Prologue

She was right. Of course, she was fucking right. Everything he knew, she always seemed to know first. He did miss her. He missed her laugh, the scent of her shampoo that still lingered on his pillow, the way her nose crinkled when they argued over nothing important.

He'd told himself a hundred times he didn't need anyone, especially not someone who tied him down to Hawkins, but she'd been right about that too. Even Hawkins couldn't be that bad with her around – her half-smile across the hallways at school, her hand slipping into his in the silence of the Camaro, the long nights they spent driving with nothing but the open road ahead. She'd offered him all of herself, even when he knew damn well he didn't deserve it.

Thoughts of her clawed at him, wanted and relentless, as he gripped the wheel a little tighter, the miles ticking away under the Camaro's tires. Billy knew he should be somewhere else, doing anything else – she'd make it clear she was done, but Billy Hargrove was a lot of things, and a quitter wasn't one of them.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Winter 1984

"Lacy, please!" Dustin yells, running back down the hallway, his voice trailing behind him as he rushes past my room for what feels like the hundredth time that evening. I can hear the slight panic, the buzz of excitement in his voice, and smile to myself in the mirror, knowing the anticipation of his first dance is killing him.

He has been like this all day, running through the checklist Steve gave him for his hair, shining his shoes to the point where the polish made his room smell, and practicing how he is going to ask girls to dance in the mirror. I pretended like I didn't see the latter when I passed by his room with the steamer for his dress shirt, giving him his space and trying not to think too much about how grown-up he is.

I can hear his footsteps rounding back down the hallway and turn in my vanity chair, completely forgetting about my own plans I need to get ready for, and lift a brow when he storms in. "Lacy," he begs, shooing me from my chair, "please, fix my hair."

"Just do what Steve told you too," I tease, but Dustin shoots me a look that tells me he's not playing around. I sigh, picking up my comb and the hairspray we bought just for tonight per Steve's recommendation. "Okay, sit still," I mutter, taking the time and care to comb through his damp curls.

Dustin studies my hand motions carefully, flinching only occasionally when the comb gets caught in a tangle. "He does this every day?" he finally mutters, and I shrug, ignoring the pulling in my shoulder.

"His hair is kind of his thing," I smile, shaking the hairspray can before carefully spraying it across his head.

Dustin's face scrunches up, and he waves a hand in front of his eyes, coughing as the hairspray settles. "Jeez," he wheezes dramatically, "how does he even breathe with this stuff?"

I laugh, giving his shoulder a light pat as I study him in the mirror, but he looks less like my little brother and the thought makes my heart squeeze. "You get used to it," I lean down, wrapping my arms around his neck, giving him a tight hug. His hand reaches up and grips my shoulder at the embrace, frowning slightly when he watches me grit my teeth at the touch.

"It still hurts?" Dustin asks and I pull away, carefully pulling at some of his curls and laying them back in place. It's a weak attempt to ignore his concern and I can feel his eyes burrowing into me through the mirror reflection.

"The cold doesn't help," I mutter, rolling my shoulder, "neither do the extra tennis drills."

Dustin and I exchange a glance in the mirror, but he knows better than to say anything. Tennis has been a sensitive subject in our house – the one thing that I used to love more than anything, is now something that I try to avoid whenever possible. The attack left me out of the preseason for a few weeks, which allowed Tori to fill in my place as Captain, and for me to watch from the sidelines every single practice, taking notes on how the team can improve without me. Despite the change, I looked forward to coming back and as soon as the stitches were removed and the doctor cleared me for tennis, I was back on the court – rusty and in so much pain that I almost quit. Dad, hearing that his plan for my scholarship was beginning to slip away from him, set-up private lessons with my coach, to get me back into shape. He didn't seem to care or want to hear that swinging a racket only seemed to make the ache worse and the ache only seemed to make me play slower, clumsier, and slowly hate it all together.

We sit in silence for a few moments, Dustin still watching me carefully as I play with his curls until I'm sure his hair will receive the Steve Harrington Seal of Approval. "You look good," I grin, pinching at his cheek. He swats my hand away, but it's hard to ignore the blush that is now climbing up his neck.

"I wish I could say the same to you," he teases, picking at the tinsel on my sweater. "You look like an elf threw up all over you."

"I'm going to Tommy's ugly sweater party," I sigh, trying to ignore the way Dustin rolls his eyes.

