He sees her again.

Out behind the Byers place, where the trees bunch up like secrets and the porch light is half-blown, flickering like it’s too tired to fight the dark. The Camaro’s parked a few feet off the road, engine ticking, warm beneath the hood. Billy’s leaning on it like he owns the dirt under his boots—arms crossed, smoke curling from his lips, eyes locked on her.

She’s standing just past the junk pile, half-lit, hair up, chin tilted like she’s already halfway into a fight she didn’t ask for but sure as hell isn’t backing down from.

He hates the way she stands. The way her arms sit so still at her sides like they’re not meant for defense. Like she doesn’t need to prove anything. It pisses him off—how sure she always is. Of herself. Of where she belongs. Like Hawkins doesn’t chew people up. Like she’s already won.

And the kids—Jesus, the kids love her. Even Max, that little redheaded pain in his ass, clings to her like some patron saint of lost children. He’s seen it more than once: Max with her arm looped around her waist, whispering something that makes her laugh. The kind of laugh he’s never gotten. Not from Max. Not from anyone.

He shouldn’t care. But it gnaws at him. Worse than any bruise.

She’s not like the other girls. Not like the ones who bat their lashes and ask for rides in his car, or the ones who play pretend until it gets real. She doesn’t even look at him like he’s a person. More like a dog off its leash. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smile, doesn’t try. And he can’t stand it.