The Camaro's engine hums beneath me, the vibrations seeping into my bones, echoing the restless pulse in my chest. Billy's driving fast – too fast – but instead of scaring me, it sends a thrill through my veins. There's something about the way he handles the car, like he's got the world in the palm of his hand, his fingers gripping the wheel as though it's the only thing keeping him grounded, the curves in the slick road not even seeming to faze him.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice softer than I mean it to be, eyes flicking to his profile. His jaw tightens at the question, but he doesn't answer right away.
"Technically," he mutters after a beat, his gaze still focused on the road ahead, "I'm supposed to be home watching Max."
"Your not-sister," I tease, raising my brows, trying to ease the tension I can feel tightening in the air around him. He rolls his eyes, his grip on the steering wheel tightening just slightly.
"I don't mind hanging out with her," I add quickly, looking out the window to hide the furrowing of my brows. "I'm with my brother most of the time anyways," I continue, biting my lip at the thought of Dustin, knowing that I'm going to have to majorly make it up to him when I get home.
Billy doesn't respond, and the silence stretches out between us, broken only by the low growl of the Camaro and the faint tapping of rain against the windshield. I steal another glance at him – his face unreadable. He's not used to letting people in, I realize. Not like this.
The car takes a sudden left, and I feel the shift in momentum as we head down a quieter, more secluded road. My fingers tighten around the edge of the seat, more from the realization that we're getting closer to his home than the speed itself.
I let out a breath and force myself to speak, if only to fill the space between us. "So… what's Max like?" I ask, but Billy is still silent, keeping his eyes on the road. "I always wanted a little sister instead of a little brother, but it's not so bad now that he's older." I continue, unable to stop the words from spewing out of my mouth. I am desperate for him to say anything, feeling the cold awkwardness beginning to fill the space around us.
Billy's lips twitch – something between a smirk and a frown – but he glances at me and my heart flutters. "She's a pain in the ass."
I nod slowly, sensing the bitterness in his words but not entirely buying it. "Most younger siblings are," I agree, keeping my voice gentle, though I'm not sure why I feel the need to defend Max, "but she's just a kid."
Billy scoffs, but there's something vulnerable in the sound, like he wants to push the idea away before it has any chance to settle in.
His grip on the wheel tightens further, his knuckles white as if he's trying to hold something back. I can see the struggle in his face, the tension pulling at his jaw before he finally snaps. "Lacy," he bites outs, "pick any other fucking topic." His voice is low and sharp, like he's trying to swallow the anger back down.
I purse my lips, caught off guard by the heat in his words. I bite back a retort, but the bitterness in his voice lingers between us, making the air feel cold. I glance out the window again, watching as the houses thin out, replaced by stretches of dark trees swaying in the wind.
I swallow, licking my lips, trying not to take his words, his tone, so personally. "Can we talk about the movie that's on tv tonight?" I ask, but there's a dryness in my voice. I don't care that he doesn't want to talk about Max, it's the lashing anger in his voice that bothers me, like I did something wrong.
Billy forces out a breath of air, and for a moment, he's silent, slowing the car as we approach a small, unassuming house, tucked back from the road. It's nothing like I imagined – not flashy or wild like I expected someone like him to live in. It's quiet, almost too normal for a presence like Billy Hargrove.
"Only if you're going to stay and watch the whole thing," he says, killing the engine. We sit there in silence, the soft patter of rain on the windshield the only sound between us. I meet his gaze, the slight challenge in his gaze would usually make my heart race, but the casual way he tosses out that line – like it's nothing, like me even being at his house wasn't his idea. It sends a ripple of frustration through me.
"I'll stay," I say, my voice firm, "but only if you stop acting like an asshole."
Billy blinks, clearly not expecting my response. In all honesty, I'm surprised with myself. I try to hold his gaze steady, refusing to back down and for a second, I think he might snap back. The silence stretches out before he finally leans back in his seat, letting out a slow breath.
"I'm not…" he starts, but the confidence in his voice falters momentarily, and he runs a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him in waves. "I didn't mean to–"
"I know," I interrupt, because I do know – I had hit a nerve asking about Max. It's clear that the two of them don't have any form of a bond. I noticed it the day Dustin and I drove Max home, but that didn't mean that Billy got to take his annoyance out on me. "But I'm not just some girl who is going to take your crap because you're cute."
Billy lifts a brow, clearly fighting the smile that threatens to appear on his face. I glare at him, crossing my arms over my chest. "I do have some standards – low standards apparently," I mutter, turning away from him.