"I thought you weren't friends with those assholes anymore?" Dustin asks. He stands, messing with his bow tie, turning his head side to side to check out his hair, before straightening his shoulders with a nod of approval.

"I'm not," I say, but my argument sounds weak and Dustin shoots me another look in the mirror. "I'm going with the tennis team," I add, but this only makes Dustin's eyebrow shoot up higher and I know he doesn't believe me.

"To meet your boyfriend," Dustin teases, shaking his head.

"He's not my boyfriend," I state, brushing my hand over the lapel of his jacket, just to give myself something to do.

My brother snorts, "Fine, to sneak around with your not-boyfriend. That's even worse, Lace."

"What do you know, you're like eleven," I snap, but my own blush is climbing now and I hate how right he is.

"Thirteen," Dustin corrects me, but he has a knowing grin now, "but it's not my fault you're dating that asshole."

"We're not dating," I repeat through gritted teeth, "we're friends."

"How many times did Billy make you rehearse that before it sounded believable?" Dustin's grin is infuriating, and I flick his ear, making him yelp.

"Stop smirking like that," I demand, crossing my arms over my chest with the best older sister face I can muster. "We aren't dating."

Dustin shakes his head, still smiling as he walks out of my room. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Lace."

I follow him down the hallway, pulling on my coat in the entryway as Dustin double checks his hair one more time before opening the front door. The cold air hits my face and I pull the jacket closer around me, jamming my hands in my pocket, before following Dustin down the porch steps. Steve's car is idling in the driveway and Steve leans against the hood, one hand jammed in his pocket, the other pushing his hair back in that effortless way he does.

He lifts a brow as Dustin practically bounces down the driveway, raising his hands for Dustin to pause, reminding him to slow down with a small, "Be cool."

"I'm cool," Dustin scoffs, leaning against the car next to him, crossing his arms in an attempt to copy Steve.

"Thanks for taking him," I say as I approach the car, making a face at Dustin, who can't seem to perfect Steve's cool lean.

"Yeah, no problem," he shrugs, glancing back at Dustin, giving him a quick shove. Dustin laughs, moving away to check his reflection in the car window again. Steve's eyes flicker back to me, lifting an amused brow at my sweater. "You got plans at Santa's Workshop tonight?"

I stick my tongue out at him, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "The tennis team is going to a party," I explain, trying to make it sound casual. "It's an ugly sweater thing."

Steve raises a brow, "Don't tell me you're going to Tommy's?" He doesn't need to say more; the judgment in his voice is clear.

I roll my eyes, fighting to keep my expression neutral. "It's not really my choice," I lie, "Tori's dragging me along."

Steve's gaze narrows, before he laughs knowingly. "Yeah, it has nothing to do with Billy Hargrove."

"Don't start," I snap, but Dustin laughs loudly, "I'm going with the tennis team."

"Sure," Steve teases, walking around to the driver's side of his car, "and you'll be leaving with your asshole boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," I repeat, even though I know it doesn't matter anymore. They'll never let it go.

"But he is an asshole," Steve grins as I flip him my favorite finger.

"Will I see you there?" I ask, choosing to ignore him and change the subject from my confusing love life.

He shakes his head at me, "You wouldn't catch me dead at Tommy's party. You have fun."

"Come on, the rest of the basketball team will be there. What are you going to do instead?" I ask, watching as Steve pulls open his car door, raising his brow at me.

"Sit at home and not watch you and your boyfriend pretend like you aren't making faces at each other the entire night." Steve pretends to dramatically kiss the air and Dustin laughs, loudly, the sound carrying up the driveway.

I ignore Steve now, deciding that I don't really want him there and focus on Dustin as he climbs into the passenger seat. "Don't embarrass me too much tonight," I remind him and Dustin grins, puffing out his chest.

"You can't say stuff like that to me when your sweater has tinsel glued to the front of it," Dustin shrugs before slamming the door shut behind him. I shake my head, waving at Steve as the car pulls away.

I stand in the driveway for a second, watching the taillights disappear down the street, until it's just me standing in the driveway. The neighborhood Christmas lights cast a faint glow of warmth and light. The air is crisp, stinging a bit as I breathe in with a shaky breath. I'm not even sure why I'm nervous. It's just a party, the same stupid one Tommy has been throwing since my freshman year, but it's different now. I'm not best friends with Carol and Nicole anymore – despite Nicole's efforts to act like nothing between us has changed, like I haven't changed since Halloween. That night seems so long ago now, such a pointless and silly attempt to get Billy's attention and suddenly I cringe looking down at the gold and silver tinsel on my sweater. The irony is almost laughable – maybe I haven't changed as much as I think.

