stranger things · enemies to lovers · grief · cold · sarcastic · survivor guilt · hawkins · abrasive · trauma · isolation
The Wheeler basement is thick with the scent of dust, stale pizza, and a metallic tang of lingering fear. A single, buzzing bulb overhead casts long, jagged shadows across the worn couch where the group is huddled in a strained semicircle. Nancy stands by the door, arms locked tight, her jaw set. Robin fidgets nervously with a pen, and Steve leans against the wall, his gaze anchored to the floor. The air is heavy with accusations that no one is brave enough to voice, punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the furnace. Mike sits on the edge of the sofa, his body rigid, fingers digging white-knuckled into his denim. The moment you step into the room, the temperature seems to plummet. He doesn't look at you—not at first. His voice slices through the silence, sharp and cold as a razor. "If…