Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spring in Hawkins smelled like rain-soaked pavement, rust, and stale cigarettes. It sounded like quiet porches and distant televisions. It felt like a place where nothing ever happened — except for the things you weren’t supposed to talk about.

Eve hadn’t planned on staying long. She had been coming here since she was a baby. The kind of recurring visit where every sidewalk crack and porch railing became familiar, but never belonged to her.

Now, it was spring break. Senior year was bleeding out in a slow drip back home, and Eve needed the quiet. Not rest. Not peace. Just the absence of noise — the kind that stuck to your skin in her city like static.

So, she stayed in. For two full days, she helped her grandmother with chores, took long walks to nowhere, and ducked out of social invitations she didn’t care to entertain. She wasn’t feeling generous. Not with her time. Not with her attention.

People still remembered her in Hawkins. Kids she used to play tag with had grown into acne and letterman jackets and teenage arrogance. There were names that lingered at the edge of her memory — mostly Harrington. They used to be close in that too-young, sloppy, almost-sweet kind of way. But now, they were ghosts. Half-formed memories that smelled like bug spray and summer grass.

This time, she chose solitude.

And tonight, she was wrapped in it.

The porch light hummed above her head like a soft-spoken guardian. Eve sat curled in her grandmother’s old rocking chair, spine loose against the wood, fingers brushing the edge of a weathered book as if it might speak if she touched it just right. Not reading. Just… holding it. Like it mattered. Like it made her look less like she was waiting for something and more like she’d chosen this.

A candle flickered low beside her, catching little ripples in the satin of her navy nightgown — a color that turned midnight blue under the porchlight. Barefoot, feet tucked beneath her. Hair loose, still faintly damp from a bath. Skin clean, soft with that leftover warmth you only got from hot water and cheap soap. Eve wasn’t wearing perfume, but she smelled like rose lotion and fabric softener and something a little wild underneath it all — like she might’ve walked through the woods barefoot and come out unbothered.

She had always thought Hawkins felt suspended in time. Like a snow globe town someone had shaken once in the ’60s and then stuck on a shelf to collect dust.

This was her third night here. She hadn’t gone out. Didn’t feel like it. No reunions. No bonfires. Just her grandma’s peach cobbler, the low hiss of the old TV set in the evenings, and the long, wandering walks during the day that made her feel like she was moving without going anywhere.

And now… she sat still.

⸻

Billy wasn’t supposed to be there.

He’d taken a left when he always took a right. No reason. No plan. Just a fucked-up instinct that curled its fingers into his spine and yanked. His boots crunched over the loose gravel at the shoulder of the road, the kind that shifted just enough to keep you from trusting your footing. The night air licked cold across the back of his neck, sharp as a whisper. His leather jacket hung open, heavy and worn. The sleeves still held the heat from the bar fight he hadn’t gotten into and the cigarette he hadn’t smoked.

No Camaro tonight. No engine noise to drown out the static in his skull. No music to blast the blood out of his ears. Just his own steps and the slow, pounding ache behind his eyes — the kind that settled deep and refused to be ignored.

Then he saw her.

Or maybe he saw the light first — that warm porch glow, the low flicker of candlelight, soft haze of gold and dark blue like a memory he hadn’t earned. Then her. Still as a fucking painting. Still as a fever dream.

Billy stopped.

Right in the middle of the road.

One foot forward like he’d forgotten how to fucking walk.

He wasn’t a stranger to beauty. Not the kind people talked about. Not the kind they took pictures of. He’d seen it. Used it. Worn it like a goddamn medal. Lip gloss in rearview mirrors. Slow smiles in the backs of cars. Girls saying his name like they thought it meant something. He knew what pretty looked like.

But this? This was something else.

She didn’t see him.

Didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch like she felt him watching. Just sat there — like the world didn’t exist. Like he didn’t.

His eyes dragged over her — the open book limp in her hands, like she’d forgotten the goddamn plot mid-page. Candlelight spilled across her collarbones, catching on the thin lace straps of that nightgown — sheer enough to show the soft curve beneath. Her knee was bare through the folds of satin, pressed against the wood of the chair like it didn’t know how fucking dangerous it looked. And he kept looking. Kept staring.

Followed the slope of her shoulder, the way her neck dipped — he could kiss that neck, he thought, slow and firm, teeth scraping just enough to leave a mark. The slight part of her lips as she turned a page — like she was whispering something to no one, and he wanted to hear it. Wanted to crawl into that silence and wreck it. Her fingers touched the paper like she was afraid it might bruise. He wondered how it would feel if she touched him like that — soft, reverent, like he was something fragile instead of all fists and fire.

And fuck, that thought undid something in him.

What would it feel like to have those fingers against his jaw, down his chest, curled into his belt loops like she owned him? She didn’t even know she was sitting there like that — loose and effortless, looking his salvation and something he couldn’t fucking have. And maybe that was the worst part.

Because if she touched him like that, he might come undone. Might fall apart in her hands like wet paper. Might beg — not with words, never that — but with his body, with every sharp breath, with every ounce of tension that coiled in his spine like a goddamn live wire.

At that moment, she didn’t know how fucking delicate she looked.

Maybe she had no idea she was sitting there like some cruel, perfect invitation to destruction.

But Billy felt it — down to his goddamn bones. Like she could hollow him out without ever meaning to. Like he’d hand her the knife and thank her for cutting deep.

And it hit him — sharp, low, and dirty. Right under the ribs.

Not just want.

Worse.

It wasn’t lust.

Not yet.

It was that other thing. That ugly, fucked-up thing that curled in the pit of your gut and made you feel like you were starving. Like you were missing something vital. Yearning.

God. He didn’t even think in words like that. But it stuck. Got into him like smoke.

He could picture it — stepping up onto that porch, leaning against the railing, mouth twisting into that cocky grin like none of it mattered. Could already feel the words bubbling up — something crude, something slick, something to make her roll her eyes.

But he didn’t move.

Because you don’t fucking touch something like that. Not unless you’re ready to burn for it.

She turned a page.

Still didn’t look up.

Billy exhaled, slow and quiet.

Something in him pulled tight. That tide again. That ache that felt like it might rip him in half.

He backed away.

Didn’t turn his back — never that. Just walked in reverse for a few steps, slow and silent. His boots barely kissed the pavement now, like even the ground knew not to interrupt whatever the hell that was.

When the house was finally out of sight, he ran a hand through his hair. Fingers dug in like he was trying to claw the image out of his brain.

But it was lodged there.

Burned in.

He didn’t know who the fuck she was. Didn’t care where she came from. But now he had a reason to walk that street again tomorrow.

Just in case she was still sitting there.

Just in case the painting hadn’t disappeared.

Chapter Text

He’d spent the whole goddamn day thinking about her.

Not in that usual way — not the quick, sharp flash of a girl’s body pressed against his in the backseat, not the memory of moaned names and smudged lipstick. This was different. This was lingering. She’d gotten under his skin like smoke, curled between his ribs, and stayed there. Everything he did — the run he forced himself to take that morning, the shower after, the half-assed cleanup of his room, the two cigarettes he smoked down to the filter without tasting either — she was there. Every time he blinked, he saw that porchlight glow. That blue satin. The way her book hung limp in her fingers like she’d forgotten it was there. The look on her face — not dreamy, not bored. Something else. Like the world was happening quietly inside her and the rest of them were just noise. He hated how much he wanted to know what she was thinking. Hated that she’d looked peaceful and untouched and far away — and he wanted to touch that. Wanted to reach into that silence and ruin it. Not cruelly. Just enough to make her eyes land on him and never leave.

Inside, Eve had just finished drying the last dish her grandmother left in the rack. She didn’t hear the knock at first. Not until the third one — sharp, knuckle-on-screen-door type that made her frown. She padded to the porch barefoot, still in her nightgown, expecting maybe a neighbor, maybe someone asking after her grandma.

Not Steve Harrington.

Her breath caught — not in a dramatic way, just a little hitch in her chest that surprised her.
You’ve got to be kidding.

He stood there with his hands shoved into his jeans, a sheepish kind of smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he half-regretted showing up. Like he’d already made peace with the possibility of getting the door shut in his face.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Not awkward, but not sure either. “You, uh… got a minute?”

Eve blinked. Took in the stupid hair, the familiar slope of his shoulders, that ridiculous soft denim jacket he always wore half-buttoned.

“It’s been, what… three years?” she said.

Steve scratched the back of his neck. “Two and a half. But who’s counting?”

She leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed under her chest, chin tilted slightly. “Apparently you.”

He grinned.
“Still sharp as hell. I missed that.” He thought to himself.

⸻

Billy had practiced what he’d say, which pissed him off more than anything. He didn’t practice. Didn’t rehearse. But he’d muttered it under his breath while pumping gas, scowled at his steering wheel while shaping the lines in his head. Something cool. Smooth. Not too obvious, not too soft. Maybe start with something teasing. “Didn’t think porcelain dolls came to life after dark.” Or maybe play it bored — “Didn’t know anyone still read books around here.” Something that would make her look at him twice. Roll her eyes, maybe. Laugh, if he got lucky.

And he kept seeing it. Her on that porch again, barefoot and untouchable, hair half-wet from a bath, candlelight kissing her collarbones. He wondered if she’d be there tonight.

Even if she wasn’t, he’d walk by again. He’d wait if he had to.

That porch had lit something inside him he didn’t know how to put out.

⸻

Steve stayed two steps down, respectful of her height advantage. It felt like a safe distance.
“Don’t crowd her. She always hated that.”Steve noted internally.

“I saw your grandma at the market,” he said. “She mentioned you were in town.”

“Sure she did,” Eve muttered. “She’s trying to set me up with every guy under forty who walks past her.”

Steve gave a low laugh. “I don’t think she mentioned that part.”

They paused. The air between them softened — still awkward, but less sharp.

“Look,” he said. “I know we haven’t talked in a while. I’m not here to, like, dig up old playground memories or whatever. I just—”

“Felt nostalgic?” she offered, eyebrows raised.

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Something like that.”
-Not really. But I don’t know how to say the truth yet.-

Eve tilted her head. “What’s the real reason?”
-Don’t lie. Not here. Not on this porch.-

His eyes dropped, then lifted again. Honest, open, maybe a little tired.

“I missed having people who knew me before I was an asshole.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, a tiny shrug.
-You were stupid. But not cruel. You just… disappeared.-
“You weren’t an asshole. Not to me.”

That seemed to land somewhere deep in Steve’s chest.
-Fuck. Don’t let that mean too much. She’s just being kind. Or worse — honest.-

⸻

So when the sun sank and Hawkins dipped into that strange, golden quiet — the hour when bugs hummed in the grass and TVs flickered in every living room — Billy made his way back to her street. On foot again. Boots loose. Leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. Not nervous, not exactly. But wired. Pulled tight. Ready.

And then he saw it.

Her porch.

Her.

She was leaning on the railing this time. Same nightgown — that navy satin clinging like it’d been painted on, darker now under the porchlight, catching shadows in every dip and curve. It hugged her hips like it knew what he was thinking, like it wanted to press itself into his palms the way he did. The hem flirted with her thigh when the breeze moved, soft and lazy, like it didn’t give a damn who was watching. One strap had slipped down, revealing the smooth line of her shoulder — pale, delicate, fuckable — and he felt it, low and sharp in his gut, like teeth sinking in. His fingers twitched. Useless. He couldn’t touch. Couldn’t even move.

Jesus, look at her.
She didn’t even know. Or maybe she did. Maybe she stood like that on purpose — all soft mouth and bedroom skin — like she wanted to undo him just by leaning forward.

Her neckline was nothing — and everything. That thin strip of lace barely hiding anything, cupping what it could like an afterthought. The swell of her breasts under it wasn’t even the most revealing part — it was the way she held herself. Relaxed. Barefoot. Unbothered. Like she knew exactly what power she had in her bones and just hadn’t decided who to burn with it yet.

