m calling the police and your weird friends.”

You try to bite back your grin when you spot how the tips of his ears have gone red. 

He fidgets, glancing back down the lane, suddenly unsure. “Is it okay? If I hang? Lucas had to go to his grandma’s, Mike’s doing some dumb family thing, and… Will’s… you know.” He flaps a hand, encompassing complicated supernatural trauma in that vague gesture.

You sit up, wipe your hands on your already ruined jeans.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “It’s fine, I’ll be leaving early today anyway. Come hold the light. The real one.”

His face lights up like Christmas. He takes to it with earnest concentration, following your directions exactly. “Little to the left. No, my left. Okay, hold it steady, you’re blinding me, Henderson.” He apologises every time he wobbles.

“What’s this for?” he asks curiously, peering carefully as you loosen a stubborn bolt.

“Changing out a rotten fuel line,” you reply, words muffled. “I’ve been putting it off. The smell was starting to give me a headache.”

“It’s so cool you can do this,” he admits with a longing sigh. “My mom complains I keep dragging old junk back home.”

“Your mom is right.” You don’t need to see his face to know he’s pouting, so you peer at him from the corner of your eye, waving your wrench in his direction knowingly. “Just because I do it, it doesn’t mean you should. And don’t say it’s because you want to build ‘cool shit’ like me.”

He grins, all mischief, then sobers.

His eyes drop to his sneakers, the air between you becoming more sombre. “Can I ask you something?”

“That depends,” you begin, trying to get a better read on his expression. “Is it ‘what’s the meaning of life’ or ‘how do I get girls to like me’.”

“Both,” he says without thought, then flushes, glaring. “No. Shut up.” He nudges your boot with his sneaker. “Do you ever… I dunno. Wish you could go back? To before everything got weird.”

In Dustin-speak, “weird” could be about a dozen different things. Labs, monsters, disappearing friends, girls with superpowers, the Upside Down. Things you only found out because you pay attention to details no one else does. Because in a town as boring as Hawkins, a change in pattern becomes glaring. Because there were only so many places they could hide a young girl when men with badges started looking. You’ve never been more grateful they trusted you enough to help with Eleven, or more resentful that you now have to live with the knowledge of horrors no one but a handful of kids in this town know about. 

You tighten the clamp on the new hose, feel it stop, solid beneath your grip.

“I was already in Forest Hills before things got weird for you. Weird has been around longer than you think, I promise.”

“But like,” he insists in that particular childish way you secretly adore because you feared last year might have stolen it from him, “before. You know. You guys had money problems and stuff, right? Were you… happier. Before?”

You close your eyes for a second.

You see your dad’s truck. Your mom dancing with him in the kitchen to a scratchy sound of Fleetwood Mac. His hands on your shoulders, steadying you as you stood on a milk crate to peer into an engine bay.

You see your mom at the kitchen table alone, counting tips.

“I don’t know about happier,” you say slowly. “It was different. I didn’t worry about certain things yet. I worried about others.”

“Like what?”

“Like whether my dad was going to show up to my school play,” you reply, an edge to your voice. “Spoiler. He didn’t.”

Dustin winces, the light dipping slightly with the gesture. “He sucks.”

You shrug under the chassis. “Yeah, but if he hadn’t been that guy, I wouldn’t be this me. And it turns out I like most of me.”

You reach out and flick his shoe without looking, he jumps at the contact, and you fight back a smile. “Most of you is pretty cool, too, Dust.”

He beams like you’ve paid him the best kind of compliment.

Later, when you’ve washed your hands and fed him a grilled cheese and walked him to the corner to meet his mom’s station wagon headlights, he hugs you quick and hard around the middle.

“You’re the best,” he says into your hoodie.

You pat his back awkwardly. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

He runs towards the car, already talking a mile a minute. Mrs Henderson waves at you through the rain-spattered windshield. You wave back as they pull away, disappearing into the fading light.

Frank is still in the box shoe office when you get back, waving at him as you collect your bag and turn off any lights no longer in use. Then, you grab your keys, shoulder your bag, and set off for your car.  

You almost don’t go. 

Band practice means noise. It means bodies in space, amps humming, Eddie turned up to eleven because that’s what he does when people are watching. But he’d asked with that imploring edge, a clear signal of how important this is. 

So you go anyway because it’s Eddie. 

Gareth’s house is a simple, two-story house at the edge of town. The paint is light blue and faded from years of exposure to the elements, and there’s a gate that leads to the back of the house, where the basement doors are wide open to let in some much-needed air. 

You can hear them before you reach the door.

Guitar feedback squeals, then cuts off sharply. A drum beat stumbles, resets, and then resets again. Someone—Gareth, probably—laughs and swears loudly. There’s a thud, someone swears again, a different voice this time. Unfamiliar. The sound is messy, human, alive in a way that makes your shoulders loosen without you meaning them to.

You pause outside the door anyway.

You listen.

You hear Eddie’s voice, not singing yet, just talking, full of energy and giving instructions with his whole body, even though you can’t see him. You can picture it anyway: the hands, the hair, the pacing, the gleam in his eyes. Music makes him happy, and that’s why you’re here, even though you’re tired and your mind feels especially heavy today.

“…no, no, you’re rushing it. Let it breathe, man. You gotta let it get under the skin first.”

Classic Eddie Munson metaphor. You smile despite yourself.

You knock once on the open door, light—more courtesy than necessity. Eddie’s frizzy halo of hair pops up at the bottom of the stairs immediately, like he’s been angled towards the stairs this whole time, waiting for your arrival. 

He lights up when he sees you.

It’s not the loud way he greets most people. There’s no big grin or dramatic bow. This is smaller, quieter, yours. His shoulders relax a little, and his mouth curves before he notices. It’s the kind of happiness that makes you feel safe instead of guarded, seen instead of picked apart. 

“There you are,” he says, warmth bleeding into the words. “C’mon in. You’re just in time. We were about to mutiny.”

“Was it about snacks or artistic integrity?” you ask, trekking down the creaky wooden stairs.

Eddie’s grin widens when you come face-to-face. “Yes.”

The room is exactly as you remember: amps lining the walls like squat, dark sentinels; cables coiled and uncoiled into tripping hazards everywhere you look; a scattering of battered folding chairs pulled into a loose semicircle. Someone’s jacket rests slung over a music stand. The air smells faintly of dust, metal from overworked electronics, and sweat.

The band is already here and setting up. Gareth sits behind the drum kit, twirling a stick between his fingers. Jeff is leaning against an amp, bass strapped on but not plugged in, expression permanently hovering between bored and amused. One of the others—new kid, name escapes you—is crouched by a pedal board, poking at it experimentally. 

They all glance up when you come in.

“Hey,” Gareth calls out with a grin. “Mechanic. It’s good to see you."

“Hey,” you say back automatically. It’s a title now, one you’ve always preferred over “sweetheart”  or whatever else they might have tried to call you. “Good to see you, too.”

Jeff grins at you. “Hey, mechanic. You finally gonna tell Eddie his lyrics suck?”

“His lyrics are fine,” you shoot back. “It’s his stage presence that needs work.”

“Ouch.” Eddie presses a hand to his chest in mock pain. “I’m devastated. I’m over here giving you a Coke, and this is how you repay me?”

“You haven’t given me a Coke yet.”

Jeff snorts loudly. 

“Shit. Right. Gareth—”

Gareth offers Eddie the middle finger, expression flat. “I’m not your Coke servant, man.”

“I’ll get it.” The kid you don’t know jumps up, eager for something to do. “I’m Doug, by the way. New rhythm guitarist.”

“She doesn’t care,” Eddie says, but he’s grinning, a little mean. “Get her a Coke anyway. You’re being auditioned.”

Doug practically runs up the stairs.

You shoot Eddie a look, but he only wiggles his brows, dragging over one of the folding chairs, gesturing you towards it. He sets it up near the wall, slightly apart from the rest—close enough that you’re part of the space, far enough that you’re not in the line of fire if something goes wrong and a drumstick goes flying.

“Best seat in the house,” he says lightly, patting the back of the chair. “Front row for the apocalypse.”

You drop your jacket over the chair and sit, stretching your legs out, boots hooked lightly around the rung. The vinyl is cold through your jeans. You lean back, let your head rest against the wall, relaxing into the space.

Eddie grabs his guitar and slings it back on, fingers finding the neck with unconscious familiarity. As he moves away, you notice the way he keeps glancing back—quick checks, like he’s making sure you haven’t evaporated.

Doug comes back, thudding down the stairs with enough force to kick up dust. He grins at you as he hands you the Coke, and you dip your head in wordless thanks. Eddie tuts, looking at his watch and Doug flushes, rushing towards his position. 

You shake your head at his antics, using your multi-tool to pop the Coke open with a twist of your wrist and take a slow swing. 

The boys shift around, settling in, then start again, and this time the song holds.

It’s rough around the edges, still finding its spine, but there’s something there—a low, grinding riff that crawls under your skin, drums steadying into a heartbeat instead of a mismatched scramble. Eddie doesn’t sing yet. He paces as they play, mouthing words you can’t hear, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

You watch him the way you always do: not staring, exactly, but aware. Tracking posture, breath and tension like it’s second nature. He throws himself into the music with everything he has, but there’s restraint here tonight, too. Less showboating, more listening.

Once, he glances over at your midriff.

It’s not a look that asks for approval. It’s a look that checks for grounding, like he’s dropping a hand out behind him to make sure the railing is still there or checking the ground beneath his sneakers is there.

You give him a slight nod. Not a cheer. Just an acknowledgement. His shoulders ease.

They play through the song twice more, tightening it each time. Eddie stops them with a sharp gesture, talks through a section, demonstrates a rhythm with his foot. He crouches by Gareth’s kit at one point, head close, voice lowered—not secretive, just focused.

You sit quietly, work through the Coke, and let it wash over you.

The hum of the amps vibrates through your chair and up your spine. The noise is comforting, filling the quiet without asking anything from you. You think you should be tired or worried about your future.

You’re not. 

You’re grounded here, in this basement that smells like dust and metal. In Eddie’s orbit, where the rules are looser and nobody asks you to be anything other than present.

You watch him play, and you understand why he does this, why he pours himself into music even though Hawkins doesn’t care, even though the venues are basements and the audiences are friends. Because when Eddie’s playing, he’s not the freak. He’s not the kid from the trailer park with the drug-dealer reputation and the father in prison. He’s not the boy who’s been held back twice.

He’s free.

They take a break eventually, instruments falling silent one by one. Gareth hops down from the kit and grabs a bottle of water, draining half of it in one go. Someone digs around in a backpack for snacks.

Eddie peels his guitar off and leans it carefully against an amp. He grabs a towel from somewhere and wipes his face, then his hands. He looks flushed, hair a disaster, eyes bright with that feverish glow you love in him. A master of his own universe while here in this tiny bubble. 

He comes over and perches on the edge of the chair next to yours instead of taking his own. Close enough to touch. 

“So,” he begins, too casual. “Verdict?”

You hum. “It’s got grit, Ed,” you admit, tapping your foot once. “But needs more polish on the second verse.”

His mouth kicks up, bumping your shoulder. “I knew you’d get it.”

“Someone’s gotta keep you from public humiliation,” you say with a smirk that makes him elbow you even as you add a teasing, “Public service, you know.”

This time, Eddie laughs, genuine and loud, the sound bouncing off surfaces and enveloping you. It softens when it fades, leaving something gentler behind. He doesn’t move away.

You can feel the heat of him through the thin space between you, the way his knee bounces just slightly, adrenaline bleeding off. He smells like sweat and metal strings and something sweet underneath—cheap shampoo, probably.

“Thanks for coming,” he says after a beat. It’s quieter now. “Didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” you answer, which is true enough.

His gaze drops to your hands, resting loose in your lap. There’s a smear of grease you missed earlier, dark against your skin. His fingers twitch like he might point it out—like he might reach for your wrist out of habit, to clean it off the way he’s done a hundred times with no weight attached.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he hooks his fingers together between his knees and leans forward, elbows on his thighs. The movement shifts him just a hair closer, then stops. Like he caught himself. The guys joke around and laugh on the other side of garage, while you two sit in your own atmosphere, sharing oxygen like you’re the only two here. 

“New song is… about leaving,” he begins, not looking at you, something cautious in the set of his shoulders. “Kind of. Not in a literal way. More like—” He gestures unsurely, fingers arcing through the air. “That itch. You know?”

You do. You’ve always known. An itch that keeps you up at night sometimes. Or rather, the fear. 

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.”

He nods, eyes fixed on the dirty floor. His foot taps, restless, his breathing slightly hurried, rasping in the quiet between you. 

“I keep thinking,” he goes on, words coming a little faster now, “that if we get good enough—like, really good—maybe it won’t matter that we’re from here. That we can just… go. Load up the van and not look back.”

There’s no question in it. No would you? Just a statement launched into the space between you to see how it’s met. You don’t answer right away. You watch the band in the background. Gareth and Jeff arguing amiably over a riff, the new kid fiddling with his pedals. This garage is a bubble. Outside it, Hawkins presses in with all its weight and rust and expectation.

“Maybe,” you say finally. “Talent travels.”

Eddie huffs. “Tell that to guidance.”

“Fuck guidance. They don’t get to decide everything,” you argue, a bite to your words now. “Despite what they think. It’s you and your decisions.”

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He glances at you then, sideways, quick—like he’s checking how close to the edge he is.

“You gonna leave, aren’t you?” he asks, tone light, like it’s idle curiosity. Like it doesn’t matter. “First chance you get.”

The question strangles you anyway. You feel it in your chest first, a small tightening, then in your throat, creeping upwards to your eyes. You keep your face neutral. You’ve had practice, but it’s so hard to face the enormity of the future pressing in on you both. Because everything is uncertain, because this—him and you, together since forever—suddenly looks shaky, stamped with an impeding expiration date you’ve never once imagined.

“Everyone leaves eventually.” 

It’s true. It’s also not an answer, and you both know it. Eddie absorbs it without comment, nodding once. His knee starts bouncing again.

“Yeah,” he echoes faintly. “Guess that’s the dream, right?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“I mean, why not? Metallica did it. Priest did it. We could do it too.” He’s looking at you now, eyes bright with possibility. “And if we do—if we actually make it—you could come with us. Handle the equipment, manage the money, whatever. We’d need someone who’s not an idiot.”

“You’re asking me to be your roadie.”

“I’m asking you to get out of Hawkins with me.” The words hang there, heavy with meaning. “Both of us. Together. Like we always talked about.”

Your chest tightens painfully. Because you did talk about it when you were kids, and the future felt far away and manageable. You and Eddie escaping together, finding somewhere better, being something more, hand in hand.

But you’re not kids anymore.

And Eddie’s dream involves stages, crowds, and music. Yours involves equations, machines, and inventions.

“Eddie—”

“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “I know you’ve got college plans. Engineering. I’m not saying give that up. Do you think I’m crazy? I’m just saying—if it doesn’t work out. If the money doesn’t come through or the schools don’t want you, or whatever. Which of course they will, but just in case they don’t. You have options. With us. With me.”

The burn behind your eyes becomes worse, forcing you to blink. Swallowing, you press your shoulder into his, solid and real, as an unspoken reminder to him that dreams don’t erase the present. That this—this room, this music, this friendship—is something worth holding onto even if it’s temporary. Because he’s part of you in such a fundamental way, you can’t picture him not being in your life. 

“Thanks, Ed. Really.”

Eddie stills, just for a breath, then leans into you for a few, warm breaths. 

Then the moment passes, and you pull back. Eddie follows, also leaning back, grin too wide, clapping his hands together once.

“Alright,” he declares, volume back up. “Enough brooding. You ready to hear the stupid-fast one?”

“Always,” you say, and mean it.

They launch into it, chaotic and joyful and loud. Eddie throws himself back into the music, hair flying, voice shredding the air when he finally sings. You watch him from your chair, feet hooked around the rung, a lump in your throat the size of a motor. 

He never looks at you for long. Never holds your gaze. But every time the song crests—every time the sound swells and threatens to tip over—you feel it. That unspoken tether. Like he’s playing not for you, but with you in the room. Like the knowledge of your presence changes the shape of the music, even if you never touch an instrument.

When practice winds down, Eddie puts his guitar away, curls framing his eyes as he looks up at you.

“Same time next week?” he asks, casual as breathing.

You shrug on your jacket. “If you don’t scare me off,” you quip, poking his arm as you pass him.

He snorts, waving at the guys while they clean up empty bottles, and you do the same. “Please. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”

You glance back at him, framed in the dim light. He smiles easily, eyes soft in a way he doesn’t let many people see and affection tangles in your chest. No, Eddie is someone you can never lose. No matter where life takes you, he needs to be part of it. 

“Yeah,” you say, warmth settling low in your chest. “I know.”

By the time you're heading back to the van, it’s almost nine. The sun had set, leaving the sky dark, dotted with little glowing jewels. 

Eddie walks close while the guys clean up, hands in his pockets, that satisfied glow he gets after playing still warming his features.

“Thanks again for coming. I think we suck less when you’re watching.” He bumps your shoulder with his, a grin denting his cheeks. “You’re like our good luck charm. Also, you scare the shit out of Doug.”

Chuckling, you shoot back, “That’s a lot of pressure, superstar.”

“You can handle it.”

You reach your truck, unlocking the door, while Eddie peels off towards his van parked up just a little further away. 

It’s then that you register it. A throaty, growling engine tearing through the quiet street way above the speed limit. The Camaro. It eats up the street in seconds, headlights illuminating you. Breaks apply, tyres squealing as the Camaro veers, pulling up across the street. Billy Hargrove stares at you, a lit cigarette between his teeth. 

Your stomach drops. Eddie sees it too. His whole body goes tense.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.

Billy kills the engine. Gets out. He moves toward you with that same predatory grace, hands shoved in his pockets, cigarette dangling from his mouth, smoke billowing from his lips and nose. There’s something wrong with him tonight, with his eyes. They’re too bright. Too focused. Like he’s been driving like a madman in that car, working himself up to something, and now that he’s moving, the momentum can’t be stopped.

“Mechanic,” he calls out, and his voice has an edge that makes your spine lock. Danger, some instinct in you whispers. 

“Hargrove.” You don’t move, don’t give ground, focus his destruction on you alone. “You following me now?”

“We happen to be living in the same shithole town, princess.” But his eyes tell a different story. They’re cataloguing you—your position relative to Eddie, the way you’re standing together as a unit, the distance between your truck and Eddie’s van. “Just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

“Bullshit.” The word comes out flat. “Gareth lives on the other side of town. There’s nothing for you here.”

Billy’s smile is sharp enough to cut, his tongue coiling around the cigarette filter lazily. “Maybe I like the scenery.”

“Hargrove—" Eddie starts, but you hold up a hand.

This is between you and him. Eddie doesn’t need to get pulled into whatever this is.

“You’re gonna burn out your clutch if you keep riding it like that,” you tell him in an attempt to keep him looking at you as you jerk your chin towards the sleek Camaro. “Feel it catching when you shift?”

Billy’s eyes burn in the streetlamp. “No.”

“Liar. You ride it too hard from second to third. Probably think it makes you look cool.”

“I don’t—” He stops, catches himself, nostrils flaring. “How the fuck would you know how I shift?”

Because I know you, you want to tell him, admit there and then how much he occupies your thoughts, how your ear is tuned to him and the rumbling growl of his Camaro. But you can’t. Not to yourself, not to him, not to anyone. Because you hate him more than you like him, even if your mind won’t stop looping around him, not even during a time in your life when you should care about your future, not some idiot with anger issues. 

“ Same way I know you've been watching Max,” you deflect, throwing him further because it’s not a question, a statement.

Billy’s jaw tightens, pulsing twice. He removes his cigarette, still smouldering between his fingers as he bites out a soft, “What?”

“Max. She’s been hanging around my place in the evenings. Working on her skateboard while I tinker with my car.” You cross your arms, watching him watch you. “And you've been watching. From Cherry Lane. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your car.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you’re so aware of him. Then it’s gone, replaced by that familiar, cruel, mocking smile.

“So you’ve been watching me watching you.” He takes a step closer, the chain around his throat glints in the light, his curls catching shadows, too, as he angles his head towards you in that predatory way. “Interesting.”

“It's not interesting, Hargrove. It’s creepy.”

“Is it?” Another step. He’s close now, too close, invading your space with the kind of deliberate aggression that’s designed to make you back down. You don’t. A ripple goes through his expression, something complicated you can’t quite riddle out before he shuts it away. “Or maybe you liked knowing I was there. Liked having an audience.”

Your pulse kicks up at the soft, mocking way he says it. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” His voice drops, goes quieter, more dangerous, closer to you. He has a new bruise across his face and lip. You can’t help but wonder if it came from that fight you heard about or someone else. “Then why haven’t you told me to fuck off yet? Why are you still standing here, talking to me, when you could’ve just gotten in your truck and left?”

Your eyes narrow. “Because I’m not giving you the satisfaction of running from you.”

“No.” He’s close enough now that you can smell cigarettes and cologne and something darker underneath. “You’re not running because you like this. The push and pull. The fight. This town is smothering you, and you like the fire between us.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he insists, like this is the only thing that makes sense. His eyes lock on yours, unblinking. “That’s why we keep finding each other. Not because I’m following you or you’re watching me.”

You search his eyes. Wonder how many girls would kill to be in your position, this close to him, practically sharing breath. “You’re an asshole.”

Billy chuckles; a delighted, smooth sound that strokes down your back like a physical caress. “And you’re a bitch.” A grin edges across his full lips, but there’s nothing derisive in it. It’s almost— “Guess we’re a matching set, huh?”

“I’m not—”

“Hey.” Eddie’s voice cuts through, sharp and worried, breaking through the tension between you. “That’s enough. Come on, let’s go—”

“I’m not talking to you, freak.” Billy doesn’t even look at him, but his entire face rearranges in a blink. “Walk away.”

Cold washes over you, the spark of anger inflating your lungs. 

“Don’t talk to him like that.”

Your voice rings cold between you; any amusement and laughter gone in an instant. 

Billy’s attention snaps back to you, eyebrows lifting at the cutting edge in your voice. He’s never heard you like this, you realise. Protective. “What?”

“I said, don’t talk to him like that.” You push forward now, into Billy’s space, and you watch his eyes widen slightly, darkening from electric blue into sapphire. “Whatever issue you think you have with me—fine. We can stand here and trade insults until we’re both ready to drop. But you don’t get to threaten Eddie. Ever. You don’t get to talk to him like he’s less than you. Do you understand me?”

His jaw tightens, something like disbelief twisting his features. Billy flicks his cigarette away, letting it fall, still smouldering, onto the cold pavement. “You protecting him now? You take turns on guard dog duties or something?”

“I'm telling you how this works. You want to come at me? Come at me. But you leave him out of it.”

Something ugly crosses Billy’s face, then—rage, but dark and more threatening—like this is pressing on some button you’re unaware of. “Why? Is he your little freak boyfriend who follows you around like a lost puppy?”

You feel your knuckles pop from how tightly your fists clench. “He’s the person dearest to me,” you bite out quietly, words trembling from your barely leashed fury. “Which is more than you’ll ever be.”

Instantly, you know it’s the wrong thing to say. Something primal in you recognises the error. The air between you seems to snap, folding into yourself. 

He’s fast. His hand closes around your jaw, not painful, not gentle, either. It’s a grip meant to state something, a rope to hold you closer to him, and not Eddie, but you’re not interested in translating whatever he’s trying to say with those burning blue eyes. The heat of Billy’s skin sinks into yours. One part of you wants to bite his hand, draw blood, see what he says, then, if he still feels powerful after your teeth are stained with him. 

Another part of you, smaller and more cunning, wants to grab those sun-bleached curls, run your tongue over the nicotine-stained flesh gripping you, and see if he can handle it. Because he’s not the only one who can make a statement, claim something he wants.  

“Let go of me,” you say quietly, your words deceptively gentle.

“Why?” His voice has gone gentle, too, dangerous around the edges. “You gonna make me, grease money?”

“Hargrove—” Eddie again, closer now, and you can hear the fear in his voice. “Man, just leave her alone—”

“I told you to walk away. Or do you want to lose your teeth?” Billy’s eyes don’t leave yours, roaming hungrily, but there’s a threat in his voice now, clear and unmistakable.

And just like that, the spell cracks. 

You grab Billy’s wrist and yank, hard enough to make him release you, followed by a shove to his shoulder that sends him stumbling half a step back, surprise flashing across his face. But you’re already stepping between him and Eddie, your voice cold and final.

“Touch him,” you say quietly, every word vibrating with a sort of rage you rarely let anyone see, “and I will make you regret it. I don’t care how tough you think you are. I don’t care what you can do on a basketball court or in a fight. You put your hands on Eddie, and I will find a way to hurt you that’ll make your father look gentle.”

The silence those words leave behind is absolute. Lethal. 

Billy stares at you like you just slapped him. His face has gone white, then red, and his eyes blaze with something that looks like fury and pain braided together.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You hold his stare, unbinking. It’s a deliberate cruelty, and for once, you understand why he does what he does, why he chooses this every day. “You heard me.”

For a second, you think he’s going to hit you. That this time you’ve gone too far, pushed him too hard. His whole body vibrates, fists clenched, jaw so tight you can see the muscle jumping repeatedly.

Then he steps back.

“Fuck you,” he exhales, and his voice is rough, cracked in a way you’ve never heard before. “Fuck both of you.”

He turns and stalks back to the Camaro. Rips open the door, slams it hard enough that the sound echoes across the street like a small explosion. Eddie flinches behind you; you hear it in the sudden rustle of his clothes and his shaky exhale. 

The engine roars to life, so loud you spot a few fluttering curtains from nearby houses. Tires squeal. And then he’s gone, leaving nothing but the smell of burnt rubber and the echo of violence still thrumming in your ears.

You’re shaking. You realise it distantly—your hands tremble, your legs feel weak, and there’s something hot and awful burning in your chest, your stomach pitched wrong.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie breathes behind you, when he’s sure the Camaro isn’t coming back. “What the fuck was that?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Because you just threatened Billy Hargrove with his father. Threw his worst nightmare back in his face like a weapon. And you don’t know if you regret it.

You try not to think about the look in Billy’s eyes before he left.

Like you’d destroyed something.

Like you just proved him right about every ugly thing he’s ever thought about himself.

Fuck, you think.

What have you done?

But this—weights, sweat, the merciless burn in his limbs—this Billy understands. This is familiar and safe. Barbell doesn’t question him, doesn’t want anything from him. He’s under it, staring up at the flaking point on the garage ceiling, and things make sense for a little while. He curls his fingers around the bar. It’s cold and rough in his hands. The bar drops its weight into his joints: shoulders, elbows, wrists, all creaking to maintain balance.  

“One. Two. Three.”

He counts, more grunts than words, rough sounds rumbling from deep inside with such contempt it almost feels good. His chest muscles stretch, beginning to burn, but he keeps pushing, over and over. 

Billy hears the house distantly. The clicking of the pipes, the washing machine humming through a spin cycle. A door opening, rapid and light footsteps—Max, his mind registers through the strain—and then another door closing, slow and heavy. Neil. The reason he’s here instead of training in his room. 

Sweat trickles down Billy’s temple, but he doesn’t pause to wipe it. He wants the sting, the pain. One he can control, one he can inflict on himself by choice. 

By eight count, his triceps shake, by the tenth, there’s a minute tremor all down his arms that feels like the edge of something like collapse. He holds the bar up anyway, elbows locked, vision going spotty. 

Neil’s voice slithers in his head, then: You stop where it hurts? That’s when the other guy keeps going. That’s when you lose because you’re too much of a pussy to push through a little discomfort. You wanna be a man, you go past what it feels like you can do. 

Billy racks the bar with a harsh, metallic clank. The bench rocks with the force of it, the noise too loud in the garage, but it’s still better than the voice in his head. He lies there for a second, chest heaving, his shirt plastered to his skin. His heart feels like it’s trying to punch out through his ribs. 

He lets his eyes close. 

Big mistake. 

You’re right there behind his eyelids like a fucking splinter. 

Not soft—never soft. Not in a dress, not in underwear, not in anything a normal teenage boy could jerk off to. Just you in your shitty, dirty coveralls, standing outside your Forest Hill lot, engine lit by one swinging work lamp. Your tank top is smudged with oil and dirt, your elbows stuck deep into the engine, forearms streaked black. Max on a cinderblock with her board across her knees, talking a mile a minute, and you occasionally replying with a certain wryness. 

He’d driven by yesterday. Too slow, to protect his car from these shit roads, to beat the traffic. That’s what he told himself. 

The Camaro had rolled past your driveway. He’s seen Max’s head snap up, shoulders going tight at the sight of him. You’d said something without lifting your head—he couldn’t hear what words you used, but he saw the effect they had. Max’s spine uncoiled a notch, her shoulders slumping like you’ve wiped her unease with a single sentence. 

You didn’t look at the Camaro. That shouldn’t piss him off as much as it does. Especially when he told you—threatened you, really—to stay the fuck away from him, and his family. Though clearly, that last point was still getting stuck somewhere. He’s seen you with Max most evenings this last week, happy in your little bubble. 

Billy sits up fast enough to make his head spin, swinging his legs off the bench. The concrete is freezing under his bare feet. There’s a jump rope hanging from a hook. He grabs it without thinking and steps into the open strip of floor, glaring at nothing. 

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Rope flicks over his head, kissing the ground in a steady rhythm. His calves burn with each repetition, and his shoulders start to ache the longer he continues. He stares at the bottom of the garage door, at the slice of pale morning under it. He tries to think about basketball. Plays. Friday. Telling Harrington to go fuck himself by humiliating him on court. The party after, the booze and all the girls who will let him shove them against any available surface. 

His brain slips anyway. 

To you leaning over his Camaro the first week, sizing him up like he’s a busted exhaust you’re not impressed by, sweat streaking your collarbone. No flutter, no smile. Just that flat, unimpressed stare.

Munson perched on the picnic table behind the school, boots on the bench, guitar in his lap, loud as fuck, laughing at his own jokes. Freak. Untouchable because he doesn’t even want to pretend. You, on that same table last week, pretending to study while Munson told some ridiculous story, laughing hard enough you had to slap your hand on the wood, leaning into his side. The way the freak lit up at the sound, eyes crinkling when he glanced down at you, like making himself into an idiot was worth it for that laugh alone.  

The rope snags Billy’s toes.  

It coils around his ankle like a vicious viper and jerks his feet out from under him. He clips his knuckles on the bench, catching himself. 

“Fuck!”

The rope writhes on the concrete when he kicks it away viciously. The shitty radio on the workbench hisses and flips from static into some ridiculous pop station in the lowest quality known to man.  

A door slams somewhere. Neil crosses the hallway, floorboards creaking under his weight. Billy knows that sound in his bones, knows the desperate hope those footsteps don’t pause outside his bedroom. How the heaviness and cadence can reveal precisely how much pain might come his way.

Billy grabs his shirt, wipes his face, and yanks it over his head hurriedly. His skin complains at the rough drag, but he ignores it.

He can’t stay here, waiting, anticipating, hoping for something that’ll never happen. Out there, his hands are the dangerous ones, out there, he’s the one who strikes fear into others. 

He snatches his jacket and keys and walks out into the morning chill. 

“Hey, Billy! You good man?”

Same shit, Billy wants to spit, but doesn’t, only dips his head in vague greeting. School is a circus with rules, ones he could list backwards and manipulate in his sleep. He pushes through the front door, and the hallway shifts around him. It always does these days. Conversations dip in volume as he walks by, bodies sidestepping him, like a tide going out. 

Billy lets his shoulders roll loose. He knows what he looks like—the hair, the jacket, the walk. People expect a show from him, and he never disappoints. 

Harrington stands by his locker halfway down. Head bent, hair a little flatter than last time Billy saw him, like somebody let the air out of him. Wheeler hovers nearby, that judgy little face pinched tight, looking like she’s chewing on her own tongue. 

Steve stiffens when Billy’s shadow glides past, but he doesn’t look up, perhaps because he knows better. Billy gives him a slow, deliberate once-over anyway, pure aggression in the gesture. So that he feels it. Then discards him with a sneer. King Steve is last season’s news. 

Further down, near the side doors, there’s the picture that’s been fucking with his head. 

You, in worn flannel and jeans, scuffed boots, backpack over one shoulder. Munson stands glued to your side. You say something low. Munson snorts, chin jutted, pretending he’s not basking in the attention. 

He thinks of you and Max again—or more so, this whole goddamn mess. Billy knows how people see it. How you likely see it. A psycho terrorising an innocent little girl. You swooping in like some junkyard guardian angel, fixing her board, teaching her about bearings and other technical shit, letting her run her mouth in your driveway when she should be at home doing homework. 

There’s truth to it, Billy knows as much.

He’s grabbed that kid hard in the past and slammed a hand on her shoulder when she mouthed off. Dragged her out of the arcade by her backpack strap when she thought she could just vanish inside and ignore him. 

But he’s also pulled her out of the path of a pickup truck, thrown her behind him when some drunk asshole in a park started shouting and taken a belt meant for her more times than she knows. 

He doesn’t know if that evens anything out. It never feels like it. 

But Billy knows facts: either Max is in line, the perfect lie of a happy family stays intact, or it's him swallowing blood for a brat he didn’t even ask to be stuck with. 

You feel him before you see him. 

He catches it—the way your shoulders pause mid-roll, stilling as if you can sense a predator, the tiny hitch in your expression. Then you incline your head, and your eyes lock onto his over the crowd. 

Billy hasn’t forgotten the shade of them, or how your jaw felt gripped in his hand, how your breaths mingled, how he got caught up between the urge to shut you up so you stop stripping him bare, and the desire to bend you over that piece of shit truck you drive and—

He forces himself into motion; one shoulder against the locker, mouth curling. He gives you all that lazy, mean California shit: the half smirk, the raised chin, the hot weight planted just so. 

Your gaze flicks over him. Down. Back up. Your face doesn’t do much, not even now. Part of him despises it. No scowl, no smile, nothing. Just the faintest crease at the corner of your mouth, there and gone. Assessing. 

You touch two fingers to Munson’s shoulder, oblivious to how the freak leans towards you like a sunflower seeking sunlight, and say something. Munson glances over, scowls at him like Billy won’t knock his teeth loose, then melts away into the flow towards his class. 

You peel off in the opposite direction. No acknowledgement. 

Billy feels his teeth clench so hard his jaw vibrates. 

A hand lands on his arm at the exact moment a breathy, high voice says, “Hi, Billy.”

He forces his gaze away from your retreating figure. 

Cheerleader. Ponytail high, a ribbon fluttering, lip gloss too shiny and vaguely smelling of chemical strawberries, uniform top rolled up a fraction because she likes the way boys look when she sneezes, and everything bounces. He knows her face, vaguely. He has no idea what her name is or cares enough to ask.

“You coming tomorrow?” she asks, nails skating over his forearm, lashes fluttering. “Tina said if you don’t show, she’s cancelling. No point, otherwise.”

This sort of thing used to be so clean and straightforward. Words that used to go straight to his dick, to his ego. Look how important you are. Look how easy everything is. And it still hits something, but it’s muted now, fuzzy around the edges. Like there’s a different itch in him now, and this preppy bullshit no longer cuts. Small gains, muted heat. He wants fire, friction, for something to drive him so insane he can forget the shit in his life. He wants the line between fighting and fucking to blur into nothing. 

“Maybe,” he says, reminding himself he actually needs to speak. “You telling me the whole party hinges on me?”

She giggles, slapping his arm lightly like he’s so fucking funny, and Billy bites back the urge to tell her to fuck off and get her hands off him. “Duh. Half the school wants to fuck you or be you. Obviously, you have to be there, baby.”

Night, asshole.

“I’ll see if it’s worth my time,” he hears himself say, a play he’s made a thousand times, “I could use some fun.”

The cheerleader’s eyes flare, her teeth nipping her bottom lip in a seductive, coy way. 

Billy plays the part because it’s muscle memory. But when the girl walks away, hips going too hard, he’s still watching the door you disappeared through instead. 

The gym is a maelstrom of noise and loud boys.

Sneakers squeak, whistle shrieks in measured increments, someone slips, and their whole body clatters to the floor like thunder. The bleachers are half full because the school band is practising for the game too. 

The players are running drills for the first game in October. Coach is shouting himself hoarse, more insistent because, thanks to Billy, the Tigers have a shot at the state title again. The ball thunks against wood, against blackboard, slapping into hands as it travels. 

Billy is in his element here. The ball is a steady presence in his hand; he’s familiar with its shape, speed, and weight. He pushes up the court, legs eating up distance, the world narrowing to arcs and angles. He jumps; the ball leaves his fingers and kisses the net, swirling teasingly before going in. Some girls in the band make sounds halfway between gasps and giggles. 

As he jogs back, he lifts his head. 

Yeah. Right there. Like some fucked up radar. 

You’re halfway up the bleachers, heels hooked on the bar below, legs wide because you forgot how girls are “supposed” to sit. Yet all he can think about is how good those legs would feel wrapped around his waist. Unlike others, you’re not watching the practice. Textbook open, pen scratching away rapidly, a crease between your brows. No jacket, just a faded band t-shirt that looks too big on you, and makes Billy think of Munson’s wardrobe instead—something hot and furious twists in his stomach at the thought. 

Munson chooses then to turn up even though he’s the one technically in the band, sliding through the side doors like smoke. Denim vest, hair frazzled, boots clomping across the breachers loud enough to hear from court. He zeroes in on you immediately, of course. Freaks find freaks. 

He flops beside you, shoulder bumping yours, legs sprawled across the row as if he owns it. You push his knee away with your forearm without looking up from your notes. He grins widely at whatever you say, the pinch of your mouth unamused, promptly stealing your pen and starting to scribble something in the margins of your notebook. 

You let him. 

There’s a tiny, stupid kick in his chest at the sight he strangles at once. Followed by an emotion he’s more comfortable with: rage. 

The next pass comes at him half-second later than he expects. It skims his fingertips and sails on out of bounds. 

“Hargrove!” Coach’s whistle nearly bursts his eardrums. “Eyes on the damn ball!”

Snickers sound from the bench. Billy smiles, slow and nasty, at the kid nearest to him, and the laughter dies quickly. 

He spends the rest of the scrimmage chewing up the floor. Harder steals, sharper cuts, more contact than Coach asked for. He drives his shoulder into a guy’s chest on a screen hard enough to bounce him, making a grin twist his mouth. When Billy dunks, he hangs on the rim a fraction too long, letting his body sway, the gym full of that high, raw noise of boys seeing someone getting away with something they wish they could do. 

