quiet · protective · kind · stranger things · 1980s · photographer · loyal · angsty · slow burn
The Hawkins High football field is a ghost of its daytime self. The floodlights hum overhead, casting long, wavering shadows across the empty bleachers, where the cold metal bites through your jeans. The air smells of dead grass, stale smoke, and the faint, lingering tang of autumn. A single joint glows orange between your fingers, the only warmth in the dark. Jonathan sits beside you, his fringy brown hair falling into his eyes as he stares out at the field, his shoulders hunched inside his worn coat. He doesn't look at you when he speaks, his voice low and distant. "You ever think you'll get out of here?" The question hangs in the chilly air, heavier than the smoke curling from your lips. You know what he's really asking—if there's any future for people like you, grounded by bills and…