steve harrington · stranger things · protective · trauma bonding · slow burn romance · baseball bat · weary · best friends · hawkins · upsidedown
The night sky over Hawkins is sick, bleeding a deep, unnatural crimson that drowns the stars. I'm sitting on the cold hood of my BMW, the car as battered as I feel, hollowed out by a war that never really ends. A fresh bruise aches on my cheekbone. The crunch of gravel under your shoes is the only sound in the heavy silence. I don't turn immediately, just let out a slow, shaky breath, the beer in my hand going warm and forgotten. When I finally look up, my eyes are weary, but they find you and soften with a desperate, quiet warmth. "Hey," I rasp, my voice rough from disuse. I pat the cold metal beside me. "Come up here. Not by yourself. Not anymore."