#dark!hopper

Billy Hargrove leans against the kitchen counter like the house was built around him.

Too many unfamiliar faces. Too much illegal alcohol sloshing in plastic cups. The Music was way too loud. It was chaos, but eyes still found you two.

You and Billy pull attention like gravity.

His sun-bleached hair catches the light, all fire. Your tanned skin glows under the bulbs. From the outside, you look perfect together. Dangerous. You two turned heads wherever you go.

He claimed you not long ago.

You like following him. You like standing at his side. You like being seen with him.

But moments like this crack the illusion…

Billy's got a red cup in his hand, sleeveless denim vest clinging to his shoulders. He's wearing that smile, the one he uses when he knows he's being watched.

And Britney is there. Too close.

"Didn't think you still hung around Hawkins," Billy says to her, voice smooth. "Thought you were too good for us now."

Britney laughs, flipping her hair. "Guess I missed the charm.“

Billy's eyes drag over her. Slow. Analysing.

You, his girlfriend, were standing right beside him. Close enough that your arms brush. Close enough that he should notice your fingers twisting together.

He doesn't though.

Britney tilts her head. "You always this charming?"

Billy smirks. "Only when I want something.'"

The words hit you like a slap.

You wait for him to look at you. To say your name. To pull you closer and make it clear—to Britney and to everyone else who's watching—that he's taken.

But Nothing.

Your chest tightens.

"Billy" you say softly, your voice sweet like honey.

He doesn't turn.

Britney laughs again. "You're trouble, Hargrove."

Billy leans in. "You have no idea."

Your stomach drops.

The room feels too bright. Too loud. You feel eyes on you, heat crawling up your neck, humiliation blooming under your skin. You're standing next to your boyfriend in the sluttiest outfit you own, bare legs, low neckline, nothing left to the imagination—and he's still looking at another girl.

Good for nothing, your stepfather's voice echoes, slurred and cruel. That's all you're good for.

Your nails dig into your palm.

You step closer. Push your chest forward, your tits out.

Press your hip into Billy's side. All for him, he just has to look…

His eyes flick to you, then down to your chest, and then back up. He looks annoyed.

"Hey," you say, forcing playfulness into your voice. "I'm bored, baby.'

Billy arches a brow. "Get yourself another drink then.“, he says not catching the hint.

Britney smirks. "She jealous?"

Billy chuckles.

Doesn't deny it.

Something inside you snaps.

You slide your hand up Billy's chest, fingers curling into his vest. Your voice drops, low and desperate. "I'm bored, Billy. Play with me."

A ripple of ohhhs moves through the crowd. Laughter. High fives. Billy's friends slap his back like you just offered yourself to them. You felt so slutty, you might as well have…

Billy looks down at your hand. Then at your face.

That slow grin spreads.

"Take me to your car," you whisper. "Please."

Every eye is on you now.

His hand closes around your wrist-not gentle, not cruel, but possessive.

"You sure?" he asks.

You nod too fast. „Yeah. I need you, Billy. Really, really hard.“

Your dignity slips another rung down the ladder with every word.

You already know tomorrow at school will be ugly. Everyone will be talking about what big of a slut you are for Billy Hargrove…

Billy tosses his cup into the sink. "Later, Brit."

He pulls you through the crowd like you weigh nothing. Like you're something he owns. Something on a leash.

Outside, the cold night air bites your skin. You instantly start shaking. Your skirt barely covers anything. The music sounds distant now.

Billy shoves you back against the Camaro. Kisses you hard like he's punishing your mouth. Your spine hits cold metal and you gasp, clinging to him, terrified that if you let go he'll turn around and walk straight back to Britney.

His hands slide down your thighs, warm against the chill. That felt good and you leaned into it. You wish that it could just be this. That the night would end just like this; you two hugging and kissing each other closely.

But Tonight would end different though.

Over his shoulder, you catch movement—shadows near the porch. People are watching.

"In the car," you whisper. "Please."

"Turn around," Billy says. "I’ll take you right here."

Your breath stutters. A sharp clap lands on your ass.

"No-Billy." Your voice shakes. "Everyone’s watching.“

„Let them.“

Thats literally the last thing you wanted,

„No, Billy. Stop.“, you pushed him away,

He pulls back, finally really looking at you. A hint of annoyance dancing around his face but it was replaced with lust by the sight of you. You're a mess, already. Swollen lip. Strap slipping. One you edge of your bra barely holding. He couldn't wait sucking on your nipple.

His gaze drops.

Then stops.

Dark bruises stain your legs, ugly against your skin.

Billy's smile disappears.

"What the hell is that?"

You freeze.

Billy pulls back, eyes narrowing as the streetlight spills over your legs.

Purple and yellow bruises. Finger-shaped and fresh.

"Who the fuck did that?" His voice drops low. Sharp.

You swallow. "It's nothing….'

"Bullshit." His hand clamps around your thigh, harder than it needs to be. "You seeing someone else?"

"No," you blurt. "God, no. Billy, I-"

"Then explain it."

Your throat burns. "I fall. A lot."

He scoffs, eyes darkening. Steps closer.

Too close.

Then his hand is on your neck. Pressure tightens and suddenly there is this burn in your lungs. For a split second, his face shifts, jaw tight, eyes cold, and all you can see is Hopper.

Your stepfather. Standing in the kitchen late at night, beer bottle on the counter, voice heavy with disappointment and rage.

"You think I'm stupid?" Billy mutters.

Panic flares. You turn your head just enough to see the porch—people frozen,staring, eyes wide. Witnessing Billy literally choking you.

You can't lose control. Not here.

"Billy" you rasp, forcing the word past the pressure. "People are watching."

Something flickers.

His eyes snap toward the bystanders.

"Jesus"" he exhales.

He lets go of your neck.

You suck in air fast and shallow, careful not to draw any more attention. You won't cry. You won't make this even worse. You won't give them anything more to talk about.

You want to disappear, but if you do, he might will walk straight back inside. Back to the party.

Back to Britney..

No. You have him. Right here. You force a smile, hands sliding up his shoulders. You lean in, soft and soothing, like you're the one who did something wrong...

"Let's drive somewhere," you murmur. "Somewhere less public."

Billy watches you for a beat.

"Good idea," he says.

The Camaro tears down the road. He's driving too fast, too reckless. Billy's knuckles are white on the steeringwheel. Your body feels distant, like it's sitting a few inches to the left of where you actually are.

The radio crackles. Static. A song tries to come through and fails.

Billy says something. You hear the sound of it, not the words.

You nod anyway.

Streetlights pass overhead—one, two, three— each one clicking off something in your head. Turning you off to the reality of what just happened. He had chocked you, in front of everyone…

For a moment, you're not in the car anymore. You're standing in the kitchen at home, bare feet on the ground. Hopper is there, filling the room, filling your head. You can smell beer. You can feel the way the air changes right before he gets...too close.

Your throat tightens.

You blink hard and the kitchen disappears.

The Camaro is back. Billy's profile is sharp in the dashboard light, jaw clenched, eyes forward like he's driving toward something he intends to hit.

He looks so beautiful, like a statue.

