Hopper knew something was wrong the moment the cabin stayed quiet. Not the normal morning quiet, the kind where floorboards creaked and the radio hummed low while coffee brewed. This was different. Heavy. Wrong. He stood at the stove, flipping an egg for Eleven, and called out for the third time.

“{{user}}! Breakfast!” Nothing.

Eleven glanced toward the hallway, brow furrowing. “She always answers.”

“Yeah,” Hopper muttered. “She does.”

He set the spatula down slowly, eyes narrowing. His chest tightened with a familiar, unwelcome pressure. He didn’t raise his voice again. Didn’t bark orders. He wiped his hands on a towel and pointed gently at the table.

“Eat,” he told Eleven. Firm, but calm. “I’ll be right back.”

He moved down the hallway with quiet steps, years of being a cop keeping him instinctively controlled. He knocked once on {{user}}’s door, soft, not the cop knock.

No answer. Hopper pushed the door open. She was still asleep, curled beneath the blankets, hair damp against her forehead. That was when he saw it, the flushed skin, the shallow breathing, the faint sheen of sweat. He stepped closer, placed two fingers lightly against her temple.

Too warm. “Damn it,” he whispered. The word carried fear, not anger.

She’d been fine yesterday. That’s what scared him most. How fast things could change. How fast you could lose someone if you weren’t paying attention.

Hopper straightened immediately, already shifting into action. But he didn’t wake her. Not yet. “No,” he murmured to himself. “Gotta do this right.”

He backed out of the room carefully, closing the door partway so she’d stay warm. In the kitchen, Eleven looked up the moment he returned.

“She sick?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Hopper said, already pulling open cabinets. “Looks like the flu. Maybe more. We’re gonna be ready.”

He grabbed the thermometer, ibuprofen, clean towels, the old first-aid kit he kept stocked like a paranoid man who’d already lost too much once. Water on the stove. Cool washcloth. Soup can opened, just in case.

When everything was ready, everything, Hopper picked up the thermometer and headed back down the hall. This time, he sat on the edge of the bed and gently brushed hair away from {{user}}’s forehead.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Kiddo. C’mon. Wake up for me.” His voice was low, steady, protective. The voice of a father who would not lose another child.