She looked like something that belonged under someone — his someone. In his sheets. On his lap. Against his mouth.

He swallowed hard.

Fuck.

She looked like a sin he wanted to confess to over and over.

But she wasn’t alone.

Steve Fucking Harrington stood at the bottom step, one hand in his back pocket, neck craned a little like he was trying to look up at her without being obvious. That dumb, casual smile on his face — the kind Billy had seen a hundred times, the kind that got girls to laugh and melt and lean closer.

Billy stopped dead in the middle of the road.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Talking to her?

Billy froze, mid-breath. Every inch of heat that had been crawling down his spine snapped cold, like someone had poured ice water through his skull. That loose, easy stance. One hand tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, all casual charm and boy-next-door bullshit. Neck craned, chin tilted, that soft goddamn smile stretched across his stupid face — like he’d been invited to the show Billy had been watching all day in his head. And Eve— she was smiling back.

Not a big smile. Not flirty. Just… soft. Familiar.

Billy’s fists clenched so hard in his pockets his knuckles cracked.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Talking to her?

He watched her lean slightly closer, arms resting on the railing like she’d been caught in the middle of a joke. She looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like this wasn’t her first time seeing him. Like maybe Harrington had already been let in — into that quiet, into that space Billy had been circling like a wolf all day.

And that did something sharp to him.
Made his jaw lock.
Made his pulse go sideways.

It wasn’t just jealousy — it was violation.
This wasn’t supposed to be shared.

This wasn’t supposed to be anyone else’s to look at, not like that.

Billy had pictured a thousand versions of tonight. All of them ended with her eyes on him. Not him stuck in the dark like some background extra while Steve fucking Harrington smiled up at her like they had some unfinished business worth finishing.

Billy’s blood was hot again, but for a different reason now — not lust, not yearning.
Possession.
Rage.
That flicker of violence he’d spent all day keeping buried under fantasy.

He wanted to walk up, say something sharp. Something that would pull her eyes straight to his and cut through whatever fake-boyfriend act Steve was playing at. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. Because right now, she wasn’t looking at him. She didn’t even know he was there.

And that — that fucking stung worse than anything else.

⸻

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” Steve said. “I just figured… we were good, once. And I don’t have a lot of good left that isn’t covered in bullshit.”

God, that sounded pathetic. But screw it — if she was gonna shut the door, at least it would be over the truth.

Eve’s expression shifted, just slightly. A small softening. She didn’t smile, but her eyes dropped to the porch rail like she might.

“I remember the night we buried that dead bird,” she said.

Steve blinked. Then laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. “Oh my God. You made me say a eulogy.”

“You cried,” Eve said dryly.

-You cried hard, too. But I liked that about you. You felt everything too loud, even back then.-

“I was ten!” he argued.

She finally smiled. “You were a soft ten.”

“I’m a soft eighteen now,” he muttered. “Sue me.”
-And apparently still trying to impress you. Shit.-

⸻

Billy watched her laugh. Not loud. Just a little exhale through her nose, the kind that said, okay, you got one.

His jaw flexed.

They knew each other?

Maybe he’d been there first.

Billy felt something hard settle in his throat.

He was too far to interrupt. Not without looking like a fucking psycho.

So he did what he hated most.

He waited.

From the shadows, half-lit by a streetlamp, fists in his jacket pockets and blood thudding in his ears, Billy watched — trying to figure out how much of a threat Harrington actually was.

And whether or not she was worth starting a fire over.

(And fuck, he already knew the answer.)

Chapter Text

Billy got out of his Camaro. He walked towards the supermarket, where Suzan sent him to get her some things for the house.

Of course she couldn’t get Neil to do it. And Max sure as hell wouldn’t go. So it’s him. Always him.

He hated the whole fucked-up mess of them — the shouting, the silence after, the ache behind the walls. But a small, bitter part of him still felt sorry for Suzan. For Max. For what they had to survive inside that house. It was guilt. Or loyalty, twisted and ugly and stitched into his ribs like a bad tattoo.

He put the keys of his Camaro in his jeans’ back pocket, heavy boots pounded the pavement like they were pissed off too.

Just grab the shit. Get out. No one sees you, no one talks to you. Easy.

Inside, the store was a buzz of humming lights and distant register beeps. He went straight for the aisle he needed, cutting past slow carts and retirees without looking twice.

But his mind, like always, drifted.

Her.

Porch girl.

Still don’t know her name. Still didn’t know why she’d carved a space in his skull like she belonged there.

Damn. He didn’t even know her name. He thought of asking around, but that would make him seem desperate. What if Harrington heard of it and decided to ruin all of his plans?

That preppy little prick would turn it into some high school soap opera.

He couldn’t let that happen. But of course, he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

Then all of a sudden… everything happened in a blur.

Something crashed on his front… an elbow on his face… a person…a girl.

What the—

The only thing he managed to say before he saw her face was: “Motherfuck—…”

But then he stopped as she turned to look at him.

No way. No fucking way.

Her.

She looked confused as she was holding a bag of peas in her hand, looking like she fought someone to get it.

“Oh, fuck. Did I hurt you? Jesus, sorry,” she said again, eyes flicking over his face. Then — warm fingers on his jaw, checking him like she cared.

He froze.

Her touch was careful. Too soft for his world. Soft in a way that didn’t make sense on his skin.

He just looked at her like dumb.

What the hell is she doing touching me like that.Say something. Anything. Open your mouth, Hargrove.

“God, say something. Did I give you a concussion??” she asked, worried, looking at him. Touching his face to check him.

Her fingers were warm. Soft. Careful.
And her touch — fuck — it lit up something low and hungry inside him. The way her thumb skimmed his cheekbone… it wasn’t just checking for bruises. It felt like a claim. His skin burned under her fingertips. She didn’t even notice what she was doing. Or maybe she did. And that made it worse. So much worse.

When he managed to get out of his head and talked to her, the only thing he could master was: “Name’s Billy.”

Idiot. Real smooth, Hargrove.

“Thank God he talks,” Eve said with a smirk and a bit of concern masked with irony.

“You good, pretty boy?” she told him, using a pet name like they do it every day, while looking into his eyes.

Billy almost fucking blushed. And that never happened. Pretty boy. The words rolled off her tongue like she’d already had him under her — flushed, panting, pinned down with those clever fingers still on his face. He swallowed hard. His mind flashed to things he shouldn’t be thinking in public. It wasn’t the nickname that got him. It was the way she said it. Like she wanted to see how it tastes.

Say something cocky. Say anything. Don’t stand here like an idiot. You’ve been dreaming about her and now she’s calling you pretty like it’s a fact of nature.

He swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, barely.

She arched a brow, arms braced on the cart like she owned the whole damn aisle. “You sure? That was, like, a full-body freezer tackle.”

“You hit like a linebacker,” he muttered, still dazed.

Don’t stare at her chest. Don’t—fuck.

She leaned just slightly, and the edge of a black bra strap peeked out — casual, like it lived there to drive him fucking insane.
He clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

Don’t stare. Don’t picture her in your lap, straddling you in that damn tank top.

“I train in frozen food combat,” she said, deadpan.

Billy huffed a laugh before he could stop it. Quick. Rough. Caught him off guard.

Shit. That actually came out of me?

Then her smile widened. That lazy, magnetic curl like she wasn’t even trying. That was the worst part — she didn’t try.

She’s not like the others.

Or he didn’t care enough for the others to think about stuff like that.

She tilted her head. “So. Billy.”

He nodded, still too distracted by the way her tank top clung to the curve of her collarbone. “Yeah?”

Stop staring. Say something better than ‘yeah,’ for the love of god.

“You always that much of a drama king?” Eve said jokingly.

He blinked. “You always crash into strangers for fun?”

Please say yes.

“Only the cute ones.”

That lit him up. Just a flicker — his lips twitching, almost a smirk.

She’s fucking with me. And it’s working.

“You got a name, or do I have to wait ‘til you break my nose to find out?”

She leaned on the cart slightly, her arms resting across the handle.

“Eve.”

Of course. Eve.
Temptation, right from the goddamn source.

He nodded. “Cool.”

She snorted. “Cool? That’s all you’ve got?”

Goddammit. She’s gonna walk away.

“You elbowed me in the face,” he said. “Not exactly thinking straight.”

She bit her lip, smiling like she was trying not to. “Fair.”

That smile. Jesus Christ.

They stood there a second longer. The grocery store faded around them — beeping registers, old women pushing carts, some kid crying three aisles over. None of it mattered.

“You from around here?” she asked, scanning him like she was memorizing him. “I’ve never seen you before.”

Her eyes roamed. Open. Bold.

And god, was she looking. Really looking.

He was totally gorgeous. Kinda sexy.
Kinda? she thought. He is drop-dead ‘fuck me in every way possible’ sexy.

“Moved here a year ago,” Billy answered.

She nodded slowly, still looking at him. Taking him in.

Don’t leave. Say something. Stop her. Don’t let this end here.

And then she shifted, slowly pushing her cart to the side.

“Well,” she said, like she was making a decision. “I should let you get back to… whatever.”

He felt it then — the pull. The moment sliding through his fingers.

She was leaving. The moment was ending. And he hadn’t done a damn thing about it.

So he did.

He turned. Walked fast, back toward the doors. Past the cashier. Out into the heat.

The Camaro waited, engine ticking in the sun.

He got in, closed the door. Sat still.

His heart was still beating like he’d sprinted here.

What the fuck was that?

He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think straight. Her voice was still in his head, her fingers still on his cheek.

And without really thinking, without planning or rationalizing — he got out.

He didn’t even manage to sit still for ten seconds in his car before he got out again and marched toward the store like it owed him something.

Fuck it. I don’t care how this looks.

He didn’t care about the place, the people in it, or how hard the door slammed when he walked back inside. He moved fast — boots loud on the tile, scanning every aisle like he was ready to fight someone for her.

And then — there she was.

Bent slightly over the cart, reading a label. Nothing special. But it still hit him in the gut like a goddamn punch.

There she is. Jesus Christ.

What do I even say?

Don’t fuck it up.

He didn’t think. Just moved.
Walked up behind her, slow and quiet, like he’d been hunting her since the moment she walked away. His hand found her shoulder — fingers grazing bare skin beneath her strap. Her skin was warm. Soft. She gasped, spinning — and for one second, they were too close. He saw the way her lips parted, pink and plush and slightly damp. She looked at him like she could feel him already. And shit — maybe she could.

“You’re playing with your luck,” she said when she turned and saw him.

Goddamn it, Eve thought, pulse skipping. Why is it always the gorgeous ones who touch without warning?

“Came back for round two?” she asked, smirking now. No fear. Just that same amused calm like she’d known he’d come back.

Of course he came back.
They always do. But this one…

Billy didn’t answer.

Couldn’t. I’d come back for round 100 if you asked me, he thought.
But the words stayed in his chest, burning.

Shit, she probably sees it. It’s all over my fucking face.

She didn’t comment on it. Just stood there — waiting.

“Wanna grab a drink tonight?” he asked.

It came out too fast. Unfiltered. The kind of thing that usually worked. That usually earned a yes, or at least a smile that said later.

Why the hell did I just say that?

She looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And for a second it felt like the whole aisle got quieter — like she’d pulled the sound out of the world just by locking her eyes on his.

He’s serious, Eve thought. Shit. He’s actually serious.

Then, finally:

“No,” Eve said.

Billy blinked.

No?

No girl ever told him no.

No??

What the hell—

Who the fuck does she think she is? Who the hell says no to Billy Hargrove?

Forget this. Stupid to even ask. Dumb. Should’ve just walked away when I had the chance. She’s not worth this—

He already regretted it. He could feel the armor sliding back into place, ego curling like a fist in his gut.

Cool. Play it cool. Look bored. Look like you didn’t mean it.

He shifted, already bracing to walk away, pretending she didn’t just throw him off balance like it was nothing.

But then —

“But…” Eve said.

Oh?

Billy stopped breathing.