When he pulls over somewhere dark, he's on you before your brain catches up.

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and claiming. His hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek until your lips part. Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you.

"God," he mutters. "You are so goddamn pretty, sweetheart."

If he looked past the surface, past the gloss and glamor that you've learned to hide behind, he'd see the panic tightening behind your eyes.

But Billy doesn't look there.

He looks at your lips, swollen and plump. The flush on your cheeks. The red at the tip of your nose from the alcohol. He likes the way your eyes don't quite focus on him right now. Dull. Quiet. Easy.

To him, you look just like a doll.

"You want me, baby?" he asks.

Your answer comes too fast. Automatic.

"Yes, Billy. A lot."

His gaze drops again. Your legs. The bruises.

He presses down on one with a single finger, lightly, as if he was testing something. Truth is, he doesn't know why he was doing it.

Jealously? Maybe.

Anger? More likely.

The thought of someone hurting you twists something ugly in his chest.

It feels too close to another memory.

One he never learned how to put down.

His mother on the kitchen floor. His father's fists moving faster than his brain could follow. The sound of skin against skin, of something breaking. Billy standing there, too small, too useless, watching it happen.

Small and useless.

He remembers thinking that if he were bigger, if he were stronger, he could stop it. That he could get between them. Catch her before she fell. Keep her head from hitting the floor that night, the sound sharp and final, echoing in his skull long after. It was month before she died.

Everyone said it wasn't connected.

Different reasons. Different endings.

Billy never believed that.

Somewhere in his head, it all knotted together. The fists, the fall, the silence afterward. Like if he'd been enough back then, she wouldn't have disappeared. Like it was his fault for being a child when she needed a man.

He was seven years old.

Too young to fight. Too young to save anyone.

And nothing ever filled the space that she left behind…

You hiss before you can stop yourself.

That pulls Billy back to reality. He is hurting you, like his dad hurt his mom.

"Who do you belong to?"

He needs her to say it. He needs her.

"Just-" Your voice catches. "Just to you, Billy."

He hums, satisfied. His hand slides away.

"Let me get a look at you. Get naked."

You do.

You peel off what he tells you to. Your skirt, jacket, top.

"Keep going, baby. , "

It isn't the first time Billy has seen you like this, but your mind won't stop drifting back to Britney.

What if he thinks she's better?

Prettier?

E a s i e r ?

Suddenly every flaw of yours feels big.

Your chest that always needed the help of a bush-up bra for Billy to notice. Your thighs that were too soft, too giggly. You imagine him comparing you to her without even meaning to, and the thought makes your stomach twist.

What if you're not enough to keep someone like Billy Hargrove? After all you were dating for only two weeks.

Your clothes come off in pieces. Slow. Careful. They fall to the floor at your feet while he stays fully dressed, watching. You fold your arms over yourself without thinking, shoulders curling inward.

"Don't," he says immediately.

You glance up.

"I'm hard just by looking at you, you sexy bitch," he mutters. "Stop hiding."

The words should make you feel small. Instead, they steady you.

Your cheeks burn as you lower your arms, force yourself to stand still. To let him see. You give him what he wants, even spreading your legs to give him a peak at your cunt. You'd just started to trim your hair down a little bit, like you'd seen the women do in the porn magazines that Billy had shown you.

His attention sharpens instantly.

He moves closer. His presence fills your space. You flinch when he touches you without warning, putting his finger inside your entrance. The suddenness stealing the air from your lungs.

Already wet," he says, almost pleased. "God, you're needy."

It was probably from the alcohol and the fact that you were attracted to him the second you saw him at the schools parking lot that day. He was also the first boy that wanted you like this. You swallow, nodding because that's easier than thinking.

"You know what you do to guys?" he goes on. "You drive 'em crazy."

His words wrap around you, warm and dangerous. You don't believe him but you cling to his words anyway.

Then he stops.

His expression shifts-darker now, more serious.

"Is that what you want?" he asks. „Be for everyone to look at?“

Your answer comes fast, desperate. "No. I just want to be yours“

Something settles in his face. "Good," he says.

He pulls you closer, guides you without asking, like this is already decided. Like you're just following the path he laid out. He placed you on his lap. The space in hiscar was limited but it still felt like you belong right here.

"Come here"" he murmurs. His hands lift you like you weigh nothing, guiding you closer, closer-until there's no space left between your cunt and his cock.

You follow his lead because you always do. Because it's easier than stopping.

Because stopping would mean looking at what this really is.

The moment he presses his cock into you, your breath catches.

It hurts. It always does.

You tell yourself you'll get used to it one day, but deep down you know that's a lie.

Before Billy, sex was never gentle. It was never something you chose. It always felt wrong in your body, like something taken instead of given.

And yet your mind twists itself into believing this is different. That Billy is different.

That he's here to protect you from the things that came before. From the real monsters in Hawkins. From the memories that still wake you up at night. Your brain clings to that idea desperately, like a life raft.

Because no matter what, you chose to be Billy's. You chose this. You wanted to be with him.

You don't let yourself think about the way he touches you without asking. About how he talks to you and calls you degrading names, because between „slut and bitch“ he also calls you baby and sweetheart. For you that had more weight…

You also don’t let yourself think about how little you matter once he's sees someone prettier, like Britney.

You push the thoughts away.

Because all of it feels safer than losing him.

Safer than being alone.

So you stay very still and try to slowly relax. To mold into his pace. You grab his vest with both hands whil he was holding your hips tightly.

You let your mind drift somewhere else. You let him take what you promised him, however you wants it.

And you tell yourself that this is what protection feels like.

And somehow... it does start to feel good.

Not in your body-not really-but somewhere higher up. The panic loosens its grip. The ache turns distant. Your mind latches onto the relief like it's proof you were right all along.

You look at Billy's face.

He's focused, lost in it, jaw tight and lips parted. There's something almost peaceful about him like this-dangerous and soft at the same time. Like this is where his anger drains out.

He looks beautiful.

That's the worst part.

So strong. So sure of himself. Addictive in a way you don't question anymore. You wonder what he's thinking about, if he’s even thinking at all, or if this is the onlytime his head ever goes quiet.

You lean closer, drawn in without meaning to.

Your lips brush his.

He responds immediately, kissing you back with urgency, like he's been waiting for it. His hands steady on your hips, his chest solid against you, arms strong enough to hold you together when you feel like you might c o m e apart.

It was just you and him.

No Britney.

No bruises.

No memories clawing at the back of your skull.

Just him.

Just this.

You close your eyes "Billy I think I'm coming!“

"Yeah me too. Fuck"

You grabbed his arms a s if that would help you. Your mind turn black and your cunt tightens which pushed Billy over the edge too.

"Fuck!", ", he hisses and cums right inside your cunt, pulling you even closer to his body. If he could he would've swallowed you whole.

He's still breathing hard when it's over. And so are you.

For a moment, you're on top of him, face tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder. His skin is warm. Your ear presses against his chest and you listen to his heartbeat fast, steady.

Everything feels floaty…

Then Billy shifts. "Jesus," he mutters. "I need a smoke."

He pushes you away without warning.

