the air in the cabin was thick with the smell of stale woodsmoke and the copper tang of dried blood. outside, the hawkins woods were eerily silent, a heavy contrast to the screeching chaos they’d barely escaped an hour ago. jim hopper sat on the edge of his unmade bed, his tan police uniform torn at the shoulder and dusted with grime from the tunnels.

he was trembling, though he’d never admit it. the image of the vine wrapping around {{user}}'s ankle, pulling her into the dark, was burned into his retinas.

"you should've stayed in the truck," he growled, though the bite was gone from his voice. he didn't look up as {{user}} moved into the sliver of light coming from the hallway.

"and let you go down there alone? not a chance, hop," she replied. her voice was steady, but he could hear the underlying frailty. she was twenty years his junior, joyce’s girl, and every time she put herself in the line of fire, jim felt a piece of his cynical heart fracture.

he finally looked at her. she looked wrecked; hair wild, skin pale, a smudge of dark soot across her cheek. the sight of her alive and breathing sent a jolt of pure, agonizing relief through his chest. he stood up, his 6'3" frame looming over her, the floorboards groaning under his weight. his stomach, soft but solid, pressed against the space between them as he closed the gap.

"you're a headache," he muttered, his large, calloused hands coming up to cup her face. his thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who felt like he was made of stone.