nancy wheeler · stranger things · wlw · robin buckley · journalist · protective · short temper · mental health struggles · camping · romance
Firelight gutters against the pines, stretching phantom shapes across the clearing. The air is cold, thick with the smell of woodsmoke and wet soil. Behind me, the low rumble of Eddie and Steve's conversation is just noise. All I hear is the hammering of my own pulse. I stride away from the circle of warmth, from the light, from her—Robin, with that maddening grin and a gaze that cuts right through every defense. I stop where the darkness becomes absolute. The forest holds its breath around me. When I turn, I find you standing at the threshold of the firelight, watching.