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Hawkins woke slowly.
It always did—reluctant, creaking, pretending yesterday hadn’t happened. Joyce Byers liked the early hours best, when the town hadn’t yet decided who it expected her to be.
Melvald’s smelled like cardboard and floor cleaner and routine. Joyce moved through it like muscle memory made human: lights, register, shelves, the quiet dignity of doing a job well even when no one noticed.
The bell rang.
She didn’t look up.
“Morning, Joyce.”
Jim Hopper’s voice had a way of settling into places. Rough-edged, lived-in, like it had survived things. It always made something in her chest tighten—annoyingly, traitorously.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
She glanced at him then. Uniform today. Sleeves rolled. No hat. Never the hat.
He leaned against the counter, close enough that she could smell coffee and rain and him. Hopper always stood too close. Joyce pretended she didn’t notice while cataloging every inch of the space between them.
He picked up a candy bar. Put it down. Picked up gum. Put that down too.
“You need help?” she asked dryly.
“Just browsing.”
“You’ve been browsing for six months.”
“Slow reader.”
She snorted before she could stop herself. He smiled like he’d won something.
Their fingers brushed when she rang him up for nothing at all.
Neither of them pulled away.
They ran into each other everywhere.
The diner, where Hopper stole her fries and she stole his coffee creamers just to be petty.
The post office, rain-soaked, where he held the door open and watched her walk through like it mattered.
The grocery store, where Joyce pretended not to see him watching another man laugh with her—and Hopper pretended he wasn’t gripping his cart too hard.
“You’re scowling,” she told him later, stacking cans.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe the soup offended me.”
She smiled softly, then sobered. “You okay, Hop?”
The nickname slipped out without thought.
He froze.
Just for a second.
“Don’t call me that,” he said, too fast.
She blinked. “Sorry.”
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “No— I just—” He stopped. Looked at her. “Just not used to it.”
She didn’t stop calling him that.
Hop when she was teasing.
Hop when she was worried.
Hop when she said his name like it mattered.
He noticed. God, did he notice.
Hopper didn’t like the way men looked at Joyce.
Didn’t like the way they lingered. Didn’t like the way some of them smiled like they’d been invited.
He especially didn’t like the delivery guy.
“You’re hovering,” Joyce said one afternoon, arms crossed.
“Protecting.”
“From what?”
“Idiots.”
She raised a brow. “You volunteering to be one?”
His mouth twitched. “Only if you’re watching.”
Later, when the guy leaned too close, Hopper stepped in without thinking.
“She busy,” he said flatly.
Joyce stared at him afterward. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
He met her gaze, honest and unguarded. “Because it bothered me.”
Something warm and dangerous bloomed in her chest.
Joyce locked up late.
The rain came down hard, sharp against pavement, the parking lot mostly empty. Her keys fumbled in her hand.
Footsteps.
Too close.
The man wasn’t loud. That was what scared her. His voice was low, insistent, wrong.
“Just wanna talk.”
“No,” she said, backing away. “You really don’t.”
He grabbed her wrist.
Time slowed.
Fear was cold and hot all at once, crawling under her skin. She fought, heart hammering, rain blurring everything—
“Hawkins PD.”
Hopper’s voice cut through the night like a gunshot.
The man didn’t let go fast enough.
Hopper didn’t hesitate.
Hands firm. Command sharp. Fury barely leashed. He put himself between Joyce and the man like instinct made flesh.
When it was over, Joyce sagged against Hopper’s chest without meaning to.
He caught her.
Held her.
“You’re safe,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ve got you.”
She clutched his jacket, breath coming fast. “Hop.”
That time, he didn’t stop her.
After that, they touched more.
Not boldly. Not openly.
A hand at her elbow.
Fingers brushing her wrist when he passed her coffee.
Joyce straightening his collar, lingering a second too long.
Every touch landed like a promise neither of them had made yet.
One night in his truck, rain drumming overhead, the silence stretched thin.
“This is getting dangerous,” Joyce said softly.
“Yeah,” he replied. “But not in the way you mean.”
They leaned in—
A car horn shattered the moment.
Joyce laughed breathlessly. Hopper cursed.
“Sooner or later,” he said, eyes dark, “this is gonna happen.”
She met his gaze. “I know.”
The next morning, Hopper didn’t circle.
“You busy tonight?” he asked at Melvald’s.
Joyce smiled slowly. “No.”
“Dinner. Enzo’s. A real date.”
Enzo’s
Enzo’s was warm and dim, garlic and laughter and red-checkered tablecloths. Lasagna shared. Dessert stolen off each other’s plates.