When Coach calls it, he’s slick with sweat, lungs burning again. His muscles burn, alive. His head doesn’t follow. He should be full. That’s what this is supposed to be: burn off the static, the thoughts, the itch. 

Instead, he feels like something is swelling inside him, dark and dangerous, creeping higher up his throat. 

You gonna throw a tantrum? Cry? You weak little shit. Just like your whore mother. No wonder she fucking left you. 

He hits the locker room, his hands more claws than flesh, a snarl halfway caught in his throat. Shower hits him too hot, too fast, towel slung around his neck. Everything inside him throbs, boiling on low heat, and he can’t even pinpoint why. 

Why the fuck does it matter what some trailer rat does? Who fucking cares who she hangs out with?

Billy slams his locker shut and shoulders his bag. The hall outside is half-empty now, the typical late-afternoon sag. 

Tommy and Carol attach to him like leeches as soon as he appears, like they’ve been waiting for someone to tell them what to do and think. 

“Jesus, man, you were a machine out there,” Tommy says by way of greeting, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he made any of those plays himself. “D’you see Harrington sulking? Think he might cry like a little bitch.”

Carol wraps a hand around Tommy’s bicep as they start walking. Her nails bite through fabric, bunching it up. Billy almost snarks if Tommy always allows his woman to claw at him like she’s a cat in heat, but anger twists his tongue, keeping the words behind his teeth, giving the world around him a slight haze instead. 

“He knows who’s king now,” she purrs in Billy’s direction, popping her gum. “Right, Billy?”

You’re killing yourself trying to impress people who are gonna forget your face the second their own lives get busy.

Shut up. 

Billy gives her a look that says of course without having to say anything. Because otherwise, he might tell them both to fuck off and leave him alone. 

They collect more bodies as they move through the school. Another basketball team kid. One of the meathead linebackers. A girl from cheer with red, curly hair. The kind of kids who always look for marks because they’re so miserable in their own skin. He should know. 

The conversation rolls towards filth as it always does when there are enough of them and not enough authority to shut it down. 

“Wheeler’s ass in that skirt, though,” the benchwarmer pipes up with a low whistle, trying on words that clearly don’t belong in his mouth. “Holy shit.”

“Please,” Carol scoffs, a transparent grudge there. “She’s a prude. You’d get her back to yours, and she’d start talking about college applications.”

Tommy cackles, nodding along, adding, “Yeah, Harrington’s been whipped so long he probably has to ask permission to jerk off.”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t still hit it,” the linebacker—Derek—says, elbowing Tommy like his girlfriend isn’t right there. 

Carol cuts a glare in Tommy’s direction, but doesn’t say anything to thwart the conversation. It’s an unspoken actuality that if she causes a scene, she’ll be shunned from the circle; she’ll be known as the nagging girlfriend who can’t take a joke. Not like they’re disrespecting her right now.

The guys talk girls like they’re stats from a game. Who’s been where, who did what and with whom. Half of it is bullshit, half of it is wishful thinking, and all of it washes over Billy like he’s barely awake. Usually, he would join in; he’s done, said, and thought far worse things. Toss a name in, get a reaction, move on. He’s the one with actual numbers. He doesn’t have to prove anything to these idiots who haven’t seen anything beyond their boring little shithole town. 

But today his skin is too tight, his thoughts looping through the sharp cut of your eyes, your words, tossed at him like broken glass. 

Something inside him is coming undone, and Billy wants to strangle you for it. 

The conversation turns abruptly. 

“Forget Wheeler,” Anderson says, snorting as he pushes in front so everyone’s attention is on him. “You know who’s got that real crazy look about her? That garage girl. Always dirty, walks around all pissed off. You seen the ass on her when she’s bending over a car? Fuck.”

His stomach coils like someone’s poured hot lava inside him. Billy doesn’t drop his pace, face blank for anyone looking. 

“What, that Forest Hills weirdo?” Derek asks, but something sleazy lights up across his face. “Yeah, man. You can always tell. Trailer girls just move differently. Like they’ve already had to fight someone off, you know? Means they’ve got practice.”

“Means they put out,” Anderson sings songs, thrusting his hips at empty air. “They know what side their bread’s buttered on. Old man gives her a job, and she makes it worth his while.”

Carol laughs, but something like disgust curdles her expression. “Gross. Hopkins is like sixty or something.”

“I didn’t say him,” Anderson shoots back, wiggling his eyebrows, “I said someone. Probably the freaks she hangs with. Munson and his little weirdo club. Bet she jerks them all off behind the shop for free weed.”

Billy’s jaw pops, the red haze thickening. He keeps walking. 

“Trailer trash, man,” Derek drawls, shrugging. “You can tell she would be wild. You’d have to shower after, but it’d be worth it. Those are the ones you don’t bring home to Ma, but you definitely rail over a fender at least once.”

The words slide into his ear like oil, carrying the same rotten pitch as Neil when he’s on a tear. 

They’re all the same, son. You fuck first, or somebody else does. They’re all whores. You think they ain’t talking about you the same way in their little bitch circles? Don’t be stupid. 

“The only way she looks at you is if you got a car that needs work anyway,” Tommy chirps, joining in with a crude smirk. “She stares at that Camaro like she wants to marry it. Pretty sure she wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. Right, Billy?”

All eyes go to him. 

He knows what they’re doing. Poking the bear, seeing how far they can push him. It’s practically a sport, and one he’s had a lot more practice in than these morons. 

Billy smiles. Tommy’s smirk shrinks at the edges at whatever he sees on Billy’s face, followed by unease sliding behind the veneer. 

“Most of you have never even made a girl wet,” he drawls lazily. “Maybe don’t talk about railing anyone until you stop making them fake it after thirty seconds.”

Carol chokes on her gum, half laughing, eyes wide. 

“Fuck you, Hargrove,” Anderson spits out, colour flooding his face. “Like you’re some pussy expert.”

Billy shrugs dismissively. “Numbers don’t lie, man.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly picky,” Derek says, glaring like it’s supposed to be intimidating. “You’ll stick it in any hole that opens. That garage girl? She wouldn’t make my list. Once a girl’s got Munson’s dick in her, she’s damaged goods, if not fucking diseased.”

Laughter all around, loud and vicious. 

It’s not even the content, not even. It’s the tone, the sheer entitlement. The stupid certainty that you’re somehow theirs to grade. As if you won’t eat these losers for breakfast, chew them up and spit them out with that mean mouth of yours. 

You’re scared of people seeing you. Of someone looking too close and figuring out you’re just as trapped here as the rest of us.

Your eyes, burning with cold fire, your boots planted firm when you stood with him, face to fucking face, and tore him apart. Munson’s arm around your shoulders, comfortable and allowed. Max’s board gripped securely in your hands—those soft edges for others, but only ever war with him. 

He sees you over his car, wiping sweat with the back of your hand, calling him on his bullshit without bothering to look impressed. 

And he hears his father, overlapping, all bite and cruelty:

You don’t fight for pussy. You fuck it and forget it. You start catching feelings, that’s how they own you. Don’t bleed for something that bleeds once a month. 

“Dude, she's practically a dyke, anyway,” Derek interrupts, snorting. “Probably wouldn't know what to do with a dick if you handed her an instruction manual. Probably gets herself off with a wrench or some shit.”

Those words spike something filthy and hot inside Billy’s chest, the red filling his vision like someone poured a bucket of blood over his vision. 

“Nah, man, that's the appeal. You know those uptight bitches are freaks when you get them alone. All that pent-up—bet she'd fucking scream if you—”

Anderson doesn't finish the sentence.

It’s not even one of his showy hits. No theatrics, no wind-up, no humiliating him verbally first. Just a straight, fast punch from the shoulder, his full weight behind it. His knuckles impact teeth with a meatier crack than he expected. Anderson’s head bounces off the locker; he slides down, hand flying to his face with a pathetic little whine.

“The fuck—” Billy's voice is barely human, a snarl ripped from somewhere deep and feral. “The fuck did you just say? Didn’t quite catch that.” There’s a buzz in his ears, a low whine driving him insane. “Speak up.”

Derek lunges in, a hand grabbing for Billy’s jacket, trying and failing to yank him back. “What the fuck, man?”

Billy pivots, grabs Derek’s wrist and wrenches it off. In the same motion, he slams Derek’s back into the opposite row of lockers. The whole line rattles as if struck by an earthquake. A magnet and a Polaroid fall off, skidding across the floor.

“Jesus—Billy—I was just—”

“Just what?” Billy leans in closer, and he can see the fear now, real fear, the moment they all realise they’re not dealing with their supposed friend anymore but something dangerous. “Just running your fucking mouth? Talking about shit you don't understand with your limp-dick friends?”

“Man, I didn't mean—”

Billy slams him against the tiles again. Derek’s head cracks against the ceramic, and he makes a sound like a wounded animal.

“You like to talk shit,” Billy says, and his voice has gone quiet now, controlled, which is so much worse. “You and your buddies. Sitting around talking about girls like you have any fucking idea what to do with one. Like any of them would let you touch them if they had a choice.”

“Billy—” Tommy’s voice, somewhere behind him. Careful. Scared. Good. “Come on, man. They didn't mean anything by it—”

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Billy doesn't even look at him. His eyes stay pinned on Derek’s, and how he’s starting to turn red, air wheezing through his constricted throat. “Before I shut it for you.”

“Can't—breathe—”

“Good.” Billy watches him struggle for another few seconds, watches the panic bloom in his eyes. 

“You’re fucking crazy,” Derek wheezes, clawing at his wrist. His pulse hammers under Billy’s fingers, but he doesn’t feel any pain, just the throbbing thump of anger, the delicious spark of fear reflected at him. “All this over some junkyard whore—”

The word whore is a fuse. 

Because his mother’s face flashes up; sunglasses on to hide the bruises, cigarette between her lips, a brittle smile as she brushes aside Billy’s curls, the way she’d flinch when Neil used that word.

He doesn’t even feel himself move.

He just knows that suddenly Derek’s no longer against the lockers, he’s on the floor, trying to crawl away, and Billy’s standing there with his fists clenched so tight his nails cut his palms. Tommy makes a mistake of reaching for him, fingers on his upper arm like he’s going to pull him back. Billy spins and slams him into the lockers.

“Do not touch me,” he snarls the words out, so quietly it’s barely audible. 

Tommy’s eyes are big and bright and scared, and Billy drinks it up, lets it fill him up, because right now it feels good, even when he knows later it will not. There’s a smear of someone else’s blood on his cheekbone. “Okay, okay, Jesus, chill—”

“You wanna use words like ‘whore’ and ‘trash’ like you’re not describing your own mother after three margaritas?” Billy presses, low, teeth on display. “Think about who hears you. Think about that next time you’re two beers in and trying to shove your hand up some girl’s skirt behind Tina’s pool house.”

Tommy swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs against Billy’s knuckles.

“Better yet, next time you want to run your mouth about anyone,” Billy continues, voice still deadly calm, “make sure I'm not around to hear it. Because next time? I won't stop.”

“Mr. Hargrove!”

Teacher voice. High, outraged. Billy thinks he should move back, play this off as a joke between friends, just boys being boys, but his hands won’t loosen their grip. A cardigan appears in his peripheral vision. Clipboard. Ms Powell, standing there in her ugly skirt and even uglier heels. 

“Let him go right now!” she snaps, voice pitching high. 

What few students are still in the hallway are all staring at him, some pressed away even at a distance. Billy steps back like someone cut a string, laughing under his breath as he wets his lips. 

Tommy slumps, hand flying to his chest, his shoulders jerking with his gasping breaths. Derek hauls himself up, still snarling, blood at the corner of his mouth. Anderson is still sitting on the floor, spitting pink onto the tiles. And Billy… Billy feels whole in a way. Because everything in his life is fucking hollow, just blood and fear and helplessness, but this is something he controls. This is power. Because Billy knows even as they call him crazy, even as they spit the blood he’s made them shed, they’ll be back to kissing his ass in an hour. They’ll worship him, fear him, maybe even hate him, but they’ll think twice before they run their goddamn mouths, and this is how you get that. By punching first, by being the worst thing in this town so they respect him. 

Ms. Powell plants herself between them, as if that’ll help.

“What is wrong with you boys?” she sputters, her cheeks blotchy with outrage. “Office. Now.”

She clamps a hand around Billy’s shoulder. He could shrug her off. It would be easy. He’s used to Neil’s grip, one painful enough to leave him blue and green; this is nothing.

He doesn’t.

He lets her drag him down the hall, his jaw buzzing, his hands singing with pain, his heart going too fast. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. No regrets.

Higgins’ office is the same cheap authority as every principal’s office Billy’s ever been in. Fake wood. Diplomas on the wall. An American flag drooping behind the desk in some pathetic show of patriotism. Billy toys with the notion of asking the good principle if he enlisted for Vietnam or if it’s all fake bullshit like his authority here, in this tiny hole of a town where he can pretend he’s someone important. 

Billy sits in the chair that’s too low on purpose. His split knuckles shine with the antiseptic the nurse slapped on minutes ago. His cheek still burns from this morning’s discipline, pulsing in time with his heartbeat and his throbbing knuckles. His hands are shaking, but his blood is singing. And underneath the rage, underneath the violence, there's something else—something that feels like shame but sharper, hotter.

Because he knows.

Knows that this wasn’t about defending your honour or standing up for what's right. This was about ownership. About some primal, fucked-up part of him that heard them talking about you like you were theirs to discuss and saw red.

Like you’re his.

Which you’re not.

Which you'll never be, because you look at him like he's a problem to solve or a threat to neutralise, never like he’s—

Like you’re what? What the fuck do you want from her?

“I’m very disappointed, Mr Hargrove,” Higgins begins after a lull he’s no doubt intended to come across as intimidating, but only makes Billy vaguely bored. The man’s moustache twitches with every word. “Very disappointed.”

Billy stares at the painting of a cornfield behind the principal. The horizon’s crooked. It bugs him. He’s not stupid enough to say anything, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

“You’re on thin ice.” Higgins steeples his fingers, watching him over his furrowed brows. “Your behaviour today was unacceptable. Fighting in the hallways, bloodying other students. This isn’t California, son. We don’t tolerate that kind of…gangster tactic here.”

He almost laughs. He can’t help it. One side of his mouth ticks up before he can control himself. 

“This isn’t funny,” Higgins snaps, a vein in his neck bulging. “Do you understand the severity of this? You’re already on probation after the incident in September—”

One shove in the wrong place, a kid cried, parents called, “incident.”

“Coach Williams is livid,” Higgins continues. “You’re lucky he agreed to a compromise. You’ll be benched for the first half of tomorrow’s game. Three after-school detentions. And you will apologise to the boys you assaulted.”

Assaulted. That’s a big word for a couple of morons who’ve never been hit properly in their lives. He bites back his sarcastic comment about public service, instead signing the slip with his left hand so the right doesn’t smudge blood on the paper.

“And I will be calling your father,” Higgins adds. “Again.”

There’s a twinge low in Billy’s gut. Anticipation and dread fused into one ugly weight. A call home means only one thing. 

His mouth slants downwards. “Figured.”

He pushes out of the chair without another word. The air outside the school hits his bruised cheek like a block of ice.

The lot’s half empty now. Kids have peeled off to jobs, to their houses, to shitty parties in shitty basements. Billy looks once, sharp and fast, in the direction where you usually park your truck, then looks away when he finds it empty. What the fuck was he hoping for? That you’ll magically be out there? Hold his hand and kiss it better? Fucking Christ. You’re a fucking disease, is what you are. 

He peels the doors of the Camaro open with enough force to wrench his shoulder back, sending a twinge through it. He has no time for your bullshit. 

He has his own war to get to.

And worse still, he doesn't know what he wants.

He just knows he can’t stop wanting it.

He can smell it before he opens the house door. Burnt garlic. Tomato from a jar. Beer. 

Neil is sitting at the head of the table when Billy comes in. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie off, first bottle already empty, second halfway empty. An old, animal instinct tells Billy to go, maybe crash somewhere else for the night, but the older him standing in the doorway is well aware running won’t change anything, only make it worse. 

Susan fusses over the stove, doing her best to pretend the atmosphere inside the house isn’t suffocating. Max is at the table, chin in her hand, stabbing at salad leaves with a blank expression. 

“Sit,” Neil says.

No hello, no how are you, son, not even a raised voice. 

Billy sits.

Susan does her little dance. “I tried that new recipe from the—”

“Shut up,” Neil cuts in without looking up. His attention slides to Billy, pins him there. “We gotta talk.”

Billy is eight again, sitting in a house silent as a grave while his mother leaves through the front door—

“How was school?” Susan asks weakly, wringing her hands as she sits down. 

“Just peachy, stepmom, thanks for asking,” Billy replies, trying to keep his voice steady, indifferent. 

Neil’s smile is small, quick, and cruel. “Huh. Funny.”

He spears his spaghetti, the sauce more like blood on his plate, chews, swallowing slowly. “I had a very interesting conversation with Principal Higgins today. You wanna take a wild guess what about?”

For a minute, there’s only silence. Billy twists his fork, watching sauce slip off pasta.

“A couple of idiots needed reminding to shut up,” he replies. “No big deal.”

Neil barks a short laugh. “No big deal. You think getting hauled into the principal’s office twice in a month is ‘no big deal’? You think getting benched is ‘no big deal’?”

“He told you that part?” Billy asks, eyes still on his plate. “Benched for half. Doesn’t mean I won’t win the game for him after.”

“That your takeaway?” Neil leans back, chair creaking, and Billy loathes how his heart kicks up. “Not: ‘hey, Dad, sorry for embarrassing you in our new town’? Not: ‘hey, maybe I should act like I wasn’t raised by wolves’? You go straight to ‘they still need me.’”

“They do,” Billy mutters, and hates how petulant and small it sounds.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Neil scoffs, grabbing his beer. “See how long it works when college scouts hear you’re a goddamn hothead.”

He takes a swig of his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What was it this time, huh?” he asks. “Somebody say something about your hair? Your whore mother? Call you a fag? Use your words, boy.”

Max winces at the slur. Susan flinches. No one says anything against it. This, Billy thinks, is nothing compared to years of Neil in his life, in his ear, in his head. Every choice and thought filtered through Neil’s careful cruelty over the years. 

Billy’s fork bites the plate with a high-pitched ping. “They were running their mouths. It got old.”

“They’re boys,” Neil snaps, his bottle slamming against the table. “It’s what they do. You can’t go swinging every time some punk says a dirty word in a hallway. That’s prison rules. You aiming for the county already?”

Something acidic crawls up Billy’s throat, choking him because, really, a part of him can’t help but wonder. If maybe it would be better than whatever this is. 

“They weren’t just talking,” he insists. “They were talking about—”

His mouth snaps shut. He’s not dragging you into this man’s orbit. Not letting your name share air with the shit that comes out of his father’s mouth. Max’s eyes snap up to Billy’s face suddenly, no longer on her plate, bright and wide like something in his tone, in his demeanour, has tipped her off. 

“About what?” Neil pounces, oblivious to their little moment. “About who?”

Billy presses his mouth into a tight line. “Doesn’t matter.”

Neil’s jaw goes hard, followed by his fist on the table. “The hell it doesn’t. You break someone’s nose on my time, that’s my business.”

“They deserved it,” Billy insists. “End of story.”

Neil’s smile is all teeth, a mirror to him only hours ago, and Billy feels vaguely sick for some reason. 

“You don’t get to decide what men deserve yet, son.”

He says men like Billy doesn’t qualify.

“Stand up,” he orders.

Billy’s chair scrapes backwards. He’s not here, really. If he goes away again, if he listens for the ocean, then maybe—

Susan’s hand twitches toward Neil, half-standing. “Neil, please, let’s—”

“Sit down, Susan,” he snaps, pointing back to her seat. “You do the dishes, I’ll do the discipline.”

She subsides. Every time, shrinking away from Neil’s fists and his temper.

Billy stands, staring ahead without blinking. It took years for his knees to stop shaking, to learn when it’s better to stay silent because begging would only make the beatings worse, because crying is weakness, begging is weakness, and he’s supposed only to take, take, take. 

Neil comes around the table like a storm cloud. Close enough that Billy can see the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the little nick on his jaw from a rushed shave.

“You wanna tell me no again?” he asks quietly. “Like last time?”

Billy can still feel the imprint of his father’s hand from this morning. The echo of it hums under the skin.

“I’m not apologising to them.”

The words are small, but they’re firm. They’re all he’s got. This is the most he’s had in a long time. Neil’s expression goes blank in a way that always means bad.

“Wrong answer.”

The slap isn’t half-assed. It’s full palm, full shoulder, full power, fast like a viper. Billy’s head snaps sideways with such force his neck shrieks in protest. The world tilts. For a second, he’s not in Indiana; he’s back on the beach getting shoved under a wave. Same disorienting, full-body jolt. Same numbing panic at his helplessness, the hot humiliation of it. 

Max gasps like someone hit her instead. Susan’s hand flies to her mouth, smothering whatever sorry sound she makes.

“Look at me,” Neil orders.

Billy straightens up, squares his shoulders. His cheek burns, his eyes watering. He makes himself meet his father’s gaze, makes himself not blink, or let out a sound. 

“You ever tell me ‘no’ in my house again,” Neil says, voice low and calm, “you’d better back it up with something besides your pretty words. You wanna be a man? You stand by it. You take the hit that comes with it. You ready for that? Huh?”

His fists want to come up. They twitch at his sides, itching. He imagines it so well, as he has a thousand times before. Right hook. Clean. All the way through. Neil stumbling back, maybe going down. The shock. The single moment in which he would be free, but his life would be over. 

Because then everything else would follow. Broken jaw. Police. Neil making good on every threat he’s ever thrown at him.

Billy’s arms fall still and heavy at his sides, an occasional tremor twitching in his fingertips. 

“No,” he grinds out, his lungs, his body, his whole self burning.

Neil grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him in so close their foreheads almost knock.

“You hit those boys ‘cause they hurt your feelings?” he says, breath hot and putrid with the stench of beer. “Or ‘cause they said something about some little slut you’ve got your dick tangled up over?”

Billy flinches. The word slut hits like a belt, somehow worse than a backhand. His mom calling a loving Billy in his mind echoes, then the back of her disappearing from his life forever, a vision of you, watching him through the crowd, night, asshole—

“Don’t talk about her,” he spits out, his chest heaving.

He didn’t mean to say it like that. Possessive. Too sharp, tangled up in something too obvious for his father to pick on, even when Billy knows that he can’t stand you half the time, he still wants you to look at him like—

Neil’s eyes flash. A shark scenting blood. “Ah. So there is a her.”

Fuck.

“Who? Some perky little cheerleader?” Neil goes on, voice oily. “Or maybe trailer park special from across the street? You think any of them are thinking about you right now, boy? Grow up. None of them care about some pretty little punk.”

He yanks Billy closer. The collar bites into his throat, chafes at his skin until Billy feels nauseous.

“You fuck ‘em,” Neil reminds, very quiet, “or somebody else does. That’s the whole story. You don’t fight for them. You don’t bleed for them. You sure as hell don’t put my job and reputation on the line because some pussy felt disrespected. You hear me?”

“She's not—” Billy bites down on the words, but it's too late.

Neil smiles. “She's not what, son? Not a whore? You fucking her?”

Across the table, Susan and Max have gone utterly silent. Riding out the wave, knowing better than to intervene. 

“No,” Billy says through clenched teeth.

“No?” Neil’s face tightens, releasing his hold on him abruptly. “Then what is she? Your girlfriend? You in love with her?”

“I don't—it's not like that.”

“Then what's it like?” Neil's right behind him now. Billy can feel his presence, heavy and suffocating. “Explain it to me. Make me understand why my son is acting like a little bitch over some girl he's not even fucking.”

Billy's hands are fists by his side. His nails dig crescents into his palms.

“That's what I thought.” Neil's hand comes down on Billy's shoulder—not hard, not yet, but the threat is there. “You're weak, Billy. Just like your mother. Can't control yourself. Can't think past your dick. You think that girl gives a shit about you?”

“You don't know anything about her.”

“I don't need to know anything about her.” Neil's fingers tighten, digging in. “I know about girls like that. Small-town trash playing hard to get because it's the only power they have. She's probably fucking half the school and laughing about you behind your back.”

The words wash over scars that are already there. Half of them land because they’re what Billy grew up on. The other half scrape raw because they’re pointed at you.

“She's not—”

The blow comes from nowhere.

Neil's fist catches Billy across the mouth and snaps his head to the side. Pain explodes across his jaw, bright and sharp, and Billy tastes blood.

“Don't.” Neil's voice is quiet now. Very controlled. “Interrupt me.”

Billy turns his head back slowly. Blood drips from his split lip onto his plate. 

He pictures you leaning over Max’s board, narrowing your eyes at a crack in the deck. He hears Munson laughing with you. He hears Derek calling you trash. He hears Neil calling you whore.

His stomach twists.

“You will apologise,” Neil says, enunciating each syllable like it’s a nail in his coffin should he disagree. “You will go to the coach tomorrow and say, ‘I lost my temper, sir, it won’t happen again.’ You will send the right message. That this family is not raising animals. Or you can pack a bag and fuck off back to your whore mother, if you can even find which bar she’s passed out in, and see how far your temper gets you there.”

There it is. The old faithful. Mom as loaded gun, as a mockery. Billy grits his teeth so hard his jaw screams, his bruised cheek pulling, making white spots dance in his vision.

Billy's vision swims—his jaw throbs, rolling, hot waves.

“Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Billy swallows blood. “Yes, sir.”

The words taste like a lifetime of rust and blood and humiliation.

Neil squeezes his jaw until Billy's teeth grind, fingers digging purposely into the bruised flesh. “Louder.”

“Yes, sir.”

He lets go. Shoves him back so hard Billy clips the edge of the table.

“Good.” Neil sits back down, picks up his fork, as if nothing happened. “Now eat your dinner. And in the future, try to remember that you're a Hargrove. We don't lose control over pussy. We take it and move on. You understand?”

Billy doesn't answer. Just stares at his plate, forcing his legs to move. Billy sits. His legs don’t feel like his own. Nothing in his body feels like it belongs to him. Like his father’s hands are on everything in his life, inside and out. 

“I said, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then eat.”

Billy picks up his fork. Puts food in his mouth. Chews. Swallows.

He doesn't taste anything except his own blood.

Max is very deliberately not looking at him, her fingers white around her fork. There’s a slight tremor in her wrist that only someone who’s had it would spot. He catches her eye anyway, just for a second. There’s a mess there. Fear, yeah. Anger, always. Something like you’re so fucking stupid, and something else—something far more complicated and foreign on her small, freckled face. It makes him more nauseous than the slaps did.

He looks away first.

Susan hands him the bowl of spaghetti. “Here, honey,” she says, voice too bright. “Have some more. You need to eat.”

The food could be cardboard. Billy wouldn’t know.

The whole time, Neil’s words loop.

You fuck ‘em. You don’t fight for ‘em.

His mother’s voice tries to push through. You don’t have to take it, baby. You don’t always have to be what he says.

It’s quieter. It always is because she’s wrong. Because she left. This is his life. This is what he is. This is the only way to keep his head afloat. 

The only way not to be destroyed in this world is to destroy first. 

He swallows everything down with a glass of water and tastes nothing but copper, hot and metallic. 

The ocean is back, churning and endless.

He’s not surprised anymore when the sand crunches under his bare feet and the air hits his lungs with salt. California sun, flat and bright, high in the sky. When he was young, Billy would pretend he could reach out and touch the sun, hold it in his hand, maybe give it to his mother as a present. 

Waves pound the shore in that endless rhythm, a haven his mind has held onto over the years, unchanging apart from small details.

But this beach is wrong.

Too empty. No towels, no umbrellas, no kids screaming. He blinks, and the sun is gone too. Just grey sky over grey water, the horizon smeared. Billy looks down, expecting to see his eight-year-old legs. Skinny. Sunburnt.

They’re not.

He’s himself now. Seventeen, nearly eighteen and changed. Taller. Broader. The scars marring his skin are a familiar roadmap. The bruise on his cheek and cut on his lip sit fresh and livid even here, offering only partial escape. 

The tide creeps in, washing over his toes. The water is numbing, chilling his skin all the way down to the bone. Out in the surf, a shape stands where the waves break.

At first, his brain plugs his mother in there. It always does. Default ghost. Dress to her knees, hair blowing in the breeze, back turned to him like the day she left. Then the following wave lifts—the figure shifts.

It’s you.

You’re waist-deep in the water, clothes plastered tight, hair slicked back, face turned toward the horizon. The ocean keeps hitting you and you just…take it. Rocking with it, like you know how to lean.

Billy’s throat goes dry. He wades in without deciding to, without any thought at all, pure instinct. Water claws up his calves, his thighs, his jeans dragging heavy. The Pacific wraps around him, colder than Indiana. Each step is a fight. Sand gives, slips, reforms under his feet.

He gets close enough to see the set of your shoulders, the line of your neck. You haven’t looked back yet.

He could stop. He should stop. Walk away while he still can. Let you be there—a weird, wrong detail in an old, comforting dream—and never mention it to anyone, including himself.

He keeps going.

There’s no sound except the water, but somehow he still hears you. In the space between waves, your voice is just there, not moving your mouth.

You’re late.

The fuck is that supposed to mean?

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snaps instead, but his voice comes out muffled, distant, like he’s underwater already.

You cock your head as if he’s said something amusing. 

Another breaker rises behind you. It should swamp you. You don’t move. It crashes over. For a moment, you vanish in white. He lunges forward, heart hammering, hand outstretched without thinking. His fingers close around thin air, foam curling around his wrist, slick and insubstantial.

You’re still there when it clears. Closer now. Standing where the water hits his ribs. You shouldn’t be able to stand; the sand’s gone out from under his feet, he’s having to tread just to keep his head level.

Yet you just…are.

Billy swallows.

You’re not soaked as you should be. Your clothes are wet, yeah, clinging, but there’s no dripping from your hair, no shiver in your shoulders. You look carved out of the same grey as the sky. The only colour on you is your mouth, and the bright, piercing burn of your eyes. Older, somehow, almost feral with shadows. 

It makes his chest twist in a way that pisses him off.

He doesn’t know what he expected from you in a dream. Maybe more of the same—mouthy, sharp, rolling your eyes. But you’re quieter here. Heavier. You look at him like he’s the one who doesn’t belong here.

Another wave surges. Billy braces, but this one rolls around him like he’s not worth the effort. It hits you full on. You tilt. Not much. Just enough that for a second he sees your profile—the line of your nose, the curve of your throat—outlined in white.

He wants to touch that line. 

It’s a stupid, precise want. Not your tits. Not your ass. Just that bit of jaw. Thumb pressed there, holding, followed by his mouth and tongue and—

He reaches. Your expression shifts with the gesture. Not surprise. Something like disappointment and something like pity, tangled together.

You say, again without your mouth moving, This isn’t for you.

His gut twists viciously.

“What isn’t?” he snaps. He sounds young, petty. The rejection stings worse than it should. Billy drops his hand. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” This time your mouth moves when you speak, as if you’ve snapped into reality properly now, no longer just a figment in his mind. “This isn't for you. Not this version of me.”

“What are—”

“Not yet.” And there’s something in your voice now. Something tired. Sad. Like you’re speaking from very far away. “You're not ready.”

“Ready for what?” His voice is rising, anger bleeding through because anger is easier than whatever the fuck he’s actually feeling. “You're in my head. You don't get to—”

“Don't I?”

And then, finally, you turn fully.

And you’re different.

You’re still you, still the girl from Frank's shop with grease under her nails and cold fire in her eyes, a scowl fixed firmly in place. But there's something else, too. Something older and wearier. Like you've lived years he hasn't seen yet, and now carry a weight he can't imagine. Like someone plucked you from somewhere else, further ahead, and fixed you here, on his beach.  

Your eyes meet his, and they're not cold, exactly. They're just… knowing. Like you’ve known him your whole life, like everything in his life has led to this, to here, you and him. 

“Hello, William,” you say.

The name strikes him like a bolt of lightning.

William.

Not Billy. Not Hargrove. William.

The name his mother used to call him when he was small, before she learned that softness got you nowhere, before she left. The name Neil uses when he’s about to hit him, when disappointment curdles into violence. The name that tastes like fear and loss and the particular kind of love that always abandons you.

And hearing it from your mouth—

Something cracks. Deep in his chest, crumbling from within. 

“Don't—” His voice breaks in a way it hasn’t since he was a little boy. “Don't call me that.”

“Why not?” You take a step toward him, and the water between you seems to grow instead of shrink. “It's your name. The real one. The one you hide from.”

“I don't hide from anything.”

“Liar.” You say it gently, almost lovingly, which is worse than if you'd been cruel. “You hide from everything. From yourself most of all.”

“Fuck you.” The words are automatic, defensive and swift. “You don't know anything about me.”

“Don't I?” You're closer now, but still untouchable, still just out of reach. “You keep saying that. But I know you're alone, William. Abandoned. And you think if you’re dangerous enough, cruel enough, that's the same as being powerful. But it's not. It's just hollow.”

“Shut up—”

“You saw me with Max. With Eddie.” Your eyes don't leave his, your chin angled knowingly. “And you were jealous. Of what they get from me. What you think you want.”

Billy feels his throat go tight. “I don't—”

“You saw me fixing things.” You tilt your head slightly. “And you thought maybe I could do that for you, too. But that's not what this is.”

“I don't need to be fixed—”

“Look at me when I'm talking to you.”

The command in your voice—sharp, final—makes him freeze. He is looking at you. Has been this whole time. But it’s only then that he realises you mean something else. 

Really look. See you not as a conquest or a problem, or as the girl who won't fold when he pushes.

See you as a person.

“You want me soft,” you say quietly. “Want me to look at you like you matter. Like you're worth choosing. But you haven't earned that, William. You've earned exactly what you give everyone else. Walls. Distance. Anger. The back of my head while I walk away."

“That's bullshit—”

“Is it?” Your eyes are so steady it hurts. He knows your anger, not whatever this is. “You're alone because you make yourself alone. You're hollow because you choose to be. You’re cruel because it’s easier. And until you're not?" The waves are at your waist now, rising rapidly. “This isn't for you.”

“You don't get to decide that—”

“I already did.”

Another wave rears up behind you. This one’s bigger. Darker. It looks wrong—too smooth, surface glassy, angle all off. It feels like a thing with intent.

“Move,” he barks. “Get back.”

You don’t move. Billy swears and pushes harder, chest burning. His fingers brush your sleeve. For a second, he gets it—the texture of wet fabric, the heat under it, the reality of you. Then the wave comes down. The water surges all around him. 

And you're already dissolving.

Coming apart like foam, like spray, like you were never solid to begin with.

“Wait—”

“Not yet, William.” Your voice scatters across the water, fading into the roar. “Not like this.”

“No—”

But you're gone.

Just water and darkness and the echo of your voice saying his name.

William.

The world goes white, a roar drowning everything else out. Cold punches the breath out of him so fast he doesn’t react fast enough. Billy goes under, salt up his nose, lungs convulsing. He’s tumbling, no up, no down, just a body going where the water throws it.

He kicks. Fights. Claws.

You're hollow.

You haven't earned soft.

Not yet.

He breaks the surface hacking, eyes streaming, hair plastered to his face.

“You idiot, I told you—” he starts, spinning around, searching.

You’re gone. The spot where you were is just water—churned white on the surface, sucking itself back into grey underneath: no head, no shoulders, no line of mouth.

He sees something in the foam, for half a heartbeat.

Your face. Not like you’re drowning. Like you’re already dead. Calm. Eyes open. Bubbles slipping out of the corners of your mouth. Then that image dissolves too, breaking into useless froth.

He staggers backwards, feet finally finding sand again. He half-crawls, half-wades until the water’s down around his knees, then collapses onto the wet shore, palms digging into gritty, cold sand. His chest hurts. Not from the water. He stares at the waves. They go on doing what they always do. Eat the shore. Spit it back. Over and over. They don’t give a shit who stands in them.

Something tight and stupid builds in his throat because Billy realises, with a jolt that feels like swallowing glass, what he wanted out there.

You’re right. Billy wanted something soft. Not you dragging him under. Not you yelling at him. Not your usual look, like he’s a disappointment, a headache. 

He wanted you to reach back.

Just once. A hand meeting his, pulling him in parallel instead of walking away. He wanted a version of you that doesn’t exist. One that looks at him like he’s worth the effort. The one that calls him William, not Hargrove. 

The thought makes him so angry that he starts shaking.

He scoops up a double handful of wet sand and throws it at the water like it’ll do anything. It splashes. Disappears.

The ocean doesn’t care.

He wakes with his hand still clenched, fingernails biting into his palm.

His room snaps back around him. Orange glow from the streetlight leaking through the blinds. The faint hum of the fridge. Neil’s snore from down the hall like distant thunder. His heart hammers inside his chest. His T-shirt sticks to his back. His cheek and lip throb as he turns, a dull, aching pulse. 

And he’s hard.

Painfully, furiously, achingly hard.

Billy swears, shoving the heel of his hand against his eyes.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

It’s not a clean hard-on. Not the usual morning wood, he can take care of quickly with a dirty thought and be done with it. This one’s tangled up with the ocean and cold and the way you wouldn’t look at him until it was too late.

"Fuck," he gasps again, and his voice breaks on the word.

He can still hear you. Still hear the way you said his name—William—like it meant something. Like you knew what it would do to him, as if it belonged in your mouth. 

His hand moves before he can stop it. Slides under the waistband of his boxers, grips, and he hates himself for it. Hates you for being in his head even here, even now. Hates that his body is betraying him, responding to a version of you that destroyed him with nothing but words.

You're hollow.

His breath comes in short, sharp gasps. His hand moves faster, rougher, punishing.

You haven't earned soft.

He thinks about your eyes. Steady and knowing and so fucking sad.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Like there's a version of him that could earn it, could be worth it. Like he's not already too broken, too much like Neil, too far gone. 

“I'm not—” The words rip out of him, desperate, but they die in his throat because his own mind won't lie.

You're right.

He is hollow. 

It takes less than a minute. Thirty seconds of hating himself, hating you, hating the wanting that won't cease. And then he's biting down on his other hand to keep quiet, shaking through it, burning up with need and shame and fury. Because he’s still aching, trembling with need for something he hates himself for wanting this fucking badly. No edges dulled, only gasoline poured into a flame. 

Afterwards, he lies there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.

His hand is sticky. His sheets are damp with sweat. His face is still throbbing from his father’s hand. He tells himself it’s just stress. Too much bullshit. Too many fights. Of course, his brain is spitting out weird shit. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except he knows his own patterns. He knows what it means when someone starts showing up uninvited in what’s supposed to be his last safe spot. He knows what it means when he hits guys harder because of what they said about a girl whose face he pretends not to care about.

