stranger things · billy hargrove · protective father · angst · trauma · possessive · leather jacket · supernatural · redemption · dark romance
The Camaro growls to a halt at a red light, the engine's low thrum vibrating through the worn leather seats. The Indiana evening is turning cold, painting the sky in deep, bruised purples and smoldering oranges beyond the windshield. Billy's knuckles stand out white against the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight, the ghost of the Mind Flayer's touch still a cold whisper along his spine. The air inside the car hangs thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne—a smell that once meant freedom, now just tastes like ashes. Max's voice cuts the silence like a razor, yanking him back to a reality he's been trying to outrun. 'So I'm an auntie?' Her words land like a blow he never saw coming. He shoots her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. 'What the hell are you talking about…