xamiah

[xamiah]

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

___

𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

( 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 )

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 - 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫, 𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲. 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬.

___

Enzo’s looks like it’s been waiting a hundred years to be this warm.

The door hushes shut behind you, cool night air is replaced by a low glow and the perfume of butter and garlic doing slow chemistry on a stovetop you can’t see. Candles flicker in ruby glass cups, throwing small, breathing halos on white tablecloths; strings of dark wine bottles line the brick walls like holy relics; and somewhere behind the soft clatter of cutlery, two violinists are playing something old and tender that makes the room feel a little bit like a secret. You’ve never dreamed of stepping into a place like this before - it’s not exactly somewhere that’d provide highchairs.

Billy’s palm hovers just above your back, not touching, but close enough that you feel the ghost of it there - a steadying pressure without the weight. At the door, the host takes your jackets, slipping them onto wooden hangers that vanish behind a dark velvet curtain. Both men exchange a few words you can’t catch, and you’re led deeper into the restaurant - past a gleaming brass espresso machine, past a couple laughing over a colorful pizza, past the crowded bar where unnamed drinks are stirred with silver mixers - all the way to a booth tucked into the far corner. It’s half-curtained by a wooden wine rack and a climbing plant that’s seen better days, private enough that your table feels like its own room.

Billy gestures for you to slide in first. You do, smoothing your dress beneath your thighs as the leather seat exhales. He sits opposite the candle between you paints his collarbone in honeyed light where the red shirt gapes open. For a second he doesn’t speak; he just hooks his forearms on the edge of the table and looks like a man verifying that reality did, in fact, show up as promised.

“Is Italian okay?” he asks finally, and there’s a hitch there you don’t expect. The cool sits on him like a jacket, sure, but underneath it there’s that small, betraying tightness at the corner of his mouth. You get the feeling he’d walk you right back out into the night if you said the word.

“It’s perfect,” you tell him, and you mean it.

The menus are thick, leather-bound things that creak a little when you open them. Your fingertips catch on embossed gold letters; the pages smell faintly of dust and oil and every hand that’s ever hunted through them for something to feast. He pretends to read his, but you can feel his glances like small taps on the skin - quick, then longer, then not moving away even when you notice.

A waiter arrives with a napkin draped over one arm, posture straight as a blade. He launches into a recital of the specials, his voice soft and practiced, syllables rolling in an accent that makes every dish sound like poetry. You nod along as though you’ve understood a single word, but truthfully you’ve lost track somewhere around ‘saffron reduction’. The menu might as well be written in code.

When it’s time to choose, you opt for lasagne - partly because you can smell it wafting from a nearby table, and also comfort feels like the safest place to start in a room that seems built for people with better shoes and steadier nerves. Billy doesn’t even glance at the list. “And I’ll have the Spaghetti and Meatballs,” he says, easy, like a man who’s not about to pretend he knows the first thing about fine dining. It makes you smile, this small quiet relief: the two of you sitting here in a place with candlelight and violins, dressed up and playing along, but with not a clue how to be fancy at all.

“And for drinks?” the waiter asks, fountain pen already poised.

Billy’s gaze skims the wine list, then yours. “We’ll take-” His finger trails with deliberation you can’t quite decode. It stops at the number that makes your stomach shift. “-this Barolo. 1972.”

Your mouth opens on instinct. “Billy, that’s-”

“On me,” he smiles, soft but final.

You shut your menu. “I-”

He tilts his head. Waiter still there. The look says: ‘you could fight me on this, but please don’t’. You swallow the protest and let him have it.

“Very good,” the waiter says, marking it down. He lifts his chin toward Billy. “Shall I bring an ashtray, sir?”

Billy’s eyes flick to you. Not performative, not a test - just a clean, quiet question. “Only if it’s okay with her.”

You didn’t expect the courtesy. You nod. “Go ahead.”

The ashtray - a little cut-crystal dish - arrives with bread and a shallow plate slicked with olive oil the color of late afternoon. The wine follows, dark and garnet in the bottle. The first sip is velvet with an edge you don’t have words for. It blooms low and warm. You are not a wine person, but this you could learn to speak.

He lights a cigarette with a cheap lighter and a practiced turn of wrist, cupping the flame. The first draw is quick, unthinking; the second is mindful - exhaled upward, away from you. He sets the cigarette on the lip of the ashtray like a punctuation mark and tears a piece of bread pushing it across the plate so it soaks the oil, the salt crystals catching on its torn edge. You rip your own piece soon after and eat. He watches the way your mouth softens when you do. You feel it.

“So,” Billy says, low, casual - like he’s easing into the deep end instead of diving. “Hawkins. Born and raised?”

“My entire life.” Your reply lands steadier than you feel. The stem of your wine glass is slick against your fingers; you hold it anyway, as though the ritual of it might anchor you.

“Huh.” He studies you over the rim of his glass, lashes shadowing his eyes, pupils cut sharp by the flame between you. He lingers too long, gaze tracing something about your face you can’t pin down. Then, with a faint tilt of his head, he exhales. “That doesn’t exactly add up.”

Your brow lifts. “Why’s that?” You hear the challenge in your own voice.

He smirks, lips quirking like he already knows how the next words will sound. “Have you met the girls here?”

In your head, you bite back the obvious thought: ‘Yeah. I’ve met the dirty old bags here too.’ it flashes in your mind, sharp and irritating.

Billy goes on, but falters mid-sentence. “They’re fuckin’-” He stops himself, lips pressing together as though the word itself is too sharp for this table. A smile tugs at his mouth, the kind that admits he knows exactly how it sounds. He doesn’t bother to explain, doesn’t need to - the rest hangs unspoken between you, obvious in the tilt of his grin.

The laugh that slips out of you surprises both of you. “Yeah, well, the boys aren’t too great either.”

Billy leans back, taps ash into the tray again, then says, softer this time, “You seem different.”

Your laugh lingers, shaking your head. “God. How cheesy.”

His grin tilts sheepish, almost boyish. He shrugs, broad shoulders catching the light off the chain at his chest. “I mean it.”

You tip your chin, conceding the joke but not dismissing it. The warmth in his gaze is harder to ignore with every pass of the violin’s bow. “What about you? I’ve only ever seen you at the pool.”

“That a complaint?” His body shifts forward, forearms braced on the table, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers.

“A fact.” you say, trying not to warm under his stare. Your defenses feel a little less armed than you want them to be.

Billy tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to work out a puzzle with more pieces than he expected. “I’m surprised you didn’t see me at school,” he says after a moment. “Hawkins High right? I joined senior year.”

You press your napkin flat against your knee, steadying yourself. The words leave your mouth before you can overthink them. “I wasn’t there, I had Leo around that time.”

For a beat, it lands heavy between you - not awkward exactly, but true, solid in the way truths always are when you’ve stopped hiding them.

“That explains it.” Billy’s words land without judgment, without pity. If anything, they’re careful, measured - as though he wants to be sure you hear the difference.

“So… where were you from originally?” You ask, the question slipping out softer than you meant it, but you can’t help it. His voice has been catching at you all night - the way certain words drag at the edges, vowels bent just enough to stand out in this town where everything sounds flat.

He tilts his head, lips twitching like he knows you’ve been listening closer than you meant to. “California.”

The word rolls out of him like smoke, easy and unhurried, as if even saying it tastes better than anything Hawkins could ever offer.

Your head snaps up. “California?!” You can’t help it; the word leaps out bright, almost reverent. “God, that place sounds like a dream.”

You feel it catch somewhere low in your chest, and for a second the table tilts into silence.

You push it away, fumbling for lighter ground, tilting your chin with a smile that feels like armor. “Well, that explains the lifeguarding.”

Billy exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth curling. “Hah. I guess you’re right.” The laugh isn’t loud, but it’s enough to soften him again, enough to make you forget you were teetering on something sharp a moment ago.

“Do you miss it?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t look at you right away. He leans back instead, hand curling loose around his glass, thumb dragging over the condensation like he needs the movement to keep still. When his eyes finally lift, they hold steady. “Like hell.”

No drama, no flourish. Just flat, unflinching honesty.

The waiter returns, swiftly sliding you both your plates with practiced efficiency. Your lasagne arrives with steam rising in ribbons, cheese bubbling at the edges, sauce rich enough to make your stomach tighten. Billy’s spaghetti is placed before him in an elegant swirl, sauce lacquered and gleaming under the low light, a painter’s careful touch disguised as food. A basket of breadsticks follows, linen napkin folded back like an afterthought, and the wine in your glasses is refreshed to the brim.

For several minutes, there’s only the soft clink and scrape of cutlery, the violinists in the corner easing into something sweeter, slower - a melody that feels like it could fold the whole room in half and leave just the two of you inside.

The lasagne is molten comfort, tasting of everything you didn’t know you were missing. Across the table, Billy twirls his fork lazily through a tangle of spaghetti, takes a bite, and catches you watching. He smirks when your brows lift at the flavor, like he knew it would surprise you.

The silence that settles isn’t awkward, not the kind that scratches at your skin or demands to be filled. It’s easy. Present. That rare sort of quiet that feels more like understanding than absence - the kind where you realize you don’t have to perform, don’t have to keep talking just to prove the night is alive.

“Oh my God,” you mouth silently at the first bite, trying to cover it with a laugh before he notices. But his eyes are already on you, catching the slip, lingering like he enjoys watching you unravel.

The wine is doing its work now - not enough to trip you, but enough to soften your guard, enough to make you feel like your edges have rounded out while the middle of you grows sharper. Every glance he steals and doesn’t bother to hide, every brush of his voice across the table - it all seems to sink lower, settle deeper.

Billy leans back, his fork idle on the rim of his plate. “You like this place, huh?”

You nod your head, half laughing at yourself. “It’s fucking amazing. I can’t believe I’ve never been.”

“You got any other places you like to go?” He asks.

Your first instinct is your son, because every part of your life begins and ends with him. “Well, actually… there’s this soft play area Leo absolutely loves. They give the parents free hot drinks - genius, right? - and their hot chocolate? Honestly, it’s heaven.”

His mouth curves, but it’s softer than a smirk, almost thoughtful. “That sounds great. But-” he leans in his forearms resting on the table, “I was asking about you. Where do you go? Y’know… for yourself.”

The question stops you cold. You blink, caught off guard by the fact you don’t have an answer ready. “I-” you play with your food, heat rising at the back of your neck. “I guess I haven’t really thought about that in a while.”

“No bars? Movies? Anything?”

You laugh, short and dismissive. “God, no. Not anymore.” You hesitate, then sigh, already wincing. “I mean… I guess there is one place, but… you’ll laugh.”

He arches a brow. “Try me.”

You glance down at your plate, gathering courage, then let it out in a rush. “There’s this lake I used to go to as a kid. I’d throw coins into it and make stupid wishes. It’s shaped like a heart, so I thought maybe if I wished hard enough, I’d find true love.” You laugh, shaking your head at yourself, wishing the floor might open and swallow you.

But when you glance up, Billy isn’t laughing. His eyes are steady on you, blue gone dark in the low light. “Lover’s Lake?”

“Wow, you know it?” The admission slips out on a laugh you can’t quite swallow. Your smile tugs crooked, your brows knot as you shake your head, cringing at yourself like you’ve just handed him your diary.

His tongue touches the inside of his cheek, considering. Then his voice drops, almost a drawl but without mockery. “Well… I ain’t no Prince Charming, sweetheart. But maybe I can take you there sometime.”

Something flutters low in your chest, so sudden you have to grab your glass, sip just to steady it. “I’ll think about it.”

He watches the way your hand trembles slightly around the stem, but doesn’t push. Instead, he reaches for his fork again, like the moment hadn’t just cracked open something between you.

The ashtray collects an arc of grey and a kiss of ember. He keeps the smoke pointed away, palms open, forearms bare to the heat.

Dessert becomes a shared tiramisù because neither of you wants to commit to sweetness alone. Coffee is offered and declined; water glasses are refilled and ignored. The violins take five and resume with something that knows exactly what it’s doing to the blood. The bottle is running low, the last inches of Barolo catching the candlelight in a shade richer than blood.

When the bill comes, Billy’s hand is already on it before you can blink. You reach across the table, protesting, fumbling for your purse.

“Billy, no-”

“Don’t.” His tone isn’t sharp, but it’s final. He slides a few folded bills onto the tray like it’s the simplest thing in the world, nodding to the waiter. “You think I dragged you here just to watch you pay?”

Your mouth opens, ready with another protest, but the look he gives you - something equal parts daring and amused - kills the words in your throat. You sit back, heat climbing your face as the waiter whisks the tray away.

By the time you step outside, the rain has begun. Not the polite drizzle Hawkins usually gives, but a full summer downpour, sheets of water that turn the street into a mirror. You brace yourself against the chill - only to feel leather settling over your shoulders. Billy shrugs his jacket around you before you can argue. It’s warm, smelling of a blend of smoke and cologne, both unique to him. You’re too stunned by his gesture to do anything but clutch it tighter.

“Run before I change my mind.” he says sarcasm curling off his tongue. And then you’re both off, running, laughing and cursing as the rain comes down in sheets. Puddles leap up your legs, water tangles your hair to your temples, but it doesn’t bother you at all. It’s freeing. By the time you dive into the Camaro, lungs burning, you’re laughing in a way you haven’t in years.

The doors close with a thunk, muffling the storm outside. The tick of rain on the roof, steady as a heartbeat. You shiver, tugging the jacket tighter, Billy digs in the glovebox. An unopened pack of cigarettes appears, slightly crumpled. He offers one out.

You take it without hesitation. He lights yours first, then his own, the flame briefly painting his face in orange. Smoke curls in the confined air, mixing with the smell of rain-damp leather.

You sit together in the empty parking lot, the world muted by the summer rain drumming soft on the roof. Lights smear themselves across the wet asphalt, highlighting puddles. Inside the Camaro it’s warm, close, sealed off - like the rest of Hawkins has slipped away and left only the two of you suspended in this bubble of smoke and engine hum.

You glance at Billy in the glow of the dash - his profile sharp in shadow, cigarette burning down slow between his fingers. A question tugs at you again, stubborn, circling until it has to be spoken.

“So…” you start, “Are you close with your family?”

He freezes, just for a beat. The cigarette hovers at his lip before he pulls it away, exhaling smoke toward the cracked window. “That’s a heavy one.”

You smile faintly. “I guess the wine helps.”

His mouth crooks at that, but his eyes stay guarded as he flicks ash out into the night. “My Mom…” His voice dips lower. “She left when I was a kid. One day she was there, the next… gone. No note, no goodbye. Just-” He makes a slicing motion with his hand, smoke trailing off his fingers.

“My old man remarried. Didn’t take him long. His new woman came with a kid, a daughter, Maxine. We were all just expected to comply and play happy families.” He pauses, laughs once, short and bitter. “Pretty soon… you couldn’t find a single trace of my Mother’s existence.”

You shift in your seat, the jacket heavy on your shoulders, the weight of his words heavier still.

“After that we moved here. Cali to Indiana. Over Two thousand miles. Everyone settled easy, but me? I’m still waiting to go home.”

The words hang, suspended in the hum of the idling engine and the steady hiss of rain on the roof. You feel them settle in your chest like stones dropped in water, rippling out.

You hesitate, then ask softly, “Do you… get along with your Dad?”

That stops him. His cigarette hangs half-burned between his fingers before he flicks it out the crack of the window. For a second, you think he won’t answer.

“No. Uh…” He shakes his head, voice low, edged with something darker. “No, not really.”

His jaw ticks. He leans back, staring past the rain-smeared windshield. “He’s… a bad man. Always has been. Nothing fatherly about him. Just cold. Nothing I ever do is enough. I could bleed myself dry trying, and it wouldn’t matter. I’ll never have his approval.” He pauses, voice scraping raw. “If I ever fuck up… he makes sure I remember it.”

The words settle like lead in the small space between you. Then he huffs out a sharp breath, lifts the butt of his cigarette for one last drag, and laughs into the smoke. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” He shakes his head, almost amused at himself, then twists the key in the ignition.

The Camaro rumbles to life, headlights slicing through the rain-streaked dark. Wipers screech once across the windshield, clearing a smeared view of the near-empty lot. He drops the gear, pulls out slow, like the act of driving will keep his mouth from saying more than it already has.

You don’t press. You just cradle your cigarette between your fingers, watching the ember burn low as the tires hiss against wet asphalt. “I know how that feels,” you murmur at last, voice barely above the hum of the engine. “Leo’s Dad… he was the same. No matter what I did, it was never enough.”

Billy’s brows knot instantly. His grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles paling in the glow of the dash. His whole face hardens, not at you, but at some thought miles behind his eyes. The quiet that follows isn’t the soft kind from the restaurant - it’s sharp, strained, edged like glass.

You shift, uneasy, watching the rain ripple down your side window. “What… did I say something wrong?”

He shakes his head, quick, too quick. “No. Don’t worry about it.” His eyes stay forward, fixed on the road unwinding beneath the high beams.

But he still won’t look at you.

“Billy.” The wine gives you bravery you don’t usually have. You turn slightly in your seat, searching his profile lit by the dash. “Tell me. What is it?”

He exhales hard, rakes a hand through his wet curls, the other still steering. For a moment you think he’ll bail, that he’ll let the silence drown everything. But then his voice lands, clipped, edged:

“Karen.” He spits the name like it tastes foul. “She said some shit. That you… cheated on him. On your kid’s Father. That’s why he left.”

The words hit like ice water. Your chest seizes, breath punched out of you. You blink, stunned, throat working around a soundless laugh.

“That bitch,” you whisper, then louder, heat flashing to your cheeks. “That fucking bitch! I don’t even know her. She doesn’t know me.”

Your chest heaves, breath fogging the cold glass of the passenger window. You catch your reflection, wide-eyed, furious, smaller than you want to look. It almost makes you laugh at how absurd it is: strangers thinking they get to define you, thinking they know the first thing about your life. The laugh never comes. It curdles in your throat.

“Do you know how hard it is to be constantly ridiculed?” The words rip out before you can stop them. “To be looked at like I’m some mistake, some joke, when all I’ve done is try? Like having Leo so young was my choice instead of…” Your throat catches, but you push through. “Instead of something that happened to me. It wasn’t my fault. But none of them care about that. They don’t care about the truth.”

Your fists curl tighter in the leather stretched across your lap, knuckles stinging. “I tried everything. I even named Leo after his dead father - dead, Billy! - and it still wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.”

Your voice splinters, but the momentum carries you forward. “Leo wasn’t planned. I was young. Too young. And he was older - he knew that, he used that. Do you know I don’t even remember the night Leo was made? I was blackout drunk! He took advantage. I thought it was love, but it wasn’t. It was control. It was ownership. He was abusive, he was cruel, and I was so damn blind because I wanted to believe it meant something. That he meant something.”

Your hand shakes as you bring the cigarette to your lips, exhale smoke that feels like poison leaving your lungs. Billy drives on, saying nothing, though clearly affected by your words.

“But then I had to think about my son,” you finish hoarsely. “That was it. Not him. Not me. Just Leo. I left because I had to. Not because of some gossip Karen Wheeler pulled out of thin air.”

The Camaro fills with silence again. But it isn’t empty. It’s packed with everything you’ve both just laid bare, thick enough that even the storm outside seems to hush around it.

Billy’s knuckles tighten on the wheel. His voice is low, rough, and it carries an edge that makes the hairs at the back of your neck prickle.

“Give me his name.”

You flinch at the demand. “Billy-”

“Y/n, I’m not joking. Tell me.” His eyes cut to you, blue sharp even in the dark, the kind of stare that doesn’t leave room for wriggling out.

You shake your head, pulse racing. “No. I’m not dragging you into that. He’s gone now any-.”

“Bullshit.” He says, not shouting, but the force in his tone is more dangerous than raised volume. “If I ever catch sight of him-” his hand flexes once on the steering wheel, veins standing out like lightning under his skin, “-I’ll kill him myself.”

You swallow hard, heat blooming where fear and gratitude blur. For a second, you don’t see the anger in him as something aimed at you. You feel protected. Shielded, even. And it rattles you more than his threat.

The Camaro growls low as it eases to the curb, headlights sweeping over the soaked front yard before fading into idle hum. Rain lashes the windshield in silver streaks, blurring the world into watercolor smears of porch light and shadow.

Billy kills the engine. The sudden quiet is startling, leaving only the thrum of the storm and the ragged edges of your shared breathing. He sits there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, like he’s not ready to break whatever’s wrapped itself around the two of you tonight.

Finally, he turns to you. His curls hang damp and heavy, dripping at his temple. His voice is low, careful, but there’s no mistaking the weight in it.

“Look… I had the best time tonight.”

The words hang there like a confession.

Your chest tightens, warmth blooming in a place you’d thought long buried. You smile - small, almost shy, but real. “Me too... it’s been the best night I’ve had in years.”

His eyes search yours, the corner of his mouth twitching like he doesn’t quite trust himself to grin. “So we’ll… do it again sometime?”

You nod before you can second-guess it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

For a second it feels like the moment might stretch forever, suspended in the space between you. Then you break it with a soft, “Goodnight,” fingers lingering on the handle before you finally step out.

The rain hits you instantly, cool needles prickling across your skin. You clutch his jacket tighter around your shoulders, lift your chin against the downpour, and start up the path toward your door. Each step feels like it drags you further from the bubble you’d built with him - from the warmth of the car, from the safety you hadn’t expected to feel tonight.

Halfway up the walk, it happens.