She didn’t look away — didn’t smirk or stall or try to tease him with it. Just stood there, expression even, voice low.

“You have to earn the date, pretty boy.”
The way she said it, low, slow, deliberate — it was almost a dare.

Almost a promise.

His blood surged downward like it had a mind of its own.

She stepped just close enough for her voice to slide along his skin.

“You don’t just get to fuck me with your eyes and walk away,” she thought, smiling.
“You want the porch? You want the date? Come take it.” She continued in her head

His heart kicked once, hard.

Fuck.

Say something. Do something. Don’t just stand there like a stunned idiot.

She stepped in just a little — close enough to make it obvious, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of something sweet on her skin. Lotion maybe. Or her shampoo. Or maybe it was just her.

“Come to my house,” she said. “Tonight. Around eleven. I have a very beautiful porch.”

Like I don’t know that.
Billy thought internally.

“It’s quite around that time” She continued.

He blinked once. Her tone was too calm. Too sure. Like she wasn’t making a suggestion. She was setting a challenge.

She’s not scared of me. Not even a little.

“My grandma’ll be asleep. The whole of Hawkins will be asleep.”

She leaned forward, just a little — voice still soft, but firm enough to land like a weight in his chest.

“And we’ll have all the time in the world to get to know each other.”

Billy’s mouth was dry. His blood was moving in places it shouldn’t have been.

Holy shit. Holy shit.

She stepped back half a beat, watching him.

“And if you’re lucky…” she added, smile curling slow, “you’re in for a date.”

He didn’t say a word.

He couldn’t.

She just flipped the whole fucking table and walked off like it was nothing.

She turned back to her cart like she’d just asked him to hand her a can of soup and not lit his entire goddamn world on fire.

Billy stood there, still as stone, jaw tight, pulse pounding.

Holy fucking shit.

Chapter Text

Eve never got nervous.

She didn’t do nerves. She’d mastered the art of distance years ago — the cool-girl act, the half-smile that said don’t try too hard, the bone-deep habit of keeping one foot out the door before anyone could ask her to stay.

But now, brushing her teeth at 10:47 p.m., she caught herself staring at her reflection with wide eyes and a mouthful of foam, heart kicking in her chest like it had something to prove.

“The fuck were you thinking?” she mumbled around the toothbrush. She spit, rinsed, leaned against the sink. Fifteen minutes. That’s all it had been. A collision in a grocery store aisle and a few cocky words tossed back and forth like lit matches — and now her stomach was doing somersaults over a boy she barely knew. Not just a boy.

Billy.

That face — carved from bad decisions. That voice — smoke and heat. And those eyes — the kind that looked like they’d seen too much and felt too little. Until he looked at her.

The way he looked at her.

God. Who the hell even acts like that in a supermarket?

Like she was trouble he’d already decided was worth it.

”Dumbass,” she whispered to herself, padding barefoot back into her room. She pulled the old Zeppelin shirt from the closet — the one that used to hang off her mom’s shoulders, faded black and fraying at the collar. It smelled like old cotton and comfort. She wore it when she needed a reminder: you don’t have to impress anyone.

Just exist.

Just breathe.

She tugged it on over a black bralette and a pair of worn shorts — soft with age, frayed high on the thigh. Not an outfit, exactly. Maybe a bit light for Indiana spring, but something that made her feel like her.

“Not a date,” she muttered, rummaging in the fridge.

Wine? Too much. Too romantic. Too “I’ve been waiting all day for you,” which she absolutely would not admit to herself, even if it were true.
Lemonade? Christ, no. What was this, a church picnic?
Her eyes landed on the half-empty six-pack of beer shoved in the back behind the jar of pickles.

“Mhm. Sure. That’ll do.”

She pulled two out, set them on the counter, and grabbed the bottle opener off the hook like it was part of a ritual she hadn’t performed in a long time.

She kept checking the oven clock.

10:52

Her pulse jumped. Her mouth went dry. Her palms itched like she needed something to hold onto — or something to throw.

What the hell are we even gonna do?

Talk? Sit on the porch like an old married couple in a Tennessee Williams play?

Talk about what? The weather? The price of frozen peas?

They didn’t know each other. Not really. She wasn’t even sure what he wanted — other than the obvious. And yeah, okay, maybe she wanted that too. But this was different. This wasn’t about flirting. He looked at her like he already knew what her mouth tasted like — and still wanted to ask her name. And that? That was dangerous.

She dropped onto the couch for a second, bouncing her knee, staring out the front window. The porch light hummed softly outside. She could see the edge of the rocking chair in the glow, and just beyond that — the quiet road.

Empty for now.

She thought about the way he stood at the edge of the aisle, watching her like she was fire and he wanted to burn. About the way he’d touched her shoulder.

Not rough. Not cocky. Just there. Just real. And the look on his face when she said no. Like no one had ever dared.

He’s gonna show up, she thought.

Of course he was. Boys like Billy didn’t walk away from a challenge. Especially not when it was issued by a girl in a tank top with a smirk and no intention of backing down.

Her chest ached with anticipation. Not fear. Not excitement. Just… hunger. For what, she wasn’t sure.

But she knew one thing — if Billy stepped onto her porch tonight, she wasn’t going to play it safe.

———

He stared at himself in the mirror for a solid thirty seconds.

Then muttered, “Fuck this,” and looked away.

What was he even doing?

It was 10:24 p.m.
He’d showered.
He’d put on a clean shirt. Black. Loose, like the ones he used to wear in Cali when days got hotter, 3 first buttons unbuttoned. Slightly ironed, but not enough to make it look like he tried.
Which he had.
Which pissed him off.

Billy didn’t get ready for anyone. Not like this. Not with that wired, half-sick feeling crawling up his spine. He didn’t care what girls thought of him — they either wanted him or they didn’t, and most of them did. Simple. Clean. No weight.

But this?

This was not simple.

This was her.

Eve.

She’d said no like she meant it.
Said earn it like it was a goddamn prophecy.

And it wrecked him.

He wanted to pretend it was about the game — about the chase, the win. But it wasn’t. Not really.

He wanted her eyes on him again.
Wanted her mouth around his name.
Wanted to crawl back into that moment at the store when she touched his jaw like he wasn’t dangerous — like she wasn’t afraid of anything at all.

No one had ever made him feel like this.

Not turned on.

Exposed.

Like she saw all the cracks in him and still dared him to come closer.

He paced the room. Grabbed his car keys, then left them on the desk. Thought about the Camaro, then shook his head.

“She’ll hear it from a mile away. Don’t want her thinking I came desperate.”

He’d walk. Boots on. Jacket slung over one shoulder. Pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. No flowers. No gift. Just him, and whatever the hell this feeling was bleeding through his chest like heat.

⸻

The street was still empty when Eve stepped outside.

The porch light cast everything in honey-gold — her bare legs, the edge of the old rocker, the chipped railing where time had done its slow work. She curled up in the chair, tucked one leg beneath her, and tried not to look like she was waiting.

Even though she was.

Beer bottle sweating in her hand, her other thumb tapped restlessly against the armrest. She’d told herself this wasn’t a date. That she didn’t care if he showed up or not.

Lie.

Every sound made her head turn.

And then — she saw him.

At the far end of the street, walking slow, boots heavy against the pavement, dark shirt clinging just enough to suggest and not say, leather jacket thrown over his shoulder like sin itself.

Billy.

The air around her stilled.

No words. Just the rush of her pulse in her ears and the sound of his steps getting closer.

God, he looked good. Too good. Too much.

And yet he looked… unsure. Like the air might crack if he breathed too hard.

He stopped at the bottom step.

Their eyes met.

Something locked into place.

Eve raised her bottle, calm on the outside — chaos inside.

“You’re late,” she said.

———
By the time he reached her street, it was just shy of 11.

Hawkins was dead quiet.

The kind of quiet that only existed in small towns and horror films — where every porchlight felt like an interrogation lamp, and the buzz of cicadas sounded like a countdown.

Billy stuffed his hands in his pockets as he turned the corner. His pulse was hammering in his ears.

Don’t overthink it. Just show up. Say something slick. Flash the grin. Let it play out.

But he wasn’t sure the grin would hold tonight. Because the truth was, she made him nervous.

And that? That was the most fucked-up thing of all.

Then he saw it.

The porch.

The light.

Her.

She was already out there.

Barefoot again, sitting low in the rocker, legs tucked up under her, a bottle of beer dangling lazily in one hand.

And that shirt—

Led Zeppelin, worn thin, hanging loose over her thighs like it had seen better decades. Black lace peeking under it.

Billy stopped.
Just for a second.
Let the image burn itself into his memory.

Jesus Christ.

She looked like a dream he’d forgotten how to wake up from.

And the worst part?

She looked calm.

Like she’d known all along that he’d come. Like he was right on time.
He swallowed. His mouth was dry again.

This was the part where he was supposed to say something smooth. Something cocky. Something classic. But all he could think about was the fact that this girl had him by the fucking throat, and she hadn’t even touched him properly yet.

He walked up the steps, slow.
She didn’t stand. Didn’t smile. Just looked at him. That same soft defiance. That same unreadable heat.

“You’re late,” she said, voice low.

Billy huffed a laugh. “It’s 11:02.”

Eve took a sip of her beer, then held the bottle out to him.

“Still late,” she murmured.

He took it. Their fingers brushed. And for a second, neither of them said a word. Just silence. Just two kids on a porch in the middle of nowhere.

He didn’t know what was going to happen next.But for the first time in a long time—

He hoped like hell he wouldn’t screw things up.

———

She didn’t move when she saw him.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

Just looked.

Unbothered. Knowing.

Like she’d summoned him.

Billy’s boots hit the start of the walkway — the crunch of gravel underfoot swallowed by the soft hum of summer bugs and the faint creak of her rocking chair.

One step.

Two.

Three.

He slowed as he reached the stairs — four shallow, weather-worn steps leading up to where she sat. They looked simple, but right now, they felt like a fucking altar.

He took the first step up, the porch groaning faintly beneath his weight. His hand skimmed the edge of the railing as he ascended.

Second step.

His chest tightened. He wasn’t out of breath, but it felt like he was. Like every inhale had to fight its way past his ribs.

Third step.

Her eyes didn’t leave his. They watched him the whole time — unreadable, calm, but with a flicker of interest buried deep. She set her bottle down on the floor beside her, smooth and silent.

Fourth step.

He reached the top. And finally, finally — she stood.

Fluid motion. Quiet. Graceful, like water adjusting to the shape of a new glass.

Eve stood just inches in front of him, and for one second neither of them said a word. The air between them felt electric. Heavy with heat.

She smelled like something soft and familiar — like old cotton, citrus shampoo, and the faintest trace of salt on skin. Summer sweat and girl. Nothing artificial.

Fuck, she’s right here.
Say something.
Do something.

He pulled the leather jacket off his shoulder — casual, like it wasn’t sticking to his hand from the nerves. He glanced at the rocker beside her, draped the jacket over its arm without looking away from her face.

She lifted one of the beers from the porch railing, her fingers already glistening with condensation. Held it out between them.

Their hands touched.Just barely.But it was enough.

Her fingers brushed his knuckles as he took the bottle. Soft skin. Warm. A little damp from the cold glass. The touch was nothing and everything, and his entire body went still for half a second longer than necessary.

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to.

She didn’t smile, but something in her expression flickered. A twitch at the corner of her mouth, a shift in the way she stood — like she felt it too. Like she knew.
Billy took a sip. The beer was cold, bitter, perfect. The kind of grounding taste he needed before he said something stupid. Or said nothing at all and just looked at her.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” she said quietly, her voice a lazy curl of smoke in the air.

Billy tilted his head slightly, watching her.

“Didn’t think you meant it,” he replied, low and even.

She stepped back a pace, just enough to give him space — or maybe to give herself space. Then turned toward the railing and leaned against it, arms folded over her chest, eyes still on him. One hip jutted slightly against the edge of the porch, and he couldn’t help it — his eyes slid down her legs, slow.