"You're not going to kick me out of the fan club, right?" he teases, hand reaching out and gently twisting in my hair, playing with the ends so carefully it sends a shiver up my spine.
"Not yet," I snap, but my voice has lost some of the venom. I look at him, shaking my head with lingering annoyance. Billy smirks, but the arrogance is missing and it makes his face softer, almost boyish.
Before I really realize what I am doing, I reach out to trail my fingers across his jaw line, cupping his face gently. His skin is warm under my fingertips. For a second, his eyes flicker, as if he's debating whether to pull away or lean into my touch. It's a small, almost imperceptible shift, but it's enough to make me realize how fragile this moment is – how easily he could retreat back into himself. I stay still, not wanting to shatter whatever's happening between us.
It's a fleeting moment that's over too quickly and without another word, he opens his door and steps into the rain. My eyes trail him as he hurries around the front of the car, opening the passenger door for me. He shrugs off his jacket, holding it over my head to block the rain. It's a little gesture, but one that doesn't go unnoticed by me. He won't apologize and I don't really expect him to, but there's something apologetic in the way he holds the jacket out, the rain drops speckling across his t-shirt.
"You coming?" Billy asks, his expression softer, almost unsure.
I nod, climbing out of the Camaro, and following the pavement to the front steps. The house looms ahead of us, quiet and still. For a moment, I hesitate, wondering what I'm about to walk into, but Billy's hand finds my lower back, guiding me in through the front door and out of the rain.
The house is not what I expect – far from it actually. The soft glow of the hallway light casts a warm hue over the space, and the smell of something vaguely floral lingers in the air. My eyes drift to the neat arrangement of shoes by the door, a coat rack that holds more jackets than I anticipated, and the carefully placed pictures that line the entryway wall.
I pause for a moment, my gaze landing on one of the frames. Billy – younger, hair less wild, front teeth missing, standing proudly next to a surfboard. The picture makes my heart squeeze, and I try not to smile too widely when I meet his eyes.
"Don't," he mutters, but there's a faint smirk on his face. He kicks off his boots, hanging his jacket carefully amongst the others. His usual bravado feels dampened here, in this quiet house where everything is too neat, too still. He watches me as I linger in the hallway, taking in the space, his eyes narrowing slightly as if daring me to comment.
"You were a really cute kid," I smile, but Billy only rolls his eyes.
My gaze drifts back to the photos lining the wall, and I can't help but feel like I'm peeking into a part of Billy's life he rarely lets anyone see. There's something haunting about the stillness of the house – the pictures, the perfectly arranged furniture. It doesn't match the storm that constantly hangs over Billy.
Before I can comment further, eyes narrowing on a wedding photo who I assume is his dad and step-mom, there's a sudden thud from down the hall, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching. I glance up just as Max rounds the corner, her face scrunching up in a mix of curiosity and annoyance at the sight of us. She looks almost cautious, lingering by the doorframe, her body stiff as she takes in the scene.
"Hi Max," I greet, but my voice sounds too loud in the house and I flinch slightly at the way quiet is disturbed.
Max lifts a brow, glancing between me and Billy, before her eyes settle on Billy. I notice how she can't seem to look him in the eye, glancing down to the floor. "You dad called," she mutters, no emotion present in her voice. I feel Billy tense behind me, his fingers tightening on my wrist as if bracing for something. "He wanted to let us know they'd be home late."
There's a pause, his voice trailing off like she's waiting for a reaction.
Billy's voice sharpens, cutting through the room like a blade. "And what did you tell him?" There's something hard in his tone, something that makes Max shrink even further into herself, her arms wrapping around her torso in a protective stance. She doesn't look at him, doesn't flinch outwardly, but I can see the way her fingers tug nervously at her sweater, twisting the fabric like she's trying to ground herself.
"Nothing," she whispers, so low I almost miss it. Her gaze lifts to find Billy's, her fingers still fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "He didn't ask to talk to you, and I didn't tell him you weren't home." There's no defiance in her tone, only quiet resignation, as if this has happened a hundred times before.
Billy mutters something under his breath, stepping forward to grab my wrist. As he pulls me down the hallway, I steal one last glance at Max. She's still standing there, watching us carefully. I want to say something to her, to tell her it'll be okay, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I let Billy lead me away, leaving Max behind in the silence.