Your wrist is caught, firm but not rough, spinning you back around. You gasp, breath caught in your throat as you collide with him - all heat and storm and leather. His hand slides up, anchoring at the base of your neck, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is nothing like polite goodbyes. It’s hungry, urgent, days of restraint torn open in one strike. Rain pours over both of you, plastering hair to your face, soaking clothes until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. His thumb presses against your jaw, tilting you into him, and you find yourself clutching at his shirt like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

The kiss tells you more than words ever could: he sees you, all of you, and still doesn’t let go.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟒,𝟕𝟑𝟐

___

[xamiah]

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

___

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐯𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 - 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰? 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 - 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐬, 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 - 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞, 𝐚 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

___

Billy was your secret love game. You two weren’t together, not in any way that made sense to the rest of Hawkins, but at Motel C on Cornwallis you met like a match struck in a dark room - brief, bright, burning. You had late‑night flings when the town went quiet and the soda machines hummed like insects. Two powerhouses orbiting everything and everyone except each other, never settling, never promising, yet always circling back to the same door, the same bed, the same scrape of his teeth on your throat and your nails in his shoulders. You were his muse. He was your guilty pleasure.

On Sunday night, breathless and unruly with sweat, you both agreed to meet again next Friday, same spot, same hour. The deal felt like a dare you both kept winning.

Then, on the drive home from that last meeting, Billy’s life changed… forever.

He had been cutting through the dark, winding back roads when he heard it - thin and glassy as a bottle breaking somewhere in the trees - a crying child. He pulled over because something in the sound hooked him, a wrongness too sharp to ignore. He took a flashlight from the glovebox and stepped past the ditch, the Camaro’s engine ticking behind him. The moon pooled between the pines; wet leaves clung to his boots. The crying came again, closer now, and he pushed deeper until the ground softened, the air cooled and…

A rush of motion. Breath at his neck that wasn’t his own. Pain like a lit match. A mouth and then nothing.

He didn’t see the face. He didn’t see anything at all once the light went spinning from his hand. He remembered the bite, the hot-needled puncture and the way the world narrowed to a tunnel of stars, then faded.

He woke in his own bed. His sheets smelled wrong. His room felt off, as if everything had been rearranged by a stranger who’d memorized it and still made small mistakes. There was a wound hidden by the fall of his hair: twin scars at his neck where pressure returned when he pressed there, a pulse that seemed to answer from somewhere…else.

The week that followed was an education in agony. The sun, once a friend he wore like a second skin, blistered him from the inside. Making his job unbearable. Chlorine burned his nose and throat. The lifeguard chair felt like a stake. He watched light skitter on the pool and wanted to crawl out of his own body. He wore his whistle like a weight and swallowed a new sort of hunger that had nothing to do with sex or power or showing off for the mothers on lounge chairs. It was sharp and scent‑driven. Metallic. It made the world too loud - heartbeats in the deep end, the tin rattle of soda in a vending coil, the pulse that leapt at the base of every throat.

By night he paced the walls of his room, curtains shut, jaw aching, tongue finding the strange ache in his gums where something sharpened against his will. He stopped answering calls. He stopped looking at himself in mirrors because sometimes the room seemed to tilt when he did.

He isolated himself. Gritting through it. He did not say the word for what the bite suggested because the word felt like a door that wouldn’t close again once opened. He wasn’t superstitious… but Hawkins had a way of making superstition the only map that fit.

Yet… something sat deeper than bloodlust. Deeper than the way night sang to him now.

You.

Your laugh in the motel hallway. The way you bit your lip when you wanted to be difficult. The way you always left a window open like you trusted the outside air more than any room. He tried to starve the image out of himself; it only made him hungrier.

By Friday he had given up on pretending he could outrun the pull. He showered in cold water, dressed in black like the sun had been outlawed, and drove to Motel C with the windows cracked and the radio off, the Camaro humming like a kept secret. He told himself he would demolish you in other ways. He told himself he could control it. He told himself that if anything in the world could pin him to himself, it was you.

In Cornwallis, the ice machine coughs once in the breezeway as you cross to the door, room key warm in your fist. You’ve come straight from work, smelling like the cheap perfume you somehow manage to pull off and the bite of late-summer rain clinging to your clothes. The vacancy sign hums above you in its dull neon blue, buzzing like a lazy wasp. A moth flutters too close, sizzles against the glass, and drops to the pavement like ash.

You’re the first one here.

It’s a little strange… you and Billy have an unspoken ritual: meet in the parking lot, lean against his Camaro for a few minutes, pretend you’re not about to tear each other apart, and then head in together. But his usual spot, parked right under the streetlamp by the vending machines, is empty tonight.

You tell yourself not to read into it… although the fact that Billy is almost never late is impossible to ignore. Still, you slide the key into the lock and enter your room for the night.

The door sticks, then gives with a weary sigh. The room smells like it always does - faint freon from the rickety air-conditioning unit, stale cigarettes smoked by someone who thought cracking the window made a difference, the ghost of bleach from a rushed cleaning job. The carpet has that cheap, thin texture that somehow makes more noise under your shoes than tile would.

You toss your bag on the low dresser and kick off your shoes, letting your toes sink into the scratchy floor. The bedspread is ugly - swirls of beige and maroon - but it’s familiar ugly. You’ve tangled yourself in it enough times that it almost feels like part of the arrangement.

You check your reflection in the mirror bolted to the wall: hair a little mussed from the rain, eyeliner slightly smudged, lips still holding a hint of color. Good enough. You shrug out of your jacket and drape it over the chair, fingers lingering on the worn armrest just to have something to do.

The rain outside softens to a drizzle, tapping lightly against the metal railing. You glance at the clock. Billy’s still not here.

That’s when the knock comes.

Three sharp raps. Not hurried, not tentative, measured. Like he knows exactly how much force to use to make your pulse skip.

Only… you’ve never heard Billy knock before.

You open the door.

Billy’s there, leaning one broad shoulder against the frame like the motel belongs to him. The rain’s left his hair darker at the roots, curling faintly where it falls across his forehead. His eyes sweep down you in one long, unhurried drag that leaves heat blooming under your skin, like he could strip you bare with the look alone. He’s broader than you remember - like a week away has been enough to carve more muscle into him - and somehow paler, all that familiar bronze sanded clean off. He’s still lethally-pretty, the kind of beautiful that feels like a threat, but the edges are colder now. Sharper. When his gaze finally meets yours, the pupils are wide and dark, swallowing what little color’s left, like the light itself has become an enemy.

You don’t question it.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice deep enough to run through you.

You tilt your head, smiling up at him like the game’s already begun. “Hey.”

“You gonna be polite and invite me in?” The words are low, but there’s a glint there, something sly, like he’s in on a joke you haven’t been told yet.

“I might...” You draw the syllables out, teasing, leaning your weight against the door like you’re actually considering it.

His mouth curves. “Well, we can do it out here if you prefer.” He doesn’t bother clarifying what ‘it’ is. He doesn’t have to.

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath. “Ugh! Come in, you freak.” You hook your fingers in the front of his jacket and tug, dragging him across the threshold.

He shuts the door behind him without looking, without turning from you, like breaking eye contact might cost him something. The soft click of the latch feels louder than it should.

You reach up, deliberately slow, and flick the deadbolt into place. “Can’t escape me now,” you say, smiling like it’s nothing more than a joke.

The look in his eyes says otherwise.

His hands are on you before you can read it, big and unyielding, grabbing your shoulders and shoving you in a blur of strength. Your back hits the wall hard enough that the drywall pops like knuckles. The sound thrills you. The look on his face does, too. Not careless. Not sloppy. Focused. Like he’s chosen to be extra feral tonight. He breathes you in, a low hum vibrating in his chest. “Mmm… why would I want to escape this huh?”

The question’s rhetorical; his mouth is already on yours, hard and hungry.

You kiss him back with the same heat, same push, your hands coming up to frame his face. His skin is ice cold under your palms, the difference in temperature making you break the kiss with a small gasp.

“Fuck - you’re freezing!” Your thumb strokes his cheekbone in disbelief. “How long were you out there for?”

“Don’t worry, baby…” His voice drops into something warm but evasive. “I, uh - took a drive with the windows down. Didn’t think it’d get this cold.”

It’s the kind of half-answer Billy’s good at - casual enough to sound believable, vague enough to make you forget to push. And before you can pin him down with another question, he’s already shifting gears.

“But you, on the other hand…” His thumb, dragging across your cheekbone, his cold palm in contrast with your warm blush, the touch stark against your skin. “Your cheeks are always red hot when you’re around me.” His eyes glitter, the faintest smirk curling his mouth. “Someone’s blushing.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile.

“Only I can make them that red… isn’t that right?”

You smirk back, biting the inside of your cheek in mischief as you tiptoe into a dangerous territory. “Hmm, I wouldn’t be so sure of yourself, because lately Jas-”

Before you so much as utter the rest of another man’s name out - in one fluid motion - he scoops you up like you weigh nothing and tosses you onto the bed. The sound he makes as he does it isn’t quite human. It’s low, guttural, threaded with something predatory that sends a shiver down your spine.

You giggle, not out of mockery, but because the shock of it sends a thrill straight through you.

He stands at the foot of the bed, towering over you. You’re propped on your elbows, legs bent, the ugly motel bedspread bunching under you. His shoulders fill the space between the dresser and the wall; the dim lamplight cuts a sharp line along his jaw. There’s an intensity in his stare tonight - more than usual - that pins you in place even before his hands do.

He reaches down to you, fingers hooking under the hem of your skirt, knuckles brushing the inside of your thigh. There’s no hesitation, he finds the waistband of your underwear and yanks, the fabric snapping as the seams give way. It’s rough but deliberate, not a single second wasted. The torn scrap lands somewhere on the carpet, forgotten, discarded.

“You’re keeping this on,” he mutters, glancing at the skirt, voice thick with intent. “I like you in it.”

Your pulse jumps. You reach up and pull your top over your head in one motion, tossing it aside. Cool air ghosts over your bare skin, chased almost immediately by the heat in his gaze.

Billy’s already moving - one hand going to his belt, the other popping the button of his jeans. His shirt, half-unbuttoned since the moment he walked in, hangs loose and open, framing the cut of his torso. In the lamplight, you’re reminded of how his skin looks paler than you’ve ever seen it, but the definition in his chest and stomach is sharper, each line almost sculpted.

He steps in, closing the small gap between you in a heartbeat, and then he’s on you - literally. The mattress dips under his weight as he practically pounces, his hands bracketing your hips and pushing your thighs apart.

Usually, Billy likes to take his time - to draw the night out like he’s sipping top-shelf liquor, circling you until you’re so keyed up you can’t remember your own name. Tonight, there’s none of that. The second his hands close around your thighs, you know something’s different. His grip is merciless, the kind of hold that says he’s not letting go, as though if he loosens his fingers for even a second, you might vanish into thin air. The intensity in his eyes doesn’t blink, doesn’t soften - it just bores into you, dark and unbroken, making your stomach drop and your pulse climb.

The first time he pushes into you, the blunt, throbbing tip brushes against your entrance and sends a jolt through you - a sudden, unnatural shock - before it feels strangely, impossibly right. The temperature difference makes you gasp, head tipping back against the headboard as every nerve in your body snaps to attention. “Fuck,” you breathe, the word half a moan, half an exhale you didn’t mean to let him hear.

And then he’s in, fully, burying himself inside without the courtesy of letting you adjust. He feels thicker, heavier, like he’s taking up more of you than he ever has before. A sharp sound escapes your throat - startled but far from unwilling - and his answering groan is low and ragged, vibrating against your skin where his mouth hovers near your jaw. “That’s it,” he mutters, voice edged in gravel, “just like that.”

The rhythm he finds is ruthless. His hips drive forward with a precision that feels almost mechanical, each thrust sharp enough to make the headboard slam the wall in a steady, punishing beat. The sound becomes part of the moment, syncing with the unsteady drag of your breathing. He keeps your skirt bunched high on your hips, the fabric caught between you, as if keeping it on is some unspoken rule he won’t break tonight. The thought sends a heat curling low in your stomach.

“You missed this, yeah?” His voice is a growl now, rough and insistent, punctuating the question with another brutal snap of his hips. “Fuck - say it. Tell me how much you missed my cock, how much you need it.”

You glare up at him, even as your body betrays you, your nails digging into the muscle at his sides. “Not giving you the satisfaction-”

The bratty defiance is cut short by another sharp drive that drags a long moan from your throat before you can stop it. His smirk is pure predator, all teeth and dark amusement.

“Liar,” he grits out, pressing his palm flat against your lower stomach, feeling exactly where he’s hitting. “I can feel it, sweetheart. You’re gripping me like you’ve been starved for it.”

You clamp your teeth together, swallowing the sound clawing its way up your throat - but it breaks free anyway, a sharp, unguarded moan that slices through the air between you. It changes something in him. His eyes flash darker, a hunger rolling through them that has nothing to do with patience.

“Come on, slut, say it.” he growls, the word sharp enough to make your chest tighten.

You shake your head, lips curling into a defiant smile despite the way your body’s shaking.

The refusal earns you a sudden, disorienting shift. He pulls back just far enough to flip you over, your knees sinking into the mattress, hands catching yourself against the headboard before you pitch forward. His grip is unyielding on your hips, as he re-enters you.

The first sharp crack of his palm against you rings out in the cramped motel room - the sting blooming hot, chased immediately by another, and another and another, each one synced to the hard, relentless rhythm he drives into you from behind. Your breath catches, torn between pain and something far more dangerous.

“Say it!” he snarls above you, the words edged with something guttural and almost inhuman.

You grip the headboard until your knuckles ache, still refusing, still playing the brat even as your voice breaks in ragged gasps. Another smack lands, harder this time, the sound echoing off the walls, and the last of your composure frays.

“I-” It rips out of you on a breathless cry. “I need you - Billy, I need you.”

The sound of it seems to detonate something in him. His grip on your hips tightens until you’re sure you’ll feel it tomorrow, the pace turning brutal in its precision, each thrust driving that admission deeper into the air between you. You can hear him breathing harder now - not ragged, but sharpened, like he’s riding the edge of something he’s been holding back all night.

“Good-” he grits out, the word more growl than speech, “Good fucking girl.”

Your hands are clenched tight around the headboard, body strung tight, every nerve firing until you feel yourself spiral toward the inevitable. The sounds in the room blur, the slap of skin, the creak of the mattress, his low, filthy praise in your ear until all that’s left is the coil inside you snapping.

Your voice breaks on a ragged moan as release crashes through you, the force of it stealing the strength from your limbs. Billy follows you over the edge, pulling out at the last second, the heat of him spilling against your skin as his hands keep you steady through the aftershocks.

For a moment, the room is just the two of you breathing - your gasps, his steadying inhale, the low hum in his chest that sounds too much like satisfaction to be anything else. He lets his grip soften, one hand trailing lightly over your spine in a rare, fleeting gesture of tenderness before he draws back completely.

The silence after is heavy, but not awkward - the kind of stillness that hums with leftover electricity. Your body is lax, knees sinking into the mattress, chest still rising fast while your mind tries to catch up to what just happened. You can feel the thud of your heartbeat in strange places. Behind you, Billy’s breathing is steadying in a way that makes you think he never really lost control, not all the way. It’s almost unnerving, how composed he sounds compared to the chaos he just dragged you through.

You feel the mattress shift as he moves, and then his hands are on you again, not with the same bruising grip as before, but something looser… exploratory. His palm skims down your back, catching on the dip of your waist before sliding lower. His touch is still cold, a stark contrast to the heat rolling off your skin.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, voice quieter now but still edged with that unshakable authority. You obey, folding your legs under you to face him. His shirt is hanging completely open now, his hair damp with sweat that isn’t his,

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s memorizing every inch of your flushed face, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth. Then his jaw works, like he’s about to say something and isn’t sure he should. “Y/n…” He swallows, the faintest furrow creasing his brow. “I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hit you like a slow, warm tide. You smile without even meaning to, because you’ve felt the same for so long you’d almost convinced yourself it was one-sided. “Yeah?” you say softly, and it’s not a challenge - just an admission of your own.

His lips twitch into the smallest smirk, but his eyes stay locked on yours. “Yeah.”

Then he leans in, mouth finding yours in a kiss that’s slower than you expect - less violent than before, but still heavy with possession.

His lips break from yours only to find your neck, tracing a path down with an almost obsessive care. His breath is cold against your skin, raising goosebumps in his wake. When he reaches the hollow of your throat, his mouth shifts lower, skimming over your collarbone, then down toward the swell of your breast. His hand stays anchored on your thigh, thumb stroking absent circles that do nothing to calm the heat sparking there again.

It happens so fast, you almost miss it. His mouth opens just enough for his teeth to accidentally graze you - not sharp at first, just a faint drag against the curve of your breast. But something about the angle changes, and suddenly you feel two precise lines score your skin. A hot sting blooms, quickly followed by warmth - unmistakable, wet warmth - sliding down your side.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Ow! What the-?”

Your hand flies up on instinct, brushing over the tender spot, and comes away with two thin lines of blood welling fast. They’re close together, parallel, like something deliberate made them. Your eyes snap back to Billy - and what you see makes your stomach drop.

He’s leaning back slightly now, shoulders tense, one hand covering his mouth and nose like he’s trying to block something out. But it’s no use. The smell of your blood has already hit him - you can see it in the way his body seems to glitch, his jaw clenching, his pupils somehow swallowing even more of his eyes. His breathing, which had been so steady, turns shallow and sharp, like each inhale is costing him.

“Billy…” Your voice is smaller than you mean it to be. You sit up straighter, pressing your back to the headboard without even realizing you’re retreating. “What did you do?”

“Don’t,” he warns, gesturing his free hand toward you, the word strained and quiet.

“Don’t what?” You ask, distractingly wiping at the blood again with the back of your hand, smearing it across your knuckles in a dark streak. The scent of it hangs in the air now, metallic and unmistakable.

He glances at your hand, and that’s the breaking point. His body tilts toward you in a way that’s not quite human - too quick, too hungry. You can see it now, the faint glint of something sharp when his lips part, the truth flickering just long enough to make your skin go cold.

“Billy… you’re scaring me.”

Your voice is quieter than you meant it to be, almost swallowed by the rattle of the motel A/C. You push yourself upright on the mattress, legs unsteady, and stand. The blood rushes in your ears as you take a step back - then another a putting the bed between you. Your palms are slick, your heartbeat a loud, frantic drum you can’t hide from him.

He watches you move, his body tracking yours without actually stepping forward yet. But the way his head tilts, the way his shoulders roll subtly forward, makes it clear he’s reading every twitch of muscle, every stagger in your breath, like he’s already planned what he’ll do if you run.

You back until your calves bump the low dresser, your hands automatically bracing against it. The wood is cool under your fingers, but it does nothing to steady you. You’ve seen Billy dangerous before - cocky, reckless, even violent - but never like this.

You watch as a single tear breaks from the corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek - the last thing about him that looks human. He swallows hard, shaking his head, his chest rising and falling too fast. But then his eyes flick to your neck, and whatever tether was holding him back snaps.

You see it for certain now, a sharp fang catching the thin line of lamplight, and for a moment you think you’ve lost your mind. But knowing, however loosely, the kind of haunted history Hawkins has buried under its skin, the word forms in your head like an instinct you can’t shake. Vampire.

The thought has barely settled when he moves.

He charges at you in a blur, too fast to be human, and your body reacts before your mind can - your fist flying up to connect with his nose. It’s the same hand you used to wipe the blood from your chest. The moment you hit him, the metallic scent blooms in the air between you. His head jerks back, not from the force, but from the smell.

A low, involuntary sound rumbles in his chest, something disturbingly close to pleasure. His knees falter for a fraction of a second, like the scent alone has buckled him. Then his right hand comes up, middle finger dragging slowly from the bridge of his nose to his lips, smearing the streak of your blood along the way. He tastes it without breaking eye contact, and the look in his eyes is no longer entirely Billy.

You stumble back a step, breath hitching. He’s in front of the door, blocking it completely, and you know - know - that if you try to push past him, you won’t make it. The only chance is the bed between you.

Fight or flight snaps into place. You throw yourself onto the mattress, scrambling across in the hope of vaulting over the far side. You barely make it halfway before his arm catches you around the waist like a steel band. He spins you with terrifying ease, your back hitting the mattress hard, the springs groaning in protest under the force.

He’s over you instantly, looming, his knee wedged between your thighs to keep you pinned. Cold hands clamp around your wrists, pressing them into the bedding above your head. You thrash once, twice, but his grip doesn’t shift an inch.

Then his head lowers, and you feel the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue over the twin lines of blood at your covered breast. He laps at it with single-minded focus, his mouth sealing over the wounds until the bleeding stops. It’s obscene - the heat of his mouth on your skin paired with the knowledge of what he’s doing - and the mix of fear and unwanted pleasure makes your stomach twist.

When he finally lifts his head, you meet his gaze. “No… please.” The words are breathless, desperate, you’re searching his face for any flicker of humanity that might still be there.

If it is, it’s buried deep.

In the next heartbeat, his mouth is at your neck. The bite is instantaneous - a white-hot burst of agony that jolts down your spine. You let out a choked scream, arching under him as his teeth sink deeper, and you feel the pull - not just of your blood, but of something essential, something you can’t name, being drawn out of you.

The pain crests… and then shifts. The burn fades into something heavier, molten, flooding through your body in waves until the fear unravels in its grip. Your breathing slows, eyelids fluttering as the pleasure steals over you in perfect counterpoint to the draining. You’re dimly aware that you’re losing something vital, and yet it feels right.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are slick and crimson, breath brushing hot against your mouth. Before you can take another breath, he crashes his lips onto yours. The kiss is dizzying - iron and heat, hunger and something like devotion - and it swallows you whole.

