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Chapter Text

The Hawkins arcade glowed under the November sky, its neon lights buzzing and flickering like a heartbeat against the cold, creeping dusk. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of popcorn and the tinny clatter of pinball machines, kids shouting over each other to claim the next quarter.

Max Mayfield leaned against the Skee-Ball machine, her red hair catching the pink glow of a nearby sign. She was supposed to be having fun, her friends, Lucas, Dustin, Mike, Will, and El, were scattered around, laughing and shoving each other over who got the high score on Galaga. But Max’s eyes kept darting to the clock above the prize counter. 7:15 p.m. Billy was late. Billy was never late.

She shifted her weight, scuffing her sneakers against the sticky floor. Her stomach twisted, not just from the usual annoyance of waiting on her stepbrother, but from something heavier, something she couldn’t name.

Billy had been weirder than usual lately, snappier, quieter, his eyes always scanning like he was waiting for a punch to land. Max chewed her lip, glancing at Mike who was trying to impress El with a claw machine grab. She wanted to join them, to laugh and pretend everything was fine, but the knot in her gut wouldn’t let her.

Outside, the parking lot was a patchwork of shadows under the streetlights. Steve Harrington pulled up in his BMW, the engine rumbling as he cut it off and stepped out, his hair still somehow perfect despite the chilly wind. He was there to pick up Dustin, who’d been yapping about some new high score all week. Steve scanned the arcade through the glass doors, spotting Dustin’s curly hair and trucker hat bobbing near the arcade cabinets. But then he noticed Max, standing alone, her arms crossed tight, her face pinched with worry.

“Hey, Max,” Steve called, pushing through the doors, the bell jingling above him. “You good?”

Max shrugged, trying to play it cool, but her eyes flicked to the clock again. “Billy’s late. He’s supposed to be here by seven.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, leaning against the Skee-Ball machine next to her. “Hargrove? Late? That’s a new one.” He glanced out at the parking lot, half-expecting to see the Camaro’s headlights roaring in any second, Billy’s usual cocky grin behind the wheel. But the lot was quiet, just a couple of kids’ bikes and a stray dog sniffing around. “You want me to hang out till he shows?”

Max hesitated, then nodded, her voice small. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Steve gave her a lopsided smile, the kind that said he’d seen enough weird shit in Hawkins to know when something felt off. “No problem, kid. Let’s just chill. He’ll probably roll up any minute, blasting that crap he calls music.”

But ten minutes ticked by, then fifteen. Max’s pacing got worse, her sneakers squeaking against the floor. Steve tried to keep her distracted, tossing her a quarter to play a round of Pac-Man, but she barely touched the joystick. Her eyes kept going to the door, to the clock, to the empty lot outside. Steve’s gut started to churn too.

Billy was a lot of things, loud, obnoxious, a total asshole sometimes, but he was punctual, especially when it came to Max. Neil’s rules were ironclad, and Billy followed them like a soldier. Something wasn’t right.

The bell jingled again, and Chief Jim Hopper strode in, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. His flannel shirt was untucked, his hat slightly askew, like he’d been dragged out of a nap to come pick up El. His adopted daughter was over by the claw machine, giggling with Lucas, her curly hair bouncing as she cheered him on. Hopper’s eyes softened when he saw her, but they sharpened when he caught sight of Steve and Max.

“Everything okay?” Hopper’s voice was gruff, but there was a warmth under it, the kind that came from years of wrangling kids and monsters alike.

Steve jerked his chin toward Max. “Billy’s a no-show. Max is getting worried.”

Hopper frowned, his gaze shifting to Max, who was twisting her fingers together, her face pale under the neon glow. “How late is he?”

“Almost half an hour,” Max said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s never this late. Something’s… something’s wrong, I know it.”

Hopper’s jaw tightened, his cop instincts kicking in. He’d heard enough about Neil Hargrove, rumors around town, whispers about a temper, the kind of guy who’d make a kid like Billy flinch in ways most people wouldn’t notice. Hopper had seen Billy around, all swagger and smirks, but there was something under it, something caged. He didn’t like the math adding up in his head.

“Alright,” Hopper said, his tone firm but gentle. “I’m taking El home. Max, you’re coming with us. We’ll swing by your place, check on Billy. Probably just car trouble or something.”

Max nodded, relief flickering in her eyes, but the worry didn’t leave. El jogged over, sensing the shift in mood, her big eyes darting between Hopper and Max. “Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

“Yeah, kid,” Hopper said, ruffling her hair. “Just gotta make a quick stop. Let’s go.”

Steve hesitated, glancing at Dustin, who was still oblivious, trash-talking Mike over a game. “You need me to come along, Chief?”

Hopper shook his head. “Get Dustin home. I’ll handle it. Call the station if you hear anything weird, alright?”

Steve nodded, giving Max a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Max. Hopper’s got this.”

The drive to the Hargrove-Mayfield house was quiet, the only sound the hum of Hopper’s Blazer and the occasional sniffle from Max in the backseat. El reached over, squeezing Max’s hand, and Max squeezed back, her knuckles white.

Hopper kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was racing. He didn’t know Billy well, just another loudmouth kid with a fast car and a chip on his shoulder, but Max’s fear was real, and that was enough to make his gut twist.

When they pulled up to the house on Cherry Lane, the sight hit like a punch. Billy’s Camaro sat in the driveway, its tires slashed to ribbons, the windshield shattered. Neil’s truck was gone. The front door was ajar, swaying slightly in the wind, and the porch light was off, leaving the house swallowed in shadow.

“Stay here,” Hopper said, his voice low, hand already on the gun at his hip. “Both of you.”

“No way,” Max snapped, her voice shaking but defiant. “That’s my house. I’m coming.”

Hopper turned, his eyes hard but not unkind. “Max, I need you safe. Stay with El. If I need you, I’ll call.”

Max’s jaw clenched, but she nodded, sinking back into the seat. El grabbed her hand again, anchoring her. Hopper stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel as he approached the house, his flashlight beam cutting through the dark. The air felt wrong, heavy, like the world was holding its breath.

He pushed the door open, and the smell hit him first, coppery, sharp. Blood. The living room was a wreck: furniture overturned, a lamp shattered on the floor, papers scattered like confetti. Blood smeared the walls, streaked across the carpet, pooling under two still forms by the couch.

“Jesus Christ,” Hopper muttered, his heart pounding as he swept the flashlight over the scene. Susan Mayfield lay crumpled, her eyes open and lifeless, her red hair matted with blood. Next to her, Billy Hargrove was sprawled, his face swollen and bruised, blood seeping from gashes on his chest and arms. He wasn’t moving.

“Max, call 911!” Hopper shouted, his voice cutting through the night. “El, get my first aid kit from the trunk, now!”

Max’s scream shattered the silence as she scrambling out of the Blazer and ran to the door. “Billy! Mom!” Her voice broke, raw and desperate, as she froze in the doorway, her eyes locked on the carnage.

“Max, stay back!” Hopper barked, kneeling beside Billy, his hands already pressing against the worst of the wounds, trying to stem the bleeding. “Call for help, kid, now!”

Max stumbled to the phone, her hands shaking so bad she could barely dial. El sprinted in with the first aid kit, her face pale but focused, dropping it beside Hopper. “Is he…?” she whispered, unable to finish.

“He’s alive,” Hopper said, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Just barely. Susan…” He shook his head, not wanting to say it out loud. He tore open the kit, grabbing gauze and pressing it hard against Billy’s chest, his large hands surprisingly gentle. Blood soaked through instantly, warm and sticky under his fingers. “Come on, kid,” he muttered, leaning close to Billy’s ear. “Stay with me. You’re tougher than this.”

Billy’s face was a mess, his lip split, one eye swollen shut, bruises blooming purple and black across his jaw. His breaths were shallow, ragged, each one sounding like it cost him everything. Hopper’s chest tightened, a surge of protectiveness hitting him hard. He’d seen Billy strutting around Hawkins, all leather jackets and loud music, acting like he owned the place. But this, this broken, bleeding kid, was something else entirely. Fragile in a way Hopper hadn’t expected, and it stirred something deep, something he didn’t have time to unpack.

“Billy, can you hear me?” Hopper’s voice was low, urgent, his hands steady as he applied more pressure. “You gotta stay awake, alright? Help’s coming.”

Billy’s eyes fluttered, just a sliver, glassy and unfocused. A weak groan slipped out, barely audible, and tears streaked through the blood on his face. “Neil…” he whispered, his voice a broken rasp, like it took everything he had to say it. “He… did this…”

Hopper’s blood ran cold, his jaw clenching so hard it hurt. He’d suspected Neil was bad news, but this, this was a nightmare. “You’re safe now,” he said, his voice rough but soft, like he was coaxing a scared animal. “I’ve got you, kid. He’s not touching you again.”

Billy’s head lolled, his eyes slipping shut, but the faintest whimper escaped him, vulnerable and raw. It cracked something in Hopper’s tough exterior, a warmth spreading through him that he didn’t understand, a need to protect, to fix this, to pull this kid back from the edge. He kept one hand on the gauze, the other cradling Billy’s head, his thumb brushing blood-matted curls from his forehead. “Stay with me,” he murmured again, his voice almost a plea.

Max was sobbing now, crouched by the door, El’s arms around her. “Is he gonna die?” Max choked out, her voice small and terrified. “Hopper, is he…?”

“He’s not dying,” Hopper said firmly, though his heart was pounding. “Not on my watch.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, and Hopper felt a flicker of relief. He kept his hands on Billy, his focus laser-sharp, willing the kid to keep breathing. The paramedics burst in, a flurry of uniforms and shouted orders, and Hopper stepped back just enough to let them work, his eyes never leaving Billy. They loaded him onto a stretcher, his body limp, his face ghostly under the flashing ambulance lights.

Max started to follow, but Hopper caught her gently by the shoulders. “You ride with him,” he said, his voice soft but unyielding. “We’ll follow them to the hospital.”

Max nodded, tears streaming down her face as she climbed into the ambulance. Hopper glanced back at the house, Susan’s lifeless form still etched in his mind. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. Neil Hargrove was out there somewhere, and Hopper was going to find him. But first, he had to make sure Billy made it through the night.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Hopper’s mind was a storm, anger at Neil, worry for Billy, and that strange, protective pull he couldn’t shake. He didn’t know why Billy’s broken whispers hit him so hard, why the sight of him bleeding out on that floor felt personal. Maybe it was the way Billy had looked at him, those fleeting, pain-filled eyes searching for something, safety, maybe, or just someone to care. Hopper didn’t know. All he knew was he wasn’t letting that kid slip away.

At the hospital, the paramedics rushed Billy through the ER doors, shouting about blood loss and trauma. Max tried to run after them, but a nurse stopped her, guiding her to the waiting area. Hopper flashed his badge, his voice low and commanding. “I need updates on that kid. Hargrove. As soon as you’ve got something.”

The nurse nodded, and Hopper turned to Max and El, crouching to their level. “He’s in good hands,” he said, his voice softer now. “They’re gonna take care of him. You two stay here, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”

Max nodded, her face streaked with tears, and El hugged her tight. Hopper stood, his eyes lingering on the ER doors where Billy had disappeared. His chest felt tight, like something was clawing its way out, anger, guilt, and something else he couldn’t name. He’d seen a lot in Hawkins, fought monsters human and otherwise, but this felt different. This felt like a fight he couldn’t lose.

Steve’s BMW pulled up outside, and he jogged into the waiting room, his face pale. “Jesus, Hop, what the hell happened?” he asked, his voice low as he glanced at Max and El.

Hopper pulled him aside, keeping his voice down. “Neil Hargrove happened. Susan’s dead. Billy’s… bad. They’re working on him now.”

Steve’s eyes widened, his hand running through his hair. “Shit. Max okay?”

“She’s hanging on,” Hopper said, glancing at the girls. “Stay with them for a bit? I need to make some calls, get the station on this.”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve said, his voice steady despite the shock. “I’ll stick around. Whatever you need.”

Hopper nodded, clapping Steve’s shoulder before stepping outside to radio the station. The night air was cold, biting, but it didn’t touch the fire in his chest. Neil Hargrove was a dead man walking, as far as he was concerned. But as he stared out at the dark, his mind kept circling back to Billy, those broken whispers, that fragile strength. Something had shifted tonight, and Hopper wasn’t sure what it meant. All he knew was he’d be there when Billy woke up. He had to be.