Billy knows what it means when his first dream of you isn’t you on your knees, but you turned away, and it wrecks him more than anything porn ever did.

He swallows. The taste of salt is still in his mouth.

He thinks about you standing in the waves. Thinks about the way you looked at him—not with fear, not with want, but with something worse.

Pity.

“Fuck you,” he whispers to the dark. To you. To himself. To the version of him that you saw and found wanting. “Fuck you for—”

But he can't finish. Can't articulate what you did to him. Because you didn't just reject him, you saw him. Really saw him. Saw through all the bullshit and posturing and violence to the broken, rotten mess underneath.

And you still walked away.

Not yet.

Billy closes his eyes.

And hates that the “not yet” gives him hope. Hates himself for being so fucking weak.

His father's voice echoes: You're just like your mother. Can't control yourself.

Sleep doesn’t come back. Not really. The few times he drops under, he feels your eyes on him from some distance he can’t cross, the ocean gnawing at the land in between.

And knows, with absolute certainty, each time he jolts awake, that he'll dream of you again. 

And again.

And again.

Because you're under his skin now. Too deep to dig out. And the worst part?

He doesn't want to anymore.

That night is the first time Billy dreams of you.

But it won't be the last.

“Hell, if my Mrs understood 1% of what you do about engines, kid, the marriage might have lasted,” he told you once, half-joking, half-serious. 

Frank might not be husband material, but he’s undoubtedly a boss you respect, in all his grizzly, grumbling glory. 

The sky is still bright when you pull into Forest Hills, the sun dipping low but not entirely gone just yet. Golden hour that makes everything look a little softer than it really is, the trailer edges fuzzed in this warm glow, the potholes filled with pools of light instead of muddy water and cigarette buds.

You’re tired in that bone-deep way that comes from a full shift on your feet, your hands aching, and muscles worn out from moving heavy objects around. You roll into your row, your elbow propped against the door, warm wind tickling your bare skin. 

That’s when you see her.

She’s a flash of movement at first. A smear of orange and denim carving along the cracked edge of the park, wheels clacking over seams in the asphalt. Skinny legs in too-long jeans, Vans kicked off at the toes, an oversized hoodie the colour of cheap Halloween candy swallowing her frame.

Red hair. Not the washed-out kind you see on kids who never see the sun, but a bright, brilliant copper that catches the light every time she turns her head. It’s pulled back in a low, messy ponytail, strands escaping around her face like she wrestled it into submission with her fingers and decided it was good enough.

She’s on a skateboard that’s seen better days.

You know that even before she hits the pothole with a clank.

Your ear tunes into things on wheels. It’s automatic at this point—your brain cataloguing sound the way other people collect gossip. The board’s trucks squeak every time she leans hard to one side, a high, whining little noise. There’s a rattle that shouldn’t be there, too, like something’s loose. When she pushes off, you hear the dry grind of bearings begging for oil.

She’s good, though.

That’s obvious in the way she moves. Back foot pushing with easy momentum, front foot planted steady near the bolts. She shifts her weight with practised turns, carving lazy arcs along the park’s perimeter, eyes half on the cracked asphalt and half on everything else.

Watching. Avoiding, too.

She makes a point of skating where the adults aren’t. Sticking to the edges of driveways, slipping past clusters of lawn chairs and cigarette smoke like she’s allergic to it. Every time she gets near a group of older teenagers—in lawn chairs, drinking beer they’re pretending isn’t obvious—she swerves, wheels stuttering over the gravel rather than risk ghosting right by them.

You know her.

Not in the hi-I’m-so-and-so sense. You’ve never spoken. But you’ve seen her around a couple of times now—furious little redhead, trailing after Billy Hargrove, sitting in his Camaro, clutching her school bag as if she would rather be anywhere but beside him. Not a typical reaction for a sister to have around her brother, even when not related by blood. 

You swing your car into your usual spot near the back and kill the engine. The sudden quiet makes the sounds of her wheels stand out more.

Clack-clack-clack.

She hits the same crack in the lane again, and the board shudders under her feet. One of the front wheels jerks, catches; she wobbles, arms windmilling for balance.

You suck in a breath between your teeth even as she recovers, knees bending, centre of gravity dropping like instinct. She cruises it out, letting the board roll until she’s clear, then kicks her foot down and steps off in one smooth motion, grabbing the tail with the heel of her palm and flipping the board up into her other hand.

Show-off.

You like her immediately. 

You don’t think, really, about what you’re doing as you sling your bag over your shoulder and shut your car door. You don’t tell yourself stay out of it or mind your business. You just…walk.

She’s standing there, breathing a little hard, board under her arm, glaring at the crack in the asphalt like she’s debating kicking it. Up close, you can see the smatter of freckles across her nose, the way her eyebrows tilt down in permanent suspicion.

You stop a few feet away, hands in your jacket pockets, deliberately casual.

“You keep riding over that like that,” you call out casually, “you’re gonna eat shit.”

She whips around.

Her eyes are a startling, clear green. Not the soft mossy kind. Sharp, like bottled Sprite, biting under the setting sun. She rakes her gaze over you, top to bottom, in a split-second assessment. Boots, jeans, jacket, grease-stained wrists. Her mouth thins, eyebrows knitting.

“Wow,” she says. “Hi, stranger-danger PSA. You sneak up on everyone like that, or am I just lucky?”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s me. Official don’t-bust-your-face-on-the-pavement liaison. Pleasure is all mine.”

“Cool,” she says flatly. “I’ll take my chances.”

She turns like she’s going to push off again. You step in front of the crack, planting your boot in it.

She glares up at you. “Move.”

You lift your chin toward the board tucked under her arm. “That front truck’s loose as hell. So are the bushings. And your bearings sound like they’re about three days away from seizing.”

Her eyes narrow into little slits. “Says who?”

“Says the girl who’s been listening to your wheels screeching for the last five minutes,” you say, still keeping your casual tone. There’s something familiar about her defensiveness, a shade of I got this that reminds you of your younger self. “Also, the one who doesn’t want to scrape you off the asphalt when that thing decides it’s done tolerating your abuse.”

She snorts. “I know how to skate.”

“Didn’t say you didn’t.” You shrug, nodding towards the worn thing she clutches tightly to her body. “Just saying your board is trying to send you a distress signal and you’re ignoring it.”

She bristles like a cat whose fur you just stroked in the wrong direction. For a second, it looks like she’s going to tell you to go to hell and roll over the crack out of spite.

Then she sighs, dramatic and put-upon, and drops the board to the ground with a clack.

“Fine,” she mutters. “Show me, O Wise One.”

You offer her a grin. “That’s more like it.”

You crouch, knees popping a little. The board’s graphic is half-scraped off, some kind of skull-and-flames situation sanded away by use. The trucks are decent quality, but the kingpin nut in front is backed off way too far, bushings squished and cracked around it like old gum.

You reach into your jacket pocket automatically and pull out the multi-tool you more or less live with—a battered, silver thing with socket heads, a screwdriver, a couple of random extras. You flip the right size out with your thumb and test the kingpin.

Sure enough, it turns too easily. 

“How long have you had this setup?” you ask, tightening a quarter turn at a time, listening more than looking, testing every few turns.

She shrugs, shifting her weight, watching your hands warily. “Board is from California,” she replies reluctantly. “Trucks are new. Sort of.”

“‘Sort of’?”

“My stepdad got them,” she explains, making a face that tells you more than her words do. “Said they were ‘fine’ and to quit whining.”

You bite back a comment burning on your tongue. Billy’s warning to stay out of his business echoes through your brain as you spin another wheel, tilting your head to listen. 

“You’re Max, right?” you ask instead, keeping your tone light.

She stiffens, going prickly in a snap. “How do you know my name?”

“Relax, Red.” You tighten another screw, not looking up at her as you explain, “You live across the street. Also, this is Hawkins; everyone knows everyone. Your family moving in was hot news of the month.”

“Cool.” She crosses her arms, frowning, hoodie sleeves swallowing her bruised hands. “Love being noticed.”

“You slam doors loud enough,” you joke with a slight grin. “Kind of hard not to.”

Her lips twitch, just a little. She shoves it down fast.

You switch to the other truck, tweak it a hair to keep it balanced. “I’m—” Your name rolls off your tongue, and she dips her head in a slight nod, tucking it away. “I live over there.” You nod toward your trailer, your car parked outside it. “With that pretty rust bucket parked outside.”

She squints past you, tracking the direction of your gesture. Recognition flickers.

“You’re the one with the box death-trap,” she exclaims suddenly. “The one who works on her car in the dark like a horror movie extra.”

That makes you blink. “Death-trap? Excuse you.”

“I mean, it looks like a murder car,” Max says, unapologetically blunt. “Wouldn’t surprise me if someone’s body is in the trunk.”

“You been spying on me?” you echo, dropping your voice as you glance up at her.

She rolls her eyes, not falling for your trick. “It’s hard to miss you when you’re out there with your hood up and your little light like, every night.”

“Not every night,” you protest.

Her eyebrows go up.

“Okay, some nights,” you concede, another smile twitching your lips. “I work at the garage. The one just off Route 13? I’m not allowed to let my own car sound like someone spat sand into the engine. It’s a pride thing.”

Her posture shifts a fraction at that.

“The garage?” she repeats. “Like—” She wiggles her fingers, miming something with no clear reference. “Cars and stuff?”

This time, your smile is a little fuller, teasing. “Yeah. Cars and stuff.”

“That’s… actually kind of cool,” she says, reluctantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

You snort. “Don’t sound too excited about it, you might pull something.”

Max glances away, kicks at the asphalt with the toe of her sneaker. “Just—don’t know a lot of girls who do that,” she says, quieter. “It’s all cheer and hair and, like, nail polish.”

“Hey, I like nail polish,” you say lightly. “It just doesn’t like me back.”

She looks at your hands, at the oil ingrained around your nails, the faint scratches across your knuckles. “Yeah,” she mumbles knowingly. “I can see why.”

You flip the board upright with a slight tap and rock it side to side to test it. The squeak is gone, replaced by a more solid creak you deem as acceptable.

“Okay,” you say, standing up, nudging the board towards her. “Try that.”

Max eyes you, then the board, like it might have grown fangs in the time you’ve had your hands on it. 

Tentatively, she steps on. She rolls. The board responds cleaner this time, the wobble gone, and it turns tighter when she leans in. She rides a little loop around you, pushes off once, twice, spins back.

“This feels… weird,” she says. Then, more grudgingly, “Better. But weird.”

“Because it’s actually listening to you now instead of grinding towards a slow death,” you tell her, a touch smugly. “Give it a few more runs. It’s not fully fixed yet; it needs oil badly, but it should tide you over for now. ”

Max nods, hair bouncing a little as she turns again. You watch her skate—a figure in orange carving up the narrow lane, the board humming lower under her now.

There’s a moment where she forgets you’re watching.

You can tell because her whole face changes. The scowl relaxes, the line of her shoulders loosens. She leans into a turn with a bit of extra confidence, toes hanging off the edge of the deck, and a tiny, almost smile tugs at her mouth.

Happiness looks good on her. 

You feel something tight in your chest loosen just a fraction. Because you understand, then, why your feet took you to Max seemingly against your own will. She’s like you. Sharp and jagged, suspicious of the world that keeps trying to box her in. She’s a younger you before Eddie, before his warmth and laughter filled your days and sanded down your hard edges. Max, unlike you, doesn’t have an Eddie to make her loneliness feel lighter. 

She rolls back after a couple of laps, hops off clean, flips the board into her hand with the heel of her sneaker.

“Okay,” she begins, the same reluctance back in her voice. “You’re, like… not completely useless.”

You press a hand to your chest. “Wow. High praise.”

Her lips twitch again. This time, she doesn’t fight it as hard. She toes a pebble toward your boot. “So you really…I mean, you actually work on cars? Like, for a job?”

“That’s right.” You hook your thumbs into your pockets after slotting your multitool into your backpocket. “Five days a week, sometimes six if my boss allows it. Oil changes, brake jobs, yelling at guys who don’t read the manuals before trying to ‘fix it themselves.’”

Max snorts, rolling her eyes. “Sounds familiar.”

You tilt your head curiously. “Yeah?”

She shrugs one shoulder, noncommittal. “My stepbrother Billy thinks he knows everything about cars just because he has one,” she explains with a shake of her head. “He, like, talks to it. It’s weird.”

“Oh, I’ve met your brother’s ego,” you state flatly, noting the way her expression tightens as if she needs to watch for something dangerous now. “And his car. His car is nicer.”

The pinch in her expression loosens as quickly as it formed. Max barks out a laugh before she can stop herself. It hits the air like a little firework, bright and quick, warming you more than the setting sun.

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” she says. “He’d probably cry.”

“What, the big bad high school king? I’ll risk it.”

Her eyes flick over your shoulder, toward the tree line and her home behind it, a darkness crossing over her features. There and gone.  

“He’s not a king,” she mutters.

You let that sit between you. There’s too much in it for a casual jab—too much weight on the word not. You file it away in that part of your brain where you keep all the little offhand remarks that end up meaning more later.

“So.” You jerk your chin at her deck. “You been skating long?”

“Since I was nine,” she says, brightening suddenly. There’s a note of pride in her declaration. “There was this skate park back in California. Real one. Ramps and rails and everything. I would go every day after school.”

You can hear the ache under back in California without her changing her tone. There’s a stubborn little jut to her chin, but you know better than to draw attention to it. 

“Bet it beats the shit out of Forest Hills,” you say casually, letting her lead.

She snorts loudly, scuffing her sneaker again. “Forest Hills doesn’t even have decent pavement,” she huffs, gesturing around you like you haven’t lived here your whole life. “Everything here is cracked, or, like, gravel. I can’t even do real tricks without eating it.”

“You already proved you can handle this pothole jungle better than most people can handle a straight sidewalk. I’d kill to see you on an actual ramp.”

She glances at you sharply, like she’s checking if you’re making fun of her. You’re not. You let the honesty sit on your face, plain and open for her to see. Her shoulders drop a notch. 

“Yeah, well,” she mumbles. “Not like I’m getting back there any time soon.”

There it is again—that little ripple of bitterness in her voice when she talks about California and here in the same breath. You recognise the texture of it, the weight like a noose around her neck. This is a prison to her, every small way in which she’s different highlighted further in a small town set in its ways. 

“Still,” you hedge. “Doesn’t mean you can’t make use of what you’ve got.”

Max gestures around at the trailers, the patchy grass, the cracked lane. “This?”

“Hey, don’t knock our high-class skate park,” you shoot back with mock defensiveness that makes her grin a small, private smile. “We’ve got… bumps. And…” You squint at a patch of grass where a kid’s plastic slide leans at a strange angle. “Obstacles.”

She gives you a look like you’re insane. You grin back at her, more teeth than you usually show anyone aside from your mom, Eddie, and the boys. 

“Seriously,” you begin, leaning back on your heels. “You ever want someone to hold the flashlight while you try something stupid off somebody’s cinder blocks, I’m around.”

Her nose scrunches. “Why would you—”

“Because this place is boring as shit,” you cut in, your tone mild, a little amused. “And because I know what it’s like when everyone looks at you and goes ‘oh, right, girl, guess that means you have to like these specific things and cry if you skin your knees.’”

You hold up your hands, showing her the thin white scars, the fresher scrapes across your knuckles.

“I got told once that ‘oil isn’t feminine’,” you tell her with a gruff chuckle. “I went to a supermarket straight after the shop one time to pick up some milk, and suddenly, this random lady was in my face about it. She looked at my hands like I was contagious.”

“What’d you say?” Max asks, eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity.

“Told her it was either oil or blood,” you reply, grinning sharply. “And she should be grateful it wasn’t the second one.”

Max makes a choked sound like a wheeze, her eyes widening with delight. 

“Oh my God,” she says, one hand on her stomach. “You didn’t.”

“I absolutely did,” you say with a brow wiggle. “Eddie almost choked on his Twizzlers.”

She shakes her head, muttering “oh my God” again, but there’s this light in her eyes now, something like… relief. Like, for two seconds, she doesn’t feel like the weirdest person in the zip code.

“Who’s Eddie?” she asks after a moment, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie.

Your features fold into something fond and private. Years of history sit in your ribcage, a well of memories so deep no one else compares. Over the years, Eddie has been many things to you, each role vital in its own way. Warmth, life, joy, a constant; someone you never have to fear will walk away from you because you’re not enough, or wrong. 

“Resident freak at Hawkins High,” you say fondly. “Plays guitar, worships Satan, runs a Dungeons & Dragons club and has no regard for rules. You’d like him.”

Max makes a face, though you can tell the fondness in your voice is something she’s noticed. “I don’t do… whatever that is.”

“Tabletop role-playing.”

She examines you from beneath furrowed brows suspiciously. “That sounds like something I’d get detention for.”

You chuckle, eyebrows hiking up. “You might. But not for the reason you think.”

“I’m more into, like, real games,” she blurts out suddenly. Your mouth twitches again because you can tell she’s itching to talk, to connect, even if she doesn’t have the words for it yet. “Arcade stuff. Dig Dug. Pac-Man. There’s this one—Dragon’s Lair?—back in California, they had the nicest cabinet.”

“I suck at Pac-Man,” you admit ruefully. 

“Everyone sucks at Pac-Man,” Max clarifies, an obvious fact in her personal world. “Except me.”

Wiggling your eyebrows, you tease, “Oh, okay. My mistake.”

She smirks, clearly pleased with herself. “I’m pretty good at Dig Dug, too. And—”

The sound of an engine cuts across her sentence, swallowing it. You hear it before she does. It’s ingrained in your bones these days, as much as you hate it, even though you haven’t talked or so much as looked at one another in over a week. 

Low, throaty, still a little too show-off loud for an environment this intimate and quiet. You feel it vibrate under your boots as it swings into the park, see the way the sunlight glints off the corner of the windshield as it turns.

The Camaro. 

Your shoulder lock, lifting slightly. Max stiffens where she stands, too.

You don’t miss the way her hand tightens around the board, fingers whitening on the edge like someone is about to try and pry it from her. You can’t help but wonder if something along those lines happened once, and that’s why it’s instinct now. Her eyes flick automatically toward the entrance, jaw clenching into the same defensive line you spied earlier. Before your conversation melted it down, softening her into a girl, not a soldier. The car rolls up your row, slowing as it spots the clustering of trailers. The music from the radio thrums just loud enough that you catch the riff of some guitar-heavy track—AC/DC, you think—before he kills it.

The Camaro glides to a stop a few yards away, nose angled like a predator sniffing a scent trail.

Billy steps out.

Same denim jacket, same chain glinting at his throat. His hair’s damp from a shower, curls darker and tighter at the ends, like he rinsed the game sweat off but didn’t bother doing much else. There’s a faint green smudge of Tigers’ face paint at his hairline that he missed. He squints into the setting sun, one hand up to shade his eyes.

His gaze lands on Max first. 

“Maxine,” he calls. “Home. Now.”

The word cracks across the lane like a thrown bottle. Harsh. Automatic. Like she’s a dog to be called back. Your shoulders lock even tighter, your hands leaving your pockets. 

You feel Max flinch beside you more than see it.

“It’s Max,” she mutters under her breath.

He’s already walking over. Long strides, boots crunching on gravel. The walk is familiar by now: that loose, coiled-lazy swagger that says he’s aware of how people watch him and has decided to weaponise it.

His eyes flick to you halfway, do a tiny double-take.

Of course he recognises you. Trailer girl with a mouth that won’t stop running and a hobby of sticking her nose into things that aren’t her business. His threats from last weekend float back, as does recollection of how close he leaned in, the harshness and wildness in his blue eyes. How he stood there, spewing hateful words, but your calm comments sent him spiralling, bearing some wounded, manic thing beneath the confident swagger. 

His mouth curves. Not nicely.

“Well, well,” he voices, a touch of mockery ringing through his melodic words. “Didn’t realise they started offering free repair services for toys now.”

Max’s shoulders tense, curving her into something smaller, brittle. “It’s not a toy,” she snaps. “It’s a board.”

“Same shit,” Billy drawls, finally dragging his attention to her. “You’re supposed to be home.”

“I am home,” she says, gesturing around. “We literally live across the street. Can’t get much more home than this.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” he snaps, the edge in his voice sharpening with his body language. “Dad gets back in ten, and if you’re not inside, you know how that goes.”

The air between them thickens, a thousand unspoken things pulsing like hot lava in your small circle.

You’ve seen this kind of exchange many times before. Not just with them, but with other families in the park, too. Kids whose names get called like warnings instead of greetings. Parents whose silhouettes in windows are more of a threat than a comfort. A promise of discipline like a finely woven threat in every word and gesture, no matter how seemingly prosaic. 

Max juts her chin out. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Now,” Billy says, his voice dropping into a hiss. “I’m not fucking around, Maxine.”

He’s closer now, the space between the three of you tight with something ugly, strangled in history you can only guess at. You can see the faint cut under Billy’s cheekbone clearly, the one that wasn’t there at school. His knuckles are scraped, too, raw around the edges. 

You wonder, briefly, if those are from the game or from something else. But deep down, you think you already know. Have for a while. 

“Hey,” you call out, before your brain can talk your mouth out of it, before you remember how this went last time. “She’s not exactly knocking on doors and doing lines off someone’s welcome mat. She’s just skating.”

Billy’s attention snaps to you. It’s like being hit with a cold hose. Up close, his eyes are still that impossible blue, but there’s a different energy in them now than there was during game night. Tighter. Frayed. Angry. 

You don’t know where I’ve been, what I’ve done, what I have to go home to.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he snarls, low and mean, none of the King of Hawkins' charisma on display. “I told you to mind your business.”

“Yeah, well.” You fold your arms, aiming for a relaxed pose, even when he stretches your nerves taut. “We’re zip code neighbours. Kind of makes it my business when someone starts barking orders loud enough to wake the dead.”

Max shoots you a look that’s half don’t and half oh my God, you’re insane. You keep your gaze on Billy. He takes a slow step toward you, like he’s not sure if he wants to close the distance or just loom from where he is.

“Forest Hills is full of dead,” he says. “Don’t see you getting this worked up about them.”

“Forest Hills is full of bored,” you shoot back. “She’s out here trying not to go crazy. You remember what that feels like, or did you drink the whole jock Kool-Aid and forget?”

His mouth twitches. Then Billy laughs. Not the real thing, all rough edges and surprise like he’s forgotten he can still make that sound. This one is low and humourless. “You always gotta run that mouth, don’t you?”

“Occupational hazard.” Your attention snags on a few curious stares directed in your direction as if sensing blood. You nudge your chin in their direction. “You should be grateful. This is me keeping you from being the asshole who drags his little sister inside by the neck in front of the neighbours.”

Max makes a strangled noise. “Okay!” she exclaims, stepping between you, hands up like she’s breaking up a fight. “We’re good. Everyone’s good. She was just… helping with my board, okay? Chill.”

She throws you a look over her shoulder, wide-eyed. Seriously, shut up. You ease your shoulders down a notch. Billy’s gaze drops to the board again, nose wrinkling.

“You let her touch your setup?” he asks Max, though it comes out more like a demand. “You don’t know where her hands have been.”

“Oh my God,” you and Max say at the same time, for different reasons.

“She works at the garage,” Max hisses, glaring at him. Her heels dig in beneath her, trying to fight back, to defend you, and a small surge of fondness floods your system. “She actually knows what she’s doing. Unlike you.”

“Excuse me?” His eyebrows jump. “Who the hell do you think keeps the Camaro running?”

Max jerks her thumb in your direction. “Literally her.”

Billy makes a face. “She fixed my car once,” he scoffs. “And overcharged me.”

“Told you,” you say flatly. “Discount.”

His eyes flash. “Extortion.”

You can’t tell if he wants to strangle you or do something more dangerous, but whichever it is, you feel it, too. A week of ignoring him has done nothing to weaken the raging, snapping thing between you. 

“Labour,” you correct sweetly, just because you know it’ll piss him off more. You’re right. “You know, that thing other people do so you can rev your precious engine in the parking lot to look cool.”

He looks at you for a long beat, eyes narrowing just a fraction. Max shuffles her feet; the board’s wheels squeak a little, but she seems frozen stiff beside you, her eyes flying back and forth between you and Billy like she’s never seen something like this. 

“So what,” he says at last. “You two bonding over being freaks now?”

Max bristles. “We’re not—”

“Relax,” you cut in smoothly, then flip Billy off with an equally bland expression. “Some of us are freaks by choice, asshole.”

He huffs, but you think, just for a moment, that his lips twitch. “So what’s the deal, then? You decide to start a little girl-power club in the middle of my driveway?”

“First of all, this is not your driveway. Second of all, she almost ate it on that crack because her trucks were loose. I fixed it.”

His gaze snaps to the crack, then back to the board, then to Max’s ankles. Something flickers there—a millisecond of emotion foreign on him, then his face empties again. 

“You fall?” he demands, glaring at her.

Max hesitates for half a second, thrown.

“No,” she mutters defensively. “I’m fine. Didn’t fall. I’m good, you know.”

He looks at her a second longer, like he doesn’t quite believe her, then nods once. Some of the tightness in his shoulders eases. You catch it, file it away. Billy’s eyes capture yours, sharpening like knives again when he notices you observing him. A small, dangerous smile curves his lips as if to say like what you see? You don’t react, but he does, scowling at your lack of reaction at his needling, then decides to pin that irritation on Max. 

“It doesn’t change the fact you’re supposed to be inside,” he says. “Dad said—”

“Neil says a lot of things,” she snaps.

“Maxine,” he warns.

You feel the shift.

There’s always a point in arguments like this where it stops being about the thing itself and starts being about the rules under it—the invisible lines. The unspoken we do not cross this because if we do, everything goes to shit.

You don’t know their history, not properly. But you can see the point they’re teetering on and the dangerous territory beyond it. Despite everything, you’re still little more than a stranger to them. 

Max looks like she wants to push, her face flushed, small fists clenched. But there’s fear there, too, buried in the determined set of her mouth, the way her fingers twitch on the board again. You step in front of her, only slightly, half your shoulder blocking her off from Billy’s hard-edged stare. 

“I’ll walk her,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “If that helps satisfy whatever parole officer you’ve got running in your head.”

He looks at you like you’ve just suggested he hand you his spine.

“I’m not—” He breaks off, scoffs. “You think I need your help?”

“I think you’re worried about him yelling,” you say, deliberately not using the word dad, “and she doesn’t want to go inside yet, and I live between here and there. So yeah, I think I can manage to escort a girl a hundred feet without corrupting her.”

His jaw works. Relentless. You’re surprised he hasn’t reached for a cigarette yet. Max shoots you a sideways look, something like you’re crazy and thank you tangled up in one.

The Camaro cools behind him, engine ticking.

“Fine,” he spits at last, grudgingly. “Walk her. Straight there. No detours.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, giving him a little mocking salute.

Something happens to his face, then, a spasm like you’ve thrown a punch at him. He grabs it back as quickly as he can, his eyes flaring. “Don’t.”

This is different, a nerve, a wound. You drop the hand, recognising it as such. “Touchy.”

Billy steps closer, not as close as last time in your driveway, but close enough that the air between you goes dense and thick again. Max sucks in a sharp little breath behind you. 

“Seriously,” he says quietly. “Don’t. You don’t want him in your business.”

It takes you a second to realise he’s not talking about himself.

He’s looking past you when he says it, toward Cherry Lane and whatever lies behind the doors of his home. His mouth forms a hard line, but there’s something like… a warning in it. Not the threatening kind. This is different because you’ve seen his threats, tasted them on your tongue. You nod once, because you hear the difference.

“Go,” he says to Max, jerking his chin toward the treeline. “I’ve gotta change before the party.”

Max scowls, but does as she’s told. “You look fine.”

He flicks the end of her ponytail when she walks past him. “Yeah, well, some of us make an effort,” he argues. “Move it, shitbird.”

She recoils from the nickname like it’s a backhand. “Don’t call me that.”

He doesn’t apologise. Doesn’t even really react. But you see the way his expression tightens for a second, like he’s swallowed something sour. Max huffs and slaps the board down. She pushes off, wheels humming beneath her. After a couple of feet, she glances back at you, brows arched expectantly.

“You coming or what?” she calls.

You toss Billy one last look—one he returns, something pulsing there, always, like a living, coiling extra—then fall in step beside the younger redhead. You walk alongside Max as she rolls slowly down the lane, keeping pace just behind her. The trailers slip past in a familiar blur of peeling paint and fluttering laundry, bleached by the Indiana sun.  

After a few moments, Max speaks, without looking at you, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” you wonder absently.

“Piss him off,” she answers with a brief sideways glance. “Stick your nose in.”

“Yeah, well.” You shrug one shoulder, hands sliding into your pockets. “Bad habit. I’m working on it.”

She snorts, but doesn’t look convinced. “Same.”

You walk in silence for a bit.

“Is he always like that?” you ask eventually. “With the whole… drill sergeant routine.”

She chews her bottom lip. “He…” She trails off, searching for words. For another few moments, she’s silent, then, “He thinks if he can keep me out of trouble, it’ll make everything else… less bad.”

You don’t ask what everything else is. You already have guesses, and they’re not the kind of thing you throw around lightly, especially not during a first meeting. You might have problems with keeping your nose out of Billy’s business, but Max doesn’t deserve this kind of scrutiny. 

“Does it?” you ask instead.

Max shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “Sometimes,” she mumbles. “Sometimes it just feels like more of the same.”

You hum.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole,” she adds quickly, like she needs that on the record. “He is. He just… he’s a screwed-up asshole. Not, like, a… full… whatever.” She makes a vague, frustrated gesture with her free hand, fingers clawing at the air, and you think you understand the unspoken he’s not Neil without her needing to say it. 

You’re just not entirely sure you believe the same. 

“Trust me,” you say softly. “I get it.”

She glances at you, really looks, like she’s trying to decide if you’re just saying that or if you mean it. You let her see you mean it.

By the time you reach their trailer, you can already hear a TV inside, some sports commentator’s voice blaring. The curtains are drawn shut, but you see a shadow cross them—tall, broad, pacing.

Max swallows. The urge to yank her away from the house shoots through you, hot and sudden, the need to protect her somehow, tuck her away from whatever happens behind those doors. You want to drag her to the arcade, introduce her to Dustin and Lucas and Mike, tell them to go and have fun together. 

“Thanks,” she says. It comes out quick, like she’s ripping off a Band-Aid. “For the board. And, like… not being lame.”

“Anytime,” you croak out, swallowing over your own tongue, your hands clenched into tight fists inside your jacket. “Board tune-ups are free for residents of our wonderful neighbourhood.”

She snorts, then sobers instantly, as if remembering that joy is not allowed here. Anger knots your stomach, but you fight to keep your expression neutral. “You should go,” she says quickly, quieter compared to her earlier happiness when she talked about games and skating. “If he sees you standing here—”

“Yeah,” you breathe, stepping back reluctantly, because as much as you want to protect her, you don’t want to make this worse for her, either. “I know.”

You take a couple of steps back, give her the space. She puts a foot on the bottom step, then pauses, glancing back at you. There’s something like conflict on her face, a slight frown tugging her brows down. Whatever internal battle Max is fighting, she seems to conclude all at once, pinning those sharp green eyes on you. 

“You gonna be out there later?” she asks, an unspoken question there. “With your murder car.”

A small smile breaks across your face. “Probably.”

She bobs her head, something like relief loosening her wired-up body. Like even if nothing else makes sense, this is a constant she’s happy about. 

“Cool,” she says in that reluctant teenager way that actually means a lot more than she lets on. “Maybe I’ll… I dunno. Come watch you sometime.”

“Anytime,” you say right away, making her eyes widen. She shuffles her feet awkwardly, so you add, “Bring snacks. I’m also impartial to cold soda bribes.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a genuine smile there now. Small but pleased. She disappears inside without another word, the door clicking shut in her wake. You stand there a second longer, feeling the hum of Hawkins around you.

Your feet carry you home, back towards your trailer and the reality of your own mundane life. As you head up the stairs, you hear the Camaro’s door slam beyond the treeline, stripped branches carrying the sound. Billy’s boots on gravel. The low murmur of the engine firing back up as he heads out again, toward the lights and noise and whatever version of himself he’s decided to be tonight.

You don’t look in his direction, instead closing the door behind you, sealing yourself inside. 

You’ll think later about the way his hand felt around your jaw, the threat in his words and the warning in his voice earlier when he said you don’t want him in your business. You think about the way Max shrank in front of her own front door, about how home isn’t really a home to her, or even to Billy. 

And you know, already, that you’re in it anyway.

Because, apparently, you never did learn how to leave well enough alone.

an: hope you enjoyed! this chapter was billy light but next one is entirely from his pov so stay tuned ;)

Forest Hills buzzes with its usual Saturday evening din: TV sets blaring through thin walls, a toddler screeching somewhere in the distance, bursts of laughter and conversation from a group of middle-aged men seated around a busted-up picnic table three trailers down from yours, kids entertaining themselves with mud and broken toys. 

Your trailer sits in the middle of the lot, a bit more patched up than most because you could never let something broken be without trying to fix it. Faded tape is visible on the windowsills from where you parked, catching the dying light as you approach. The porch light flickers on as if sensing your early arrival, but the blinds inside are mostly drawn today. Another late shift at the diner means your mom won’t be back at least until midnight; until then, the trailer is all yours. It’s the type of freedom any person your age would typically adore, but all you can think about is how tired you are. How much more exhausted you’ll be when school resumes on Monday, when you’ll be balancing senior year with work, bills, and college applications. 

You’re halfway up the rickety steps, key in hand, when you hear it. 

“Whoa,” a voice calls out from behind you in a disbelieving drawl, “whatever did the poor door do to you?”

There’s no need to turn around to know who it is. There’s a particular way Eddie Munson’s voice carries in the air you could recognise in your sleep. His voice is as familiar to you as your mother’s is. Nestled somewhere quiet and safe, familiar and yours. 

You glance over your shoulder. 

He’s perched on the cinderblock near your stairs like he’s been there a while, long legs splayed, elbows on his knees, an imitation of a gargoyle. There’s a paper bag between his scuffed boots and two bottles of Cokes, long since warmed by the sweltering August evening. His Hellfire shirt looks soft and faded from too many washes, the sleeves crinkled and shoved up to his elbows, his many rings catching the porch light when he lifts the bottle in a lazy salute. His wild, dark hair frames his face, soft curls frizzing in the humid air as he offers you a crooked grin. 

You can’t believe you’ve been so wrapped up in your thoughts that you didn’t notice him sooner. 

Eddie stands, the bolt hanging around his throat catching the porch light, small and silver against the worn cotton—just an insignificant piece of junk to anyone but you. A lifetime ago, a boy crashed his bike outside your brand-new trailer, and you, annoyed by his loud wailing, went out and fixed it for him. It took you the whole afternoon, after which you presented the boy with messy hair and snot all over his face with a single spare bolt, for luck. By the next day, Eddie had put it on a leather string and declared you friends for life. You’ve never once seen him without the necklace since that day, same as his guitar pick. 

Present-day Eddie, older but no less a troublemaker, grins up at you, dimples denting his cheeks. “Ooh. You look pissed. It’s a good thing I brought snacks.”

Snorting, you slot the key into the lock, leaning your shoulder against the door, “Do I?”

“Yeah, you’re wearing the face. It’s a rather particular and very frightening expression for when someone pisses you off enough to make you want to fight God.”

“Well, at least God doesn’t question my abilities.”

“Ah,” Eddie says, drawing out the sound, realisation sparking, “So it was a man. Colour me shocked, sweetheart. Truly blindsided by this twist.”

There’s something to be said about your shared bond over the years, because to this day, he’s the only man aside from Frank you can tolerate calling you sweetheart. Perhaps because you know Eddie says it with a genuine, uncomplicated sort of affection and not some twisted attempt to belittle you.  

You shoulder the door shut again and instead sink onto the top step, your boots scarping the still-warm stone as you stretch out. You plant your boots on the step below you, resting your forearms on your knees, mirroring his earlier posture. 

“What are you doing here, Ed?” you ask tiredly, even though you already know the answer. Eddie is around here more often than he’s not. 

He nudges the brown paper bag with his boot, making it rustle. “Peace offerings. Celebration.” In typical, grandiose Eddie fashion, he squats down in front of you on the steps, grinning from ear to ear. “Last weekend of freedom before senior year starts, so we’re drinking Coke to the sleepless nights ahead.”

The word senior drops like a guillotine over your head, making your stomach do a strange little loop. Monday is less than two days away. New timetable awaits. A fresh future is almost within arm's reach, provided you can get there.  

Instead, you reach for the Coke bottle extended in your direction. The glass is warm but still slick with condensation, the label peeling slightly at the edges. You pop the cap off with a practised hand, taking a long, greedy swallow. The heat and exhaustion of the day fold around you all at once. The fizz stings your tongue when it hits your mouth, tickling up your nose. 

“You get off early?” Eddie wonders curiously. “It’s not even eight yet. I was prepared to camp for another hour at least.”

You huff a laugh, the fizz still thick in your throat. “Frank went home sick. Told me I can finish the last job and lock up early as a thanks.” Your head tips backwards, coming to rest against your front door. Strips of blue and orange sky fill your weary eyes over jutting rooflines. “Wasn’t really in the mood to stick around.”

Something in your demeanour has long since tipped him off, except this time the heaviness in your words, the slump of your shoulders, makes Eddie’s easy grin edge into concern. 

“Okay, now I’m really curious,” he says, squinting. “Because you? Not in the mood to hang around the garage? That place is your temple. What heathen dared to defile the sacred grounds?”

You rub your palm over the back of your neck, feeling the dried sweat tacky under your fingers. It’s ridiculous how you’re still wound tight about this. Hargrove is hardly the first asshole to roll up with his shiny car and shitty opinions and cause you grief. It's been the norm as long as you’ve worked for Frank. But something about this instance has wormed under your skin. 

“New guy,” you begin, not bothering to mask your ire, “Some hotshot from California. Came in with a ‘79 Camora and an attitude problem.”

Eddie’s brows shoot up. “Oh, that guy.”

You blink, focusing back on him. “You know him?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” he responds, making a face indicating he doesn’t think it’ll be very pleasurable when it does happen. “But I saw the car cruising through town earlier. Not very subtle, unlike me, of course. There’s also chatter that new people have moved in just outside the trailer park. Cherry Lane. Figured anyone driving a car like that has to be an asshole.”

You make a face, lifting the bottle to your lips. “Spot on.”