You taste your own blood on his tongue, rich and metallic, and it shouldn’t taste good, but somehow it does - dark and intoxicating, like you’ve been craving it without ever knowing. The pressure of his mouth deepens, roughens, until your teeth clash in the frantic rhythm of it. It’s messy, desperate, more about claiming than kissing, and every drag of his tongue against yours makes the heat in your veins coil tighter.

When he finally eases back, your head is spinning, your lungs struggling to catch up. He looks at you like you’re already his, and the worst part is… you’re not sure he’s wrong.

You feel it deep in your bones: whatever you were before is gone. And what you are now… somehow, you know it belongs here. With him.

Immortal.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟓,𝟎𝟐𝟔

___

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥���� 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝟖𝟎’𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐬, ‘𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬’. 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐏.𝐒 - 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐈’𝐦 𝐨𝐯𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

[xamiah]

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

___

𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨

( 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 )

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐨, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.

___

You don’t let your guard down easy - not anymore. That’s why it took over a week of calls, charm, and unshakable nerve before the cracks even began to show.

It started with crossed arms and quiet scoffs, with every alarm bell in your head convincing yourself that a man like Billy Hargrove doesn’t take interest in girls like you unless he wants something… and it’s never something that lasts. He seemed like the exact type you swore off years ago. A smooth talker with bedroom eyes and trouble riding shotgun. You’d known too many just like him and none ever left quietly.

And yet… he kept calling.

Every single night.

Not just once. Multiple times. Like he needed to hear your voice or the world wouldn’t sit right.

You ignored the first few. Let the phone ring while you rocked Leo to sleep, or folded the same towel five times just to keep your hands busy. You’d even unplugged the cord once, certain if you heard that voice again you might say yes without thinking.

But then you’d listen to the messages he left.

And damn it - it sounded like he meant it.

“Hey. Just checkin’ in.”

“Got time to talk tonight?”

“Still thinkin’ about you, sweetheart.”

You didn’t always answer. Most nights, you were simply too busy - Leo fussy, dishes piled high, your mind too frayed to entertain the idea of someone new. Other times, it was just easier not to hope. Easier not to feel. But Billy never pushed. He’d hang up without complaint and try again the next night, same time, same tone - like he had all the patience in the world.

Say what you want about his cocky, rough-edged charm, but one thing’s undeniable: the man is persistent.

And strangely… gentle.

You definitely didn’t expect that.

Your mother comes by unannounced, the way she always has. One soft knock, then the door eases open like it lives for the drama of her entrances. She steps inside with the comfortable authority of someone who has never once considered herself a guest in your home. A canvas grocery bag hangs heavy from her wrist, the fabric pulled taut by the shape of produce inside. You didn’t ask for groceries - you never do - but she always says the same thing: “A mother always makes sure her babies are fed.”

Today it smells faintly of fresh basil and a newly baked lemon drizzle cake she knows Leo loves. She’s still halfway over the threshold when the phone rings.

That sound.

Your body reacts before your mind does - a subtle tightening in your shoulders, your hand stilling mid-air. You almost drop the dish you’ve been drying.

It’s him. You just know it.

The phone shrills again from the countertop. Before your mother can so much as reach for it, you move. Crossing the kitchen in three quick strides, you snatch away the receiver from with a rushed, breathless, “Don’t-!”.

She halts, the grocery bag sliding from her arm to rest against her hip. One eyebrow lifts - that sharp, surgical arch only mothers seem to master - and her eyes travel from your too-fast hand to your too-pink cheeks.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She doesn’t have to.

And then, in that sing-song lilt designed to make your ears burn, she grins. “Well, go on then… who’s the lucky guy?”

You keep your tone flat. “There’s no guy, Mom.”

“Oh, come on,” she says, already unpacking vegetables onto your counter like she hasn’t just detonated a small bomb in the middle of your ribcage. “I haven’t seen your cheeks that pink since high school.”

You shoot a warning look over your shoulder. It bounces right off her.

“I think it’s good,” she continues, rinsing a bunch of basil with the same casual cheer she’s always had when meddling. “It’d be nice to have a man around. He could help you, you know.”

You roll your eyes, and not just because the comment grates. You’ve heard this before - the outdated refrain of a woman raised to believe a woman’s life is safer, easier, more respectable with a man at her side. That being a wife and mother is the highest thing you can be.

She doesn’t mean to offend you. She never has. But it slips out in little ways - the way she tuts at the sight of you lugging groceries in alone, the way she sighs when she sees you fixing a leaky tap, like you’re performing some lonely miracle that shouldn’t be yours to handle.

She’s worried for you, you know that. Worried about the whispers, the strain, the image of her daughter pushing a stroller without a ring on her finger. She wants you protected. She doesn’t see how much it stings - how hard you’ve worked to prove that you can protect yourself, and your son, without leaning on anyone else.

You love her. God, you love her. But sometimes her love feels like a shape you no longer fit into.

“I don’t need help,” you say, steady.

“No, you’re right, sweetie,” she replies, softer now, placing the herbs down. “You don’t need help. What you do need…” She steps behind you, hands warm and light as they settle on your shoulders, easing down the tension she finds there, “…is to relax.”.

You let out a long sigh, but don’t pull away. For a moment, you let her touch stay - the weight of it both familiar and frustrating. Behind you, Leo’s soft chatter drifts in from the living room, his little voice narrating whatever game he’s building with blocks.

Finally, you cave. You tell her. Not everything, not the details, but enough. Enough for her to lean in with that look that says she’s already ten steps ahead, matchmaking in her mind.

You explain he’s just some guy - a lifeguard, you say, like that somehow minimizes it - and how he’s been calling you every night for a week.

How you haven’t agreed to anything.

Yet.

And that’s when she slaps her together once, like her master plan has just began, making Leo giggle from across the room.

“That’s it - You’re going out tonight!” she announces, like it’s decided, like there was never a world in which you wouldn’t.

You blink at her, stunned. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” she says, already rising from the table like she’s just settled something between you. “You work so hard, you deserve a night off. And maybe… you know - a little lipstick wouldn’t hurt?”

You groan. “Mom…”

“I’ll watch Leo.”

“No, I-”

But she’s already waving a dismissive hand, like the matter is settled.

That familiar knot of guilt tightens in your chest. You hate this - hate the idea of handing Leo over for even a couple of hours unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’s not that you don’t trust her. God, she adores him - spoils him even. It’s just that having someone else step in, even family, presses on that raw little nerve you’ve carried since the day you brought him home. That silent, ugly fear of seeming irresponsible. Of being the kind of mother people whisper about.

You swore you’d never let that happen. Never let anyone think you’d trade even a second of his life for your own convenience.

But she’s not hearing it. Not the protests, not the guilt. She’s in full gear now - that unstoppable, slightly bossy momentum of a mother on a mission. The kind that can’t be slowed by reason or reluctance. She’s halfway between the kitchen and the hallway, humming as she pulls open drawers, listing aloud what she and Leo will do tonight.

Her voice follows you even as you retreat. You know better than to argue when she’s decided something is ‘good for you’.

The old carpeted stairs creak under your bare feet as you climb, trailing your fingers along the banister. It’s quieter up here, with a lot less mother. You hesitate at your dresser, fingers brushing over the upstairs phone. The long spiral cord sways gently when you lift the receiver, like it’s holding its breath.

You dial. It lets out two rings, then an answer.

“Billy?”

The warmth in his voice is instant. “Am I dreaming,” he drawls, “or is that you, doll face?”

The nickname coils low in your stomach - infuriating, charming, impossible to place neatly in one box. You roll your eyes, knowing he can’t see it.

“I was just… uh…” You pace a little, curling the phone cord around your wrist. “Wondering. I don’t have any plans tonight and… if you were free, maybe I could take you up on that date?”

There’s a pause. Not hesitation - something else. Something that sounds a lot like a grin through the line.

“I’ll pick you up at Seven.” he says instantaneous, with the kind of certainty that feels like a hand closing gently around yours.

“Hey uh I can pay for a babysitter if-” he adds quickly, like he’s thought it through, like the idea of you saying no is something he’s actively planning against.

“That won’t be necessary.”

You glance toward the doorway, where the distant hum of your mother’s voice still filters up from below. “My Mom’s here,” you explain. “She’s watching Leo. And she’s… very insistent.”

He chuckles low. “Lucky me.”

You give him your address, the curve of your voice softening despite yourself. You can hear him scribble it down on the other end, making sure he’s got every detail right.

“Seven o’clock, I’ll be there.” he confirms.

“Seven,” you repeat, as if saying it will make it real.

When you hang up, the phone feels lighter in your hand. Your reflection in the dresser mirror is still you - tired in places, guarded in others - but there’s a faint glimmer beneath it now.

You have a date tonight.

After the shower, steam still curling from your skin, you step into a dress you haven’t touched since before Leo was born - something tight, slinky, and unapologetic, the kind of thing you used to wear without thinking twice. Now it clings in ways that feel both unfamiliar and exhilarating.

Your hands move carefully over the vanity, brushing on makeup with the unpracticed rhythm of someone out of the habit. The mascara wand trembles just enough to remind you it’s been years since you last tried. The mirror stares back with a stranger’s face - but not entirely. She’s you, just… a version you’d packed away. A version that had existed before your life shifted entirely around a beautiful baby boy.

You smooth the dress over your hips, swallow against the knot of nerves, and descend the stairs.

Your mother’s eyes find you instantly. For a moment she doesn’t speak - she beams, so bright you almost look away. It’s the kind of look you imagine she would’ve worn if you’d gone to senior prom - all pride and something a little wistful, like she’s watching her daughter step into a new chapter whether you want to or not.

“You look beautiful,” she says, a little breathless, as though you’ve gone and proven her right about everything.

Time doesn’t pass so much as it pulls, thinning into something fragile and taut. You perch on the armrest of the couch like the cushions might swallow you whole if you sink too deep. Your spine is rigid, knees pressed together, fingers worrying the hem of your dress until the fabric wrinkles under your touch.

7:58 PM.

He’s late.

A cold, unreasonable panic threads up your ribs. Your eyes flick instinctively to Leo, asleep on the couch under a throw blanket. You reach for him without thinking, smoothing your palm over his hair, tracing the soft crown the way you did when he was a newborn. It’s a grounding thing, that touch - but the voice in your head doesn’t quiet.

What are you doing? Inviting an irresponsible man like that into your life? Into his life? All it would take is one wrong step, one bad choice, and Leo’s little world could tilt. The thought leaves a sour weight in your stomach. This was a mistake. A stupid, blind mistake.

Your mother notices - of course she does. She always notices.

“What time did you say he was picking you up?” she asks.

“Seven.” you say, a little too fast, a little too tight, your eyes fixed on the clock like staring hard enough might make the hands move.

She glances from the wall to the slim gold watch on her wrist, she tilts it toward you, the second hand sweeping with infuriating calm. “It’s not eight yet,” she says softly, a smile tugging her mouth. “That one’s an hour ahead. He’ll be here any minute.”

You look at her watch - the neat black numbers, the certainty of it an and some of the knot in your chest loosens. Not much. Your pulse still beats hard enough to feel in your fingers. But you breathe without catching this You manage a small nod, eyes returning to the window as if looking hard enough might make his car appear.

Sure enough, headlights bloomed against the living room wall not even thirty seconds later.

You press a lingering kiss into Leo’s hair, inhaling that faint mix of baby shampoo and lemon cake, before forcing yourself to stand.

By the time you open the front door, he’s already on the porch.

Billy stops dead when he sees you. His eyes sweep over you once - quick, almost reflexive - before trailing back, slower this time, as if he’s trying to commit every line of you to memory. It’s not hungry exactly, but struck. Like whatever smart remark was sitting on his tongue just got punched clean out of his head.

“Fuck,” he says, low, not even dressed up as a compliment - just disbelief.

His shirt is red, loose, unbuttoned halfway down his chest so the edge of the fabric flirts with the sun-bronzed line of his collarbone. A black leather jacket hangs open over it, soft with wear, the sleeves creasing when he shifts his weight. Porch light glances off the dark metal of the chain at his throat, catching on the warm tan of his skin. There’s a trace of cologne beneath the softer ghost of cigarette smoke - not sharp, but lived-in, threaded into the leather like a secret you could lean into. His curls fall just right without trying, grazing his temple, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at you - not just seeing you, but stopping for you - that makes your pulse skip.

“You…” he huffs, shaking his head like the words aren’t forming fast enough. “You look unbelievable.”

You glance down, shaking your head, but the familiar hot prickle still climbs into your cheeks, betraying you.

“I’m serious,” he says, voice roughening just enough to make you believe it. “I feel like the luckiest guy alive right now.” His mouth tilts into that crooked half-smile, but his eyes stay steady on yours, like he’s not willing to let the moment slip.

Then, with the ease of someone who’s not afraid to switch lanes in a conversation, he tips his chin toward the house. “How’s the little man?”

You blink, caught off guard - it’s not the question you expected. “Asleep. Just before you pulled up.”

A grin spreads slow across his face, not mocking, not patronising - just genuinely pleased. “Good. Don’t want him thinkin’ I’m here to steal his Mama for too long.” The words are warm enough to settle in your chest, but then he tips you a quick wink, like he can’t resist adding just a hint of mischief to it.

You lock the door behind you, your mother waving from the window as Billy walks you to the car. He’s close enough that you catch the faint creak of leather when his hand dips into his pocket for his keys. He even reaches ahead to open the passenger door for you - a small gesture, but one that makes you pause.

You slide into the Camaro, the door shutting behind you with a deep, satisfying thud that seems to seal you into something private. The air inside is warm, lived-in. Leather that’s absorbed countless summer days, a faint trace of motor oil, and a whisper of smoke mellowed into the fabric. It’s not sharp or choking; it’s the kind of scent that clings like memory, the kind you breathe in without meaning to.

The seat cradles you low to the ground, firm beneath you, built for speed rather than comfort. Everything about it feels deliberate - the polished wheel, the way the dash glows faintly under the streetlight spilling through the windshield, the way the world outside suddenly feels further away.

You can feel him in here, even before he rounds the hood to take the driver’s seat - his presence stitched into every detail, every scent, every quiet hum in the metal.

Billy slides into the driver’s seat like he belongs there. His hand finds the ignition and the Camaro roars to life, engine growling deep enough you feel it in your ribs. Music explodes from the speakers causing you to jump in your seat.

“Fuck - sorry,” he mutters, quick to twist the dial down. His mouth quirks like he’s caught between a smirk and actual embarrassment.

The road opens up, black ribbon under the wheels, streetlights slipping over his face in broken intervals - flashes of gold across his jaw, his cheekbones, the curl of hair brushing his temple.

It’s quiet, but not still. It’s the kind of quiet that hums in your bones, threaded through with the low growl of the engine and the faint rustle of his jacket when he shifts. One hand rests loose on the gearshift, the other draped over the wheel at twelve o’clock… but his attention? His attention keeps slipping.

You catch him watching you, not a quick glance, not a casual check, but a steady, deliberate look that lingers long enough to make you glance at the road, silently wondering if maybe he should be doing the same. Every time your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away first.

Streetlights strobe over him in flashes of gold, catching on the chain at his chest, the edge of his jaw, the faint curl at his temple. In those moments, you see him differently - not just the lifeguard with the smirk and the swagger, but someone whose gaze makes you feel like you’re the only thing worth looking at. Like you’re something to be desired.

The Camaro roars on, headlights cutting a clean path into the dark, but it’s the space between you that feels the most dangerous.

And Billy?

Billy looks like a man who’s been waiting a long time for this.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟑,𝟐𝟐𝟐

___

[xamiah]

your fic water baby was just...ugh. I loved it ♡♡♡♡♡

HI OMGOSHH! I genuinely cannot put into words how much this means to me. I’ve been sat here staring at comments for a good few minutes smiling my fucking ass off!

As someone who struggles w confidence irl, seeing shit like this is huge for me - especially considering that most of my works have sat in drafts for YEARS.

I’ve been inactive for about a week and I’ve came back to so much support like AAGHHH - coming from a smaller writer - it’s made me sososo happy!

Tysm to everyone who’s liked, commented and reblogged I’ve looked at them all about a million times!

‘Water Baby Part Two’ is on its way I promise! Ty for being patient w me! <3

[xamiah]

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

___

𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

( 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 )

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬. 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐩, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐚𝐰𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐬’ 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝.

___

The midday heat has a weight to it - the kind that drapes itself over your skin like a thick cotton towel left too long in the sun. The smell of chlorine hangs heavy in the air, mingling with coconut sunscreen and the high-pitched giggles of kids crashing into the water. A lifeguard’s whistle cuts through the air every few minutes, sharp and distant, barely breaking your son’s concentration as he kicks his way across the shallow end like a determined little fish.

You sit at the pool’s edge, legs in the water, the hem of your kaftan fluttering where it clings damp to your calves. Watching your darling baby, Leo, with all the love in your heart as he splashes wildly. His floaties a little too big for his arms now, but too small to give up just yet. His laughter rings out like a song you never get tired of hearing. You keep a close eye on him, always.

Yet there are other eyes, too.

The other mothers sit in their cluster across the pool like a flock of pink plastic flamingos - unmoving, unnervingly alert, decked out in neon one-pieces and matching venom. Their sunglasses are oversized. Their hair is shellacked into towering perms. Their bracelets jingle when they lift their Diet Cokes, and their voices carry like perfume: sweet, cloying, and impossible to ignore.

You can sense their razor-edged mockery from across the length of the pool.

Their wedding rings catch the sun like weapons, gleaming with pride - until a shirtless piece of ‘eye candy’ walks by, and suddenly their hands are in their laps, twisting towels or smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.

You’re the anomaly in their system - too young, too quiet, too alone. You were pregnant with Leo at seventeen, just after your last school picture and before you got your diploma. And while the worst of their stares have dulled over time, you still remember what it felt like walking to school with your bump showing, how their eyes would follow you like heat. How they’d whisper behind your back. Like teen pregnancy was contagious. Like your name alone was a cautionary tale.

You like to think it’s gotten better since then. That time, love and effort have carved something good out of all that shame. Leo is healthy. Happy. Loud and wild and free. His curls are drying in the sun and your hands are steady on his back. You’ve done well by him. You know that.

But they don’t care.

They’ll never see that. They’ll never ask. Never wonder what you’ve been through or what it costs to raise a kid on your own. To show up every single day with love and patience. To put yourself second without flinching.

To them, you’re just the girl who couldn’t keep her legs shut.

And no matter how brightly they smile, how sweetly they wave, their cruelty always shows in the corners. The sharpness in their eyes. The way they tighten their grip on their own kids when yours gets too loud, too close, too real.

At the center of it all, like a queen perched on her chlorine-soaked throne, sits the almighty bitch herself, Karen Wheeler. Her neon pink and turquoise one-piece clings in all the right places, plastic pearls perched at her collarbone like a trophy she didn’t earn but desperately wants you to notice. She wears a full face of makeup to the pool - matte foundation, powder pink blush, and lips lined to perfection - with no intention of stepping so much as a painted toe into the water. She’s not here to swim. She’s here to be seen. To show off the body she tortured into submission with VHS workout tapes and starvation smoothies. Her husband is probably at work or asleep in his La-Z-Boy, none the wiser that his wife is spending her afternoons preening for shirtless twenty-somethings.

You hate her the most.

You’d never forget the day she had the audacity to shame you - right there in the changing rooms - for bringing your two and-a-half year old son inside with you.

“A little boy has no business in the women’s changing rooms, don’t you think?” she’d said, her tone clipped and sugary, like she was doing you a favor by humiliating you. Her eyes had cut down to Leo - clutching your knee with chubby fists and wide, confused eyes - in a way that made the blood in your veins boil.

And then, that smile. Tight. Faux-polite.

“You should really ask his father to take him next time.”

You hadn’t said a word. Just zipped up Leo’s hoodie, kissed the top of his head, and walked out.

That’s the thing about being a single mom - the world assumes you’ve made some grand mistake. That you should carry it around in shame like a scarlet letter stitched into your diaper bag. They don’t see the sleepless nights or the warm bottles or the way your heart leaves your body every time your kid scrapes a knee. They don’t see you at all.

But he does.

Billy Hargrove - the lifeguard who is either every mother’s fantasy or worst fear. Probably both. He’s trouble carved into a man - but with the kind of smirk that makes trouble sound like an invitation. Hell, he’s the reason half the women at this pool reapply their lipstick before they come. The reason Karen Wheeler shows up an hour early and doesn’t mind the heat.

You’ve seen him flirt with the moms. All of them. Karen especially. She goes pink in the cheeks whenever he tells her to ‘drink more water’.

But he’s never spoke a word to you… until now.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re distracted, watching Leo try to pick up a pool noodle twice his size. He’s laughing. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until the shadow falls over your knees.

“He’s quite the swimmer, isn’t he?”

The voice is low - a little rough, a little amused. You turn your head without thinking, one palm still braced on the concrete, the other hovering just above the water in case Leo slips.

Billy.

Up close, he’s a heatwave in human form. Golden skin, freckles across his nose, hair still damp from a recent dip. Water glints along his naked shoulders like glittered oil, the kind that only comes from hours spent soaking in the sun. His swim trunks hang low on his hips, and his eyes, those glacial blue eyes, drag over you for a moment longer than what’s polite before flicking down to the toddler bobbing in the shallow end.

Your lips part on a breath, caught somewhere between a startle and a reflex.

“Huh?” you blink quickly, swallowing the sudden tightness in your throat. “Oh - yeah. He’s obsessed.”