Barefoot.

Toes flexing slightly against the wood.

God, he wanted to taste that skin. Trail his mouth up from ankle to knee to—

Focus. Jesus. Focus.

He moved closer — slow, calculated, every step its own negotiation. Sat near her. Not touching.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, bottle dangling between his fingers.

Say something. Don’t just sit here like you’ve already lost your mind.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “is this the part where we talk about the weather?”

Eve huffed a breath. It might’ve been a laugh. Or maybe just her trying not to.

“I was hoping for something more dramatic,” she said, lifting her bottle. “You seem like the kind of guy who shows up with thunder behind him.”

He looked up at the sky, casual. “Forecast said clear.”

Her gaze lingered on him. “Shame.”

They sat like that for a moment. Quiet. Mutual orbit.

Every movement felt deliberate. Every breath calibrated. He was aware of her in a way that made his skin itch — not with discomfort, but anticipation. Like every second they weren’t touching was a tease.

And then she leaned toward him — just a little. Not close enough to close the gap, but enough that he could feel the heat of her arm near his.
“You nervous?” she asked, tilting her head.

Billy looked at her.
Right into her eyes.

And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all — not the way she looked, or smelled, or stood. But the fact that she wasn’t bluffing.

She meant it.
Every look. Every word.

This wasn’t a game to her.Or maybe it was — but she was playing it better than anyone he’d ever met.

“Only if you are,” he said.

She smiled then. Not a big smile. Just a quiet one.
Controlled.
Loaded.

Then she said, soft and clear:
“Let’s find out.”

Chapter Text

The silence after she said it wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

Like the space between thunder and lightning.

Billy shifted his weight — slow, careful — like sudden movement might break the moment. His fingers were still curled around the neck of the beer bottle, but he hadn’t taken another sip.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

The porch light lit her face in gold and amber, casting little shadows beneath her eyes, her mouth, along the edge of her jaw. She didn’t blink. Just held his gaze like it was the easiest thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

Not for him.

“You always this good at fucking with people?” he asked finally, voice low and rough, like gravel under a tire.

Her brow arched. Not offended — just… amused. Like she’d been waiting for him to ask.

“You think I’m fucking with you?”

She leaned back on one elbow, draping it over the porch rail — casual, lethal. Like she wasn’t setting him on fire one breath at a time.

Billy licked his lips. Took a sip of the beer just to buy himself a second.

“No,” he said eventually. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Eve tilted her head. “And what’s that?”

He looked her up and down — once, slowly. Not like a dick. More like he was proving a point. One he knew she’d feel.

“You’re reeling me in.”

She smiled — small, sharp. Proud.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “But you didn’t exactly put up a fight.”

Billy exhaled a laugh through his nose. Leaned back, shoulder brushing hers — just barely.

“You always this calm?” he asked.

“Not always.”

“What changed?”

Her eyes met his.

“You.”

The word dropped between them like a stone into water. No smile. No tease. Just truth — quiet and unflinching.

And maybe that was what made it hit so hard.

Billy looked at her, mouth parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway up his throat. His hand moved — instinct or surrender, maybe both — to the porch rail between them. Fingers resting there, knuckles grazing hers.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

Instead, her fingers turned slightly — aligning with his. Not touching. Not intertwining. Just… there.

Jesus Christ.

Billy cleared his throat. “You always invite strange guys to your porch at midnight?”

“No,” Eve said simply. “Just the ones I think might surprise me.”

He looked over, brow furrowed like the words had unsettled him more than he expected. “And am I?”

She looked at him then — really looked — and her mouth curved, slow and dangerous, like she’d just figured something out she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit.

“Yeah,” she said. “You are.”

The words settled in his chest like smoke.

Billy glanced at their not-quite-touching hands. Then up at her again.

He wanted to touch her.

Not grope. Not grab.

Just… touch.

Just know.

“I don’t do this either,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Eve glanced sideways. “Don’t do what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand. “Talk. Sit. Show up without knowing what the hell I’m doing.”

Her eyes softened — not with pity, just… understanding.

“You think I do?”

That surprised him.

“I don’t even know your last name,” she added, tilting her head. “I just know you feel like something I’m gonna regret if I let pass by.”

Billy’s throat went tight.

No games. No armor. Just her.

“Hargrove,” he mumbled.

“What was that?” Eve asked, having genuinely missed it.

“I said, Hargrove.” He exhaled hard through his nose, still not looking at her. “It’s my last name. Now you know one thing about me.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes, and stuck one between his lips. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he lit it — more out of habit than need.

He hated this part of himself.

The one that wanted to say too much. The one that felt Neil’s ghost lurking behind every quiet moment, sneering, calling him a faggot for being soft in front of a girl. He cursed under his breath, smoke curling out the corner of his mouth.

Then — her voice.

“Morgan.”

He turned to her, brows lifting slightly.

She’d already lit her own cigarette. She was halfway through it.

Why the fuck are we exchanging surnames, he thought.

But then he looked at her again.

And everything in his chest got loud.

He turned toward her fully, one knee up, body open like he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore. Something about the way she shifted to mirror him made the moment feel… earned.

“Well, Miss Eve Morgan…” he said, offering his hand with a smirk, “it’s a pleasure meeting you.”

She grinned — slow, crooked, merciless.

“You too, Mr. Hargrove. Always a pleasure meeting pretty boys.”

There she is.

Billy smirked, falling back into his usual swagger like it was muscle memory.

“So…” he drawled, “Miss Morgan. What are the plans for the rest of your stay?”

“Oh, nothing much,” she said with a shrug. “Just wanted to spend some time alone. You know — back home…”

“Where’s home exactly?”
He cut her off before he could stop himself.
Mental note: don’t do that again.

“Chicago,” she said, waiting for him to ask more questions.

But he didn’t.

Not right away.

Instead, he waited. Gave her the space to speak — a move that surprised even him. He usually didn’t give a damn what people had to say. Girls? Half the time he didn’t even let them talk.

So why the hell was he listening now?

What did that mean?

“Yeah, so… parents are divorcing,” Eve said, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the porch. “I’m not in the mood for their dramatics, so I came here to spend some time away. Reconnect with my grams a bit. Just… turn off the thoughts.”

Billy didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

He could tell Hawkins wouldn’t be her first choice for spring break if everything hadn’t gone sideways.

She didn’t look tense — not in a visible way. But he felt it.

He knew the weight of a storm you couldn’t name.

The kind that never let up. Not really.

“My mom left when I was eight,” Billy said, his voice low, like it was being dragged out of him. “She didn’t take me with her. Left me with my father. And he never got the memo.”

The words sat there in the air between them — not loud, not heavy — just true.

Like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to.

A knot tightened in his throat.

The fuck are you doing, Hargrove?
You think she’s gonna want to fuck you if you keep playing the emotional little shit?

But Eve didn’t laugh. Didn’t look away.

She just watched him.

His mom… left him?
The thought hit her sideways.
How could someone do that?

It wasn’t a question she needed answered — more like a quiet echo in her own head. And maybe he felt that, because he tensed the second he realized what he’d said. His jaw locked up, eyes flicking down, like he wanted to bite the words back.

Eve wanted to reach for him. To hold his hand.

What the hell are we doing?
They’d known each other for two hours, maybe.
And here they were, unraveling like it was safe.

And somehow, she knew — he wouldn’t mind.
Not if she showed him softness. Not if she made space.

So she reached out and took his hand, fingers closing gently around his. Gave it a quiet, reassuring squeeze.

He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t pull away either.

He looked like he’d been holding in anger since he was ten.

Pretty boy.
The thought came uninvited as she studied his face.

Then, without warning, he turned his head, trying to hide the pain written all over it.

So she moved.

Soft but sure, Eve brought her other hand to his cheek. Turned his face toward hers.

“It’s okay to look sad,” she said, steady, like a fact.

“Don’t…” he whispered — sharp, guttural — and stood up fast, like the porch boards had burned him.

And then he was off the steps, down the walkway, and in the middle of the street — like he needed distance just to breathe again.

Like her hand on his had set fire to something he couldn’t control.

Don’t run.
The words pressed against Eve’s ribs as the weight in her chest spread like smoke.

“Don’t go,” she said. But it came out soft — almost a whisper.

She didn’t even realize she was moving until she was already off the porch, barefoot on the cool pavement, chasing after him.

What the hell am I doing?

He wasn’t far. Just across the road. But he felt miles away.

First time I ever run after a boy and it’s in fucking Hawkins. During fucking spring break.

The thought made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Not caring this much.
Not for someone she barely knew.

And yet here she was — drawn like a magnet.
Running toward the one person who looked like he’d been running his whole life.

She caught up to him just as he stopped under the sodium glow of a streetlamp.

It hummed faintly overhead, buzzing like it was wired straight into the tension sitting between them.

Billy didn’t turn around. His fists were balled tight at his sides, jaw locked so hard it looked like it hurt. He stood there like a fuse seconds from burning out.

Eve slowed.

Didn’t reach for him this time. Didn’t speak.

Just stepped into his orbit.

The night air was cooler here, and still. Every breath felt louder than it should’ve.

Billy exhaled, rough and shallow, like he’d been holding it in since the porch.

Then finally—

“You shouldn’t’ve followed me,” he said, his voice low and torn at the edges.

Eve crossed her arms over her chest, but not defensively. Like she was holding herself steady.

“You didn’t exactly say goodbye,” she answered, tone calm. Steady. Like she wasn’t afraid of the fire licking under his skin.

He turned his head halfway. Just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.

His eyes were glassy. Jaw still clenched.

“You don’t know me.”

She didn’t flinch. “No. But I don’t think you want to keep it that way.”

Silence.

The kind that said too much.

Billy shifted, slow. Like the ground under him was dangerous and he knew it.

His voice was quieter this time. But no less sharp.

“I don’t do this.”

Eve nodded once. “Me neither.”

“I’m not good at—”
He stopped. Didn’t finish.

But she knew what he meant.

“You don’t have to be,” she said.

That landed.

He turned fully now, facing her. Their eyes locked.

For a second, neither of them breathed.

Then — like gravity finally remembered what it was meant to do — he stepped closer.

Just one step.

Close enough that she could smell the smoke on his shirt, the beer on his breath, the faint trace of cologne under all the chaos.

He looked at her like she was holding something fragile.

Like she didn’t know it, but maybe she did.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this shit,” he said, voice rough, eyes darting like he might bolt again.

Eve swallowed. “Maybe because I won’t try to fix it.”

That stopped him.

The tension in his shoulders dropped — just slightly. A flicker. But it was there.

She stepped closer, closing the last few inches.

And they stood there in the middle of the road, the whole town asleep around them, the silence stretched so thin it could’ve snapped.

But it didn’t.

It held.

So did they.

And neither one of them moved.

Not yet.

She looked up at him, steady. In control.

The kind of steady he didn’t know people could be.

Not around him.

Not for him.

His eyes were stormy — but there was something else behind them now. Not just fire. Not just fight.

Hunger.

Not the kind he could satisfy in the back of a Camaro or the dark corner of a party.

Like he’d been starving for something he didn’t even have a name for.

And she was right there.

Close enough to ruin.

She tilted her head slightly. Just a breath. Just enough.

His eyes dropped to her mouth. Stayed there.

He didn’t think about it. Didn’t calculate the risk. Didn’t weigh the damage.

Their bodies clashed.

His hands on her neck pulling her close.

Her breath caught — sharp, like he’d stolen it.

And then she kissed him back.

Fiercer.

Like she was drowning and he had all the oxygen in the world.

Mouth parting, hand curling in his hair. Pulling him in.

It deepened — fast, rough.

She wanted more. Didn’t know what. Just more.

More truth.

More fuck, this is real.

Billy exhaled into her mouth, like he’d been holding something in since he was eight years old.

And she let him.

There, in the middle of a goddamn street in Hawkins, Indiana.