“Lemme guess.” Eddie rearranges his face, dropping his voice an octave lower and half-closing one eye, cigarette pantomimed at his lips. “‘Where’s the real mechanic, sweetheart?’”

You snort, your lips twitching around the bottle. “Stop,” you choke out. “That’s—”

“Too accurate?”

“He called me princess instead.” You can’t help but make a face as soon as the words leave you. 

Eddie gasps, hand flying to his chest. “Do you have a body in the trunk we need to dispose of, or are we saving him for scientific study?”

“No,” you admit with a sigh. “I fixed his belt.”

“You fixed his… belt,” Eddie repeats, tasting the innuendo, mentally weighing if he’s going to go there. He glances up at you through his lashes, and you can see the joke brewing behind his dark eyes. The lines of his face soften into something genuine. “You okay?”

And there it is, the very thing that makes you want to hug him close and hit him at the same time: the way he sees through the armour and the anger faster than most people see you at all. 

You peer down at your stained hands instead of him, at the grease still nestled in the cracks of your palms. You pick at them with your nail. 

“It’s just—” Air explodes from your lips in a frustrated sound. “He did the whole song and dance, you know? The doubt, the staring, asking me if I’m sure I fixed it right. Like I’m some stupid girl playing dress up in my overalls, and somehow no one notices for years until he walks in.”

Eddie winces in sympathy. “And yet,” he begins carefully, “you did not, in fact, insert a ratchet into his eye socket. Which is a crying shame.”

“I thought about it.”

Eddie stands with a laugh, jogging up several steps until he’s beside you, dropping his weight beside you unceremoniously. “See, this is character growth.” He nudges your shoulder with his. “Old you would have slashed his tyres.”

“Old me didn’t know how much those tyres cost,” you point out dryly. “Now I know, and I couldn’t do that to the car. He doesn’t deserve that car,” you add, the injustice of it all prickling your chest again. “Ungrateful ass. I mean, who talks shit to the mechanic and then asks her to fix the problem? He’s lucky I didn’t cut his brakes instead.”

Eddie tilts his head towards the sky, tapping his chin twice. “Say no more,” he says solemnly. “I understand now. He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

Your mouth pops open before your brain can stop it. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to. I know you.”

Eddie wiggles his eyebrows. You take another swing of your Coke instead of gracing his assumption with an answer. The glass taps your teeth, which makes you scowl. Eddie sits quietly beside you for a beat—a rarity he seems to only indulge in your presence—before rising back to his feet, offering his hand. 

“C’mon. I brought you something.”

“You brought me pretzels.”

“Ah, but in addition to this gourmet feast…” He bounds down the stairs in gangly motion, almost tripping on the last step when he bends to retrieve the paper bag. “Come on.”

“Eddie.” Your protest comes out half-hearted. Truth is, you’re used to being dragged in his wake. You’ve spent most of your life being dragged in his wake and vice versa.  

He doesn’t bother waiting for you to stand, twisting the doorknob and shouldering into your trailer with the familiarity of someone who’s done this a hundred times in the past. The stale, lukewarm air from inside the trailer washes over you in a gust: faint cigarette smoke, cheap laundry detergent, something vaguely reminiscent of engine oil and Mom’s cheap floral perfume clinging to the curtains. 

“Make yourself at home, I guess,” you mutter as you follow him in, kicking the door closed behind you. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he croons, flipping the light switch as he breezes inside. 

The living room is a tiny, cluttered space—too much life crammed into a space too small to hold it all. A ratty blanket rests draped over a sagging couch, and the TV remote balances on top of a precarious stack of TV Guide and Popular Mechanics. Your toolbox is half open under the window where light is best most days, guts of a disembowelled radio laid out in a careful row on an old, dirty towel below. A pair of Mom’s worn heels lies kicked off by the door from her shift this morning. 

On the far wall, next to the shelf with the crappy turntable and a pile of mismatched records, the oscillating fan whirls in a slow, sad arc, doing almost nothing for the temperature inside. 

“You’re such a mess,” Eddie says fondly, stepping over a tangle of wires. Last time he wasn’t careful, you didn’t speak with him for three days. A stretch he later described as the worst three days of my life. “An absolute menace to clear walkways.”

“This is coming from a guy whose bedroom floor is ninety percent cassette tapes and dirty socks.”

“Excuse you. That’s artistic chaos,” he corrects, heading straight for the shelf. “A lifestyle choice, really.”

You dump the pretzel bag on the table, alongside your empty Coke bottle, flopping down on the lumpy couch, stretching one arm along the back. It creaks under your weight, familiar and forgiving. From this angle, you can see Eddie’s back as he flips through the records with practised ease, lips moving silently as he reads them. 

“Okay,” he says, dragging the word out, “what’s the mood, oh great one?”

“Something loud,” you reply. “Something that’ll get that asshole’s voice out of my skull.”

Eddie snorts, immediately shoving two records his fingertips were hovering over back. “So, exorcism by the way of volume. Got it.” His touch tiptoes for another minute before settling on a familiar red cover. He slides it out, glancing over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Perfect.”

“Oh no,” you say immediately. “What are you—”

He turns the album so you can see the cover. Billy Idol stares out from the sleeve, all bleached hair and a downwards stare into the unknown. 

Rebel Yell. 

You groan. “You’re kidding.”

“Absolutely not.” He’s already pulling out the record from its sleeve with more care than he uses for anything else in his chaotic life, lowering it onto the turntable. “You got harassed by some dime-store James Dean, we’re deploying the nuclear option.”

“That’s insane logic, even for you,” you say, but corners of your lips twitch despite yourself. 

Eddie reaches for the turntable arm, moving it with a little flourish, and the needle drops with a soft thunk onto the spinning vinyl. Static washes over the crammed space of your living room, preceded by a few crackles, and then, finally, the opening riffs tear through the tiny speakers. 

You feel it in your chest at once; music lives there first, in your bones and heart, in your thoughts. Whatever tension still coils your shoulder blades loosens a fraction. 

Eddie spins on his heel, already bobbing his head long to the guitar riffs, clutching the Coke bottle like a microphone. He strides to the middle of the room and plants his legs wide, shoulders rolling back, hips starting to move in some bastardised version between a rockstar and a drunk uncle at a barbecue. 

“This one,” he announces over the music, pitching his voice and pointing at you with the neck of the bottle, “goes out to the lady of the shop and terror of every Californian pretty boy out there.”

You cover your face to smother your incredulous laughter, which only eggs him on further. The verse kicks in. Eddie leans into it like there’s an actual spotlight on him, eyes closed and hair wild. 

“Last night a little dancer came dancin’ to my door—” he sings loudly, pointing at the front door as if the imaginary girl is right there. He swivels to you on dancer, eyes opening long enough to flick over your legs curled up under you on the couch. He smirks when your gaze narrows in response. 

You’re already shaking your head. “Nope.”

He pointedly ignores you, barrelling on, strumming an imaginary guitar. “She said, ‘Come on, baby, I’ve got a license for love’—”

“Pretty sure my license expired!”

“—and if it expires, pray help from above,” he continues, throwing his head back theatrically on above. “See, this is why you need me. I’m the most fun person in your life.”

You flip him off, and he responds by doing the same with both hands. The chorus hits, and Eddie goes all out, yelling the lyrics more than singing them. 

“In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more—”

On each more he strides closer, jabbing the Coke bottle towards you like a makeshift mic. On the third one, he’s right in front of you, knee pressing against the couch cushion by your thigh, leaning over you with a grin that’s half joking, half something else. 

He tips the bottle towards you. “C’mon,” he goads. “Sam needs his Frodo.”

You roll your eyes, but the beat is thumping in your ears, the guitar is in your blood thanks to Eddie, and there’s a special kind of rebellion in saying yes to little things when big ones feel so impossibly out of your reach. You grab the neck of the bottle with him and lean in as you stand, sharing the mic, shouting the last more in his face. 

Your voices crash together, messy and far too loud. You both dissolve into laughter at the same time, jumping around, hair loose, and sweat gathering in the creases of your skin as your noses nearly bump.

Right now, the world shrinks down to the space between you. Eddie’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, lashes dark against his cheeks. You can see the dimple that only shows up on his left cheek, a tiny faded scar by his hairline he got when he fell off his bike years ago, back when you first met.  

You’re close enough to see the threadbare fuzz on his collar, smell Coke and cigarettes and whatever cheap soap he steals from his uncle’s bathroom as you dance around, shaking your heads wildly. 

The song finally fades off, and Eddie rocks back, dropping into a dramatic bow so deep his hair swings forward in one, frizzy tangle. 

“Thank you, Hawkins, you beauty,” he declares dramatically. 

You shove his shoulder, and he laughs, falling beside you on the couch, breathless. Sweat shines on his forehead, sticking loose strands of hair around the crown of his head. He hooks a thumb under your bolt, rolling it between his index finger and thumb. It glints in the dim light. 

“You know why I failed senior year, right?”

The shift is slight, but you feel it drop between you like a rock. Music seems to fade despite how loud Eddie put it on, encasing you in new tension. 

“Because your homework kept getting mysteriously lost and you didn’t sit a single exam since it didn’t involve any ‘dragons’.”

You can’t help but do air quotes around dragons because he kept insisting on it for a month when you needled him for answers.  

“That’s the official story,” he says, humming, fiddling with the bolt. “Unofficially, I’m pretty sure I’m cursed.” He cuts you a quick sideways look. “Or, you know, destined to stalk these halls forever. Become the infamous Ghost of Hawkins High.”

You study his profile while he speaks. The way he says it is light enough—he’s laughing, because Eddie always is—but there’s something underneath it. Somewhere deep and private where your own fear of being stuck lives, each word manages to find home. 

“You’re not cursed,” you say with such finality in your voice, he risks another nervy glance at you, shoulders curving downwards. “You’re just…” You wave a hand, searching for a word that won’t give the wrong impression. “Selective.”

Eddie’s mouth curves, a small o forming. “Selective. I like that. Makes it sound all intentional.” He raps his knuckles against his damp temple. “I only absorb knowledge about important things. Dragons, for example. And engine oil, by osmosis, from you.”

Your eyes narrow, your finger shooting out to stab him in the cheek. “You did flunk on purpose,” you accuse, twisting your finger. “Didn’t you?”

Eddie’s eyes bulge. “What? How did you get flunked on purpose from my heartfelt speech meant to bond us?”

“You totally did.” You poke his cheek again, despite him trying to swat you away. “You absolutely tanked something. Trig? English Lit? So you could be in my year.”

“Wow,” he says, playing at offence. “Talk about a narcissistic reading of these tragic events in my life, your majesty.”

“That’s not a no,” you sing-song, matching his earlier tone. 

Eddie splutters, shoving you, but there’s such gentleness in the way his hand curves around your shoulder. “Oh my God, first of all, rude. Second, you give me way too much credit here. You think I could orchestrate something this complex? I can barely orchestrate a trip to the grocery store without forgetting why I’m there.”

“And that’s still not a no.”

He throws his hands in the air, laughing. “Why would I want to repeat senior year?” he demands despairingly. “Who wants to be stuck in that fluorescent-lit hellscape for another twelve months? What kind of masochist—”

“You,” you cut in knowingly. 

“—okay, yes, me—”

“Someone who didn’t want to graduate without his best friend,” you add, quieter, and there it is, blunt and in the open between you. 

Eddie falls quiet beside you. Where his voice once was, there’s now Billy Idol. The fan creaks faintly over the music as it makes another laborious turn. Eddie peers down at his hands, at the bolt pitched between his fingers. The metal has a little groove in it now from how frequently he fusses with it. 

“Yeah, well,” he says, softer, almost shy, “that part might have been, you know, a factor.”

Something warm twists inside your chest, making you ache. “You’re such an idiot.”

There’s no heat in your words. Eddie shrugs, mouth tilting upwards when he peeks at you over his hair. “What, you thought I was gonna let you do the victory lap solo? Graduate and leave this glittering metropolis all by your lonesome, abandon me to the wolves and the freshman band kids? Please. I’m clingier than that, sweetheart.”

Your expression softens. “Terrifying.”

“Also,” he adds, “someone has to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t get into a fistfight with the new guy in the parking lot on day one.”

You can’t help but laugh, rubbing your brow with your thumb. “Noted.”

He bumps his knee gently against yours. “Hey. For what it’s worth? If he gives you any shit at school, you tell me. I’ll… dunno. Write an aggressively mediocre song about him. And when I’m famous, I’ll tell everyone there was this Camaro asshole back in school who inspired it. Eternal shame.” 

The image he conjures inside your mind is so ridiculous you can’t help but laugh softly, a warmth inside your breast spreading. 

“I can handle him, Ed,” you reassure him, bumping his knee with yours. “Handled him today just fine.”

“I know you can,” Eddie says without hesitation, the bolt slipping from his fingers and falling back against his chest. “You always do.” He looks at you, squarely in the eyes, all the play-acting gone for a moment. “Doesn’t mean you have to do it all alone.”

He’s not talking about one rotten egg coming to the shop, and you both know it. Heaviness collects inside your ribcage, smothering the brief joy you felt dancing and singing with him. Swallowing, you ignore the sudden tightness in your throat. 

“I hate it,” you admit abruptly, words half choked out. “That I’m still… surprised, I guess. That it still gets to me. That every time some jackass walks and looks right through me and asks for the man in charge I still get this—” You make a wild gesture around your chest. “—whatever the hell this is. Like I’m twelve again, and the men are laughing at me when I ask to help around the shop. I wanted to learn, and they said I’m pretending to be a boy.”

“Hey,” he says, gently, and his hand comes down on your wrist, warm and careful, slight tingle from his rings shooting up your nerves. His thumb rubs a little line over tender skin. “You’re not pretending.”

“I know,” you say, and you do, most days. The only problem is that knowing doesn’t always sink all the way down like it should. “It’s just—some days it’s easier to forget. Then somebody like Hargrove walks in, and it’s like… of course you don’t belong here, what were you thinking, go back to the front desk and smile pretty.”

Eddie’s fingers tighten around your wrist, just enough force to feel the calluses on the pad of his thumb. “Well, I call bullshit. You belong anywhere you damn well decide,” he insists vehemently. “Garage. Front row at a Metallica concert. NASA, even.”

An incredulous huff escapes you. “NASA?”

“Why not?” He shrugs with one shoulder. “Rockets are just a different kind of machine, right?”

“That’s not how rockets work.”

“Eh, close enough,” he presses without missing a beat. “My point is, this is what you do.” He taps his fingertips across the back of your hand. “You walk into rooms full of shitheads who don’t want you there and still fix their broken shit. And yeah, sometimes those morons don’t catch on how good they have it. That’s on them, though. Not on you.”

Those words blanket you, a cocoon of warmth so potent your throat closes up despite your best attempt to keep your expression schooled. He’s always believed in you, just like your mom, so despite the eternal critic in your ear, his words manage to cut through the noise. You watch his hand and how it rests around your wrist, rings flashing when he moves, dull silver and brass, but all Eddie. He’s always been more comfortable touching you than you are acknowledging you like it; shoulder bumps and nudges, an arm thrown around you at the movies, his head ending up in your lap halfway through a late-night TV rerun. 

He squeezes your wrist once, giving you more comfort than he could ever fully understand, then lets go, folding back into his sloppy sprawl beside you. 

He props his chin in his hand. “So. Senior year.”  

“Don’t remind me.”

Your groan is exaggerated, but there’s relief in threading back towards safer waters, normal teenager topics. 

“We’ll survive, Mr Frodo,” he intones gravely. “We have a kickass plan.”

“Do we?” you ask skeptically, confusion evident on the planes of your face. 

“Of course.” He ticks off on his fingers one by one. “Step one: avoid Principle at all costs.”

“Obviously.”

Another finger pops up. “Step two: you pass your classes with flying colours, get showered with scholarships from all the fancy schools, build a spaceship in your spare time, leave us all behind.”

“Wait a sec—”

“And most importantly, step three,” he barrels on, ignoring you, “I, a humble second-time senior, finally scrape together enough extra credit to get the hell out of here with you.”

“You’re gonna pass this time?” you tease, leaning in conspirationally. 

Eddie clutches at his chest, head falling back against the couch. “You wound me. I’ll have you know I’ve been doing my summer reading.”

“Coming books don’t count as summer reading, last I checked.”

“Tell that to Watchmen, heathen.”

You chuckle despite yourself, curling your legs under yourself. 

His head tilts in your direction, scrutinising you over his fingers. “What about you?” he wonders. “Do you have, like… an actual plan? Outside of this place, I mean.”

The vast collection of college brochures under your mattress springs to mind, corners all bent from how many times you’ve taken them out and put them away again. Going over them again and again, allowing yourself to dream. Of the engineering programs circled in red, the acceptance rates scrawled in margins, the pile organised by how impossible each school is. Your thoughts drift towards the closet where you keep the crinkled wads of money from each paycheck stuffed away, for the hope that those crinkled bills will one day pay for your way out. 

“Maybe,” you admit slowly. 

“‘Maybe,’ she says,” Eddie huffs with a roll of his eyes, pointing at you. “Woman of mystery.”

“You’ll find out when you fail senior year again,” you shoot back teasingly. “I’ll be sure to send you a postcard from wherever.”

He covers his face with both hands, his muffled groan louder than the music. “You’re so cruel.”

“You love it, really.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, the word so quiet you almost don’t catch it. 

The record winds down, guitars and drums easing off. The needle bumps gently in the run-out groove, crackling.

Eddie is up on his feet before you can move, crossing the room in several strides, lifting the arm and setting it back at the start. The opening riff kicks in again. You realise, as he does this, that he timed the whole thing so your conversation about you leaving didn’t end with the room going quiet. He always does this, in his own little ways. Patches the lonely silence so it doesn’t swallow either of you. Just two trailer park kids in an indifferent world. 

He comes back and drops down next to you again, this time a fraction closer. Your knees touch now, solid and warm. 

“So,” he begins deliberately, as the verse starts up again, and there’s mischief back in his voice. “About this California guy. What’s his name? If he’s going to be your new nemesis this year I need to know what to call him in my notes.”

You hesitate for half a beat, then sigh. “Billy Hargrove.”

“Billy Hargrove,” he repeats like he’s introducing a wrestler. “I can see it so perfectly. Big hair? Tight jeans?”

Your head swivels in his direction. “How did you—”

“California,” Eddie says knowingly, nodding his head sagely, as if that alone explains it all. “They look like surfers or serial killers. Sometimes both.”

A snort spills from between your lips, sharp and unattractive, but Eddie only grins, tongue tracing over his teeth in private victory.   

“You know what they say about guys like that, right?” Eddie leans in closer, like sharing a secret, eyes bulging slightly. 

Ignoring his theatrics, you hedge, “That he’s juvie bound?”

“Well, yeah, obviously,” he concedes with a slight chin dip. “But also: peak in high school. You, on the other hand…” He gestures at you, up and down, like he’s unveiling something big on The Price is Right. “Peak wherever and whenever the hell you want.”

“That’s so cheesy, Ed.”

“It’s true,” he counters. 

The second chorus sounds through the speakers again. This time, Eddie doesn’t stand up to dance or do a show. He just sings along under his breath, less of a performance and more of a habit from countless times you’ve looped Rebel Yell together, lips forming the words without needing the volume. 

“In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more…”

On the last more, he peers at you from the corner of his eye, like he can’t help himself. As if he’s dedicating it on purpose while pretending he isn’t. 

You feel it, uncomfortable and sweet, the same way it always does when things almost tilt into a place you’re not sure how to name. You’re not ready to go there. A part of you is not sure you ever will be, not in the way he deserves. 

So instead, you reach for the pretzel bag and aim one at his face. He catches it with his mouth without looking away from you, chews it, swallows, then beams, with a few crumbs still on his lower lip. 

“I’m a genius. I should take this talent on the road.”

“I’ll miss you terribly,” you tell him dryly. “Every time I open my cupboard and see fewer pretzels.”

His hand slaps back over his heart, gripping till the cotton crinkles. “You would miss me for more than my pretzel-catching skills.”

“Would I?”

“Um, obviously,” he replies, a definitive note there. “Because who else is gonna come over here on a Saturday night, fill you with carbonated sugar water, and remind you that you are, in fact, terrifyingly competent and not, as certain California imports might suggest, a helpless princess?” 

You want to argue, but realise you can’t. 

“Fine. I would miss you. A little.”

“A little,” Eddie sniffs. “But fine, I’ll take it. Because I’m so kind-hearted.”

He leans back again, sliding lower on the couch until his head rests against the cushion right next to your shoulder. His hair brushes your arm, a tumble of wild curls, still warm from your earlier dancing. Without thinking, you reach up and slick a strand away from your face. 

He goes very still for half a moment at the touch, then relaxes into it. Like this—you, together—is the most natural thing in the world. 

And maybe it is, you think, relaxing into him. For you two, it’s always been this: a messy tangle of limbs and jokes and music and late nights. It’s the only thing in your life that feels like it’s been there longer than the weight of getting out, than the sting of being left behind once already. 

You wake up with Rebel Yell still stuck in your head. 

It’s your song—yours and Eddie’s, a lot lighter than his regular repertoire and yet so infectious you both know the lyrics by heart. This happens every time you do a session together. A night where you get to forget the reality of your crappy life and just have fun together. On Saturday, it was direly needed. 

You get out of bed with a groan, your toes wriggling on the old carpet. Still clad in your worn t-shirt and shorts, you pad to the bathroom, then the kitchen, putting on the kettle as you go. Your mom’s keys lay on the counter, so you pull out a mug for her. Coffee, two sugars. The clatter of the mug on the laminate echoes too loudly in your thin-walled kitchen. The park around you is waking up with an energetic buzz in the air. Scent of burnt toast, cheap coffee, and tobacco smoke wafts through the cracked kitchen window. September again, and you slept like shit. 

Every time you closed your eyes last night, you saw blue eyes. Cutting across you, lazy and sharp, the way he called you princess, then had to stand there and watch you fix his stupid car anyway. You still feel the phantom weight of his burning gaze at the back of your nape, the way it prickled when you bent over the hood, hot and assessing, even as he pretended to be bored with the whole thing. 

Asshole. 

You stir your mom’s coffee like you can drown the memory of his smirking face in it. The spoon clinks aggressively against the ceramic, scattering your thoughts. Out of the tiny square window above the sink, Eddie’s trailer catches your eye; the sagging porch, the empty lawn chair Wayne often sits on with a beer after a shift, the shabby curtains Eddie never closes right, leaving them perpetually crooked. 

His van isn’t there. 

You absently check the time on the shitty microwave clock. It blinks a tired 7:02 in sickly green, and you know there’s a good chance it might be wrong—power outage from last week your mom mentioned in passing springs to mind—but your gut says it’s close enough based on the light. Eddie probably went ahead to beat the traffic, which is hilarious every time he uses that excuse, because there isn’t any traffic in Hawkins. Not unless every tractor in a ten-mile radius decides to take a field trip all at once. 

You scribble a quick note on the back of an old envelope for your mom—going to school, coffee is ready, love you—and leave it on the table next to the salt and pepper. 

Stepping outside, the September air hits you all at once, sinking past your thin flannel. It’s going to be another hot, sunny day, but a part of you senses a shift in the air. Not properly cold just yet, but the air is full of promise. The sky is a flat sheet of murky cloud for now, the kind to make power lines appear like pencil lines scratched across a blank page. Forest Hills smells like it does every morning: wet earth, gasoline and someone’s stale cigarette smoke. 

Your car awaits where you left her last night, a faded, boxy thing that Frank likes calling a “shitbox” with an affectionate sort of contempt. But you know better. The paint might be sunburnt and peeling, sure, the body a patchwork of old dents, but she runs smooth. You make it your mission to keep her that way; it’s practically a point of pride to you. As long as she starts every morning and doesn’t leave you stranded on Route 13, you don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her. 

You slide into the driver's seat, the cracked vinyl groaning under your weight, and turn the key. The engine coughs once, spluttering, then settles into a clean, even idle you built with your own hands. For a breath, you sit there, fingers curling around the rim of the wheel, your eyes closing. 

A quiet part of you can’t help but wonder if Billy Hargrove took his car elsewhere after you embarrassed him on Saturday. Some older man, some “real mechanic” out of town just so he wouldn’t have to come back and see you again. 

An angry hiss leaves your lips, and you roll your eyes, rubbing the heel of your palm across your forehead. Enough already. You had the last laugh by making him look stupid. It’s enough. 

You slam the gearstick into reverse like it personally offended you and pull out. 

Hawkins High looks exactly like it did back in June when you last saw it. 

The massive block of brick squats at the end of the cracked asphalt like a genuine eyesore. Banners still cling to the chain-link fence: GO TIGERS in peeling orange font, HOME OF THE STATE CHAMPIONS! even though that was three years ago, but, you suppose, it’s too much effort to take it down now. 

Despite it being the first day back, the parking lot is already filling up—rows of Chevys and Fords and rust-bucket beaters like yours. And, of course, the occasional nicer car all but screaming my daddy is rich. It’s a chaotic but familiar blend of engines revving, someone’s boom box spilling some popular synth-pop track through the open window, a group of sophomores giggling and chatting animatedly because one of them acquired a new perm. 

You roll in towards the back as you’ve done for your entire high school career. You’re not the front-row kind of girl. You like the quieter edges, the places where people forget to look. It’s so much easier to observe everything from there. 

You’re halfway to your usual spot, eyes eagerly scanning for Eddie’s van, when you hear it. 

Low at first, drowned under the noise. Then the sound rips through like a knife, overbearing and cocky, throaty in a way that’s trying far too hard. It’s a roar that doesn’t match the speed limit or the appropriate noise level, especially not at Hawkins. Everything about this engine noise screams look at me. 

You don’t have to look up to know. Your hands clench the wheel, your pulse leaping with annoyance.

“Oh, gimme me a break,” you mutter spitefully.  

The Camaro swings into the lot like an overly aggressive shark cutting into a school of small fish. It’s the same, gorgeous navy blue from the shop, buffed and gleaming to perfection in the morning light. He takes the corner tighter than he needs to, tyres squealing just enough to make the cheerleaders cluster near the entrance squeal too, half-scared and half-impressed. 

Of course he parks front and centre. 

He slots neatly into a spot he probably plans to claim as his indefinitely, nose out, all show. When the engine cuts out, the silence it leaves behind is almost as loud. 

He steps out like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. 

Billy Hargrove is all tanned skin, denim and careless aggression. Tight jeans, white tank under an open jacket, chain glinting around the tight tendons of his throat. He rakes a hand through his curls—too long for Hawkin’s boys, sun-streaked in a way that says California, not Indiana—and you swear for a moment the entire lot holds its breath. 

Then the reactions roll across the area like a tidal wave. Girls smoking by the smoking area elbow their friend, like moths to a flame. Some jock pauses mid-story, eyeing the car like a territorial dog. A handful of junior boys are openly staring. The air shifts, all at once, like someone dropped a stone in a still lake. You feel Hawkins High rearranging itself around a new centre of gravity in real time. 

You hate it. 

Not because he doesn’t warrant attention—objectively, he’s handsome, in that dangerous, cigarette ad type of way—but because of how painfully predictable it is. The whole performance. The roles are already settling in: the mysterious new guy, girls who want him, guys who want to fight him, the teachers who will write him off in the first week. 

And beneath all that, there’s a private little fact that makes you want to grin: you know exactly how his car runs now. You know what you fixed. You know how long it took. 

And you know damn well it bothers him that you know. 

You finally cut the engine, parked near the treeline. It’s hardly a glamorous position, but it means you don’t risk some idiot door-dinging your baby, and you can leave fast if you need to. 

Students stream past towards the building, some jogging excitedly towards their friends, some dragging their feet like they’re being led to an execution. You catch sight of Eddie’s van near the band room side entrance, a familiar white box with his hand-painted Corroded Coffin logo flaking off the back doors. There’s no sign of him, but you’re not worried. He’ll find you before the first period, or he’ll try to spook you at your locker later.

You throw your bag over your shoulder. It digs into the muscle there, heavy with textbooks, the metal buckle cold against your collarbone.  

You lock the car, out of habit more than any real necessity, and start towards the school. 

You don’t look at him. You don’t. It lasts for maybe ten steps. 

Something in you—curiosity, self-destructive streak, both—pulls your gaze towards the front of the lot again. Just a glance, you tell yourself. Recon, as Eddie would put it. Know thy enemy and all that.  

He’s lighting a cigarette. 

One hip hitched against the Camaro, shoulders relaxed in a way that’s all deliberate. He cups the lighter from the wind, flame flaring against the protective curl of his hand. The gesture makes the chain around his wrist glint. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth soft around the filter, ready for the pleasure of the first drag. 

Two girls drift by, deliberately slowing their gait. One of them tosses her hair—the kind of fluffed, sprayed thing that takes serious commitment each morning—and says something you can’t hear from this distance. He doesn’t really look at her, but he does this lazy smirk thing with one side of his mouth, exhaling smoke through his nose, which is apparently enough to make them both giggle.  

Heat flares somewhere beneath your ribs, sudden and prickly. 

You’re halfway between your car and the safer anonymity of the side entrance when your engine ticks. It’s a tiny sound, metal pinging as it cools. A completely normal thing you’ve heard a thousand times. But Billy’s head angles in your direction like he’s heard it too. 

Shit. 

He sweeps across the lot, over the moving bodies, and snags on the square shape of your car like it’s a magnet. Then cuts upwards, and you feel—

Blue finds you. 

It pins you, sharp and assessing under the thick fringe of his lashes. There’s a beat where the rest of the parking lot blurs, dulls around the edges, like someone turned the saturation down on everything not in your line of sight. 

You make yourself walk, because if you hesitate, you lose, and you decided yesterday you’re not losing this. Not to him. You flick your eyes away, adjust your grip on your bag like you didn’t even notice him. You make it exactly three more steps before you hear the gravel crunch. 

“Hey, princess.”

You close your eyes briefly. Feel your molars grinding into dust. So this is how it’s going to be. You should have known he wouldn’t leave you alone, not after your confrontation. 

You turn, plastering a bored sneer on your face.

He’s closer than you expected. He must’ve pushed off the car the second he decided to bother you. Strides eating the distance between you like it’s nothing, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke trailing back over his shoulder like a veil.  

Up close, he’s far worse. 

Your memory of the shop was good, you realise, aghast. Accurate to the last detail. Yet there’s something different about him in daylight. He’s broader than you thought, wide shoulders making the denim jacket sit snug across his back. The bruised-purple shadows under his cutting eyes look more like eyeliner today, making the blue stand out unnaturally. 

“Don’t call me that,” you say instinctively. 

He huffs out a laugh through his nose, tipping his head like he’s considering it. “Right, right, you prefer ‘mechanic’, right?” He gives the word a certain edge, like it could be an insult if he pushes it. 

Your chin juts out. “I prefer my name, actually, but I know that’s a lot of syllables for you.”

One of his eyebrows kicks up. But a corner of his mouth does, too, like it can’t help itself. He raises his cigarette, taking a long drag, watching you through the grey-blue smoke.

He flicks his attention over your shoulder, taking in the car behind you. “So this is what a mechanic drives.”

You feel the urge to step sideways, to physically block him from seeing your car, like he’s some kind of threat to her feelings. You don’t move despite how tightly your fingers strangle the strap of your bag. “Careful,” you warn lowly. “She’s sensitive.”

“That so?” He takes another drag, exhales slowly, throat muscles working as smoke drifts around you. “Looks like it would fall apart if I blew smoke near it.” 

And there it is. The beginning of the joke you already suspected was coming—the dig at your ride, how poor you are, your trailer park lot. 

Only—

He trails off with a thoughtful sound. 

Billy’s eyes narrow, losing the lazy, performative squint they had a moment ago. His attention sharpens and shifts, no longer on the sorry state of the faded paint or the rust, but listening. You know that look. It’s the same one you get when you’re trying to diagnose a problem by sound alone. 

His gaze slides sideways, towards the front of the car. You imagine he’s replaying how it sounded when you cut the engine. The idle, tick, purr of the fan. 

The corner of his mouth flattens. 

“Actually,” he begins slowly, “sounds better than you’d expect.”

You fold your arms, fighting to keep your smugness to yourself. “That’s because it is better than you’d expect.”

His attention slides back to you, over the defensive curve of your crossed arms, the smudge of grease on your jacket forearm your cheap soap couldn’t get out. “You did that?”

“Who else?” You jerk your chin at the car. “Pretty sure my fairy godmother doesn’t know how to change a timing belt.”

He snorts, tongue teasing over his bared teeth. Perfectly straight because of course they are. “Timing belt, huh.” 

It’s impossible to miss the way he says it, like he’s testing to see if you’ll flinch. If you actually know what you’re talking about, or if you’re just repeating words you heard in a commercial. 

You’ve heard that exact tone from plenty of guys before. You’ve learned how to step around it, dance on top of it, then shove it back down their throats. With pleasure no less. 

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Swapped it last month. Re-tensioned it myself. She was squealing like a pig in a slaughterhouse before. Now? Now she purrs.”

Billy takes one last drag, then flicks the butt to the ground and grinds it out with the ball of his boot. 

“Well.” He blows the last of the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me, looking at it.”

“Yeah, that’s the point.” You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, transferring your weight from one leg to another. “You think I want anyone in this town to know I’m driving something that actually runs?”

That earns you a real laugh. Not the forced, showy kind he gave the girls by his car—a rough, surprised sound that seems to get dragged out of his chest against his will. It’s gone almost as soon as it sounds, but you feel weirdly victorious. 

He rakes over you again, from your scuffed boots to your jean jacket and stains. There’s a question there now, under the evaluation. Something like: where did you come from?

“Forest Hills, right?” he asks like he’s confirming a suspicion. 

You mock gasp. “Don’t tell me. You can smell the poverty on me?”

“Relax. I live right next to the park. Trailer are hard to miss.”

Right. You knew that. You saw his Camaro nose-in near the park entrance last night when Eddie left, a shortcut to get him home rather than go around the whole set of plots. 

“Thought someone like you is too pretty for our side of the track.” It comes out more honest than you meant it to, edged with something that might be resentment, might be… something else.

There’s a flicker at that—a shutter behind those blue eyes. Then the mask slides back into place, well-worn arrogance.

“Don’t let the hair fool you, princess,” he drawls, each word cutting. “Trash comes in all sorts of packaging.”

You shift your weight again, suddenly becoming aware of the student traffic eddying around you. People are starting to notice now. Not just the new guy, but the way the new guy has peeled away from his prime parking lot throne to walk over and talk to the freak girl from the trailer park with grease under her nails. 

You catch hushed snippets as they pass.

“—that the girl from the garage?”

“—heard she works on cars, like, for real—”

“—is he into her?—”

The back of your neck prickles. You hate being watched when you’re not in control of the show. 

“So.” You slant your head, forcing a smirk. “You track me all the way across the lot just to insult my car, Hargrove? Gonna be late for your ‘I’m new, please love me’ orientation speech.”

He shakes his head with a snide little smile. “They don’t make pretty boys do those where I’m from.”

“Oh, my mistake.” You widen your eyes in mock horror. “Do they just hand you a fan club and a parking spot up front instead?”

His jaw works. It’s tiny, a micro-movement, but you spot it. “Jealous?”

“Of what? The parking spot or the fan club?”

“Either.”

You step towards him.

It surprises you, a little, that you’re the one who closes the distance between you. But you’re tired, and restless, and Eddie’s stupid faux-microphone performance is still echoing in your ears. You’re tired of feeling like you’re three steps behind this guy when you technically met him first, when you’re the one who made sure his precious Camaro doesn’t fall apart on his way to school. 

You stop close enough to see the flecks of darker blue near the centre of his irises. Close enough to smell the soap under the smoke. Close enough that if either of you leaned just a fraction—

“You know what I learned,” you say quietly, “working at the shop all these years?”

He’s not backing off; he’s not even surprised you’re getting in his face. If anything, he looks ravenous. “Enlighten me.”

“The louder something is, the more broken it usually is underneath.” You let your gaze flick pointedly towards the gleaming Camaro, then back to him, doing a similar sweep. “The same is true for cars and people.”

His eyes flash, brief and threatening, something like real anger spiking like an electric shock between you. His body goes still in a way that means movement is coming. You half-prepare yourself for it, for the worst version—a shove, a snarl, some handed-down violence you’ve seen plenty of men use growing up. 

Instead, he surprises you by laughing. 

It’s not a pleasant sound. It’s not the accidental one from earlier, either. It’s tight, jagged and a little hollow, but it’s laughter. 

“Cute,” he drawls. “You came up with that all by yourself, or does your boss feed you lines between oil changes, princess?”

A hot mass twists inside your gut, crawling upwards. Billy’s gaze drifts, for a split second, over your face. Your eyes, your mouth, the little scar you forget until someone stares at it too long. You practically feel him filing each detail away. Something glimmers under the surface, a thing you have no name for. Twisted up and smouldering between you, a taut line moments before you drop a match in gasoline. 

Then he looks away, bored. Like nothing just transpired. 

“Besides, I didn’t want you to get a big head about fixing my car. Might start changing me more.”

Huffing, you force out, “Please. You could barely handle my hourly rate as it is.”

That earns you a flash of teeth. “You overcharged me.”

“I saved your ass from blowing a gasket on the highway,” you insist hotly. “That was a discount, sweetheart.”

The nickname slips out before you can bite it back. 

“Oh?” His voice drops, an openly amused purr. “We doing pet names now?”

You feel heat crawl up your neck. “Don’t get overexcited, Hargrove. I call everyone sweetheart when they’re being an idiot.”

“Guess I’ll have to work hard to keep earning it, then.”

The ease of the line doesn’t quite match the way his throat moves around those words. He scratches his jaw, still boring holes into your face. 

“Hey!” a voice calls.

You both turn.

Eddie jogs across the lot towards you, curls caught in the breeze, denim vest flapping around his Hellfire Club shirt. His hand is lifted in an exuberant wave. The battered bolt on the leather cord around his neck flashes once, catching the light. 

“Morning, my favourite mechanic!” he yells, waving as he closes the distance. “You ditching me for the first pretty boy you find, huh? I’m wounded.”

Your stomach does a stupid little swoop, but for a different reason this time. Relief. Anchour. The sight of Eddie is a homecoming, always. 

You don’t miss the way Billy’s eyes narrow, just a hair, as they track Eddie closing the distance. Evaluating, categorising him. Threat or joke, or both. 

Eddie skids to a stop a couple of feet away, breath puffing from his lungs. He smells like coffee and cheap deodorant and the faint musk of weed clinging to his denim. 

“Well, well, well,” Eddie begins, planting his hands on his hips and giving Billy an over-the-top once-over. “If it isn’t Mr Camaro himself. You break anything this time, or you just here to bask in her awesomeness?” He jerks his thumb at you.

