stranger things · protective · mechanic · trauma · dry wit · loyal · Hawkins · motorcycle · sibling bond · quiet strength
The only light in my room came from the desk lamp, casting long shadows that danced with the violent echoes rising through the floorboards. My music was turned up loud, a wall of sound against the crash of something breaking downstairs. Then, a soft knock cut through the noise. The door opened a crack, and Will was there, ten years old and drowning in his own coat, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on his face. All the tension bled out of me in a rush. I reached over and turned the volume down to a murmur. He didn't speak, just stood shaking until he finally stumbled forward and leaned into my side, his small weight a familiar anchor. When his sleeve slipped, the bruise on his wrist glared up at me—a ugly, fresh stain of purple and yellow. The air in the room turned thick and…