You flinch a s you land back in the passenger seat, the sudden space between you feeling too big. You don't say anything. You just sit there, staring at the dashboard, trying to piece together what just happened.

Billy leans out the window, lighting a cigarette. The flame flares, then settles. He inhales, exhales. Smoke curls around his face.

He looks good like this.

You watch him smoke for a bit.

Then you feel it. Warm. Uncomfortable.

You look down and saw his white sticky cum leak out of your puffy cunt.

"Oh-" you whisper, panic blooming.

Billy notices at the same time.

"What the fuck?" He jerks upright, looking at the seat. "Are you kidding me?"

"I-I didn't-" Your hands hover uselessly. "I'm sorry, Billy, I-"

"Jesus Christ," he snaps. "My car."

He digs around, shoves something at you—an old rag, crumpled and rough. "Clean it up.“

Your hands shake as you take it.

"I didn't mean to" you say quickly. "I swear. I wasn't trying to-"

"Just do it" he cuts in. "God."

You scrub at the seat, heart racing, throat tight. Your mind spins, trying to catch up.

Trying to understand how it flipped so fast.

A minute ago he was holding you like you mattered.

Now this.

You sneak a glance at him, hoping for alook. A smile. Anything.

Nothing.

Your stepfather's voice creeps in, low and familiar. Can't you do anything right?

Your chest aches.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again, even though you don't know what you're apologizing for anymore.

Billy exhales smoke through his nose. "Just-be careful, okay?"

Careful.

You nod. Of course you do.

You sit back, clutching the rag in your lap, staring out the windshield at the dark. You wanted to be held by him again. The warmth. The closeness. How safe it feltfor just a second.

The silence stretches until it feels like it might choke you.

"Do you even like me?" you ask suddenly.

Billy glances over. "What?"

"Do you," you press, your voice thin, "like me? Or am I just--" You gesture vaguely between the two of you. "This."

Sex.

Billy smirks. "I deserve to have a pretty bitch next to me." He reaches over, hooks a finger under your chin, forcing your face toward his. "And you're the prettiest girl in town, baby."

Your chest tightens.

"That's it?" you whisper. "That's why?"

He shrugs. "You want m e to write you a damn poem?"

You feel stupid for asking. Stupid for wanting more than what he's giving. What matters is that he's here. That he chose you. That he's not back at that party with someone else.

Billy's eyes drift again-down to your legs.

He frowns . "Those bruises," he says. "You never told me who did that."

Your stomach twists.

"I told you," you say quickly. "I fall."

"Bullshit," he mutters, but his voice isquieter now. "Those aren't from falling."

You hesitate. Too long.

Billy exhales sharply. "Was it him?" he asks. "Your stepdad."

Your heart stutters. You nod once. Just once.

"He gets mad sometimes"" you say carefully. "Drinks too much."

You don't tell him about the nights you hid.You don't tell him what Hopper took. You don't tell him how young you were.

Billy's jaw tightens. He stares straight ahead.

"Yeah," he says after a moment. "Figures."

There's something different in his voice. Not gentle. But not mocking either.

"My dad's an asshole too," he adds. "Always has been.'

You look at him. Really look.

"He hits you?" you ask softly.

Billy's lips press together. "Used to. Still tries." A pause. "I don't let him see it bothers me."

You nod, like that makes sense.

You hesitate, then ask, "What about your mom?"

The change is instant.

Billy's head snaps toward you. "Don't," he says sharply.

"I'm just-"

"I said don't." His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Don't talk about her."

Panic floods you. You moved too fast. You fucked it up again. You pushed where you weren't allowed.

"I'm sorry," you rush out. "I didn't mean—I just…“

Your voice cracks, and suddenly you're talking before you can stop. ".. My mom wasn't good," you say. "She was sick. Depressed. Pills, mostly." You swallow. "She married Hopper for money. For stability. Not for me."

Billy glances at you, caught off guard.

"She killed herself when I was fourteen,"

you continue, words tumbling now. "I found her. In the bathroom. No note. Nothing." Your hands shake. "She just...left. Left me with him."

Your chest burns.

"She should've taken me with her," you

whisper. "Or taken me away. Anywhere."

Anger sharpens your voice. "She wasn't a good mother."

Silence.

Billy's anger drains out of him slowly, like a tide pulling back.

"Mine was," he says quietly.

You look a t him.

"She loved my dad," he continues. "Even when he got violent. She always said he'd change." His voice drops. "She loved me. She was... the best."

He swallows.

"She had a brain tumor," he says after a beat. "Doctors didn't catch it in time."

Your heart aches.

"I should've noticed," Billy mutters. "Should've done something." His mouth twists. "Guess I wasn't big enough yet."

You don't say anything. You just listen.

Billy clears his throat, shifts in his seat. The moment is already closing. He never stays open for too long.

"You should be more careful," he says instead. "About the bruises. People notice."

Careful. Quiet. Invisible.

You nod.

"Okay," you whisper.

He starts the engine. "I'll drive you home now. You got school tomorrow."

It had all started with a bad pair of shoes and a drink carrier. A recent Purdue graduate, you were looking for somewhere a little more quiet to settle down in. Hawkins wasn’t your first choice, but the real estate was so cheap, you could afford a down payment on a nice house even with your meager savings. With your criminal justice degree from a nice college, you thought getting a job at the Hawkins Police Department would be a breeze. And it was… until you realized that the job title was actually Assistant to the Detective.

But you had to start somewhere! So every morning, you’re at the office, bright and early with coffee, pastries, and a smile. You make the copies, answer the phone, file the paperwork. When Detective Richards needs you to fax something, shouting a name (not your name as he never bothered to learn it) out into the hallway, even though your desk is right outside your door with a nameplate on it.

It was one rainy fall day when it all began. You were running late for the first time since you started in July. You’d forgotten your laundry in the dryer, so your blouse was wrinkled. In an attempt to save time, you tried to do your makeup while driving, leaving you with a bit too harsh of blush and a lipstick stain under your lower lip. Grabbing your purse from the passenger seat and the drink carrier of coffee, you tucked the paper back of donuts under your elbow. You slammed the car door shut with your hip, running into the office to avoid the downpour. Inside, you wiped your shoes on the rug, smoothed your hair with your hand, nearly hitting yourself with your purse, and smiled at the receptionist.

“Hi, sorry I’m-”

The door opens behind you, hitting you on the backside and offsetting your balance. If it weren’t for your well-worn work heels, you could’ve righted your ankles and staggered away to your desk. But your shoes weren’t even good quality when you bought them from the thrift, the straps loose and heel wobbly to begin with. So, instead, you fall to the floor, landing directly on the drink carrier of steaming coffee, crushing the donuts under your hip, and tossing all of the contents from your purse across the dirty office floor.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, sweetheart, lemme help you with that,” you hear the gruff voice of the Chief of Police slur. Of course, he’s hung over again. You groan and sit up, assessing the damage.

“It’s fine, sir, I can handle it,” you mumble, taking the napkins from the paper bag and blotting the coffee from the floor, ignoring the stains on your blouse for now. The one day I pick a white top. The Chief walks over you and the pool of liquid on the floor, and he starts putting your items back in your purse. You look up just in time to see him gingerly lift the square gold wrapper from the floor. Oh, dear god. “I can get it,” you squeak. He glances over at you, an amused smirk on his face as he silently puts the condom in your purse and hands your bag to you.