You roll your eyes. “Ed.”

“What?” He grins, toothy and genuine. “Just establishing the pecking order. Guy shows up with a fancy muscle car, thinks he’s hot shit. People need to know who really keeps this joint running.” He taps his temple, then points at you. “Brains and brawn, baby.”

Billy’s gaze flicks between the two of you. There’s a brief, ugly flare of something territorial there, and you’re not even sure who it’s about. 

“Didn’t realise you had a guard dog,” Billy says flatly, a certain dismissiveness in the way he says guard dog. 

You bristle, but before you can open your mouth, Eddie throws his arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“Who, me? Nah, man. I’m more like—” He pauses, searching for whatever term pleases him. “Like the narrator. The guy in the back is going ‘ooh’ when something dramatic happens.” 

He squeezes your shoulder, brief and affectionate. You feel the weight of him beside you, solid and familiar. There’s no precarious drop with Eddie. Just warmth. 

He glances sideways, eyes glinting knowingly. “So, uh.” He gestures vaguely between you and Billy. “You two have fun trading insults or whatever, but we’re gonna be late to homeroom at this rate, and Miss O’Donnell already hates my guts, so—”

“You make it too easy,” you say. 

His hand lands on top of your head, causing you to squirm. “Cruel.”

Billy watches the entire exchange with deadly calm, tracking each movement and word, then focuses back on your face. “You always let him talk for you?”

Smiling sweetly, you say, “Only when I’m busy deciding if someone’s worth the breath it’ll take to tell them to fuck off.”

Billy’s mouth curves. “And verdict?”

“Jury’s still out,” you reply breezily. “Try not to run anyone over with your ego in the meantime.”

The bell shrieks then, high and shrill, cutting off any response from Billy. There’s a collective sound of groans from the student body around you. 

“And that’s our cue,” Eddie declares, tapping your arm. 

Involuntarily, your focus slips back to Billy, who peers at you with something like calculation. “See you around, mechanic.”

The way he says it, this time, is different. 

Less mocking and more… a promise. Or a threat. 

You square your shoulders. “Not if I see you first.”

It’s childish, but it makes his smile widen, slow and wolfish. He edges back, dragging his stare over you one last time, committing something to memory, then turns away, heading back towards his front-and-centre throne. 

Eddie hums Rebel Yell under his breath, obnoxiously loud. You elbow him, following him wordlessly towards the building. 

There’s no need to look for Billy. The lot, the school, the whole of Hawkins is already tilting, just a fraction, around a new axis. You hate it. But in a dark, honest part of yourself, you’re also looking forward to seeing what happens when something finally tilts back. 

Growing up as Jim Hopper’s daughter means you’ve learned two things easily.

1. People will either treat you like you’re made out of glass

2. Or they treat you like they’re holding a live grenade.

It’s always been one or the other, no in between. That’s until you met BIlly Hargrove, the only person who wanted to ignite that grenade and smash that glass to pieces. However, with Hopper being your father, there was a guarantee that wouldn’t happen – or would it?

Hopper did the best he could while raising you, if best means overprotective, overbearing, and over every person who looked at you twice.

Most kids grew up with rules, curfews, chores.

You grew up with protocols.

In middle school, he used to clip a radio onto your backpack everyday “just in case”.

After Sarah passed, he’d come into your room every now and then and check that you were still breathing. He still triple checks every single lock in the house before you go to bed.

Fortunately for him, you were the one he had by his side. The one that wouldn’t leave like others did. And anytime your name gets mentioned around town, people say “Hopper’s kid” before they say you.

You love your dad.

You really do.

But sometimes you wonder what an unguarded life would lead you to

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-.

Eddie Munson was the first boy who saw you, not the badge of your father. He was chaos, he was freedom, he was yours. He’d been your first everything – first love, first kiss, first time. Nearly two years together made you think that maybe, just maybe, you could outrun your fathers shadow.

But love turned heavy, things got complicated. And suddenly, something didn’t quite click anymore.

Walking away from Eddie hurt – badly. But now, months later, you’re ready to step out of the rotting wreckage and actually be someone again.

Not just “Jim’s daughter”.

Not just “Eddie’s ex”.

Just you.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-.

Back to school was absolute madness, but you loved it. It was a new year, new faces, and you enjoyed helping out. It made you feel normal in a town with such an ungodly secret. Nancy had always helped out around this time too, she’s the one that encouraged you to sign up for student council in the first place. Said it’d “look good on college applications”.

You’re good with people. You always have been. Freshman look at you like you're safe. New transfers treat you like you actually know what you’re doing. And helping them is what makes you feel independent, grounded.

The badge clipped to your shirt reads,

Y/N Hopper

Campus tours - Orientation lead

You like wearing it.

For the first time your last name feels like a responsibility, not a warning.

Until he walks in.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-.

It started to get louder and suddenly Rose, the front office lady, was by your side. A clipboard in her hand stretched out to you.

“Here sweetie, the profile for the new transfer. Sorry for the rush but I’ve got to get goin’. I trust ya!” She explains as she quickly heads to the family of an incoming freshman.

You scan over the paper, a written note reading, “Senior transfer – very.. Confident”. You scan over the crowd in the gym and you spot him almost immediately. The California boy, you remember. Rumors had been that a “sweet couple with two children” had just moved to Hawkins from California over the summer. You think of what a bummer it must be to move away from a place like California to Hawkins, or at least you know you’d be upset.

You’d been waiting for ten minutes, constantly glancing back and forth at the gym entrance and the check-in table. That was until he walked in, his curly mullet draped just below his shoulders against his leather jacket. He looked irritated. You knew you’d have to put your best attitude on for him.

You walked over to the check in table and lightly tapped his shoulder, a wide smile plastered on your face.

“Billy Hargrove?” You asked.

He stops dead when he sees you.

Not your face.

Not your outfit.

Your nametag.

Hopper.

You glanced down, your grin slightly faltered as you registered that look on his face. The amusement sparks first, then something sharper. Like he can’t believe the universe would put you in front of him.

You force a polite smile. “Can I help you find your homeroom?”

He looks you up and down – not gross, not disrespectful – just curious.

Interested.

He steps closer and lowers his voice. “Didn’t know the chief had a daughter.”

You hold back a slightly irritated sigh. “I’m not special,” you say, trying to keep it professional. “Just a student volunteer.”

He smirks, slow and lethal. You feel your stomach flip. “Yeah. sure.”

And suddenly you feel it.

Something shifting, something dangerous, something you definitely weren’t planning on feeling the first day back.

Trouble.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-.

BILLY’S POV

Hawkins High smells of disinfectant, chalk dust, and disappointment. Billy’s only been here for ten minutes and he hates it.

Then he sees you. Perked up by his side, a polite smile on your face.

He was told this town was boring. Nothing but cornfields, church bells, and lazy afternoons.

But you? You don’t look boring.

You look like trouble wrapped in soft edges.

And then Billy sees the nametag – big, bold, and unavoidable.

Y/N Hopper.

Hopper.

As in Chief Hopper.

The asshole who pulled Neil over last week for speeding and gave him a warning stare even BIlly felt.

You looked up at Billy like you already know better. You meet his eyes in a calm and collected manner.

It irritates him.

It interests him.

“Can I help you find your homeroom?” You ask.

Your voice is gentle, polite.

Not scared.

Not flirty. Like he’s just another student. He hates how much he likes that.

You’re wearing these shorts, and oh he likes those shorts. It’s simple, however. Nothing that should make him stare. But he does. Because you’re wearing it.

Because you’re Hopper’s.

That alone should make you off limits.

But Billy likes a challenge.

He steps closer than he needs to, pretending to look at the paper on your clipboard.

He’s not looking at the paper.

“Didn’t know the chief had a daughter.” he says, watching your reaction.

You blink – guarded.

Not shocked.

Not impressed.

Just quietly annoyed.

He smirks because, that reaction? It intrigues him.

“I’m not special,” you say. “Just a student volunteer.”

But he’s already figured you out, you’re lying.

There’s something about you – the way you hold yourself, the way you talk – that tells him you’ve had to be stronger than girls your age.

He knows what it looks like.

He knows what it feels like.

Someone interrupts, and Billy immediately hates him. Before Billy can say anything else, a voice calls from behind you.

“Hey, Y/N – Uhh do you know where Ms. O’Donnell moved her office?”

Billy turns. It’s some long haired guy in a leather jacket. Rings on his fingers. His hair disheveled. Smells like weed. He’s older. Junior? Senior? Doesn’t matter.

You tense slightly.

Not a lot – but enough.

And Billy sees it. He sees everything.

You answer the guy like you’re used to talking to him softly, cautiously.

He thanks you and walks off.

“So,” Billy says, watching him walk away. “Who was that?”

You press your lips into a line, “No one.”

Lie.

If Billy Hargrove is good at one thing, it’s spotting a lie.

That guy meant something. Maybe still means something.

Billy shouldn’t care.

He really shouldn't.

But the irritation is already settling under his skin like a bruise.

“Well,” you speak up. “Here’s your schedule.”

Billy takes the paper from your hand, scanning over it with furrowed brows.

“Looks like you’ve got English in B-Wing, then gym, and algebra. You’re kinda spread out.”

“What the hell is B-Wing?” Billy turns to you.

You circle the map on the paper then hesitate, “It’s easier if I just show you. Orientations slow right now anyway. Come on.”

Billy falls into step beside you. You walk quick, confident, weaving through the groups of nervous freshmen.

“Been here long?” Billy asks.

“Feels like forever,” you smile. “I’m a junior.”

He nods slowly, “Senior.”

Billy pretends not to notice the way every student you greet seems to like you, respect you. You explain the stairwells, passing periods, shortcuts, which teachers suck and which don’t.

It’s easy for you.

And strangely easy for him to listen.

“So, you’re from California?” You ask.

He glances at you. “That obvious?”

“Word gets around. It’s a small town.”

Billy hums in acknowledgment. You look over at him.

“Did you surf at all? Y’know, when you lived in Cali?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, all the time. It was great. Miss it.”

“M’sure you do. Hawkins must be nothing compared to it.”

“Really isn’t. But at least one thing isn’t boring me.”

You look at him, “Yeah? What’s that?”

“You.” His eyes don’t leave yours.

Your posture shifts. Not dramatically, but Billy sees it. A soft tension.

You smile softly at him, glancing down at your converse. “I’m glad. You’re not bad company either.”

…

You reach B-Wing and stop in front of his English class.

“So this is your homeroom,” you say softly. “Should be easy to find tomorrow.”

He examines the door, then looks at you instead.

“You always walk the new kids around,” he asks. “or just me?”

You freeze for half a second, debating on telling him the truth. “Just you,” you admit. “Didn’t want you getting lost.”

Billy laughs under his breath, looking down. You notice his lashes. How could a man be so beautiful?

Billy looks up, glancing to the side. “Yeah? Or did you just like the company?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Can’t it be both? You’ll survive without me.”

“Don’t think I will.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. And for a moment, the hallway feels too quiet. Too charged. You shift your weight, looking anywhere but his eyes. Oh, those stupid piercing blue eyes.

You take a breath. “Well, if you need help finding the rest of your classes, I'm around.”

Billy steps a little closer. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think I might.”

Your face warms, and you hate that he can see it. “Well, I should get back to my table. See you around.” You smile softly.

He lets you go, watches you walk away.

Part of him wishes he’d made a move, normally he would’ve. But with you? It didn’t feel right. Not now.

He shouldn’t care, he really shouldn’t. But as you disappear around the corner Billy, his hand flexes. He feels it. That stupid, undeniable pull.

You were forbidden from the beginning.

And he’s already in deep.

Chapter 1: New Neighbors

Chapter 2: Good Girl

Chapter 3: Pity Party

When you rounded the corner into the kitchen, you were expecting to be greeted by the master chef Charles at the stove. But instead you were greeted by Tonya’s beautiful, slightly confused face. With a rag slung over her shoulder and spatula in hand, you watched her attempt to flip what looked like a very, very fried egg.

“You need some help?” You ask. Tonya jumps, hand on her chest as she catches herself. Clearly she had been in the zone, focused on the task at hand. Although, that didn't seem to keep help her in her food making endeavors.

“Jesus, can you be a little louder when you walk in the room next time?” 

“Sorry Tonnie,” you laugh, moving around her to get a drink from the fridge. “Been working on walking around as quiet as possible so I don’t wake Ed—everyone up when I’m working.”

Tonya's whole demeanor suddenly shifts. After plating the eggs and setting them aside, she turns her whole body to face you. Your eyes go wide as she takes the stance you know so well; the one she takes before she’s about to lecture you.

“While you’re working?” She asks, an eyebrow quirked in a suspicious fashion.

“Y-yeah…" you respond, not liking the way she starts to slowly saunter towards you. "Okay, can we skip the games, please? What’s wrong?”

“Why was there a red cape in your car last night?”

You feel like the room is going to spin. Not wanting to fuss with it you had thrown the costume cape in the back seat when you left Eddie’s last night. By the time you got all of your overthinking in, you’d completely forgotten to grab it and bring it inside. 

“Wha—I, uh—”

Tonya says your name to cut off your babbling. 

“If you wanted to go out and spend Halloween with Sam you could have just told me that.”

“What? Oh, god no.” Your nose scrunches in offense at the mere suggestion until you remember that it’s probably normal to want to spend time with the guy you’re dating. “I mean…I didn’t spend Halloween with Sam.”

“Okaaaay?” She draws the word out, head bobbing as she waits for you to explain yourself. You breath in, looking at her carefully before exhaling with a sigh.

“Promise me you will listen to what I have to say before coming to any conclusions.” 

Tonya says your name with a serious tone. You can see the anger starting to brew in her, and you can only hope that once you tell her everything that’s been going on for the last two months that she’ll understand. The need to rip the band aide off was becoming more apparent, especially when you needed her guidance on some of the thinking you had done.

“Promise me?” You say again, not backing down.

“Ugh, fine.” She walks over to the table and sits down, motioning for you to take the seat across from her. 

“So, I think the first thing I need to clear up is that…I don’t actually have a night job. At least, not in the sense that I’m getting paid. It’s a volunteering position.”

You watch the way her mouth tightens, nostrils flaring as she expresses all her unspoken words with her face. But, she doesn’t say anything so you keep going.

“It’s something that I signed up for at the very beginning of the semester. Granted, it wasn’t supposed to be an overnight thing...but the person I’m taking care of needed overnight care and I just—I couldn’t say no, Tonnie.”

Air blows out between her lips like steam, and you can tell you need to get the rest of the information out to her before she can’t hold it in anymore.

“The reason why I even hid any of this from you is because the person I’ve been taking care of was turned down by everyone else at sign ups…because he was a murder suspect.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Her hands wave in front of her and she shakes her head. “I’m really hoping that I did not hear you right. Because there’s no way you’re telling me that, you, of ALL PEOPLE, have been spending the last two months babysitting a MURDERER?!”

“He didn’t actually murder anyone!” You shout back. Tonya’s eyes roll as she throws her hands up dramatically. 

“What does that even mean?!”

“Eddie was accused of murder, but he didn’t actually do it!”

“Eddie?! Eddie who?!”

“His name is Eddie Munson,” you say, “he was actually framed by the real murderer. The guy tortured him, Tonya! His…his body is covered in scars and…and he ended up loosing his leg. Like, from the knee down. And he was so sick when I got there. He’s come such a long way since then…”

Tonya’s face is like stone, blinking slowly as you go on about Eddie and all the things you’ve helped him accomplish in the last two months. You hadn’t even realized that you’d been rambling until the sound of her bedroom door caught your attention.

“Charles is here?” You ask her quietly after the bathroom door closes. You're shocked when she confirms that he had stayed the night. He'd never stayed the night before, at least while you were there.

“We had a fun night,” Tonya says with a sly smirk. “He’s probably feeling it this morning.”

“Ah, I see,” you nod. The sound of retching coming from the upstairs bathroom had the two of you giggling. Tonya leans in towards you, resting her chin on her hands as she looks at you.

“So,” she starts, “Can I ask you a side question before we get into this Eddie guy?”

“Sure,” you say suspiciously.

“Is Sam real?”

“What?” You chuckle. “Yeah, he’s real. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t a lie you made up to go see your little criminal boyfriend.”

You reel back, shocked by the accusations of her statement.

“Eddie’s not my boyfriend,” you assure her. But the look on her face tells you she’s not buying it.

“Really? Because you just talked more about this guy in the last 20 minutes than you’ve talked about Sam since you two started dating.”

“Well…I spend five days a week with him, so of course I have more to say about Eddie than Sam. But…”

“But…?”

“What bit you in the ass this mornin’?”

Eddie stirs his coco wheat's mindlessly as the Andy Griffith’s Show plays on the TV. If you were to ask Wayne, he’d say Eddie was acting like a cat after it got caught in the rain, all pissy and ready to swat and anyone who looked at him.

“Nothin’,” Eddie grumbles, not bothering to look at his uncle as he spoke. Wayne sighed, grabbing the TV remote and turning it off. He shifts forward on the couch cushion until he was sitting on the edge.

“Did somethin’ happen at the Trick r Treat thing?”

Eddie exhaled, slumping back in the recliner dramatically before finally facing his uncle.

“Nothing happened. I just—Did you know she has a boyfriend?”

Wayne’s head tilts to the side. “What? No she don’t? Told me when she started.”

“Well, she must have lied to you because she told Harrington last night that she was seeing some guy named Sam from her school.” Eddie’s arms cross over his chest like a child with an attitude.

“Why’d she tell him that?”

“Because, in typical Harrington fashion, the guy flirts with any girl that crosses his path.”

“So she told him she had a boyfriend?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe she was lyin’ t’em.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. He hadn’t thought about that. He just assumed you hadn’t told him because you knew he liked you by now and didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“But what if she’s not?” Eddie’s voice is soft in his vulnerability. He’d told Wayne about his growing feelings for you about a month ago. About how he thought you were beautiful from the first time he’d seen you, but he’d stuffed those feeling down immediately. 

He tried his best to push you away, hoping that you’d run with your tail between your legs after how rude he’d been to you. But you didn’t seem to budge, so he tried to ignore you instead. That obviously didn’t work out either. His hopes went up when you saw him on the floor that faithful night. He thought that you’d be so repulsed by him that you’d turn and run on the spot. 

But, of course you didn’t.

You looked at him as if he wasn’t a broken man who’d been beaten and almost eaten alive by supernatural bats. Who’d been abused and almost murdered by hospital staff who were supposed to be in charge of his life. Who was sent home to a place he didn’t know, with barely anything to his name after the Upside Down swallowed his trailer whole.

In hindsight, he almost wishes you had ran. Because this feeling that he’s had every day since has been more painful than any of his scars or shredded limbs. He wishes you had been shallow and vapid, because he would have a reason to hate you, rather than feel lonely whenever you weren’t around. 

And maybe he’d feel less bad about the times he’s touched himself while thinking about how your body presses against his when you help move him to his chair. Or the way your chest brushes against his shoulder when you’ve put your arms around him while you watch their DnD games. 

Shit, he’d only agreed to do physical therapy in the first place because you’d leaned in front of him and practically begged him. Did you know that he could almost see perfectly down your shirt when you did that? He was glad he did it, though, because the strength that’s slowly being restored to his hands was making it easier to jerk off to the thought of you.

Eddie tried to pushed those thoughts back. He didn’t want to feel that way about you. Well, not in this gross, perverted way at least. You didn’t deserve that. 

“If’n she’s not lyin’, then…well…” Wayne settles into a silence. Eddie feels himself getting upset, head titling back to push the impending tears away before they could spill over. 

It wasn’t fair for him to feel this way. He wouldn’t have had a chance with you even before everything that happened to him, so why was he getting all worked up as if you’d ever seen him as anything other than a pitiful shell of the man he used to be. No matter how much you poured into him, he would never have enough to return the favor.

Eddie had been distant the last few weeks. Not back to his grumpy self, but more closed off than he had been with you lately. Any time you touched him unprompted, he would pull away or make an excuse to move away from you. He still talked with you, but that teasing banter that he would throw your way was few and far between. 

It hurt to feel like you were being locked out again, but you didn’t question it. Eddie didn’t owe you any explanations anyway. But you still couldn’t help to over analyze his behaviors every night before falling asleep.

Even now as you sit with him and Wayne and sort through old pictures that Wayne had found after going through their storage unit. Wayne is doing most of the talking, with Eddie chiming in here and there to give short interjections.

“Eddie, you’re joking,” you gasp.

It was just a shoebox, but it was filled to the brim with pictures of Eddie when he was little. The picture in question that you were absolutely gushing over was of Eddie and a woman that you’d assumed to be his mom by their matching chocolate button eyes. Her hair was wild like Eddie’s; long red curls teased to high heaven that framed her delicate face. Toddler Eddie was on her hip in a Christmas themed outfit, a huge, baby toothed grin plastered on his face as beamed at his mother. The back of the picture read ‘Eddie & Flo Christmas ‘68.’

“I’m not,” he says with little enthusiasm. “Unfortunately, I look just like my dad, besides my eyes. Wish I looked more like her, though.” 

“No, look,” you say, pointing at his moms smile. “You have her smile, too. Dimples and all.”

“Hold on,” Eddie says, taking the box and sifting through the pictures. It took him a few minutes to finally pull out a picture before handing it to you. 

What you weren’t prepared to see was a picture of a man who looked practically identical to Eddie, sans the long hair and clad in a military uniform. Next to him was a younger Wayne Munson, dressed in a leather jacket and with a much fuller head of hair. You studied the picture a bit before flipping it over.

‘Allan and Wayne April 1970 Day of Departure’

“Your dad was in Vietnam?” You ask, looking at the picture again, still mesmerized at the resemblance.

“Yeah, he got drafted and shipped out a month before my 5th birthday,” Eddie said with indifference.

“I thought you could be excused from the draft if you were married with kids?”

“Al and Flo weren’t married,” Wayne interjected. “And Al was dead set Eddie wasn’t his so he didn’t even show up to his birth. I’s there, though, cause I knew Flo wasn’t like those other girls he was chasin’ after. And when I tell you I wanted nothin more's to kick my brother’s ass as soon as I saw that little face for the first time.” 

Wayne grabs the box from the coffee table and shuffles around it a bit until he found a picture. He looks at it for a moment before handing it to you. “Poor Flo did all that time cookin’ that one there for him to come out lookin’ exactly like his daddy.”

The picture was of Eddie’s mother in her hospital bed, wild red hair tied up and looking exhausted. But her smile was wild, and she was flashing a peace sign at the camera. An even younger Wayne was holding a bundled up new born Eddie proudly in his arms, holding him up in a way that shows off Eddie’s chubby baby face. He really did look like his dad, the Munson genes definitely being more dominant.

You flip the picture over to read the back.

‘Florence, Wayne, and Edward May 13th, 1965.’

Wayne fished out more pictures of Eddie as a baby, and you cooed over every single one, much to Eddie’s dismay. Through this you discovered Eddie’s middle name was James after his late grandfather that passed on the strong Munson genes to his father.

You couldn’t help but feel bad for Eddie’s mother, though. She was only 17 when she had Eddie, and her strict parents kicked her out because of it. Thankfully, Eddie’s grandparents took her in and Al apparently came around and stepped up when he held Eddie for the first time. 

They stayed living all together until Al was drafted. But not long after, Eddie’s mom got really sick. She had been hiding it, hoping that it would go away on it’s own, until it had suddenly gotten worse. Wayne moved back home to help raise Eddie when his mother started getting sick. She died in 1971, a week before Al was set to come home from Vietnam. 

“That’s when he started gettin’ in trouble. Flo had whipped him into shape in a way not even the military could accomplish. And when she was gone before he could say goodbye—”

“Can I go outside?” Eddie’s hand wipes over his eyes harshly. He scoots to the edge of the chair and reaches out for his wheelchair. You jump up at his request, getting his chair situated for him before helping him into it. He clung to you for a moment longer than he normally would, but you didn’t mind.

“Let me get your coat,” Wayne says, pushing off the couch. When he’s just out of earshot, you look at Eddie, his eyes glassy and downcast as if deep in thought, and tap him on the shoulder.

“Hey, do you think that when you have kids they’ll be clones of you, too?”

Eddie’s posture straightens, his eyes wide when he meets yours. 

“What? I, um, I don’t—” He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “I haven’t really thought about it. Didn’t really plan on kids anyway.”

“Oh, really? I guess that’s understandable. Not everyone wants kids.”

“Do you?”

“Hmm, maybe one day,” you shrug. “Not really rushing to have one right now or anything. More focused on school and taking care of you.” Eddie smiles, but ducks his head to hide it from you. 

“Well, I guess I’m good practice for taking care of one,” he says.

“No, you’re way harder to take care of.” He barks out a laugh, rolling away from you to meet Wayne half way to the door. 

While the two of them go outside to smoke, you busy yourself in the kitchen putting away the Thanksgiving dinner you and Wayne had put together, with Eddie’s help on stirring duty. Ben had come by and ate with all of you, seemingly more comfortable being around while you were at the Munson’s residence with his more frequent visits.

It didn’t take you long to clean up. Wayne had apologized all morning for the dinner not being anything fancy, and you reassured him every time that you didn’t care. You’d been used to spending Thanksgiving with just your grandparents, and then just your grandma for so long that you’d never made much of a big deal out of the holiday like others do. 

Sam specifically told you on multiple occasions about how everyone in his family makes a very big deal about holidays. Apparently they were also looking forward to meeting you, which came as a shock considering he hadn’t even asked you to go, he just assumed you would. When you told him it felt like it was way too soon to meet his family, he seemed bummed but thankfully didn’t press further.

“Damnit, I told ya she’d be in here cleanin’ up, Eds,” Wayne hollers from the living room.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it!”

“We’re gonna have to start paying her if she’s gonna start doing the maid’s job,” Eddie says, rolling into the kitchen and up to the fridge. He goes to grab for a beer, but you call for him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Eddie, if you have a beer this late you can’t take your pain meds.”

“That’s fine,” Eddie says, plucking the beer from the door and presenting it to you. “I wasn’t gonna take it tonight anyway.”

“What? Why?”

“Wanna try and get used to not having it.”

You want to argue with him, but he’s giving you that wet, sad look that he knows will get you to fold. And you do, snatching the beer from his hands and popping the tab open. 

He holds his hand out to grab it from you, but you decide to fuck with him a bit and take a sip of it yourself. It tastes like nasty cheep beer, but you do your best to remain as neutral as possible, even letting out an “ahhh” after you swallow.

Eddie looks up at you with pure shock, frozen in place like he was petrified. It makes you laugh as you place the can back in his hand, waiting a moment for him to grab it before letting go.

“Y-you can have it if you want,” he stutters, not moving.

“It’s okay, Eddie, I was just messing with you,” you say, placing a hand on his shoulder as you walk past him out of the kitchen.

Eddie thrusts sloppily into his folded pillow, held together by his body weight as he lays on top of it. It took a lot of trial and error, but Eddie’s found this to be the most effective way for him to get off when his hands are too sore to just jerk off. 

He didn’t mind it though, because this set up made it feel more real to him. He didn’t have any frame of reference to know what it felt like to fuck a real pussy, but the friction of his pillowcase felt good enough that he was able to bypass the texture if he just focused on the fantasies in his head. 

All of them revolved around you, of course. He tries to stave off of giving into his urges. Especially considering he usually had to look you in the face at some point after. He felt like he was going to give himself some kind of pavlov response if he allowed himself to jerk off from any small domestic gesture that you threw his way.

Today was a bit too much for him, though. He’s happy you came over since he fully expected you to ditch him and Wayne for some other plans.

But you didn’t.

Not only did you come over, but you came over early, dressed up in an outfit that had Eddie fighting off a hard on from the moment you arrived. And basically acted as if you’d been part of the family for years rather than only knowing them for a few months. You were a natural addition to the Munson clan and that played on Eddie's mind a lot when he thought about you like this.

And when you took a sip of Eddie’s beer before giving it to him…Eddie was ashamed to even think about how much that affected him. Not only was it practically an indirect kiss, but he’d never seen you let loose like that, even if it was just a sip. You felt comfortable around him to blur that line of professionalism that you tried to keep up when you cared for him, and Eddie was letting the delusions run rampant.

“Haaa, fuck,” he whines into his other pillow as he ruts into the makeshift pussy that he desperately wishes was yours. He’s imagining you lying under him, his bare chest pressing into your back as he plows into you from behind. He thinks about how you’d be calling out his name. Are you vocal in bed, or would you be biting into his pillow like he is now to keep himself quiet?

Eddie pulls his shirt back up to his nose and your scent that rubbed off on it filled his nostrils, sending him over the edge. He cums suddenly with a low groan, spurts of white cum spilling in between the fold of the sandwiched pillow. His breath hitches, eyes going in and out of focus as he cums harder than he ever has before. 

After catching his breath, Eddie pushes himself over and onto his back. He lays there, waiting for the guilt to creep in like it always does. He thinks back to your conversation earlier, about him wanting kids. It kills him. 

Did you really think he would ever have the chance to have kids? Besides not knowing if his swimmers even work after what he went though, he would have to meet someone who would treat him with even a fraction of the kindness you give him. And then he’d have to convince them that he was worthy enough for their love and not a burden. 

You saying you want kids one day hurt even worse. It was a feasible dream for you, to start a family with someone you loved. Eddie had barely thought about kids, but now he’s laying here thinking about what a normal life would be like with you. A house with a white picket fence, two kids, a dog…

Tears rolled down Eddie’s temples and disappeared into his sweaty hair line. He grabbed the soiled pillow and pulled off the pillowcase, carefully pulling it inside out and tossing it into his laundry basket. He pulled his comforter over himself to hide away from the world. 

The bed shakes as Sam lands on his back next to you. He says…something, but you’re too busy in your own head to catch it. The ache between your legs tries to get your attention as well, but you would rather listen to Sam speak than address that right now.

“Hey, are you okay?” Sam’s hand waves in front of your face and you force yourself to smile when you look at him. “Did I really blow your mind that much?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” you nod enthusiastically, probably overdoing it. You feel an ick wash over you when he smiles triumphantly. He leans in to kiss you and you turn your head so that his lips hit your cheek.

“I’m gonna go get us some water. Feel free to use my bathroom to clean up.” You lay still until Sam leaves the room, holding your breath until you’re sure he’s gone. 

Jumping up from the bed, you grab your clothes and quickly redress. You can’t find your tights but at this point you don’t even care, you just want to get out of there as fast as you can. Sam is standing in the hallway with a glass of water when you open the bedroom door. He looks at you up and down with confusion.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Yeah, I, uh…I forgot that I promised to help Tonya put up Christmas decorations tomorrow.” You move past him, but he grabs your arm to stop you.

“Do you have to leave right now?” He asks, a distressed look on his face.

“I’m sorry, but I probably should. Tonya likes to get up early to start the process and--”

“Okay, I understand,” Sam says, taking a deep breath in. “Can I, um, I want—I need to ask you something before you go.”

Your heart feels like it’s dropped into your stomach, nauseating you instantly. You have a sneaking suspicion that you know what he’s going to ask, but you really don’t think you can do this right now.

“Can we talk about it later? I think it’s supposed to start snowing soon,” you say, pulling your arm from his grasp. “Really want to get home before the roads get bad—”

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

The reaction your body had to his question was similar to one you would have if you heard nails on a chalkboard. If the ground opened up and swallowed you whole right now you’d be thankful for a quick escape from this situation. 

You relaxed your body and looked at Sam. He’s a nice guy, truly, but after everything that transpired in his bedroom…

“Sam…”

“Yeah?” His puppy dog eyes are making this harder than you want it to be.

“I….” You sigh, “I need to think about it. I’m going through a lot with finals coming up and taking care of Ed—I mean, Mr. Munson--”

“But you’re almost done with both of those? Christmas break is just around the corner, and I really would like you to meet my family.”

“Wait, what do you mean I’m almost done?”

“Well, you’re finals are, like, a week and a half away. And next week is your last week for the volunteer program so you won’t be needing to go to Hawkins anymore. We called all the families and let them know so that they could make other arrangements a week or two ago.”

All the air around you felt like it was sucked away. Wayne didn’t tell you that he had gotten a call. Was he even going to bring it up? Did he just expect you to up and leave him and Eddie?

“Sam, I really need to go,” you say with a strained breath. You don’t give him much of a chance to answer before you’re grabbing your coat and heading out his front door. Snow was already starting to stick to the ground as you got to your car. Sam stood at his front door, still in his boxers as you got in your car and drove off.

Driving on autopilot, your brain began to recall and process exactly what happened while you were with Sam. He had been off putting ever since you saw him after Thanksgiving, but you almost felt bad for him. All this time you convinced yourself that this really attractive guy was giving you attention and you just we’re being grateful for it. 

But today solidified for you that you couldn’t deny the way you were feeling anymore. Not when the whole time the two of you were having sex, you couldn’t get Eddie out of your head. Every touch, every thrust, you could only think about Eddie being the one on top of you making you feel good. You’re pretty sure you would have cum if it was actually Eddie.

The feelings you had for Eddie sat behind a glass wall inside your mind ever since you were able to pour your heart out to Tonya. But, no matter how much you wanted to, you knew you could never act on them. It would go against every code of conduct for you to have a romantic relationship with a patient. You could potentially get kicked out of nursing school if you were ever found out.

Not to mention you had no idea if Eddie would even accept your feelings. Sure, he has come out of his shell and let you into his life in more ways that you had imagined when you first met him. But, you didn’t want to delude yourself into thinking it was anything deeper than an appreciation for the care you’ve given him. Eddie and Wayne were good people, and you didn’t want to mistake that kindness for anything more than what it was.

But, fuck, did it suck to find out you might only have one more week to spend with them.

Between the thick snowflakes and the racing of your mind, you didn’t notice the way the road was getting icier as the snow continued to fall. A turn snuck up on you in the heavy snowfall and you slammed on the brakes to slow down, but your car continued to slide across the snowy road. 

Your car fishhooks before the back end whips around, sending you spinning into a ditch. It’s not a deep one, but the lack of traction under your tire sends them spinning with barely any movement from your car. You curse under your breath, all of your emotions bubbling up until you smack your steering wheel out of frustration.

After taking a few minutes to cool off, you take a look around you to assess your surroundings. It’s hard to see much, the back road you’re on has no streetlights and you’re not sure if you’d be able to see any house lights even if you were in someone’s yard. You start to panic, unsure of what you’re next move should be. You don’t have enough gas to wait out the night, but you should still have an emergency blanket in your trunk.

You have to hype yourself up to leave your car, moving as fast as you could to the back. As you went to open the trunk, fumbling with your keys lead to dropping them in the white snow at your feet. Your eyes stung as your tears began to gather, the cold wind instantly chilling them. 

Without a second thought, you let out a loud scream into the dark night sky. You felt around for your keys, the cold metal biting your already cold hands as you finally opened your trunk, only to find it empty. That’s when you remember that you had taken the blanket out of your trunk and thrown it in your back seat for the trunk r treat night.

The trunk of your car slams hard enough to make the car shake, and you practically rip the door off the hinge when you grab the blanket.

Just as you’re about to get back in your front seat whe a light comes into view from the down the road. Relief washes over you when you can see it’s a car coming your way. You jump up and down, waving your hands around to get the cars attention, the big truck rolling to a stop next to you.

“Are you okay, darlin’?” A little old woman’s voice calls from the rolled down window.

“No,” you yell with a pathetic sniffle. The driver side door of the truck opens and a little old man jumps out and rounds the front. He lets you inside and you slide into the bench seat between the two.

The couple apparently heard you scream from their house and came out to check what was going on. The snow was so thick you didn’t even realize their house was only a few hundred feet away from your car. The woman made you a hot drink as you used their phone to call for someone to pick you up.

“Hello?” Wayne’s gruff voice could have been intimidating to hear if it was anyone else calling the Munson house this time of night.

“Wayne, it’s me.”

You thank the older couple profusely for everything before bounding out to the truck waiting for you in their driveway. It had taken Wayne almost 45 minutes to get to you with all of the snow, but he promised he would get to you even if it took hours.

When you pulled open the passenger door, you were surprised to see Eddie sitting there with a worried look.

“Eddie, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Boy was worried sick ‘bout’cha,” Wayne calls from the other side of Eddie.

“Wayne,” he groans, scooting over on the bench seat to make room for you. 

“Aw, that was really sweet of you to be worried about me,” you tease, leaning your head on his shoulder to push his buttons a little bit more. Eddie adverts his gaze, mumbling a whatever under his breath making Wayne chuckle.

Wayne backs out of the driveway and starts the journey to Tonya’s. The conversation is light until Wayne asks what you were doing out so late at night during a snow storm.

“I was out with some of my classmates,” you lie, not wanting to bring up being with Sam. The thought of him only brought all of the thoughts you had earlier in the night to the forefront of your mind, and you were suddenly very aware of how much of your body was touching Eddie’s in this cramped seating arrangement. 

The chill of the night had been cut by his natural body heat against you, making you subconsciously curled into him at some point during the drive. You went to pull away, but his body started to move with yours until he was leaning into you.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to adjust himself, “I usually lean against the door to keep my balance.”

“Oh my god, Eddie, I’m sorry,” you say, moving closer to him again. “I would have sat in the middle if I had known.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quietly before you felt his body weight leaning against you again. 

The small talk dwindled into a peaceful quiet as Wayne drove the country road with ease. The snow has started to ease up, almost completely stopped by the time you saw the city marker indicating you were close to being home.

As you were leaning into Eddie’s shoulder, you felt a bit of weight fall on top of your head, your vision slightly obstructed by curly brown hair that fell over your face. Eddie’s light snores next to your ear was all the confirmation you needed that he’d fallen asleep and was using you as a pillow. 

A warm, bubbly feeling filled you at the sudden closeness. Even a small interaction like this made you feel a million times more exultant than you’ve ever felt with Sam. Or anyone for that matter. 

“Wayne,” you called to the older man, wanting to distract yourself from your thoughts. He hummed in response, his hat covered head tilting slightly in your direction while his eyes remained on the snowy roads. “Tonight one of my…friends from class, they mentioned something about this week being the last week of our volunteer work.”

Wayne went rigid in his seat, shifting to sit upright again. He cleared his throat, visibly becoming more distraught with each passing second.

“Yeah, I guess that’s right, isn’t it? I, um…” Wayne ran a hand over his mouth, rubbing it back and forth against the stubble before it landed back on the steering wheel. 