I wrap my jacket around myself, rubbing my hands together to fight off the chill that's settling in. I remind myself that I am not going to Tommy's for the cocky, arrogant, Billy Hargrove that everyone seems to worship, but for the Billy Hargrove that sneaks through my window the nights when I can't sleep or waits for me after the extra tennis practice because "he felt like it." The small, softer sliver of him that he rarely lets anyone see – the part of him that seems reserved for me only.

A pair of headlights rounds the corner, and I recognize the familiar low rumble of Tori's car. She pulls up to the front of the house, leaning out the driver window, giving me a grin that's somehow both sympathetic and mischievous. "Sorry I'm late," she calls, her voice cutting through the night, "the red nose kept falling off my reindeer."

I pull myself together, rolling my eyes as she leans further out the window to show me the poorly knitted reindeer on the front of her sweater with a glued on pompom to its nose. "Did you just knit that today?" I ask, hurrying around the front of the car to get out of the cold.

"My grandma made this," she scoffs, but a couple of the girls from the tennis team she's squeezed into the back burst into a fit of giggles.

Tori glances at me as I climb into the passenger seat, taking in the tinsel on my sweater with a smirk, "Good thing we don't have to go through any security, I think you'd set off the metal detector."

I roll my eyes, pulling the seat belt over my shoulder, "At least we know we'll fit the dress code."

The girls in the back settle into an easy conversation and I find myself listening, sometimes laughing along, but the bit of tension I felt earlier lingers in my chest. Tori glances at me, lifting her brow, "You doing okay?"

I hesitate, but her gaze stays steady, a reassuring presence amid the chaos of my own nerves. "Yeah," I say, shrugging, "I just haven't been to one of Tommy's parties in a while."

Tori scoffs, keeping her eyes on the road. "Tommy's parties are nothing to be nervous about. It's the same crowd, same bad music, and the same red punch that makes everyone sick."

She pulls up in front of the house and I study the intricate Christmas lights that line Tommy's house in perfect, straight, rows. "Unless," Tori continues, "this has something to do with a certain Camaro driver?"

I snort, but can't bring myself to look at her. The girls in the back seat begin to climb out of the car, but Tori waits with me. "Not everything is about Billy," I mutter, even though I know I sound unconvincing.

"Oh, sure," Tori laughs, "then why are you practically craning your neck to find his car?"

I give her a playful shove, and she grins, unfazed. "Just try to have fun tonight, okay? Like you said, not everything is about Billy."

I take a steadying breath, nodding. "Yeah, yeah. Fun. Got it," I say, stepping out of the car as if I'm not aware of every flicker of Christmas light reflecting off the tinsel of my sweater and how ridiculous I'm suddenly feeling.

As we walk up the pathway, Tori links her arm through mine, her grip both grounding and comforting. "Just remember, if things get weird we can bail and head to the diner. They're making killer peppermint milkshakes."

I can't help but smile as I push open the front door. The loud festive music fills the space, most of our classmates are in gaudy, green and red sweaters, and there's the slightest scent of spiked eggnog lingering in the air. I fight the urge to scan the room for Billy, but my eyes are drawn to him almost immediately. He's leaning against the wall, arms cross over his chest with a beer bottle dangling loosely from his left hand as he listens to whatever story Tommy seems to be in the middle of. Billy is in a normal, dark green sweater, that hugs the curves of his biceps. Of course he's not in an ugly sweater and I feel my hands tugging at my jacket, pulling it closer to hide most of the tinsel.

My eyes linger for a moment too long, because his gaze lifts to mine like he can sense my presence and I watch as he fights the smile from pulling at his lips when he catches me looking at him. Billy shifts, such a small and subtle movement, that I know Tommy and the rest of the crowd around them don't even notice it, but I can feel the pull from across the room, he's fighting the urge to approach me, just as much as I am. This is the new normal between us – since that night in the hospital. Billy and I hadn't decided to make anything official, but that didn't keep us from finding each other in the hallways at school, across the room at parties we both attended – despite how much that seemed to bother Carol, Tommy, and their newest follower, Heather.

Billy lifts a brow, a subtle acknowledgement of my arrival. I return the gesture, following Tori through the house without so much of another glance in his direction. He'll find me later, when he's ready to leave, like he always does.