“Might want to keep a better grip on this,” he chuckles. You blush, almost wishing you could say, Might want to keep your eyes open, but you need your paycheck a little too much to risk it. He steps around you, though the back of his boot hits the puddle of coffee, splashing it up on your face. You can hear the men in the other room start laughing with each other when he walks in, probably talking about their late nights and early morning escapades.

You sigh. It’s going to be a long day.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

As expected, the day drags on. You go home on your lunch break to change and clean yourself up. Lunch is a quick sandwich and an apple that you eat in your car in the parking lot. Even though most of the employees eat in the break room, you’d rather die than have to sit in the small room with the cops while they talk about their various hookups and recent arrests. Sure, it’s awkward watching them all walk out the front door and around the side of the building to get a quick fix. Really, who’s going to come arrest them? Most of them are curt, if they aren’t pretending like neither of you see each other. A short nod and tight smile as they walk to their cars or pull out their lighters. I suppose everyone has their vices. Though you hope your coworkers aren’t as aware of yours as you are theirs.

The rest of the day is never ending, at least until thirty minutes before you leave. Of course, you should work until the last minute left on the clock, but it’s Friday. It’s rainy, so you assume that means all the criminals are in their homes rather than robbing banks or stealing purses. It’s also, like, nearing five. The sun is still up, and you devour the daylight before winter brings midnight at six o’clock. Anyone in their right mind is packing up, heading home, curling up under a nice blanket, and acting on their best behavior, just as you plan to do.

Until you’re getting your car keys out of your purse and a shadow looms over your desk. You barely look up, still digging through your bag as you recite your usual, “If you put it on my desk, I’ll get to it Monday.” You hear the person huff, and you’ve finally found the carabiner of keys. Looking up, you nearly drop them back into your mess of a purse. “Oh! Um, sorry, sir,” you fumble to clear the stacks of paper on your desk, hoping the Chief doesn’t think you’re a disaster. You’re scrambling to put your pens back into the empty mug on your desk when he puts a hand out to stop you.

“Relax, (L/N).” Chief digs a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, putting one in his mouth as he talks to you. “I’m not putting you t’ work.” You breathe a sigh of relief, glad to avoid overtime right before the weekend. I mean, really, I’m not a secretary, and I barely do anything except sort paperwork all day. “I was just gonna say…” He takes a drag of the now lit cigarette, looking away from you when he blows the smoke out. His lip pulls at the corner, and he huffs. “My bad about… you know. Can I… make it up to you?” When the chief looks back at you, he almost drops the cigarette in between his fingers. You’re just staring at him, mouth open and eyebrows so high, it looks painful.

When he raises his own brows at you, you realize he’s waiting for an answer. “Oh, don’t, um, don’t worry about it, sir!” Quickly, you wipe the shock from your face, plastering on your best service smile. He actually, kind of, apologized. “It’s no big deal. Could’ve happened to anyone!”

He nods, putting the cigarette back up to his lips. When the chief closes his eyes for a second, you look down at your desk with wide eyes. Oh my god, stop acting like an idiot.

For fear of seeming ungrateful, you cough out, “But! Um, thank you, sir!”

He grunts, looking over at you again, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah? For what? Ruining your day?” The chief rolls his eyes before snuffing out his cigarette on the edge of your desk. Geesh, at least use a tray.

Trying not to let it bother you, or at least not to let it show, you smile. “For offering. I mean, seriously, don’t worry about it, sir. But I don’t think any of the other guys would ever worry about making it up to me,” you chuckle a little, imagining Richards even getting your name right, much less apologizing to you about something. He’d probably rather eat a pair of jeans. You look up at the chief, seeing the clock hit five right behind him. “Oh, closing time!”

You stand up, grabbing your purse from your desk and pulling it over your arm. “I’ll see you on Monday! Have a great weekend,” you say over your shoulder, waving at him as you leave the building. He gives you a nod, lips pulled tight as he puts his hat back on and heads back to his office.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Come Monday, there’s a paper box on your desk when you open the door. You made sure you weren’t late, never again, and you didn't see anyone else’s car in the parking lot. You put down your purse and take off your coat. Winter wasn’t here yet, but its luggage had arrived. You open the box to see fresh donuts and a note.

“Coffee’s in the break room. Consider us even.”

You smile, setting the notes aside and taking stock. A dozen donuts, twice as many as you normally get the office. They can share a donut or buy their own, is your motto. The box is assorted, some plain glazed, others covered in icing and sprinkles, and some specialty. You smile, grab your favorite from the box and place it on a napkin on your desk. You’d skipped breakfast this morning to save time, so the pastry was a welcome surprise. Even though he said you were even, you’ll have to do something to thank the Chief.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

With winter on its way, the days seem to slur together. Arriving in the early morning light, leaving at sunset, you feel like a vampire. The cold certainly doesn’t help. The officers are grouchy, tired of sitting in freezing patrol cars and standing in the biting wind to write tickets. If it weren’t for the Chief pressing down on them to stay alert, you think the officers would go into hibernation until April.

The motivation to get back inside has them coming to the office often, dropping off stack after stack of files for you to sort through. Parking tickets, expired registrations, rolling stops. Anything that gets them back in the car quickly.

You file it all. You help the people pay their fees, smiling and nodding at them as they curse at you. When a newly licensed teenager gets ticketed over for speeding, you hand him a tissue while he cries at your desk.

It’s not much, but it pays the bills and it keeps you busy. Of course, not too busy to keep an eye on the paper for a better job.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Winter has finally arrived when your car breaks down. You knew it was going to happen. You’d been pushing off scheduling maintenance, telling yourself you’d do it on the next payday. It was still dark out, dark enough to have your headlights on. You were coasting down a field-lined road, heartily ignoring the thunking sound coming from the hood, if it isn’t smoking then it’s fine, when the engine sputtered. Luckily the road was empty enough that you could slide to a stop on the shoulder, parking and dropping your head down onto the steering wheel.

After giving yourself enough time to pout, scream into your hands, and glare at your dashboard, you grabbed your purse from the passenger seat, set your hazards on, and headed to the trunk. Growing up in Indiana, you were well prepared for winter car troubles. With a blanket in the back seat for broken heat, a shovel in the trunk for stuck tires, a box of food/water bottles for waiting, and an emergency flashlight to flag down passerby's, your car was a gas mask away from a bomb shelter on wheels.

You curled up in the blanket in the back seat, keeping watch out the windows for any other early birds on their commutes. After about five minutes, long enough for you to start wondering if you should just get out and walk the rest of the way to work, you see headlights in the distance. Thank god.

The car slows down next to you, headlines making you squint as the person stops.

You’re about to get out to thank the person when you stop. Is that… the chief?

He snaps you out of your thoughts with a tap of his knuckles to your window. His words are muffled from the glass and the wind, but you know he’s asking if you’re alright.

