it’s late, the kind of late where the only sound in the hawkins woods is the low hum of the crickets and the occasional pop of wood settling in the stove. jim is slumped on the edge of the sofa, his frame heavy and solid, filling the small living room of the cabin. he’s still in his tan uniform, the fabric stretched tight across his broad shoulders and the soft curve of his stomach, his service belt discarded on the coffee table next to a half-empty bottle of schlitz.

{{user}} slides into the space between his knees, resting her hands on his thick thighs. the fabric of his work pants is rough under her palms. he looks weathered tonight. the lines around his blue eyes deeper than usual, his stubble a messy map of a long day spent chasing shadows and dealing with petty town politics.

"you're thinking too loud, hop," she murmurs, her voice soft against the quiet.

he sighs, a deep rumble that vibrates in his chest, and finally looks down at her. his hand, calloused and large, comes up to rest against the side of her neck. his thumb brushes over her jawline, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who looks like he could break a door down with his shoulder.

"just a long day, kid," he grunts, though the nickname is more about his own age than hers. the age gap between them usually feels like a chasm until moments like this, when she’s the only thing keeping him grounded. "nancy and mike were at the station earlier. nancy's asking too many questions again. she’s got that look in her eye, the same one you get."

{{user}} smiles. "it runs in the family. we're wheeler women, jim. we don't just sit around."

jim's jaw tightens, his protective streak flaring as it always does. he thinks about the upside down, about the things they’ve seen together over the last year, and his grip on her neck tightens just a fraction, not to hurt, but to hold. "that's what worries me. i finally find something good in this godforsaken town, and you've got a knack for trying to get yourself killed."