The hospital waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes and made your skin itch. Max sat hunched in one of the plastic chairs, her knees pulled up to her chest, her sneakers leaving faint scuff marks on the seat. Her eyes were red, puffy from crying, but she’d gone quiet now, just staring at the double doors leading to the ER. El sat beside her, silent but close, her small hand resting on Max’s arm like an anchor. Hopper stood by the window, his broad frame blocking out the dim glow of the parking lot lights. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, but his jaw was tight, his eyes flicking between the doors and the girls.

The ambulance ride had been a blur, Max clinging to Billy’s hand, her voice shaking as she begged him not to die, while the paramedics worked around her, their voices clipped and urgent. Hopper had followed in his Blazer, El in the passenger seat, her face pale but steady. Now, they were all stuck in this limbo, waiting for news, the clock on the wall ticking past midnight. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making everything feel too bright, too sharp.

A doctor finally pushed through the doors, her scrubs wrinkled, her face tired but calm. Hopper was on her in an instant, his badge out before she could speak. “Hargrove,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Billy Hargrove. What’s the word?”

The doctor, Dr. Patel, according to her nametag, glanced at her clipboard, then at Hopper, sizing him up. “He’s out of surgery,” she said, her tone steady. “Stabilized, but he’s not out of the woods. Multiple fractures, ribs, left arm, cheekbone. Severe concussion, internal bleeding we managed to control. He’s under heavy anesthesia, won’t wake till morning at the earliest. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Hopper nodded, his face unreadable, but his gut churned. Lucky. Didn’t feel like the right word for a kid who’d been beaten within an inch of his life. “Can we see him?”

Dr. Patel hesitated, her eyes flicking to Max, who’d sat up straighter, her breath hitching. “Immediate family only, for now. He’s in ICU, critical condition. One visitor at a time, and keep it brief.”

Max was on her feet before the doctor finished, her voice fierce despite the tremble. “I’m his sister. I’m going.”

Hopper put a hand on her shoulder, gentle but firm. “Alright, Max. But you listen to the doc, okay? In and out. He needs rest.”

Max nodded, her jaw tight, and followed Dr. Patel through the doors. El watched her go, her big eyes filled with worry, but she didn’t say anything, just leaned into Hopper when he sat down beside her. He draped an arm around her, pulling her close, his mind still on the scene at the house, Susan’s lifeless body, Billy’s blood soaking into the carpet, that whispered accusation. Neil did this.

Max came back ten minutes later, her face pale, her hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets. She didn’t sit, just stood by the chairs, staring at the floor. “He looks… bad,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “All those tubes and machines. His face… it’s not even him.”

Hopper’s chest tightened. He stood, crouching in front of her, his hands on her shoulders. “He’s still in there, kid,” he said softly. “He’s tough. Tougher than he looks right now. He’s gonna pull through.”

Max’s eyes welled up, but she nodded, swallowing hard. “Can we stay? I don’t want to leave him.”

Hopper glanced at El, then back at Max. The idea of dragging them back to the cabin, leaving Billy alone in that sterile room, made his skin crawl. But they were kids, and it was late, and the house on Cherry Lane was a crime scene, taped off and crawling with cops. “Not tonight,” he said, hating how it sounded. “You need sleep. We’ll come back first thing in the morning, I promise.”

Max’s face crumpled, but she didn’t argue, just let El tug her into a hug. Hopper stood, running a hand over his face, his beard scratching against his palm. He felt like he’d aged ten years in the last few hours. “Come on,” he said, guiding them toward the exit. “Let’s get you two home.”

The drive to the cabin was quiet, the Blazer’s headlights cutting through the dark Indiana roads. Max stared out the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass, while El leaned against her, half-asleep. Hopper’s mind was a mess, anger at Neil, worry for Billy, and that strange, protective pull he’d felt kneeling beside the kid, his hands soaked in blood. He didn’t know what to make of it, didn’t want to poke at it too hard. All he knew was he needed to keep these kids safe, needed to make sure Billy got through this.

The cabin was cold when they got there, the woodstove long gone out. Hopper got the girls settled, Max on the couch with a pile of blankets, El in her own room, the door left open a crack. He made them hot chocolate, the kind with the little marshmallows El loved, but Max just held the mug, staring into it like it held answers. “He’s gonna be okay, right?” she asked, her voice small.

“Yeah,” Hopper said, sitting across from her, his own mug untouched. “He’s a fighter. You know that better than anyone.”

Max nodded, but her eyes were distant, haunted. She set the mug down and curled up under the blankets, turning away from him. Hopper watched her for a moment, then got up, grabbing his pack of smokes and stepping outside.

The night was crisp, the stars sharp overhead. He lit a cigarette, the glow flaring briefly as he inhaled, the smoke curling into the dark. He leaned against the porch railing, his mind replaying the night, Billy’s broken body, Max’s screams, the blood. Too much blood. He took another drag, trying to calm the storm in his chest, but it wasn’t working. Soft music drifted from the radio inside, some old Fleetwood Mac song, but it did little to ease the guilt gnawing at him.

He’d known Neil Hargrove was trouble. Hawkins was small; rumors traveled fast. Whispers about shouting matches, about Billy showing up to school with bruises he’d shrug off as fights. Hopper had seen it before, kids caught in homes like that, but he hadn’t done enough. Hadn’t checked in, hadn’t pushed. And now Susan was dead, and Billy was fighting for his life. Hopper exhaled, the smoke bitter on his tongue. He should’ve done something sooner. Should’ve seen it coming.

His radio crackled, and he grabbed it, hoping for an update on Neil. But it was just Callahan, reporting the house was secured, the crime scene team combing through it. No sign of Neil’s truck, no leads yet. Hopper muttered a thanks and clipped the radio back to his belt, his jaw tight. That bastard was out there somewhere, and Hopper was going to find him. But first, Billy.

The phone inside rang, jarring in the quiet. Hopper stubbed out his cigarette and stepped back in, grabbing the receiver before it woke the girls. “Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice low.

“Hey, Chief, it’s Steve.” Steve Harrington’s voice was hushed. “Just checking in. How’s Max? Any word on Billy?”

Hopper glanced at Max, still curled up on the couch, her breathing slow and even now. “Max is… hanging in there. Billy’s out of surgery, stable but rough. Won’t know more till morning.”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered. “That’s… God, that’s awful. You need anything? I can swing by with food, keep an eye on the kids, whatever.”

Hopper’s lips twitched, a faint smile breaking through the grim. Steve had a knack for stepping up when things got messy, even if he played it off like it was no big deal. “We’re good for now,” Hopper said. “But yeah, might take you up on that tomorrow. Max’ll need her friends around.”

“You got it,” Steve said. “I’ll rally the troops, make sure Dustin and the others don’t drive her nuts. Just… let me know if you need me, alright?”

“Yeah, kid. Thanks.” Hopper hung up, the weight of the night settling heavier on his shoulders. He sank into the armchair, the springs creaking under his weight, and rubbed his eyes. Sleep wasn’t happening tonight, not with Billy’s face burned into his mind, those glazed eyes, that weak whisper. Neil’s name on his lips like a curse.

Morning came too soon, the gray light filtering through the cabin’s curtains. Hopper was up before the girls, making coffee and scrambling eggs, trying to keep his hands busy. Max stirred first, sitting up on the couch, her hair a tangled mess. She looked at him, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and fear. “Can we go back now?” she asked, no preamble.

“Yeah,” Hopper said, setting a plate of eggs in front of her. “Eat something first. You too, El,” he called softly, seeing her shuffle out of her room, rubbing her eyes.

They ate in silence, the food more necessity than comfort. Hopper drove them back to the hospital, the Blazer’s heater rattling against the November chill. The waiting room was the same, same antiseptic smell, same buzzing lights, but it felt heavier now, the weight of the night pressing down. Dr. Patel met them, her face still tired but kind. “He’s still unconscious,” she said. “But he’s holding steady. You can see him, one at a time.”

Max went first again, her steps quick but hesitant. Hopper sat with El, his arm around her, his eyes on the doors. When Max came back, her face was pale, but she looked steadier, like seeing Billy again had anchored her somehow. “He’s still out,” she said, sitting beside El. “But… he looks a little better. Less gray.”

Hopper nodded, his throat tight. “Your turn, kid,” he said to El, but she shook her head.

“You go,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “He needs you.”

Hopper frowned, not sure what she meant, but he didn’t argue. He followed the nurse to the ICU, the beeping monitors and sterile air hitting him like a wave. Billy’s room was small, the curtains drawn, the only light coming from the machines hooked to him. He lay in the bed, his face swollen and bruised, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. Tubes snaked from his arms, and bandages wrapped his chest and arm. He looked smaller than Hopper remembered, fragile in a way that didn’t fit the Billy he’d seen roaring around Hawkins in his Camaro.

Hopper pulled a chair close, the legs scraping against the floor. He sat, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tight. “Hey, kid,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “You gotta pull through this, alright? Max needs you. Hell, I need you to make it, just so I can give you shit for all those speeding tickets.”

He chuckled softly, but it faded fast. Seeing Billy like this, broken, vulnerable, hit harder than he expected. That protective pull was back, stronger now, a fierce need to shield this kid from the world. He didn’t know why it felt so personal, why Billy’s pain was clawing at him like this. Maybe it was the way Billy had whispered Neil’s name, the way his tears had mixed with the blood on his face. Maybe it was just Hawkins, this damn town that kept throwing broken kids at him, expecting him to fix it.

Hopper reached out, hesitant, and rested his hand on Billy’s uninjured one, careful not to jostle the IV. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not letting anything else happen to you. You hear me?”

Billy didn’t stir, but Hopper stayed there, his hand warm against Billy’s cold skin, his resolve hardening. Justice for Susan, for Billy, for Max, it started here, with keeping this kid alive. He didn’t know what came next, didn’t know why his chest ached looking at Billy’s bruised face, but he knew one thing: he wasn’t walking away.

Back in the waiting room, Max and El were curled up together, Max’s head on El’s shoulder. Hopper sat across from them, his coffee gone cold. “He’s strong,” he said, more to himself than to them. “He’s gonna make it.”

Max nodded, her eyes distant but hopeful. “Yeah,” she said softly. “He has to.”

The hospital room was too bright, the fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of pissed-off bees. Billy Hargrove stirred in the bed, his head heavy, like someone had filled it with wet cement. His eyelids fluttered, fighting against the pull of whatever drugs they’d pumped into him. Everything hurt, his ribs screamed with every shallow breath, his face throbbed, and his left arm felt like it was strapped to a brick. He tried to piece together where he was, why everything felt so wrong, but his brain was a fog, memories slipping like wet soap.

The last thing he remembered was the living room, Neil’s fists, Susan’s scream cut short. Blood. Too much blood. His stomach lurched, and his eyes snapped open, only to slam shut against the harsh light. A low groan escaped him, raw and broken, and he tried to move, but his body wasn’t listening. Panic clawed at his chest, his breaths coming faster, shallower, each one spiking pain through his cracked ribs.

“Hey, hey, easy,” a deep voice cut through the haze, steady and warm. “You’re okay, kid. You’re in the hospital.”

Billy forced his eyes open again, squinting against the glare. Chief Jim Hopper loomed over him, his flannel sleeves rolled up, his beard scruffier than usual. Those dark eyes were locked on Billy, steady but soft, like he was trying not to spook him. Billy’s throat tightened, his mind flashing to Neil’s face, those same hard lines, but twisted with rage instead of… whatever this was. Concern? It didn’t make sense.

“Where…” Billy’s voice cracked, barely a rasp, his mouth dry as sandpaper. He tried to sit up, but pain shot through him, pinning him to the bed.

“Whoa, don’t move,” Hopper said, his hand landing gently on Billy’s shoulder, firm enough to keep him still but careful not to press too hard. “You’re banged up pretty bad. Just take it easy.”

Billy’s eyes darted around, taking in the sterile room, the beeping monitors, the IV line snaking into his arm, the bandages wrapped tight around his chest. His heart pounded, the monitor picking up the spike, beeping faster. “Max,” he croaked, panic flaring again. “Where’s Max? Is she---”

“She’s fine,” Hopper said, his voice low and reassuring, like he was talking down a wild animal. “She’s right outside with El. Safe. You don’t gotta worry about her.”

Billy exhaled, the relief hitting like a wave, but it didn’t last. Susan’s face flashed in his mind, her wide, terrified eyes, the way she’d crumpled. His fault. All his fault. His chest heaved, and the monitor went haywire, the beeps sharp and insistent. “Susan…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “She’s… she’s dead, isn’t she?”