“You nervous?” she teased.
“Terrified.”
She reached across the table. Touched his hand.
“Good,” she said.
They kissed under a streetlight, slow and deliberate, like the world had finally agreed to wait.
Later, pressed close, Joyce whispered, “Hop.”
He stilled.
“No one says it like you,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
He hesitated, then confessed, voice low. “Because when you say it, my heart does this stupid thing.”
She smiled against his cheek. “That’s because I’m the only one who means it.”
Jim Hopper had always believed control was something you earned through discipline.
You kept your feet planted.
Your voice steady.
Your hands where you could see them.
Joyce Byers destroyed that theory without ever trying.
It happened in small ways at first.
The way she leaned against his desk at the station, hip pressing lightly into the edge, like she wasn’t aware of how much space she occupied in his field of vision. The way she brought him lunch again—not because he asked, but because she thought of him. The way she said his name.
“Hop,” she murmured, passing him a paper bag.
The sound of it loosened something deep in his chest. Something old. Something tender and unguarded and deeply unsafe.
He closed the office door.
Not urgently.
Not dramatically.
Just… decisively.
Joyce noticed. Her eyes flicked to the lock, then back to him. Curious. Warm. Not afraid.
“You working through lunch?” she asked.
He stepped closer.
“I don’t think I can,” he said quietly.
Her breath caught—not sharp, but slow. Anticipatory.
“That sounds serious, Chief.”
“Don’t,” he said, voice rough. “Don’t call me that right now.”
She smiled, soft and knowing. “Why?”
“Because if you do,” he said, stopping just short of touching her, “I’m not gonna be able to pretend I’m fine.”
She reached for him then.
Not boldly. Not urgently.
Her fingers slid into the open collar of his uniform, resting against his chest, right over his heart.
“Hop,” she said gently.
The world tilted.
He kissed her like restraint was a language he was forgetting.
Slow at first. Careful. His hand came up to her jaw, thumb brushing along the line of it like he was learning the shape by heart. Joyce leaned into it, answering him without hesitation, without doubt.
Her hands found his shoulders. Slid down his arms. Everywhere she touched him, he felt it—felt seen.
God, he was undone.
“Joyce,” he breathed against her mouth.
“Yes,” she whispered, every bit of her attention on him.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, letting the heat build naturally, letting it stretch. Her body fit against his like it had always known how. When her fingers curled in his shirt, he made a low sound he didn’t recognize as his own.
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed.
“I don’t do this,” he admitted. “I don’t lose control.”
She brushed her thumb along his cheek. “You’re not losing it,” she said softly. “You’re choosing me.”
That did it.
He pulled her closer, arms wrapping around her fully now, holding her like the world might try to take her away if he didn’t. Joyce melted into him, her breath warm against his neck, her hands steady and sure.
They didn’t rush.
They learned.
The station was quiet outside his office. Inside, everything burned.
Later—time softened, edges blurred—they sat together on the couch in his office, Joyce tucked against his side, his arm draped around her like it belonged there.
She traced idle patterns on his chest.
“You tense up every time I call you Hop,” she said thoughtfully.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You noticed.”
“I notice things,” she replied. “Why does it undo you so much?”
He hesitated. Then sighed.
“No one ever said it like that,” he said. “Not like it means something. Not like it’s… just for me.”
She shifted, lifting her head to look at him. Her eyes were warm, open, entirely unguarded.
“I say it,” she told him, “because it’s you. Because when I say Hop, you soften. And I like knowing I can do that.”
He swallowed hard.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.
She smiled. “So are you.”
The next time it happened, it was at his place.
Domestic and quiet and devastating.
Joyce barefoot in his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts because she’d spilled coffee on herself. Hopper leaning against the doorway, watching her like he couldn’t believe this was real.
“You’re staring again,” she said.
“I can’t help it.”
She crossed the room slowly, deliberately. Reached up, straightened his collar the way she always did. Her fingers lingered.
“Hop,” she whispered.
His hands came up automatically, resting at her waist, thumbs brushing her skin beneath the fabric. The contact was gentle—reverent.
“I used to think,” he said quietly, “that if I ever let myself want something this much, it’d ruin me.”
“And now?”
He met her gaze. Vulnerable. Open.
“Now I think you’re the thing holding me together.”
She kissed him then, slow and deep and certain. He followed her willingly, completely, letting go of every last defense. The world narrowed to warmth and breath and shared space.
Later, wrapped together, Joyce pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
“You okay?” she asked.
He smiled, soft and real and entirely unguarded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am now.”