Eve Morgan kissed Billy Hargrove like it meant something.

And for the first time in a long time—

They both felt it did.

Chapter Text

I’ve been trying not to think too hard about why I’m going back.

Not just back to Hawkins — back to that version of myself I used to be when I was thirteen and everything still felt like it might get better if I just waited long enough.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

Right now I’m lying on my bed in Chicago, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I never peeled off the ceiling. Record player on, volume up just loud enough to drown out the sounds of my parents’ divorce two rooms away.

I haven’t packed yet. I will — probably five minutes before I have to leave. That’s how I do things lately. Last minute. Half-assed. With a soundtrack.

Tonight it’s Freddie Mercury’s voice keeping me company….

It’s not like I even liked Hawkins that much. It was hot, sticky, smelled like cut grass and cheap beer. But every spring break and summer, my mom would ship me off there like I was a package. Sent straight to my grandmother’s porch with a label that basically read: fragile, emotionally volatile, handle with ice cream and mild supervision.

I hated it.

Until I didn’t.

There was something about getting dropped into a town where no one knew the full story — no messy school drama, no judgmental teachers, no pressure to be the version of myself that everyone back home expected.

In Hawkins, I could just… be.

I met Steve during a summer visit. When I was around 8.

He was all teeth and that dumb smug charm he swore wasn’t an act. Back then, he had braces and still thought he was a catch.

I liked him, though.

He was stupidly nice to me. Took it upon himself to show me around like I was some exchange student from the big city. Introduced me to Nancy Wheeler — who I lowkey wanted to be at the time — and a couple other kids who mostly forgot I existed once school was back in session.

Didn’t matter.

That summer, I got to pretend I belonged somewhere.

I spent most of it sitting on my grandmother’s porch steps with a book in one hand and a Walkman in the other. I watched thunderstorms roll in like they were movies. I memorized album lyrics and daydreamed about running away to someplace louder.

I told Steve I was going to start a rock band.

He laughed and said he’d be my roadie.

I never did start a band. I don’t even play an instrument.

But I liked saying shit like that. It made me feel bigger than I was.

Truth is, I never really fit in anywhere. Not at school, not at home, not even in my own damn skin most days. But books? Music? Movies? That was my way out. A cheap ticket to someplace better. Somewhere people didn’t talk over you or expect you to smile.

I had this whole world in my head where I mattered more. Where I said the right things. Where people looked at me like I wasn’t just the weird girl who was asking too many questions and was way too annoyed with everyone.

I liked being difficult.

Still do.

It’s a warning sign. A test.

Most people fail.

But Steve didn’t.

Not that he got me — not really. But he didn’t try to fix me either.

And that meant something.

Anyway.

Now I’m seventeen. The world’s meaner. My parents are falling apart in slow motion. My grandma’s probably stocked the fridge with the same lemonade she always makes. And for some reason, I’m going back to Hawkins like it’s gonna give me something this time.

I don’t know what.

Closure? Distraction?

A break from the noise?

All I know is I need out of here.

Even if it’s just for a week.

Even if it means facing the version of me I left on that porch years ago — the one who still believed in connection. In people. In boys with too much hair and girls who never looked up from their books.

I’m not that girl anymore.

But maybe Hawkins still has something for me.

Or someone.

——

I’ve been in Hawkins for maybe six minutes, and for some reason… I don’t hate it.

The air in Hawkins is too clean. Like it’s trying too hard. Like the whole town scrubbed its face and brushed its teeth before I showed up, hoping I’d think it was cute and charming.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the creaky front porch of my grandma’s house, drinking instant coffee out of a chipped “World’s Best Grandma” mug. She doesn’t even drink coffee — she bought it for me, like a bribe. It worked.

Across the street, nothing is happening.

There’s a kid riding a bike in slow, lazy circles. A dog barking like it’s got something to prove. Somebody mowing their lawn like it’s a competition.

It’s barely 10 a.m. and I’m already sweating in this black t-shirt, because of course I didn’t pack for weather. I never do.

But I did pack my books. Three paperbacks stuffed in my duffel like armor. One Virginia Woolf, one Stephen King, and one copy of The Outsiders that’s been taped together so many times it looks like a ransom note.

Grandma’s inside, humming along to some old Patsy Cline record. Her house smells like lemon and fabric softener— like comfort.

It’s weird being back. Every time I show up here, the walls feel smaller. The town feels slower. Like I’m moving at one speed and Hawkins is moving at half.

Still. There’s a rhythm to it.

The porch boards still creak the same way under my left heel. The screen door still squeals when you push it too fast.

I lean back on my elbows, stare up at the power lines, and let the morning crawl by. The kind of morning where the sky’s too blue, the birds are too loud, and everything’s just… waiting.

Waiting for what? Who knows.

But I’ve got this feeling in my ribs — like something’s about to happen. Something that doesn’t belong in a quiet little town like this.

_____

After 2 days in Hawkins - with me having no interaction with the outside world apart from my daily alone walks - I chose to spent tonight on my grandmother’s porch reading my book, feeling like a femme fatale in my navy satin nightgown, with a candle burning beside me. I take in the night’s calmness and feel the heaviness of the hardcover on my lap.

Suddenly, out of nowhere I sense a shift.

Like something in my life is about to change.

Something is about to happen. My stare shifts to the tree line on the west for no specific reason.

I’m here for it.

____

My morning went by in a blur. Woke up in my childhood bedroom feeling as calm as ever.

That’s why I came here after all wasn’t it?

But for some reason… I couldn’t get used to it.

Seems like I got used to the constant fights and yelling after all.

I went to the kitchen to have my breakfast.

The satin nightgown still clings on my body and even if I’d never admit it, I actually like the way of how suggestive it is.

Dishes already washed. Good for me.

I grab a mug. I’m feeling tea today rather than coffee. Hawkins does that to me. Coffee’s for the big city. Here is tea…warm, cozy, green tea. Makes me feel I’m closer to nature for some stupid reason. Like I won’t smoke 3 cigarettes until I’m done with it.

After tea, I wandered barefoot through the backyard, blades of grass cool and damp beneath my feet, still clinging to the last of the morning dew. Grandma’s clothesline flapped in the breeze, a row of cotton ghosts twisting in the wind. I picked a cherry tomato from her overgrown garden and popped it in my mouth without thinking—warm, tangy, imperfect. The kind of thing you never get in the city. The kind of thing that reminds you you’re alive. I spent an hour reorganizing the stack of books by my bed, then gave up halfway through and collapsed on the floor, listening to whatever played on the radio.

By late afternoon, the house felt too still, my grandma was at a friend’s house so I took one of my usual walks—headphones in, hands stuffed in the pockets of my jean jacket. I wandered past the gas station, the empty playground, the same row of houses that always looked like they were holding their breath. Everything in Hawkins felt paused, like the town was caught mid-sentence.

The sun started its slow descent just as I cut through the cemetery shortcut I used to take as a kid, the sky bleeding from gold to pink to that dusty purple that always made me feel like something was about to crack open. By the time I got back to the porch, dusk had arrived—and with it, that familiar tightness in my chest. I changed out of my clothes and into the softness of my nightie. I hadn’t brushed my hair. I was barefoot, once again. The air was cool, not cold. As I was drying the plates from the rack, I could hear the neighbor’s wind chimes and the low hum of someone’s TV a few houses down from the open window. That was it. That was the whole world for a while. And for once, I didn’t mind it.

Then someone knocked.

It was soft at first — like maybe I imagined it. But then it came again. Three times. Like whoever it was didn’t want to bother anyone else. Just me.

When I opened the screen door, I was half-expecting some neighbor come to borrow sugar. But it wasn’t that. It was someone I hadn’t seen in years. Someone from the days when Hawkins still meant sleepovers and scraped knees and summer nights that felt bigger than they actually were.

For some reason, in my mind, he’s totally connected with childhood innocence and calmness. Back when I spent every holiday down here, before my parents fell apart, before high school turned everyone into versions of themselves they couldn’t control. He was the kind of boy who always knew where the trouble was and exactly how far to lean in without falling. I liked that about him. Still do, if I’m honest.

Seeing him again felt strange — not in a bad way, just like flipping through an old photo album and realizing you forgot the sound of someone’s voice.

He looked the same. Maybe a little older, maybe a little softer around the edges. That hair was still ridiculous. That jaw still worked a little too hard. But his eyes — those hadn’t changed. There was something unspoken in them. Something I recognized. Like maybe I wasn’t the only one still carrying around ghosts.

We didn’t talk long. Just enough to remind each other that we used to matter. Just enough to make me wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t stopped coming here when I did.

Then he left. And for a minute, I thought that would be it.

But it wasn’t.

Because when I turned around to go back inside — I saw someone else.

Not someone I knew.

Just a shape at the edge of the street. Leaning on a lamp post. Half in shadow, half in moonlight. Watching like I was the end of something.

I knew the feeling. That electric, unspoken charge. The way your skin goes tight with awareness before your brain can catch up. Like you’ve stepped into something and don’t know if it’s a trap or a door.

He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just looked at me.

And I… stayed still.

I don’t think he noticed me noticing him.

Something shifted in me that night. Not in a dramatic, fireworks kind of way. Just a quiet little tilt — like the axis of everything had moved a degree to the left, and nothing would line up quite the same after.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

All I knew in that moment was that I was being watched — not in a creepy way. Not even in a flattering one. Just… intensely. Like whoever he was had seen something he hadn’t expected. Something that made him stay longer than he meant to.

And I let him.

Because maybe I wanted to be seen.

Just once.

Chapter Text

Frozen foods is a battlefield, and I’m winning — the last bag of peas clenched in my hand like a hard-earned trophy — when I slam straight into a wall that swears.

“Motherfuck—…”

Not a wall.

He stops when I look up.

No way. No fucking way.

A boy.
A stranger.
And not just any stranger.

Jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Mouth built for trouble. Eyes that feel like heat on bare skin.

Great. I’ve just assaulted the best-looking guy in Hawkins. Congratulations, Eve.

The peas are still in my hand, and I’m holding them like I had to win a war to get them. Which… I basically did.

“Oh, fuck. Did I hurt you? Jesus, sorry,” I blurt, the words tumbling out before my brain’s even in the room. My eyes flick over his face for damage before I can stop myself. My hand’s already on his jaw — warm, rough skin under my fingers, strong bone beneath. He doesn’t say a word. Just stares.

Why am I still touching him? Move your hand, Eve. Now.

He freezes under my touch.

“God, say something. Did I give you a concussion??” Still touching him, still checking him, like it’s my job to make sure he’s in one piece.

“Name’s Billy.”

Oh. Well, that’s unexpected.

Billy. The name rolls in my head, and — whoops — right out of my mouth.

“Thank God he talks,” I smirk, covering the fact that I might’ve actually been worried. “You good, pretty boy?”

His throat moves like he has to remind himself to swallow. “Yeah.”

“You sure? That was, like, a full-body freezer tackle.”

“You hit like a linebacker.”

His gaze dips — and yep, caught you. That little bra strap slip wasn’t intentional, but I’m not exactly rushing to fix it.

“I train in frozen food combat,” I deadpan.

He laughs — quick, rough, unpolished. Like he didn’t mean to. Like I caught him off guard.

“So. Billy.”

“Yeah?”

“You always that much of a drama king?”

“You always crash into strangers for fun?”

“Only the cute ones.”

That one lands. I see it — the half-smirk fighting its way up.

“You got a name, or do I have to wait ’til you break my nose to find out?”

“Eve.”

Something shifts in his face — recognition? Or maybe I just want it to be there.

“Cool.”

That’s it? That’s all?

“Cool? That’s all you’ve got?”

“You elbowed me in the face. Not exactly thinking straight.”

I bite my lip to keep the grin from breaking through. “Fair.”

Silence. Not awkward, but like we’ve both forgotten where we are. The hum of the freezers, the crying kid two aisles away — gone.

“You from around here? I’ve never seen you before.”

