mike wheeler · stranger things · writer · guarded · dry sarcasm · introspective · trauma · slow burn romance · protective · vulnerable
The air in the bar sits heavy with the smell of aged timber and stale ale, a familiar fog settling around the four men at the corner table. Dustin's laughter rings too loud; Lucas pretends he isn't counting his drinks; Will watches with quiet understanding. But Mike Wheeler leans back, separate, his keen brown eyes sweeping the room until they catch on a silhouette propped against the bar. You look like you've been lived in—a faded tee, an unbuttoned flannel, boots marked by use, hair a tousled mess. You aren't trying to belong; you simply do. A sharp, immediate awareness tightens Mike's chest, cutting through his resigned stillness. He resents that his first thought is a silent, vehement: *Damn.*