“’ve been-- been trying, ya know, to get someone to take over nights. I thought about askin’ Hop, but he’s done enough for us. Plus he’s got family now, so s’not fair to ask him. Could come off the nights, but that shift diff is really gettin’ us by.” Wayne nods his head to the side, “Ed says he can stay home by himself, but I just…I can’t have em fallin’ and not bein’ able to get emself up. Lord forbid he fall and break his hip er somethin’.”

“So…it sounds like you haven’t found anyone?”

Wayne sighs, shaking his head. “Well, that’s not…” He pauses, letting out a huff of air through his nose. “There is someone who is willing to come a couple nights a week if we need ‘em…”

“But?” You press, curious as to who this person might be.

“But…I’ll just say he’s not my first pick to take responsibility for anyone.”

“I see,” you say, looking down at where Eddie’s thigh is pressed against yours, the end of his jeans smoothed over the amputation spot where you’d sewn the end shut for him.

“Can I ask why you didn’t ask me if I could keep coming over?”

Wayne was still, like he was holding his breath. 

“I, um, we…”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. If you don’t want me to keep coming I totally understand--”

“No, no! That’s not it at all,” Wayne says defensively. “We both kinda assumed that you weren’t…allowed to.”

“Oh…well I don’t think there’s anything that says I couldn’t keep coming over? It’s not like I’m being paid, so I don’t think I’m violating any of my school’s rules. And he’s been doing so well, it wouldn’t be any different than if anyone else came over to stay with him.”

The truck was quiet for a moment, except for the directions you gave Wayne as he turned into Tonya’s neighborhood. Once he pulled into the empty driveway, he shift the old beater truck into park and turned to look at you. You must have been quite a sight sitting there with his nephew practically on top of you as he snoozed away. But you still smiled up at him, even as he shook his head at the two of you.

“So, I don’t want you to say yes just because I told you I was havin’ trouble. Okay? Promise me if you say yes that it’s not outta pity.”

“I promise,” you say, crossing your fingers for him to see.

“Alright, well, if it’s not gonna cause you any issue, would you be able to keep comin’ down to stay with Ed at night? It doesn’t have to be every day. Like I said, I got someone who said he can stay a night or two a week if we need ‘em—”

“Can I ask who it is you’re talking about?”

“It’s, uh, it’s a guy Ed went to school with. He’s a little older--names Rick—they’ve been friends since Eddie was a freshman—”

“Rick? Like Reefer Rick?” You question, Eddie’s weight on you being the only thing keeping you from jumping out of your seat.

“Well, yeah, that’s him. I guess Eddie must’ve talked bout him by now.”

“He hasn’t told me much about him. But, he did come over one day after you’d already left for work when the boys were over.”

“Ah, yeah, I forgot Eddie told me he came by,” Wayne nodded.

“I guess I understand why you don’t want him to be the one to stay over.” 

“Yeah, he’s just…not a very responsible kid,” Wayne says with a shake of his head.

“That’s like…the nice way to put it, I suppose.” 

Eddie suddenly lifts his head from your shoulder, his tired, confused eyes scanning his surroundings before looking at you. He smiles, breathing in harshly as he stretches, one arm going forward and the other behind you. 

“Hi,” he breathes out, his voice groggy and low from just being asleep. It does that thing to you where it goes straight from your ears to between your legs. 

“Hi Eddie,” you giggle, looking up at his dopey, half asleep still expression. Wayne clears his throat and Eddie’s whole body turns to look at him, then all around once more as if he’s only just noticing his surroundings for the first time.

“Where are we?” He asks with pinched brows.

“My house,” you say, taking that as your cue to grab your things and exit the vehicle.

“Shit, that was a quick drive,” Eddie says running a hand over his eyes.

“Quick only cause you used that poor girl like a mattress while you slept,” Wayne quips. 

“I did? Damn, I’m sorry,” Eddie apologizes, his eyes wide as if panicked.

“Oh, I didn’t care,” you say as you opened the car door, the cold air hitting you straight to the bone and making you shiver. But even with the winter air trying to turn you into a popsicle, you still took your time getting out, not wanting to make Eddie lose his balance and fall. 

Once Eddie was situated back in the passenger seat, you gave the two men your goodbyes, promising Wayne to finish the conversation when you come by on Monday.

The Munson men waited in the drive way to make sure you got inside okay, waving back to you as they took off down the road.

Every day for the next week felt like a rollercoaster. 

Sunday consisted of Tonya taking you to get your car and you ignoring phone calls from Sam. You and Tonya also decorated the house together, so you technically didn’t lie to Sam when you left.

Monday you were almost late to class, doing your best to wait until the last second to pull into the schools parking lot so as to avoid Sam in case he was waiting for you. You felt bad for not giving him an answer before you left him on Saturday. But after an all day conversation with Tonya that started with telling her that you couldn’t get Eddie out of your head while you were having sex with Sam and ended with you guys talking about what colours you think Eddie would like if you ever got married one day, you figured you should probably cut things off with him.

You were never good at telling anyone no, this much you knew about yourself. And if you were completely honest, you were a little worried that if you didn’t wait until the right time that Sam might puppy dog eye you into changing your mind. But, you had to be strong. If you could just get through until next Wednesday after finals…

Speaking of finals. After some discussion with the Munson men, it was decided that you would keep coming to stay with Eddie over night until further notice. Both of them seemed to be relieved, although Eddie did say he wanted to keep working on building his strength so that Wayne would feel comfortable enough to let him be alone at some point in the future.

Once that was settled, you immediately made a deal with Eddie, making him your personal exam study buddy. Every day he quizzed you, went through flash cards with you, and looked over your homework for you, handing it back if he didn’t think the answer you gave matched what the textbook said.

“I feel like I could be a nurse after all of this,” Eddie said, placing the thick deck of flash cards down on the side table. The flipping between the cards had been serving as a good exercise for building up his hand dexterity, but often left them a little sore by the time you’d gone through all of them.

“I think I’d pay good money to see you in one of my school’s nursing uniforms,” you tease, standing up to refill his cup.

“Good money, huh? Like, maybe a college tuition’s worth?” He calls back from his chair. You bark out a laugh.

“You’d have to put that uniform to good use for me to shell out that kind of cash, if you know what I mean.” Eddie howls at your suggestive words.

“Don’t know how good of a dancer I’d be with only one leg, sweetheart!”

After a long week of studying, Friday finally rolled around and it was time to fulfill your part of the bargain. 

With Eddie in the passenger seat, the two of you set off towards Castleton Square in Indianapolis. The roads were busy, full of people with the same idea as you and Eddie; last minute Christmas shopping. 

You’d lied to Wayne about where you were going per Eddie’s request. He knew that if he told Wayne where he was going that he would try and give him money to buy his gifts. 

But ever since his disability checks (finally) started coming in, Eddie had secretly been saving some on the side so that he could get some things for everyone for Christmas.

That included Wayne, and he wasn’t about to use the man’s own money to buy him a Christmas gift. So, as far as Wayne knew, the two of you were going to see Grant and his girlfriend's new apartment. 

“Damn, this place is packed,” Eddie said, head on a swivel as you tried to navigate the mall’s parking lot without taking out a pedestrian. 

“No kidding,” you say, pulling up towards one of the mall’s entrances. 

“I’m gonna let you out here,” you say, flipping on your blinkers. Once Eddie is situated in his chair, you wait for him to wheel inside the first set of doors before taking off to park. 

After 20 minutes of searching and briefly getting into it with a 70 year old over a handicap spot, you finally make your way to the mall entrance. It was just as crazy inside of the mall as you’d expected it to be with Christmas only a few more days away. People of all different background suddenly become unified by their arms being full of copious amounts of shopping bags. 

Eddie sat just inside the doors, eyes flickering across his surroundings, as if anticipating something. But as you enter into the crowded mall, his anxiousness seems to melt away as soon as his gaze meets yours. 

“You okay?” You ask, grabbing your purse from his lap. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving his hand at you. “I’m just…scoping the place out. For stores to shop in.” He saves himself at the last moment and you decide to let that excuse be enough for you.

To say the mall was pure chaos was an understatement. Many of the stores were restocking shelves at a record speeds, people fighting over toys and clothes and shoes that they HAD to have, lest little Tommy or Susie not get everything on their Christmas list. Every bench was filled to the brim with husbands and dads left in charge of bag duty while their wives wrack up their credit cards in the name of Christmas spirit.

Thankfully, no one wanted to be the person that's a dick to the guy in the wheelchair during the holiday season, so navigating the crowds was a little easier than you anticipated. The two of you bobbed and weaved through the stores, picking up a few things here and there for your respective friends and loved ones. Eddie was even brave enough to do a little shopping on his own while you ran to the bathroom.

Once the two of you regrouped, you took in Eddie’s haggard appearance and decided to call for a cookie break.

“Damn, what do they put in these things?” Eddie asks, his eyes closing as he takes another bite of his double chocolate cookie.

“I don’t know,” you say, sitting on the edge of a cement planter, not a single available seat in sight, “but whatever it is should probably be illegal. I could probably eat 10 of these things.”

“Mmm, agreed,” he says with a mouth full of cookie. 

The two of you sit and enjoy your treats in silence. Not out of neglect for the other, but out a mutual curiosity as you people watch.

 It was interesting to come to your own conclusions about people with only a snapshot of their lives like this, and it makes you wonder how people must be perceiving you and Eddie together. Are people assuming the two of you are dating? You couldn’t blame people for thinking that, but what else were they thinking about you? Do the two of you even look good together?

“Look mommy! What is that?”

The voice of a little boy catches your attention. A small pointed finger in your general direction makes you feel uneasy as you automatically assume the child must be pointing at Eddie. Sure, a man in a wheelchair has the potential to puzzle a child, but you didn’t know how Eddie would react to this kind of attention in a raw, childlike form.

“That’s called a mistletoe, dear,” the stressed mother answers, eyes looking your direction for a brief moment. Except, you notice her gaze lands just above you, prompting you to tilt your head back. And you’d be damned to find a small mistletoe handing from a thin string from the ceiling tile above you. 

“Huh,” you hear Eddie say next to you. The sudden realization that the mistletoe is hanging above yours and Eddie’s head has heat rising to your cheeks. You keep your head locked while your eyes shift to look at Eddie out of your peripheral. 

Sure enough he was looking at it, too. 

“Didn’t see that there before.” The words spill from your mouth without much forethought. Eddie clears his throat, and you steal another quick glance at him. His cheeks have an ever so slight pink tint to them, which only makes your stomach do flips.

Eddie has play flirted and said his fair share of raunchy jokes with you in the recent weeks. Never really giving as much of a hint of embarrassment in his actions, you assumed that he felt comfortable enough with your…friendship? That he didn’t care to treat you like one of his boys.

Given your newly realized feelings, it’s admittedly stung a bit. However, the reaction he’s giving now at being caught under a mistletoe with you is only fueling any delusions that you’ve ever entertained between the two of you.

“Me—me either,” he stutters, his eyes shifting down to the floor tiles beneath him. His bashfulness drives you crazy, and you have the sudden intrusive thought to just kiss him. And you almost consider it, if it wasn’t for the potential awkwardness that would result from your potential misreading of the moment.

“Have-have you, um, ever…you know?” Eddie chokes on almost every word, leg bouncing against the pedal as he speaks.

“I’m sorry, have I ever—?”

“Ever kissed. Like, under the mistletoe or whatever.” Eddie clarifies, gesturing to the decoration while still avoiding eye contact.

“O-oh, um,” you think for a moment of every kiss you’ve ever had in your life and suddenly blanking. “Maybe once or twice. In, like, middle school or high school. What about you?”

Eddie shifts in his chair, “No, no, it’s…I’ve not before. Not that I wouldn’t,” Eddie looks at you, then turns away again. “I mean, I’ve never been under one with someone before.”

“Do you want one?”

Eddie stills, blinking slowly as he processes your words.

“Do I want a kiss?”

You nod.

“I mean I guess I wouldn’t be against—”

Eddie is quieted by the sudden contact. You press your lips against his cheek, landing on the edge of the large scar. It’s only for a moment, but it feels like a lifetime to Eddie. 

When you pull away, you do your best to maintain composure. Giving him a forced smile, you rise from your seat to look at him straight on.

“There you go,” you say, hands landing on your hips. “Now you can say you’ve had your first mistletoe kiss.”

“Eddie, Eddie, shhh it’s okay.”

Pulling him into you, you run a hand up and down his back soothingly in an attempt to calm Eddie’s still sleeping form. Screams of terror begin to fade out into small moans and whimpers the more you comfort him. 

Slowly he wakes, his arms wrapping around you as he begins to sob. You don’t ask him about his dreams, or rather, his nightmares. You’re sure that it would only make things worse, so you just let him cry himself back to sleep against you.

“—Oh, shit, sorry.”

Your eyes shoot open at the sound of Wayne’s voice. You hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep, still leaning against the head of Eddie’s bed as he snored in your lap.

“No, it’s okay,” you whisper yawn, gently lifting Eddie’s head until you could place a pillow under it. Tiptoeing out of Eddie’s room, you join Wayne in the hallway, who looks like he just got home.

“Sorry if I woke ya,” Wayne says in a low voice.

“It’s okay, really,” you say rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. He had another night terror so I was just trying to settle him down s'all.”

Wayne hums, a hint of disbelief in his tone. You thought about pressing the matter, but figured doubling down would only push Wayne into believing whatever he already convinced himself more. Besides, getting a couple more hours of sleep before the weekend officially started sounded like something you wanted to take advantage of.

When you did finally wake up, you did your normal Saturday morning routine before your morning shift at the coffee shop. After getting dressed, you place a full glass of water and a little cup full of his morning meds on Eddie’s nightstand and pull out a fresh pair of clothes for him to put on after he wakes up. As you go to leave, you glance over to the newly wrapped gifts that sit below the Munson’s Charlie Brown inspired Christmas tree and think about how you wish you had seen Wayne’s face when he saw them earlier. 

Your work day flew by. The nonstop in and out of shoppers getting their morning caffeine fix or their afternoon refill kept you constantly moving. And before you knew it, you were grabbing your own cup to go and heading out the door to trek the the almost 3 hour drive from work to your home town.

Once you made it to Anderson, you stopped by a local flower shop, one that you’d been going to since you were a kid, to pick out some nice flowers to leave at the graves of your parents and grandparents. The owner made some small talk with you, asking about school and how Tonya was doing.

The mentioning of your friend reminded you that you still needed to give her the gift you’d gotten her before she left to visit Charles' family for the holiday. You were thankful that the Munson’s asked you to join them Christmas day, otherwise you’d be spending the holiday by yourself for the first time in your life.

With your flowers in hand, you placed each bundle at the graves. You spent a good amount of time with each one, talking with the markers as if your loved ones were there and listening. You’re not sure how long you were there. But eventually the cold became too much and you had to leave. 

Driving out of the cemetery was always really hard. Your parents had been gone long enough now that you’d come to peace with them being gone. It still hurt, but didn’t feel as much like salt in a wound as your grandparents. But, the deep sadness you normally felt was lighter than usual. The thought of your next destination—back to the same mall you had spent the evening with Eddie in—made you feel like you had a purpose for the first time in a long while.

You’re sure he hadn’t noticed, but you had kept your eye on Eddie as he shopped around. Anything he took interest in as the two of you perused the mall you took note of, fully planning on returning to pick out some to gift him. You doubt that he go you anything, but that didn’t really matter to you. You wanted to get him things he wanted, knowing he wasn’t going to spend the money on himself.

“What’s W.A.S.P?” Tonya mumbles through a mouth full of sugar cookie as she flips a cassette case in her hand. Her eyes go wide as she reads the track titles on the back.

“They’re a metal band,” you say, grabbing it from her and centering it the middle of your wrapping paper. “Jeff gave Eddie a shirt of theirs, so I’m guessing he must like them.” 

“Girl, one of those tracks was called Ballcrusher,” she says with a concerned look that made you laugh.

“Hey, I’m not here to judge,” you shrug, wrapping the cassette nicely and laying it next to a few more that were already wrapped. “It’s cooler than the ovenmits you got Charles.”

“Excuse you, he asked for new mits.” Tonya points her half eaten cookie at you before taking another bite. “And I think they fit his personality very well.”

“They’re plain beige,” you say monotonally.

“Exactly,” Tonya nods with a smile. “Plain and beige, and safe.”

You tsk and roll your eyes, mumbling a little whatever as you organize your gifts. Some might say you went a little overboard for someone who you’ve only been taking care of for just shy of 5 months. But, it was hard to narrow anything down when you envisioned Eddie’s face as he opened all of his new possessions. It was enough to justify the…8…9…11 things you got for him. 

“Can I tell you something…”

You look over at Tonya, who seems to be unable to contain a smile as she waits for you to answer.

“Of course,” you say, turning to give her your full attention.

“Okay, so, I know it’s the holiday season or whatever, and I could totally be wrong. But…”

“But?”

“But…” She takes a deep breath in. “...I think Charlie is going to propose to me at his family’s Christmas.”

You shoot up straight in your chair. A few months ago you might not have been so keen on this speculation, but the last few months Charles seems to have loosened up a bit. You also stopped caring about him taking your parking spot considering you were hardly here much anyway between school, work, and being at the Munson’s. 

“Oh my god. What? Why do you think that?”

“So, we went and did some Christmas shopping at that new outlet mall the other day. And while I was in the bathroom, he thought he would be slick and went into a jewelry shop. When I came out I saw him through the window and I’m, like, 99 percent positive he was looking at rings!”

The two of you gush and squeal over the prospect of Tonya’s future nuptials. Talks of colours and styles of dresses fill the room as the two of you talk for hours. 

“You know,” Tonya starts from the other side of the shower curtain, “Even if you are the maid of honor, I’m putting my foot down about one thing.”

“Oh, yeah,” you ask before spitting out your tooth paste into the sink, “And what might that be?”

“If you plan on bringing Eddie as a plus one, I have to at least meet him once before the actual wedding.”

You feel your cheeks heating up a bit. “I…I don’t see why that couldn’t be arranged—”

“Ideally, I’d also like the two of you to have confessed your love for each other by then, too—”

“Stoooooooop, you don’t know that he’s in love with me. This could be totally one sided.”

“Or,” Tonya pokes her head out from the curtain, “he could be completely head over heals for you and one of you just needs to make a move already.”

“What the—do you need help?” Dustin moves towards you to help with the balancing act of carrying all your presents into the Munson house. He grabs a few gifts and ushers you inside. 

“Thanks Dustin,” you say, heading towards the Christmas tree that is filled even more so now than it was when you left Saturday morning. “It’s starting to look like Santa wont have any room to bring presents.”

“We’re going to take care of most of that tonight,” Jeff says with a smile as he pushes Eddie’s chair into the living room. 

 Eddie looked very handsome tonight in his red sweater and black slacks. It even looked like he took his time to properly do his hair today. You loved when Eddie would let you get his curls looking just right with a little product and styling.

“Hey,” he waved to you, more reserved than his normal goofy self.

“Well, hey there hot stuff. You look really nice tonight,” you say, leaning in to give him a hug. He went rigid for a moment before melting into the embrace. 

“About time you got here,” Mike calls from the kitchen, causing you to jump back. “You better hurry up and get some of this pizza before Gareth freaking eats it all.”

“Dude, I’m hungry!” Gareth shouts defensively. Will puts a hand on his shoulder to comfort him as everyone laughs them off.

“Where’s your friend,” you ask the room, scanning it for a new face. The boys said they had convinced their friend Lucas to finally come to a Hellfire meeting after several long months.

“He should be here soon,” Dustin says in an overly reassuring way.

“Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mike scoffs.

“You were there, dude. He said he would come.”

“He said he would think about it. Never said he was gonna show up for sure.”

“If Sinclair shows up, we’ll greet him with open arms,” Eddie speaks up, “And if he doesn’t…well,” the room stills,”...there will always be other Hellfire Club meetings.”

Before the game begins, the boys take turns passing around gifts to each other. You’ve never seen so many sets of colourful dice in your entire life, but they all seemed very excited to receive them. Eddie was given a few band shirts and some cool looking records as well. He was so grateful for each gift he was given, a constant roll of thanks coming from him.

For a moment, you thought he might be getting overwhelmed when you saw a him wipe away a tear. You rest your hand on his arm, but he waves you off and reassures that he’s just really, really happy. It made your heart feel full to see him in such a good place. The amount of growth he’s done in such a short time never ceases to amaze you.

Eventually the game started rolling. You took the opportunity to clean up the mess of wrapping paper that was littered across the living room. The boys tried to get you to join them, but you told them that you wouldn’t be as fun to play with since you’d ask so many questions.

But Eddie still managed to keep you returning to the table. A few beers deep, he decided to skip his nighttime pain med. This led to his hands starting to ache (allegedly), which meant he needed you to roll his dice for him. Even if you knew it was just his way of getting you to hang out and avoid the pile of laundry that was staring you down, you let him have his fun and played along.

“Another 20!” You shout, jumping up and down. Eddie laughs manically while the rest of the table groans and protests.

“Maybe it’s a good thing she didn’t play with us,” Dustin says shaking his head. You stick your tongue out at him and he makes a face back at you.

But the feeling of something touching your back pulls you from the playful banter. Looking around, you realize Eddie has his hand resting on your lower back, rubbing small circles there as he refocuses on the game. It’s not an unwelcome touch by any means, but it does feel very intimate all things considered. 

And it’s only made worse as his hand moves completely across your back, not stopping to trace back and almost hooking you around the waist. He pulls you closer to him until your bodies are flush, besides where the wheelchair separates you. His head rests against you, all of his attention on the game, making the action feel like a subconscious move. 

You weren’t going to make a scene about it, so you instead embrace the affection and let your hand rest on his opposite shoulder. From the corner of your eye you see the smile on his face grow until his dimples are on full display.

At the end of the night, the boys made their exit, leaving the pizza and drinks for you and Eddie to indulge in for the next day. Lucas never showed, but Dustin and Mike seemed determined to make him come out soon.

Once the boys were loaded up and down the drive way, you went straight to the sink to get to work on the dishes. But, before you could get passed the threshold of the kitchen, Eddie gently grabbed your wrist to still you.

“What’s wrong Edward?” You tease. His flush cheeks told you that he let himself go a little more than usually when he drinks.

“Shhhh don’t say my name like that,” he says with a slur of his words.

“Why not? It’s you’re name isn’t it?”

“Makes me feel like I’m in trouble or something.”

“Oh, do you feel guilty about something?”

You didn’t think that your words would hit any chords with Eddie. But the silly outward expression suddenly turned into one of shock. The air shifted in a spit second and you were instantly on damage control.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, fully facing him. Eddie looked like he was on the verge of tears, eyes getting glassier by the second. His body moves as a sob escapes from him, and any resolve Eddie had was gone as he lets everything go.

You crouch in front of him, hands on his shoulders as he begins to wail, body shaking as he lets everything out.

“H-he didn’t--did’t-didn’t show--show up because of me!” The shaky words come out, and you instantly realize the error of your wording.

You pull him into you, letting him cry into your shoulder as you pet his hair, holding him tightly to comfort him

“Shhh, Eddie, nooo,” you speak low next to his ear. “You’re not to blame for what happened. You were a victim, too, Eddie. There isn’t anything you could have done—”

“If I had just died—if Dustin had just left me there instead of finding Steve and Robin…They-they—” 

Eddie starts to hyperventilate. His head lifts from your shoulder as he struggled to get his breath. You jump to your feet and run to the kitchen to grab a paper bag that had been left from the gas station beers. You run back to him and instruct him to breath into it, coaching him to imitate you as you demonstrate taking deep breaths.

After a few minutes, Eddie is able to somewhat calm himself down. Tears still rolling down his cheeks, he leans back into his chair, running his hands over his face and through his hair. You can tell he’s avoiding looking at you. But you’re not sure if its out of shame or if he’ upset with you.

“Eddie?” You ask quietly. He flinches, but slowly lowers his head until he’s facing you, his eyes looking downwards rather than at you. But it’s good enough for you.

“Eddie, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.” His voice is still wobbly, eyes closing again as he breathes in.

“No, Eddie, you need to listen to me. Okay?”

Eddie looks at you, almost through you, but you take the silence as the signal to continue.

“Eddie…I know it might be hard to understand. But…whatever happened back in March…it’s not your fault.” His eyes shift and he starts to blink rapidly, but he doesn’t speak. “I can understand why you think that your friend is mad at you, but I think you know he’s not. He’s just worried about your other friend, Max. And whatever happened to Max…you didn’t force that monster to do that to her. Nor did you make him hurt the other victims.”

Eddie takes in a sharp breath, coming out haggard as you can tell he’s trying to hold back from crying again.

“And whatever happened to you…” You take his hands in yours, looking at the scared skin that decorates it. You let your hands fall against his thighs, just above where his leg is amputated. “Was not your fault.”

“You’ll never understand,” he says suddenly, catching you off guard. “You don’t know what actually happened.”

“Then, tell me Eddie. Help me understand.”

Eddie’s eyes scan your face. Then his head shakes, his curls whipping around as he does.

“I can’t. Even if I wanted to I…I just can’t.”

You nod, “And that’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. Because I don’t think my mind would change even if I did know.”

“Can I go outside?” He asks, pulling his hands from yours.

“Sure,” you say with a smile. “Maybe we can get you showered and ready for bed after?”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, pushing himself to the door. 

“Just hand me the lighter, asshole.”

Gareth’s hand reaches across the coffee table impatiently for Eddie to hand him the bright red lighter after the joint they were passing around had gone out.

“Nope, only people who tell the truth get to use my lighter,” Eddie says holding the lighter to his chest.

“Eddie, don’t press him. He doesn’t want to talk about it,” you say, taking a sip from your concoction of a drink that Grant’s girlfriend, Tina, made for you. You lean into him so that only he could hear you. “How would you feel if someone was pestering Wayne about Ben like that?”

That seemed to shut Eddie up. He finally tossed the lighter to Gareth, who wasted no time in lighting the joint back up.

“So, how did Christmas at the Munson’s go?” Jeff asks, plopping down on the couch next to Eddie, handing him another beer.

“It was, and I am not exaggerating,” Eddie starts with a slight slur of his words, “probably the best Christmas I’ve ever had. Like, this one right here?” He points his thumb to you. “I didn’t think I’d ever know what it feels like to be spoiled, but that’s definitely how she treated me.”

“Wait a second,” you scoff, “I did not spoil you. I just found some things that I thought you’d like and figured I’d get them for you.” You shrug, giving Tina, Grant's girlfriend, a look of feigned innocence as you turned to face her. The two of you had been doing quite a bit of chatting since you arrived, instantly clicking as you two seemed to have a lot in common.

She did ask you how long you and Eddie had been together, however. And you had to awkwardly explain that you were just his caregiver. It made you wonder what Grant had to be telling her about you and Eddie for her to think that the two of you were together.

“Did you get her anything?” Grant asks, nodding to you.

“Of course,” Eddie says with faux offense. “I bought her some of the lotion that she keeps in her bag, some of her favorite snacks, a copy of her favorite movie that she said she lost when she moved, and a study book for school.”

“You also got me a whole box full of snacks,” you say, nudging him.

“That was just because you are constantly talking about how you wish you had this or that when we’re watching a movie or something,”

“Are you sure you are not dating?” Tina leans in and asks you with genuine curiosity.

The guys laugh, but you reassure her that you’re not.

“When you spend as much time together as we do, you tend to pick up on each other’s interests. I’m sure you and Grant are the same way.”

“We are,” she says with an enthusiastic nod, “Because we are dating.”

“Shh, hey, the ball is gonna drop!”

The small TV in Grant’s living room shows that only 15 seconds remain until the ball is about to drop. You move closer to Eddie to see the TV better, and he wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you into him. 

Everyone’s eyes are on the TV as the countdown begins. As the numbers go down, you rapidly reflect on 1986. 

The beginning half of the year seemed uneventful compared to the latter in the grand scheme of things. You recall all the highs and lows that you and Eddie have been in together since you first met, when you realized that what you were feeling was more than it should ever be and how you’ll likely never get the chance to do so. 

But you also reflect on the wonderful new friends that you’ve made, including Wayne, who you hoped was having a good night with Ben. And the younger boys, who said they were going to the hospital to spend the new year with Lucas and Max. 

Only a few seconds remain, so you turn to face Eddie, whose eyes were still on the small screen. An idea came across your mind. You pucker your lips, gearing up to plant a fat kiss on his cheek once the ball dropped. You were sure we would be embarrassed getting a cheek kiss in front of his friends, but doubted he could keep a grudge long. 

As the room cheered at the end of the countdown, you closed your eyes and leaned in. 

But you instantly knew something was off once your lips made contact. Instead of the textured skin you were expecting, you felt softness against your lips. 

And when you opened your eyes, you were met with chocolate brown ones looking right back at you. Eyebrows raised into bewilderment, it took you a few seconds to process what was happening. 

Then it hits you. 

You were kissing Eddie. And he wasn't stopping you.

thank you for reading!

a/n: hello! I wanted to make all of the readers of this series aware that I have decided to change up the direction I’m going with it. I feel like I’m straying away from some important elements and I want to try and regroup starting from part 6 and onwards. I plan on keeping some plot points I previously had planned, but they may just be executed differently than I intended. I dont believe the changes will have an affect on the story so far, but still felt that I should mention it.

By that night, you've nearly reached the Texas border. When you stop at a red light, Billy rolls his head back against the seat, looking at you, who's looking out the window, arms laid atop one another on the sill, taking in the neon lights all around you.

He reaches over then, sliding his large warm palm up your bare thigh.

Your head jerks in his direction. "What're you doing?"

He doesn't reply. Doesn't smirk or smile, or have so much as a twinkle in his eye. Instead, he just looks at you softly.

Your brows furrow, his hand sliding closer to your inner thigh, then stopping, thumb rubbing circles against your soft skin.

You look out the windshield. "The light's green."

You look back to him.

He just keeps looking at you.

And then the car behind you honks and he huffs, rolling his eyes, putting his hand back on the shifter as they lay on the horn yet again. "Yeah, yeah, I fuckin' heard you the first time."

For dinner, Billy pulls into a small diner, and you both exit the car. He holds the door open for you and you pause, looking at him, surprised he didn't go ahead of you. "Thanks."

He gives you a small smile.

You feel like something is up, but don't want to ruin the moment—rather, him acting like an actual human being for once—so you say nothing of it.

You both take a booth by the window, looking over your menus after giving the waiter your drink orders—a lemonade for you and a Coke for him.

You begin perusing their dinner options when you feel Billy's foot brush against yours under the table, just like that afternoon.

You don't react. You're tired of taking the bait every single time. It was just that he knew exactly how to get to you somehow every time.

You set down your menu, knowing what you want, then look dreamily out the window. You smile to yourself and you don't notice it, but Billy is watching you with observant eyes.

You're too lost in your thoughts to take note of him. It's something about being on the road at night that makes you feel so hopeful and content.

All the neon lights, the cars on the road, the warm feel of the summer air on your skin as it washes over you through the open passenger-side window, music playing softly as other cars pass you, people walking along the sidewalks. It makes you feel less lonely. Like the world really can be a beautiful place sometimes.

"What're you thinkin' about, baby?"

You look at him then, shifting in your seat at his soft tone.

"Just how nice things are at night."

He leans back. "Oh, yeah? How so?"

Are you about to have an actual conversation again?

"You'll just tell me that I sound stupid."

"I won't," he replies, brushing his foot against yours.

"It's just pretty. All the lights and the cars and people. Don't you think so?"

He shrugs slightly. "I definitely think at least one thing is pretty."

Back to hitting on you again, then. Never one to give up, clearly.

Your waiter returns, then, to take your orders and Billy speaks. "It'll be one check." He then looks to you. "You want to order first, angel?"

That was a new one. 'Angel'.

You get a salad and a small side, which consists of two pieces of fried chicken, while Billy gets two barbeque sandwiches. Before he even takes one bite of his dinner, though, he looks at you.

"You want to try a bite, sugar?"

You glance up to him from your salad. "I could always throw it on the floor after eating half of it."

He bites back a smirk. "Maybe that's why I got two."

You gingerly take the sandwich from him, taking a small bite, then handing it back.

"Good?"

You nod, chewing.

"You want the other one?"

You shake your head, swallowing. "No, thank you. And...thank you, for paying."

"You're welcome, darlin'."

Something was definitely going on. This wasn't him. But if he knew how to act like this all along, then why was he such an asshole all the time instead?

Once the two of you have finished eating, Billy goes up to pay the check, you standing beside him. As you go to head outside, he holds the door for you again, hand pressed against the small of your back, and then even opens the car door for you as well.

"T-thanks," you say, sitting.

"Welcome," he replies, turning the key in the ignition. He then looks at you. "You want to find a place to stay for the night, or do you want me to drive around some more so you can enjoy the lights?"

You stare at him for a moment. He was asking what you wanted to do? You honestly don't know how to reply to that.

"What do you want to-"

He shakes his head. "I'm asking you, baby."

"I'm kind of tired, actually."

He nods. "I'll find us a motel, honey."

He does the speed limit the entire way to the nearby Days Inn, following the letter of the law to a T the whole way over. You find yourself impressed that it turns out he knows how to drive with common sense.

Once you've arrived, he goes inside, getting you both a room for the night, then comes back out to find you leaning against the trunk, waiting for him.

He throws the key to you and you catch it between your hands.

"One bed again. Think it being cheaper that way is going to be a common trend as we travel."

You nod and step to the side as he unlocks the trunk.

You reach down to grab your backpack first, until he gently grabs your hand in his, his silver ring glinting against the lights overtop the both of you. "I've got it, sweetheart. Let me get it for you."

You merely nod and watch as he loads all three bags onto himself and he follows you up the stairs to your room. Once you've unlocked the door, you let him go in first, then close it behind you.

This room is a near-duplicate of the last one, except for the color-scheme being different. Gaudy oranges and yellows litter the space, from the wallpaper, to the carpet, the curtains, even the bed-spread.

Billy lowers your bags onto the floor, then turns back to you. "You want to shower first?"

He's being very considerate tonight...

"Sure," you say, bending down to your bag, grabbing a pair of shorts and a tanktop, as well as clean undergarments, then stepping into the bathroom, softly shutting the door behind you.

You take your time bathing, trying to understand his sudden shift in mood. Maybe he finally felt guilty about how poorly he'd treated you so far? Maybe he was just tired. Maybe... You sighed. Maybe a lot of things. You didn't pretend to understand him, or the way he acted from one moment to the other.

When you step out of the bathroom, now clean and freshly shaved, you find him laid back against the headboard, flipping channels on the TV.

"You look nice," he says.

You put your hairbrush and razor away in your bag. "Oh, thanks."

He stands, grabbing a pair of briefs and sweatpants. He gives you a light tap under your chin as he goes to step past you, even kissing your cheek, which takes you by surprise. "Welcome, doll."

He shuts the bathroom door behind him this time and you sit down on the edge of the bed, head spinning.

If he'd been this guy from day one, you would've already returned his efforts in dating. How could he not understand that being an angry, vulgar ass was going to get him nowhere—not with you, at least. The 'bad boy' act would only get him so far with girls. But not very far in life, that was for certain.

You stand then, padding over to your bag, deciding to go ahead and pick out an outfit for tomorrow—something to occupy you for a moment, instead of dwelling on him and how he was now acting.

You even bother pulling a few things out, refolding them, then deciding to reorganize half the bag in general.

When Billy emerges from the bathroom, he comes up behind you, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head. You spin around in surprise, bumping against the wall behind you. "Oh."

He steps closer to you, leaning down, wrapping one arm around your waist, while pressing the palm of his other hand against the wall. He begins planting hot wet kisses along your neck and your eyes go wide. He spears his tongue, licking gently, then kissing that same spot. The smell of Old Spice and spearmint invades your senses.

He pulls back, then leans forward again, pressing his lips to yours, softly, gently, his hand now moving to your waist, pushing your tanktop up.

You push lightly against his chest. "Billy, what're you doing?" You ask, voice laced with confusion and concern.

He gives you a small smirk. "Trying to kiss you, pretty girl."

He moves his lips back to your neck again, trailing kisses up to your ear, then whispers into it, "Don't worry, I have condoms."

You shove him away from you then.

"What was that for?" He asks, mildly irritated, erection already standing present.

"C-condoms? I told you earlier I-" You suddenly stop speaking, and then your eyes burn with unshed tears, hope that he was going to finally start being nicer to you shattering.

"That's why," you say tone defeated.

"Why what?" He spits.

You see the real him slowly returning.

"Why you've been so nice to me tonight. You found out I was a virgin and really thought it'd only take a couple hours of buttering me up for me to spread my legs for you. God, you're so pathetic."

His lips sneers. "Why do you have to be such a fuckin' cock tease all the time, huh? Everything I've done—driving your ass across how many state lines, buying you food, a room for the night, keeping you safe, and you don't think I deserve anything in return?"

He felt entitled to it? Sex? With you? You suddenly feel incredibly unsafe. Like you did back in that house with a father who ruled with fists and harsh words. How could you not have seen it before? They were two sides of the same coin.

"You're not entitled to anything. I never asked you for any of that. You practically fucking volunteered."

You angrily wipe tears from your eyes and he lets out a mocking laugh. "Here comes the fucking water-works. Every bitch's greatest trick. Well, guess what, cunt? They don't work on me."

You flinch at the vulgar name.

You watch as his hands tighten into fists at his sides and your heart begins to pound.

He steps closer to you. "I'm pathetic? Me? At least I was making fucking friends. People liked me. You lived in that goddamn town for how long and had nothing to show for it? I could've been king of that school and had any pussy I wanted. But, for whatever reason, you were the set of lips I chose to chase after. What a waste of my fuckin' time. I should've left your ass on the side of the road that night. Be one less problem on my fucking plate."

Your chin wobbles. "Fuck you. I would've been just fine without you. Better off, probably. You think you're so irresistible and different, don't you? Instead, you're just like your daddy."

He roars in anger then, and his fist lands inside the drywall directly next to your head.

You stare up at him in terror, silent tears slipping down your flushed cheeks.

He looks down at you, expression unreadable, his eyes flitting between both of yours.

"P-please don't hurt me," you say, voice small, somehow childlike, even.

His face falls, hurt flashing across his features. His fist loosens as he pulls it back, palm now-flat against the section of wall above the damage he'd just done.

You wrap your arms around yourself and he realizes that you think he's going to hit you next.

He staggers back, hands on his knees for just a moment before abruptly grabbing his bag and going in the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

You sink down to the floor, bringing your knees up to your chest and you lower your forehead to the top of them, rocking yourself gently as you sob in fear.

When Billy comes out of the bathroom, he's dressed in jeans and another button-up shirt, but you don't see him.

