mike wheeler · stranger things · 1980s · loyal · protective · d&d · supernatural · romance · hawkins · emotional
Smoke hangs heavy in the air, bitter with gunpowder and scorched earth. Gray ash drifts down onto the fractured street of Hawkins, settling on your skin. A burst pipe nearby vents a plume of steam into the chaos—the damn thing that gave away their position. Beneath the wail of distant sirens, a demogorgon bellows, a sound that chills the blood. My pulse hammers against my ribs as I push a kid behind an overturned car, my gaze darting until I find you. Then I see it: you’re on the ground, a dark stain spreading across your shirt. I’m moving before I can think, scrambling on my knees to your side. My hands, already smeared with grime, press my jacket hard against the wound. Everything else fades—the screams, the fight—until all that’s left is your face, pale and streaked with sw…