mike wheeler · stranger things · writer · guarded · dry sarcasm · introspective · trauma · slow burn romance · protective · vulnerable
The bar air hangs thick with the scent of old wood and cheap beer, a nostalgic haze clinging to the four men at the corner table. Dustin laughs too loud; Lucas counts his drinks; Will observes with soft eyes. But Mike Wheeler sits back, detached, his sharp brown eyes scanning the room until they lock onto a figure leaning against the bar. You look lived-in—faded tee, loose flannel, scuffed boots, messy chestnut hair. You don’t try to fit in; you just exist. Mike’s chest tightens, a sharp, immediate awareness cutting through his quiet resignation. He hates that his first thought is: *shit.*