The match hissed to life like a snake in the quiet, biting into the dark with a flicker of gold.

Jim Hopper cupped it against the wind that wasn’t really there, just the memory of one, and lit the end of his cigarette like it was a ritual—slow, precise, like maybe the weight of the world hinged on the drag he took a moment later.

The porch creaked under his boots as he leaned on the rail, bare arms crossed, sweatpants hanging loose on his hips. The night was thick with trees and ghosts. That kind of silence that felt like it was listening.

Inside, the fire in the hearth was a low, lazy thing, casting long shadows across the walls of the cabin. He could see the edge of the blanket from where he stood, curled over the mattress, the vague shape of someone still asleep—or pretending to be.

Jim didn't look too long.

Just one cigarette. That’s all he wanted. One quiet moment.

The stars were out. Rare enough that he noticed. Normally, the sky was swallowed by cloud and the kind of Indiana fog that made everything feel like it was hiding something. But tonight it was clear—stars sharp as broken glass, scattered across black velvet.

He took another drag. Exhaled slowly. The smoke curled around him like a ghost too tired to haunt.

Jim wasn’t built for peace. Not really. The quiet made his skin itch. Always had. That silence had a way of pulling things out of you—things you didn’t wanna look at too long. Like old photo albums or hospital forms you never signed. Like the sound of Sarah’s laugh echoing out of nowhere.

He rubbed at his jaw, beard rough beneath his fingers, and muttered something that didn’t quite make it into words.

Truth was, he’d gotten used to being alone. Liked it, even. No one to answer to. No one to disappoint. Just him, his coffee, and the slow grind of days turning over like dead leaves.

And yet here he was. Cigarette burning down. Heart doing that dumb, slow thing in his chest.

He glanced back through the door—just a flick of his eyes. The bed was still. Soft rise and fall of breath, maybe. The cabin seemed smaller now. Or warmer. Or both.

God, he needed another cigarette.

But he didn’t light a second one. Just stood there, smoke trailing from the one he hadn’t finished yet, shoulders heavy with something he didn’t have a name for. He’d always been better at punching through problems than talking about them.

Jim would keep the night like this. Quiet. Simple. Nothing needed to be said. Not yet.

Still—his gaze drifted toward the bed again, lingering this time. Not long. Just enough to feel the gravity of it.

Then he turned back to the dark, the stars, and the soft creak of old wood beneath his weight.