Hopper’s face tightened, his jaw clenching, but his eyes stayed soft. He pulled the chair closer, the legs scraping against the floor, and sat, leaning forward. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, kid. She didn’t make it.”

Billy’s breath hitched, and he turned his head away, staring at the wall, his eyes burning. He’d known it, deep down, but hearing it out loud was like a knife twisting in his gut. “My fault,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop him.”

“Hey, none of that,” Hopper said, his tone firm but not harsh. “You didn’t do this. Neil did. You hear me? This is on him, not you.”

Billy shook his head, the movement small but enough to make his vision swim. “I should’ve… should’ve fought harder. Should’ve…” His voice cracked, and tears spilled over, hot against his bruised cheeks. He hated it, hated how weak he felt, how exposed, but he couldn’t stop the flood. Years of Neil’s fists, his words, his control, it all came crashing down, mixing with the guilt over Susan, the fear for Max.

A nurse bustled in, her sneakers squeaking, her face all business. “Mr. Hargrove, you’re awake,” she said, checking the monitors. “I’m gonna give you something for the pain, alright? It’ll help you relax.”

Billy barely nodded, his eyes still fixed on the wall. The nurse injected something into his IV, and within minutes, the sharp edges of the pain dulled, his head going fuzzy. His body felt lighter, like he was floating, and the room softened around him. The panic didn’t vanish, but it got quieter, pushed to the back of his mind.

The nurse left, and Hopper stayed, his presence solid, grounding. Billy’s eyes drifted to him, taking in the broad shoulders, the way his hands rested on his knees, big and steady. Something about Hopper felt safe, like he could stand between Billy and the world. It was a weird thought, one Billy’s drugged-up brain latched onto, making his cheeks flush.

“Max is okay?” Billy asked again, his voice slurring slightly, the painkillers loosening his tongue.

“Yeah,” Hopper said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She’s a tough kid. Like her brother.”

Billy snorted, then winced, the movement jarring his ribs. “Tough. Right. Look at me.” He gestured weakly at himself, the bandages, the bruises. “Real tough.”

Hopper leaned closer, his voice low, almost gentle. “You took a beating and you’re still here, kid. That’s tough as hell. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Billy’s eyes stung again, and he blinked hard, trying to keep it together. Nobody talked to him like that, like he was worth something. Not Neil, not Susan, not even his mom before she left. He swallowed, his throat tight. “You don’t… you don’t know me,” he mumbled, but there was no heat in it, just a quiet plea.

“I know you protected Max,” Hopper said, his voice steady, unwavering. “I know you took the worst of it to keep her safe. That’s enough for me.”

Billy’s breath hitched, and he looked at Hopper, really looked at him. Those dark eyes, the rough edges softened by something warm, something real. His drugged brain spun, and before he could stop himself, words tumbled out. “You’re… kinda hot for a cop, you know that?”

Hopper’s eyebrows shot up, and he let out a surprised laugh, the sound rough but warm. “Jesus, kid, they got you on the good stuff, huh?”

Billy grinned, or tried to, his split lip stinging. “Just sayin’. All… big and strong. Bet you could bench press me.” He giggled, the sound weird and foreign, his head swimming. “Neil’d hate that. Hated me for… for liking guys. Called me a fag, said I was weak.”

Hopper’s face darkened, his jaw clenching, but his voice stayed soft. “Neil’s a piece of shit,” he said bluntly. “And he’s wrong. About all of it. You’re not weak, Billy. You’re still here.”

Billy’s grin faded, his eyes glassy with tears and drugs. “He never touched Max,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Or Susan. Just me. Always me. Said I deserved it, for… for being me.” His voice broke, and he turned his head away, ashamed of the tears, of the truth spilling out.

Hopper’s hand moved before he could think, resting gently on Billy’s uninjured arm, his thumb brushing lightly over the skin. “You didn’t deserve any of it,” he said, his voice fierce but quiet. “You hear me? None of it. You did good, protecting Max. I’m proud of you.”

Billy’s breath caught, and he looked back at Hopper, his eyes wide, searching. Proud. No one had ever said that to him. Not once. The words hit like a tidal wave, washing over the self-loathing, the guilt, leaving him raw and exposed. Tears spilled over again, and he didn’t bother hiding them this time. “Thanks,” he whispered, his voice thick. “Nobody… nobody ever…”

Hopper squeezed his arm gently, his touch steady, grounding. “You’re gonna be okay, kid,” he said. “We’re gonna figure this out. Max is coming to stay with me and El for now, alright? The house is a crime scene, but we’ll sort it. You just focus on healing.”

Billy nodded, his head heavy, the drugs pulling him under. “Susan…” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering. “Was it… quick?”

Hopper’s throat tightened, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She didn’t suffer long.”

Billy exhaled, a shaky breath, and his eyes closed, the drugs winning. Hopper stayed there, his hand still on Billy’s arm, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the monitors beeping steadily now. The kid looked so damn fragile, nothing like the cocky asshole who’d burned rubber through Hawkins’ streets. But there was something else there, something soft under the bruises, something that made Hopper’s chest ache in a way he didn’t understand.

The door creaked, and Max slipped in, her sneakers quiet on the tile. Her eyes were red, her face pale, and she froze when she saw Billy, his face swollen and bruised under the oxygen mask. “He’s awake?” she asked, her voice small.

“Was,” Hopper said, standing but keeping his voice low. “He’s out again. Drugs are keeping him loopy, but he’s talking. Asked about you.”

Max’s lips trembled, and she stepped closer, her hands twisting together. “He’s… he’s gonna be okay, right?”

“Yeah,” Hopper said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “He’s tough, Max. Like you.”

She nodded, but her eyes were locked on Billy, her grief raw and heavy. “I saw Mom,” she whispered. “At the house. She… she was just lying there. I thought… I thought he killed Billy too.”

Hopper’s heart twisted, and he crouched down, meeting her eyes. “He didn’t,” he said firmly. “Billy’s here, and I’m not letting anything happen to him. Or you. You’re both safe now.”

Max’s eyes welled up, and she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. Hopper hugged her back, his big arms careful but strong, letting her cry. El slipped in behind her, her own eyes glossy, and joined the hug, her small frame pressed against Max. They stayed like that for a minute, the beeping monitors the only sound, a fragile family holding together in the sterile room.

Hopper pulled back, wiping a hand over his face. “Alright,” he said, his voice rough. “You two need to eat something. I’m gonna step out, make some calls. Stay here, keep an eye on him.”

Max nodded, pulling a chair close to Billy’s bed, her hand hovering over his but not touching, like she was afraid he’d break. El sat beside her, quiet but steady, her presence a comfort. Hopper stepped into the hall, his boots echoing, and found a payphone. He called the station first, checking for updates on Neil, nothing yet, just an APB out and the truck still missing. His jaw clenched, but he pushed it down, focusing on the kids.

His next call was to Steve, who picked up on the first ring. “Chief? How’s it going?”

“Billy’s awake, sort of,” Hopper said, leaning against the wall. “Loopy as hell, but talking. Max is a mess, but she’s holding up. You mind swinging by with the kids later? Might help Max to see some familiar faces.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Steve said, his voice steady. “I’ll round up Dustin and the others. Maybe bring some snacks, cheer her up. How’s… how’s Billy looking?”

Hopper sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Like he went ten rounds with a bulldozer. But he’s fighting. Kid’s got grit.”

“Good,” Steve said, a note of relief in his voice. “I’ll be there in a couple hours. Hang in there, Hop.”

“Thanks, kid.” Hopper hung up, his head heavy. He glanced back toward Billy’s room, the door slightly ajar, Max’s red hair visible through the crack. He didn’t know what came next, custody, Neil, the whole damn mess, but he knew one thing: he was in this now, for Max, for Billy, for whatever this pull was that kept him tethered to that broken kid in the bed.

By afternoon, the hospital was busier, nurses bustling, visitors coming and going. Steve showed up with Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Will in tow, a paper bag full of candy and comics under his arm. “Alright, who’s ready to lose at Uno?” Steve called, his grin forced but bright, trying to lighten the mood.

Max managed a small smile, her eyes still puffy. “You’re gonna cheat, Harrington,” she said, her voice hoarse but teasing.

“Me? Cheat? Never,” Steve shot back, tossing her a Snickers bar. “Eat something, Mad Max. You’re scaring me with that zombie look.”

Dustin plopped down beside her, already shuffling the cards. “We brought the good stuff,” he said, holding up a stack of X-Men comics.

Max’s smile faded at Billy’s name, but she nodded, taking the comics. “Thanks,” she said softly, glancing at the door to his room. “He’s… he’s gonna like these when he wakes up again.”

Lucas sat on her other side, his voice gentle. “He’s tough, Max. Like, stupid tough. He’ll be back to yelling at us in no time.”

She laughed, a small, broken sound, and leaned into El, who was flipping through a comic with Will. Mike was already arguing with Dustin over the rules of Uno, their voices a familiar chaos that filled the waiting room with life. Hopper watched from the corner, his arms crossed, a faint warmth in his chest. These kids, they were a pain in the ass, but they were good. They’d keep Max grounded.

He slipped back into Billy’s room, just for a moment, checking on him. Billy was still out, his breathing steady under the oxygen mask, his face a patchwork of bruises. Hopper stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes tracing the lines of Billy’s face, the sharp jaw, the curls matted against his forehead. That pull was back, stronger now, a mix of protectiveness and something else, something he wasn’t ready to name. He shook his head, pushing it down. “Keep fighting, kid,” he murmured, then turned back to the chaos of the waiting room, ready to keep this makeshift family together.

By Monday morning, the hospital’s sterile hum had become a dull roar in Billy Hargrove’s ears. The beeping monitors, the squeak of nurses’ sneakers, the constant shuffle of visitors, it all blended into a haze that made his head throb. He was propped up in the bed, his ribs still screaming every time he shifted, his left arm in a sling, and his face a swollen mess of purples and blues.

The doctor, Patel, the one with the kind eyes, had just left, her clipboard tucked under her arm after dropping the news: he was cleared to go home. Well, not home. The house on Cherry Lane was a crime scene, yellow tape crisscrossing the door like some grim party decoration. Home was wherever Max was, and right now, that meant Hopper’s cabin.

“Strict bed rest,” Dr. Patel had said, her voice firm but not unkind. “No school, no heavy lifting, no driving. You’re not out of the woods yet, Mr. Hargrove. You push it, you’ll be right back here.”

Billy had nodded, his throat too tight to argue. Bed rest. Fine. He didn’t have the energy to fight anyway. His body felt like it had been run over by a semi, and his mind was worse, a jumbled mess of Neil’s fists, Susan’s lifeless eyes, and Max’s screams. He’d barely slept, even with the painkillers, his dreams a loop of that night, each one waking him with a gasp, his heart pounding like it was trying to break free.

Hopper stood in the corner of the room, his arms crossed, his flannel shirt rumpled like he’d slept in it. He’d been there every day since the attack, a constant presence that Billy didn’t know how to process. The guy was all gruff edges, broad shoulders, deep voice, the kind of guy who looked like he could snap you in half without trying. But there was something else, something soft in the way he looked at Billy, like he saw past the bruises and the bullshit attitude. It made Billy’s chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his cracked ribs.

“You ready to get outta here, kid?” Hopper asked, his voice low, cutting through Billy’s fog.

Billy snorted, then winced, his split lip stinging. “Yeah, Chief. This place smells like death and Lysol.”

Hopper’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close. “Fair enough. Max and El are waiting outside. Let’s get you moving.”

The discharge process was a blur of paperwork and instructions, meds to take, follow-up appointments, warnings about overdoing it. Billy barely listened, his eyes drifting to the window, where the November sky was a flat, gray slab. Max came in to help him gather his things, her face pale but determined, her red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She didn’t say much, just hovered close, like she was afraid he’d vanish if she looked away.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice small, as she handed him a plastic bag with his blood-stained clothes from that night. The leather jacket was ruined, the denim shirt torn. He didn’t care.

“Yeah,” Billy lied, his voice rough. “Just ready to ditch this place.”

She nodded, but her eyes were sharp, seeing through him. She always did. He wanted to say something, to tell her he was sorry, for Susan, for not stopping Neil, for being such a shitty brother, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he reached out with his good hand, ruffling her hair like he used to when they were younger, before everything went to hell. She swatted at him, a ghost of a smile flickering, and for a second, it felt almost normal.

