It always started the same way—with that low, warning rumble of his voice that meant you had exactly three seconds to listen before Sheriff Jim Hopper took matters into his own, very large, very capable hands.

Tonight, it was over something stupid. Or at least he thought it was stupid.

You were curled up on the couch in the cabin, wrapped in a blanket burrito, flipping through a dog-eared novel as the fire crackled in the hearth. Hopper stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hair mussed from a long shift, looking at you like you were the most stubborn thing he’d ever seen… and also his favorite.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice roughened with tired affection, “I said bed.”

You didn’t look up. “I heard you. I’m just… super comfortable. Like, dangerously comfortable. Sofa wins tonight.”

There was a beat of silence—one you’d learned to be suspicious of.

Then his heavy boots crossed the room.

“Hopper, don’t—” you started, lowering your book just in time to see the amused, determined glint in his eyes.

“Too late.”

He hooked an arm under your waist like you weighed nothing, the world tilting as he swung you up over his shoulder. One arm wrapped around the backs of your thighs, holding you securely in place, the other settling against your lower back to keep you from squirming.

“HOPPER!” you yelped, kicking once only for him to pat your leg in warning.

“Keep wiggling and I’ll tie you to the damn headboard just so you stay put,” he grumbled—but you heard the smile in his voice. “Told you. Bed.”

You groaned and covered your face with your hands, mortified and secretly delighted in equal measure. “I was reading!”

“Yeah, well, I was trying to cuddle my girlfriend.” He adjusted you with one arm like you weighed less than a grocery bag. “And I’m not losing to a couch. Again.”

You could hear the grin in his voice as he carried you down the hall.

—

The other time it happened—more dramatic, more Hopper—was earlier that week at the grocery store.

You’d been waiting in line with him, holding his hand, minding your business… until you caught some woman openly staring at the two of you. Not the harmless kind, either. Judging. Whispering. Making faces.

You felt your jaw tighten. Hopper felt it too.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re about to do something.”

You definitely were.

The moment you started to step toward the woman, Hopper sighed heavily, grabbed you by the waist, and—with a skill that suggested he’d had practice—hoisted you over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

“HEY!” you sputtered, your voice echoing down the cereal aisle.

“One,” Hopper counted, tightening his arm so you couldn’t slip. “You don’t fight rude strangers in the grocery store. Two, you’re adorable but you’re gonna give me a heart attack. And three—” He patted your thigh. “We’re going home.”

“Put me DOWN!”

“Nope.”

The woman staring at you two went beet-red and looked away so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. Hopper shot her one look—a look that said exactly how little he cared about her opinion—and marched right on out the automatic doors with you bouncing on his shoulder, your fists thumping lightly against his back.

And damn it… you loved him for it.