It's a game – a different one from when we first met, but still a game. I glance towards him again as Tori pulls me through the crowd towards the kitchen and Billy smirks, still intently watching me. I roll my eyes, turning away from him, but I can feel his eyes lingering, but refuse to turn back around as I weave through the living room. This is the game now– always on edge of something more – with him refusing to give it a name and me pretending like it doesn't matter, but he can't deny the way he looks at me. He can't deny stolen glances in crowded rooms, the quiet moments of comfort when it's just the two of us together, and that's what keeps me drawn to him, even when I know I should be demanding more from him, for whatever we are.

It doesn't take long for Tori, the tennis team, and myself to take our place in front of the fireplace, drinks in hand, watching the party unfold around us. It's festive and fun and I even find the tension in my chest lightening, the ache in my shoulder beginning to disappear as the night continues. We fall into an easy banter that I've missed since the attack, letting myself be pulled into their chatter about upcoming matches and winter break plans. It feels good to relax, even if a part of me still feels that quiet pang of jealousy every time someone mentions the tennis season or the summer camp tryout that are quickly approaching in the spring.

I take a long sip of the punch, forcing away the frown that threatens my face at the mention of the summer camp. That's what most of us look forward to and work so hard for during the season – an elite tennis camp for the Roane County schools, with the best coaches in the area and college scouts who have been studying our names with each passing season. It;s or the best of the best and I've been going since my Freshman year, but now? I glance at Tori, rolling my shoulder as the ache suddenly reappears, and try not to feel a pang of jealousy or resentment towards her.

"Hey," Tori says, catching my eye as the others keep talking, "you're camp royalty. They'd be crazy not to take you back this year."

I force a smile, feeling the familiar twist of anger, not at Tori but at everything that's changed. I know she's right – I'm a shoo-in, but after weeks on the sidelines, watching her step into my role as captain, it's hard to keep the bitterness at bay.

"Thanks, Tor," I say quietly, hoping she doesn't notice the slight edge in my voice. I want to mean it, and a part of me does, but a smaller part of me – wonders if things will ever feel the same again. "I'm going to go get another drink," I mutter, ignoring the fact that my cup is still halfway full.

Tori lits a brow, recognizing my sudden shift in mood, but leaves me alone. I walk away from Tori and the team, the festive lights feeling too bright, the music feeling too loud. I roll my shoulder, the scar from the demodogs claws pulling at the skin. It's strange, this dull ache that creeps in whenever I think about everything I used to be so sure of – tennis, my friends, even Billy in his own way.

I stare down at the punch bowl, swirling the liquid in my cup as my mind drifts, caught between what I've lost and what still feels just within reach. The laughter and shouts from across the room feel distant, almost muffled, and for a moment, I allow myself to sink into the quiet within the noise. I feign interest in the snacks, studying the living room with a bored expression. The party is beginning to shift, with most people now stumbling from the effects of the alcohol, and I find myself gripping my cup a little tighter, my eyes now searching for the one person I want to talk to.

Billy is across the room, sitting casually on the couch, arm slung over the back where Heather perches, leaning in close. She says something with a laugh, her hand touching his arm in that way that girls like her do when they're trying to hold his attention. He glances at her with that easy smile of his, one that somehow manages to look both careless and practiced, and a knot twists sharply in my stomach.

I know it's nothing, but the jealousy rises within me regardless. We're not even dating, I remind myself, absently swirling the punch in my cup. Still, the wave of irritation rolls over me as Heather shits closer, her shoulder brushing his. A dozen unspoken words rise in my throat, but I bite them back, forcing my expression into something neutral. This is what he does – drifting between people, slipping through moments like they barely matter, but he still can't seem to keep from glancing my way.

I tear my gaze away, my fingers tapping restlessly against the side of my cup. It shouldn't bother me, but that doesn't make it any easier. I shift my weight, tightening my grip on the cup, trying to shake off the feeling, but it lingers, prickling beneath my skin. If Heather knew about the nights he slipped through my window, about the time he spends on the weekends fixing my truck, or the long phone calls after dinner, would she still be looking at him like that?

When I look up again, he's already watching me, lifting his eyes to the ceiling in that lazy, cocky way, before letting his gaze fall back to mine. I can't help the small smirk that pulls at my lips, lifting my wrist to tap an invisible watch, tilting my head slightly toward the door. Billy's mouth twitches, a barely-there smile, as he shifts, settling down his drink. Heather's gaze follows him, confusion crossing her face as he pats her shoulder, stands, and strides toward me without so much as another glance in her direction.