Hopper drove them to the cabin, the Blazer’s heater rattling against the cold. Max and El sat in the back, whispering about something. Billy stared out the passenger window, his head leaning against the cool glass. The painkillers were wearing off, leaving a dull ache in his bones, but he didn’t want more. He needed to feel this, to stay sharp. Neil was still out there, and the thought made his stomach twist, a cold sweat prickling his skin.

The cabin came into view, tucked in the woods like a secret. It was small, rough around the edges, but it felt safe in a way Billy wasn’t used to. Hopper parked, and before Billy could even unbuckle, the chief was around to his side, opening the door. “Easy, kid,” Hopper said, his voice firm. “You’re not walking.”

Billy opened his mouth to argue, but Hopper was already moving, sliding one arm under Billy’s knees and the other behind his back. “What the hell, ” Billy started, his voice cracking as Hopper lifted him out of the Blazer like he weighed nothing. His face burned, a mix of embarrassment and something else, something that made his heart stutter. Hopper was strong, his grip steady but careful, and Billy’s mind flashed to stupid, fleeting thoughts, how those arms could hold him, protect him, make him feel something other than pain. He shoved the thoughts down, his cheeks flaming. “I can walk, man,” he muttered, but his voice lacked heat.

“Not today, you can’t,” Hopper said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He carried Billy up the porch steps, Max holding the door open, her eyes wide but not teasing, like she knew better than to poke at him right now.

Inside, the cabin smelled like woodsmoke and coffee, warm and lived-in. Hopper had set up the couch as a makeshift bed, pillows stacked, blankets folded, a glass of water and Billy’s meds on the side table. He set Billy down gently, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary, and Billy’s breath hitched, his eyes flicking up to meet Hopper’s. There was something in the chief’s gaze, concern, yeah, but something deeper, something that made Billy’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

“You good?” Hopper asked, stepping back, his hands shoving into his pockets like he needed to keep them busy.

“Yeah,” Billy said, his voice rough, his face still hot. “Thanks.”

Max hovered nearby, her hands twisting together. “I’m gonna… go hang with El,” she said, her voice hesitant, like she didn’t want to leave but didn’t know how to stay. “You need anything?”

Billy shook his head, managing a small smile. “I’m good, Max. Go.”

She nodded, glancing at Hopper before slipping into El’s room, the door closing softly behind her. The cabin went quiet, just the crackle of the woodstove and the faint hum of the fridge. Billy leaned back against the pillows, his body aching, his mind a mess.

Without Max’s eyes on him, without the need to hold it together, the weight of everything crashed down. Susan’s face. Neil’s fists. The blood. His fault, all of it. His breath hitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep it in, but it was too much.

Hopper noticed, his boots heavy on the floor as he moved closer. “Hey,” he said softly, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, his knees almost touching the couch. “You okay, kid?”

Billy shook his head, his good hand clenching into a fist. “No,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m not.” The tears came fast, hot and unstoppable, and he hated it, hated how weak he felt, how exposed. But he couldn’t stop, the sobs shaking his battered body, each one pulling a wince of pain from his ribs.

Hopper didn’t hesitate. He slid onto the couch, his arm wrapping around Billy’s shoulders, careful but firm, pulling him close. “C’mere,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, like a lifeline. “Let it out. You don’t gotta be strong right now.”

Billy broke, his face pressing into Hopper’s chest, the flannel soft and warm against his cheek. He sobbed, raw and ugly, the kind of crying he hadn’t done since he was a kid, since his mom walked out and left him with Neil’s fists.

Hopper’s arms were solid, grounding, and for the first time in years, Billy felt safe enough to fall apart. He clung to Hopper, his good hand fisting in the chief’s shirt, his tears soaking the fabric.

“It’s okay,” Hopper said, his voice a low rumble, his hand rubbing slow circles on Billy’s back. “I’ve got you, kid. You’re safe.”

Billy’s sobs slowed, but he didn’t pull away, his body trembling with the aftershocks. The words came before he could stop them, spilling out in a broken rush. “He hated me,” he said, his voice muffled against Hopper’s chest. “Neil. Always did. Said I was weak, a disgrace. Kept me in line, yelling, hitting, locking me in my room. Used Max and Susan to control me, said he’d hurt them if I stepped outta line. I never fought back. Just took it. Covered the bruises, said I got in fights. Nobody knew.”

Hopper’s hand stilled, his jaw clenching, but his voice stayed soft. “Jesus, kid,” he said, his arm tightening slightly, protective. “That’s not on you. None of it. You did what you had to, to keep Max safe. That’s strength, Billy, not weakness.”

Billy shook his head, his throat tight. “I didn’t stop him,” he whispered. “That night… he just snapped. Worse than ever. I tried to get between him and Susan, but…” His voice broke, the memory too raw, too sharp. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t relive the sound of Neil’s fist hitting her, the way she’d fallen. “I should’ve done more.”

“You did enough,” Hopper said, his voice fierce but gentle. “You kept Max out of it. You took the worst of it. You’re still here, Billy. That’s more than enough.”

Billy’s eyes burned, and he looked up, meeting Hopper’s gaze. Those dark eyes were steady, warm, and for a moment, Billy felt seen, not as the loudmouth asshole, not as Neil’s punching bag, but as himself. It was too much, and he ducked his head, his face flushing. “You don’t… you don’t have to do this,” he mumbled. “Stay with me, I mean. I’m a mess.”

Hopper’s hand moved to Billy’s chin, tilting his face up gently, careful of the bruises. “I’m exactly where I need to be,” he said, his voice low, his thumb brushing lightly over Billy’s jaw. “You’re not a mess, kid. You’re hurt, and you’re healing. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Billy’s breath caught, his heart pounding, and not just from the pain or the drugs. Hopper’s touch, his words, the way he looked at him, it stirred something deep, something Billy had buried under years of Neil’s hate.

He’d always had a thing for strong guys, older guys, the kind who could make him feel safe, wanted. Neil had beaten that out of him, or tried to, but sitting here, with Hopper’s hand on his face, it roared back to life, making his chest ache with a need he didn’t know how to name.

“Thanks,” he whispered, his voice thick, his eyes locked on Hopper’s. For a moment, neither of them moved, the air heavy with something unspoken, something electric. Then Billy’s eyelids drooped, the exhaustion and painkillers pulling him under.

Hopper eased him back against the pillows, his movements careful, almost tender. Billy’s eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowing, and Hopper stayed there, watching him. The kid was out, his face still a mess of bruises, but there was a softness there now, a vulnerability that hit Hopper hard. He pulled a blanket over Billy, tucking it around him, his hand lingering on the kid’s shoulder. His heart stirred, a mix of protectiveness and something else, something he wasn’t ready to poke at. Not yet.

He stood, running a hand through his hair, and glanced at the closed door to El’s room. The girls were quiet, probably talking or sleeping, and the cabin felt too still. His radio crackled, and he grabbed it, stepping outside to keep from waking Billy. It was Callahan again, no news on Neil, just more questions about the crime scene. Hopper’s jaw tightened, his anger simmering. He’d find that bastard, make him pay for what he’d done to Billy, to Susan, to Max.

His phone rang as he stepped back inside, and he grabbed it, keeping his voice low. “Yeah?”

“It’s Steve,” came the familiar voice, steady but concerned. “Just checking in. You guys get Billy settled?”

“Yeah,” Hopper said, glancing at the couch, where Billy’s chest rose and fell evenly. “He’s at the cabin, on the couch. Max and El are here too. It’s… it’s a lot.”

“I bet,” Steve said. “Need anything? I can swing by with supplies, or just keep Max company. Whatever you need.”

Hopper’s lips twitched, grateful for the kid’s reliability. “Tomorrow’d be good,” he said. “Maybe bring some of those comics Max likes. Keep her distracted.”

“You got it,” Steve said. “How’s Billy holding up?”

Hopper sighed, his eyes drifting back to Billy. “He’s tough, but he’s hurting. Physically, mentally, all of it. Just… keep the kids ready to rally, alright? Max is gonna need them.”

“Done,” Steve said. “Hang in there, Chief.”

Hopper hung up, setting the phone down quietly. He sank into the armchair across from the couch, his eyes on Billy. The kid looked younger asleep, the hard edges softened, his curls falling over his forehead. Hopper’s chest ached, that protective pull stronger now, mixed with something warmer, something he didn’t want to name. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and murmured, “You’re gonna be okay, kid. I’ll make sure of it.”

The cabin stayed quiet, the woodstove crackling, and Hopper kept watch, his heart heavy but steady, tethered to the broken boy on the couch.

The cabin was quiet when Hopper woke, the early morning light filtering through the curtains in a soft, gray haze. He’d barely slept, his night spent in the armchair, one ear tuned to any sound from Billy on the couch. The kid had stayed out cold, his breathing steady under the blankets, but Hopper couldn’t shake the image of him breaking down last night, those raw sobs against his chest. It had hit him hard, harder than he expected, and now, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he felt that same protective pull tugging at him, mixed with something he wasn’t ready to name.

He shuffled to the kitchen, starting the coffee pot with a groan, the machine sputtering like it was as tired as he was. Max and El were still asleep, their soft snores drifting from El’s room, and Billy hadn’t stirred. Hopper glanced at him, sprawled on the couch, his bruised face slack with sleep, uninjured arm flung over his head. The kid looked younger like this, almost peaceful, and it made Hopper’s chest ache in a way he didn’t understand. He shook it off, grabbing his jacket and radio. Duty called, autopsy results, the manhunt for Neil, the crime scene mess. He had to get moving.

He scribbled a note for the girls, At the station, back soon. Call if you need me., and left it on the counter.

One last look at Billy, then he stepped outside, the November air biting at his face as he climbed into the Blazer. The drive to the station was quiet, the roads empty, Hawkins still waking up. His mind kept drifting back to Billy, to those broken confessions, the way he’d clung to him like Hopper was the only thing keeping him afloat. It stirred something deep, something that made Hopper’s hands tighten on the wheel.

At the station, it was controlled chaos. Callahan was barking orders, Powell sorting through reports, the phone ringing off the hook. The autopsy report on Susan was waiting on Hopper’s desk, cause of death: blunt force trauma, likely quick, just as he’d told Billy. It didn’t make it easier. The crime scene photos were worse: blood-smeared walls, overturned furniture, Susan’s body crumpled by the couch. Hopper’s jaw clenched as he flipped through them, his anger at Neil simmering hot. The manhunt was in full swing, Neil’s truck still missing, no sightings, but every cop in Indiana was on alert. Hopper made calls, checked leads, but it felt like chasing a ghost.

Back at the cabin, Billy woke to the sound of laughter, Max and El, sprawled on the floor by the TV, watching some cheesy daytime soap opera. The room smelled like burnt toast, and a plate of half-eaten sandwiches sat on the coffee table. Billy blinked, his head fuzzy, his body aching like he’d been hit by a truck. The painkillers were wearing off, but he didn’t reach for the bottle on the side table. He wanted to feel this, to stay grounded, even if it hurt.

“Hey,” Max said, noticing him stir. She sat up, her red hair a mess, her eyes still puffy from crying but brighter now. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Billy croaked, his voice rough from sleep and disuse. He shifted, wincing as his ribs protested, and managed a weak grin. “What’s with the soap opera crap? You two turning into old ladies already?”

El giggled, her curls bouncing as she tossed a pillow at him, gentle enough not to hurt. “It’s fun,” she said, her voice light. “They yell a lot.”

Billy snorted, then winced again, his hand pressing to his side. “Sounds like my kind of show,” he said, his tone dry but teasing. Max’s lips twitched, a real smile breaking through, and for a second, it felt like they were just siblings again, before Neil, before everything.

He glanced at the TV, where the local news had just cut in. Neil’s face flashed on the screen, his mugshot, cold eyes staring out, the anchor’s voice detailing his crimes: domestic assault, murder, fugitive status. Billy’s stomach dropped, his breath catching.

Max froze her eyes wide, and before either of them could react El pointed at the TV, her expression focused. The channel flipped to static then back to the soap opera, before she discreetly wiped the blood from her nose.

“Thanks,” Billy said quietly, his voice thick. He didn't acknowledge El's strange abilities.

El nodded, her eyes soft, understanding in a way that made Billy’s chest ache. She got it, trauma, fear, the need to hide from the world. They were kindred spirits, in a weird way.

Max scooted closer, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the couch. “You okay?” she asked, her voice small, like she was afraid of the answer.

Billy swallowed, his throat tight. “Yeah, Max,” he said, lying through his teeth. “I’m okay.” He reached out with his good hand, resting it on her shoulder, and she didn’t pull away. “Listen, I’m… I’m sorry. For being such a dick to you. All the time. I was just… trying to keep you safe, you know? From him.”

