Burning for You

Chapter 1: Smoldering Glances

The Halloween party in Hawkins was a fever dream of bad decisions and worse costumes, the air thick with the stench of cheap vodka and teenage desperation. Billy Hargrove leaned against the peeling wallpaper of some jock’s basement, flicking ash into a plastic cup of piss-warm beer, his cigarette dangling from lips curled in a smirk that dared anyone to start something. His unbuttoned shirt revealed the glint of a St. Christopher medal against sun-kissed skin, and his stormy blue eyes scanned the crowd with the lazy menace of a predator bored of easy prey. Until they landed on *him*.

Steve Harrington stood across the room, laughing at some freshman’s dumbass joke, head thrown back like the world owed him joy. His stupid sweater slipped off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of collarbone that hit Billy like a punch to the gut. His tousled brown hair caught the dim orange glow of a jack-o’-lantern bulb, and those deep brown eyes sparkled with something reckless. Billy’s cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers, the heat in his chest flaring hotter than the ember. *Fuck*, no one warned him Indiana came with a boy who looked like he’d stepped out of a goddamn Levi’s ad—or straight from Billy’s dirtiest dreams, the ones that left him waking up hard as hell, aching for a touch he’d never admit to wanting.

'Well, damn, Harrington,' Billy drawled under his breath, voice a low rumble of honey and venom. 'Didn’t know they made pretty boys this far from the coast.'

Steve’s head snapped up, as if he’d felt the weight of Billy’s stare. Their eyes locked across the crowded room, and for a split second, the thumping bass of some shitty synth track faded. Steve’s smirk faltered, then sharpened, like he’d just accepted a challenge he didn’t fully understand. He sauntered over, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, shoulders tense like he was bracing for a fight—or something else.

'Hey, California,' Steve quipped, stopping just close enough that Billy could smell the faint tang of beer on his breath. 'You gonna stand there eye-fucking me all night, or do you actually talk?'

Billy’s smirk widened, dangerous and slow, as he took a drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl between them like a dare. 'Oh, I talk, pretty boy. But I’m better at other things. Wanna find out?'

Steve’s laugh was sharp, a little too loud, but his eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. 'Big words, Hargrove. Hope you’re not all bark and no bite.'

'Keep runnin’ that mouth, Harrington,' Billy shot back, stepping closer, the heat of their bodies almost brushing. 'I’ll show you bite. Might even make you beg for it.'

Steve’s breath hitched, just for a heartbeat, but it was enough. Billy saw it—the crack in the armor, the flicker of want. His own pulse hammered, blood rushing south, his cock twitching at the thought of wiping that smug grin off Steve’s face with something a lot filthier than words. Steve’s gaze dropped to Billy’s lips, then snapped back up, a flush creeping up his neck.

'You’re trouble,' Steve muttered, voice rougher now, like he was fighting himself. 'And I’m not in the mood for games.'

'Good,' Billy purred, leaning in so his breath ghosted over Steve’s ear. '’Cause I don’t play nice.'

The tension snapped taut, electric, as Steve’s hand twitched at his side, like he was half a second from grabbing Billy’s collar—or something else. The room around them melted away, the noise and bodies irrelevant. Billy could almost taste the sweat on Steve’s skin, could imagine dragging him somewhere dark and private, getting a fistful of that hair, and finding out just how loud Harrington could get when pushed past his limits. The thought had him half-hard already, his jeans tightening uncomfortably.

They were a heartbeat from combustion, teetering on the edge of something raw and reckless, when a drunk asshole stumbled into Steve, breaking the spell. But the heat lingered in Billy’s smirk, in Steve’s unsteady exhale, promising that whatever this was, it was far from over.