I look him over. Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. And that’s not even the dangerous part. The dangerous part is how my brain’s already imagining what his voice sounds like saying things he shouldn’t.

“Moved here a year ago,” he says.

I nod slow. I should leave before I hand him my entire life story on a platter. “Well. I should let you get back to… whatever.”

I push my cart forward. Let’s see if he follows.

Not even sixty seconds later, boots.

“You’re playing with your luck,” I say as I turn, finding him closer than I expected. He radiates warmth. I hate that I notice.

“Came back for round two?” I smirk.

“Wanna grab a drink tonight?”

Oh. Straight to it. Like he couldn’t help himself.

“No.”

The way he blinks is almost cute. Almost.

“But…” I keep my eyes on his, voice low. “You have to earn the date, pretty boy.”

His eyes darken. There it is.

“You don’t just get to fuck me with your eyes and walk away. You want the porch? You want the date? Come take it.”

His pulse might as well be on display.

“Come to my house. Tonight. Around eleven. I have a very beautiful porch. It’s quiet. My grandma will be asleep. The whole town will be asleep. And we’ll have all the time in the world to get to know each other.”

I step back, smiling slow. “And if you’re lucky… you’re in for a date.”

I walk away without looking back. But I can feel him watching.

⸻

I don’t usually get rattled. I’ve made it an art form — the lazy smirk, the posture that says I can leave whenever I want. It’s armor.

But brushing my teeth at 10:47, I catch myself staring at my reflection like I’m waiting for a verdict. My pulse is faster than it should be. My stomach’s too tight.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all it was. One collision and some sharp words. And now — now he’s taking up space in my head like he’s paid rent.

Billy. That troublemaker face. That voice — smoke and sandpaper, the kind that could talk you into the worst decisions and make you thank him after. Those eyes — restless until they found mine, and then suddenly still.

Who even looks at someone like that in a supermarket? Like I was already a problem he’d decided was worth solving.

⸻

Porch. Rocker. Beer in my hand, sweat rolling down the glass. I tell myself I don’t care if he doesn’t show. Liar. Every car, every step — my head turns.

And then — there he is.

Walking toward me like the street belongs to him. Boots steady. Leather jacket slung over his shoulder like it’s part of his skin.

The sight punches low in my stomach.

He stops at the bottom of my steps.

“You’re late.”

“It’s 11:02.”

Our fingers brush when I pass him the beer. Heat — stupid, unshakable heat — arcs straight up my arm.

We stand there, staring like we’re both trying to figure out the rules.

And I know — there aren’t any.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” I say, leaning against the railing, trying not to look like my pulse just jumped.

He watches me like he’s checking if I’m real. “Didn’t think you meant it.”

My mouth quirks. “So… is this the part where we talk about the weather?”

“I was hoping for something more dramatic,” I add, tilting my head. “You seem like the kind of guy who shows up with thunder behind him.”

He glances at the sky, deadpan. “Forecast said clear.”

“Shame.”

Silence folds in around us. Not awkward — heavier than that. The kind of silence you feel in your ribs.

“You nervous?” I ask, my voice softer now, testing him.

“Only if you are.”

The corner of my mouth lifts, just enough to feel dangerous. “Let’s find out.”

⸻

The quiet after that is charged. I can hear my own pulse in my ears. Billy moves slow, like any wrong move might scare this moment off. His knuckles are white against the bottle he’s holding. His eyes don’t just look at me — they search.

“You always this good at fucking with people?” His voice is rough, like he’s been chewing on the thought before spitting it out.

“You think I’m fucking with you?”

I lean back, elbow hooked casually on the rail, but it’s an act. My heart’s not casual.

“No,” he says, eyes dragging over me once, deliberate. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

My mouth curves. “And what’s that?”

“You’re reeling me in.”

There it is. Confirmation.

“Maybe,” I murmur. “But you didn’t exactly put up a fight.”

He exhales something that’s almost a laugh, shifts close enough for his shoulder to brush mine. That single point of contact hits like a shot.

“You always this calm?”

“Not always.”

“What changed?”

“You.”

That word lands between us like a thrown match. His gaze sharpens. His hand lands on the porch rail near mine, close enough for me to feel the heat rolling off him.

“You always invite strange guys to your porch at midnight?”

“No. Just the ones I think might surprise me.”

“And am I?”

I take my time looking at him, letting it be obvious. “Yeah. You are.”

Something shifts in his stance. His shoulders drop — just barely — like my answer mattered.

⸻

“I don’t do this either,” he says suddenly.

“Don’t do what?”

“This. Talk. Sit. Show up without knowing what the hell I’m doing.”

I let out a quiet laugh. “You think I do?”

That makes him pause, eyes flicking over my face like he’s trying to tell if I mean it.

“I don’t even know your last name,” I add. “I just know you feel like something I’m gonna regret if I let pass by.”

“Hargrove,” he says.

“What was that?”

“I said, Hargrove. It’s my last name. Now you know one thing about me.”

I flick my lighter open, the sound sharp in the still night. Cigarette lit, I exhale slow. “Morgan.”

His gaze hooks into mine, sharper now. He turns toward me, mirroring my stance without even noticing. It’s stupidly intimate. He offers his hand.

“Well, Miss Eve Morgan… it’s a pleasure meeting you.”

“You too, Mr. Hargrove. Always a pleasure meeting pretty boys.”

The smirk comes back, slow, like he can’t help it.

⸻

“So… Miss Morgan. What are the plans for the rest of your stay?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just wanted to spend some time alone. You know — back home…”

“Where’s home exactly?” he cuts in, quick.

“Chicago,” I say. “Yeah, so… parents are divorcing. I’m not in the mood for their dramatics, so I came here to spend some time away. Reconnect with my grams. Just… turn off the thoughts.”

He doesn’t rush to fill the pause. It’s strange. It makes me want to keep talking.

“My mom left when I was eight,” he says finally. “She didn’t take me with her. Left me with my father. And he never got the memo.”

The words stick in my chest. She didn’t take me. I can’t shake it.

Without thinking, I reach for his hand, squeezing gently. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t look at me either. I want him to. So I cup his cheek, make him.

“It’s okay to look sad.”

His jaw works once. “Don’t…”

The word is sharp. He’s on his feet before I can blink, moving off the porch like it burned him.

⸻

“Don’t go,” I hear myself say, stepping after him barefoot.

He’s halfway across the street, under the halo of a streetlamp. His fists are tight, his back rigid.

I step into the glow, close enough to feel the space between us tense.

“You shouldn’t’ve followed me,” he says, voice frayed.

“You didn’t exactly say goodbye.” My voice stays level. Someone has to be.

“You don’t know me.”

“No. But I don’t think you want to keep it that way.”

That stops him. His voice drops. “I don’t do this.”

“Me neither.”

“I’m not good at—”

“You don’t have to be.”

He turns to face me fully, and for a second it feels like the street’s empty, the town’s gone.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this shit,” he says.

“Maybe because I won’t try to fix it.”

His shoulders loosen — barely — but I see it.

I close the gap until only a breath is left between us. His eyes drop to my mouth. That’s all it takes.

Hands in my hair, pulling me in like I’m air.

The kiss is rough, deep, nothing careful about it. My fingers curl into his hair and he exhales against me like he’s been holding it for years.

In the middle of a quiet street in Hawkins, Indiana, I’m kissing Billy Hargrove like it means something.

Because to me, it does.

Chapter Text

They remained motionless in the aftermath of their kiss, as though either movement might shatter the spell that has settled between them.

“She’s still here. She didn’t bolt.” Billy thought to himself.

The air between their mouths was warm, their breathing uneven, like divers who have just surfaced and are unwilling to break the surface tension. Her fingers are still entangled in his hair; his palms hold her face as though she is an anchor, something he could not release.

Above them, the streetlamp hummed faintly, casting a pale light that felt less like light and more like a boundary. The rest of Hawkins lied distant, unreal, as though the town itself had stepped aside to grant them this moment.

Billy lowered his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as if to seal the feeling of her lips on his into memory. That kiss had been haunting him—ever since the first night he saw her on the porch, seated in the half-light, unselfconscious yet impossible to ignore. He had imagined it, in private, but he hadn’t expected it to feel like this—raw, electric, as if every nerve had been rewired to respond only to her.

Eve tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze, her lips curving slowly into something between mischief and invitation.
“Must have been the best kiss of my life,” she murmured, her voice low.

“Hey now, don’t get ahead of yourself. He’s still a stranger.” She said to herself.

A smirk touched his mouth, though his eyes remained closed.

“Then you’re in for a wild ride, princess.”

The words were edged with challenge, but his thumb traced her cheekbone with a touch that bordered on caring.

Neither of them moved to step away. The silence was not empty; it was full, weighted, like the hush that follows a summer storm.

Billy resisted to kiss her again. He burns with desire, but a stubborn instinct held him back from appearing desperate.

“Don’t look to soft. Chicks don’t like that” Billy thought, but on the other side, he was sure she’d like that, and he would give her anything that she wanted.

Instead, he studied her—the way the lamplight caught in her eyes, the subtle quickening of her breath.

She regarded him in return, her expression touched by curiosity but shadowed by caution. She found something in his gaze that holds her in place, a steadiness she didn’t expect to find there.

Her hand finds his, warm and certain, drawing him back toward the porch. Their pace is unhurried, the air between them still vibrating faintly with the memory of the kiss.

They reclaimed their seats. Opposite one another. Eve folded one leg beneath her, settling in as if into familiar terrain. Billy leaned back, his posture angled slightly away but present, still reserved.

“Now let’s talk,” she said, her tone lightly sardonic, “like two not-so-broken people.”

She drew a cigarette from her pack and extended it to him. Their fingers meeting briefly in the exchange, a brush that lingers an instant too long. The lighter flared, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of her cheek, before the glow receded into the spiral of smoke.

Billy eyes her over the cigarette. “You sure you want that?”

She looked at him like he had already earned a place in her life.

“You’re not the only one with bad habits, Hargrove.”

A faint movement of his lips—more acknowledgment than smile. “Guess not.”

The conversation drifted easy. They trade fragments of themselves without order: the worst songs they’ve ever listened to, Hawkins’ strange habit of smelling like rain even in dry weather, the weird thing about how many Elvis impersonators are in Chicago.

He recounts the story of the first car he drove and wrecked; she offered her tale of slipping into concerts on a fake wristband she made in study hall.

When she admitted she once argued so loudly about the ending of Scarface that she was ejected from a theater, he laughs—unrestrained, unpolished, the sound catching him off guard.

“You clapped at the end, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I clapped,” she said with no trace of shame. “And whistled.”

“That’s worse,” he replied, shaking his head, a smile adorning his lips.

“Worse than crashing your car to impress a girl?”

He gave her a look—part threat, part surrender—but she could see the smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

She looked into his eyes playfully, as if to say: “try to challenge me Hargrove”

They lapsed into a rhythm, each story met with a sharper one, each deflection met with a quiet concession. Neither noticing the hours passing by.

By the time the clock in the living room strikes four, Eve is wiping tears of laughter from her eyes over a ridiculous joke about a random movie they could shoot on Hawkins residents. Billy’s laughter is rougher, but it comes without restraint now, no longer guarded.

When the sound fades, the air between them feels calm, but not empty.

She stays quiet, as does he.

“Same hour tomorrow?” she asks, after a minute, her voice touched with hesitance.

He leans back, the smirk settling in place like it belongs there. “Tomorrow, I’m taking you for a ride.”

Before she can speak, he rises, extends his hand, and draws her to her feet. The sudden closeness makes her catch her breath.

Her reply dies on her lips. His mouth finds hers again—firmer now, deliberate—like the night had always been leading here, and nothing else could have followed.

Chapter Text

Billy lingered on the porch steps longer than he meant to. His hand was still warm from pulling her up, his lips tingling with the taste of hers. He muttered something that could almost have passed for “goodnight,” though it sounded reluctant even to his own ears. She smiled at him — not coy, not calculated, just real. It stopped him cold.