Billy pushes open his bedroom door, but I can't stop thinking about Max. The way she looked at the floor, how small she seemed next to Billy's imposing presence. It's not just that she's younger – it's like she's used to being overlooked, like she's been trained to stay out of the way. A pang of guilt tugs at me. I've only ever seen her in passing, and now I wonder how much of her life has been spent shrinking away from Billy's shadow.
My chest tightens, thinking of Dustin. He might annoy me sometimes, but I'd never want him to feel that way towards me. I almost turn around, trying to think of something – anything – to say to her, but Billy's grip tightens and I let him pull me away, feeling the pang of guilt begin to disappear from my stomach as we step into his room.
I am surprised by the coldness of his space. It's clear he just occupies the room with half-unpacked boxes still in the corner and a few posters of cars covering the bare walls. The only thing that is completely set-up, clearly used frequently is his stereo system, with a box of records and cassette tapes sitting nearby.
"You don't plan on staying here for long," I observe, sitting tentatively on his bed. The mattress sinks beneath me and I take a moment to play with the frayed edges of his quilt, smoothing it down before looking at him.
Billy looks at me, lifting a brow, "Why would I ever plan on staying in Hawkins?"
"It's not that bad," I admit, but I know what he means. My family moved from Indianapolis when I was in 8th grade and I was so angry at my parents that I used to dream about running away, moving in with my childhood best friend, but now? Hawkins has grown on me, is more my home than Indianapolis ever was, and I know I'll leave eventually, but I don't know how to explain all that to Billy in a way that makes sense.
"I wish you'd give it a chance," I add, watching as Billy flips on a small, tabletop tv in the corner.
"There's nothing for me in Hawkins," he finally says, flicking through the channels lazily. For once, I realize he isn't trying to be hurtful, just honest. "What's this movie?" he asks, the low drone of dialogue and music providing a kind of buffer against the silence.
"It's called the Calendar Girl Murders," I shrug, watching him from my spot on the bed, still playing with the edge of his quilt, noting how he moves around his own space like a stranger.
He finally sits on the bed, leaning against the wall, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a long moment, neither of us says anything. The only sound is the TV in the background, but even that feels distant, like it's part of some other world. Here, in this quiet, tiny room, it's just me and Billy – the unspoken hanging between us, palpable but fragile.
His movements are sudden, yet surprisingly gentle as he leans forward, his lips brushing against the soft, ticklish part behind my ear. Before I even have a moment to react, he is laying me against the mattress, one hand cupping the back of my neck, the other propping himself up as he hovers over me. It's instinctive, the heat between us flaring as he releases my neck, sliding his hand down to tighten on my waist, pulling me even closer.
His kiss is urgent, the weight of everything unsaid pressing between us as his hand finds the small of my back. I slide my own hands against this chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my fingertips as I grip his shirt, the heat of his body seeping into mine as our lips move together in perfect sync.
Billy pulls his t-shirt off and my breath hitches at the sight. Carefully, I trail my fingertips across his chest, listening to the heavy shudder of his breath as he leans into me. My mind is spinning, his touch seering into my skin, but somewhere in the haze, the heat between us, a small voice pulls me back when Billy's hand begins to toy with the waistband of my pants. I catch his hand, sitting up to pull away from him, bracing for his disappointment. My free hand presses against his chest to stop him, feeling the short, ragged breaths rise and fall.
"I'm not –" I begin, my voice shaky. "Can we just watch the movie?"
He stills, his eyes searching mind. For a second, I think he might pull away – like he isn't sure how to handle this kind of closeness that isn't just physical. His breathing slows, the tension in his shoulders softening as he brushes a strand of hair from my face. "Okay," he whispers, his voice low, but there is something else there – something deeper. He isn't just agreeing to watch the movie.
I relax into him, resting my head against his shoulder as he leans forward to pull the quilt around us. The movie plays on in the background, but neither of us are really paying attention. The warmth of his body seeps into me slowly and I shift, feeling Billy's grip tighten slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he's afraid I might pull away. But I don't. Instead I move closer, pressing myself so that I am lower, closer to his chest. The rise and fall of his breath, the rhythm of his heart, is lulling, and suddenly I feel my eyes starting to become heavier – fighting to keep them open as the movie plays.
Billy lifts his hand, brushing back my hair, smoothing it down in gentle and soft strokes. Whatever is happening here, it's something softer – something easier than it has ever been.
And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel the need to fill the silence, resting completely into him, permitting my eyes to flutter shut.