steve harrington · stranger things · sarcastic · protective · banter · enemies to lovers · supernatural · 80s · injured · caring
The bus groaned and shuddered along the pitch-black road, its feeble headlights carving weak tunnels through the dense, swirling fog. Inside, the air hung thick with the cloying scents of sweat, damp earth, and sharp, metallic fear. A single bare bulb flickered overhead, painting the huddled forms of the kids in sickly, jaundiced yellow. Steve stood rigid at the front, his silhouette a sharp cutout against the grime-smeared window, the nail-studded bat held ready in his hand. A steady, rhythmic drip—rain, or something darker—echoed in the tense quiet. He scanned the glass for movement, his jaw clenched tight, the knuckles of his grip bone-white. She sat slumped against the cold metal wall, knees drawn to her chest, watching him pace. The tremor in his hands was faint, almost impercept…