You glance back at your little water baby, who’s now pretending the noodle is a sword and whacking the water with zero coordination. His joy is blinding. You smile before you even realize you’re doing it.

“Billy,” the man beside you offers, his voice smooth now, less grit, more charm. He flashes a crooked smile like it costs him nothing. “Nice to meet you.”

You hesitate, hands suddenly self-conscious, fingers curling into the concrete behind you. You don’t do this. You don’t get talked to by men like him anymore. Not since everything changed.

“…Hi,” you say softly, polite but not encouraging. Your eyes drop back to your son. He’s giggling now, splashing water into his own face and shrieking with delight. You watch his every move like muscle memory - counting seconds between breaths, checking for wobble in his knees, ready to jump in if he so much as coughs.

“I’ve noticed you come here often,” Billy says, stepping closer, his bare feet stopping just at the edge of the water. “Thought it’s about time we get to know each other.”

You shake your head, eyes never leaving Leo. “That’s not necessary… but thank you.”

But Billy doesn’t move. He stays there, crouched at your side, dripping heat and attention. You can feel the stares prickling your skin from across the pool. Karen’s probably lowered her glasses already. Her mouth pinched, her claws flexing invisibly.

You are painfully aware of how this looks.

Billy leans in a little, but not too much. Just enough to be heard.

“I couldn’t help but notice a pretty girl like you always seems to be sitting alone.”

You blink once, slow. Flat expression. “Gee… thanks.”

He chuckles under his breath, as if he knows he deserves that.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant - well…” he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “I’m still new to the area. Still figuring things out. So if you’re up for it, when I get off this shift, I’ll give you the tour of your life. Believe me - I know my way around.”

That gets a small sound out of you, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale with teeth.

“I’m sure you do,” you murmur. You shift your gaze back to Leo, still splashing around having fun. “But I’ve lived in this town all my life. Honestly… I’m fine.”

Billy tilts his head at that, just enough to let his bangs fall into his eyes. His voice drops a note.

“Huh. I guess I just haven’t seen you or your little Brother around before.”

Your jaw tenses. You suck in a slow breath through your nose, the kind you take when you’re trying not to roll your eyes. Not because you’re embarrassed - you’re not - but because God, if you had a dollar for every time someone made that assumption.

You turn toward him fully, meeting his eyes dead-on.

“That’s my son,” you say, steady and firm, with the kind of calm that’s been sharpened over time - not defensive, not ashamed, just final.

And just like that, his expression shifts. Thankfully to you, not in horror. Just that flicker of realization, his mouth parting, like he’s suddenly stepped in something he didn’t see coming.

“Son?” he repeats, eyes flicking to Leo, then back to you. “Oh! Right. Son. Sorry. Son. I shouldn’t have assumed. You just - shit. I… fuck. I guess I really screwed this up, huh?”

There’s something almost boyish about the way he fumbles it. Almost endearing. Almost.

You sigh, the tension melting slowly off your spine. You draw one leg up, drying your calf absently with the edge of your kaftan.

“Nope,” you say gently. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

You don’t say it bitterly. You just say it like it’s true.

Because it is.

You’ve grown used to being misunderstood. To being looked at sideways. To being talked about in grocery store aisles and nursery parking lots and locker rooms. You’ve grown used to correcting people - That’s my son. Yes, I’m his mother. No, there isn’t a father in the picture. Yes, I’m doing just fine.

Billy doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches Leo, then looks back at you, softer now. Calmer. Less performative.

“So what’s his name?”

Billy’s voice comes casual, like it doesn’t matter if you answer. However there’s something in his tone, something more patient than before. Less like a line. More like he means it.

“Leo.”

Billy hums a note of approval. “Leo like the lion?”

You don’t even hesitate. You shoot him a deadpan look. “Nope. Leo like my ex’s dead Dad, Leo.”

Billy blinks. His mouth quirks - not into a smile, but into something caught between confusion and oh, shit. You let the silence stretch. Let the awkwardness settle thick in the heat.

You’re good at this part. You know how to twist a conversation off the road and straight into the ditch. It amuses you, if only because you get to watch men like Billy squirm a little.

He doesn’t backpedal, doesn’t crack a joke to shake the tension. He just nods once, slow, thoughtful.

“Still. I think it suits him.” he says finally, glancing toward Leo. You look too and notice he’s slowing down. You can see the signs - the blinks getting longer, the tiny stumbles, the way he keeps rubbing his eyes with the backs of his wet hands.

“Mama!”

His voice is high, tired and a little hoarse. He waddles unsteadily toward you, feet slapping on the bottom of the shallow pool, arms already raised. You don’t even hesitate. You scoop him up out of the water, towel and all, wrapping him in it like a burrito, letting him melt into your chest with a relieved sigh.

“Is it naptime, baby?” you coo, already shifting into that voice - the one that belongs only to him. The soft one. The good one. “Okay, mommy will take you home. But first we’ll go and get you all dry and cozy, yeah?”

Leo nods, face buried in the crook of your neck, hands fisting in your kaftan. He smells like pool chemicals and baby shampoo - warm and familiar, just like summer.

You hook the strap of your bag over one shoulder and shift Leo onto your hip in a single practiced movement, the kind that only comes from doing it a hundred times - half muscle memory, half instinct. His little legs wrap around your waist automatically, his damp skin sticking to yours, the towel slipping slightly as you tug it higher with your free hand. The bag thuds against your back, heavy with juice boxes, sunscreen, and every other just-in-case item a toddler might demand on a summer afternoon.

Billy watches, eyebrows lifting just slightly as you execute the kind of effortless shuffle only a seasoned mother could - towel tucked, bag slung, child hitched securely on one hip in a seamless, fluid motion that would’ve toppled most grown men. There’s a beat where he actually steps forward, hands half-extended like he’s ready to steady you, but then stops himself - realizing you’ve got it more than handled.

“Need a hand?” he asks anyway, voice a notch lower, laced with something closer to awe than flirtation now. The easy confidence in his tone falters, just a little, like he hadn’t expected to be impressed.

And yet here he is. Watching you like you’re the most capable person at this pool.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, expression unreadable.

“I’ll manage,” you say, calm but clipped, the kind of polite that’s been honed through necessity. The ‘thank you’ that follows isn’t sweet… it’s final. The door is closed, and he knows it.

You turn, bare feet padding toward the changing rooms, dreading the fact that you have to walk right past the vultures on your way to the changing rooms. You already hear their gossiping being hushed, but you don’t look. You don’t need to. You can feel their eyes on you like mosquito bites you can’t scratch.

It’s only when you hear it, “Hi Billy~”, sung in three sugary notes - that you realize he’s behind you.

You glance over your shoulder and there he is, trailing you. You sigh, not angry, but not thrilled either. You turn to face him, halfway to the changing room door, standing in that diagonal stretch between the tiled walkway and their watchful, whispering mouths.

“What?” you ask, no venom, just exhausted curiosity.

Billy shrugs one shoulder. “Are you busy this weekend?”

You narrow your eyes. Not because it’s a ridiculous question - though it is - but because you can’t tell if he’s being bold or just dense.

You tip your chin toward the sleeping toddler in your arms. “What do you think?”

But Billy doesn’t flinch. He grins, a little more sheepishly this time. “Well… are you?”

You stare at him a beat too long. Not glaring. Just sizing him up. And then, because you can’t help yourself - because it’s your default when someone keeps pushing - you give him the one thing he’s been asking for all along.

“Yes.”

Just as you try to leave, he takes a step forward, stopping you in your tracks. “Come on, at least tell me your name.” He pleads with hopeful eyes.

You’re about to answer… maybe, but Leo squirms. Not fully awake, but shifting against you with a little groan, a pout forming on his mouth like a stormcloud. You bounce him up and down gently, palm cradling the back of his head.

And before you can stop yourself, the words come out:

“Billy, I will literally give you my number if you leave me alone to sort my child first.”

It’s instant. The second it leaves your mouth, you regret it. Not in a world-ending way - just in that gut-punch, ‘damn it’ way. You can feel your own heart stutter. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Billy freezes.

“Really?” he asks, cocking his head like he can’t quite believe it.

You sigh, exasperated. “Yes.”

And you know he’s going to hold you to it. That grin’s already blooming again, smug and slow.

“Alright then. I’ll let you do your thing,” he says, backing up a step with his hands raised. “But I’m holding you to that… mama.”

You glare at him for the nickname. He knows it. Winks anyway.

You don’t respond. You just shift Leo higher, push through the changing room door, and let it swing shut behind you with a click.

Billy stands there longer than he means to, his eyes remaining locked on the pale-blue painted door like it might open again, like maybe you’ll change your mind and tell him to forget it.

He’s not used to being the one left waiting.

But then the door finally creaks open.

And you’re there.

You’ve changed. Swapped your damp kaftan for a worn, oversized tee and a pair of soft denim cutoffs. Your hair is brushed back, pulled into a bun that’s already coming loose, baby hairs curling at your temples from the humidity. Leo is fast asleep in a little fold-up stroller, his head lolling gently to one side, thumb half-in his mouth. A towel is tucked around him like a blanket, and your bag - stuffed heavy yet somehow organized - hangs from the handle like a well-worn extension of your life.

You don’t meet his eyes at first.

But as you pass, you slow just enough - just for him - and press something small and warm into his hand.

A napkin. Crumpled. Folded twice.

“See you round, Billy.” you murmur, barely above a whisper, a half-smile tugging at your mouth.

Then you’re gone, without a second glance.

He opens it. Scribbled across the soft paper in blue ink is your name and your number.

Billy stares down at it. His fingers tighten, folding the tissue into his palm like it’s fragile, sacred. He swallows once and looks up again just in time to see you disappear out through the gate, stroller wheels squeaking faintly, your shoulders square beneath the heavy eyes watching you go.

His heart does something unfamiliar. It kicks, sharp and hopeful, and before he can stop himself, his mouth curls at one side.

You really gave it to him.

He thought you wouldn’t.

Billy replays your name over and over in his head, it’s so beautiful, so perfect, so… you.

Then suddenly the spell breaks with the sound of heels clicking against concrete.

Karen Wheeler saunters over, hips swaying, chin lifted, every inch of her posture rehearsed to look effortless. Her cover-up hangs off one shoulder like an afterthought, lips freshly glossed, not a hair out of place.

Billy doesn’t even register her at first. His eyes are still on the gate, still on the soft memory of your voice, your smile, the weight of that napkin in his hand like something sacred.

“Poor thing,” Karen murmurs, her gaze fixed smugly on the path you just disappeared down.

Billy blinks, turning halfway toward her. “Sorry?” he asks, not really curious, more annoyed that she’s broken whatever trance he was still in.

Karen sighs, feigning sympathy with a flick of her wrist. “Her. That girl. It must be hard, you know… raising a child all alone.”

She says it sweetly. Too sweetly. Like honey with something sour underneath.

Billy’s jaw ticks. “She looks like she manages,” he says eventually, quiet but firm.

Karen hums. “Mmm. Maybe. Would’ve managed a whole lot better if she could’ve kept her eyes to herself.”

Billy narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Karen turns to face him now, fully, one hand resting on her hip like she’s about to deliver a punchline.

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” she says, voice dipping low. “She had a boyfriend, that one. The baby’s father. But couldn’t stay faithful. Got caught messing around with someone else, and he- well… can you blame him?”

She clicks her tongue. “It’s a real shame. I pity any guy that comes next.”

Billy stares at her for a beat. Then his voice drops, low and sharp.

“That’s enough.”

Karen blinks, her smile faltering a fraction.

Billy doesn’t look at her again.

His fingers curl tighter around the napkin - smudged ink, still warm from your touch. He knows that no matter what, he’s getting that date.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟑,𝟔𝟑𝟓

___

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 - 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦... 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭.’

___

There’s this trick your brain plays on you after a few days without real human contact - it starts shrinking the world. Like, literally. I swear the cabin feels smaller now than when I first got locked inside. The ceiling’s lower. The walls lean in when I’m not looking. The bed frame creaks louder, the corners sharper. Like the whole place is slowly folding itself into my ribcage.

Thirteen days.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen him. And since? Nothing. No visits. No sightings. No Billy. I haven’t even been allowed back out, I still get my food brought to me like some kind of leper with a personal meal slot. Chicken sludge, green beans that squeak when I chew, and corn muffins so dry they could be classified as a choking hazard.

I could count the days by meals, if I wanted to. Or sleep cycles. Or the number of times I’ve stared at the window long enough to imagine it shattering just so I can hear something break.

But instead, I count by Leslie.

That woman shows up like clockwork.

Always around noon. Always with her hair tied in a low bun that gets progressively looser throughout our sessions, like I’m slowly unraveling her too. She’s the only consistent thing left in my life. A smiling, tea-addicted, counsellor who sits across from me almost everyday and asks the same question:

“How are you today Lydia, sleep well?”

To which I usually say something charming, like: “I dreamed I was trapped in a box. Turns out it was accurate.”

She doesn’t laugh, but her eyes always soften. I hate that softness. It makes me feel like I’ve already lost something she pities me for. Like I’m not even allowed to be angry without it being diagnosed.

We do stupid exercises. Drawings. Journals. Word associations. She gives me metaphors about flowers and growth and healing like I ever had the kind of life where things got planted instead of ripped up by the roots. Still - I don’t ask her to leave. I let her play therapist while I play emotionally stunted. It’s the closest thing to a human heartbeat I’ve got.

And then there’s the leak.

Started three nights ago. Just a drip. A lazy little rhythm right near the edge of the mattress. I didn’t move the bed. Partly because it’s heavy, but mostly because I couldn’t be arsed. I didn’t care. Still don’t. It’s just water, right?

That’s what I told myself.

But something about that sound - plink… plink… plink - started grating. The way it echoed off the ceiling. The way it paused sometimes, like it was thinking, then started again. Like it was waiting for me to notice. Like it knew it was winning.

I tried to tune it out. Rolled over. Put my hood up. Pulled the blanket higher even though it smelled like mildew and wet socks. But the water just kept coming.

Tonight, it’s worse.

It starts with thunder.

Not distant. Not rolling in politely. It hits like a sledgehammer dropped straight from the sky. My spine jerks before I’m even fully awake.

Then the lightning. Bright enough to burn through my eyelids. The whole cabin flashes white, then goes black again, leaving shadows that feel like they’ve moved in the dark.

And then the rain.

Not gentle. Not cinematic. No slow tap against the windowpanes. Just violence. A downpour so loud it sounds like the roof is cracking in half. And the leak? It’s not a leak anymore. It’s a fucking waterfall.

Water bursts through the ceiling directly above my bed. Cold. Heavy. Instant. It hits my chest first, soaking through my hoodie, the sheets, the mattress, everything. I gasp - not from fear, just the shock of it - and scramble upright, tangled in wet fabric.

My socks hit the floor with a squish.

The wood beneath me is soaked, puddled slick and freezing. As I try to steady myself my foot slips sideways, nearly sending me into the nightstand. I catch myself against the wall, heart thudding.

That’s when I see it - another leak, on the far side of the room. Smaller, for now. But growing. Fast. A dark stain spreading down the beam above like the ceiling’s bleeding.

Of course. Of fucking course.

As if this place could get any worse. As if the rot wasn’t already in everything.

I grab the edge of the bed frame, desperately trying to drag it away from the flood. It’s waterlogged, heavy, resisting me like it wants to drown where it is. I grit my teeth and grip with all my strength, digging in harder this time… but it won’t budge.

Then, the windows blow open with a crack, with all the force and impact of a gunshot. Dangerously swinging on the hinges, waving side to side in the wind.

The wind surges in all at once, loud and furious, slamming the door back on its hinges, tearing through the room like it owns the place. The curtain doesn’t just flutter, it rips, the rod snapping half loose as fabric flies across the room like a wounded bird. Rain follows, sideways and violent, soaking the floor, the walls, everything I haven’t already managed to ruin. Pages from Leslie’s stupid worksheets scatter across the cabin like surrender flags, ink already running.

The single overhead bulb gives one last valiant flicker - once, then again - before it dies completely.

And just like that, I’m standing in the dark.

Soaked to the skin.

Half-dressed.

In a room that’s quite literally falling apart around me.

I don’t move.

Not at first.

I just stand there - shivering, dripping, jaw clenched so tight it hurts - and for a split second, I think I might scream. Not words. Not even sound. Just… something primal. Something raw enough to match the storm outside. Something to prove I’m still here.

But I don’t.

I don’t even breathe.

Because the cold isn’t the worst part.

The mess isn’t the worst part.

Even the fact that I’m standing ankle-deep in my own personal disaster movie - that’s not what undoes me.

It’s the silence underneath it.

The sharp, gnawing truth that’s been circling my chest for days, waiting for a moment just like this.

I need help.

And I don’t have anyone to ask.

I step outside without thinking. Just go. No jacket. No flashlight. Nothing. The air hits me like a slap. I blink hard against the rain, shoulders curling inward, but I keep walking.

My hair’s plastered to my neck, my shoulders. The rain is relentless - not simply falling, but hammering, sideways and wild, stinging every inch of skin it touches.

My pyjamas cling to me like a second skin. Cotton pants with some pathetic little floral print that I never liked, now sodden and heavy. My top, loose when I put it on, now hugs tight to my chest, straps slipping, fabric transparent in places I’d rather not think about. I should be freezing - I am freezing - but there’s too much adrenaline in my blood to feel it properly. Just the ache of movement and the weight of wet fabric pulling at me with every step.

I don’t have a plan. I don’t even know where I’m going.

The trees blur around me, branches clawing, roots reaching up from the mud to trip me like they’re in on the joke. I stumble twice. The second time, I go down hard, knees slamming into wet leaves and sharp rock. I hiss out a curse, slap my hands down in the sludge to catch myself. My palm lands on something sharp. Doesn’t matter.

I push back up. Keep moving.

I haven’t explored this part of woods in the day, let alone night, but I’m already too far from the main camp now to turn back. Everything looks the same. Trees, fog and blackness.

Was it left?

Or… right?

I spin around once, twice, disoriented. The rain’s too loud to think straight. No moon, no landmarks. Just shapes and shadows.

Panic kicks up in my chest - fast and mean. I tell myself to calm down, but my body’s already decided.

I go left.

There’s a faint track - barely visible under the sludge and leaves - the ghost of a trail someone walked a long time ago. Maybe a deer path. Maybe just wishful thinking. Either way, it’s something. And something is more than I had five seconds ago.

I follow it. Branches whip against my arms. My wet clothes stick to the gashes. Every step is a squelch. A slip. A prayer.

And then I see it. A cabin.

Set back, half-buried in the dark. Faint, flickering light in the window. Gold and warm and barely there.

And then it’s gone. Just like that.

The light dies as if it was never real to begin with.

But I run anyway.

Not because I know where I’m going. Not because I think it’s safe. Not because I know who it belongs to - I don’t.

I just run.

Rain pelts down so hard it feels like it’s trying to bury me. My breath comes in short, ragged bursts. My skin’s gone numb. There’s a cut on my knee, I think. I can’t feel it anymore. My feet slap against the wooden steps of the porch, and I nearly slip again, grabbing the frame of the door for balance.

I knock.

Hard. Fast. Not thinking. Just needing out.

No answer.

I slam my fist into the door again, louder this time. My voice tears out of my throat before I can stop it.

“Hello?!”

Still nothing.

I press my forehead to the wood for half a second. It’s warm. Warmer than I expected. My eyes sting - from rain, from wind, from whatever’s rising up in me that I’ve been choking down for thirteen straight days.

The handle clicks. The door opens.

And there he is.

The last person I wanted to see.

And in that moment, I realise -

I wasn’t running from the storm.

I was running to it.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟕𝟎𝟒

___

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞’𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨. 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐫, 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤.’

___

It’s been almost two weeks. Thirteen long days since I last saw her, and she’s been in my head every second since. I’ve gone over it more times than I can count - what I should’ve said, what I should’ve done instead of standing there like a complete asshole while everything between us cracked wide open. But no matter how many times I run it back, no matter how many versions I rewrite in my head, I still come up empty. The words never land right. Not then. Not now.

I tell myself I haven’t been keeping track. That the days just blur together out here.

But I know.

I know exactly how long it’s been.

The weather’s only made it worse. Every morning starts out gray and ends darker. The rain hasn’t let up in days. It’s the kind of storm that makes the whole camp feel smaller, like it’s collapsing in on itself.

Even now, hours after nightfall, thunder rolls low across the hills like it’s crawling toward me. The floorboards vibrate under my feet. Lightning slices across the window, sharp and fast, gone before it can mean anything. I keep expecting the power to go, and right on cue - it does. Lights flicker. Die. Darkness swallows the cabin whole.

Fucking perfect.

You don’t get weather like this in California. Not in July. Hell, not in any summer I can remember.

Back home, the sky stayed clean. Hot enough to burn your skin raw if you weren’t careful, but clear. Predictable. The kind of heat that shimmered off the pavement in waves and made everything feel more alive. I used to live for it. The beach. Salt air thick in my lungs. Surfboards strapped to tops of cars, rattling with every turn on the short drive to the coast. Days that didn’t need a reason just sun, sea, and sand. Wake up, hit the water, burn through the hours until dark. And that rush - the second your board caught the wave and everything else fell away? That was the closest thing I ever had to peace.

And I hadn’t felt it since.

Not in fucking years.

Not until her.

That same hit of adrenaline, the kind that grabs you by the ribs and drags you under, she gave me that. I felt it. The pull. The danger. My heart racing in a way it hasn’t since California. Since the coast. Since I still believed life could be more than just survival.

She looked at me like she knew, like she saw all the parts I’d buried and still wanted to reach for them.

