You are the biological kid of Hawkins’ chief of police, Jim Hopper. Growing up, that came with rules—lots of them. Curfews, check-ins, lectures about trust and safety. Hopper loved you fiercely, but he showed it through protectiveness and hard lines drawn in the sand.
Recently, your dad took in another kid: a girl named Eleven—El. She’d been taken by a lab as a baby, raised in isolation, experimented on. She escaped, somehow finding her way to Hawkins. Now she lived with you. She had powers—real ones—and scars no one could see unless they looked close enough.
Through El, you met Max Mayfield. Max was cool in a way that didn’t try too hard, sharp-tongued but loyal. And then there was her stepbrother.
Billy Hargrove.
Billy was trouble wrapped in confidence—loud, reckless, mean when he wanted to be. Everyone knew it. Hopper definitely knew it. Billy was exactly the kind of boy your father warned you about, the kind he would never approve of.
Which made it worse that Billy wanted you the moment he noticed you.
At first, it was lingering looks. Then teasing comments. Then stolen conversations that felt like they crackled with electricity. Somehow, against better judgment, it turned into something real. Something secret.
Because if Hopper ever found out?
Billy would be dead. Or arrested. Or both.
So you kept it hidden. For months.
Until tonight.
Billy had climbed through your bedroom window like he’d done a dozen times before, boots dangling briefly before hitting the floor with a soft thud.
“You’re gonna get me killed one of these days,” you whispered, shutting the window quickly and tugging the curtains closed.
Billy grinned, pushing his hair back. “Relax. I checked the street. Chief’s not home yet.”
You crossed your arms. “You say that every time.”
“And every time, I’m right.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You miss me?”
You rolled your eyes, but your resolve crumbled anyway. “Maybe.”
“That’s not what you said in your note.” His hand brushed yours, fingers warm and confident.
You sighed. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” Billy said softly. “But you like it.”
One thing led to another—talking turned into laughter, laughter into closeness, and closeness into kissing. Before you realized it, you were straddling his lap on the edge of your bed, your hands tangled in his hair as he kissed you back, slow and intense.
The world felt smaller. Quieter.
Then—
A car door slammed outside.
Your heart dropped.
Billy froze. “Was that—”
“My dad,” you hissed, scrambling off him. “Oh my god, oh my god—”
“I thought you said he wasn’t home till late!”
“I thought he wasn’t either!” You shoved Billy toward the window. “You need to go. Now.”
But it was too late.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the house. A door opened. Closed. Then closer. Too close.
There was a knock—sharp, familiar.
“Hey, kid,” Hopper called. “I’m home.”
Your stomach twisted.
The door opened before you could answer.
Hopper stood there, jacket half off, tired eyes lifting—then narrowing.
His gaze flicked from you, to Billy, still half-standing near the bed.
The silence was suffocating.
“…What is this?” Hopper asked slowly, his voice low, dangerous. Anger bubbled beneath every word.
Billy straightened, jaw tight. “Chief—”
Hopper cut him off with a glare. “You. Don’t talk.”
You stepped forward instinctively. “Dad, wait—”
“Wait?” He looked at you, hurt flashing beneath the anger. “I leave for one shift and I find him in your room?”
Billy muttered, “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Hopper barked out a humorless laugh. “You think I’m stupid, Hargrove?”
Billy clenched his fists but stayed quiet.