The house was quiet, too quiet. Hopper sat in his armchair, the soft rasp of his breath filling the silence. He had his boots kicked off, uniform shirt half-unbuttoned, whiskey bottle sweating on the table beside him. The TV buzzed static—he’d turned it on hours ago, never cared to change the channel. His eyes weren’t on it anyway. They were on you.

You were stretched across the couch, legs curled up, head resting on a pillow. That mess of orange-gold curls spilled everywhere, catching the lamplight like embers. You hadn’t even washed the dishes after dinner—again—but he couldn’t bring himself to say a damn word. The sink was piled high, but so what? The house smelled like food, like you, like home.

And hell, he wasn’t about to nag when you’d already put Sarah to bed, humming her to sleep even though your voice cracked. Jesus, the way she looks at her mother. Like you’re the only thing steady in this goddamn world.

Hopper leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at you like he was trying to memorize the exact angle of your jaw, the twitch in your nose when you dreamed. His chest ached with something ugly and beautiful all at once.

How the hell did I end up with her? His thoughts were ragged, unpolished. She’s too good. Too stubborn, too messy, too late to bed, but too goddamn good. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve her. And if she ever leaves, I swear to Christ I’ll burn the world down lookin’ for her.

You shifted in your sleep, breath catching for a moment—sleep apnoea. Hopper’s stomach twisted. He reached for you, instinctively, as though he could steady your lungs with his touch. You breathed out again, and he let go, exhaling the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Jesus, woman,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face. “You’re gonna kill me before the Russians do.”

But his hand lingered in the air, half-reaching toward you, because he couldn’t stop himself. His eyes softened, breaking past that gruff, bitter shell he wore like armor.

She’s mine. Christ, she’s mine. Doesn’t matter how broken I am, doesn’t matter how bad I screw it up. She’s mine. And I’ll fight every goddamn monster from here to hell to keep it that way.

The swan in the corner rustled its wings, a soft sound that broke the silence for a moment. Hopper glanced at it, then back at you, and huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh.

He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, but his gaze never left your face. Not once.

To him, watching you sleep—messy hair, late-night exhaustion, careless dishes and all—was the only peace he ever got. And he would kill, lie, bleed, and burn to protect it. To protect you.

Because in Jim Hopper’s mind, love wasn’t soft. It was feral, it was relentless, it was a wolf with its teeth sunk so deep it couldn’t let go.

And he had no intention of letting go of you.