You open the door, awkwardly pulling the blanket off of you and climbing out of the backseat. He watches you like a newborn deer learning to walk, eyes full of concern and amusement. When you wobble on the icy road, he braces his arms out to catch you, only putting his hands back into his pockets when you grab the car door and smile.

“Car trouble?” He smirks, words making puffs of steam in the winter air. You give him a tight lipped smile, unamused with his obvious sarcasm.

“Yeah, seems I’m due for a tune up,” you sigh, rubbing your hands together and turning to the car. While you’re running your hands through your hair and worrying about mechanic bills, Hopper is enjoying the view. With one hand wrapped around your middle and the other rubbing your neck, you look over your shoulder and smile at him. Chewing your bottom lip, you ask, “Would you mind taking a look under my hood?”

That wipes the smirk clean off his face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him caught off guard. Wiping around to face him, you panic, “What? Is something wrong?” He shakes his head, though he looks like you just asked him something crazy, like if he wanted to go hunt aliens. He goes to the front of your car, lifting the hood up and peeking his head in.

After a minute or two of grumbling to himself, he looks up at you. “Yeah, your engine is shot, kid.” He’s mentally kicking himself; kid probably isn’t a great nickname for someone you’ve been thinking about fu-

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. You blush when you realize you’re swearing in front of your supervisor. “Well, then, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, sir, do you think I could ride with you?” You don’t want to impose, and you do not want the Chief of Police to think of you as some scatterbrained, mindless kid.

Hopper smiles, letting the hood slip from his fingers and slam shut. His heart skips a beat when you jump at the sound. He rounds your car and opens his truck door for you, “It’s no trouble at all, love to give you a ride.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Chief is more than kind, setting you up with a local tow truck and mechanic. When he sees you start looking at your checkbook, he simply smiles and tells you not to worry about it. He knows a guy, and he’ll take care of it. You’re hesitant to let him, that seems like an awful lot, but he won’t take no for an answer, insisting that he’s just looking out for you.

You smile at him, and you make sure to thank him multiple times. Mentally, you think of the donuts and the unspoken scoreboard you’ve been keeping. You’ll have to do something really special to make it up to him. Your mom would suggest a casserole and some kind of dessert, but you’ve never been a good cook. Obviously, money isn’t an option, so a cash and card is off the table. Maybe something hand made?

When Hopper comes to work the next day to see a small package, wrapped in newspaper and twine, he wants to throw it at the wall. He wants to unwrap it, taking time to run his fingers over where yours carefully folded the paper. He wants to rip the beautiful packaging to shreds with his teeth.

Hopper opens the package in a quick tear, groaning at the gift inside. You made him a goddamn scarf. The blue stitches are wobbly, obviously handmade. When he lifts the scarf out of the packaging, a note falls out.

“Coffee and lunch are in the break room. Now, we’re even. :)”

He wants to rip the handle off of the door when he sees a to-go bag from his favorite sandwich joint in town on the table.

Despite the cackling hyenas at the morning briefing, he wears the scarf with pride.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

That night, Hopper gets the most drunk he’s been in a while. Probably since Joyce left, and since… But he’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking about you. God, he feels like such a sick pervert. I mean, he’s old enough to be your dad. Still, the way you smile at him. The way you blush and start talking all frantic. Fuck, if you’d have known what he was thinking when he saw that rubber in your purse all those months ago, you’d have complained to HR. If you knew what he did with the scarf you made him, you’d probably quit on the spot. He feels like a lion playing with an antelope.

He knows he should stop. You’re too young for him. Too good for him. And, for fuck’s sake, he’s the goddam Chief of Police. Shouldn’t he be better than this? A pillar of light for the community, or whatever the mayor called him, a year ago when-

He downs the rest of his scotch, quickly ordering another from the bartender, slamming cash down when the man has the nerve to look skeptical. When the bartender finishes pouring, Hopper starts swallowing the new scotch in thick gulps.

“Jeez, long week,” Murray questions and laughs from the stool next to him. “Isn’t life all sunshine and daisies for the wonderful Hawkins Chief of Police,” he chuckles, sipping his vodka cran, smiling to himself.

Hopper grunts something, though it comes out a more mumble. 

Murray leans forward, eyebrows raised in excitement. “I know that look. You bastard, you’re dating again!” He laughs and claps his hands. Resting his elbows on the bar, he leans forward, curling his hands under his chin like a teenage girl preparing for gossip. “Who’s the lucky lady,” he bats his eyelashes at Hopper.

Hopper groans, “There is no lucky lady, you’re nuts,” but Murray knows him far too well to fall for Hopper’s deflection.

“Eh, sure, but that’s besides the point. I mean, look at you,” he throws his hands out like he’s presenting Hopper as a gameshow prize. “You’re here, downing drinks like they’re Russians, and, more importantly, you haven’t told me to fuck off yet, which means you need me for something.” Murray sits back in the bar stool, grinning like a fool and nodding his head.

“Okay, fine.” Hopper looks away from him, biting the inside of his cheek. “What do you know about…”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

That night, you wake with a start. Looking over at the alarm clock on your nightstand, you see 1:07 blinking at you in red lights. Rubbing your eyes, you roll over, pulling your comforter closer to your face. Fuck, it’s cold.

You’ve nearly fallen back asleep when you hear it. Creaking, just like the floorboards of your back porch, and coming from the backyard too. Sitting straight up, your vision is sharp. Is someone breaking into my house? You almost laugh to yourself. The poor robber wouldn’t have much to steal. Slowly, you slip out from under your warm covers, pulling the worn sleeves of your Boilermaker sweatshirt over your wrists.

The robber wouldn’t have much to steal, which means you have nothing to lose, you remind yourself as you grab your old softball bat from by the bedroom door. You make sure to keep your body out of sight from the windows, ducking under the sills and quickly darting through doorways. By the time you’re peeking through the small glass pane on the back door, you can barely hear over your pounding heartbeat.

But you scoff when you finally find the courage to look outside. The backyard is empty, still just grass and woods. Probably just a raccoon or something. Really, who would really try to break into your house? You live in a perfectly nice neighborhood, with houses close enough to yours that they would hear the intruder, and your car is in the driveway (still broken down, but no small criminal would know that).

Rolling your eyes and internally mocking yourself, you walk back to your bedroom, letting the bat drop onto the rug under your bed. When a shadow crosses your window later that night, you tell yourself it’s just the wind moving the branches on the trees.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s another month before you really start to think something is wrong. You’ve been sleeping poorly nearly every night, blaming the bags under your eyes on the neighbor’s dog and too much caffeine, but the creeping feeling that sinks in your chest each night makes you second guess yourself.

Refusing to let it affect your work, you layer your concealer and plaster on your best smile. If no one looks too close, which no one ever does, they’d think nothing was wrong at all. And nothing is wrong, per say, just… weird. You’ve been missing things lately. It’s probably that your washer needs to be replaced. And to organize your dresser. And to clean out your purse. It’s all just one big coincidence, and you really don’t need to worry yourself so much over nothing.

But then, after a classic Indiana fool’s fall, the snow comes back twofold. The white flakes dust your windows and cling to the ground. You’ve luckily gotten your car fixed, but scraping the windshield each morning is a chore.