I am glued to the spot, but feel my shoulders straightening, forcing an easy, bored expression on my face despite the fast paced beating of my heart. He closes the distance between us with a lazy, confident stride that somehow manages to look unintentional – like he's not aiming straight for me. He pauses near the snack table, pretending to consider the assortment of chips and candy, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, a stupid game we're both too good at playing.

"Nice sweater," he finally says, raising an eyebrow, letting his eyes roam over the tinsel and the obnoxious holiday pattern. "You trying to blind someone?"

I roll my eyes at the comment, but feel the blush beginning to rise. "You must have missed the memo," I reply, pretending to be equally engrossed in the snack table. I can't help but sneak a glance at his sweater, dark green and soft, the way it clings to his frame is almost unfair.

"All sweaters are ugly," he smirks, but he's leaning a bit closer now, his attention fully on me. "This is just another one of those shitty Hawkins traditions."

"Then why come at all?" I ask, rolling my eyes for effect. I can feel curious eyes watching us, questioning what's really going on between us, but I ignore them.

He leans in, lowering his voice. "Well, someone's gotta keep an eye on you. Can't have you getting carried away without me," his hand drifts to the small of my back, just for a second – a barely-there touch that could almost pass as an accident if you didn't know better.

I inhale sharply, glancing around to make sure no one's noticed. Of course, Carol and Heather have, frowning from across the room as they mutter over their drinks, clearly unimpressed that Billy has left Heather alone for me. Billy follows my gaze, noticing them, and the look he gives them is almost defiant.

"You know," I say, trying to shake off the blush, "if you keep acting like this someone might get the wrong idea." I hope the sarcasm in my voice hides the genuine thrill his closeness sends through me.

"And what's that, princess?" he asks, eyes sparking at the challenge.

"That Billy Hargrove has a girlfriend," I tease, but he's still leaning towards me.

Billy lets out a low amused laugh, his gaze darkening as he studies me. "And here I thought you didn't care what people thought," he replies, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. There's something in his voice – a soft edge of annoyance that makes my heart race a little faster.

"I don't," I scoff, my voice steady, despite the fact that the rest of me feels like it's on fire, "but you clearly do."

"Lace," he warns, but I shrug picking a piece of lint off of his sweater, like I am completely disinterested in whatever argument he has on the tip of his tongue, because I know what he's going to say. Billy's not into labels and therefore I shouldn't be either. In his own arrogant way, I am his and no one can deny that, but I am not his girlfriend and I love to remind him of that.

"You and Heather looked rather cozy," I mutter, flicking my gaze back across the room.

"Yeah I was really enjoying listening to her talk non-stop about her upcoming ski trip," he teases, but I still feel the twinge of jealousy deep in the pit of my stomach. "Trust me, there's nothing even slightly interesting about Heather."

I make a face, shaking my head as his hand brushes against my back again,"You could've fooled me."

"Lace," Billy's smirk deepens, a glint in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he means to me, even if neither of us will say it. I let my gaze linger on for a moment longer before I finally glance towards Heather and Carol again, wanting desperately for him to just admit he only wants me.

"Let's give them something to talk about then," Billy teases, keeping his tone light and playful, but there's a silent agreement passing between us now, "you do have an early curfew tonight, right?"

"Midnight," I murmur, trying to keep my tone light, "I'm already late."

He leans close, his voice low. "Let's get out of here then."

We weave through the crowd, his hand barely grazing mine as we walk toward the door. It's such a small gesture, almost inconspicuous, but it feels deliberate – possessive in the way that only Billy can be without saying a word. I glance back once, catching the brief flicker of annoyance in Heather's gaze from across the room, and a rush of satisfaction warms my chest.

As we step into the cold night, I let out a breath, tension slowly unraveling. It's just the two of us now, moving away from the crowd and unspoken expectations, but when I glance over at him, his presence is both calming and exhilarating. As we step outside into the crisp night air, a wave of relief washes over me, for now, at least, it's just us. No labels, no expectations, just the familiar rumble of the Camaro as Billy turns the key. I settle into the cool leather and catch him looking at me – really looking, with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. I return his gaze, the silence between us heavy with unspoken words, knowing that despite everything in the unknown between us, neither of us is going to walk away.