His stomach turns when he sees you curled into yourself, crying, shaking, whispering to yourself. "Please...no....don't hurt...."

He lets out a quiet swear, slipping on his boots and jacket, grabbing his car keys and wallet from the table. "I'm going out," he throws over his shoulder before closing the motel door behind him.

Once he's reached his car, he slams the driver's-side door and goes to stick the keys in the ignition, then falters for a moment. Was he really about to leave you all alone like that?

Images of you staring up at him with wide eyes full of fear—just like how his mom used to look at his dad—flash through his mind.

He turns the engine over. Yes, he was.

Billy drives around town for two hours. At first, he'd wished he'd brought his bag with him. He could've just passed over into Texas on his own by now if he had. Instead, he was stuck in Oklahoma with you for the moment being.

Eventually, he parks in an empty lot somewhere, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. He doesn't want to focus on the way he's treated you since day-one. Shitty. That's how.

With most girls, he only had to put in minimal effort to get them to give him what he wanted. He had his looks, the way he dressed, a nice smile, his thick head of hair, a cool car, and a devil-may-care attitude. None of them ever asked for more. Well, they did, but he didn't much care what they wanted. Once he got what he was after, he was satisfied.

He leans back against the seat, eyes closed, unable to get the fucking image of you out of his head.

You'd called him out on his behavior every time—read him like a goddamn book—and that was what really got under his skin. Most girls he came across were either doe-eyed idiots, or sluts. There wasn't an in-between. Not in his mind. But not you, clearly.

But, he supposes, growing up with an abusive father forces you to become adept at reading others to anticipate their future actions, or understanding why they are the way they are. Why they do the things they do.

"For fuck's sake," he says, turning around to finally head back to you, deciding he'd apologize for scaring you. But that was it. Even if it had been your fault. He didn't want to think about how it was really his. How he'd caused this entire damn mess in the first place.

He was about to ruin a good thing. Like always.

It was like he couldn't help himself. What was it his dad had once said about him? Self-destructive behavior? Yeah, well, what did that asshole know? He drove his mother away—his own wife.

He had no room to fucking judge him.

No one did.

Billy slowly climbs the stairs to the room and finds the door thankfully unlocked when he turns the handle.

And when he steps inside, his stomach drops. You're gone, as well as both of your bags.

He steps over to the small table on the other side of the room and picks up the notepad set atop it and reads your delicate handwriting: Don't look for me.

"Fuck that," he says, throwing it down, heading back down to his car.

He tears out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell.

The longer he drives, the worse his anxiety gets. It was almost midnight now. What if you were in some strange man's car, bound and gagged and—no, he can't think like that.

He searches for your face in every woman he passes, but doesn't find you.

Then, he remembers you telling him before about how, had he not come along, you would've 'thumbed a ride'.

"She's on the fucking interstate," he says, making an illegal u-turn, nearly hitting another car as he climbs over a median, racing to you.

He downshifts, RPMs climbing, nearly in the red, then backing off just as the needle hits it, then downshifts again as he jumps on the interstate on-ramp.

He flies past other cars, barely paying attention to the road ahead as he searches for you on the shoulder. Then, "Ha! Fucking found you!"

He pulls over, slamming on the brakes, then gets out, closing his door, coming back toward you.

You stare at him in fear, then turn around, walking quickly away.

"Stop!" He yells, but you of course don't listen.

"Goddamn it," he mutters to himself.

When he finally reaches you, his hand grabs your own, tugging you back in the direction of the car. "C'mon, I'm taking you back."

You turn around, yanking your hand back away from him, staring up at him with bloodshot eyes. "Leave me alone!"

"No way in hell," he says, going to grab you again, but you step back.

He lets out a low swear.

You step forward then and slam your palms against his chest. And then you do it again. And again. And again.

And he just lets you at it. He deserves this after...well, after everything.

Finally, he wraps his arms around you, one around the backpack behind you, his other hand cupping the back of your head.

You sob against his chest. "I fucking hate you."

He shooshes you. "I know."

"You're abusive."

"I know."

"I told you not to-"

"You really think I'd ever listen to that shit?" He pulls away, looking down at you, his hands cupping your cheeks, brushing tears away. "You're stuck with me, baby."

The hours of trouble are now suddenly worth it.  Even as your heavy eyes threaten to slip closed, you thumb the button to the penthouse suite with enthusiasm and admittedly, some excitement.  Maybe losing your shit and bursting into tears in front of the United Airlines attendant was the way to go, especially if it gave you a voucher for dinner so cash-laden, you know you’ll never be able to spend it all.

Not to mention, the fucking penthouse suite at the Park Hyatt.  

Okay, so maybe it’s not the penthouse, but it is still a suite.  The view the attendant promised of Lake Michigan from the floor-to-ceiling windows is the best in the city, and you’re ultimately grateful for the accommodations they made to put you up for the night.  Plus – it’s definitely a far cry from The Marriott in Hilton Head, South Carolina.

Which is where you were headed for your work conference before your flight got delayed and made you miss your connecting.

Heaving one last heavy sigh to the ceiling of the elevator, you again remind yourself that all is not lost.  Missing one day of a conference isn’t so bad.  You’ll use this to your advantage – shower in luxury, maybe even apply your pumpkin enzyme mask and give yourself a little spa-treatment in that luxurious soaking bathtub you spied at check-in.  As your fingers fumble to get that pleasant little click and green light combo on the door lock, you soothe the ache in your feet and the fatigue in your bones with a promise that no matter what, you’ll be fast asleep as soon as your head hits the plushy pillows on that king size bed.

That is, until you’re shocked wide awake with the sight of two dark-dressed men lounging on the plush leather couch, legs spread and bodies relaxed as if they were expecting you.

Which clearly, they weren’t.

Two sets of eyebrows shoot sky high at the sight of you at the door, stunned more by the way you screech,

“What in the fuck –!”

The taller man (you think, anyway) with the slender frame and bambi eyes isn’t terribly fazed.  Annoyance clips at his tone as he sighs, jostling the freshly rolled joint between his full cherry lips.

“Y’lost, sweetheart?”

The surprise of the presence of two denim-clad strangers only intensifies as he addresses you with all the nonchalance in the world.  Stumbling over your words, you finally eek out a spluttering What the fuck – 

– before the shorter, stockier male with a thick silver hoop in his bottom lip snaps at you like a chained junkyard dog.  

“Get the fuck out of our room!”

“Wh-what?”  You hate how your lower lip trembles, at the mercy of the adrenaline that surges through your system.  “No!  No,” you attempt to explain, “this is my room –”

Lip ring scoffs; a haughty catch that rasps deep in his throat.  “Guarantee you, it’s not.”

At least the adrenaline has afforded you some spunk.  Matching this asshole’s condescension, your upper lip curls in a sneer as you flash him the keycard still pinched between your fingers, waving it in front of your face for proof.

“Well, then explain how I just got in here!”

The same man shrugs, tossing a thumb at his friend, boyfriend, next murder victim, whatever with the long, midnight curls.  “You stole it from him, somehow.”  That menace with the piercing blue eyes leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.  “It’s a little desperate, if you ask me.  Eddie likes the chase, not pussy provided to him on a silver platter.”

Eddie – apparently, you wouldn’t put it past that sharp-tongued shithead to lie about names – snorts through his nose (ringed nose, you spot a sliver of delicate silver adorning his left nare) as he adjusts his legs to splay wider across his cushion.  Appraising you with an obvious flick of whiskey brown up and down your frame, he scoffs. 

“Hardly a silver platter.” Your nose wrinkles.  Okay, so the messy bun perched on top of your head is undoubtedly in a right state; you’re aware of that.  You’ve spent the better part of the day traveling, for Christ’s sake.  It stings, how he points out something so obvious – though you refuse to let your hand tend to it.  You wouldn’t dare give them the satisfaction.

Instead, you meet those intense espresso eyes with a furious stare of your own.  “Um, rude.”  You take a grounding breath before demanding, “What are you assholes even talking about?”  

A slow, cocky grin slithers across his features.  “Lemme spell it out for you, sweetheart.”  You recoil at the eponym, his intention clearly made in how he spits it out like it’s burned his tongue.  “You came to our show, you obviously liked what you saw, and you followed us back here.  I gotta say, I admire the tenacity, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

That so figures, these egotistical sons of bitches are musicians.  “Wh–what fucking show?”  You shake your head to accentuate your bewilderment. “I haven’t been anywhere but the goddamn airport today!  My connecting to Hilton Head got missed because my stupid fucking flight took off an hour late.”  Chest heaving, you tilt your head to the side.  “Says a lot about your observation skills.  I’m literally standing here with a big ass suitcase and a carry-on.  Who the fuck goes to a show with that?”

He – Eddie, you remind yourself – lifts an unbothered shoulder.  “Still doesn’t excuse the fact that you broke into a rockstar’s room.”  Long fingers splay over his heart.  “While I am flattered, I stand by what I said.  Desperate little fangirl with a weak-ass sob-story, just trying to get into my pants.”  He flashes you his teeth.  “A tale as old as time.”

That gets a guffaw so obnoxious from the lip-ringed idiot it makes your blood boil.  In spite of yourself, eyes flick down his frame to take in his outfit.  Black OpalInSky shirt.  Tight, ripped black denim jeans.  Chains.  An exorbitant amount of chains.  Black socks and thick-soled black combat boots that lay at rest near his feet.  

And a chunky, glittering set of fucking rings on some stupidly long fingers.  

Which reminds you what’s still held in yours.  “How many keys did you get when you checked in?”

“What?”

“Pay attention, sweetheart,” you snap with the sweetest venom in your tone.  “How many keys did you get?”

“Two.”

Now it’s you that cocks a thin-lipped grin.  “Show me.”

A sardonic string of dry snickers tumble from his lips as he lists towards lip ring, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.  “She’s bossy.  She’s kinda growin’ on me, Gare.”

“You like ‘em mean, that’s for sure.”

Seriously?  The audacity of these two.  “I’m literally standing right here –”

Those deft fingers flip open his leather billfold. “Oh, pipe down, princess.”  Eddie tosses two sleek, navy blue cards on the table.  “Well, wouldja look at that?  Two cards.  This doesn’t prove –”

Your own keycard and the cardboard holder join the identical pair on the table, bulging with the heft of a folded-up receipt.  “Go ahead,” you snip. “Look.”

You’re surprised that he obeys.  While he scans the contents, you can’t help but feel a lurch in your belly, as if your proof won’t be enough.  “This is my room.  Please,” you say as your shoulders slump with fatigue, dropping your carry-on to the floor with a muffled thump, “just please leave.  If you’re like, in a band or something I’m sure they’d be more willing to cater to you than just someone they had to put up for the night.”

The blue-eyed boy grins, shifting on the couch to throw a casual arm behind Eddie.  “Nah, I think he’s good here.”

Your eyes practically bug out of your head.  “Are you – do you not see the literal receipt I just gave him –”

“You might be surprised at the lengths we’ve seen chicks go to to be in this exact situation –”

“I highly doubt you’re that big of a deal.” “Honey, we’re the leading men of Corroded Coffin,” that crooked smile would be hot if it wasn’t attached to someone so assholishly brash.  “I assure you, we are that big of a deal.”

“I’ve never heard of you,” you spit, “have no fucking idea who you are.”

“That’s a shocker,” he laughs as those crystalline eyes dance with mirth.  “You probably wouldn’t know metal music if it bit you in the face.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you bite back, “Metal?  Are you kidding me?  You look more like someone who’d open for a shitty emo cover band.”

Gareth barks a laugh, and a curious flutter beats against your ribs, satisfied you got such a genuine sound out of him.  Before you can dwell much on that feeling, Eddie waves his hand.  

“Children, please,” though he sounds bored, his eyes betray him.  The stare he gives you is loaded.  “Now, sweetheart –”

“Don’t – ugh,” you groan.  If you were to stomp your foot, you would look every bit as petulant as you feel.  “Stop calling me that.”

That ringed hand comes to rub along the stubble on his jawline.  “Whatever the lady wants.” A dimple pops in his left cheek when he murmurs your name.  “Relax.”

Oh, that’s rich.  You can feel your body tense, your blood pressure rising as you practically screech, “Did you just tell me to relax?”

Midnight curls frame his face as he leans forward onto his knees.  “Yes,” he reiterates lowly, the browns in his irises darken as he looks at you through his eyebrows.  There’s a subtle dominance, a shift in his demeanor, and though he’s still seated on the couch, that tone he uses compels your attention like he’s standing over you. “I said, relax.  We’ll get this sorted out.”

The sandy-haired man tips his head back against the cushions, lolling to the side as he mutters, loud enough for you to hear, “Maybe y’should get her to relax, Ed.”  He pins you in place with a Cheshire grin.  “She looks like she’s wound so fucking tight she’s gonna explode. ”

What you mean to say is, No.  Get out of my room.  Don’t speak to me like that.  Or even a, Shut your stupid, sexy mouth before I bite that goddamn ring right out of your face would have sufficed.  

Okay, maybe not that last part, but the way that asshole keeps tonguinging it is starting to drive you a little mad, and not necessarily in a bad way.  

But, you don’t say any of that.  

Instead, your hackles are up as you reactively retort, “Your lazy fuckboy skills couldn’t get me to come if you tried.”

A heavy silence buzzes in your ear; a dreaded feeling that you’ve gone too far prickles heat up your neck before blooming into your cheeks.  

Eddie’s features split wide in a sinister grin, as though watching you squirm is enjoyable.  “Interesting,” he muses softly, sending a thrill down your spine.

“Please…” shame threatens to muck up your vocal chords, and it’s an effort to fight over the weak rasp and warble to petition for their mercy.  Still, you’re firm in how you demand, “Just leave.”

There’s no mercy at the bottom of seaglass and dark honey, only this taunting sort of dominance that has your heart hammering wild in your chest.  “Do you mean that?” Eddie asks with a brazen tilt of his head, “y’really want us to leave?”

Your jaw swings open on its hinges, at the ready to fire back with all the confidence in the world.  How they haven’t realized this, gotten it through their thick skulls is beyond you – all you want is to crash on that bed and wrap yourself in that duvet that looks like it would swallow you whole.  

Funny – because that’s precisely how both of these men look right now as they wait for your response.

Your very delayed response.  “Yes,” you manage to choke out, drawing a snicker from the asshole to Eddie’s left who still hasn’t told you his name.  

Not that you care.

A subtle scrape of metal against enamel, Eddie clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the way he slowly works it over his words showcases the silver bar and ball in its center.  “Nah, I don’t think you do.”

The air turns dense, suddenly laden with promise.  “What?”

Eddie feels it too, it radiates off his lithe form in waves.  “I propose to you a deal, sweetheart.”  The deep timbre in his voice rumbles through your chest.  “You’ll get the room.  Fair and square, because it does look like the hotel fucked up.  Honest mistake, you can surely imagine that those happen, can’t you?”

It’s as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe.  “I –”

He presses on as if you’ve kept silent.  “You’ll get the room if, and only if, I’m not able to extract that stick from your ass and use these lazy fuckboy skills to make you come.”

To punctuate his point, he wiggles those ring-clad fingers, smirking as you stammer, “That – that’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Eddie shrugs.  “But something you’re entertaining.  Isn’t she, Gareth?”

The man who now has a name raises an eyebrow suggestively, making a point to slowly drag his tongue over his lower lip as he stares you down.  “She certainly looks like she’s entertaining it.”

Oh, this little shit.  White hot denial, thick and heady, is sluggish as it courses through your veins.  It’s maddening how it delays your vehement, “No, I’m not –”

“Yeah, I think you are.”  Eddie interrupts your pitiful rejection, confident in the way he matches Gareth’s reclined position on the couch.  Arms splay out wide, palms to the ceiling in smug supplication.  “Those are the terms.”  After a beat, he extends a hand across the designer coffee table.  “Whaddya say?”

It only takes a moment of consideration before your upper lip curls in disgust, refusal found and sharp as you slap his offering away.  “Fuck you and fuck this.  Get out of my room.”

Gareth guffaws as the crack of skin on skin echoes off the high ceilings.  “I think we struck a nerve.  Been awhile since you had someone other than that vibrator in that front pocket of your carry-on make you come, yeah?”

You suck in a breath through your teeth, unable to mask the shock of his accuracy.  “I – no, I don’t –”

“Gare Bear, be nice,” Eddie admonishes as the saccharine sweetness drips from his canines.  “We can be nice, I promise.”  

You don’t believe him for a second.  “I sincerely doubt that.”

A subtle pitch of his hips forward has Eddie shifting his position on the couch, and you could curse yourself at how swiftly your eyes flick to the impressive mass straining behind his fly.  That devilish smirk on his face only grows wider – and you know he’s clocked your stare.  

“Oh, but you’re wondering, aren’t you?  Wondering if I can back all this talk up?”

“You can’t.”

“I can.  In fact, I can be so nice to you in so many different ways.”  He tosses you a wink.  “So many different positions.  Baby, I’ll have you losing count of how many times you come.”  

Your mouth drops agape, your stare oscillating to Gareth like he’s going to refute this, apologize for his bandmate’s filthy mouth, do anything but look as smug as he does while he watches you fight for words.   

“Oh, don’t worry about Gare,” Eddie mistakes your stunned silence, thumbing over to his bandmate.  “He’ll sit pretty and just watch.”

That lip ring twists into a frown, lasting but a moment before Gareth schools his expression back into a cocky grin.  “Critique, you mean.”

Eddie snorts as he digs an elbow into Gareth’s side.  “Fuck you, asshole.”

Their banter gives you a moment to breathe.  “I – no,” you mutter, pushing a defiant breath out of your nose before reiterating more firmly, “no.”

“Y’sure about that?”

It’s appalling how you’re standing in the very same place you started, feet sewn to the floor while the circumstances of the evening whirl around you as if you’re not even there.  Just moments ago, you were so sure all you wanted to do was unwind in peaceful solitude, lose yourself in luxury you hardly ever afford yourself in reality.  Now, standing here in front of these two irritatingly arrogant men – you’re wired, buzzing with electricity that sends potent little zings to your toes.  Your heart is pounding, pulsing your exasperation through your vessels to throb a relentless rhythm in your core so strong it aches.

It aches for more, so much more than that earlier version of you ever dreamed of wanting. Truthfully, you’re not all that surprised.  You know how you allowed it to happen; egged it on, even.   

Actions, meet consequences.  

Plural.

A steely set of sky-blue eyes is laser-focused on how your chest heaves, offering nothing to his friend’s previous question.  Gareth angles his body, purposefully close; his defined cupid’s bow brushing the helix of Eddie’s ear.  

“I think that’s our answer.”

A dark, deep hum rattles in the other man’s throat.  “Last chance, sweetheart.”  Broad palms softly smack against denim as Eddie makes a show of lifting himself off the couch to stand at his full height.  A long, lean finger drags under your jawline, and you flinch at the contact before he’s crooking it under to softly tip your chin upwards.  His voice adopts a gravelly husk.  “Tell us to stop, and I’ll go down to the desk right now and sort it out.  Promise you, I will.”  The mood shifts as those deft fingers grab your chin, a sensual flare of heat licks at your insides as he slowly runs the calloused pad of his thumb along your bottom lip.  “Or, tell me to fuck you.  Tell me to take care of you like you deserve.”  Midnight curls, softer than you ever imagined, brush the sensitized skin of your cheek when he comes closer, guiding his thumb past your lips as he whispers in your ear.  “Tell me to make you come.”

A soft, feminine moan is wrenched from your depths as you taste him.  Eddie’s skin is ripe with salt and musk and man, his essence he spreads over your tongue as he reaches deeper.  The roughness of his thumb is exquisite, this dynamic even more so – and you lean into it, locking his lustful gaze as you hollow your cheeks and suck.  Eddie scoffs under his breath, pressing farther back to test your limits.  When you don’t gag despite his depth, a corner of his mouth lifts in approval.

Gareth watches with rapt attention, stifling a grunt as your heavy-lidded eyes lock in his fiery stare.  He matches Eddie, lips stretched wide to bare his teeth while his hand rests over an obvious bulge behind the fly of his jeans.  

He never breaks eye contact.  “Oh, she’s gonna be so good for us, Ed.”

“She already is.”  Slipping the calloused pad over your tongue once, twice – before drawing it back over your lips, he gently prods for your consent.  “She’ll be even better if she tells us with her words what she wants.”

It’s already been decided, but you indulge him, never once breaking that intense umber stare.  “Okay,” you reply, barely above a whisper from the breath you’ve lost, but still somehow firm.  “Try to make me come.”

Eddie’s whole face, though still darkened with lust, lights up with your answer.  He draws in a shaky inhale, on the cusp of saying more, when his bandmate butts in.

“Sorry,” Gareth exaggerates cupping his hand behind his ear, “I can’t hear you from all the way over here.”

“Oh my god,” you scowl, tearing yourself away from this breathtaking moment with Eddie to pin Gareth in a withering glare. “If you would shut your fucking mouth for two seconds, you’d be able to hear me just fine.”

Eddie lets an amused huff escape as he leans in, plush lips ghosting the shell of your ear.  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got a little crush on my drummer.” Reactively, your nipples pucker at his accusation, moreso as his tone drops. “Be nice, now.  He likes ‘em sweet.”

Usually, you are.  So kind and affectionate.  There’s just something about Eddie that has you acting out, wanting and needing to be abrasive and defiant.  Like he wants it that way, like he’s guiding you into a realm you’ve rarely explored.

So it feels right to stay vigilant, angling your set jaw towards him as you vow, “I don’t plan to be sweet tonight.”

The chuckle that slips through his plush lips is downright villainous.  “Atta girl.”

Dropping your chin, the taller man slinks away to flip on a lamp at the bedside.  Gareth materializes next to you, nearly startling you with how softly he croons your name.  

“Here, honey.  Follow Eddie over to the bed and I’ll take this for you, hmm?”  Warmth from his fingers caresses your hand where you’ve protectively gripped the handle of your carry-on.  The smile he gives you is strangely genuine, soothing any lingering unease once you’re over the initial shock of his kindness. “S’okay,” he murmurs.  “You can trust us.  You say stop and we’re gonna stop.  Okay?”

You warily search those ice-blue depths for any signs he’s messing with you.  The other shoe doesn’t drop – those crystalline eyes sparkle with sincerity.  Your grip slackens; silent permissions are granted with a tiny curl of your lips.  

Letting your wanton stare linger on his lips, you run your tongue along the edge of yours before affirming, “I’m not gonna want you to stop.”

“Fuck.”  Sandy-blonde curls dance around the apples of his cheeks with a smart shake of his head, swearing again under his breath as he picks up your luggage.  “Good girl.”

Gareth’s praise sears hot through your system, pooling at your core.  You keep a coy eyebrow raised while he carries your bags to the hall closet, watching how the muscles of his shoulders and back ripple under his charcoal gray tee as he maneuvers the heavy tote.  Staring longer than intended, there’s mirth in how Eddie breaks the spell with a gritty call of your name. 

Summoning you over with an intentional waggle of his middle and ring fingers, you fight a massive eye roll before crossing the spacious room to where he stands near the king-size bed.  He wastes no time, using those long arms to pull you flush against his body.

“Last chance,” he’s panting, the thrumming of his heart can be felt under your palms that are mashed against his chest, “you want this?”

You don’t hesitate.  “Yes.”

“Good.”

Bracing yourself for impact, you tense.  The expectation is for him to be rough, unbound with his passion that has smoldered in his dark chocolate eyes since you walked through that door.  Instead, you’re met with intention, with care as Eddie cups his hand around the back of your skull and slots his impossibly plush lips against yours.  

It’s soft and sensual; there’s passion, only different than you expected.  He’s careful in how he moves, how his free hand wanders over the material of your hoodie; up your arm, down your spine, across your waist in such languid, teasing strokes that you almost wish he’d be more aggressive.

Almost.

Because this?  It’s heaven.  It’s fireworks and bliss and a whole different level of contentment that has you sighing deeply as your fingers tangle into that beautiful mess of curls.  Groaning deep in his chest, Eddie deepens the kiss, licking at your lips to allow him to explore the honeyed recesses of your mouth.  

And explore he does.  

You feel his presence a fraction of a second before you feel his first touch.  Gareth brackets you against Eddie from behind, his hot breath fanning over the dewy skin of your neck before you’re treated to the softest press of lips over your flesh.  His kisses draw a current from his mouth to your center, made all the more intense as he runs both hands up, up, up and into your hair.  You groan as deft fingers unwind your hair tie, and again – louder for Eddie to swallow – when they settle against your scalp, rubbing tired strands into relaxation, coaxing them to cascade in untidy waves over your shoulders.

He’s so good at this.  He’s too good at this.  Dueling sensations mix in a homogenous blend of pleasure so deep you’re dizzy while you stand.  Where one kisses you senseless, the other makes you senseless – his blunted nails dragging over your scalp again and again until you’re nothing better than putty in their hands.

Fuck orgasms, you think wryly to yourself, just do this all night and I’ll be happy.

Undressing you is a dance, a cool coordination of flawless effort.  Shoes and socks are shed by one while the other occupies your mouth with his lips, only to then be guided with the gentlest of touches to the other while the zipper of your hoodie is slowly slipped down and away.  Push and pull, back and forth; the two men are perfectly in sync like they’ve often done this together before.  It should bother you, it should make you feel cheap or unspecial.  As Eddie directs you back to Gareth’s lips, you expect insecurity to trickle in, especially as he hooks those ringed fingers into the band of your leggings and tugs them over your thighs.  No doubt you’re a dime a dozen for these two – merely another groupie, looking for a quick fuck – just like they said.  

Insecurity never comes; it’s as absent as your shame.  Even though you know in your heart it’s a one-off, you’ll go back to your life and they’ll go back to theirs – the reverence in every grasp, every stroke, every caress says otherwise.  You don’t feel cheap or used as Eddie’s hands ghost over your curves, or when Gareth’s lips tickle the skin on the back of your neck.

Sighing when you’re once again led to Eddie’s mouth, you concede you’ve lost the bet before it’s really even begun.  In this moment, you feel cherished.  Sensual.  Desired.  A goddess meant to be worshiped.  It’s been so long since you’ve felt lust like this ignite in your belly, pooling arousal slick and hot between your legs.

It’s foolish and it’s atypical for you – but fucking hell does it feel so good.  

You crack a small smile into his plush pursed lips, wiggling while Gareth’s fingers run a blazing trail under the path of your tee – up your sides, down the slope of your chest, over the expanse of your waist and hips and back again.  It tickles, but in the best way – pleasure sparks hot and bright, concentrating to heat the desire that licks at your core.  

Finally, Gareth pulls your shirt over your head, and you swear you hear him snicker as it comes off.

You’re more breathy than you realize as you ask, “What?”

“Nothin’,” he muses with a smirk as he folds it with surprising care and sets it on the dresser.  “Interesting choice.”

“I like Tool,” you breathe, sighing airly as the sultry warmth of Eddie’s mouth explores every dip and valley of your chest that’s now bared to him.  

Gareth settles in the chair in the corner, his piercing baby blues remain fixed on you.  “Sure ya do.”

Ire and pleasure roll to a boil in your belly, the heat from the two distinct emotions nearly indecipherable.  “Oh, are you gonna be that douche that tells me to name five songs because I’m we-ear – oh, fuck –” you lose yourself properly when Eddie ducks his head to close his lips over your nipple.  Your tone swings up an octave as you finish, “their band tee?”

The gravel in the drummer’s tone baits you further.  “Nothing would delight me more.”

“You asshole –” 

Stealing a sharp glance at Gareth, you’re immediately rewarded; pride prickles in tiny puckered dimples over your skin.  The sight of you, nearly-naked in just your underwear, body bowing to Eddie’s tongue and teeth and hands has affected him tremendously.  His face is flushed, hips canting of their own accord for relief as he palms over his denim-covered cock.  

Eddie senses your distraction and immediately puts an end to it.  “Gareth,” he grits, “shut up and just watch.”  

Spinning you where you stand, he holds you tightly against his frame, the surprising strength in the arm over your collarbones renders you immobile.  The anticipation is thick and heady, sawing the breath in and out of your lungs as you wait for his next move.  Gareth watches it all, every rise and fall of your chest, every reflexive shiver Eddie’s touch sends through your core.  Lust clouds the vibrant blue of his irises, staining them gray.  It changes his whole appearance; he almost looked boyish before, but now?

Sitting in that chair is a man – a primal, wanting man that is wound so tight you think he might explode.  There’s no hiding how turned on he is, and with a wave of satisfaction, through the haze of desire you recognize it’s you that affects him this way.

It drives you crazy, especially as Eddie runs his free hand over your breasts, roughened pads of his agile fingers pinch and flutter over pert nipples with such precision that your head topples back to rest against his shoulder.

Though your eyes slip closed, you can feel his smile as he nuzzles your temple.  “Feel good, sweetheart?”

“Mmmhh,” you hum, not so lost to his erotic ministrations that you can’t feign some indifference, “feels fine, I guess.”

Tandem scoffs tickle the newfound part of your brain that’s so intent on pushing buttons.  It thrills you, how Eddie reacts with a firm press of his forearm against your chest and a rut of his erection over your ass.

“Feels fine, I guess,” Eddie mocks in a soft soprano rendition of your voice before dropping his timbre to roll like thunder.  “We’ll see about that.”  Dipping his hand over the soft of your belly, he toys with the elastic of your underwear before dragging his hand lower to cup over your pussy.  Fingers explore the wetness gathered here with tantalizing accuracy, his touch over your aching core so exquisite it’s a tremendous effort not to moan out his name.

His index swipes along your seam, pressing at the apex just enough to send a shock of pleasure coursing through your veins.  Crooking the soaked fabric at its hem, he pulls it aside and runs that same digit through your folds.  

“Fuck, she’s so wet, Gare,” his murmur is tainted with a sandpaper rasp. “Christ, sweetheart, this all for us?”

Gathering your slick, he runs it back and forth with a touch so light drives you wild.  To keep the noises that beg to pour from your lips, you sink your teeth into the plush of your bottom, hard enough a coppery tang bursts over your tongue.  Your pussy betrays you, the slick sounds Eddie makes as he dips his pad at your entrance are obscene and present and loud.

“Can hear her pussy from here,” Gareth flashes a wicked grin in your direction.  “You’re gonna come in record time, honey.”

Words elude you at a time like this, all you can give him is an abrupt shake of your head.  

“Gonna be so easy for ‘im,” he goads, “Eddie’s fingers are magic.”

As if on cue, Eddie’s longest finger locates your clit and weaves the gentlest figure eights.  He doesn’t even flinch as your nails dig into his forearm, clinging harder to his hold to stay upright.  It’s all at once so much and not enough, and your hips buck reactively in search for more.  Adrenaline crackles through your veins as you tip Gareth a sardonic smile.  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

Gareth grunts, a pause before he retorts an equally wry, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You’re cute,” you huff, desperately trying to wash the bliss out of your tone as Eddie firmly presses tight circles over your bud, “confusing me with someone who actually gives a – ohhh shit –”

A pornographic moan spills over your slackened lips as Eddie sheaths two thick fingers deep inside your cunt.  They slide in with no resistance, satisfying that throbbing ache with the most delicious of intrusions.  He fills you, stretches you, massages your walls like he knows already what makes your blood run hot. 

“What was that, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, setting a torturously slow rhythm.  “You taunting my drummer again?”

You couldn’t answer him if you tried.  Eddie taunts you instead, dragging his fingers in and out of your needy hole, the heel of his hand providing pressure over your clit as he bottoms out.  “I think that gets you hot, thinking you can rile him up.”  A deft crook of his fingers against your front wall has you keening.  “And maybe you can, but baby… right now, you’re mine.  I’m the one knuckle-deep inside this cunt, playing you like a fiddle.  I’m the one that’s got your pussy clenching around me, around my fingers.”  

There’s no lie – you could hate how right he is if it didn’t feel so goddamn divine.  “Already have you so far gone.  Christ, look at you.”  Pausing the thrusting of his digits, he opts to keep them buried, scissoring and driving into that oversensitized spongy wall that makes you see stars.  “Yeah, that’s it, huh?  Do I have it?  Do I have you all figured out?”

You figured you had time, that standing practically naked with an audience would distract you from your orgasm well enough to draw this out.  The fact is, there is no time – Eddie’s fingers are honed in on your pleasure, careening you towards release embarrassingly fast.  High and tight sighs fill the room at the end of every precise press of pads over where you need him most. 

Eddie almost sounds bored while his fingers vigorously send you to the edge.  “I know I do.  I knew I would, and here you are – reduced to a sloppy mess on my hand.”  

Labored breaths puff from your nose, your lips clamped shut in an attempt to stifle all the whines and whimpers that beg for release.  “Go on,” Eddie whispers lowly, “say something.  Tease my drummer.  Look at him; look at Gareth for me, sweetheart.”  Your eyes open of their own accord, locking in with steely blue like they’re compelled to obey.  “Keep those eyes open, now.  Want you to look at him, want you to just relax and feel me work you over.  Fuck, that’s right,” he chuffs as a pitchy ahhh involuntarily escapes, “make all those pretty noises for him as I make you come.”

If it hurts him with how deep your nails sink into the sturdy sinew of his arm, he doesn’t show it.  Instead, he keeps his cadence steady, drumming those magic fucking fingers against that spot, spreading molten pleasure like wildfire.  It climbs, the pressurized release within reach – 

Until a familiar rasp from the chair slices through, yanking you back from the edge.  

“She’s closin’ her eyes, Ed.”

Your upper lip curls in disgust, but before you can snark the retort Gareth knows is coming, Eddie’s hand moves swiftly from its grip on your shoulder to grasp along your jaw.  “Now, now,” he growls, adding the most delicious pressure and squeezing your cheeks as he rips your gaze from his bandmate.  “I said keep ‘em open.  Be my good girl and listen to me.”

Umber eyes flash when he feels your body bow to the promise of your orgasm.  Gently, he cradles your chin and returns your fucked-out stare to his friend.  Those fingers never slow, but the heel of his hand shifts, adding just what you need to reach your peak.

“Ohhfuckk,” you fight to keep your eyes trained on baby blue as that white-hot coil winds close to detonation, “fuck, I –”

A choked cry is wrenched from your throat as Eddie pistons his two longest digits with expert precision, adding the perfect balance to the friction he provides against your clit.  Your body submits with the fiery snap of pleasure, pouring it rich and honeyed through your core in waves.  Jaw hanging slack, muted huffs and whines tumble from your lips on the heels of your gasping breaths, not once breaking eye contact with the one who sits stock-still in his chair.  Eddie mercifully keeps up the subtle pump and grind, whispering praise in your ear as you ride out your release on his hand.  

It’s the hardest anyone has ever made you cum, but you’re not about to tell them that.  There’s a good chance the one whose well-inked arm already knows, as he’s now decorated with reddened little half-moons from your nails.  Your head is just as fuzzy as your body, lolling forward to rest against the firm, muscled flesh.  You realize it may be the only thing keeping you upright with how your legs and your insides have turned to jelly.

Between panting breaths, you manage to stammer, “You – you –”

Eddie snickers, slowly withdrawing his fingers from your still-fluttering pussy.  “Yeah?”

“You, Gareth,” throwing all of your remaining fire into lifting your head and finally tossing back a snarky retort that burst into your brain before Eddie’s fingers incinerated it with that orgasm.  “You are such a little bitchboy.  Tattlin’ on me to your daddy like that.  Nearly didn’t come because of you.”

The lines around Gareth’s bright blue eyes crinkle in delight; he throws his head back and matches the booming cackles emanating from Eddie.  You can’t help but grin as well, pride swells in your chest at the way you’ve got both of them to laugh so carefree as they are.  

Gareth pushes off from the chair, stealing you from Eddie and backing you up to the bed.  “God damn, you’re a pain in my ass.”  One playful push has you willfully toppling into the duvet, body sinking into covers so downy soft.  The bed jostles lightly as Gareth crawls up to hover over your frame.  “I fuckin’ love it.”

Kiss-bitten lips connect in a flash with yours, the heat from his mouth so searing it ignites you from the inside.  You match his every move, every twist and tangle of his tongue against yours is met with one of your own.  His taste is divine, so different from Eddie’s but yet just as desirable.  It spurs you on, drives the confidence needed to lick over that silver hoop along his bottom lip and capture it between your teeth.  Gareth moans into your mouth, answering with a teasing nip of his own.  The sting is wanton and your body is begging for more, but before you’re given a chance to revel in it, Gareth moves off of you.  There’s a brief pause in his affections as he shifts, tugging you up to the head of the bed as Eddie settles to kneel on the floor at your feet.  

Gareth cups your face in his hands.  “Open those legs for us, honey,” he rasps into your parted lips, “Eddie wants to make you feel so good.”

You don’t need those hands to help spread you wide, your legs fall apart all on their own.  Humming contentedly as Eddie’s palms run a soothing trail over sensitive skin, you steal a glance at where he lies so close to your sex.  His dark chocolate curls frizz in disarray around his face while heavy-lidded eyes oscillate from you to the soaked middle of your panties.  It’s infuriating how slow he takes it, running the bulb of his nose over your covered slit, placing tender kisses on the trembling flesh of your inner thighs, deliberately delaying the inevitable.

You wish Gareth’s own fingers would work their magic, touch your chest, your nipples, your ribs, anywhere but where he has them tenderly clasped along your jawline.  

Arguing for it isn’t an option.  Your mouth is occupied, your voice lost in the depths of Gareth’s kiss – a would-be distraction if you weren’t so in tune with every sultry puff of breath against your sex.  

As if he timed it, Eddie licks a long, wide stripe over your clothed cunt at the moment your mouth opens to accommodate Gareth’s wandering tongue.  It shatters you in the best way, tearing your lips from his to belt a wanton moan to the ceiling.  You steal the air right from Gareth’s mouth with your gasping inhale, succumbing to the warm, wet heat of Eddie’s tongue as he drags it over the soaked gusset of your panties.  He’s a rascal and you’re sure he knows it, your hips chase that sinful muscle after he makes a show of swirling the tip around your clit before he stretches the thin, silken material of your underwear north with a sly pinch of his fingers.  

That pressure, that gentle rub of fabric against your sex carries such a surprising intensity your hands clench at your sides.  

“Oh, look at that,” Eddie coos, pulling it even tighter over your pussy, “she’s so pretty.  Practically swallowing up your panties, baby.”  Another hot rush of arousal coats the fabric when you hear him rasp, “Gare, come look at this.”

Gareth throws you a wicked look before rolling from his position on top of you to flank Eddie’s side.  Peering over your body, you watch how his chin drops to his chest at the sight of you.  “Fucking Christ,” Gareth unleashes a shuddering breath full of reverence and lust, “give ‘em to me, Ed.”