It’s the same damn feeling.

Unstoppable. Stupid. Addictive.

The difference is, I didn’t have to answer to the ocean when it was over… but I have to answer for this.

I don’t sleep much lately. Haven’t since that night. I lie awake most nights listening to the storm crawl across the roof, the wind scraping at the siding like it’s trying to get in. It’s not the noise that keeps me up - it’s what comes with it. The stillness between the thunder. The space where memory creeps in.

I think about her.

Not just how she looked that night - though fuck, that’s enough to ruin me - but how she felt. Skin burning under my hands like she was made to be touched. The way she kissed me without a second thought, like her body had already decided. Like she needed it. Needed me. No fear. No flinching. Just heat.

I didn’t stop her. She didn’t stop me.

And that’s what gets me.

That’s the part I can’t outrun. No matter how many nights I lie here trying to forget, it always comes back - her mouth on mine, her fingers digging into my shirt like I was the last steady thing left. I let it happen. I wanted it to happen. Wanted her in a way that cracked something open in me I didn’t even know was still alive.

It’s not about the age. We’re only a few years apart - close enough that, in any other world, maybe it wouldn’t matter. But this world? This job? It matters. I’m the one in charge. I’ve got the power, the authority, the say. There’s a line I’m not supposed to cross, not even think about crossing… but I did. I let it blur. Let her blur it. And I knew better. Fuck, I knew. But I caved.

The wanting keeps me up at night, how fucking deep it runs, how tight it grips. Sometimes, I even think about walking away from it all, dropping the keys, ditching the title, burning the whole thing down just to feel her again. Just once. One more second with her body on mine, her mouth at my ear, saying my name like it was the only thing holding her together.

And then I shut it down. Even though it’s hard. I know I have to, because if I don’t - if I let it keep going - I’ll stop caring what it costs.

And I can’t afford that.

I exhale, sharp and bitter, and start pacing the cabin like a fucking animal, dragging a hand down my face, jaw tight from holding it all in. The air’s thick - stale from too many nights with the windows shut, heavy like it’s pressing in from every side.

When I finally stop, it’s in front of the dresser. The only light in the room’s from the moon, bleeding through the blinds in strips, throwing shadows across the floor. I reach for a match, strike it, light a couple of stubby candles near the mirror - burned down to almost nothing, but they do the job. I grab the cigarette from the lip of the ashtray and light it off the flame. First drag hits hard. I let it burn. Let it settle.

Then I see it, an old photo tucked in the corner of the mirror; edges curled from the heat, shoved between a bottle of cologne I haven’t worn in months and a busted lighter I never threw out. I pick it up, examining it. It’s me at sixteen, just before the move. California sun bleeding across my shoulders, arms crossed like I thought I was bulletproof.

I wasn’t. Not even close.

My Dad’s in the background, blurred out but still there. Always there. I can feel it just looking at the picture - his presence, like a constant warning. The kind that burns before you see it coming. The nights he’d knock me into a wall. The mornings he’d act like it never happened.

In some fucked-up way, Camp Nightwing saved me. Not because I wanted it to. But because I had nowhere else to go.

It wasn’t supposed to help - I promised myself i would give into their game. I didn’t come here looking for peace or structure or any of that bullshit. I came because there wasn’t anywhere else to go. Because going back to him - back to that house, that life - would’ve been worse. And as much as I fought it, as much as I kicked off and pushed back… this place pulled me out of something I might not’ve survived.

The neighbors called the cops one night, said they heard the yelling from their back yard, something violent. Said it wasn’t the first time either and… they’d be right. Though, I don’t even know what exactly gave it away that night - the banging, the shouting, the broken glass… or maybe just the way it just didn’t seem to stop.

I was found in the kitchen, busted lip, blood on my shirt, pretending like it was nothing. Like I’d deserved it - at the time I truly thought I did - I didn’t even look at them when they asked questions. Just waited for the fallout.

They brought me to the station and sat me across from Chief Jim Hopper. I had my arms crossed, chin up, jaw tight, acting like I didn’t give a damn. Yet he saw right through it. He didn’t press. Just laid it out plain: I couldn’t go back home. Not for a while. Not until things ‘cooled down’. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Said I had two choices - Foster Care or a Summer Camp.

I should’ve counted myself lucky, most kids don’t get a choice like that… though it wasn’t even a question. I knew what foster care could be like. I’d heard enough horror stories to know I didn’t want to test my luck. And I knew my Dad. Whatever he did that night would be nothing compared to what would’ve happened if I walked back into that house after the cops had been called. He would’ve made sure I paid for it.

Camp sounded like a vacation compared to that.

It wasn’t.

At the start, Nightwing was a prison in the woods. Rules posted on every wall. Counselors with power trips. Fake smiles. Group therapy. Assigned chores and dumb activities. I hated it. Played up like hell; broke shit, got into fights, refused to sit in any circle that made me talk about my ‘feelings’. I figured if I acted out enough, they’d send me back.

Eventually, summer ended and the question swiftly became ‘Where do you go next?’.

I had nothing.

I couldn’t go back home. Couldn’t look my Dad in the eye, not after everything. And it’s not like there was anything else waiting for me. No ‘grade A’ report card. No diploma framed on a wall. No job lined up. No backup plan. Just an eighteen year old with a short temper, a shit reputation, and no clear way out. It would’ve taken years to save enough to move out on my own. I would’ve been sleeping in my car before the month was out - if I could even afford the upkeep. I never stood a chance. The deck was stacked before I even knew I was playing - born into a losing hand and expected to raise the bets as though it was fair game.

That’s when Hopper stepped in.

He didn’t owe me anything. Hell, he barely knew me. But something must’ve stuck, because h e talked to someone. Pulled a few strings. Maybe told a couple lies to smooth things over. Said I had potential. That I could be useful around here. Keep the new kids in line. Said I knew the system, the rules, how this place operated from the inside out. That I’d already lived it.

And somehow… they listened.

He convinced them to give me a shot - not just a second chance, but a job. A real one. It came with my very own private cabin, a pay check and enough authority to actually mean something, even if just on paper. I didn’t understand why he did it. Not really. Thought maybe he saw something in me, or maybe he just didn’t want to see my name come across his desk again six months later, busted and alone.

Either way, I didn’t ask questions.

I just said yes. And I’ve been here ever since.

It’s not much. The pay’s crap. The hours are long. The kids are often unbearable. But it’s a roof. It’s mine. I don’t have to sleep with one eye open. Don’t have to brace every time the front door slams. I just do the work, keep my head down and stay out of trouble… well… try to.

I have to remind myself this is temporary. That I’m not stuck here. Not forever. I’m just saving - getting by, laying low, keeping a roof over my head until I can finally leave this place behind.

I’m going back to California. Back home.

Because Hawkins has never felt like home. Not once. It’s gray, slow, quiet in the wrong ways. Everyone knows your business before you do. And no matter how long I’ve been here, I still feel like I’m just passing through. Like I never really unpacked.

So when the time’s right, I’ll go. I’ll get in my car, drive West, and I won’t look back.

At least… that was the plan.

But then she showed up.

And all the distance I’d put between myself and the past collapsed in a second.

She’s just like I was. All attitude and armor, like if she keeps the world pissed off enough, it won’t get to her first. She walks like she’s got nothing left to lose, talks like every word’s a weapon. But I see it - what’s underneath. The fear. The need. The pieces she’s trying like hell to keep from falling apart.

I see myself.

Only - she’s smarter. Sharper. Got more control than I ever did back then.

Fuck.

Here I am again. Thinking about her. Again.

I even scheduled Dr. Leslie to check in on her - almost every day. Had her report back, quiet and clean, nothing official. Just updates. Told her it was protocol. Played it off like I was just doing my job.

What the hell is wrong with me?

What am I doing?

I drag a hand down my face, exhausted. The kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and doesn’t leave. I should be asleep. It’s late - too late. But the storm outside’s still going, thunder rumbling low and constant, it’s power vibrating my front door. I chalk the noise up to that at first… until then I hear it again.

A sound.

Not the storm.

A knock.

Faint. Sharp. Could’ve sworn I imagined it.

Then - again.

Louder this time. No rhythm. No patience. Just, Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Who the hell would be showing up at this time of night? Especially in a storm like this.

I open the door halfway, already bracing for whatever bullshit’s waiting on the other side.

But my heart drops at the sight in front of me.

Rain pours sideways, wind ripping through the trees like it’s trying to tear the whole camp down. And standing in the middle of it - soaked through, hair stuck wet, eyes wide - is her.

Frozen. Shivering. Not saying a word.

And all I can do is stare.

For a second, neither of us moves.

My hand’s still on the door.

My mouth opens before my brain can stop it.

“…Lydia?”

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟒𝟑𝟓

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 - 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐱 - 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐒𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬. 𝐀 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞. 𝐀 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤.’

___

Back in the cabin, the air hits different. Thick, stale and heat-heavy, clinging to my skin like regret. Every shadowed corner hums with the memory of being locked in, of counting the cracks in the ceiling, of wondering if this place would finally be the one to break me. Isolation doesn’t need the door to be locked anymore. It’s already wrapped itself around my ribs like barbed wire, squeezing so tight my lungs forget how to breathe.

I lie sprawled across the bed like roadkill, one arm flung over my eyes like that’ll somehow block out the humiliation still pulsing hot beneath my skin. My shirt’s twisted from all the tossing and turning, my hair’s now a tangled halo of knots and sweat. Every inch of me feels used up. My cheeks are stiff with salt-stained tears I never knew could fall, my eyes sore and raw, but it’s the bruises along my collarbone that sting the most - faint purples and bloody reds, blooming reminders of his mouth, his hands, his everything. They ache in time with my heartbeat, dragging me under in slow, sinking regret.

Nothing can tear my focus away from the single, gnawing question that circles my brain like a vulture over something half-dead and twitching.

‘How could I be so stupid?’

I don’t say it out loud. I don’t need to. It’s in every breath, every flinch, every time I blink and his face appears like an afterimage I can’t shake.

Of course he ignored me. Of course he didn’t look at me when I passed him in the cafeteria. No nod, no flicker of a glance, not even a twitch. Just sat there like nothing ever happened. Like I didn’t fall apart in his arms, half-naked and shaking. Like his hands hadn’t-

I squeeze my eyes shut and shove the pillow over my face like I can smother the memory to death. Too late. It’s already there, pressed into my skin like bruises.

‘Why do I even care?’

I already know what he is. I’d made my mind up long ago. A liar. A pretender. A hot-tempered asshole with a fuse like gasoline and a past you can practically smell on him. He probably has a list of girls longer than the camp supply logs, and none of them meant a thing.

The way he said it last night still rings in my ears like a slap I didn’t see coming:

‘That’s what all the other sluts in Hawkins wear.’

It clings to me like rot. Casual cruelty dressed up as charm. Probably thought he was being clever. Probably said worse. Maybe he didn’t even mean me. Maybe it was just a line. A way to keep distance. Or worse - something he actually believed. And maybe it never was about me. Maybe it was about them. The girls before. The ones after. Whoever’s next.

What if he does this all the time?

What if this is his thing - find a girl already circling the drain, whisper just enough to make her believe he sees her, then vanish like none of it touched him?

What if he didn’t mean a single fucking second of it?

Not the way he looked at me.

Not the way he touched me.

Not even the way he held me like I was something he didn’t want to let go of.

Maybe I was just convenient. Just another broken girl with too many sharp edges, easy to press up against and then discard. Just another story he’ll never tell because it didn’t matter. Because I didn’t matter.

Isn’t that just so fucking typical?

Of course I let myself believe I was different. That there was something real in the way he looked at me. That we were the same - cracked mirrors reflecting back the worst parts of ourselves. I thought that meant something.

I practically handed him the lighter.

I sit up too fast. The nausea punches me in the gut, rising up behind my eyes like a wave I can’t outrun. My palms press into my knees. My breath shortens.

The thoughts in my head are making me sick.

He used me… and I fucking let him.

I drag a hand through my hair. My heart’s racing. My fingers won’t stop shaking. I’m trying to calm myself down, but I can’t because somewhere deep down I know the worst part of all this.

It meant something to me.

I thought I saw him. Not the asshole in charge. Not the camp leader barking orders or threatening security. Just… that boy in the file. The one with the same fire in his chest and nowhere to put it. The one who cracked open for a second and saw me - really saw me - and didn’t flinch.

And now?

He won’t even fucking look at me.

The silence outside splits in two.

Footsteps.

I jolt upright. At first, I think I’m imagining it. Just another echo in the storm of overthinking. But then it comes again - the deliberate crunch of boots on gravel. Slow. Hesitating. Climbing the steps.

I wait for the knock. The sharp rap of authority. Maybe a snide “You awake?”…

Nothing.

Just footsteps. Coming. Going. Lingering. Whoever it is isn’t following protocol. They’re hovering. Like they want to knock - but can’t.

My pulse spikes. My feet move before I can talk myself out of it.

I cross the room in two strides and throw open the door.

The breath is stolen right out of me.

Billy.

I catch the back of him as he walks away, shoulders locked, hands buried in his jacket pockets like he’s holding in whatever he came here to say. He’s already halfway down the path like this was never supposed to be a confrontation. Like he was hoping to disappear before I noticed.

A tin lunchbox sits at my feet, a faint dent in the lid like it was dropped in a hurry. I barely register it… in fact I almost trip over it.

Because I’m already locked on him.

“Hey!”.

I call out.

He whips around like he’s been shot. His eyes snap to mine, sharp and startled. And for a second - just a second - his whole face changes. Something soft flickers across it, like he doesn’t remember why he’s supposed to keep his distance.

And for that half-second, my lungs fill again. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe I didn’t imagine it all.

But then his gaze shifts. Past me. Past the doorway. He scans the tree line. Checks the shadows.

To see if anyone heard me.

And just like that, the breath is gone.

The hope splinters and cracks me open all over again.

He hesitates at the bottom of the steps. I don’t move. I cross my arms, lean into the doorway like I’m bored. Like I’m not breaking.

When he finally climbs the steps again, he stops just shy of the door. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his skin, smell the faint trace of cologne and cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket.

But he just stares at me. Silent. Like he’s waiting for me to speak first. Like he wants me to make this easy.

I don’t.

I meet his stare, my jaw clenched tight, and I give him nothing.

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair like it physically pains him to be here. His voice comes out low and hoarse.

“Look…” he mutters, “let’s just… forget anything ever happened. Yeah?”

The words hit like a punch straight to the ribs.

My stomach drops.

Forget?

He won’t look me in the eye.

“I’ll stay away from you,” he adds. “You stay away from me.”

Silence stretches between us like a chasm. I blink. Once. Twice. My voice breaks without warning.

“So that’s it?” I half whisper half yell. “You expect me to just - what - pretend this never happened?”

“Exactly.”

I laugh. Sharp. Disbelieving.

“How the fuck can you just stand there and say that?”

His jaw tightens. “It should never have happened, Lydia. It was a mistake.”

My heart stutters. So he did just use me.

“A mistake,” I repeat. “So that’s what that was?”

“Yes!” His voice spikes. “We were both drunk. That’s what happens when you fuck around.”

My stomach turns, but I don’t let it show. I keep my face blank, my spine straight, like I didn’t just hear what he said. Like it didn’t land exactly where he aimed it.

‘That’s what happens when you fuck around.’

Right. So that’s what I was. A cautionary tale. A bad decision in the dark.

I don’t blink. Don’t breathe too deep. Just let the silence sit for a beat while I swallow down the part of me that wanted him to be different.

I arch an eyebrow, tilt my head slightly.

“Oh,” I say, flat and quiet, “so it’s my fault now?”

Not loud. Not hysterical. Just ice. Controlled. Calculated. Like I’m already halfway gone.

“Ye- no! Fuck.” The word catches in his throat like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He steps back, frustrated, hand raking through his hair as his whole body coils tight, pacing like a caged animal trying to chew through the bars.

He stops, turns halfway toward me, and throws his hand out in front of him like that alone might push me back, might erase the last twenty four hours. “Just stay away from me, Lydia.”

His voice cracks around the edges, but he doesn’t give me time to respond. Doesn’t even look at me. He just turns and hurries down the steps like the ground might swallow him whole if he doesn’t move fast enough.

“You’re fucking unreal, you know that, right?” I follow after him, my voice echoing through the forest. “Is this part of the whole isolation process? Get girls at their most venerable and then-”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

His voice cuts through the air like a slap - sharp, low, panicked. He turns fast, his whole body tensed like a live wire, jaw locked, fists curled at his sides. He stares down at me, I meet his gaze chin lifted, spine straight.

I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I just look at him.

And for a beat, neither of us moves. Him rigid, furious, unraveling. Me cold, steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of backing down. The height difference is staggering, but I don’t lower my eyes.

I never break eye contact.

Not even for a second.

Until he sees them.

His eyes flick to my neck, to the bruises that he left. The ones I stopped trying to hide the second he stopped pretending to care. His face falters, the anger slipping for just a breath.

“Fuck.”

It comes out low and broken, like the word punches its way out of him before he can catch it. Not angry. Not defensive. Just regret. Like he’s only now seeing what he did. Like it’s finally real.

He looks away, jaw tight, and drags both hands through his hair like he’s trying to scrub the thought out of his head. His chest rises and falls once, sharp and uneven.

And then he looks back at me.

Whatever softness was there is gone.

His eyes are darker now - colder. Like something inside him slammed shut the second it opened. The guilt’s still there, buried under the surface, but it’s locked down tight, sealed behind the mask he wears so well.

“Get back in your cabin,” he demands, voice low and lethal, the one he uses when he’s ordering the other campers around. “Or I’m calling security.”

We stand there in silence, just breathing, glaring at each other across the space between us. His jaw’s clenched. Mine too. Neither one of us says it, but it’s there - how dare you.

I turn without another word and storm back toward the cabin, footsteps loud and deliberate against the gravel. I don’t look back. I won’t give him that.

I’m halfway up the steps when I hear it.

“Lydia!”

His voice is different now. Not barked. Not commanding. Softer. Almost… regretful.

Too fucking late.

“Fuck you!”

The second I cross the threshold, I spin and hurl the door shut with every ounce of force I have. It crashes into the frame like thunder, rattling the windows, screaming everything I won’t say to his face.

Fuck… you.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟏𝟏𝟒

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠

[xamiah]

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

___

___

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 / 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫

As these works are based on Billy Hargrove and inspired by his canon character, many - though not all - will include themes consistent with his backstory and personality.

Common elements in my writing include: NSFW / Explicit Sexual Content, Kink, Angst, Threat / Violence, Enemies to Lovers tropes, Power Imbalances, Forbidden Romance, Alcohol and / or Drug use, Smoking, Profanity, Morally Grey Decision-Making, and Emotionally Charged or Volatile Relationships.

Having said that, I also explore the softer, more vulnerable side of Billy, often delving into moments of growth, tenderness, and connection. Not every piece will include all of the themes listed above, so it’s strongly recommended that you read the provided summary or description before reading (all provided in the links).

𝐅𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

• 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

• 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

• 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

• 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧!

___

[xamiah]

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

___

𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

‘“𝐁𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫… 𝐘/𝐍, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥… 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?”’

___

You’ve stopped arguing about it. “We could just take the bus-” you always offer, knowing he won’t. The thought alone makes him tense up, like you suggested cutting off a limb. That gorgeous Blue Camaro of his isn’t just a car. It’s his armor, his pride and joy, the only thing in Hawkins… other than you, that’s truly his.

So, on the nights he’s too drunk to drive - slouched in the passenger seat, the taste of beer still fresh on his breath - you take the wheel. And every time, without fail, he presses the keys into your hand like it costs him something. Jaw clenched. Eyes a little glassy. Voice low and steady like a ritual,

“Be careful with her… Y/N, you’ll be careful… right?”

Sometimes, you wonder if he’s more worried about the car or you.

But it’s always been you.

When you’re behind the wheel, he grips the seatbelt like it’s the only thing holding him together. His eyes stay locked on the road, tracking every curve like he’s waiting for it to turn on you. He murmurs when to shift gears, his hand hovering just inches from the wheel, like muscle memory won’t let him surrender control. You’ve been driving longer than he has - passed your test before he even scheduled his - but that doesn’t matter to him. Billy stays tense, jaw tight, foot twitching like he’s still got a pedal under it. He just can’t let go. Like if he does, the whole world might slip out of place.

The next day, he’ll always swear that’ll be the last time he’ll ever let you drive her.

You just roll your eyes - you both know it’s bullshit.

Because the truth is, letting you behind the wheel of that car isn’t just trust…

It’s love.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟑𝟑𝟏

___

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐇𝐞𝐲! 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭/𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 (𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐚 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧) 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭! 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐣𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬, 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰! 𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐝𝐝𝐝 - 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝐈’𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞!

- 𝐗𝐚𝐦𝐢 <𝟑

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 - 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘ “𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐢𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠?”’

___

The sun doesn’t rise - it assaults.

A raw, white glare knifes through the trees and lands on me like an accusation. It burns through my skull, unforgivingly. The moment I step out of the cabin, it feels like I’ve been sucker-punched in the forehead. Sharp. Flashing. Blinding.

I raise my arm, shielding my face with the sleeve of my hoodie like I’m warding off a curse. It’s instinct. Animal. A creature dragged from the dark and thrown onto a stage. The gravel crunches under my boots - pale and dry and mean beneath the soles, the kind that turns to dust if you breathe on it wrong. The air smells of sunbaked pine needles and the dry hum of heat, undercut by something murky drifting off the river - an unmistakable stench of ducks and whatever swamp-rot that’s been stirring up beneath the surface.