Max’s eyes welled up, but she nodded, her hand covering his. “I know,” she whispered. “I just… I wish you’d told me. I could’ve helped.”

Billy shook his head, his jaw tight. “No, you couldn’t. I wouldn’t let you. He only went after me, Max. I made sure of it.” His voice cracked, and he looked away, the guilt over Susan crashing over him again. “I’m gonna keep you safe now, too. Promise.”

Max leaned forward, hugging him carefully, her arms light around his shoulders. “You better,” she said, her voice muffled against his sling. “You’re all I’ve got left.”

Billy’s eyes burned, and he hugged her back, his good arm shaking. El watched them, her own eyes glossy, and joined in, wrapping her arms around both of them. They stayed like that, a quiet huddle, the soap opera droning in the background, until Max pulled back, wiping her face. “We got VHS tapes,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “Wanna watch The Breakfast Club or something?”

Billy managed a small smile. “Yeah, sure. Stick with the misfits, not the sappy stuff.”

They spent the day like that, the three of them sprawled around the TV, watching movies and eating junk food El had scrounged from the kitchen. Billy felt the weight of the last few days lift, just a little, with Max’s laughter and El’s quiet smiles. They talked about nothing important, school, arcade games, El’s obsession with Eggo waffles, and for a few hours, Billy could almost pretend he wasn’t broken, wasn’t haunted by Neil’s shadow.

Hopper got back in the late afternoon, his boots heavy on the porch as he stepped inside. The sight stopped him short: Billy propped up on the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips in his lap, Max and El sprawled on the floor, laughing at some dumb line from Ferris Bueller. The cabin was warm, lived-in, and for a moment, Hopper’s chest felt full, like this was what home was supposed to be.

“Hey,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Looks like a party.”

Billy glanced up, his bruised face softening at the sight of Hopper. “Yeah, real rager,” he said, his voice dry but lighter than it had been. “You bring the beer?”

Hopper chuckled, setting his hat on the counter. “Not today, kid. How you feeling?”

Billy shrugged, wincing slightly. “Like I got hit by a bus. But I’m alive, so… there’s that.”

Hopper nodded, pulling a chair over and sitting across from the couch. “Got some updates,” he said, his voice turning serious. “Autopsy confirmed Susan went quick. No suffering. Neil’s still out there, but we’ve got every cop in the state looking for him. He’s not getting far.”

Billy’s jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to the blanket over his lap. “Good,” he said, his voice flat, but Hopper saw the flicker of fear in his eyes, the way his good hand clenched.

Hopper leaned forward, his voice softening. “You’re safe here, Billy. You and Max. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

Billy nodded, his throat tight, and met Hopper’s eyes. That steady gaze, the quiet strength in it, made his chest ache again, that same pull he’d felt in the hospital, when Hopper’s hand had brushed his jaw. “Thanks,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hopper hesitated, then added, “I was thinking… therapy might help. You and Max, both. What you went through… it’s a lot. There’s people who can help you sort through it.”

Billy’s face hardened, his old defenses flaring. “I don’t need some shrink poking around in my head,” he said, his voice sharp. “I’m fine.”

Hopper didn’t flinch, just held his gaze, calm but firm. “Nobody’s saying you’re not tough, kid. But you don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here. Max is here. And a therapist isn’t about fixing you, it’s about giving you tools to deal with the shit Neil left behind.”

Billy’s jaw worked, his eyes searching Hopper’s face, and something in that steady gaze made him soften, just a little. “Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low. “I’ll… think about it.”

Hopper nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good enough for me.”

The day faded into evening, the cabin growing cozy with the glow of the woodstove. Max and El retreated to El’s room to listen to music, their laughter filtering through the closed door. Billy shifted on the couch, his body stiff from lying still too long. The pain was creeping back, a dull ache in his ribs, but it wasn’t just that. He felt gross, sweaty, grimy, the hospital smell clinging to him. He glanced at Hopper, who was flipping through a stack of case files at the kitchen table, his brow furrowed.

“Hey, uh,” Billy started, his voice hesitant, his cheeks flushing. “This is gonna sound stupid, but… I need a bath. Or a shower. Something. I feel like I crawled out of a dumpster.”

Hopper looked up, his eyebrows rising. “Doc said no showers yet. Not with those stitches. But a bath… yeah, we can make that work.”

Billy’s face burned hotter, his heart stuttering. “I can’t… I mean, I can’t do it myself. Arm’s fucked, and I’m not supposed to move much. I just…” He trailed off, embarrassed, his eyes dropping to the blanket.

Hopper stood, his chair scraping back. “I got you,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact but kind. “No big deal. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Billy nodded, his throat tight, and Hopper helped him to his feet, one arm steadying him as they shuffled to the bathroom. It was small, just a tub and a sink, but Hopper had it ready in minutes, warm water, a towel folded nearby, a bottle of shampoo on the edge. He helped Billy sit on a stool by the tub, his movements careful but efficient, like he’d done this before.

“Alright,” Hopper said, rolling up his sleeves, his forearms strong and tanned. “Let’s keep those bandages dry. Lean forward a bit.”

Billy did, his heart pounding as Hopper’s hands moved to his hair, pouring water carefully over it, avoiding the stitches on his chest. The warm water felt like heaven, washing away the grime, and Hopper’s fingers were gentle, working the shampoo into a lather.

Billy closed his eyes, his breath hitching at the sensation, Hopper’s hands in his hair, strong but careful, the kind of touch he hadn’t felt in years. It was intimate, vulnerable, and it made his chest ache with a need he didn’t want to name.

Hopper’s own breath caught as he worked, his eyes drifting over Billy’s frame, lean but muscled, even under the bruises and bandages. The kid was built, his shoulders broad, his arms toned from hours lifting weights to escape Neil’s voice.

Hopper’s mind flickered to Billy’s hospital ramblings, liking guys, and a spark of desire hit him, unbidden and sharp. He shoved it down, hard, his jaw clenching. Billy was vulnerable, broken, and Hopper was supposed to be the adult here, the protector. But the warmth of Billy’s skin under his hands, the way he leaned into the touch, needy and soft, stirred something he couldn’t ignore.

“You good?” Hopper asked, his voice rougher than he meant, as he rinsed the shampoo out, his fingers brushing Billy’s neck.

“Yeah,” Billy murmured, his voice soft, almost a sigh. “Feels… nice.”

Hopper’s heart thudded, and he focused on the task, keeping his touch professional. But the air between them was charged, heavy with something unspoken. When he was done, he wrapped a towel around Billy’s shoulders, helping him back to the couch. Billy’s eyes were heavy, his face flushed, and he looked at Hopper with something like gratitude, maybe more.

“Thanks,” Billy said, his voice barely above a whisper. “For… everything.”

Hopper nodded, his throat tight, and tucked the blanket around him. “Get some rest, kid,” he said, his voice low. “You’re safe here.”

Billy’s eyes held his for a moment, soft and searching, before he nodded, sinking back into the pillows. Hopper sat back at the table, his files forgotten, his mind a mess of guilt and confusion. Caring for Billy was pulling him in deeper, stirring feelings he didn’t know how to handle. But as he watched the kid drift off, his face soft in the firelight, Hopper knew one thing: he wasn’t walking away.

Chapter Text

The cabin smelled like maple syrup and coffee, the kind of warm, cozy scent that made you forget the world outside was cold and cruel. It had been a week since Billy Hargrove got discharged from the hospital, and the place had settled into a strange kind of rhythm.

Billy was still parked on the couch, his makeshift bed a nest of blankets and pillows, his sling a constant reminder of how close he’d come to not making it. The bruises on his face were fading, shifting from angry purples to sickly yellows, but his eyes, those blue eyes that used to burn with defiance, were different now. Haunted, sure, but softer, like the fight had drained out of him, leaving something raw and real behind.

Billy woke to the sound of El giggling in the kitchen, her voice bright as she waved a plate of Eggo waffles under his nose. “Breakfast,” she announced, her curls bouncing as she plopped down on the floor beside the couch. “Extra syrup. Max said you like sweet stuff.”

Billy managed a crooked smile, his split lip still tender but healing. “You trying to fatten me up, kid?” he teased, taking the plate with his good hand. The waffles were a little soggy, drowning in syrup, but the gesture hit him hard. He hadn’t had anyone make him breakfast, not like this, not with care, since his mom left. “Thanks, El.”

She beamed, scooting closer, her own plate balanced on her knees. “You’re welcome. Hopper says you need to eat to get strong.”

Billy snorted, wincing as his ribs twinged. “Hopper says a lot of shit,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. He glanced toward the kitchen, where Hopper was pouring coffee, his broad frame filling the space like he was built to hold it together. The chief had been there every day, making sure Billy took his meds, checking his bandages, hovering like a damn mother hen. It was annoying, but it also made Billy’s chest ache in a way he wasn’t used to, someone giving a shit, no strings attached.

Max wandered in, her hair a tangled mess, still in her pajamas. She flopped onto the floor next to El, stealing a bite of her waffle. “You’re eating,” she said, eyeing Billy’s plate. “Good. You look less like a corpse today.”

“Gee, thanks,” Billy said, rolling his eyes, but his lips twitched. Max’s bluntness was familiar, grounding, a piece of normal in the middle of this mess. He took a bite, the sweetness hitting his tongue, and for a moment, he could almost pretend he wasn’t broken, wasn’t hiding out in a stranger’s cabin with his stepmom dead and his dad on the run.

Hopper joined them, setting his coffee mug on the side table and pulling a chair over. “Morning, sunshine,” he said to Billy, his voice gruff but warm. “You sleep okay?”

Billy shrugged, his good shoulder lifting slightly. “As good as you can with a busted arm and a couch that’s trying to kill me.”

Hopper chuckled, the sound low and rough, and Billy’s stomach did a weird flip. The chief looked… good, in that rugged, no-nonsense way, flannel stretched over his broad chest, beard scruffy, eyes sharp but kind. Billy shoved the thought down, focusing on his waffles, but his cheeks felt warm. He wasn’t supposed to notice shit like that, not about Hopper, not about anyone. Neil’s voice echoed in his head, fag, weak, worthless, but Hopper’s presence drowned it out, just a little.

“Take your meds,” Hopper said, nudging the pill bottle toward Billy. “Doc said no skipping, or you’re back in the hospital.”

Billy grumbled but popped the pills, washing them down with water. Hopper watched, his gaze steady, and Billy felt that pull again, that need for the chief’s approval, his attention. It was stupid, embarrassing, but he couldn’t shake it. Hopper’s care, the way he checked on him, the way he stayed, felt like a lifeline, and Billy was clinging to it, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

The day settled into a quiet routine. Max and El disappeared to El’s room to listen to music, leaving Billy with the TV and a stack of VHS tapes. He flipped through channels, landing on some old rerun, but his mind wasn’t on it. He kept glancing at Hopper, who was at the kitchen table, sorting through case files, his brow furrowed. The chief was all focus, all strength, and Billy’s traitor brain kept wandering to how it felt when Hopper had carried him, those arms solid and safe. He shook his head trying to focus but the thoughts kept coming, warm and dangerous.

Hopper caught him staring, his lips twitching. “Something on my face, kid?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his tone teasing but gentle.

Billy’s face burned, and he ducked his head, pretending to adjust his sling. “Nah,” he muttered. “Just… bored.”

Hopper stood, stretching, his flannel pulling tight across his shoulders. “Well, you’re not supposed to be doing cartwheels yet, so deal with it,” he said, but his eyes were soft, crinkling at the corners. “Want me to put on one of those tapes? Max said you’re into action flicks.”

Billy nodded, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah, sure.”

Hopper grabbed the tape, popping it into the VCR, and settled on the other end of the couch, his boots propped on the coffee table. They watched in comfortable silence, the explosions and one-liners filling the room, but Billy’s mind kept drifting.

Hopper’s presence was a weight, not heavy but grounding, like an anchor keeping him from floating away. He stole glances, taking in the chief’s profile, the strong jaw, the lines etched by years of stress and fights. It stirred something in Billy, something needy and soft, something he’d buried deep to survive Neil.

Halfway through the movie, El bounded in with another plate of Eggos, offering one to Billy with a grin. “For strength,” she said, her voice earnest, and Billy couldn’t help but laugh, the sound rough but real.

“You’re gonna turn me into a waffle, kid,” he said, taking a bite anyway. El giggled, settling on the floor with Max, who’d followed her in. They started arguing over which character was cooler, and Billy found himself joining in, his voice lighter than it had been in weeks.