He made himself walk away, boots striking the pavement in steady rhythm. Still, halfway down the street, he couldn’t resist. He turned.

And there she was — standing on the porch rail, watching him go. That smile was still there, soft but lit with something that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t have a name for. He grinned without meaning to, the expression slipping out unguarded, and kept walking into the dark with that silly, weightless feeling lodged in him.

Excited. That was the word. He didn’t get excited. Not about girls. Not anymore.

Eve, meanwhile, closed the screen door behind her with careful fingers, like she was afraid of breaking the spell. The house felt too quiet after his absence. She leaned against the frame for a moment, lips still tingling, heart still running too fast.

Falling? The thought came uninvited. Dangerous. Reckless. She wasn’t supposed to fall. Not now, not here. Two weeks. That was all Hawkins was supposed to be this time — a brief escape, a pause from Chicago, from everything she didn’t want to deal with.

But her heart was already telling her something else entirely: this might be the start of one of the most powerful things she would ever know.

She shook her head, padded barefoot down the hall, and crawled under the thin sheets with a smile that refused to leave her face. Sleep didn’t come easy — it kept replaying. His laugh. His eyes. That kiss.

Morning found them both restless in different ways.

Eve woke first, to the smell of her grandmother’s pancakes drifting in from the kitchen. She rubbed sleep from her eyes, then pressed her fingers lightly against her lips — like checking if the imprint of his kiss was still there. It wasn’t, of course, but she swore she felt it anyway.

Billy woke to shouting. Max’s voice cut through the thin walls, annoyed about something — school, probably. Neil’s heavy tread followed. It should have set his teeth on edge, like every other morning did. But it didn’t. Not that day. He was still half lost in the memory of the streetlamp, the porch, the laughter at 4 a.m.

The yelling faded to background noise. He smirked to himself, stretched lazily, and thought: tonight was going to be even better.

——

By afternoon, her grandmother asked her to fetch groceries. Eve agreed, slipping out into the warm air, leaving Billy to his own restless thoughts across town.

Hawkins looked once again completely the same, but somehow a bit different than other days.

Paper bags filled her arms on the way home, five in all, heavy enough to dig into her skin. She cursed under her breath when she felt that in a minute or so, all the apples would be rolling down the street if she couldn’t manage to rearrange the bags.

That was when the sound of a car slowing beside her cut through the quiet.

“Need a hand there?”

She huffed some hair from her face, trying to gain control over the situation, but it was to no good.

Steve Harrington leaned across the passenger seat of his BMW, sunglasses sliding halfway down his nose. The grin that spread across his face was the same one Eve had known years ago during summers in Hawkins. A figure straight out of memory.

She stopped in her tracks, adjusting the bags. “What, you stalking me now, Harrington?” Her voice was light, teasing, but the thankful smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.

Steve laughed, stepping out of the car. “Please. You’re about to collapse. Throw them in the trunk before you break something.”

“Are you saying I’m not strong enough?” she asked, arching a brow as she let him take two of the bags from her arms.

“I’m saying you’re gonna end up face-down in someone’s driveway if you keep going,” he countered, his grin widening.

“Fair enough.” She finally let go, watching him carry them with practiced ease. He popped the trunk, stacking the bags inside. Their fingers brushed once, an old familiarity settling between them like it had never left.

⸻

The inside of his BMW smelled faintly of leather and fast food. Eve sank into the seat, setting her purse on her lap, while Steve flicked his sunglasses up onto his hair and started the engine.

She saw a half full lip balm resting on the car’s floor. Another arching of her eyebrow. She decided not to ask about it. It wasn’t her job, however amusing it might be.

The radio crackled to life with the first strum of “Have You Ever Seen the Rain.” That familiar, steady build filled the car, and for a moment neither of them spoke—just listened.

The second she got what was playing, Eve looked directly at Steve: “Ironic timing, don’t you think Harrington?”

Steve glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “Used to play that every chance we got. Didn’t think that you’d remember..”

Her laugh slipped out, warm and easy. “We were idiots.”

“Still are,” he said, then shot her a sidelong grin. “Well, I am. You turned out… I don’t know. Sharper. Cooler.”

Eve let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “Don’t put me on a pedestal, Steve. I still trip over sidewalks.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, but you used to make it look intentional.”

She tilted her head, amused. “That’s called confidence. You should try it sometime.”

“I’m working on it,” he said, mock-serious.

They rode in silence for a beat, wrapped in the music and the hum of tires over pavement. Hawkins drifted by—small-town storefronts, faded mailboxes, the baseball field they used to all take turns pitching at.

“Remember that summer you tried to sneak into the pool?” Steve asked suddenly, his smile tugging wide. “Climbed the fence, scraped your knee so bad you couldn’t help but cry.”

She shot him a look. “I did not cry.”

He shot her a judging look. “You totally cried.”

Eve groaned, covering her face with one hand. “I was hoping you forgot that.”

“Not a chance. You limped for days. And then swore me to secrecy.” He said huffing a little laugh.

Her laughter filled the car again, shaking her head. “God, I forgot how annoying you were.”

“And you missed it,” he teased.

“Don’t push your luck,” she said, though her smile didn’t fade.

⸻

By the time the BMW pulled into her grandmother’s driveway, the afternoon had stretched toward dusk. Steve hopped out first, opening the trunk and unloading the groceries before she could protest.

“Steve—seriously, you don’t have to—”

“Yeah, well,” he cut her off, already grabbing another bag, “my mom always said it’s bad manners to let someone struggle. And because Good Manners is my middle name, I couldn’t not help you.”

Eve snorted. “Your mom also used to ground you for forgetting the trash.”

“Exactly why I remember her lectures,” he said, carrying the bags inside.

Eve gave him a very loving look when he turned his back. One that wasn’t meant for him to see. It was just between Eve and herself.

Her grandmother greeted him warmly, pinching his cheek. He looked at Eve for help with wide eyes and an awkward smile, before, sliding back into character, answering with that easy charm that made parents trust him, even when maybe they shouldn’t.

When the last bag was on the counter, Eve pulled two bottles of soda from the fridge and held one out. “For your services Mr Steve Good Manners Harrington.” she said.

Steve accepted it with a small grin, twisting off the cap. “Guess I earned it.”

They sat side by side at the kitchen table, the groceries half-put-away, sipping in companionable quiet. Sunlight spilled through the window, gilding the edges of Eve’s hair. She caught Steve watching her once, but he looked away before she could comment.

“You did good,” she said eventually, breaking the silence. “Showing up. Just… nice.”

He tilted his head, curious. “What do you mean?”

“Back then. Today. Both.” She shrugged lightly. “It’s just good to have you here. Feels like home again.”

Steve’s smile softened, more real than playful.

Eve set her soda down, her expression gentler now, less “cool big city girl” and more “I’m trying to get in touch with another part of me, one that you were a part of”.

⸻

When the last of the groceries was stacked in the pantry and fridge, Steve lingered near the door, raking a hand through his hair. “Guess I should get going,” he said, though he didn’t move right away.

Eve leaned against the counter, eyes on him. For a moment, the weight of years folded over them — all the summers, the laughter, the fights, the unspoken closeness that never fully disappeared.

“I’ve missed you, Stevie.”

The words came quiet but clear, carrying all the warmth and truth she hadn’t dared say until now.

Steve froze just a second, then smiled, walked over to her, unguarded and sincere. “Missed you too, Evie.” And enveloped her into a warm hug.

The name landed like a tether, pulling her back to the girl she’d been and to the boy who still remembered her.

When he finally left, she discreetly waved at him and then stood in the doorway a long time, watching his car disappear down the street. The house felt quiet afterward—good quiet. Somewhere in the back of her mind the song still played, its refrain looping like a memory that refused to fade.

Chapter Text

The phone rang sometime after dinner — that sharp, startling sound that always broke the stillness of the Morgan house.
Her grandmother was in the living room watching Wheel of Fortune, the TV flashing soft blues across the walls. Eve was upstairs, sprawled on her bed with a book facedown on her stomach, when she heard her name being called.

“Eve, honey! It’s for you!”

That alone was strange. Nobody called her here. Not since she was a kid.

She was hoping to hear from Billy all day long. After all he proposed a ride. She knew it was him. Didn’t know how, but she felt it. It was him.

She padded barefoot down the hall, tugging the phone from its cradle in the kitchen, her voice cautious but curious.

“Hello?”

There was a pause — static, faint breathing — and then that familiar voice, low and teasing.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you.”

He meant to call earlier. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t his fault that he was late.

He was once again in babysitting Max duty.

“Bullshit…” he thought to himself. “She wouldn’t care if I told her.”

On the other end her lips curved instantly, a smile she couldn’t help.

“Billy?” she asked, already knowing.

“Depends who’s askin’,” he said, the smirk audible even through the crackle of the line.

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head.

“You’re unbelievable. How did you even get this number?” A beat of silence followed, just long enough to feel him grinning on the other end.

“He who seeks, finds.”

Eve twirled a strand of hair around her finger, rolling her eyes even as her heart picked up a rhythm of its own.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re gettin’,” he said. “Let’s just say Hawkins isn’t a big town. You’d be surprised what people’ll tell you when you ask the right way.”

“You asked around?” she said, somewhere between impressed and amused.

“Maybe,” he answered, casual but with that lazy pride only Billy Hargrove could manage. “Maybe I called information. Maybe I got lucky.”

“You’re insane,” she said, laughing now.

“Probably,” he agreed, and she could almost see the shrug in his voice. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah… it worked.” Her voice came softer this time, unguarded, carrying more than she meant it to.

Billy caught it instantly.

“Didn’t think you’d admit that.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she said, though she was smiling against the receiver.

He chuckled, low and satisfied.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence hummed between them, alive with something unspoken, something that made Eve’s stomach twist in the best possible way.

“So,” she finally said, trying to sound casual, “now that you’ve successfully hunted down my number and proven your dedication, what exactly do you want, Hargrove?”

He laughed under his breath.

“I thought that was obvious.”

“Try me.”

“I wanna see you again.”

She leaned her hip against the counter, the phone cord coiling around her wrist.

“That so?”
“That so.”

She thought for a moment, teeth catching her lower lip. Then, with that quiet confidence that always came out when she wanted to feel in control, she said:

“I thought we already agreed on a ride.”

There was a pause, and then she continued, just to make sure he understood

"...with me as the driver."

Unexpected. They hadn’t agreed in this.

Billy would’ve never agreed to this.

This statement followed a laugh. Not a mocking one, like the ones that Billy had reserved for all the girls he was hanging out with, but a surprised one.

“You’ll take ME for a ride”

“Yep,” she said, her smirk audible through the line. “My rules this time.”

“I didn’t know you had rules,” he teased.

“There are many things you don't know about me,” she said.

“Guess I’ll have to learn fast then.”

“Tomorrow night,” she said, voice soft but sure.

He exhaled, like he’d been holding the air in his chest for too long.

“Tomorrow night,” he repeated.

A quiet lingered, and then his voice dropped lower, calmer, almost tender.

“You’re something else, Eve Morgan.”

“Don’t you forget it,” she said.

“Couldn’t if I tried.” And somehow, that was the perfect place to leave it.

“Night, Billy.”

“Night, Eve.”

When she hung up, her fingers lingered on the receiver. The silence that followed was thick and electric — not empty, but charged with the echo of his voice. Upstairs, she layed on her bed, staring at the ceiling with a grin she couldn’t erase. Her heart was restless, alive. Somewhere between nerves and excitement, one thought cut through clear as glass.Tomorrow night she'd get to see him again.

Somewhere else in town, Billy sat on the edge of his bed, phone still in his hand, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. For once, the night ahead didn’t feel like something to escape — it felt like something worth waiting for.

