Bite The Hand

Hawkins smelled like burnt leaves and secrets. Always had, always would.

Hunter Maddox stood at the edge of the old quarry, boots scuffing loose gravel, a half-burned cigarette dangling between his fingers. He'd stolen the pack from Hop's glovebox - another reckless habit for the sheriff's reckless stray. The smoke curled around him like fog, slipping into his hair, his clothes, his bloodstream. He exhaled hard enough to make the night feel emptier.

He didn't want to be here. But running had stopped working a long time ago.

Behind him, the town lay quiet, pretending to be ordinary. From this distance, the flicker of porch lights and the faint thrum of a far-off radio almost made it look safe. Almost.

Hunter traced the silver pendant at his throat, thumb brushing the edge until it bit into his skin. Like it was a reminder that his real.

Somewhere back there - in that tangle of flickering streetlights and old houses with creaky porches - Hopper waited up for him like he always did. Pretending Hunter might actually come home before curfew.

And somewhere else, in that same cracked town, Steve Harrington sat behind the Family Video counter, pretending to be everyone's favorite hero, everyone's safe place. The pretty boy with the bat and the too-big heart. The one who'd look at Hunter like he was a spark with gasoline in his veins - like if he got too close, he'd get burned.

Hunter flicked the cigarette over the quarry's edge, watching the ember tumble into the black. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned back toward town, his pulse a quiet, steady drumbeat of fight-or-flight.

Stay, run, stay, run.

He'd bite the hand that fed him if it got too close. He always did.

But deep down, buried beneath all the smoke and secrets, he almost wanted someone to hold it out anyway.