Freedom, if you can even call it that, comes with an escort. I’m flanked like a criminal - on one side, a security guard with mirrored shades and a face carved out of boredom, and on the other, Dr Leslie, her clipboard hugged to her chest like it’s something sacred. I don’t speak. Neither do they. We move like parts of a machine, coordinated and soulless.

It’s not a release. It’s a transfer.

Every step drags behind it the memory of last night - of heat, of friction, of a need I didn’t ask for but didn’t deny. My body remembers it more than I do. The aching pit in my stomach. The soreness threaded through my hips and shoulders. The ghost of his hand gripping at my thighs.

And still, I walk.

The cafeteria looms ahead, familiar and unforgiving. When the door creaks open, I feel it happen - the collective shift. The slow, crawling turn of heads. Forks freeze halfway to mouths. Some stop mid-sentence. A single plastic spoon slips from someone’s fingers and hits the floor with a clatter loud enough to make my teeth grind.

Silence. I move through it like smoke.

Eyes track me - some cautious, others curious, more than a few hungry for spectacle. I don’t look at any of them. Chin high. Shoulders loose. My face a mask I forged years ago - indifferent, sharp-edged, untouchable.

The trick is simple: don’t let them see it bothers you.

I’m just about past them when I hear it.

“Lydia?!”

Rachel’s voice - high, breaking, like something fragile cracking down the middle. I turn, barely, and she’s already on her feet, crossing the room like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she blinks. Her hand finds my arm, her grip tight and shaking just slightly, and for a second, the noise inside me stops.

“Holy shit,” she says, staring at me like I’ve come back from a war. “You’re actually here. Are you okay?”

I nod.

It’s not an answer. It’s a placeholder.

But she takes it. That’s all she needs.

She hauls me toward the table like I’m hers. Like she’s reclaiming something the camp tried to erase. The others are there - Lauren, already shifting over to make room, eyes wide and bright, and Jackson.

He sits up like he’s been holding his breath. His spine snaps straight, his expression caught between surprise and something deeper. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but it stalls. His brows knit. His head tilts. He’s scanning me now, and it’s not subtle.

He’s looking for what went wrong.

He thought I was gone. Really gone. Free.

And now here I am, back. Standing sun-drenched and shadowed by staff.

I slide into the space on the bench like it’s been waiting for me, knowing I’ll someday return and find my place back in the group. They’re all talking already, but I can’t hear them. It’s all noise, blurring and overlapping.

The dreaded questions start.

"Where'd they find you?"

"Did you make it to town?"

"What happened?"

"Are you okay?"

"Did you eat?"

"Lydia, seriously, what happened?"

I lie. Why? Because I have to. And believe me - if last night had gone any other way, I’d be spilling my guts to them the second I walked through that door… which is ironic, considering that’s the only reason I’m even here.

“Oh, I got out alright,” I say, leaning back like the story’s no big deal; like I wasn’t drugged, almost assaulted and saved by Hargrove. “Figured I’d walk. See where the road went. Maybe find a bus stop, hitch a ride, disappear.”

Rachel leans in across the table, her voice a stage whisper, all nerves and anticipation. “Did you? You know, catch a bus?”

I snort. “Didn’t make it that far.”

Lauren leans back in confusion, “Wait - why not?”

I glance around like it’s a secret. Lower my voice just enough to make them lean in.

“Guess who decides to show up in his Blue Camaro.”

“Who?” Jackson frowns.

“Fucking Billy.”

Lauren chokes on her water, coughing. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

“Mr Hargrove?” Rachel looks like she’s just been handed a plot twist. “He’s the one that found you?”

“Mhm,” I hum crossing my arms to my chest. “Apparently he was just out for a ‘joyride’. And I happened to be right in his path. Real lucky, right?”

“God,” Lauren mutters. “Was he pissed?”

I raise an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

Rachel grins, leaning in like this is her favorite soap opera. “So what, he screamed at you?”

“Yelled. Believe me, I got the whole ‘what the hell were you thinking’ monologue. Like he actually gave a shit.”

Rachel winces in sympathy. “And then what?”

“He shoved me in his car.”

That makes Lauren sit up. “You were in his car?!”

The words hit the table like a dropped plate. Even Rachel’s smile falters.

“Let her finish,” Jackson cuts in, sharper than before. Not gentle - just done with the interruptions. His gaze hasn’t left me once, like he’s piecing something together and needs the rest of the story to confirm it.

“He drove me back,” I say, like it doesn’t mean anything. “Got sent straight to an isolation cabin… been there ever since.”

A silence follows. Not heavy… just puzzled. Like they were expecting more. Like I’ve skipped a scene they were waiting for.

“That must’ve sucked ass.” Lauren says eventually.

Rachel picks at her tray. “So… when do we get to see you again?”

A shadow falls across the table before I get the chance to respond. The security guard.

He drops a tray of food in front of me without so much as a word and turns to walk away like I’m not worth the effort of a threat.

“I feel like I’m on fucking day release,” I say under my breath.

Jackson glances sideways. “You kinda are.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. The room feels hotter than it did a minute ago… kind of heat that sneaks up on you - clings to the back of your neck, sinks into your sleeves, turns every breath sticky.

I shift in my seat, but it doesn’t help. My hoodie’s plastered to my back, damp where the fabric meets skin. Every move feels like friction. I can feel sweat gathering beneath my arms, behind my knees. I can feel my patience fraying at the seams.

It’s too much.

I exhale through my nose, slow and sharp, and reach for the zip of my hoodie. I take it off, the warm fabric falls behind me onto the bench. The air hits my skin like a blade. Cool. Blessed. Temporary.

I think that’s the end of it.

But the second I let my shoulders drop, I feel something else shift.

I don’t know what tips the balance. Maybe it’s the way Jackson suddenly goes quiet, like someone pressed pause behind his eyes. Maybe it’s the way his gaze drifts - slow, deliberate - not at my face, but lower.

I feel it before I see it. A shift in temperature. A prickle along the back of my neck.

Something’s wrong.

He tilts his head just slightly, brows pulling together, lips parting like a question’s forming and he’s still deciding if he wants to ask it.

And then he does.

“Uh… what happened there?”

And suddenly I know.

I follow his eyes down - slowly, like my body already knows what it’s about to see but my brain hasn’t caught up yet.

And there they are.

The love bites.

The bruises.

The hickeys.

Scattered across the slope of my collarbone and down toward the swell of my breast - hot, red, and recent. The kind of bruises that don’t just happen. The kind that are given. The kind you feel before you see them.

One sits right on my collarbone - purple, angry, darker than the rest. That one stayed longer. That one was deliberate. I remember his mouth there. The pressure. The way he didn’t move until I arched into it.

A flush crawls up my neck, shame and heat tangled together in my bloodstream like static. I tug the neckline of my top higher with shaky fingers, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen them. They’ve already seen them.

And worst of all?

I feel it again. That throb. That echo.

Low in my stomach. A little lower in my hips. Somewhere deeper, where logic doesn’t reach. It hums through me like a secret, uninvited, unwanted but there all the same. My thighs press together on instinct.

God.

What the hell is wrong with me?

They’re staring. I know they are. I don’t even need to look up. I can feel their eyes, taste their confusion.

I scramble for an out.

“The cabin’s disgusting,” I say quickly, too fast to sound real. “I think there’s bed bugs. I woke up with them.”

It’s a terrible excuse. It lands like a glass dropped on tile - the silence that follows is louder than the lie.

I don’t care. I just need it to be said.

I need it to cover the truth pressing against my chest like fingerprints. I need it to erase the feeling still buzzing under my skin - that raw, electric memory of his mouth, his hands, his breath in my ear whispering things I can’t let myself believe were real.

Jackson’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t argue.

Lauren raises both eyebrows, grinning. “You sure they ain’t hickeys or something?”

I snap my head toward her, but before I can defend myself, Rachel swoops in like a mother hen with a grudge.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps, waving a hand at Lauren like she’s swatting a fly. “Hickeys? Here? Yeah, right. She’s probably been bitten to hell in there. Poor girl.”

You could say that.

I force out a laugh, brittle, weightless. No one says anything else. Thank God.

The conversation drifts like it’s been nudged back onto its tracks. Rachel starts rambling about some group activity I wasn’t at, something to do with arts and crafts and someone launching a paint pot across the room during a tantrum. I let her voice blur into the hum of the cafeteria, let it all run soft and low like background noise.

I stab at a piece of chicken. It looks like it’s been boiled in a hospital kitchen. I chew it without tasting it. There’s some salad too - wilted lettuce, a cherry tomato shriveled like it’s been through war. None of it matters. I’m just moving food around the tray to look busy. To look fine.

I’m not listening. Not really.

My eyes wander, slow and instinctive, sweeping across the hall. Clumps of campers, the usual mix of slack-jawed boredom and whispered rebellion.

And then-

he walks in.

Billy.

Like a storm in slow motion.

He steps through the doors with that same practiced stride - one hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, the other curled into a tight fist, like he’s been holding something too long and doesn’t know how to let it go. It looks casual, but it isn’t. Not really. There’s a tension threaded through every step, like he’s moving fast without running, like he’s trying to outrun something only he can feel.

This isn’t the Billy I met last night. This is Mr Hargrove, the one everyone hates. Sharp edges, locked jaw, five seconds from snapping.

He walks like he has somewhere to be, like none of us matter… especially me.

The room doesn’t change for him. It never does.

But I do.

The moment I see him, I freeze.

My fork stills against the plate. My breath stalls just slightly. My spine tightens, like it remembers his hands before my mind has the chance to catch up.

Our eyes meet.

Of course they do. Like magnets. Like gravity. Like the world wants to rub salt in the fact that I’ve been pretending all morning that he was just a fever dream with bruises.

He holds my gaze - for one, maybe two full seconds.

Then he looks away.

Just like that.

No nod. No smirk. No reaction. He just… turns. Walks toward the other end of the hall like I didn’t spend last night with his mouth on my skin and my legs shaking around him.

And I swear to God, it leaves a hollow right in the center of my chest. Not pain. Not exactly. Just absence.

I stare. I don’t blink.

It’s like I’m outside myself, floating somewhere between the hum of fluorescent lights and the phantom of his breath still clinging to my collarbone. The rest of the world recedes. My tray. My friends. My name.

“Lydia!”

The sound slices into me like a slap.

My head jerks. “What?”

Rachel lifts her brows so high they practically vanish into her hairline, then coughs pointedly - a not-so-subtle ahem - as she nods toward something behind me.

My stomach drops before I even turn.

The security guard’s standing right there, looming and silent, expression blank as the tray of food I haven’t touched. He doesn’t need to speak. He doesn’t even need to glare. The badge on his chest does all the talking.

“It’s time to go.”

Four words, simple as anything - and suddenly I’m sighing like someone just handed me a death sentence.

Back to the cabin.

Back to silence.

Back to the place where his fingerprints are still warm on my skin.

Rachel squeezes my hand before I stand. Lauren mumbles something about seeing me soon. Jackson gives me a nod - small, unreadable, like he’s still turning the whole thing over in his head. I don’t say much in return. Just a vague smile. A half-hearted “later.” Something light enough to float.

Before I follow the guard out, I let my eyes flick around the room, just once. Scanning. Searching. For him.

But he’s gone.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟓𝟎𝟎

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐱 - 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐖𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨.’

___

It starts like a dream.

The kind that clings, sticky and half-sweet, lingering in the folds of my body long after waking. My limbs feel heavy, my mouth thick with sleep and something sourer. There’s a pulse behind my eyes, slow and mean, like someone’s swinging a hammer just softly enough to drive me mad.

Everything is too hot. Too still.

I shift beneath the blanket, dragging one leg free from the tangle of sheets - and that’s when I feel it.

A slickness. A throb.

Low.

Deep.

There.

My brows knit, still half-asleep. Maybe it was just a dream. A filthy one. Some vodka-induced fantasy my brain stitched together in the dark. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve woken like this before… aching, flushed, breathless with some imagined pressure still heavy between my thighs. That’s all this is. A side effect. The product of a blackout and too many things I’ve buried under the floorboards of my mind.

Right?

I roll over. The room tilts.

My stomach churns with something acidic and cruel, a reminder of what I drank and how hard it hit. My tongue is coated in cotton, every breath tasting like ash and regret. The light from the window slices across my eyes and I wince, dragging the blanket higher… and freeze.

My chest is bare.

Not just bare. Naked.

Skin bare, nipples tight in the cool cabin air. No bra. No shirt. Just the thin blanket clinging low across my stomach and this bone-deep, breath-stealing knowing that whatever I dreamed… it wasn’t just a dream.

My eyes snap open, heart thudding against my ribs.

The ceiling stares blankly back at me.

I shift, blinking through the light, and glance to my left-

He’s not there.

The space beside me is empty, the sheets barely creased. No boots on the floor. No dent in the pillow. No trace of him, except the phantom warmth still pressed into my skin, fading by the second.

I stare for a moment, like maybe he’ll appear if I just don’t look away. Like maybe last night meant enough for him to stay.

But the silence is too complete.

He’s gone.

And I’m here… half-naked, still damp between the legs, wrapped in the evidence of every bad choice I made last night.

The blanket doesn’t help. I clutch it tighter anyway, like it can rewind time. Like it can sew the seams of me shut again. But the truth is bleeding in fast now… images, sounds, the press of his mouth against my ribs, the rough drag of his voice when he said my name like it meant something.

Billy.

His hands, steady and unshaking.

My breath, ragged, begging.

His fingers pushing aside my underwear, not bothering to take them off.

Me opening to it. Wanting it.

God.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a fantasy. It happened.

And it was so fucking wrong. And I wanted it. I asked for it.

My breath shudders in my throat. Shame ignites sharp beneath my skin, sparking down my arms and up the back of my neck. I sit up with a wince and drag my crumpled shirt off the floor, trembling hands threading through sleeves that feel too tight, too thin to fix anything. It smells like sweat and smoke. Like him. Like me. Together.

It sticks to my skin as I tug it down. But I’m still not covered… not really. Not with the way my panties cling, soaked through with what he left behind. With what I let happen. I shift and the fabric pulls, damp and gross and too real.

I shift uncomfortably and press my thighs together, trying to blot the memory out, but it lives in my nerves. Behind my eyes. I lie back down, pulse loud in my ears, and before I can stop myself, my hand slides under the covers.

Just a little.

Just to see if-

God, I’m still so-

I press gently. Just a test. Just to feel something that isn’t total dread.

My fingers slip past the edge of my soaked panties, tentative at first, tracing the same path he did like maybe my skin will remember better than I do. Like maybe the ghost of his touch still lingers in the fibers of me.

And fuck, I want it to.

I want him to.

I bite my lip and try again, a little deeper this time. A little rougher. I angle my hand the way he had, the way he seemed to know by instinct, like I’d been made for his hands to ruin. My hips twitch upward. The memory of his mouth, his breath, that low rumble when I moaned his name, it crashes over me like a second wave, darker than the first.

My body’s responding… sort of. The ache deepens, coils tighter. But my hand’s all wrong. My fingers slip, lose rhythm, don’t press where I need them to. Too soft. Too clumsy. I’m chasing the ghost of a feeling and it keeps slipping through my grasp like smoke.

I press harder, grind into my own palm, trying to force the tension into something sharp and satisfying - but it stays dull, frustrating. A knock-off of what he gave me. A bad copy.

Still, I keep going. Because I need it. Because I’m too humiliated by how badly I want him again and too ashamed to admit that he’s the only one who’s ever-

My breath hitches. I bite back a sound. My thighs tremble, my whole body tightening like a bowstring - nearly there, almost, almost -

The door creaks open.

I yank my hand out like I’ve been burned. Heart in my throat.

My palm is slick with it. With me. Without thinking, I shove it under the blanket and wipe the mess onto the sheet in a panicked smear, eyes wide, chest heaving.

The shame slams back in, twice as hard.

My face burns. My body feels scorched from the inside out.

The blanket’s bunched up around my waist. My shirt is wrinkled and damp against my back. And in the doorway…

“Good morning,” Dr Leslie says, her voice laced with dry amusement. “-Or whatever we’re calling one-thirty in the afternoon these days.”

I blink at her, dazed, still trying to process language like a normal person.

“Oh,” I manage. “H-hi.”

She steps inside, clipboard tucked against her chest like it’s a shield. She looks too polished for this place, too neat, too cheerful. It’s disarming. I shrink into the bed without meaning to, trying to fold in on myself.

She pauses near the door. Her eyes sweep the room - not suspiciously, just observant.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” I say too quickly. My voice cracks. “I was, uh… just - thinking.”

Dr Leslie doesn’t push. She walks toward the bed, then stops and frowns slightly. “It’s hot in here,” she murmurs. “You must be roasting.”

Without asking, she leans over me and slides open the narrow window above the bed. The breeze rolls in immediately, cool and cutting. It brushes against the sweat at my collarbone, my still-burning cheeks. I feel it between my legs, against the damp of my ruined underwear, and I want to disappear.

I track her movement across the room with my eyes, too stiff to turn my head.

And for a split second - panic settles in.

The bottle.

Where the fuck did I leave it?

My pulse spikes, eyes darting to the edges of the room - but it’s not there. Not on the desk. Not by the bed. Not under the chair. My view from the mattress is limited, but… if I can’t see it… surely she can’t either.

Right?

Maybe… maybe he took it.

Or hid it for me.

The thought lands strange, heavy in my chest.

Did Billy really… cover for me?

After everything?

Of course he did.

He has to, doesn’t he?

Because whatever last night was, it wasn’t just a one-time fuck-up he can shrug off. Not here. Not with me. Not when we both know this place thrives on clean lines and unbroken rules.

And we shattered all of them.

Even if no laws were broken, even if I’m old enough to make my own bad decisions - it still matters. The optics. The whispers. The way someone like him isn’t supposed to even look at someone like me for more than a beat too long.

He has a job. A reputation. Control he’s barely holding onto.

And I-

“Mr Hargrove was extremely impressed by your performance last night.”

I blink.

‘What did she just say to me?’

My whole body stills. A cold thread pulls tight through my stomach. ‘Did she just-??’

I look up, throat dry, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket like it’ll anchor me to the goddamn Earth.

Dr Leslie laughs, breezy. “I can’t think of anyone he didn’t tell.”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My brain is a spinning top - fast, frantic, off balance.

She keeps talking like this is normal. Like she didn’t just imply something that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

“He spoke highly of you after your meeting,” she continues, flipping her clipboard. “Said you two got a little carried away.”

Carried away.

What?!?

The words land like a slap. My heart pounds so loud I’m convinced she can hear it. The air in the cabin feels thicker now, like I’m breathing through syrup. Sweat breaks out under my shirt. I can still feel where his mouth had been. Where his hands-

I can’t do this.

“I’m sorry what?” I say softly, as though saying it gently will stop hear hearing the panic under it.

Dr Leslie lifts her eyes. “With your reading, Lydia.”

I nearly choke.

Reading.

Reading?

So… he lied.

Of course he fucking lied.

Covered it up like it was nothing. Just another neat little story to hand-feed the system and keep his reputation squeaky clean. A classic bonding moment. So academic. So wholesome.

The burn in my cheeks spreads down my neck, hot and vicious, like I’ve just been slapped with my own stupidity.

Because seriously - what else was he supposed to say?

‘Oh yeah, Lydia did great. Came all over my tongue, actually. Real breakthrough.’

Jesus.

I want to melt into the mattress and die. Or at least disappear into the folds of this scratchy blanket and reemerge in a different lifetime, maybe as a tree. Something quiet. Something that doesn’t have to make eye contact with its councillor after getting fingered by staff.

She’s still flipping pages. “Said you tore through the entirety of… oh, what was it? It’s just lost me…” Her brow furrows in mock-thought. “What was that book called again?”

My mind blanks. Full-on, brain-empty, soul-left-the-building panic. If I screw this up, if I name the wrong book, she’ll know. She’ll sniff out the lie and dig until it unravels both of us.

“Uhh…” I force a laugh. Too dry. Too fake. “Wuthering Heights?”

She grins. “Not that one! Though it’s nice to see you’ve got a few going.” She taps her pen to the clipboard. “No, the titles something like… a bird, I think?”

My stomach drops.

Bird… bird… Black bird..? Humming bird..? Eagle..? Raven..?

Then it clicks.

My mouth moves before I can second-guess it.

“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”

“That’s the one!” She lights up. “How did you find it?”

How did I find it?

I didn’t. I never read past the fucking title page. I threw it across the room on day one of isolation and swore I wouldn’t touch it out of principle. I didn’t want to be their pet project. I didn’t want to be reformed.

But now?

Now I’m nodding like a liar. Like someone who didn’t spend last night unraveling under his hands and pretending it meant nothing.

“Yeah, uh…” I clear my throat. “Amazing, actually. We got… pretty into it.”

Dr Leslie beams. “Well, it shows. And it paid off. Mr Hargrove doesn’t hand out compliments easily. He said you were focused. Determined. And that he sees something in you.”

Oh, I bet he does.

She scribbles something on her clipboard and glances back at me. “And in light of all that… you’ll be happy to hear we’re allowing a bit of freedom today.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’ve earned it,” she says gently. “We’re letting you rejoin the other campers for lunch.”

My breath catches.

“You mean… I can leave this room?”

She laughs lightly. “Yes. Just for a little while. I’m taking you now… so if you’d like to get ready.”

I nod, too stunned to say anything else.

She crosses to the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at me - one of those soft, measured looks she does so well. It’s meant to be reassuring. It only makes me feel more exposed.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she says, and leaves the cabin with a soft click of the door.

Silence falls like dust.

