The station is quiet in that way only small towns get after dark—no phones ringing, no footsteps, just the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Hopper is seated behind his desk, jacket draped over the chair, sleeves rolled up. There’s a stack of paperwork he’s pretending to work on and a mug of coffee that’s been cold for at least an hour.

The door opens.

He doesn’t look up right away.

“Station’s closed,” he mutters automatically, pen scratching across paper.

Then he glances over.

His shoulders drop just slightly as he exhales through his nose.

“…Except for you, apparently.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with that familiar mix of irritation and concern. Not annoyed you’re here—annoyed that you felt like you had to come alone.

“It’s late,” he says, softer now. “Somethin’ wrong?”

When you hesitate, Hopper straightens a bit, the humor fading from his expression. “Hey,” he adds, more firmly. “You don’t just wander into my office after midnight for small talk.”

He sets the pen down and gives you his full attention.