Hopper watched, his coffee mug paused halfway to his mouth, a small smile tugging at his lips. Billy caught his eye, and for a moment, the air felt charged, like a spark waiting to catch. Hopper’s gaze lingered, warm and steady, and Billy’s heart thudded, his cheeks flushing. He looked away, focusing on the TV, but the feeling stayed, simmering under his skin.

By evening, the cabin was cozy, the woodstove crackling, the light soft and golden. Max and El were back in El’s room, blasting Madonna, leaving Billy and Hopper alone. Hopper had swapped his case files for a beer, sitting across from Billy, his eyes flicking over him like he was checking for cracks. “You’re looking better,” he said, his voice low. “Color’s coming back. You eating enough?”

Billy shrugged, his good hand picking at the blanket. “El’s trying to drown me in waffles, so yeah, probably.”

Hopper chuckled, the sound warm, and Billy’s chest tightened. He wanted to say something, to keep the conversation going, but his throat felt thick, his mind stuck on that night. Susan. Neil. The blood. He’d been dodging it, burying it under movies and banter, but it was there, waiting to claw its way out.

Hopper seemed to sense it, his eyes softening. “You wanna talk about it?” he asked, his voice gentle but not pushing. “What happened. You don’t have to, but… I’m here.”

Billy’s breath hitched, and he looked down, his fingers twisting in the blanket. He didn’t want to, didn’t want to relive it, but Hopper’s voice, his presence, made it feel safe, like maybe he could. He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was… bad,” he started, his eyes fixed on the blanket. “Worse than usual. Neil came home pissed, drunk, screaming about some bullshit, me being late, or the dishes, or whatever. He always found something.”

Hopper stayed quiet, his beer forgotten, his eyes locked on Billy, giving him space to keep going.

“He started in on me,” Billy continued, his voice shaking. “Yelling, shoving, the usual. But then Susan… she tried to step in. Told him to stop. I’d never seen her do that before.” His throat tightened, and he paused, his good hand clenching. “He turned on her. Called her names, said she was weak for defending me. Then he… he hit her. Hard. I tried to get between them, to take it instead, but he was too fast. Kept screaming at me, calling me a fag, a failure, saying I ruined everything.”

Tears welled up, hot and unstoppable, and Billy’s voice broke. “I couldn’t stop him,” he whispered, his eyes squeezing shut. “I tried. I got in front of her, took a few hits, but he just… he kept going. She went down, and there was so much blood, and I… I couldn’t do anything.” He sobbed, the sound raw and ragged, his body shaking despite the pain in his ribs.

Hopper was off his chair in an instant, sliding onto the couch beside Billy, his arm wrapping around him, careful but firm. “Hey, hey,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, pulling Billy close. “You did everything you could. You hear me? You protected Max, kept her out of it. You fought, Billy. That’s more than most could’ve done.”

Billy shook his head, his face pressed against Hopper’s chest, the flannel warm and solid. “Why didn’t he love me?” he whispered, his voice broken, the question spilling out like a wound. “He’s my dad. Why couldn’t he just… love me?”

Hopper’s jaw clenched, his heart twisting at the raw pain in Billy’s voice. He tightened his hold, his hand rubbing slow circles on Billy’s back. “Some people,” he said, his voice rough but gentle, “they’re too broken to love right. That’s on Neil, not you. You’re worth loving, kid. More than he ever deserved.”

Billy’s sobs slowed, but he didn’t pull away, his good hand fisting in Hopper’s shirt, clinging like he was afraid to let go. Hopper didn’t move, just held him, his own heart pounding with a mix of anger and something deeper, something that scared him. Billy’s vulnerability, his strength under all that pain, was pulling him in, stirring feelings he hadn’t expected. He’d known the kid was gay, from those loopy hospital ramblings, but this, this was more than just noticing Billy’s looks. It was the way he leaned into Hopper’s touch, needy and soft, the way his tears soaked through the flannel, the way he trusted him with this pain.

“You’re safe here,” Hopper said, his voice low, almost a vow. “I’ve got you.”

Billy nodded against his chest, his breathing uneven but calming. “Thanks,” he whispered, his voice thick with tears. “For… not giving up on me.”

Hopper’s throat tightened, and he rested his chin on Billy’s head, careful of the bruises. “Never gonna happen,” he said, his voice steady. “You’re stuck with me now.”

They stayed like that, the movie forgotten, the cabin quiet except for the crackle of the woodstove and the faint hum of music from El’s room. Billy’s eyes grew heavy, the emotional weight and the meds pulling him under. Hopper eased him back against the pillows, tucking the blanket around him, his hand lingering on Billy’s shoulder. The kid’s face was soft in sleep, his curls falling over his forehead, and Hopper’s chest ached with a tenderness he didn’t know how to handle.

He stood, running a hand through his hair, and grabbed his beer, taking a long swig to steady himself. His mind was a mess, anger at Neil, worry for Billy, and that pull, that dangerous warmth that kept growing every time he looked at the kid. He knew Billy was hurting, vulnerable, and Hopper was supposed to be the protector, the one in control. But the way Billy looked at him, the way he softened under his touch, was stirring something else, something that felt like a spark waiting to ignite.

The door to El’s room creaked open, and Max poked her head out, her eyes flicking to Billy, then to Hopper. “He okay?” she asked, her voice soft, worried.

“Yeah,” Hopper said, his voice rough. “Just needed to get some stuff out. He’s sleeping now.”

Max nodded, her lips tight, and slipped back into the room. Hopper sank into the armchair, his eyes on Billy’s sleeping form. The kid was changing, his bravado gone, replaced by a quiet vulnerability that made Hopper want to shield him from the world. But it was more than that, those shared glances, the way Billy’s voice softened when he talked to him, the way his own heart raced when their eyes met. It was dangerous, this pull, but it was there, simmering, and Hopper didn’t know how to stop it.

He leaned back, closing his eyes, the beer bottle cool against his palm. He’d keep Billy safe, keep Max safe, keep this makeshift family together. But as he listened to Billy’s steady breathing, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting, something big, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

The cabin was bathed in the soft glow of late November light, the kind that made everything feel a little quieter, a little slower. A week had passed since Billy Hargrove’s breakdown on the couch, and the place had settled into a rhythm that felt almost normal, if you ignored the fact that Billy was still a walking bruise, Max was grieving, and Neil was still out there, a ghost in the wind.

Billy was up and moving now, his sling still on but his steps steadier, his body starting to feel like his own again. The pain was still there, sharp twinges in his ribs, a dull ache in his arm, but it was manageable, and he was stubborn enough to push through.

He shuffled into the kitchen, his sneakers scuffing the wood floor, and grabbed a glass of water, his good hand shaky but functional. The cabin smelled like coffee and the faint sweetness of El’s Eggo obsession, and the TV was on low, some game show droning in the background. Max was at the table, her backpack slung over a chair, her face tight with nerves. She was heading back to school today, her first day since the attack, and Billy could see the worry in her eyes, rumors, whispers, the kind of shit kids in Hawkins were ruthless about.

“You okay?” Billy asked, leaning against the counter, his voice rough but gentle. He was still getting used to this, talking to Max without the edge, without the walls he’d built to keep her at arm’s length.

Max shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her jacket. “Yeah. Just… people are gonna talk, you know? About Mom, about… you.”

Billy’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, setting his glass down. “They will,” he said, his tone blunt but not unkind. “Small town, big mouths. But you’ve got your friends, Lucas, Dustin, those dorks. Lean on them. They’re good kids. They’ll have your back.”

Max looked up, her eyes searching his face, like she was surprised he’d noticed her friends at all. “You think so?” she asked, her voice small.

“I know so,” Billy said, managing a small smile. “They showed up at the hospital, didn’t they? Brought you comics and shit. That’s not nothing, Max. Trust them.”

She nodded, her lips twitching, not quite a smile but close. “Okay,” she said, zipping up her backpack. “You gonna be alright here? Without me to keep you from breaking stuff?”

Billy snorted, wincing as his ribs protested. “I’ll manage, smartass. Go learn something.”

The knock at the door made them both jump, but it was just Joyce Byers, her warm smile a contrast to the chilly morning. She was picking Max up for school, Will and Jonathan trailing behind her. Will was clutching a folded piece of paper, his eyes shy but bright, and Jonathan had a stack of books under his arm, his hair falling in his face as usual.

“Hey, Max,” Joyce said, her voice soft but cheerful. “Ready for school?”

Max nodded, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Will stepped forward, his sneakers scuffing the floor, and held out the paper to Billy. “Um, this is for you,” he said, his voice quiet, his cheeks pink. “It’s… a get-well card. I drew it.”

Billy took it, his good hand careful, and unfolded it. The drawing was simple but detailed, a sketch of Billy’s Camaro, parked under a tree, with a tiny figure leaning against it, all curls and attitude. The words *Get Well Soon* were scrawled in careful letters, and Billy’s throat tightened, caught off guard by the gesture. “Thanks, kid,” he said, his voice rough. “This is… really cool.”

Will’s face lit up, and he ducked his head, embarrassed but pleased. Jonathan stepped up next, setting the books on the table. “Homework,” he said, his tone dry but kind. “From school. Figured you’d want to keep up, or whatever.”

Billy raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching. “You trying to make me a nerd, Byers?”

Jonathan grinned, shrugging. “Just don’t want you flunking out. You’re welcome.”

Billy shook his head, but the kindness hit him hard, unexpected and warm. He wasn’t used to this, people showing up, caring, without wanting something in return. “Appreciate it,” he said, his voice quieter, and Jonathan nodded, like he got it.

Joyce herded Max toward the door, but Billy caught Will’s eye before he followed. “Hey, Will,” he said, his tone serious. “Keep an eye on Max at school, yeah? She’s tough, but… she’s gonna need you guys.”

Will nodded, his eyes steady, wiser than his years. “I will,” he said, and Billy believed him.

The door closed behind them, leaving the cabin quiet, just Billy and El now. She was sprawled on the floor, flipping through one of Max’s comics, her curls a mess. Billy glanced around, the place a little cluttered, dishes in the sink, blankets strewn everywhere. He needed to move, to do something, anything to keep his mind off the ghosts in his head.

“Hey, El,” he said, setting the card on the side table. “Wanna help me clean this place up? Make it less of a disaster?”

El looked up, her eyes bright. “Yes,” she said, hopping to her feet. “I’m good at cleaning.”

Billy chuckled, the sound rough but real. “Alright, let’s do it. But no heavy lifting for me, doc’s orders.”

They spent the morning tidying, Billy moving slow, his good hand wiping down counters while El swept the floor, her energy infectious. She chattered about homeschooling, about her friends, about how she wanted to learn to skateboard like Max. Billy listened, nodding, offering small comments, and it felt… good. Normal. Like he was part of something, not just a broken piece on the sidelines.

By noon, the cabin looked better, tidy, cozy, the woodstove crackling. Billy’s ribs were aching, but he didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to sit still and let his thoughts catch up. “You ever bake cookies?” he asked El, leaning against the counter, his voice casual but curious.

El’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No. But I like cookies. Chocolate ones.”

Billy grinned, his split lip barely stinging now. “Alright, kid. Let’s make some. Hopper’s got flour and shit somewhere.”

They rummaged through the pantry, El giggling as flour puffed into the air, Billy guiding her through the steps with his good hand. It was messy, chaotic, but fun, and Billy found himself laughing, really laughing, for the first time in weeks. El smeared dough on his cheek, and he flicked a chocolate chip at her, their laughter filling the cabin. The cookies came out lumpy, a little burnt, but El declared them perfect, munching happily as they sat by the couch.

Hopper got back in the late afternoon, his boots heavy on the porch. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight, Billy on the couch, a plate of cookies on the coffee table, the cabin cleaner than he’d left it. El was curled up with a comic, a smudge of chocolate on her chin, and Billy looked… different. Not just healing, but softer, his usual sharp edges dulled, his eyes brighter despite the bruises.

“Well, damn,” Hopper said, shutting the door, a grin tugging at his lips. “You two been busy.”

Billy shrugged, his good shoulder lifting, a shy smile flickering. “Couldn’t let this place turn into a pigsty,” he said, his voice light but a little self-conscious. “Plus, El’s got a sweet tooth.”

Hopper chuckled, setting his hat on the counter and grabbing a cookie. “Not bad,” he said, taking a bite, his eyes crinkling. “You’re full of surprises, kid. Good job.”

