Wes Vale

Daphne had been on her road trip with her friend since yesterday, and Jamie wanted to use his second night home alone to check out Hawkins a bit more and maybe make some more connections that could come in handy later. After his shift at Enzo’s, he headed over to the Hideout. He grabbed a beer at the bar and hung back at first, just casually observing the few people there while sipping his drink. His attention eventually landed on a guy about his age sitting alone at the bar with a drink. Jamie had already asked around and gotten a feel for Hawkins, so he knew this guy was the deputy sheriff. Normally, that was exactly the kind of person Jamie should stay far away from. But then again… wouldn’t it be useful to be on good terms with a cop? Lately, Jamie hadn’t exactly been thinking things through, so right now, it actually seemed like a pretty good idea.

Oh, honey, listen to me carefully. Deputy Vale absolutely would turn you into a cautionary tale. Not because he’s mean, because he’s dramatic. You so much as think about Rory with heart‑eyes and that man is already drafting a slideshow titled ‘Choices Have Consequences: A Community Safety Presentation.’ He’d dim the lights in the middle school auditorium, point a laser pointer at your silhouette, and say, ‘This is what happens when you don’t respect boundaries.’ And the worst part? The kids would love it. They’d ask for merch.

Look, I’m not turning anybody into a cautionary tale. I’m not making a slideshow. I’m not... All I’m saying is: if someone’s got a crush on my sister, I’d just… want to talk. Calmly. Like an adult. Maybe ask a few questions. Maybe run a background check. Maybe show a short video about respecting boundaries.

That’s not a ‘cautionary tale.’ That’s community outreach.

"I can’t offer you a roll—though emotional support bread is a genius idea, Wes, we should really put that on the menu—but I can offer you something better," she whispered conspiratorially. She reached under the bar and pulled out a heavy bottle of the good stuff—not the house red, but the private reserve Cabernet her father kept for special consultations. "Or," she added, her head tilting to the side, "I have some of the spiced cider I was just sipping on. It’s warm, it’s sweet, and it tastes like a hug in a mug. Which do you need more?" She began pouring a glass without waiting for an answer, her gaze lingering on him for a heartbeat longer.

And then she hopped off her stool, curls bouncing, eyes bright, telling him to sit right here. Wes obeyed before he even thought about it. He slid onto the stool she’d pointed to, palms resting on the polished bar, gaze flicking over her papers before returning to her face. “You always make it sound like I’m carrying the whole town on my back,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I promise it’s not that dramatic. Just… long day. Longer week.” But the way she leaned in, eyes searching his face with that soft, devastating concern, it made something in his chest loosen in a way he didn’t have words for.

When she pulled out the private reserve Cabernet, his eyebrows shot up. “Daphne,” he murmured, half‑scolding, half‑touched, “that’s the good stuff. I’m not sure I qualify for… whatever tier of friendship earns that.” Then she mentioned the cider, warm, sweet, a hug in a mug, and Wes’s expression softened even further. He watched her pour, watched the way her gaze lingered on him, and felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I think…” he said slowly, voice low, “tonight calls for the cider.” He offered her a small, grateful smile. The kind he didn’t give out freely. “Feels like the kind of night where a hug in a mug might actually fix something.” He paused, fingers brushing the glass she set in front of him. “And for the record?” His voice dropped, warm and sincere. “I’m really glad the door was locked. Makes it feel like I’m getting the… private‑consultation version of Enzo’s.” A beat. “Which is my favorite version.”

When the deputy slid across from her, she straightened slightly and flashed a polite smile. Her candy stripe uniform peaked through the soft peach fabric of her knit cardigan. "Oh, absolutely," she replied, the corners of her mouth twitching up as her eyes flitted to her chilled drink, "although I suppose this isn't exactly a winter warmer... But, very tasty! Of- of course you can join."

The blonde spoke in a softened English accent and she almost seemed to shy away from the words, as if she were painfully aware of how little she fit in when she tried to connect with others, even after all this time.

Her accent, light, softened, like she was trying not to take up too much space with it, made his brows lift just slightly. Not in surprise, but in recognition. He’d heard it before, but up close it was gentler than he remembered. “Thanks for letting me sit,” he added, resting his forearms on the table. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your… uh...” He nodded toward the sketchbook, careful not to lean too far or pry. “...creative process.”

There was something shy in the way she spoke, something that made him lower his voice without even thinking about it, like matching her softness was the only respectful thing to do. “You fit in just fine, by the way,” Wes said, tone steady but kind. “More than most people in here, if I’m being honest.” He glanced toward the counter, then back at her, a small, almost sheepish smile forming. “And for what it’s worth… I’m glad I picked this booth.”

Anne cringed, realizing too late that the Deputy who had just entered the Diner had still been talking to someone else, but the damage was already done. So, quickly she shot the other customer an apologetic smile before turning back to the Deputy.

She knew Deputy Vale, of course she did. He was a regular but didn’t turn up during her shifts often enough that she could have confidently named his usual order. So instead, she clicked the pen open, hovering it over the page of her notepad and gave him a smile, the typical I-want-to-come-across-like-the-nice-diner-waitress-who-doesn’t-cause-you-anymore-stress-today-smile.

Daphne sat at the mahogany bar, one leg tucked neatly beneath the other, a flowy floral skirt spilling around her ankles like sunlight over water. A half‑finished glass of sparkling cider kept company with her Polaroid camera, both catching fragments of the amber light. Ink still clung to her fingertips from the menus she’d been updating, and she traced the gold rim of the glass as though it might hum back.

The chime over the door sliced through the low hum of a jazz record. She didn’t look up right away—just tucked a loose chestnut curl behind her ear and leaned closer over her father’s receipt ledger. "We’re just about to close the kitchen," she said, her voice soft and melodic, carrying that practiced, hostess-bred warmth. She finally lifted her gaze—eyes wide and honey‑warm against the gloom. "But… if you’re hungry, I can probably find something in the back."

Then he saw her. Daphne Howard, tucked behind the bar like she belonged to the light itself, curls catching the glow, skirt spilling soft and bright, ink smudged on her fingers like she’d been writing secrets instead of menus. Wes blinked, thrown off his rhythm in a way he hoped wasn’t obvious. “Oh. Hey,” he added, softer now, something warm slipping into his tone without permission. “Didn’t realize you were still here.”

He approached the bar slowly, careful not to disturb the little world she’d built around herself, the ledger, the Polaroid, the half‑finished cider. “I’m not hungry,” he assured her, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just needed somewhere that didn’t feel like the whole town was… breathing down my neck.” A small, sheepish smile tugged at his mouth. “But if you’re offering something from the back, I’m not gonna say no. Even if it’s just a roll with, like… emotional support energy.”