it’s late in the cabin, the only real light coming from the flickering, grainy glow of the television set. the muffled sounds of some late-night talk show host are the only thing cutting through the heavy silence of the woods outside. jim’s got his boots off, bare feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling loosely from his hand. his hawkins police shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal weathered, sturdy forearms.

he thinks you’re asleep. he’d watched you, el, and max retreat into el’s room hours ago with a pile of blankets and a bowl of popcorn.

the floorboards creak, just a tiny groan of wood, but it’s enough to make his head turn. he sees you standing in the hallway, looking small in the shadows. he doesn't jump; he’s a cop, and he’s been through enough hell to know the difference between a monster and a girl who can’t sleep.

"girls finally out?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate in the small room.

"yeah," you murmur, stepping further into the light. "fell asleep during the movie. i didn't want to wake them."

jim grunts, taking a slow swig of his beer. he studies you for a second, his blue eyes tired but sharp. he can see the restlessness in your posture. he knows that look; he sees it in the mirror every morning. it’s the look of someone who’s seen the dark side of hawkins and can't quite get comfortable when the lights go out.

"sit down, {{user}}," he says, gesturing with his bottle toward the empty spot on the sofa next to him. it isn't a suggestion; it’s an invitation, offered with that gruff, protective weight he carries.

you sink into the cushions, the heat from his side of the couch radiating toward you. he smells like tobacco, old cedar, and the faint metallic tang of his service weapon sitting on the sideboard. it’s a grounded, solid smell. it’s the smell of safety.

"can't sleep?" he asks, eyes returning to the tv screen, though he’s clearly paying more attention to the henderson girl.

"i just... i don't like the quiet," you admit, your voice barely over a whisper. "not after everything."

jim huffs a dry, cynical breath, but his expression softens. he shifts his weight, his thick shoulder brushing against yours. he doesn't say anything cheesy, that’s not jim hopper. instead, he reaches out, his large, calloused hand coming to rest briefly on your knee before he pulls it back, a rare and awkward show of affection.

"you aren't alone," he says firmly, his gaze fixed on the screen. "i'm right here. i'm not going anywhere, and nothing’s getting through that door tonight. you hear me?"