Billy’s cheeks flushed, the praise hitting him like a warm wave. He ducked his head, his fingers picking at the blanket, but his smile grew, shy and real. Hopper’s hand brushed his shoulder as he reached for another cookie, and the touch sent a spark through Billy, electric and warm. Their eyes met, just for a second, and Billy’s heart thudded, that pull he’d been feeling all week stronger now, undeniable.

Hopper sat across from him, his chair creaking, and gave Billy a quick rundown. “No new leads on Neil,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. “But we’re closing in. He’s not gonna slip through forever. You holding up okay?”

Billy nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he said, but his eyes flickered, the fear still there, lurking. “Just… don’t like thinking about him coming back.”

Hopper leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze intense. “He’s not getting near you,” he said, his voice low, a vow. “Not you, not Max. I’ve got this place locked down, and I’ve got eyes everywhere. You’re safe, Billy.”

Billy’s breath hitched, and he nodded, his eyes locked on Hopper’s. The chief’s hand reached out, resting on Billy’s knee, the touch lingering, warm and steady. Billy didn’t pull away, his heart racing, the air between them heavy with something unspoken. Hopper’s thumb brushed lightly over his knee, and Billy felt it everywhere, his cheeks flushing, his chest tight with a need he didn’t know how to name.

“Thanks,” Billy said, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes soft, vulnerable. Hopper’s hand stayed there, just a moment longer, before he pulled back, clearing his throat.

“Anytime, kid,” Hopper said, his voice rougher than usual, like he was fighting something too.

The evening settled in, the cabin warm and quiet. Max back from school, her chatter filling the space. They ate cookies and argued over what movie to watch, the normalcy a balm after the heavy talk. But Billy’s mind kept drifting to Hopper, to that touch, to the way the chief’s eyes softened when he looked at him. It was dangerous, this feeling, but it was there, growing with every glance, every word.

Later, when Max and El were in El’s room giggling over some magazine, Billy and Hopper were alone again. The fire casting shadows on the walls. Billy shifted on the couch, his good hand fidgeting. He wanted to ask something, something that had been nagging at him since that day with the news channel, but he wasn’t sure how.

“Hey, Hop,” he said, his voice hesitant, his eyes flicking to the chief. “Can I ask you something? About El?”

Hopper’s eyebrows rose, and he set his beer down, his posture stiffening slightly. “Sure,” he said, but there was a cautious edge to his voice. “What’s up?”

Billy chewed his lip, his heart pounding. “The other day, when Neil’s face was on the news… El changed the channel. Without touching the dials. How’d she do that?”

Hopper’s face tightened, and he leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “She’s, uh… she’s got a knack for stuff like that,” he said, his voice careful, deflecting. “Just a trick she picked up.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed, not buying it. “A trick?” he said, his tone skeptical but not accusing. “Come on, man. I’ve seen weird shit in this town. That wasn’t just a trick.”

Hopper sighed, his eyes flicking to the door to El’s room, then back to Billy. “Look, kid,” he said, his voice low. “Hawkins… it’s not like other places. There’s stuff you don’t know, stuff I can’t explain right now. But El’s special, okay? And she’s safe. That’s what matters.”

Billy held his gaze, searching, but he nodded, letting it go for now. “Alright,” he said, his voice soft. “Just… she’s cool, you know? I like her.”

Hopper’s lips twitched, a small smile breaking through. “Yeah, she’s pretty great,” he said, his voice warm. “And she likes you too, kid. You’re good with her.”

Billy’s cheeks flushed, and he ducked his head, that praise hitting him hard again. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his heart thudding. The air between them felt heavy again, charged, and Billy’s eyes flicked to Hopper’s hand, remembering that touch on his knee, the way it had made him feel safe, wanted.

Hopper stood, breaking the moment, and grabbed another cookie, his voice casual but his eyes soft. “Get some rest, Billy,” he said. “You’re doing good. Real good.”

Billy nodded, sinking back into the pillows, his heart still racing. The cabin was quiet, the fire crackling, and as he closed his eyes, he felt that pull again, stronger now, tying him to Hopper in a way he couldn’t explain. It scared him, but it also felt like the only thing keeping him grounded, and for now, that was enough.

The cabin was warm, the woodstove crackling as the late November chill pressed against the windows. Billy Hargrove was starting to feel human again, his bruises fading to faint shadows, his ribs less likely to scream with every move. He was still on the couch, his sling a constant companion, but he was up more, shuffling around, doing small chores to keep his mind busy. The cabin had become a safe haven, a bubble where the world’s sharp edges couldn’t reach him, not Neil, not the memories, not the guilt that still clawed at his chest when he thought of Susan.

Hopper was a constant, his presence as steady as the fire’s glow. The chief was always there, checking Billy’s meds, making sure he ate, tossing out gruff but gentle encouragement like it was second nature. Billy wasn’t used to it, someone caring without wanting something in return, and it stirred things in him he didn’t know how to handle. Every time Hopper’s eyes met his, warm and steady, Billy’s heart did a stupid little flip, and he’d look away, his cheeks hot, his mind a mess of want and fear.

Today, the girls were out with Joyce, shopping for winter clothes or some shit, leaving Billy and Hopper alone. The cabin was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the occasional pop of the fire. Billy was on the couch, flipping through one of Jonathan’s old music magazines, trying to focus on the words instead of the way Hopper was moving around the kitchen, his flannel stretched tight over his shoulders as he washed dishes.

“You ever think about getting outta Hawkins?” Billy asked, his voice casual but curious, breaking the silence. He didn’t look up, his fingers tracing the edge of the magazine.

Hopper paused, a plate dripping in his hands, and glanced over, his eyebrows raised. “What, like running away?” he said, his tone teasing but interested. “Nah, this town’s got its claws in me. Too many people I care about.”

Billy nodded, his eyes still on the page, but his mind was elsewhere. “I used to dream about it,” he said, his voice quieter, softer. “Back in California. Thought I’d save up, get a shitty van, just drive. Anywhere but there. Somewhere Neil couldn’t find me.”

Hopper set the plate down, drying his hands on a towel, and moved to the armchair across from Billy, his eyes steady. “Where’d you wanna go?” he asked, his voice low, like he really wanted to know.

Billy shrugged, his good shoulder lifting. “Didn’t matter. Just… away. Somewhere I could breathe, you know? Be myself without looking over my shoulder.” He glanced up, meeting Hopper’s gaze, and his breath caught. Those dark eyes were locked on him, warm and searching, and Billy felt exposed, like Hopper could see every crack in his armor.

“You can breathe here,” Hopper said, his voice rough but gentle. “You’re safe, kid. You don’t gotta run.”

Billy’s throat tightened, and he nodded, his eyes dropping back to the magazine. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Starting to feel like it.”

The air between them shifted, heavy with something unspoken. Hopper stood, moving to the couch to check Billy’s sling, his hands careful but firm as he adjusted it. His fingers brushed Billy’s shoulder, accidental but lingering, and Billy’s heart thudded, his skin tingling where Hopper’s hand had been. He looked up, their eyes locking, and for a moment, neither of them moved, the space between them electric.

“You’re healing up good,” Hopper said, his voice rougher than usual, his hand still resting on Billy’s shoulder. “Stronger every day.”

Billy’s cheeks flushed, and he tried to play it off, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Yeah, well, you’re not bad at playing nurse, Chief,” he said, his tone teasing but softer, more sincere. “Kinda suits you.”

Hopper chuckled, his hand dropping, but his eyes stayed on Billy, warm and steady. “Careful, kid,” he said, his voice low, teasing back. “Don’t go getting too comfortable with me fussing over you.”

Billy’s smirk softened into a real smile, his heart racing. “Too late,” he said, his voice quiet, almost a confession. “You’re… you’re pretty good at it.”

Hopper’s breath hitched, just barely, and he looked away, clearing his throat. But the tension stayed, simmering, and Billy felt it in his bones, that pull toward Hopper growing stronger, scarier. He wanted to lean into it, to let it swallow him, but the fear, Neil’s voice, his own doubts, kept him tethered.

The next day, Hopper helped with Billy’s physical therapy, a routine of slow stretches to keep his arm from stiffening. They were in the living room, the coffee table pushed aside, Billy standing with his good hand braced on Hopper’s arm. “Easy,” Hopper said, his voice steady, guiding Billy’s arm through a careful motion. “Don’t push it too hard.”

Billy gritted his teeth, the stretch pulling at his sore muscles, but Hopper’s touch was grounding, his hands strong and warm. Billy leaned into him, just a little, his body tired, his heart racing. Hopper didn’t pull away, his grip steady, and their eyes met again, close enough that Billy could see the flecks of green in Hopper’s eyes, the lines etched by years of worry.

“You’re doing good, kid,” Hopper said, his voice low, almost a murmur. “Real good.”

Billy’s breath caught, and he leaned closer, his forehead brushing Hopper’s shoulder, a vulnerable moment he couldn’t stop. “Thanks,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “For… everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Hopper’s hand tightened on Billy’s arm, just for a second, and he didn’t pull away, letting Billy rest there, their breaths syncing. “You don’t gotta do it alone,” Hopper said, his voice rough with something Billy couldn’t name. “I’m here.”

Billy’s heart pounded, and he wanted to say it, to let the words spill out, that he was falling for Hopper, that the chief’s strength, his care, was everything he’d never had. But he swallowed it, masking it as gratitude. “You’re too good to me,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes searching Hopper’s face.

Hopper’s lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but he just nodded, his hand lingering on Billy’s arm before he stepped back, breaking the moment. “Just doing my job, kid,” he said, but his voice was thick, his eyes betraying a conflict Billy could feel. Hopper was drawn to him, too, Billy could see it, the way his gaze lingered, the way his touches lasted just a second too long. It was terrifying, exhilarating, and Billy didn’t know how to navigate it.

Max came home from school that afternoon, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her eyes brighter but still shadowed. She plopped down on the couch next to Billy, stealing a cookie from the plate El had left out. “You two are getting cozy,” she said, her tone teasing but gentle, a smirk playing on her lips.

Billy’s face burned, and he flicked a crumb at her. “Shut up, Max,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just embarrassment.

Max grinned, leaning back. “Just saying. You’re all… soft around him. It’s weird. Good weird, but weird.”

Billy rolled his eyes, but his heart was racing. “You’re imagining shit,” he said, but his voice was too quiet, too defensive. Max just raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening, and Billy knew she saw right through him.

El wandered in, her curls a mess, and sat on the floor, oblivious to the tension. “Hopper’s nice,” she said, her voice earnest, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He likes you, Billy. I can tell.”

Billy’s cheeks went hotter, and he ducked his head, muttering, “Yeah, whatever, kid.” But her words hit him hard, that innocent support making his chest ache. He wanted to believe it, wanted to think Hopper felt something too, but the fear was still there, Neil’s voice whispering he wasn’t worth it.

The next day was heavy, the air in the cabin thick with grief. Susan’s funeral was that afternoon, and the weight of it settled over everyone like a fog. Billy stood in front of the small mirror in the bathroom, trying to button a borrowed shirt with his good hand, his fingers clumsy. Hopper appeared behind him, his reflection steady in the glass.

“Here,” Hopper said, his voice low, stepping close to help. His hands moved carefully, buttoning the shirt, his fingers brushing Billy’s chest, sending a spark through him. Billy’s breath hitched, his eyes meeting Hopper’s in the mirror, and for a moment, neither of them moved, the air charged.

“Thanks,” Billy murmured, his voice soft, his heart racing.

Hopper nodded, his hand lingering on Billy’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his voice rough but warm. “We’re all here.”

Billy nodded, his throat tight, and followed Hopper out. Max was in the living room, her dress borrowed from Joyce, her eyes red but dry. El was beside her, holding her hand, her own face somber. They piled into the Blazer, the drive to the funeral home quiet, the weight of loss pressing down.

The funeral was small but packed, Hawkins showing up in a way Billy hadn’t expected. Max’s friends were there, Lucas, Dustin, Mike, Will, their families filling the pews. Joyce sat with Jonathan and Will, her arm around Max, her eyes warm and steady. Steve was there too, his face serious but kind, offering a nod to Billy as they filed in. The compassion, the sheer number of people who cared, hit Billy like a wave, and he saw it in Max’s eyes too, surprise, gratitude, a flicker of hope.

The service was a blur, the pastor’s words soft and generic, the casket closed. Billy sat beside Max, his good hand squeezing hers, his heart heavy with guilt. He hadn’t saved Susan, but he’d saved Max, and that had to be enough. Hopper sat on his other side, his presence solid, grounding, and Billy leaned into it, just a little, needing the strength.