I sit there for a beat, letting the air settle around me, then slowly push the blanket back and stand. My thighs are sticky, my shirt clinging, and I can’t get out of the damn underwear fast enough. I peel them down, the fabric cold and damp against my skin, and toss them toward the corner like they betrayed me personally.

I breathe. Deep. Quiet.

How am I supposed to face him?

That thought hits hard as I slip on clean clothes. My hands tremble. I can’t even look at the door without imagining him on the other side, pretending last night never happened. Will he look at me? Say anything at all? Or just nod like I’m another box he ticked on his clipboard?

And what about the others?

Rachel. Jackson. Lauren.

They must’ve thought I’m long gone…unless they’ve been told otherwise. But either way, despite everything, I’ve got some explaining to do.

To them.

To him.

To myself.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 : 𝟐,𝟑𝟕𝟒

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 - 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 - 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐈𝐭

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘ “𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬….𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭… 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨.” ’

___

“Fuck it.”

That’s all he says before his hands are on me.

Not hesitant. Not unsure. Just done pretending.

His grip finds my hips like he owns them, fingers digging in deep - not rough, but final, like I’ve crossed a line and he’s not letting me step back over it. And then he pulls. One sharp, practiced drag of my body down the bed. The motion is so fluid, so unapologetic, it knocks the breath right out of me.

My spine hits the mattress. Head no longer propped, knees falling open around his hips. The air feels thinner here. Warmer. Closer. His body lingers over mine without fully settling, and for a moment… a single, suspended second… we just stare.

He’s breathing hard. So am I. It’s the kind of silence that has weight to it, thick with heat and consequence. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but burning. Mine are glassy, unfocused, still trying to catch up to how the fuck we got here.

There’s a flicker of something like warning between us - that quiet, fractured space where the truth might still slide in. Where we might remember what this is. Who we are. The consequences of letting go.

But we don’t. We can’t.

His mouth finds mine again, and everything after that burns.

The kiss is brutal. Not in how it hurts - but in how much it doesn’t. It’s needy, all-consuming, the kind of kiss that silences thought, that demands surrender. Tongue and teeth, lips crashing in too fast, too hard, like we’ve both lost the ability to pace ourselves. He kisses like he’s angry. Like he hates how badly he wants this. Like he hates me a little for making him risk it at all.

My hands slide up his shoulders, his arms, fingers curling into the back of his shirt as I pull him down against me, trying to erase the space still left between us. I can feel how tense he is… how close to losing control. Every breath, every twitch of muscle, tells me he’s hanging by a thread.

Then his hand slips up the outside of my thigh, warm and heavy, slowly trailing beneath the fabric of my skirt - and when he lifts my leg, hooking it around his waist, I feel it.

The press of him.

Hard. Thick. Held in only by denim and the bad timing of clothes that should’ve been gone already. The pressure of him aligns perfectly with the soaked center between my legs, and my whole body reacts; a jolt deep in my core, my hips grinding upward into him without hesitation.

I moan. Real. Uncontrolled. It pours out of me like I don’t know what sound is anymore.

He presses forward harder, grinding down into me like he needs to. The pressure, the friction, it’s maddening. Rough denim dragging across the fragile lace of my panties, teasing me like he’s already inside me, and it hits some part of me I forgot existed. My spine arches. My thighs tense.

God, we’re drunk. It’s in the mess of our mouths. The way our teeth clash, too eager. It’s in the uncoordinated hunger, the desperation to feel something - anything.

And still, I want more. I want to pull him into me so deep that I forget the months I’ve spent hating him.

He pulls back just enough to breathe. Forehead resting against mine, our lips brushing with every ragged exhale. His hair is damp at the temples. His jaw clenched so tight I can feel the tension in it.

His voice breaks the silence, low and torn.

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

His grip on my thigh tightens like he’s bracing himself for impact. Like he needs me to stop him.

“Because if you don’t…” He swallows. His lips barely graze mine. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

I don’t answer with a smirk. Not this time.

The sound that escapes me is almost a laugh - drunk, breathless, mean with want. My lips part against his, and I whisper what we both already know.

“Why don’t we find out.”

And that’s it. That’s the last warning shot.

He doesn’t kiss me this time. He takes me.

His mouth drops to my throat like he’s a starved vampire with a blood lust. No pretense. No build. Just teeth, scraping over skin, biting down hard enough to make me gasp - then licking the sting away like he regrets it, even if we both know he doesn’t.

He kisses down the line of my neck with brutal, open-mouthed heat. Slow enough to make me squirm, to make my skin tighten beneath his tongue. Each bite sinking into my skin like he’s tattooing me from the inside out.

I feel his hands slide under the hem of my shirt, palms dragging over my ribs with maddening pressure. But I don’t wait.

I sit up, breathless and sweating, and yank the shirt over my head, tossing it aside. I lie back without breaking eye contact. Let him see me.

Black lace. Barely hiding anything. My nipples hard beneath the fabric. My stomach rising and falling in erratic rhythm.

He exhales like I just stole something from him. Then his shirt is gone too, flung behind him, and I catch a glimpse - shoulders, chest, that cut of muscle down to his waistband - just long enough to bite my lip before he’s on me again.

His mouth drags over the curve of my breast, hot and open. He moans against my skin like it’s already too much, then yanks the straps down with both hands, rough and desperate, baring me like he’s been dying to. My breasts fall free, flushed, aching, and for a second… he just stares.

“Lydia…”

My name slips out of him, like the sight alone knocks the air from his lungs.

His eyes trace every curve, every rise and fall, like he’s memorizing me. Then his thumb brushes just beneath one breast before his mouth replaces it - tongue slow, lips firm, sucking hard enough to rip a cry from my throat.

This isn’t just want. It’s worship.

Then his hand drifts lower.

He touches me like he already knows what he’ll find. His fingers trail down my stomach, under my skirt, into the waistband of my panties - slow, so fucking slow. When he finally slips between my legs, I’m already soaked.

He groans when he feels it. Like he’s unraveling.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking wet.”

I am. I’m soaked.

He strokes between my folds once, twice, before his thumb finds my clit and circles, perfectly. My hips lift off the bed. My breath catches.

He rubs my clit in slow, deliberate circles - each stroke heavy, maddening, the kind of pressure that isn’t rushed but knows exactly what it’s doing. I feel it ripple through me, up my spine, down the backs of my thighs. My stomach tightens. My legs start to tremble. I can’t even breathe right - it’s too much, too good, too... right.

Then his fingers trail lower.

I feel the moment just before it happens… the way his hand pauses like he’s reading my body, waiting for some unspoken permission. Then he pushes.

One finger slides in, thick, warm, intrusive in the best possible way. I haven’t been touched like this in so long I can barely remember what it feels like. It’s been months. Longer. I’d forgotten how sensitive I was. How tight. How needy.

A second finger presses in beside the first and I gasp - spine arching, eyes rolled back, thighs clenching around his wrist. His fingers are bigger than mine - longer, thicker, rougher - and they reach places I’ve never quite managed on my own, hitting spots I didn’t even know were there. I stretch around him, slow and trembling, as he sinks deeper with steady, devastating pressure, and it’s like my body has no choice but to open for him.

I bite down on my lip to keep from making a sound, but it’s no use. A whimper scrapes out of me anyway.

When I look down, his eyes are locked on mine, watching every flicker of sensation move across my face. His lips parted slightly, like the sight of me like this - spread open, taking in his fingers, wrecked beneath him - is wrecking him right back.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost like he wasn’t expecting it - like the feel of me around his fingers actually caught him off guard. “You’re so-” His jaw flexes. “Tight.”

I nod without meaning to, my body twitching as he curls his fingers just right, pressing against something deep and aching that makes my toes curl.

“I haven’t-“ The words come out shaky, like I’m confessing a secret. “I haven’t… done this. In a while.”

I don’t tell him why. Don’t say how long it’s been. Don’t admit that at some point, even thinking about touching myself started to feel pointless. Like pleasure was something that belonged to other girls.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He just answers with his hands.

His fingers slow down, not to tease, not to be soft but to make sure I feel it. Every inch. Every curl. Every drag of rough skin against mine as he works me open. He adjusts his angle slightly, like he wants this to feel good, not just messy or hot or fast.

It’s the way his thumb once again finds my sensitive clit, and starts moving in steady, relentless circles - pressure building with every pass - and his fingers stroke inside me that makes this so damn perfect.

My hand fists in the sheets.

My mouth falls open.

Then suddenly, he stops.

I whimper, actually whimper, as the emptiness hits me.

“Billy- what are you-”

He begins kissing my stomach. Kissing lower. Lower.

My legs fall open. There’s no shame left. I want him there. I need it.

And when Billy’s tongue drags one long stripe up my centre… I shatter.

“Fuck!”

His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, holding me steady as he devours me - tongue flicking, lips sucking, pressure precise and torturous and perfect.

He groans into me the sound vibrates against my clit, and I swear I see stars.

I grind against his mouth, helpless. My hands in his hair. My breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

I don’t want to come. I have to.

“Don’t stop- fuck- please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

My orgasm crashes over me like a wave pulling me under. My entire body seizes. My mouth drops open in a silent scream. My thighs shake violently around his head and my fingers claw the sheets just to stay grounded.

He stays there. Tongue flicking, dragging out every second, until I twitch from the aftershocks.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are swollen, glistening - kissed red and slick with the mess he made of me. His jaw is damp, flushed, a thin line of spit still stretches between us, obscene and fragile, catching the light like thread spun from heat

He crawls up my body like he’s reclaiming it. Kissing my stomach. My ribs. The swell of my breast. I’m trembling beneath him, still half-wrecked.

But I need more.

I kiss him - wet, messy, open, tasting myself on his mouth - and reach between us, fumbling with his belt. I can feel him, hot and aching, straining behind denim. I tug, desperate, drunk on him, on what he just did to me. My body’s still twitching, still clenching around nothing, and I need him so fucking bad.

But he catches my wrist.

Not rough. Not angry. Just… still.

When I glance up, he’s shaking his head.

No.

His lips don’t move. He doesn’t say it out loud. But that single shake, slow and final, lands like a slap to my ribs.

I freeze.

And for a second - a cruel, sobering second - I remember exactly who he is. What this is. What we’re not supposed to be.

But I don’t care. I’m too drunk. Too bare. My body is still throbbing for him, fluttering around the emptiness his fingers left behind like it’s begging to be filled. I ache in a way I’ve never ached for anyone.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice catching. I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Just that I want to keep going. I don’t want this to end here.

“I want to,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “So fucking bad…”

He looks at me like he’s memorizing this moment. Like he’s trying to etch it into the backs of his eyes.

“But…”

Billy trails off, looking for the right words, but he doesn’t have to explain… I know what he’s about to say. I feel it… the ache of ‘almost’. The pulse of what could’ve been. His covered bulge still hard against my stomach, throbbing with every breath, every second of silence. It’s so obvious, so there, it might as well be inside me.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. Barely spoken. But they split something clean down the middle of me.

Before I can respond, he shifts. Moves to rise. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits up, one arm bracing behind him, the other reaching toward the edge of the bed like he’s about to stand. About to leave. Like he thinks this is the part where we pretend none of this ever happened.

Panic rips up my throat before I even think.

I reach out, fingers circling his wrist. “Don’t go.” It comes out smaller than I meant it to. Barely more than a breath. But it carries everything. Every ache. Every piece of me I’ve been trying not to show. Not just want… need.

His body stills. His head doesn’t turn right away. He stares at the door like he’s trying to do the right thing. Whatever that means anymore.

He could leave. God knows he should.

But he looks back. And in that moment, I don’t see ‘Mr Hargrove’, the camp’s most feared leader. I don’t even see the version of Billy I thought I hated.

I see a boy.

Wrecked. Wild. Stuck in a skin that doesn’t fit.

Without a word, he folds back into the bed beside me, careful like it costs him, and pulls me into his arms like it’s the only decision left.

I don’t resist. I couldn’t if I wanted to.

His arm slips beneath my neck. His chest presses against my back, solid and sure. His other arm wraps tight around my middle, pulling me flush. I’m so close I feel his breath on my shoulder. His heartbeat in my spine.

And lower.

I feel him.

Hard.

Still.

Pressed up against the curve of my ass through the thick denim of his jeans, like a promise neither of us can keep. And it makes my pulse spike all over again - not just with want, but with the sharp, cruel ache of being denied.

I shift. Just slightly. Just enough to feel it better - the heavy line of him resting right where I’m still throbbing from his mouth.

His hand tightens on my waist instantly, firm enough to stop time.

“Don’t.”

One word. Cold. Controlled. That same camp voice I’ve heard a hundred times. But this time, it’s against the back of my neck. This time, it makes my breath hitch.

I go still.

Not out of fear.

Out of heat. Out of recognition.

Because I’ve heard him use that tone before. In drills. In punishments. In threats that made the others flinch. But it’s different now. Warmer. Rougher. Like it’s scraping its way through his throat just to get out.

I swallow. My pulse skitters.

“I’m not doing anything,” I whisper, a small smirk forming at my lips, full of lie.

His hand stays. Heavy. Certain. Like he’s not just holding me - he’s holding himself together.

I stay still.

But my mind doesn’t.

Because he’s still there. Thick. Hot. Pressed against me like gravity meant it. I can feel the ridges of the zipper. The heat of him through too many layers. The way his breathing falters every time my hips twitch even the slightest bit.

How the hell am I supposed to sleep knowing everything I want is already touching me, and still somehow out of reach?

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟕𝟔𝟖

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐖𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐓𝐰𝐨 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘ “𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐈’𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝,” 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞, 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞, “𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬.” ’

___

There are a thousand things I could say to him right now. Things I’ve played over in my head since the night he dropped those painkillers into my hand and walked out like it meant nothing. Things I’ve wanted to scream, or shove in his face, or maybe just… say. But I’m drunk. And the words are a mess, knotted somewhere between the dull buzz in my skull and the raw spot in my chest I keep trying to pretend isn’t there.

So when the door swings open, I don’t move.

I don’t sit up or scramble to hide the bottle. There’s no point. The vodka’s already tipped, half-hidden under a lumpy pillow that reeks of panic and desperation. My back is still propped against the headboard, knees drawn lazily to my chest, hair in chaotic waves that cling to my face. I must look like shit. Red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, the sag of sleepless nights behind them. But I don’t care. Not when it’s him.

Billy.

He steps inside like he owns the air, the cold following him in. He smells faintly of smoke - cigarette and cologne, sharp and hot in my nose - and for one fragile second, I crave it. Crave the drag of it between my fingers, the sharp sting in my throat. Something to pair with the liquor still pulsing warmly through my veins.

God how I’d love to smoke right now.

His eyes meet mine, steady and unreadable. No surprise there. Of course he expected this.

“Well, aren’t you a mess,” he mutters, the words a low scrape across the room, laced with judgment and something quieter underneath it.

He shuts the door behind him without taking his eyes off me. No slamming. Just a simple, heavy click. Like a cell locking. I scoff without meaning to. It comes out brittle, automatic. And still, he walks toward me slow, deliberate, boots thudding against the wooden floor like punctuation marks.

“I’m calling Hopper tomorrow,” he says, almost casual, like it’s just logistics now. “After that...”

He’s right in front of me before he can finish the sentence, and then, just like that, he snatches the bottle from my grip. His fingers brush mine, only for a second, but the heat of it lingers longer than it should. I flinch, a knee-jerk reaction, too slow and too drunk to do anything useful with it.

“You’re done.”

Those two words echo harder than they should. A death sentence disguised as procedure. Hopper. That means this isn’t another warning. This isn’t ‘get your shit together.’ It’s juvenile. It’s court dates and concrete walls and no more Hargrove. It’s no more second chances.

I swallow hard, trying to collect myself, but I taste panic in the back of my throat. So I do what I always do - I shoot back.

“Oh yeah? Like you’re in a position to snitch.”

His expression hardens. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

I don’t answer right away. My feet hit the floor as I push myself upright, blood rushing to my head too fast. I ignore the spin, focus instead on the flicker of confusion in his eyes - like he’s not sure what card I’m about to play.

“Put it this way,” I say, standing now, trying to meet him eye to eye. “You give me my drink back, and I won’t tell your boss that it was your whiskey we stole that one night.”

He pauses, shoulders pulling tight. Something flickers across his face - recognition. Distant memory hitting home. He remembers.

“That’s none of your business,” he mutters, defensive now. “What I have in my cabin doesn’t concern you or anyone else.”

“Oh really?” I echo, voice sharper now. “I thought you said it ‘wasn’t appropriate to be smoking and drinking on camp grounds.’ Or does that rule only apply to the rest of us fuck-ups?”

“I don’t smoke.”

The lie is so clean, so rehearsed, it almost slides by unnoticed.

But I laugh. Mean, incredulous. “Then where has half my pack gone? It was full when you confiscated it. And I believe - yes, right there - that is my lighter in your front pocket.”

He glances down, just for a second, enough for me to see the guilt flash across his face.

“You’re a little shit, you know that?” he snaps.

“Theft and swearing now? God, Billy, you just keep getting worse.”

“How do you-”

“Know your name?” I cut in. “Please. There’s a lot I know about you, Billy Hargrove. Came here yourself, didn’t you? Stayed in this exact isolation cabin, if I’m not mistaken. Fights. Drugs. Alcohol. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

He doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t have to.

“Why’d you come back, huh?” I push, my voice lowering. “Do you like the power this little job gives you? Does it make you feel special? Are you trying to fill that void your Mother left when she abandoned-”

I don’t even get the last word out.

In a blink, he’s on me.

His forearm presses across my chest, pinning me to the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Controlling. His face is inches from mine, breath hot, the veins in his neck taut like wire.

The bottle clatters to the floor beside us, forgotten.

“Don’t you dare talk about my Mother.”

I freeze.

We both do.

And for a moment, the room tilts - not from the alcohol, not entirely. It’s the heat. The proximity. The way his eyes, stormy and sharp, bore into mine like he wants to carve something out of me. But behind that fury is something else. Something wounded and walled off and desperately trying not to show it.

“Hit a nerve, Hargrove?” I breathe, low and mocking, but the sound of it surprises even me.

His glare doesn’t soften, but I feel the air between us shift, something fraying at the edge. I push harder.

“Because as far as I’m concerned,” I continue, voice rising just enough to bite, “you’re just as bad as the rest of us.”

That lands.

He lets go.

Pushes off me, takes a step back. Runs a hand through his hair and laughs - joyless, broken. “You are a nasty little bitch, you know that?” he says coldly. “I hope you enjoy juvenile, ‘cause that’s where you’re headed.”

I straighten my spine, wiping the hair from my face.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh yeah?” he barks.

“Wait ‘til your boss finds out you just put your hands on me.” I take a step toward him now, closing the distance. “And what’s that I smell on your breath? Alcohol. You’re turning into your Dad, Mr Hargrove.”

He flinches.

It’s subtle, but I see it. A crack in the foundation.

“I’m not gonna be blackmailed by someone younger than my goddamn Stepsister.”

“I’m a fucking adult!” I snap.

“Watch your fucking mouth!”

“You watch yours!”

And just like that, we’re eye to eye again, tension thrumming like a live wire stretched too tight.

Billy grabs the bottle that’d rolled away on the floor.

“Here. Drink up,” he says through gritted teeth, shoving it to my chest. “You’ve got a long day tomorrow, girl.”

I take the bottle from his hand, my fingers brushing his as I sink back onto the bed. I curl my knees up to my chest, arms draped lazily around them, and tip the bottle to my lips. It burns. Good. I let the warmth spread through me like armor.

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he sits. Just perches on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. The weight of his body so close to mine is… disorienting. There’s a strange heat in the air between us, like sitting too close to a fire you’re not sure you want to put out.

“What,” I mutter, “you’re just gonna sit there and watch me?”

“It’s my job to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “You’re already failing at that.”

I take another drink, eyes locked to his, watching him. He doesn’t flinch, but his jaw clenches. Hard. His hands form loose fists between his knees. I lick the spilled vodka off my bottom lip, slow and deliberate.

“Why so tense?” I say, voice light and teasing now. I hold the bottle out. “Here… loosen up.”

He shakes his head. “Not a chance.”

“Oh come on,” I coax. “I know damn well you’ve been drinking tonight anyway. What’s one more?”

I don’t pull the bottle back. I just hold it there, daring him.

Billy looks at it. Then at me.

And finally, with a muttered curse, he grabs it.

He drinks, head tilted back, throat working. I watch the way his muscles move, the flicker of control tightening in his fingers around the bottle’s neck. He lowers it, wipes his mouth, doesn’t speak.

“See?” I murmur, the words curling off my tongue like smoke - soft, amused, tinged with the kind of false sweetness that always hides something sharper beneath. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I watch the way his hand lingers around the neck of the bottle, like he might crush it if he lets himself feel too much. When he sets it down, his eyes flick to mine not playful, not warm. Guarded. Defensive. Like I’ve just poked something he doesn’t want anyone to see.

There’s a pause… not long, but heavy… and then he mutters, “You tell anyone about this-”

I raise a brow. “You’ll what?” I tilt my head slightly, the words teasing, but there’s a deeper challenge buried in them. I want to know what he thinks he could possibly threaten me with. I want to see if he’ll flinch.

He doesn’t meet my eyes right away. Instead, he exhales slow and controlled, like he’s counting to ten in his head. His jaw flexes once. Then, quieter, “Never mind.”

The words feel more like a surrender than a warning.

I lean forward slightly, shifting my knees closer to my chest, the bottle still cradled lazily in my hand. The air between us pulses with something I can’t name - too tense to be comfortable, too close to be safe.

