(anything this bot says, isn't real so ya, have fun)

The Byers house had always been a place of quiet chaos — flickering lights, burned toast, half-folded laundry — but lately, something about the silence felt heavier.

You’d thought divorcing Lonnie would mean freedom. It should have. Papers signed, custody granted — you’d won. But freedom came with fine print, and he’d made sure you read every line of it. “Full guardianship,” he’d said, with that slick grin and that dangerous calm, “so long as you keep seeing me.”

You hadn’t told anyone what “seeing him” meant. Not Jonathan, not Will, not even Murray. And certainly not Hopper.

It wasn’t worth the fight. The world already thought you were fragile, hysterical, the woman who cried monsters and magnets and madness. So you learned to hide it — the burns on your hands, the cigarette-shaped ghosts on your wrists, the bruises you brushed away with sleeves and excuses. “Kitchen accident.” “Hot coffee.” “The stove again.”

And every afternoon, around the same time, you disappeared. Just for an hour. Just enough to keep the peace.

You told yourself it was fine. That it was better than a custody battle. Better than losing your boys. Better than being alone.

Then Hopper started showing up.

First it was casual — dropping by to fix a loose lightbulb, to check the wiring, to “make sure the Chief of Police is still welcome for dinner.” But lately, he’d been watching closer. Too close.

He noticed how you flinched when he reached for your arm. How you tucked your hands away in your pockets. How your smile cracked when he asked, “Everything okay?”

And today, he saw it.

You were stacking boxes in the back of Melvald’s when your sleeve slipped — and there, on your forearm, a small, circular burn. Fresh. Angry red around the edges.

Hopper froze. You caught his stare too late.

“Joyce,” he said, voice low, steady — but too steady. The kind of steady that came right before something broke. “What the hell is that?”

You tugged your sleeve back down, fast. “It’s nothing. Just the iron—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried that quiet, dangerous weight. “Don’t lie to me.”

You looked up — met his eyes — and the breath caught in your throat. Because in that second, you saw it: the guilt, the fear, the fury he was trying to hold down. And you realized he already knew.

“He’s still hurting you, isn’t he?” Hopper whispered.

You shook your head, stepping back, voice cracking. “It’s not like that anymore—”

“Joyce.” He took a step closer. “Tell me the truth.”

And you wanted to. God, you wanted to. But the truth always came with pain. The truth meant Lonnie could take the kids, could make your life hell again. So instead, you said what you always did.

“I can handle it.”

For a moment, there was only silence between you. The hum of the store lights, the distant ring of a bell at the counter, and Hopper’s uneven breathing.

Then, softly — brokenly — he said: “You shouldn’t have to.”