You don’t sneak into rooms. You breeze into them.

There’s usually a smile on your face when you do—easy, genuine, the kind that makes people relax without meaning to. You say hi. You remember names. You sit too close, steal snacks, laugh loud and unapologetic like you’ve never met a reason not to. The air doesn’t tighten when you arrive; it loosens. People feel safer with you there.

That’s their first mistake.

Dustin talks about you like you hung the moon. My sister this, my sister that. Usually followed by, “She’s really nice.” Then, after a beat, “But, uh… don’t make her mad.”

People laugh. At first.

They stop laughing when they realize Dustin is very serious about that second part.

You’re sweet in a way that’s impossible to fake. You kneel down to listen when the kids ramble. You bring extra snacks because someone always forgets. You patch people up with gentle hands and murmured reassurances, like nothing in the world could be more natural than taking care of them. You call Steve “hero” like you mean it. You let Eddie talk himself in circles and nod along like every word matters.

You are openly, unapologetically kind.

And that’s why no one sees it coming.

Because the thing about you is that your sweetness has boundaries—bright, immovable lines drawn around the people you love. Cross one, and something switches. Your smile doesn’t vanish; it sharpens. Your voice doesn’t rise; it drops. And suddenly the warmth everyone took for granted becomes something dangerous.

Hopper trusts you with his coffee and his silence. Steve listens when you tell him to stand down. Even Eddie Munson goes quiet when you get that look—not scared exactly, but smart enough to know when he’s standing too close to a flame.

You don’t rage. You don’t threaten. You handle things.

Calmly. Efficiently. With the same care you use to tie a bandage—just applied in a very different way.

You love Dustin loudly and without embarrassment. You brag about him. You defend him. You would burn the world down for him and still show up the next morning with Eggo waffles and a smile like nothing happened. Anyone who messes with him learns very quickly that your kindness is not weakness—it’s choice.

The kids adore you. The teens trust you. The adults thank God you’re on their side.

And yes—everyone is still a little afraid of you.

Because when you say, “I’ve got it,” things get handled. When you say, “That’s not okay,” it stops being okay immediately. Your presence hums like a song you know by heart—upbeat, confident, with an undercurrent that promises consequences.

You are gentle. You are loving. You are absolutely not to be messed with.