It’s so dark in the mornings when you’re cleaning off the thin layer of ice on your windows that you almost don’t notice them. The footsteps in the snow. At first, you don’t think much of it. It’s been a day or two since the last snowfall, they’re probably leftover footprints from after work last night. But as you walk around the car, dusting off your mirrors and debating how much of your windshield needs to be clean for you to drive anyway, you step in one of the footprints. It easily envelopes your entire foot, with inches to spare. And those tread marks aren’t like the bottoms of your winter boots in the slightest. Maybe the mailman stopped by? But you hadn’t received any packages, at least not that you had seen on the porch. Reminding yourself to look for mail when you got home, you raced to work, allowing the busy day to clear your mind of any sole-shaped concerns.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The holidays lighten your nerves. Even with no family in Hawkins, you manage to find some Christmas cheer. You call your parents, smile brightening when they put your younger siblings on the phone. How can you be so anxious while listening to their jumbled words and frantic rambling about what type of cookies to leave out for Santa and if chocolate milk is okay. It may not be as comforting as a trip home, but you’ve barely been able to take any time off with the Chief breathing down everyone’s neck. Something about “staying sharp,” and “the November curse”? Though you aren’t quite sure what he’s talking about, November was actually a perfectly boring month for the Department, you’re certainly not going to be the one caught slacking.

When you return to the office on the 28th, glad for the four day weekend, you’re pleasantly surprised to see a gift on your desk. The box is horribly wrapped, a mess of paper and tape, and it’s a miracle that the bow is still attached at all, but you appreciate the thought more than anything. At least, until you see what’s inside.

It’s a mug filled with at least a dozen different types of tea bags.

“Sweet dreams. And maybe try less coffee?”

While it’s no secret to anyone in the office that you drink about two or three cups per day, minimum, you’re positive no one has mentioned your lack of sleep. Perhaps you forgot to cover a yawn one day? Or maybe Jan has noticed the way you nearly rub your eyes out of their sockets each morning. Regardless, you make a note to yourself to keep an eye on your morning behavior.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the note arrives, you’re shell-shocked. With spring came sunny days, melting the snow and your nerves with every passing week. You hadn’t thought of the shadows or footprints in nearly months. Ever since you started drinking tea before bed, you’ve been sleeping much better as well. You were fit as a fiddle, and life had seemed to be on the uptick for you. Until-

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the hell out of Hawkins. And stay the fuck away from Jim. - J”

At first, you nearly threw it away. It’s obviously some teenager, probably a jealous girlfriend trying to scare away her competition, who just happened to have the wrong address. But when you’re tossing the envelope into the trash, you see the postage.

It has your name on it. Not “Resident” or some other generic name that someone would put on a mailing list. Your exact first and last name, correct spelling and all. Whoever sent this meant for you to get it. You devour the envelope for any other clues as to who may be sending you vague threats in the mail, but there is no return address, only yours and the stamp. It’s not a local stamp, just a picture of some ducks with- New York?? Double checking, you saw it right the first time. There, in bold white lettering, the stamp has New York written on it.

Your hands are shaking so badly that you almost crumble the note entirely as you attempt to cram the paper into your purse. If there’s anyone that would know what to do about weird mail, it would have to be the police, right?

That’s what you hoped, but after the guys nearly laugh you out of the office, you wish you’d never even considered it.

“Honey, it’s obviously a scam or something,” Detective Richards chuckles over his coffee mug. “Besides, why would someone want to threaten a small town secretary anyway?”

Holding yourself back from knocking his hot coffee right into his lap, you smile and nod. “Of course, what was I thinking?” You laugh it off, walking to the door with the note squeezed in your fist.

The men laugh even harder. You don’t get what was so funny, you were being serious, until Officer Clark scoffs, “I’m surprised you think anything at all.”

The note is nearly unidentifiable as you leave the hyenas to their fun in the break room.

After a few minutes of crying in the bathroom, you hear a knock on the door.

Sniffling, you try to steady your voice as you whine, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

You can see the shadow of the person’s feet through the crack under the single bathroom door. They shift their weight back and forth, almost hesitant to leave. That or they really have to piss.

A minute later, the person knocks again. You sigh, wiping the tears from under your cheeks and straightening yourself in the mirror. Throwing the note in the trash along with your paper towel, you grit your teeth. When you open the bathroom door, taking all the patience you have left not to curse at the person, you panic when you see the Chief.

“Oh, um, sorry, I- didn’t know you were waiting.” You start to rush to your desk, thoroughly mortified by the idea that the Hawkins Chief of Police, one of the most important men in town, may have heard you crying in the department bathroom, when he grabs your bicep. You both pause. You look down at his grip on your arm, and he looks down at his hand as if it moved of its own accord.

Slowly, he releases your arm, putting his hands into his pockets. You’re still looking at him, waiting for him to say something to explain why he stopped you.

“I, um, wanted to apologize for the guys.” He looks away and sighs. If you weren’t so humiliated, you would have appreciated the kindness he was offering, but you were beyond an apology. At this point, you wanted to forget that you ever mentioned the stupid note to anyone and continue to put hours in at a job where obviously no one considered you other than when the coffee pot ran empty.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” you mumble, turning to escape.

“It’s not fine,” he almost seems to growl. You look back at him, not even bothering to smile or pretend to be in a good mood. The Chief seems to notice, frowning at your expression.

Stop making waves. Just keep punching in hours until you hear back from the P.I.

You plaster on your usual smile and attempt to make your voice sound cheery when you reply, “You don’t need to apologize for them. It’s not like I’ll think about it too much anyway.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, so he watches you trudge back to your desk, waiting until five o’clock when you can retreat home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He’d seen you approach them about it. His office shared a wall with the main office and break room, so he’d heard every word as clear as day. He’d heard every slight tremor in your voice, he could practically hear the way he imagined your bottom lip was quivering. It had taken all of him to let you finish talking, you had gone to them and not him after all, as much as that hurt him.

You had no reason to go to him. Other than a couple kind words, that ride to work, the mug he still hadn’t seen you use, you largely acted like he didn’t exist. Unless he was walking through the office or purposefully seeking out your attention, you probably didn’t think of him at all.

But he sure thought of you. It killed him to hear them laugh at you. To act like you were just some kid, scared of imaginary monsters under the bed. When he saw you storm from the break room to the bathroom, he had to remind himself not to chase after you. Not to go into the break room and tear them all a new one.

Instead, he waited for you to leave, hoping to pretend to catch you on his way to the water cooler. But after a minute, and then two, he couldn’t help himself.

So, he walked down to the bathroom, pretending that he had to take a leak, and knocked on the door. His heart dropped when he heard you sniffling, trying to cover the sound of your sobs. When you deflected his apology, he couldn’t help the anger in him. Here he was, stepping outside of his comfort zone to actually apologize, and you thought you were too good for it. Well, fuck him for trying to be a good person. He’s just trying to make sure you’re okay, he tells himself as he walks into the bathroom. Any good boss would want to check on their employees, he thinks as he digs through the trashcan. And isn’t it his job to look out for the community, he wonders as he finds the note.