He didn’t sleep much that night. He woke up at least 3 times, all worked up after seeing her in his dreams. As much as he wanted to see her and spend actuall time with her, and talk about everything, that much he wanted to lay her down, rip off whatever piece of clothing she was wearing, and do things to her that she wouldn't forget for a long time.
God help him, he wanted to touch her — to ruin that calm she carried, to find out what she sounded like when she wasn’t trying to be clever.

The clock blinked 10:23 when he gave up pretending. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds in uneven stripes, painting his wall in shades of gray. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The hum of the house filled the silence — a faucet dripping somewhere, the soft groan of wood expanding — but all he could hear was her voice.

That damn phone call.

He could still feel it, like static running under his skin. The way she’d laughed — soft, unguarded — had done something strange to him. It wasn’t loud or forced, just real. The kind of sound that got under your ribs and stayed there.
And that voice. Dry humor tucked into every word, each syllable a small spark in his ear. She’d sounded real, alive. The kind of alive he didn’t let himself get close to anymore.

Now, in the thin gray light, it felt like a dream that had lingered too long.

He dragged a hand through his hair, restless. He told himself it was nothing. A call. A girl. A stupid, fleeting thing, with an expiration date. But that didn’t explain why he kept replaying the smallest parts — the pause before she said yeah… it worked, or how her voice had dipped low when she said tomorrow night.

It was all too much for something that was supposed to mean nothing.

He was halfway to convincing himself to move on when a voice drifted down the hall — sharp, familiar, young.

Max.

He hadn’t realized she was home.

Her door was cracked open, and the sound of the phone cord twisting around her fingers carried over the floorboards.

“Yeah, I’m serious,” she was saying, her tone half bored, half amused. “Harrington was acting all weird last night. Wouldn’t shut up about some girl.”

Billy froze.

“He said she’s back in town — like, from when we were kids or something. Staying with her grandma, I think.” Max’s voice faded in and out as she moved. “He called her ‘the coolest girl I ever met.’ Can you believe that? Harrington getting all sentimental. Gross.”

Billy’s pulse hit his throat.

He didn’t need to hear the name.
He already knew.

Eve.

Max laughed lightly. “Yeah, apparently she gave him a soda or something. Real thrilling stuff. He sounded, I don’t know—happy, I guess.”

The words landed sharper than they should have.

Billy backed away from the door, quiet, careful, the air feeling too thick to breathe. He shut his own door behind him, the sound soft but final, and sank down onto the edge of the bed again.

So Steve had been there.
Inside her house.
At her kitchen counter.

Of course he had.

Steve Harrington — neat, polite, hometown hero Steve. The guy who had everything handed to him, who smiled easy and never got punished for the things he did wrong. Billy could see it now: the way Steve leaned against the doorway, casual, safe.

Eve wasn't the girl that would fall for someone just because they were safe. She was smarter than that in Billy's mind. But even if that wasn't the case...
He’d seen them before. The porch that afternoon, the low hum of conversation that looked too easy for something that should’ve been in the past. The way she’d smiled at Steve — not the same as she smiled at him, but close enough to make his chest tighten.

He wondered if she’d looked at Harrington the same way she had looked at him.

That sharp, assessing stare that felt like she could see right through him. That tiny smirk when she caught him off guard — the one that said she was three steps ahead and enjoying every second of it.

Did she talk to Harrington like that, too?
Clever eyes. Smart mouth. The same quiet challenge behind her words.

And that mouth — Jesus. The thought alone made him tense.

He remembered the way it had felt saying his name over the phone, soft but teasing, like she knew exactly what she was doing. He remembered her standing barefoot by the door that night, hair down, nightgown thin enough to catch the porch light.

Did she wear that when she offered Steve a soda?
Did she lean against the counter the same way, lazy and unbothered, while Steve grinned at her like he used to?

The thought burned. It didn’t make sense — it shouldn’t have mattered — but it did.

He dropped his head into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. He hated the way his stomach turned, the way the jealousy sat low and heavy in him, something sour and alive.

Steve Harrington.
Of all people.

Billy exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head.

Of course Steve was the kind of guy who got to show up smiling, who got to stay. Billy wasn’t built for that. He knew what he looked like to people like Eve — all noise, smoke, and sharp edges. Guys like him didn’t get remembered fondly. They got walked away from.

But still — the thought of her smiling at Steve like that, of her laughing over some shared memory while he stood here in this suffocating house — it clawed at him.

He glanced out the window, at the quiet Hawkins street below. The sunlight felt too clean for the way he felt inside.

He didn’t know what this was — whatever was happening between them — but he knew one thing for certain:
He wasn’t about to let Harrington have her story all to himself.

Chapter Text

She didn’t sleep much that night.

Maybe a few hours, maybe less. Her mind wouldn’t let her. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw him — the streetlight cutting across his face, the way his hand brushed her jaw, the press of his mouth against hers. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was everything she wasn’t ready for and everything she’d been secretly wanting anyway.

By morning, the air in her room felt too heavy to breathe. Spring sunlight poured through the curtains, turning the dust in the air gold. She lay there for a long time, still in her sleep shirt, sheets tangled around her legs, trying to make sense of herself. Her pulse was already too quick for someone who’d just woken up.

Billy.

God. Just thinking his name made her chest tighten. The sound of his voice still lingered somewhere in her head — that lazy, teasing drawl, like he already knew she’d pick up the phone before she did. He’d sounded too calm, too sure of himself. Like nothing could shake him. And yet… there’d been something under that confidence, something that made her skin warm when she replayed it.

She hadn’t expected him to call. Not really. Guys like Billy didn’t do that — didn’t chase, didn’t follow up. They burned fast and disappeared. But he had called. He’d found her number. He wanted to see her again.

And tonight… she was taking him for a ride.

The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Not the kind you admit to anyone, not even yourself. She could already picture it — him in the passenger seat, legs sprawled, one arm hanging loose out the window, that smirk of his spreading when she hit the gas. She’d be in control this time. Her car, her rules.

At least that’s what she told herself.

But if she was honest, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her cool once he was close again. Not after the way he kissed her. Not after how his hands had felt, rough and unhurried, like he knew exactly what to do to make her lose her breath. She’d kissed boys before — plenty of them, some because she wanted to, some because it was easy. But nothing had ever felt like that.

She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow, and groaned. It was ridiculous how easily the idea of him got under her skin. He wasn’t even here, and he still managed to mess her up.

By noon, she’d given up trying to distract herself. She showered, changed into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, pulled her hair into a ponytail, just to get the curls out of her face, and tried to act like she wasn’t losing her mind over a guy she’d known for less than a week.

Her grandmother caught her pacing for the tenth time by the window and frowned from her armchair.
“You’re restless today,” she said, without looking up from her crossword.

Eve shrugged, wandering into the kitchen. “Just bored.”

Her grandmother hummed. “You never used to be bored here. You always had your nose in a book or your head in the clouds.”

“Guess I grew up,” Eve said, forcing a small smile.

“Mm.” The old woman looked at her over her glasses. “Or maybe you found something else to think about.”

Eve froze halfway through pouring herself some orange juice. “What do you mean?”

Her grandmother smirked — that knowing, infuriating smirk that told Eve she was caught. “I may be old, sweetheart, but I’m not blind. You’ve been walking around here like you’ve got butterflies the size of hawks in your stomach.”

Eve rolled her eyes, turning away to hide her smile. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure I am,” her grandmother said. “Just make sure he’s worth your daydreaming.”

That one landed harder than Eve expected. She nodded quietly, pretending to sip her drink.

By afternoon, she’d gone outside, the air thick and green with the smell of early spring. The streets were quiet — too quiet — and she hated it. She wanted noise, movement, something. The hours crawled. She cleaned her car, rearranged the cassettes in the glove compartment, even vacuumed the seats, which she hadn’t done in months.

It was stupid, the way she cared about the details — the way she wanted everything to look perfect when he saw it.

She checked the clock again. 6:42.

Her stomach twisted.

He’s probably not even thinking about it this much, she told herself. He’s probably fine. He’s probably out driving somewhere, looking for trouble.

But that wasn’t true. She knew it wasn’t. Something about the way he’d said her name — slow, deliberate — told her he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.

Still, her mind wandered. It always did when it came to him. She thought about how it might go tonight — the curve of the road under her hands, the wind in her hair, the hum of the tires as the streetlights slipped by. Him sitting beside her, watching her drive.

The thought made her heart skip. She wanted to see that look on his face again — that mix of surprise and something darker. The kind of look that said he wasn’t used to someone matching him, maybe even throwing him off balance.

And then, her mind drifted to Steve.

Steve Harrington — familiar, easy, a memory dressed up as comfort. He’d shown up out of nowhere at the store, smiling that same lopsided grin she remembered from when they were kids. He’d carried her bags, made her laugh, looked at her like she was still the girl who used to race bikes down Cherry Street in the summer.

And she’d liked that, in a way. The safety of it. The nostalgia. But when he looked at her, she didn’t feel that pull — that heat under her skin — the way she did when Billy looked at her.

Steve made her feel remembered.
Billy made her feel alive.

She exhaled, resting her head against the steering wheel as she sat in the driveway, car keys cold in her hand.

“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself.

But she couldn’t. Every nerve in her body felt wired, every breath too shallow. The sun was sinking low, orange bleeding into the horizon, the cicadas starting their endless chorus. Her grandmother’s house glowed soft behind her, windows golden with lamplight.

She stepped out, leaned against the hood, and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled into the air, warm and sharp, wrapping around her like something secret.

For a moment, everything went still. The whole street bathed in the last light of day. The world holding its breath.

And then she lifted her eyes towards the horizon.

Her pulse kicked.

Billy.

Walking down the street toward her, sunlight catching in his hair, a look on his face that made the rest of the world fall quiet. The light hit him just right —like he didn’t belong in this quiet little street at all. His denim jacket hung open, cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling around him as he moved. He didn’t rush, didn’t look away — just kept walking, eyes locked on her, steady and unhurried, like he’d been heading here all along.

Her cigarette burned low between her fingers. Her car keys glinted in her hand.

And for a second, just before he reached her, she thought — this was the kind of night you didn’t come back from the same.

——

Billy’s steps slowed as he rounded the corner, and then stopped altogether. There she was. Leaning against the hood of a Ford Mustang, cigarette dangling between her fingers, the last of the spring sun painting her in amber and fire. His chest tightened before he could even think.

The leather jacket was the first thing that struck him — dark, sharp, and full of attitude. It was a stark contrast to the soft, careless nightgown she had worn the first time he ever saw her, standing on that porch like a fragment of light caught in shadow. Back then, she’d been untouchable in that innocence. Now, she was dangerous. Wild. In control.

He noticed the Mustang, gleaming and spotless, its presence almost laughably at odds with the reckless pulse she carried. Typical rich-girl gesture, he thought, bought by parents who thought a car could substitute for attention. And yet, the car didn’t define her. She did. Her fingers played with the keys absently, her eyes distant, and somehow every careless movement seemed deliberate, magnetic.

Billy’s pulse surged, but it wasn’t just lust or desire. It was something sharper, something raw. The way the light hit her hair, how the smoke curled up and framed her face, that smirk of hers when she caught him looking — it all yanked at something in him he didn’t even know he’d left open.

He took a step closer, then another, noticing every subtle detail: the tilt of her head, the curve of her cheek catching gold, the way the jacket hung off her shoulders like armor and invitation all at once. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, to see if she would flinch or lean into him. The thought alone made his blood thrum.

God, she was beautiful. Not just in the way girls were usually beautiful — curated and polite. Dangerous beautiful. Untamed. And it wasn’t just her body. It was the way she occupied the space, the way she carried every glance like it was a challenge he couldn’t resist accepting.

Billy swallowed, hands tightening into fists at his sides. The Mustang, the jacket, the cigarette — all of it screamed contradictions, but the one thing that mattered was her. And right now, as she exhaled slowly, eyes on the horizon, it was like the world had been waiting for him to catch up.

For the first time in a long time, he felt… caught. Not by her. Not exactly. By the way she made him feel when he realized he might actually be outmatched. And he liked it.