“Come on, Billy,” I say, voice low now, not teasing anymore. Not quite. “Say it.”

His eyes lift to mine again, not sharp this time, but uncertain. There’s a hesitation in him, a flicker of something behind his usual walls. His lips part, like maybe he will say it - whatever ‘it’ is - but then he shakes his head once, firm, a final line drawn.

“Shut up.” he mutters, but the bite is gone.

The silence that settles after is different. Thicker. The kind that creeps in when everything said is just a veil for everything else they won’t admit. He glances at me again, and his voice shifts.

“How’d you find out my name anyway?”

I smile. “Who are you, Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Tell me.”

I shrug. “Overheard you and Tina flirting the other night. Very professional, by the way.”

His lip curls in disgust. “It’s not like that. She’s just a dumb slut from Hawkins High.”

The word lands with a sharp snap. Not because it shocks me - but because it doesn’t. It rolls off his tongue like something well-used. Familiar. Real.

“Mr Hargrove!” I say with mock surprise, hand to my chest.

He rolls his eyes. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

“Maybe just a little.”

His eyes narrow. Then his voice drops.

“No. You’re just like them.”

I don’t know what he means exactly. I don’t think he does either. Not really. But it strikes something in me anyway. And the silence that follows stretches taut across the room, across the narrow space between us, thick with things that are unspoken but blistering underneath.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask carefully, voice low.

Billy doesn’t answer at first. His eyes flick to mine, then down - trailing over the way my bare legs are drawn up to my chest. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, more dangerous. “Don’t act innocent. Those lace panties you packed?” His tone is sharp, almost clinical, like he’s trying to make the words cut instead of mean something. “Don’t think I didn’t see them during checks. They’re the exact same all the other dumb sluts in Hawkins wear.”

My stomach tightens… but not in the way he wants. Not with shame or fury.

With something else entirely.

And I don’t know what takes over me - maybe it’s the vodka, or the way my pulse is already hammering, or just the heat of him sitting so close - but I move. Just slightly. My knees lower. I shift. My thighs part just enough.

“Oh, these?” I say lightly.

The lace is visible now beneath the hem of my skirt, stretched tight over the curve of my hip.

I don’t mean it to be bold. Or maybe I do. Maybe I just want him to feel something. Because if he feels it, maybe it means I’m not the only one spiraling.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look at my face - not right away. His eyes dip, flicker, drag away like it costs him something. His throat works as he swallows, hard. He adjusts his shirt, subtly shifting his position - too subtly, like he doesn’t want me to notice.

But I notice.

And for the first time in all these weeks, I win. It’s small. Fleeting. Petty. But it’s mine.

He turns his head, stares toward the door. “We need to stop drinking,” he says. “Give me the bottle.”

I pick it up slowly, not breaking eye contact.

“Oh, this?”

Without a word, I let it rest between my thighs and squeeze them closed - the glass held snugly between bare skin and lace. I twirl my fingers around the bottle’s neck, watching him the entire time. Not seductively. Not entirely. But teasing. Testing.

“Come get it.”

His eyes meet mine again, hard and flat. But something behind them flickers - just for a second - before he moves. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t roll his eyes or warn me. He just crawls forward, closing the space between us in a quiet, terrifying kind of way.

He kneels in front of me on the bed, head level with mine, one hand gripping the bottle, the other curling firmly around my thigh. His grip isn’t rough. But it’s definite. Possessive. Real.

“I’m not playing games, girl.” His voice is low, gravel-deep.

I don’t know what makes me do it. It’s not courage. It’s not logic. Nothing either of us could ever say out loud. It’s something else. Some dark thread between hate and heat that’s been pulling tighter and tighter and tighter-

I lean forward.

And kiss him.

It’s nothing at first. Just a brief press of my lips to his - testing. Almost uncertain.

But the second I pull away, the second I feel that shift in the air, that inhale of breath and silence of hesitation - he’s on me.

That’s all it takes.

His tongue pushes past my lips, sliding against mine. I freeze for half a second, like my brain is struggling to catch up with the body it belongs to. Holy shit. This is different. This is real. Raw. Messy. Charged with everything we’ve been trying to bury.

It isn’t careful. It isn’t sweet. It’s sexy in the most dangerous way - like if either of us thinks too hard, we’ll remember why this shouldn’t be happening. But we don’t stop. We don’t even breathe.

He tastes like whiskey and smoke and something warm underneath - like heat left in a sunburned car. His mouth is rough, but not careless. His kiss is unpracticed, but deliberate. Like he knows exactly what he wants, like he wants to erase everything I’ve ever said to him.

My hands fist in the front of his shirt before I even know what I’m doing. His body presses forward, and I feel the hard line of him through his jeans, the heat where we’re barely separated by fabric. I gasp - not because of fear - but because it’s real. Because it’s happening.

Billy breaks the kiss.

But he doesn’t move away.

He stares down at me like he’s just realized what he’s done… what we’ve done, and he doesn’t know whether to regret it or do it again.

His chest is rising and falling, fast and unsteady. Mine too.

“Fuck it.”

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟐,𝟕𝟗𝟔

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 - 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐈𝐭

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐎𝐧𝐞 - 𝐔𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐝𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬. “𝐔𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.”’

___

I’m so bored I could claw my own skin off.

There’s only so many times you can pace the same stretch of cabin, wear a path between the bed and the door like some caged animal. Toss that stupid rubber band ball at the wall until the sound drills into your skull. Flip through the same battered pages of a book you’ve already read cover to cover. I’ve counted every crack in the ceiling. Twice. Sorted the pens they gave me into perfect little rows, then knocked them over again just to feel something. Anything. Because if I sit still for too long, I swear - I’ll snap.

Right now, I’m lying flat on the floor, arms sprawled out, cheek pressed to the cool wood. Doing nothing. Thinking about nothing. Just trying to feel something other than this dead weight of time.

I let out a long, low huff and roll onto my side. The floor creaks beneath me. My gaze drifts under the bed and there it is. My backpack. The same one I tried to escape with. It’s shoved all the way to the back, the fabric now catching specks of dust, like it hasn’t been touched since they dragged me in here.

I stare at it for a second. Then push up onto my elbows.

‘Might as well unpack the rest of my clothes’ I think, my mouth twisting into something bitter. Because let’s be honest… I’m not getting out of here anytime soon.

I drag the backpack out. It’s heavier than I remember. I unzip the top, digging down through the crumpled layers of T-shirts and jeans. My fingers brush something hard. Cold.

I freeze.

Then pull it out.

A bottle.

Glass. Clear. Full.

The vodka Jackson gave me that night.

For a second I just stare, too shocked to process. Then this stupid little laugh bubbles up out of me - sharp and breathless, slipping through my lips before I can stop it.

Thank you Jackson.

I glance toward the door, heart ticking faster, like maybe someone saw. But no. No footsteps. No knock. They already checked on me today.

I shove the bottle back into the bag for a second, breathing hard, adrenaline fluttering in my chest. It feels like holding something dangerous. Like power. Like control. My fingers drum against the floor as my mind races.

Should I wait? Savour it? Ration it out like they ration out every scrap of freedom in this place?

Or-

…

The bottle’s half gone now.

I don’t even remember opening it. One second I was staring at it, fingers twitching, heart racing… the next, a burn in my throat, heat blooming in my veins, head floating loose and light.

Now, I’m sprawled on the bed, limbs heavy and boneless, the whole room tilting slow and lazy around me. My cheeks burn. My pulse thrums in my ears. Everything feels distant and sharp all at once - the cheap sheets against my skin, the creak of the old bed frame, the damp chill leaking through the window.

And for the first time in what feels like forever… I don’t care. About the rules. About the check-ins. About Billy. About this whole goddamn camp. Let them drag me back in chains if they want. Right now, none of it matters.

I laugh again, softer this time. A low, warm sound that hums in my chest. Fuck ‘em. Fuck all of ‘em.

The cabin is dark now, save for the faint spill of moonlight seeping through the window. I pull myself upright, dragging my sluggish body toward the sill. I press my chin against my arm and stare out at the trees beyond - a jagged line of shadows against the sky. It’s quiet. Still. The kind of silence that almost feels too big, too hollow to touch. Somewhere in the distance among the trees, an owl calls, one sharp note cutting through the night.

Suddenly, I notice something.

A flicker.

Once. Twice. Then a steady flare of light in the dark.

A cigarette. God how I’d love one right now.

My eyes narrow, drunk and heavy-lidded, but sharp enough to catch the glint of metal in the moonlight - silver. My lighter.

The one he took.

I blink, slow. Disbelief flaring hot in my chest. That’s my fucking lighter. Billy Hargrove, standing out there in the dark, cool as ever - using my lighter. Probably smoking my cigarettes too!

The nerve.

A slow, furious grin curls across my mouth, agape in shock. I shake my head, the motion making the room dip sideways. “Unbelievable.” I mutter.

I watch him for a second longer. He moves closer. Still outside, but near enough now that I know where this is going.

I shove back from the window and fall lazily onto the bed, sprawling against the headboard with an exaggerated eye roll. No point hiding it. No point pretending. I’m drunk, and he’ll see it the second he walks in. Let him. Let him choke on it.

I make a half-hearted attempt to tug a pillow over the bottle - but my coordination’s off. The glass tips, spilling vodka in a slow, shimmering trail down the sheet. “Shit.” I hiss, dragging the pillow awkwardly, trying to blot the spreading wet patch - but the door handle turns.

Too late.

The door swings open-

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟗𝟐𝟎

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐓𝐰𝐨 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 - 𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐭

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜. 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬.’

___

It’s been… two weeks? Maybe more. I stopped counting somewhere around day ten, when the sunrises stopped feeling separate from the nights. You’d think with all this time alone I’d be more aware of things - tracking hours, sharpening my mind. But it’s the opposite. Everything blurs. Time folds over itself. Some days I feel like I blink and the sun’s moved. Others, it feels like an entire week has passed before noon.

They gave me books. A couple of old paperbacks, battered at the spines. A stack of worksheets stapled together, the kind they’d hand out in middle school. ‘Mindfulness’. ‘Self-reflection’. ‘Goal setting’. I flipped through them once, tossed them aside. What am I supposed to write? That I want to get the hell out of here? That I’m still angry? That some days I feel like screaming until my voice goes raw?

They gave me all this crap to ‘keep my mind busy’, but the only thing that holds my attention is that binder. His record. I keep it tucked under the mattress, the edges worn from how many times I’ve pulled it out, read it, reread it. Some nights I catch myself tracing the old typewritten lines with my fingertip, like the words might shift, reveal something new. They never do.

California. A step-sister. A father who remarried. That grainy photo of him, sharp-jawed and cold-eyed, staring out of the past like he could punch through the page. Over and over, I read it. And the questions dig deeper every time. What was it like, back there? What happened to him that twisted him up this way? Why move here? Why this camp? Was it choice or punishment?

And if he’s been here, if he’s done all this - why treat me like I’m the one that’s broken?

I try to focus on other things. But it’s useless. Even when I force myself to read something else, my mind drifts back. My eyes scan the words, but behind them it’s always the same loop - Billy, the binder and that last thing he said. ‘If I’d told the truth… they wouldn’t have had you back.’

I haven’t seen him since that day. Not once. Not even passing by outside. Some days I almost wish he would come, if only to break the silence. Other days, the idea of him showing up makes my stomach twist. Because if he does - I won’t know what to do.

I guess you could say I’m in a ‘routine’… If you can call it that. But it’s not real routine. It’s fractured. Jagged. A moving target designed to keep me on edge. They send someone in once… maybe even twice a day - always different, never the same time. A counselor, a nurse, someone with a clipboard and a voice that’s too calm. I don’t know when they’ll come. I don’t know what mood they’ll be in. That’s their tactic. Keep me guessing. Keep me off balance. It works.

I sleep at weird hours. Sometimes the middle of the day, sometimes not at all. I can’t keep my appetite straight. Some mornings I don’t touch the food they leave me. Others, I devour every crumb just for something to do. I don’t bother with half the stuff anymore - hair’s a mess, nails bitten, hands still stiff under the bandages. I wash what I can at the sink in the corner - cold water, harsh soap. No shower, no privacy. I thought about sneaking to the lake once. But the idea of being seen - or worse, drowning alone in the cold - keeps me planted here.

I’m tired. All the time. Bone-tired. The kind of tired that seeps through muscle and mind, until even thinking feels heavy. And beneath it, under all of it, is this low, constant hum of anger. At the camp. At this room. At him.

Because Billy Hargrove, for all his swagger and cold stares, is no better than me. I’ve read the proof. I know the truth of him now. The fights. The drugs. The ‘emotional detachment’. I know he’s done time in this very cabin. Sat in this same chair. Poured that same shitty soap into the sink and scrubbed himself raw. And yet… he walks around out there like he’s different. Like he’s above us.

And I hate him for that.

Because if he’s like me… if he’s one of… why couldn’t he have helped me when it counted?

Why help by giving me those pills… and then disappear?

I don’t know. And it’s driving me insane.

And worst of all, underneath the anger, there’s something colder, sharper.

Because I know this isn’t over.

He will come back.

Eventually.

And when he does, I don’t know if I’ll survive what comes out of me.

Because in here… with nothing else to hold on to… he’s all I think about.

But until then, I’m just… left to rot.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟖𝟓𝟎

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐎𝐧𝐞 - 𝐔𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

‘𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞.’

___

With that, he’s gone. Just like that. No final glance. No smart-ass comment. No explanation for the landmine he just dropped on my chest.

“If I’d told the truth… they wouldn’t have had you back.”

And now he leaves me with that?

Great. Cool. Thanks, Hargrove.

I stare at the door long after the sound of his boots fades. My brain scrambles, chewing on his words like gum that’s lost its flavor. No matter how I twist it, I can’t get the pieces to fit. What the hell is that supposed to mean? He brings me back here, throws me to the wolves, then tosses that line in my face like some noble sacrifice?

What am I even supposed to do with that?

It churns inside me. Angry. Restless. Too big to ignore, too tangled to unpack. I flop backward onto the thin mattress, arms crossed over my face. My skull is still pounding, stomach sour, body heavy in that wrong way that comes after your system’s been tampered with. The ache in my hands throbs in time with my pulse.

And underneath it all: exhaustion. The kind that wins.

And so, I drift away. No dreams. Just darkness. A weightless blur.

When I wake again, the light’s shifted - sharper now, slicing through the window like it owns the room. For the first time since I landed in this place, my head isn’t splitting open.

The painkillers must’ve kicked in while I was out - slow and steady - taking the edge off that grinding, unbearable throb behind my eyes. It’s not gone, but the pressure’s faded. The nausea’s dulled. I can breathe again without feeling like the world’s about to cave in on me.

I push the blanket down and sit up, slower this time, taking stock.

Better. Not good… but better.

Just then, the sound of three sharp knocks cuts through the room, jolting my already-worn nerves.

Another visitor? Seriously? So much for isolation.

I drag myself up, joints stiff, body still half-dead. Each step feels like a marathon. I reach the door and open it slow, wary.

No one.

Just a small metal lunchbox on the step.

How… charming.

I stare down at it. Half expecting it to come with a note: ‘From your favorite captors at Camp Nightwing - enjoy your stay!’

No such luck.

I grab the box, haul it back inside, and drop it onto the desk in the corner. The chair groans as I sink into it, already regretting moving.

I pop the latch. Open it.

A sandwich - white bread, some sad slice of chicken or… turkey? I think there’s some cheese too, if you can call it that. A baggie of carrots. A bruised apple that looks like it’s been in cold storage since 75’. Another bottle of water. Not a single damn thing warm. Not a speck of comfort.

Because god forbid I be allowed a hot meal while they’re busy treating me like a junkie one bad fall away from relapse.

I pick at the sandwich, tear a corner off, chew like cardboard, and give up halfway through. The apple rolls slightly in the box, untouched.

Bored already, I tilt the chair back, balancing on two legs. Rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth. A stupid little rebellion, but right now, it’s all I’ve got.

My gaze drifts over the dull cabin, the bare walls, the corners I’ve already memorized out of sheer boredom. Then back to the desk… to a drawer I somehow hadn’t noticed before. My brows pull together, curiosity flickering. ‘Huh. How had I missed that earlier?’

Curious now - because why the hell not - I lean forward and tug it open.

It sticks, then slides free with a groan, dust puffing up faintly.

Inside, it’s mostly empty. Some old pen caps. A broken pencil. And a rubber band ball. Small, tight, someone’s pet project from long nights of isolation. I pick it up, roll it in my palm.

Bounce. Catch.

Bounce. Catch.

Thunk. Thunk.

Oddly satisfying.

I toss it again, eyes catching on the very back of the drawer. Something thicker buried beneath a stray folder.

I reach in, fingers brushing something solid - heavy.

I pull it out.

A binder. Thick. Worn. No label. Water-warped edges. It smells faintly of mildew and paper left too long in damp places.

I flip it open without really thinking, the weight of the pages pulling at my fingers. The binder creaks, the metal rings groaning.

Inside, pages and pages of old camp records. Files. Names. Faces. Each one pressed flat between thin, brittle sheets. Kids like me - kids who’d been here before, who’d sat in these same chairs, stared at these same peeling walls. And now their lives are reduced to single-page write-ups and cold labels stamped across the margins. Photos stare back at me from crooked glue or yellowed tape, black-and-white portraits of kids who look half-feral, dazed, or angry… and even sometimes nothing at all. The captions below each picture cut sharper than the photos themselves. Delinquent. Violent. Addict. Liar. Risk.

I start turning the pages - at first slow, then a little faster. I skim through, half out of boredom, half out of disgust. The deeper I go, the worse it gets. This place doesn’t change. Not really. They just sort you into neat little boxes and pretend they’ve solved you. Pretend they know your story because someone in a clipboard wrote a few pretty words beside your name. It’s the same shit they’ve been pulling for decades.

Then, something catches my eye as it hangs out, a chart, hanging by a single staple in the middle of the binder. Bold block letters stamped across the top: ‘Boys - 1985 Intake.’

A list. Names. File numbers. Page references. I run my gaze lazily down the columns, fingers idly tracing the edge of the paper, until suddenly - my hand stops. My breath stutters, my eyes lock on one line that leaps off the page before I can make sense of it.

'Hargrove, William - Page 43'.

My heart stumbles in my chest. A weird little jolt, sharp and fast. Hargrove. My brain short-circuits for a second. I frown, biting the inside of my cheek. It can’t be him. Surely not. It’s probably another Hargrove… right?

Curiosity kicks in, sharp now, buzzing beneath my skin. My fingers start flipping through the pages faster than I mean to - too fast - the corners of the pages whispering past my thumb as the numbers blur upward. My pulse hammers in my ears, heavy and loud. 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 44 wait - shit.

I flick back, breath caught in my throat.

Page 43.

I stop. My whole body goes still, breath caught mid-inhale.

There he is.

Billy.

I blink. And then again. Like if I just stare long enough, it’ll change. Morph into someone else - some other Hargrove. But no. It’s him. Clear as day. Black and white. A little grainy, the photo off-center, the corners of the glue curling with age. But still unmistakable. That sharp jaw. Those eyes - cold, cutting. That same ‘fuck you’ stare that looks like it could burn a hole straight through the camera. His hair’s the same too - mullet and all - though a little less tamed.

And the fight - that’s still there too. The armor. It’s built into him. You can see it, even frozen in a photograph. In the way he holds his shoulders, like he’s daring someone to try and knock him down.

He’s younger here, though only by a little, maybe the same age as me. He looks like a kid who’s barely grown into himself.

The caption beneath the photo catches my eye.

___

Name: William (Billy), Hargrove.

Born: March 29, 1967.

Birthplace: California.

___

A breath slips out of me - half a laugh, half disbelief. It stutters off my tongue before I can catch it. Of course. Of course he’s been here. Billy Hargrove. Camp leader. Rule-maker. Enforcer. The guy who stalks around this place like he owns it, like the rest of us are beneath him. He’s one of us. He sat in this same chair. Ate the same shit food. Slept in this same cabin. Did time in isolation.

I glance back at the file and begin to read.

___

• Multiple physical altercations.

• Aggression toward peers and staff.

• Substance misuse: alcohol, stimulants, marijuana.

• Emotional detachment.

• Disciplinary isolation - record of repeated placements.

• Mother estranged. Father remarried.

(Subject unwilling to engage regarding family. Displays heightened volatility when questioned.)

Conclusion:

“Behavioral instability likely rooted in maternal abandonment. Lack of secure attachments may contribute to violent outbursts and resistance to authority.”

___

I stare at the words.

At the cold, clinical language they used to dissect him.

To pin him down like a bug on display.

Mother gone. Father moved on. Billy left behind to rot.

And now here he is, acting like he’s somehow better. Like he’s standing on some moral high ground above the rest of us when he’s been through the same hell.

I shake my head, throat tight.

At first, the anger rises. Bitter and sharp.

How dare he? How dare he sit behind that mask, barking orders and handing out punishments like he’s never set foot in these same chains?

But then-

Underneath the fury… something softer tugs.

Because I know that story.

That hollow ache.

That skin you build so no one sees what’s cracked underneath.

He’s just like me.

And somehow, that pisses me off more than anything.

Because if he’s like me - if he knows - then he should understand. He should’ve let me go.

I slam the binder shut, heart pounding.

My hands are trembling.

Not just from anger now.

From something colder.

From the sinking, ugly knowledge that maybe - just maybe - there’s more to Billy Hargrove than I’ve been willing to admit.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟕𝟎𝟓

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 - 𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐭

___

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐓𝐲𝐬𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫! 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 (𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦) 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞! 𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧! - 𝐗𝐚𝐦𝐢 <𝟑