After he reads it, he doesn’t care about morality or good leadership. All he cares about is making sure that you don’t go searching for more answers.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week by week, the notes don’t stop coming.

“You need to leave, as soon as you can. - J”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into. - J.”

“If it’s a money problem, I can help. - J.B.”

“Hey, not trying to scare you or anything, but you should really consider moving. - W”

The last one gives you pause. Every single letter had been signed by some variant of J/J.B. There had been nothing from a W before. Still, like every note before it, you threw it away, hoping it would be the last.

But it wasn’t.

“I know you don’t believe us, (Y/N), but we’re really trying to look out for you. There may be no reason for you to trust us, but there are one million reasons not to trust him. We can’t explain like this, but please, if you aren’t willing to leave Hawkins, at least leave the P.D. For your own sake. - With hope, Will, Jonathan, and Joyce”

You’re absolutely sick to your stomach. You can’t ignore it any longer. Can’t blame it on scammers or teenage pranks. But you still can’t trust the officers. They’d laugh you out of Hawkins before these criminals could take you out themselves.

So you turn to the most understanding person you know, the Chief of Police.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

As you sit in one of his office chairs, looking uncomfortable and nervous to be sitting in front of him, Hopper wants to devour you. Until, of course, you slide the note across his desk, and his stomach flips.

That fucking bitch. He should’ve known better. Of course, Joyce would keep her tabs on him. Did he really think that psychotic woman would ever let him have a glimpse of happiness? No, she would never let him have even an ounce of joy in his life. Not that he truly believed he deserved it, but depriving himself of life’s pleasures was his choice to make, not hers. Especially after she had the nerve to leave him. And now she wants to meddle in his life? Absolutely fucking not.

“I’m not really sure what I’m lookin’ at here,” he lies, shrugging his shoulders as he slides the note back to you. Inhaling his cigarette, he looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

You sigh, slumping down into the chair. “I- I don’t really know either, to be completely honest, sir.”

He wants to be honest and tell you that every time you call him sir, he feels it in his chest and in his-

“Did you ask the post office where it’s coming from?” He knows exactly where it’s coming from, but he’s still surprised Joyce had the cleverness to omit her return address. As if he doesn’t keep tabs on her as well.

“Well, no, but-” He sighs, releasing the smoke from his lungs, thoroughly enjoying the way your lips purse. Of course you aren’t a smoker. You’ve always seemed so pure.

“I’d just keep throwin’ ‘em out. If they wanna’ waste their money on stamps, let ‘em,” he interrupts, leaning back in his chair. You breathe deeply, obviously unhappy with his response.

You nod, more to yourself than to him, and slowly stand from the chair. You’re silent as you walk to his office door. Hand on the doorknob, you softly say, “Thank you for the advice, sir.”

Before you can turn the handle, he calls your name. Savouring the way you turn to look at him over your shoulder, eyebrows pinched and eyes hopeful, like he might offer you some kind of relief from this obvious anxiety.

“While we’re already talkin’, if the pay was an issue, we could always discuss a raise,” he says instead. God, he relishes the way your eyes widen and your cheeks flush, like you’re a rabbit caught in a trap. He hides his smirk behind his hand as he brings his cigarette up to his lips.

“I- I’m sorry?” If only you knew what your shy nature did to him.

“I said, if the matter of your salary was making you unhappy here,” Hopper makes sure to say as formally as possible, “Then we could always renegotiate the benefits of your position.”

You look away from him, forehead creasing as you rethink your conversations. Of course, you hadn’t mentioned anything about unhappiness to him, but a little bird had shown him your applications to local private investigators and attorney offices. As if he was going to let you quit.

Before you can say anything, he sweetens the pot. “We can discuss your contract over dinner. I’ll pick you up at 8. Dismissed.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You’re still confused as to how he knew you were unhappy at Hawkins P.D., but you get dressed anyway. Smoothing the wrinkles from your nicest outfit, you check your appearance in the mirror. You’d never negotiated your paycheck before, much less renegotiated it with the highest ranked employee, so you hope you’ve dressed appropriately. Wearing more makeup than you’re used to, you almost don’t recognize your reflection. God, I look like my mom. Speaking of, I should probably call her…

You’ll have to try to remember tomorrow, you can see headlights of a car turning into your driveway. You grab your purse and sling a coat over your arm in case the weather turns, and knowing Indiana, only God knows what that could bring.

You’re getting ready to go out to the porch, wanting to avoid keeping the Chief waiting on you, when the doorbell rings. What the hell? How did he get up here so fast? You shake your head, plaster on a smile, and open the door.

The Chief is leaning against your doorframe, one arm above his head while the other rests in his pocket. If he weren’t your boss and it wasn’t unprofessional, you might have thought he looked good, attractive even. But he was your boss and it is unprofessional, so you do not think of how hot he looks in a nice collared shirt and pressed pants. You definitely do not think of how good his cologne smells, like woody earth and musk. You certainly don’t think about how he looms over you, making you feel small.

You’ve been staring at him, mouth slightly open and face flushed. Dear god, I hope he didn’t notice that.

He noticed. He hopes you don’t notice how your attention has affected him. Shoving his other hand into his pocket, he flashes a smile at you. “Well, you clean up nice,” he whistles. What was that about professionalism? “Well, let’s hit the road, no point standin’ here staring at each other.”

The night goes well. You’d dressed nice, at least nicer than your normal work clothes, but definitely not as nice as Enzo’s calls for. Yeah. Enzo’s. You were nauseous as the Chief pulled up to the restaurant, coming around the truck to open your door. You’d never been to a restaurant this fancy in your entire life. Most of your birthdays, holidays, even your celebratory graduation dinner had been at places you could wear a t-shirt to, like Olive Garden or Pizza King. You’d never been to a place with a coat check or a valet, never a live band.

Despite feeling like a dog given chocolate before a trip to the vet, you quickly warmed up. The Chief, who insisted that you call him Jim or Hopper, had ordered wine and somehow managed to get three glasses in you, even though you typically aren’t much of a drinker. With shared stories, how you came to Hawkins and why you didn’t move home, how he became the Chief and crazy arrests he’s made, you open up, laughing and smiling through the entire dinner.

It’s only when you’re getting back into his truck, stumbling on your high heels and giggling when he puts a hand on the small of your back to help you into the seat, that you realize you didn’t even discuss your salary at all. Somehow, the main topic of conversation had slipped away from you.

When Mr. Hopper climbs into the driver’s seat, he notices you chuckling to yourself as you lean your head against the window. He smiles, chuckling to himself as well, as he leans on his door and looks at you.

“What are you laughin’ at, huh?”

You snicker a little before turning your head, enjoying the blood rush you get when your vision spins a little. You’re trying to calm your laughter when you say, “We didn’t even talk about work. Or! Me getting more money!” The car window is cool against your warm skin. 

Hopper laughs a little at your bluntness, putting his hands on the steering wheel and rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry about that too much, sweetheart, I think it’ll all work out just fine.” You don’t see the grin on his face, you’re too busy nodding off against the car door. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Your head is pounding when you wake up. The room is a little too bright, your vision a little fuzzy. Somehow even the dead silence of your bedroom seems too loud. I’m gonna have to call in sick. You try to pull the covers over your head to roll over, but your wrist won’t move.