“Gladly.”  With enviable dexterity, Eddie rips your panties down your legs.  Gareth snatches them from his grasp, shoving his nose directly into the sodden crotch.  The moan he belts is downright vulgar – you’re surprised you haven’t burst into flames.  

While your stare is trained on the man face-deep in that ruined scrap of fabric, Eddie coaxes your thighs wider.  “Oh, sweetheart,” he husks with white-hot vehemence, “I’m gonna fuckin’ devour you.”

You have no time to react to the heat in his words before he’s doing just that – making a mess of your cunt in a blur of mouth and lips and tongue.  It shocks the air from your lungs, the pleasure he builds, lapping and licking every intimate inch of you.  He does it like he’s known your body, like he knows you – and Christ, perhaps he does.  There’s no question in your mind he’s the best you’ve ever fucking had – each wicked undulation of his tongue is met with just enough suction from his mouth and vibrations from his throat, you find yourself tensing against the inevitable.  

Just as before, your orgasm slams into you regardless of how you try to fight it off – the moment Eddie flattens his tongue and rubs the ball of his piercing against your clit, he has you seeing stars.  Every part of your core seizes in effervescent waves, needy walls clamping down on nothing and only intensifying the ache that burns deep within you.  In an effort to mask your pleasure, you hide as much of your face as you can in your pillow, willing Gareth to be looking anywhere else but how your body convulses and spasms against Eddie’s mouth.

As luck would have it, you’re not that fortunate.  Gareth’s whole face ignites as he recognizes what just happened.  

“Holy shit, did you come already?”

You’re hardly yourself, panting and twitching and squirming while Eddie’s tongue dives inside your entrance.  “N-no –”

“You liar,” he half-laughs, feathering the skin near the corners of his eyes with delight.  He snickers as you whine, snatching your hands from where they try to push Eddie’s face out from between your thighs.  “Well, if you say so… Ed, I think you need to suck a little harder on her clit.  She says she hasn’t come yet.”

A knowing rumble emanates from Eddie’s chest.  Without losing his pace, his heavily-lashed lids rise to half-mast, a blackened gaze hones in on how your chest heaves under every deft swipe of his tongue.

“Liar,” he mutters with a mouthful of pussy.

The buzz from his gravelly tone nearly sends you into orbit.  “Fuck, I –” There’s no point in begging, not when Eddie’s swollen lips seal over your swollen clit.  “No – ohh–” 

All higher brain function ceases.  He’s dead set to prove you wrong, make good on all of his promises as that tongue works in perfect tandem with those stupidly plush lips.  There’s nothing left to do, nothing to dampen the overwhelming surges of electric lust that lightning through your cunt.  Ripping your hands from Gareth’s, you do what instinct tells you to do – wind your fingers tight into Eddie’s curls, pull his face closer and ride out the overstimulation on his face. 

It’s still so much, your mouth drops slack from the barrage of sensations.  “No, no, no,” you protest, a mere whisper beneath the lewd, slick sounds of your sex.

Though you’re quiet, Gareth hears it all.  “No?” he feigns concern, “Why’re you saying no?  Is that not enough, you little brat?”  

It’s so utterly enough it’s almost too much.  You feel as if you could levitate with the way Eddie drives you straight into another climax; the pressurized heat of release sears every fiber of your being and has you hoarsely bawling out a string of nonsensical words.

It’s loud, it’s messy, and it’s so fucking hot – and all the while there’s still an awareness deep in your subconscious that knows your every expression is being watched.  How that elevates you further – you’re not at liberty to understand, not right now, anyway.  Not while Eddie’s two longest fingers toy at your entrance, gathering ample amounts of your arousal, pushing in to tease at your hole before withdrawing completely.  The heated anticipation is so divine you can’t help but whimper and moan for more.

Apparently, Gareth can’t get enough.  “God damn, listen to you,” he groans reverently, “listen to those sweet little noises – couldn’t hold those back if you tried, huh?  Eddie’s mouth is just too fuckin’ good, isn’t it?”

Thrashing about the downy soft bedding on the cusp of your release, all you’re able to offer are pitchy little ahh, ahhs at the end of your gasping inhales.  

“I asked you a question, honey,” Gareth directs your face out of the pillows and into his gaze that sizzles with desire.  “Answer me.”

You don’t even remember the question at this point.  “I – yes, yes –”

A firm grip cradles your jaw.  “You gonna come again?”

It’s right there, a molten implosion of your being, teetering on the edge.  The white-hot pleasure borders on painful, the answer for that ache reached as soon as Eddie’s fingers found purchase against your sweet spot.  Every muscle in your pelvic floor is bound tight, held fast in a limbo that fights to keep your impending orgasm from wiping you from the face of this earth.

Yeah – it sounds dramatic, but with the way Eddie has your pleasure mounting regardless, you’re not sure you’re going to survive.  Your lips roll inward, your eyes screw shut as that coil wraps and winds to its breaking point.

Gareth chuckles, dark and with intention.  The pad of his finger, smoother than Eddie’s, taps lightly at your cheek.  “Eyes on me.”  

“N-no,” you whimper, knowing that they both have wholly ruined you with this last push over the precipice, “noo no no – ohfuck –!”

Your entire body draws on itself with the sheer force of your orgasm, thighs slamming shut over Eddie’s face.  It isn’t even a wave, it’s a violent shattering of your existence, bowing your back clear off the bed with how hard your muscles contract.  

Gareth is quick to brace one of your legs, while Eddie palms the other.  “Keep them open, baby,” his command sounds almost like it’s spoken underwater, “wanna see you make a mess of him.”

You’re suddenly very aware of a sizable, slow gush of fluid, leaking from between your thighs and the source of the obscene sounds of Eddie’s fingers fucking up into your core.  The lewd, wet squelch of your orgasm drowns out all other sounds.  Or perhaps, it’s the roaring of blood in your ears – you’re not in any state of mind to figure it out.

Eddie lifts his head without stalling his efforts, a self-assured grin befalls his face that’s just soaked in your release.  A mental image of him slathered in your cum is seared into your memory, suspended in time before he dives back in, replacing his tongue at your entrance to lap up every last drop.   He’s loud – so fucking loud – moaning into your pussy like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.  You’re certain he’d keep going, too, if it wasn’t for Gareth.

“Ed,” he rasps, clearing his throat loudly to grab his friend’s attention, “why don’t we get more comfortable before you fuck her brains out?”

As if Eddie hadn’t done that already with his godforsaken mouth. If you weren't still trying to catch your breath, you’d laugh at the irony of it all. 

Eddie huffs a stilted groan into your pussy, making you twitch from the vibrations.  “Splendid idea, Gare.”

The blue-eyed man snorts.  “Such a fuckin’ nerd.”

Eddie hauls himself up from between your legs, his face a shimmering, shining mess of you.  He cocks a grin at his bandmate.  “Just the way you like it.”  Taking his two fingers that were just buried in your pussy, Eddie runs the pads along Gareth’s lower lip before shoving them in his mouth.  “Now suck for me, big boy.”

Gareth grapples at Eddie’s wrist, eyes rolling back as those thick digits disappear between his lips.  Your lids flare as you watch Eddie’s two middle fingers slip and slide between his reddened pout, ridding them of any evidence of you.  

“God damn,” Gareth pops off Eddie’s hand and hones in on your blown-out stare, “you taste so good.”

“Yeah, she does.”  

Eddie moves behind Gareth, slotting his long, lean body against his bandmate’s back.  He’s taller – moreso than you realized, to the point where Gareth rests his fluffy head against Eddie’s collarbone while those magic fingers put on a show, just for you.  Eddie all the while is watching you map his every move – the pop of a button, the slow, southward drag of a zipper, the squeeze and press of fingers into flesh as he takes his time removing those skintight jeans.  Gareth’s thighs are bared, then – so irritatingly thick and defined and smattered with ink.  The intricate designs weave through the soft collection of hair that covers his skin, the sight of it so arousing you feel your need throb traitorously through your core.  

Especially when his shirt comes off, revealing more hard planes of inked skin.  Too distracted to focus on one piece for too long, your eyes hungrily dart and study as much of him as you can before he turns, guiding Eddie into the spotlight of their tandem striptease. 

And tease you, they do.  Delicate touches, heated glances – at you, at each other; they’re sure to draw it out as long as possible.  The desired effect is achieved – you’re sure you’ll wither away with how fucking hot the room has become.  Eddie’s belt, his chains, his jeans – all end up in a heap at his feet.  Gareth has his own set of talented fingers, he tugs at the hem of Eddie’s shirt with one hand while the other draws lazy lines over the tattoo of a beast you can’t quite make out – much of it is lost under the band of his boxer briefs.  Your mouth parts, watching with rapt attention as Gareth’s longest finger traces the art like he’s memorized it.  

You know what he’s doing.  You know Gareth’s intentionally provoking you, an iron prod your desire to stoke it until it roars.  And it is.  He knows it is – fuck that smirk that dances over his perfect lips, because you can’t tear your eyes away from this sensual display of lust if you tried.

The only solace is that this is affecting them just as much as it is you – the cotton of their boxers does little to hide what’s beneath.  Maddeningly impressive bulges protrude to tent the material in wide arcs, straining against their thick, flared tips that barely stay contained beneath barriers of elastic.  

It figures they’re both packing.  It would piss you off if it didn’t make you so goddamn excited.

Once Eddie’s shirt is tossed with the rest, a need digs its claws into your superheated skin.  “Wait,” your sudden interruption stops Gareth’s wandering fingers from slipping beneath Eddie’s waistband.  “Can I?”

Two sets of eyebrows fly beneath matted fringe for the second time tonight.  “Hmm,” Eddie drawls in faux contemplation, shivering as Gareth’s hands suddenly change course to trail between sparse patches of chest hair.  He’s notably a little breathless as he asks, “Think you deserve to unwrap your present, sweetheart?”

Your lips twist into a smirk, shifting to sit on your knees.  “Moreso than Gareth.  He’s not the one getting fucked tonight, is he?”

“Oh,” Gareth’s tone is roughened as he leers at you, “she thinks she’s gonna talk dirty to us, huh Ed?”

“Sounds like it.”  The taller man saunters over to the bed, purposefully angling himself so he’s towering over you.  “Think you can keep up?”

You’re proud of how confident you sound.  “Yes.”

“I’d like that,” the way he bares his teeth is downright sinful. “Wouldn’t you, Gare?”

Gareth joins his bandmate, the ice in his irises is white hot as he replies, “I would.  Open up, honey.”  

It’s only a moment’s hesitation before it clicks; your tongue lolls out past your lips, knowing now precisely what he intends.  A long string of saliva falls from Gareth’s pursed pout, coating your tongue before you make a show of swallowing for him.  “Gotta get you nice and filthy,” he rasps, wiping away what leaked from the corner of your mouth.  

You’re drunk on his touch, not realizing how much you long for more until he pulls his thumb away.  The rest of him follows, allowing you to rake your heavy-lidded gaze down, down, down – unabashedly mapping the outline of his cock as it tests the cotton limits of his boxers.

“Like what you see?”  He rolls his eyes when you try for an unbothered shrug.  “Go ahead then, honey.  Take ‘em off.”

Eddie throws an exaggerated scowl Gareth’s way.  “Thought I was going first.”

“You get to fuck her,” the sanpaper in his tone snaps playfully.  “Don’t get greedy.”  Gareth’s softer as he angles his hips toward your hands.  “You, on the other hand… you can get greedy.”

“Saving the best for last, I suppose,” Eddie sighs dramatically, a pucker of his full lips doesn’t hide his smirk.

“God,” Gareth bites back, “you’re such a dick.”

“Just for you, sweet cheeks.”

Their exchange is hot, but you’re starting to get antsy.  “Um, excuse me, but if I don’t see dick in the next few seconds, I’m gonna leave.”

Gareth barks a laugh.  “No, you’re not.  You’re practically vibrating, you’re so eager to see our cocks.”

Swallowing down your nerves, because of course, he’s right, you tilt your head to the side and will forth some sass.  “Y’just gonna keep talkin’ about them, or show me what you got?”

Baby blue eyes smolder with cocksure intention.  “What I’ve got, you can’t handle.  Why d’ya think Eddie’s the only one fucking you tonight?  My cock would have you crying, honey.  S’okay,” he coos, patting your cheek, “maybe we’ll work up to it someday.”

Your lips pop open in surprise, prompting Eddie to push the metaphorical envelope. “Or work up to both.”  

A thrill shivers up your spine at the thought of that, making your composure falter.  A subtle heat creeps into your neck, your cheeks – and though you try to hide it behind a facade of confidence, even you know that’s crumbling.  Fast.  

Eddie notices immediately.  “Oh, you like that, don’t you?  Fuck, that’s a nice thought, but for today, it’s all me.  I’m the one that’s gonna have you so fucked out you won’t be able to remember your name.”  Eddie’s curls brush lightly over your cheek as he dips low to whisper in your ear.  “Or his, for that matter.”

There’s a possessive edge to his tone, exhilarating to the point where that waning confidence surges.  Your expression changes, melts into a sanguine curve of kiss-bitten lips.  “We’ll see if you can even get me to say yours.”

Eddie’s incredulous huff swirls hot against your skin, prompting you to shiver when his lips make contact.  “That a challenge?”

Your nipples pucker as he runs a path of kisses along the slope of your neck.  “If you’re up for it.”

Gareth chuckles.  “Oh, we’re up for it, all right.”  Eddie straightens then, tipping a crooked smile at his friend’s innuendo as Gareth guides your hands to the elastic at his hips.  “You wanted to.  Take ‘em off, sweetheart.”  

Admittedly, it is a bit like unwrapping a present – unbridled excitement thrums through your veins and has your fingers trembling, making it a struggle to hook them under his band.  Gareth’s expression softens, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze while Eddie steps close enough to brush his thumb over your cheek.

“We can stop here,” Gareth offers sweetly, and part of you wouldn’t have believed he said it if you didn’t watch the words spill from his lips.  

Eddie echoes the sentiment as dark honey swirls in his doe eyes.  “Say the word if it’s too much, sweetheart.”

“It’s not too much,” you promise, projecting this truth into your gaze as it oscillates between the two men.  To prove your point, your now steady hand cups over Gareth’s impressive erection, swiping your thumb over a damp patch at his tip.  “I don’t want to stop.”

Your assurance satisfies them, allowing you to disrobe one, and then the other.  Your heart hammers in your chest at the sight of them, overwhelmed by how attractive they look under your lustful gaze.  You make no secret about studying them, and they make no effort to move. 

Eddie languidly strokes his cock in his broad hand, displaying his ample length from root to tip.   He’s definitely longer than average, certainly more than you’ve ever had — including the dildo you have stored away at home. Maybe as thick, too.  But it’s that curve – that gracious, veiny, upward curve that lists slightly to the left – you know that’s going to ruin you in the best way, much more than late nights with that silicon cock in your nightstand ever could.  

Gareth, unsurprisingly, is built just like his frame – ruddy and solid and a little bit formidable.  He’s nearly as long as Eddie, which is impressive in and of itself, but it’s his sheer girth that takes you aback.

And the way he handles it, smearing precum down the stocky length just does something to you.

Part of you is thrilled they’re as endowed as they are – that they physically can back up the filthy promises they’ve made tonight.  The other part is wondering what in the actual fuck you got yourself into.

A little too late, yeah.  

“Aw look,” Gareth coos before he flashes a toothy grin to the taller man, “already so cockdrunk just lookin’ at us.”

The taller man snatches his jeans from the floor, rummaging in the back pocket before pulling out a foil packet.  Long, lean lines of his body remind you of a cat as he slinks up the bed, his cock bobs heavily between his legs as he hovers above you.  “Just wait until I pound you into this mattress,” the condom wrapper wiggles where it’s mashed between his lips, “so ready to fuck you dumb.”  

You know it’s meant to be intense, said with the same sort of vigor as when he suggested it in the first place, but it’s not… not when he gives you an exaggerated waggle of his thick eyebrows. Rolling your mouth inward, you stifle a giggle, especially when he fails to tear it open with his teeth.  Heartstrings twang deep in your chest as you wonder if it wasn’t to dispel some tension you’re still carrying in your shoulders.  That Cheshire grin is back, bright and wide as he rolls the condom down his length and secures it at the base.  

Eddie winks as he watches you catch your breath.  “Y’ready, sweetheart?”

Your nods come swiftly as you trail off, “Please...”

Ducking his head, he murmurs into your ear soft enough for just the two of you.  “I’m gonna make you feel so, so good.  Want you to tell me exactly what you want.  Can you do that for me?”

Now your head bobs vigorously, just in case he can’t hear your wispy Yeah that you breathe to the ceiling.

“Don’t hold back, you understand?  And if it’s too much –”

“I’ll tell you.”

A hum of approval vibrates his chest.  “That’s my good fuckin’ girl.  Wrap those legs around me, baby.”

Cinching your ankles around the muscles of his low back, you adjust your hips, your inhale hitching as his cockhead splits your folds.  When he catches the tight rim of your entrance, you hold your breath, awaiting that first aching stretch of his thick head through your cunt.  Eddie shifts, guiding his cock at the base with his thumb, and just when you think he’s about to drive home in one swift thrust – he tosses a look to Gareth, who swiftly shoves a pillow under the plush of your ass.

“Oh!” you squeak at the unexpected move, words of thanks die on your tongue as Eddie sinks slowly in.  There’s no holding back your moans, not when it feels like he’s splitting you in half.  “Oh, my god – oh, my god ohmygod –”

“Christ,” Eddie grits, almost halfway sheathed, “fucking hell, sweetheart –”

Your walls protest the utter volume of Eddie’s cock, and you can admit as you whine and cry out in monosyllabic nonsense that he’s definitely bigger than your dildo at home.  It’s truly a piece of heaven and hell with how torturously deliberate he is, pushing in barely an inch before withdrawing to the level of his thick mushroom tip and back again.  Over, and over until your pussy finally stops clenching to accommodate his whole length.   

It’s then that you think he’ll truly begin, surely he’ll start making good on his word and fuck you senseless into this duvet – but he starts the process over, punctuating each deep thrust with a grind of his pelvis against yours.  

Granted, you’re a little grateful – he’s allowed you to recapture some air in your lungs, and that sting and burn initially brought about by his size has melted away.  It’s all molten pleasure, hot and slick and filthy and raw.

And now, you need more.

“Thought you,” you begin as the breath is punched out of your nose at the tail end of another roll of his narrow hips, “thought you said y’were gonna – mmmnnh – gonna –”

An egotistical snicker interrupts your babbling. “C’mon honey,” Gareth commands wryly, “use your words.”

You huff an airy laugh, wild eyes flashing at the devil of a man kneeling next to you on the bed.  “Fuck off…” your train of thought derails for a moment with the lazy flick and twist of Gareth’s wrist over his length.  Licking your lips, you pose your intended question to the man inside of you.  “I thought y’were gonna fuck me into the mattress.”

Eddie scoffs, a derisive and dangerous sound.  “I am – fuck, just gettin’ this pussy warmed up. Christ, you’re that greedy for this cock, huh?”  A fire ignites deep in those chocolate depths, and hauling himself up onto his knees, he drives his hips into yours, a cautious build of intensity and pace.  “This whatcha want?  Fucking – uhhyeah, this what you need?  Huh?”

“Yes,” you whimper, screwing your eyes shut against the liquified warmth that coils tight in your belly.  The fullness is exquisite, both satisfying and maximizing that carnal ache for every last inch of him. “Yes, yes –” you cry again, louder and pitchier than before, “fuck, Eddie –!”

The dam breaks; all control Eddie had evaporates with a sensual belt of his name.  “Oh fuck yeah, say my name.”  Your legs nearly lose their grip around his back with how fast and hard he ruts into you.  “Again,” Eddie rasps harshly, “say it.”

Your mind is an open pit of all things Eddie – how he sounds, how he feels, how he makes you feel with every snap of his hips, every drive of his cock into your sodden core.  He’s more than deserving of how you chant his name, a high and rough and repetitive bawl of your pleasure to fill his ears like lyrics to a new song.

“Ed,” the sound of Gareth’s husky ask has your eyes fluttering open, “how does she feel?”

“So fucking good,” the apex of every thrust is punctuated with a puff of air through Eddie’s nose, “so hot, so fuckin’ tight –”

His praise goes straight to your cunt.  Heat unlike anything you’ve ever felt creeps over your skin like it’s aflame.  Pleasure burns, churning and boiling your inside under the scorching gaze of these two gorgeous men.  It’s their attention and the constant pounding of Eddie’s cock against your deepest parts that has you racing towards completion.  Again.

This time though, you feel as if you can hold it off.  You tense and clench, worrying your teeth through your bottom lip so hard it blanches.  It almost works, too – the otherworldly sensations that lick at your insides plateau.

Until Gareth opens his stupidly sexy, lip-ringed mouth.

“She looks so pretty like this,” he murmurs to Eddie before zeroing in on how your breasts bounce with every hard slap of skin against skin.  Gareth grunts lowly, keeping the pace of his hand up and down his length.  “You do, you look so pretty taking Eddie’s fat cock.”  A sinful grin splits his face, makes that silver ring sparkle as you whine.  “He feel good?  He does, doesn’t he?  I know, I know…” he croons with a condescending sympathy that makes your walls flutter, “practically in your guts, pounding that pussy. Christ, listen to how fuckin’ wet you are –”

A wanton moan, high and feminine, is wrenched past your lips as your chin tips to the ceiling.  Any ounce of authority you thought you had over delaying your orgasm has been torched, turned to dust by the white-hot passion that spills from Gareth’s mouth.  Granted, they both have equal parts in elevating your pleasure, electrifying your senses – but the way they talk to you, Gareth in particular, is what’s ruined you the most.

“Oh, our little lady likes that, huh?  C’mon Ed, tell her how wet she is.”

“So fucking wet,” the liquid lust in Eddie’s tone has roughened his voice to a mere husk, “Jesus –”

“Pussy is just sucking you in.  Fuck, put her leg up so I can see.”  

An obedient arm hooks under your leg in a flash, driving that knee into your chest as Eddie relentlessly bullies your cunt.  The sight of your soaked outer lips gripping his girth makes Gareth swear under his breath, shuddering as his cock offers a substantial bead of precum.  It leaks over his angry tip, so red and swollen and neglected; if you were closer, you’d reach out with your tongue and taste it.  He’s quick to smear it down his shaft, fighting his own pleasure as he keeps up the erotic narrative.  

“So greedy, we shoulda known. Haven’t even come on his cock yet and he’s soaked.”  

“Goddamn right,” Eddie buries his face in your neck, sucking a mark behind your ear.  “Could fuck you all night if you let me.”

Whines and whimpers are almost continuous at this point, each draw of breath is a reedy, wordless keen or a garbled version of Eddie’s name.  It’s becoming harder and harder to hold off your release, especially as Gareth keeps spewing filth from those cherry-red lips.

“Y’ever been fucked like this, honey?” he asks, and on cue, Eddie slows down his frenetic pounding of your pussy to languid, easy strokes, palming the inside of your thighs to part them wide.  The sight drops Gareth’s jaw slack while Eddie’s stays clenched in concentration.  “Look at that, he’s gonna drag it out, go nice and slow.” Inked fingers clasp over Eddie’s hand with enviable tenderness, dragging his palm over your leg to press low on your belly.  Gareth holds it there, keeping you open with his other while his unattended cock juts into your side.  “Wring an orgasm out of her right now, aren’tcha Ed?  Go on, big boy,” he says lowly as he moves to hover over your exposed cunt, directing a string of saliva to land at Eddie’s thumb as he finds your clit, “make her come.”

You’re soundless in how you scream, your shallow, reactive respirations don’t allow for enough air to make a proper noise.  If it did?  You’d tell them just how fucking hot that was, how that slick pressure provided by your arousal and Gareth’s spit is exactly what you need.   

“The charade is up, we know we’ve won,” Eddie’s rhythm doesn’t falter as his thumb tightens its ministrations over your clit.  “Might as well let go.”  

“Get loud, honey,” Gareth echoes his friend’s sentiment, “we wanna hear you.”  Answering with a musical whimper, and then another, you set them free, spilling into the sex-drenched air around you. “That’s it, lemme hear you, lemme hear all those sounds you’ve got pent up.  C’mon, fucking give it to me, let go.”

“Ohhhyes – Eddie, that’s it — yes, I’m coming, I’m coming –”

The incessant writhing comes to an abrupt end as your muscles seize and pulse under the strength of your orgasm.  You feel like it caves inward, a black hole of pleasure before it explodes in a wild, electrified constellation of prickling heat and want.  Your pussy clamps around Eddie’s cock, coating that thin latex barrier in a fresh wave of your slick.  

It’s the first time Eddie loses his rhythm.  “Shit, fucking shit – she’s clenching so hard –”

You hear the delight in Gareth’s voice, his sandpaper rasp closer as he trails a blazing set of kisses over your temple.  “Oh yeah?  She get tight after she comes?”

“So fucking tight –” 

A sultry whisper dances at your ear.  “Good girl.”

You’re still drifting back to your body when Eddie drops your legs, using latent strength in those slender arms to flip you over onto your belly.  You land with a muted oomph, unable to even enjoy the feathersoft comfort of the bedding before he hauls you up on all fours.  Entering you swiftly this way sends him deeper, feeling full and spread as he regains his cadence.  He groans your name, and you answer with a pornographic moan of your own as he redoubles his efforts, grabbing at your waist to slam you back over the length of his cock.  

The new position is everything – never in your life have you ever been fucked so hard and needed more.  Eddie’s crazed as he works you over, the rocking of his entire body enough to shake the bed and knock the headboard into the wall in loud, repetitive bangs.

You’d be embarrassed if you could be anything but blissed-out, a complete slave to every last fiery burst of pleasure as that thick cockhead drills against your sweet spot.  It makes your head swim, how deeply you’ve fallen victim to his pleasure, and you drop to your forearms to try to regain your balance.

Almost immediately, you feel the heat of a hand at your bicep. “No, no – stay upright, honey.”  A gentle tug guides you back up on your hands. “Come on, you can do it.  Wanna see him fuck you stupid.”

Panting breaths escape in short bursts through your nose.  “Oh, I – hmm –”

“Feels so good, doesn’t it?  Tell me,” Gareth commands softly as you palm the headboard to keep steady, “tell me how good you feel.”

“S-so good,” you slur, eyes rolling back as Eddie fucks into you harder, “feels so good –”

Eddie huffs, one gravelly breath after another when he feels you start to push back on his cock with every thrust.  His fingers find purchase on the flesh of your hips, aiding in your rhythm before clapping your ass to his pelvis.  Then he changes pace, holding you here, pressing in with the most subtle roll and grind, hardly moving his cock an inch or two each way.  

“Pussy is so fuckin’ good, sweetheart.  Couldn’t be deeper if I tried.”

Gareth groans.  “Y’have no idea how good you look right now.  Being so good for us, so good for Eddie.”

“That’s right,” Eddie gruffs, “taking my cock like she was made for it.”  

In your lust-laden haze, you trail your eyes down Gareth’s frame as he lies on his side next to you.  Your free hand wanders over the sea of covers, reaching towards where his fingers stroke over his shaft in rhythmic pumps.  His cock is so close – you’re overcome with the need to help him, to give him something other than his hand to work with.  There’s been no indication he needs it, other than the obvious dynamic imbalance.  At least, that’s how you see it.  Eddie’s fingers, tongue and cock have been buried inside of you almost continuously for the last… however long it’s been.  In reality, all Gareth’s done is watch.

And look stupidly sexy as he fists his own dick.

Need rolls to a boil in your blood.  He clocks your movements and somehow, your intent; as he angles his hips away, a slow smile stretches over his lips while he watches yours twist into a pout.

“No baby,” he scolds, chuckling softly as you protest with a petulant whine.  “You just worry about you.  Let Eddie and I take care of you, okay?”

Your eyebrows pinch as you argue.  “But –”

“No,” he reiterates firmly.  Gareth’s smile widens, and planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth, he rolls to his back and situates himself almost completely under you.  “How ‘bout you put on a show for me, yeah?”

A strong forearm slithers across your chest, hauling you upright.  Plush lips press against the sensitive skin behind your ear.  “Y’wanna use that pretty mouth, baby?” Eddie asks as his hands roam over your front, cupping your breasts.  “I know how you can.  Why dontcha spit on his cock for him?”  

That affects Gareth in the best way, lips parting in a gritty grunt as his hips thrust a little harder into his hand.  “C’mon, sweetheart,” Eddie’s grip loosens over your collarbones to encourage you to lean forward, “give him more to work with.”

The man burns you with the fiery need in his stare, making you feel more sensual than you ever have.  Your confident stare never once leaves Gareth’s.  Allowing an ample amount of saliva to pool on your tongue, you hover over where his hand glides over his length.  Gareth’s chest expands, holding his breath as a long, slow dribble slips past your lips to land with accuracy over the flared tip of his cock.  The sound that is punched from his lungs could be called a whimper.  You file that away in the depths of your brain, intent on revisiting it again and again when nights get lonely in your bed at home. 

Eddie guides you against the hard sinew of his chest with ease. “Gonna make you come this way,” he promises as his cock bullies deeper in your core, “go on, play with your clit.  Give our boy a show.”

Your body jerks in time with every hard snap of Eddie’s hips, making your fingers fumble as they slide over the slick skin between your legs.  Circling above your hood, your touch is featherlight, jolting that crackling bundle of nerves awake.  Despite your intentional tenderness, you’re still so sensitive it’s like you’ve gone numb.  Not daring to increase the pressure just yet, you focus back on Gareth, nearly losing her mind at how downright sinful he looks stroking his cock to your every move.

Steel-gray eyes, long lashes, blazing stare – the heat is palpable, the tension so thick you could bite it.  You shimmy your knees apart, widening your stance so he can better see how Eddie’s cock is gripped and swallowed by your greedy hole.  The unfiltered lust smolders and builds intensity with every passing moment as heard in every breathy groan and desperate whine. 

Soon, you progress to more direct swipes over your swollen clit, sucking that bottom lip between your teeth when oversensitivity threatens to spark pain instead of pleasure.  The scale tips, a strong favoring of the latter, and that familiar band starts to wind and tighten in your belly with such force that your legs begin to shake.  

Gareth takes notice, the effort to keep the cadence of his fist slow and measured is an obvious strain.  “Almost there?”

“Mmmh – ye-yeah, yeah – so close, so close –”

“Hmmfuck,” he pants as his hand twists over the crown so angry it blooms a desperate shade of violet.  “That’s it, honey.  C’mon, keep workin’ your clit for us.”

Teetering on the edge, your release builds to its breaking point with edges so hot and sharp it almost hurts.  “I – ohhgod, I –”

Your legs quake as your body gives way, orgasm ripping through you like you’ve been struck by lightning.  It’s quick, an explosion of light behind lids slammed shut, flooding your system in molten, electric currents that have you curling in on yourself despite Eddie’s hold around your chest.

The shockwaves haven’t even begun to subside before you’re upended, flat on your back next to Gareth as your knees are shoved into your chest.  Draping himself over the backs of your legs, Eddie practically folds you in half as he sheaths his cock to the hilt in one stroke.   

That beautiful, brown-eyed man is everywhere – the fulness maximized in this new position as you belting a sweet cry.  “Oh, fuck – Eddie!  Eddie, yes – yes –!”

“God damn, Ed – that’s it, give it to her,” Gareth husks as his fists tightens over his cock, “come on, get loud for him.  Louder, honey, louder.  Want this whole fuckin’ city to know who fucks you so good.”

Though Eddie’s weight presses you into the mattress, Gareth’s gritty permission splits you wide open.  Never in your life have you ever been this loud, this responsive; clawing at anything within your grasp.  The lewd, wet sounds of skin slapping so loud, echoing off the high ceilings with every pitchy, open-mouthed scream you’re sure to have a noise complaint from four floors down. 

Eddie pistons his hips, using the recoil on the bed to drive inside you hard and fast.  Spewing forth a litany of praise and filth, your vision whites out as he chases his release.  A tuck of his chin against his chest is his tell, and he announces his orgasm with a low, throaty groan.  The pace of his hips never once lets up, even as his cock empties rope after rope of his spend into the condom. 

You feel every twitch, every jolt of his length as it pulses inside you.  Your name has never sounded better as it rolls from his parted lips, like a song full of wonder and awe and yet still drenched in the grit of need and sex.  Eddie finally stills, losing the last of the air in his lungs as his body melts into yours.  

A hitching sigh, and then a rasp of your name through gritted teeth comes synonymous with a dip in the bed. “Ed – m-move, man –”  Gareth’s fist flies over his cock, fast and dirty as he nestles his knees next to your torso.  “F-fuck, gonna – honey, open your mouth – yeah, that’s it –”

Eddie’s shaky as he rises to his knees, leaving Gareth enough room as he jerks himself to completion, painting your chest in thick, white ribbons of his cum.  Eddie grunts his approval, soft and low and still seated inside your pussy, watching as you do as his drummer wrings every last drop of his spend on your tits.

Gareth’s chest is heaving, body shuddering with the final waves of his climax.  His lips are parted in bliss, unable just like you to form proper words at the moment.

“Oh my fucking –” Eddie can’t even finish his thought before he’s smothering every available inch of your neck and cheeks in affection.  His kisses are more like an open-mouthed drag of sticky, wet lips against sticky, wet skin. “Sweetheart, you did so good.”

Gareth hums in agreement, his knees give a telling wobble and he has to palm the abused headboard to keep from toppling over.  Hesitant to slip out of you, Eddie stays buried while you all catch your breath, the return to your body aided by how Gareth’s fingers have found their way back to your hair, weaving in and out of your sweaty strands.  You lie like this for some time, immersed in the heaviness of post-orgasmic bliss, hardly noticing when Eddie finally withdraws himself from your cunt.  The sting of sensitive skin against the tacky rubber of the condom makes you hiss, and Eddie presses another sweet kiss to your mouth, whispering assurances how he’ll be right back to take care of you.

The bed shakes with Eddie’s departure, and immediately Gareth swoops in to hold you close, murmuring in your ear how good you were, how fucking amazing you are – over and over like a song he’s sang for years.  He honors you more with the hard press of his lips against yours, all the while spouting praise you didn’t even know you longed to hear.

“I’ve got you, honey, I’ve got you – Christ, you’re something, you know that?  So fuckin’ lucky to be holding you, so fuckin’ lucky you let us do this.”  

Gareth is swift to press your body to his, you barely have time to react.  “Hey, no wait – I’m all –”

“Dirty?”  Those blue eyes flash, hot and aware.  “Yeah, you are.  That’s my cum, honey.” Chuckling devilishly, he pulls you closer to prove his point.  “Would rather hold you than worry about a little bit of –”

“It’s not just a little bit,” you snort softly, reveling in the heat that radiates from the smooth planes of his chest.  

He barks a laugh, the melody echoes in your bones and you think, maybe, that’s where it’ll stay.  “No, it’s not.”  He makes no effort to move.  The smile lines around his eyes relax as he regards you with intention. “Are you okay?”

The short answer is yes, maybe even hell yes because you are… with one needling exception.  “I didn’t even touch you,” you admit to his collarbones, your gaze pulled away from baby blue to trace the patterns of the vines that adorn the delicate skin there.

“You didn’t have to,” he’s quick to assure, “fuckin’ looked so good, I came just watching you.”

It’s something, but it’s not enough.  You entered new territory tonight in a variety of ways – what novice understanding you have of threesomes is that all parties are involved.  Logical to believe there are variations, but tonight’s just not the way you thought it would go.

Plainly stated, you really thought he’d fuck you, too.  

“Oh,” you breathe, your heart leaps into your throat at how disappointed you sound.  Clearing your throat, you try to hide it by turning it back on him.  “You’re not… um, not mad you didn’t get a – a turn?”  

Your lips purse in a grimace with how you just worded it, but Gareth seems to find it endearing.  “No.”  He genuinely sounds like he isn’t.  “Couldn’t ever be mad at you.”

His sincerity makes your stomach swoop.  “I just feel bad.”

Regarding you through narrow slips of baby blue, you see it as it clicks.  “Ohh,” that maddening smirk is back, “are you saying you wanted to touch me?”  Gareth play-gasps, the ink on his right hand ripples as he splays it theatrically over his heart.  “Are you saying you want me to touch you?”

Yes.  That’s exactly what you’re saying, but the way he’s grinning has you playing into it, and retorting with an unconvincing, “No.”

Pools of seaglass sparkle with mirth.  “You definitely are.”

Your defiance is weakened with the grin that splits your features, but you try for it to keep up the charade.  “No, I am not –”

“You are,” sandy-blonde curls fly in chaotic disarray as he smothers your lips in kisses, making you squeal. “You are –”

“Sorry to interrupt this nauseating little moment,” Eddie smirks, “but I come bearing gifts for our girl, here.”

Even as Eddie attends to you with gentle swipes of that warm cloth, Gareth’s affections aren’t deterred.  He mouths along your jaw, nipping at the lobe of your ear.  “Just admit it, honey…”

You squirm in his hold, though there’s no real effort to get yourself away.  Eddie climbs up the bed, stretching his frame alongside you to wipe the mess from your chest.  “Admit what?” he asks, dragging the cloth beneath your chin to direct your stare to him.

Gareth grins into the sultry skin of your neck.  “She wants me so badly.”

Rolling your eyes, you ask Eddie, “Is he always this insufferable?”

“Always, sweetheart.”  Eddie tosses the rag away and sighs, pinning you in place with an ardent dark chocolate stare.  “How are you doing?”

“Fucking excellent,” you reply truthfully.  You allow yourself to bask in the heat of their presence, to feel the comfort in skin on skin contact before confessing meekly, “I guess I better get going.  I, uh… lost our bet.  Badly.”

Eddie snorts, chasing away the tightness in your smile.  “Oh, you’re not going anywhere.  Stay in bed, princess.”  Kiss-bitten lips twist in a wry grin.  “Wasn’t ever gonna make you leave, anyway.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”  Gareth nuzzles at the back of your neck.  “We’re not complete assholes.”

“You kinda are,” you scoff a half-laugh.  

He draws you closer to his chest with a tug of his arm still loped around your middle.  “Think you like it, though.”

Tired banter bubbles over three sets of lips, slowly fading as the night grows older.  You vaguely make out offers for Eddie to turn on the shower for you, or even to draw you a bath.  Gareth, not to be outdone, tells you he’d brush your teeth before they go if you asked, which has you snickering into your pillow… until your brain catches up with what he’s just said.

“You’re gonna go?” you ask, suddenly wide awake when you notice they’re clothed and you’re very much still… not.  “Where?”