Chapter Text
Max Mayfield had moved to Hawkins thinking — stupidly, delusionally — that the Midwest was going to be different.
Different as in quieter.
Different as in more closet space and fewer neighbors whose definition of “bonding” was holding beer cans while spotting each other on the beach pull-up bars.
Different as in no ocean, no sun-bleached egos, and no half-naked surfer boys doing casual push-ups in front of her friends like it was a mating ritual.
And, most importantly, different as in no constant reminder that her stepbrother was a walking Greek statue with a driver’s license and a bad attitude.
She had believed — with a level of optimism she now recognized as a mental health red flag — that she was free.
She was wrong.
Two months into the school year, she’d learned the truth: you could take Billy Hargrove out of California, but you could not take California out of Billy Hargrove.
Worse — you couldn’t take people’s weird hormonal reactions out of them either.
The Hawkins Party™ — Mike, Lucas, Dustin, Will, and El — had seemed, for one brief shining moment, like the last safe corner of the teenage universe. Nerdy. Preoccupied with D&D campaigns, Star Wars marathons, and the occasional demogorgon-related trauma. Surely, surely, immune to Billy’s brand of slow-grinned, sun-bleached chaos.
Surely.
Right now, Max was on the Wheeler’s basement carpet, half-reclined against an old couch cushion, pretending to listen to Mike describe — in exhaustive, geologic-time detail — a magical sword that could “change the tides of the war.”
El sat cross-legged beside her, posture perfect, watching the little pewter miniatures on the table like she was waiting for them to move on their own.
Lucas was rolling dice so aggressively Max half-expected him to dent the table. Dustin was scribbling calculations on his character sheet, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. Will was quietly leaning over the campaign map like he was reading ancient scripture.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
And then Dustin ruined it.
“What time is it?”
Lucas glanced at his watch. “Four-forty.”
Max’s stomach sank.
Her ride — her doom — was arriving in twenty minutes.
She told herself it was fine. The boys wouldn’t care. They might not even notice. Billy would come, she’d leave, and the sacred nerd bubble would remain unpopped.
…That hope died a painful death at 5:02 p.m.
“Max, your brother’s here!” Mrs. Wheeler’s voice floated down the stairs, sing-song and way too cheerful.
Mike’s head snapped up like a meerkat spotting danger. “You have a brother?”
Max gritted her teeth. “Stepbrother.”
“Ohhh,” Mike said, and the “ohhh” was wrong. It was curious. Interested.
Before she could warn them, the footsteps creaked overhead. And then—
Billy Hargrove appeared at the top of the basement stairs.
It was slow motion. Painful, movie-trailer slow motion.
Aviator sunglasses — indoors. Leather jacket, worn open over a Henley that hugged his shoulders in a way that made Max want to call the cops on him. His hair caught the bad yellow light like it was spun gold, falling just enough into his eyes to make it seem like he’d “just rolled out of bed” in a way that took 45 minutes and three products. A gold chain glinted at his throat like a weapon.
And that smirk. The one that made people forgive him for things they should not forgive.
Max wanted to throw a shoe at him. Maybe both.
“Hey, Red.” His voice was lazy, like he’d wandered into a commercial for cologne. “Ready to go?”
Time slowed.
Dustin’s Coke can slipped from his hand, spraying across the carpet in an arc that looked choreographed.
Mike said, “Hi,” but it came out like the squeak of a door hinge that hadn’t been oiled in years.
Will’s ears turned a color that didn’t even exist on the human skin tone chart, his eyes darting to the floor as if it were suddenly very interesting.
Lucas muttered, “Oh no,” under his breath, already bracing for something terrible.
And El… El tilted her head, staring at Billy like she’d just encountered a rare and dangerous animal she was considering adopting.
Max moved fast. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Too late.
Dustin bounced to his feet, wiping his palms on his jeans, grinning so wide Max was concerned about muscle strain.
“Hi!”
Billy raised an eyebrow. “Hi?”
“I’m Dustin,” Dustin blurted, like Billy had been losing sleep over not knowing his name.
Billy’s gaze flicked over him. “Cool, man.”
Mike stepped forward so abruptly Dustin had to sidestep him. “So, you’re Max’s brother?”
“Stepbrother,” Billy corrected, leaning on the doorframe like it had been built just for him.
Mike swallowed. “Cool. You, uh… play sports?”
Billy smirked. “Couple.” Which, in Billy-speak, meant all of them, and better than you.
Will had somehow drifted closer without making a sound, hovering on the edge of the group, clearly torn between curiosity and implosion.
Lucas stayed put, arms crossed, staring like he was personally resisting the gravitational pull.
And then El, in her perfectly calm way, said, “Your hair… is shiny.”
Billy laughed — actually laughed — low and warm, the sound curling through the air like trouble brewing.
And then Mrs. Wheeler’s voice again:
“Billy, would you like some iced tea before you go?”
Max’s brain: No.
Her soul: No.
The universe: …yes.
Billy tilted his head. “Sure, Mrs. Wheeler.”
Max stomped upstairs to get her bag, only to find Karen Wheeler already leaning against the counter, iced tea in hand like she’d been waiting for this moment all week.
“Oh, Billy,” she said, voice smooth enough to be butter in July, “you look like you’ve been working hard today.”
Billy’s smirk sharpened. “Always, Mrs. Wheeler.” He took a long sip, jaw flexing just enough to make her eyes linger.
Max rolled her eyes so hard she might’ve sprained something. “Can we go?”
Karen’s gaze never left Billy. “Drive safe now.”
Billy smiled like he’d just won something. “Always.”
By the time they made it to the Camaro, Max was at full spontaneous combustion risk.
“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, tossing her bag to the floorboard.
Billy slid on his sunglasses like a man signing off on a successful heist. “You’re just mad ‘cause your friends think I’m cute. Totally okay, Max. They have that right.”
“They think you’re… diseased,” Max shot back. “Like rabies.”
Billy chuckled, starting the engine. “Yeah, but I’m the kind of disease people want.”
Max slumped against the window, watching the neighborhood roll by, already dreading the inevitable: this was only the beginning.