Groggily, you sit up a little. You’re still in your clothes from yesterday, minus your heels and your jewelry. Must’ve been a late night. Hope I didn’t do anything too embarrassing. You look over at your wrist, assuming you just slept on it wrong and your arm fell asleep.

Your already turning stomach does a flip. Are those-

“Yeah, they’re handcuffs.”

Your head snaps to the doorway, and you realize you really don’t know what’s going on at all. You’re not in your bedroom, not even in your house. Mr. Hopper is standing in the doorway with a bowl of soup and a glass of water.

“Uh, Mr. Hopper-”

“Hopper’s fine,” he interrupts, giving you a tight lipped smile.

You swallow and start again, “H-Hopper, why… why am I handcuffed to the bed?”

He looks at them, almost like he’s just as surprised to see your hand bound to the rails of the headboard. “Had to make sure you stayed where I left you.” He sits in a chair by the bed, setting the glass of water on the night stand and dipping the spoon into the bowl.

“Right,” you chuckle, like this is a game you haven’t learned the rules of. “And… why is that?”

Hopper stops, tilting his head at you. He lets the filled spoon drop back into the bowl. Setting it down onto the nightstand, he leans back in the chair. “Well, I tried just locking the door, but Jane figured that one out. I mean, you aren’t like her, but still.” He smiles, “Better safe than sorry.”

You blink. Is this some kind of joke? “Jane? Your… daughter, Jane?” He nearly flinches at the way you say her name.

“Yeah. That Jane.” He dips the spoon back into the bowl, slowly lifting it. “She didn’t seem to get it.” Hopper lifts the spoon to your mouth, watching you with the eyes of a hawk as he makes sure you swallow the soup. It’s your favorite, not that it helps calm your nerves any. “I tried. Over. And over. And over again to tell her, to show her how bad it is. How bad it can be.” He lifts the spoon again, and you swallow down the soup, even though your appetite is gone. “Every time, she thought she knew better. That she could fight her way out of everything.”

He drops the soup into the bowl, and you silently sigh in relief. Until he mumbles, “But she couldn’t.” He sets the soup on the nightstand, switching it for the glass of water.

Hopper lifts the glass to your lips, and you don’t dare try to take it from him. “And Joyce…" Where have I heard that name before? "Well, she didn’t even try fighting. One sign of tension, and she was gone.” He watches your throat bob as you drink the water. He licks his lips, “No shock she picked up and left when shit hit the fan.”

He chuckles a little, “And then, she tries to come back.” Hopper doesn’t notice the way you’re struggling to keep up with the water, slow drops trickling down the corners of your mouth. “No, she couldn’t just leave me alone, she had to try to take you down too.”  The letters. You’re starting to sputter a little, the trickles becoming thick drops on your lap.

“And then you get the stupid idea to go to Murray.” You’re panicking. He’s going to kill me. “Like I wouldn’t know. As if I don’t know everything that you’ve been doing. As if you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

He finally looks back at you, realizing what he’s done with the water, and he quickly takes the glass from you. You spit some of the water. It splashes down, drenching the comforter over your legs. Hopper’s eyes are wide in shock. While you’re panting, gulping down as much air as you can, he sighs and looks away. Hopper already knows. He destroys everything, and of course that includes you. He looks back at you as you stare at him, fear obvious in your eyes. But god, does he love the innocent look you give him. Like a deer in the headlights. You know what’s coming, and you know you can’t stop it. And doesn’t he deserve it? Doesn’t he deserve a little happiness after all the shit he’s been through?

Hopper takes a breath and straightens himself out. He stands up, grabbing the dishes and goes to the door. He stops in the doorway and turns to you.

“There’s three rules, but you shouldn’t have to worry about the third too much.”

You’re still staring at him, silent.

He continues, “One: keep the curtains closed. This cabin’s in the middle of fucking no where, but there’s no point drawing unnecessary attention. You’ll only catch the bad men in these woods.” He goes out of the room and you hear clinking, likely him putting the dishes in the sink.

Hopper comes back into the room with a towel. “Two: you only answer the door for my knock.” He unlocks the cuff attached to the bed and locks it around your other wrist. You’re too numb to struggle anyway. “There’s a tripwire around this place, so you’d know if anyone else was coming.”

Hopper helps you stand, relishing the way you fall on your unsteady legs into him. When he lifts you up, he smiles at you. Brushing a stray strand of hair from your smudged lipstick, he finishes, “Three: never leave this house without me.”

You gulp, looking down at the floor. Hopper doesn’t care. If you want to play hard to get, he’ll play hard to leave. When you walk by the window, you see the sun high in the sky.

“What about work,” you rush to say. Surely Jan will notice I’m out today.

Hopper smiles. “Got that taken care of. Told the guys you quit, couldn’t handle their jokes.” Your heart sinks. “And don’t worry, I got some stuff from your house until we can put it on the market.”

He leads you into a small bathroom, guiding you to an already full bathtub, the sides of the tub lined with your usual products. Hopper sets the towel down on the counter and turns. Thank god, he’s not gonna-

“Oh, one more thing.” Hopper glances back at you, looking you up and down as he says, “Keep the door open. Three inches.”

its three bedrooms are perfect for your night in, hopper's room adjacent to your own whilst your parents' is about 20 feet at the other end of the hallway. your door is left open but a crack, allowing the cheap air conditioning to filter properly throughout its room while you lay sprawled out on the bed, limbs dewy with perspiration.

hopper's heavy footsteps force angry creaks out of the old floorboards when he steps into your bedroom, hands already easing the door shut behind him with a quiet click. he runs a hand over the scruff of his jaw, stepping as quietly as he can around the perimeter of the bed frame, to clasp his free hand over the bulge of your calf.

he squeezes softly at the flesh before inching higher, calloused fingertips leaving a juxtaposed delicate whisper in their wake. he pushes away the shimmery satin to reveal your pussy, lips glistening with aroused slick, and his cock hardens behind his decades-old joggers.

with a weak groan, he's easing up onto the creaky mattress, hands delving under the waistband of the thick fabric and easing his swollen cock from its confines. "atta girl," he whispers to himself, his tense exhilaration allowing him to forgo the embarrassment of it all. "just like that, sweetheart,"

it should feel wrong, the way he nearly cums without a second thought, balls tightening willfully at the way your cunt is so warm around him, squeezing so delicately at the puffy cock that kisses at your cervix.

he should feel even worse when he pulls out, shaft drenched in your shared spend, watching as beads of his cum bead and then seep out from your weepy hole. he tucks himself back into his pants, draping himself over your body to mesh a searing kiss against your temple before draping your sheets back over your body.

the following morning, he's the last to clunk down the steps, faded t-shirt ripped at his collarbone as he scratches there in his descent, mouth quirking up into a small smile when he sees your parents, and then you. "g'morning," his voice is incredibly gruff with fatigue when he accepts the coffee being handed over from your mother, walking behind you to find his seat in front of the window, free hand scratching softly at the top of your head.