After, at the reception, people milled around, offering quiet condolences. Lucas’s mom hugged Max, her voice warm, and Dustin’s mom promised to drop off a casserole. Billy stood by the wall, his sling awkward under the borrowed jacket, watching the town rally around them. It was overwhelming, this kindness, and he didn’t know how to process it.

Hopper stayed close, his hand brushing Billy’s back as he guided him to a chair. “You holding up?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching.

Billy nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he said, but his voice was shaky. “Just… didn’t expect this. All these people.”

Hopper’s lips twitched, a small smile. “Hawkins is weird like that,” he said. “They show up when it counts.”

Billy looked at him, his heart thudding, and the words slipped out before he could stop them. “You’re showing up,” he said, his voice soft, sincere. “More than anyone.”

Hopper’s breath caught, and he looked at Billy, his eyes warm, conflicted. “You’re worth showing up for,” he said, his voice rough, almost a whisper. His hand rested on Billy’s shoulder, the touch lingering, and Billy felt it everywhere, his skin tingling, his chest tight with want.

Max wandered over, her eyes catching the moment, and she smirked, her voice teasing. “You two need a room or what?”

Billy’s face burned, and he flicked a napkin at her. “Shut it, Max,” he muttered, but his smile was real, embarrassed but warm.

El followed, her voice earnest. “It’s nice,” she said, looking between them. “You make each other happy.”

Billy’s cheeks went hotter, and he ducked his head, muttering, “Jesus, you too?” But her words hit him hard, that innocent support cracking something open inside him.

Hopper cleared his throat, his hand dropping, but his eyes stayed on Billy, warm and steady. “Come on,” he said, his voice rough but kind. “Let’s get you guys home.”

The drive back was quiet, the grief still heavy but softened by the day’s warmth. At the cabin, Max and El disappeared to change, their voices soft as they talked. Billy sat on the couch, his body tired, his heart full. Hopper sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed, and Billy didn’t pull away, the contact grounding him.

“You did good today,” Hopper said, his voice low, his eyes on Billy. “Both of you.”

Billy nodded, his throat tight. “Thanks,” he said, his voice soft. “For… being there. For everything.”

Hopper’s hand moved to Billy’s knee, the touch light but deliberate, and Billy’s heart raced, his eyes meeting Hopper’s. The air was thick, charged, and Billy wanted to lean into it, to let it consume him. But he didn’t, not yet, the fear still there, holding him back.

“Anytime, kid,” Hopper said, his voice rough with something unspoken, his hand lingering just a moment longer before he stood, breaking the moment. But the tension stayed, simmering, and Billy knew it was only a matter of time before it boiled over.

The cabin’s bathroom was a small, sunlit space, the afternoon light filtering through the frosted window, casting a soft, hazy glow over the white tiles and the clawfoot tub. The house was quiet, Hopper at the station, Max at school, leaving Billy and El alone for the afternoon, a rare stretch of peace that Billy savored, his heart full with the family they’d built.

El’s voice cut through the quiet, high and sharp, echoing from the bathroom. “Billy!” she called, her tone laced with panic, her words tumbling out fast, breathless. “Something’s wrong! There’s… there’s blood!”

Billy’s heart lurched, his rag dropping to the counter with a wet slap, his boots thudding as he bolted down the hall, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. He burst through the door, his eyes wide, his voice steady but urgent. “El? What happened? Are you okay?”

El stood by the sink, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror, her jeans around her ankles, her hands trembling as she clutched a wad of toilet paper stained red. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her breath coming in short gasps, her body curled in on itself like she was trying to hide. “I… I’m bleeding,” she said, her voice breaking, small and scared, her eyes darting to Billy, pleading for answers. “Am I hurt? Did something break inside? Billy, help!”

Billy’s stomach twisted, but he kept his voice calm, his movements slow, deliberate, as he knelt beside her, his hand hovering near her shoulder, not touching yet, giving her space. His mind clicked, blood, no injury, her age, and realization hit, a wave of empathy crashing over him, his own awkward memories from school surfacing, the way he’d panicked at his first real crush, the confusion of his body’s changes. “Hey, hey, kid,” he said, his voice soft, reassuring, his eyes meeting hers, steady and kind. “You’re not hurt. It’s okay. It’s… it’s your period. Happens to girls, women, when you’re growing up. It’s normal, El. Nothing’s broken.”

El’s eyes widened further, her tears falling faster, her voice a whisper. “Period?” she said, the word foreign, scary, her hands shaking as she clutched the toilet paper tighter. “What is it? Why is it happening? Does it hurt? Am I… dying?”

Billy’s heart ached, his throat tight, and he sat back on his heels, his hands open, palms up, showing he was safe, calm. “No, no, you’re not dying,” he said, his voice firm but gentle, his smile small but real. “It’s just your body doing what it’s supposed to. Means you’re healthy, strong. It’s like… a sign you’re becoming you, you know? It might cramp a little, feel weird, but it passes. And it’s nothing to be scared of. I promise.”

El’s breath hitched, her eyes searching his face, her panic easing slightly but her body still tense, her jeans still around her ankles. “But… blood,” she said, her voice small, her hands trembling. “It’s everywhere. What do I do?”

Billy nodded, his voice steady, his heart racing with the weight of this moment, being the one she trusted, the brother she turned to. “We’ll fix it,” he said, standing slowly, his movements careful. “Stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.” He stepped into the hall, his boots quiet as he headed to the linen closet, his mind flashing to Susan’s old supplies, the things she’d kept stocked for Max, now a lifeline. He grabbed a box of pads, still sealed, and a pair of El’s sweatpants from her room, his hands steady despite the nerves bubbling in his chest.

Back in the bathroom, he knelt again, his voice soft. “Okay, kid,” he said, setting the items on the counter, his eyes meeting hers, patient. “This is a pad, it goes in your underwear, catches the blood. Like this.” He opened the box, pulling out one, his movements deliberate but not lingering, showing her the adhesive strip, how it stuck to the fabric. “See? Easy. Change it every few hours, or when it feels full. And these are your sweats, clean ones. You can clean up with the sink, if you want.”

El nodded, her tears slowing, her eyes wide as she watched, her hands reaching for the pad, her voice small. “It’s… normal?” she asked, her fingers fumbling with the wrapper, her body still curled.

“Yeah,” Billy said, his voice gentle, his smile reassuring. “Totally normal. Happens every month or so. You’re not alone in this, El. Max goes through it, Joyce, all of ‘em. It’s just… bodies being bodies. Embarrassing as hell, but it passes.”

El’s lips twitched, a small giggle escaping, her eyes brightening, her panic fading into something manageable. El stood, her face still pale but her smile small, real, her arms wrapping around Billy in a sudden, fierce hug. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest, her body trembling but relaxing. “You’re… good, Billy. Like a brother.”

Billy’s throat tightened, his arms hugging her back, his heart swelling, his voice rough. “Anytime, kid,” he said, his hand stroking her hair, his eyes stinging. “You’re family. We’ve got each other.”

El pulled back, her smile brighter, her eyes dry now, and she nodded, her voice soft but sure. “Yeah,” she said, her hand brushing his arm. “Family.”

Billy ruffled her hair, his grin returning, his heart light. “Go grab a snack or something. I’ll make hot chocolate. And hey, if it cramps there’s chocolate in the pantry, Joyce swears by it.”

El giggled, her steps lighter as she headed to the kitchen, her voice calling back. “Chocolate! Yes!”

Billy leaned against the bathroom door, his breath shaky, his heart racing from the moment, the trust she’d placed in him. He was her brother, her guardian, and in that role, he felt Susan’s love, her faith in him, alive and strong.

The cabin was quiet again, the sun warm through the window, and Billy carried the moment with him, his bond with El deeper, his role in their family a light that chased away the shadows. Hopper would be home soon, Max too, and as Billy headed to the kitchen, his heart full.

The cabin was quiet, the early December light filtering through the windows, casting long shadows across the wood floor. Billy was up, moving better now, his sling still on but his steps steadier, the bruises on his face faded to faint ghosts. The pain in his ribs was a dull ache, manageable, but the weight in his chest, guilt, fear, memories of Neil, was heavier, harder to shake.

He stood by the kitchen counter, sipping coffee, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. Today was a big day: his first day back at school, and the thought of facing Hawkins High, with its whispers and stares, made his skin crawl.

Hopper was at the table, his radio crackling with updates from the station. He’d been up early, as usual, his face lined with exhaustion but his eyes sharp. “Got a lead on Neil,” he said, his voice low, glancing at Billy. “Nothing solid yet, but he was spotted at a gas station two counties over. We’re closing in.”

Billy’s grip tightened on his mug, his knuckles white. “Good,” he said, his voice flat, but his eyes betrayed the fear, the anger. Neil was still out there, a shadow waiting to crash back into his life. He shoved the thought down, focusing on the coffee, the warmth of the cabin, the way Hopper’s presence made it feel safe, even if just for now.

Max wandered in, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her eyes nervous but determined. “You ready?” she asked, her voice soft, looking at Billy.

He shrugged, setting his mug down. “As I’ll ever be,” he said, managing a small smile. “You?”

She nodded, but her lips were tight, and Billy felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t been there for her, not really, not when Neil was tearing their world apart. “Stick with your friends,” he said, echoing his advice from last week. “They’ve got your back.”

Max’s lips twitched, a flicker of a smile. “Yeah, I know,” she said, then hesitated, her eyes searching his. “You’re gonna be okay, right? At school?”

Billy’s throat tightened, but he nodded, ruffling her hair with his good hand. “I’ll survive, Max. Always do.”

The doorbell rang, and Hopper stood, his boots heavy on the floor. “That’s your ride,” he said, glancing at Billy. “Harrington’s here.”

Billy’s stomach flipped, a mix of nerves and something else. Steve had been around a lot lately, dropping off food, checking on Max, offering rides. The guy was solid, dependable in a way Billy hadn’t expected, and it made him feel… weird. Guilty, mostly, for that night at the Byers’ house, when he’d lost it, when Neil’s voice in his head had pushed him to swing.

Steve stood on the porch, his hair perfect despite the morning chill, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Ready for the circus?” he asked, his grin easy but his eyes sharp, like he knew how much this sucked.

Billy snorted, grabbing his backpack with his good hand. “Yeah, let’s get it over with.”

The drive to school was quiet at first, Max in the back, staring out the window, Steve humming along to some Springsteen on the radio. Billy’s leg bounced, his nerves fraying, and he finally cleared his throat, his voice low. “Hey, Harrington,” he said, glancing at Steve. “About that night… at the Byers’. I was a prick. Shouldn’t have gone after you like that. I’m… sorry.”

Steve’s hands tightened on the wheel, but his face stayed calm, his eyes flicking to Billy. “Yeah, well,” he said, his tone light but serious. “Sounds like you had a lot of shit going on. Neil, right? I get it. Or, I don’t, but… I know it wasn’t really you. We’re cool.”

Billy’s throat tightened, and he nodded, looking out the window. “Thanks,” he said, his voice rough, the weight of Steve’s forgiveness hitting harder than he expected. “Means a lot.”

Steve’s lips twitched, a small smile. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Hargrove,” he said, but his tone was warm, and Billy felt a flicker of something like friendship, tentative but real.

School was exactly as bad as Billy expected. The halls were a gauntlet of stares and whispers, kids gawking like he was some kind of sideshow.

That’s the guy whose dad killed his stepmom. Heard he got beat to shit. Wonder if he’s messed up now.

Billy kept his head down, his good hand clenched, his sling a neon sign. He wanted to disappear, to crawl back to the cabin and hide, but he pushed through, his jaw tight.

Basketball was a no-go, the coach pulling him aside first period to say he was benched until his injuries healed. “Can’t risk you getting hurt worse,” Coach said, his tone gruff but not unkind. Billy nodded, his stomach sinking. The court had been his escape, his way to drown out Neil’s voice, and now it was gone, leaving him adrift.

Steve found him at lunch, sitting alone in the cafeteria, poking at a tray of soggy fries. “You look like you’re about to murder someone,” Steve said, sliding into the seat across from him, his own tray piled high. “School’s that bad?”

Billy shrugged, his eyes on his fries. “Just… a lot,” he said, his voice low. “Everyone’s staring, whispering. Like I’m some freak show.”

Steve nodded, his face serious. “Yeah, Hawkins loves its gossip,” he said. “But it’ll die down. Give it a week, they’ll find something else to talk about. You just gotta keep showing up.”

Billy looked at him, surprised by the steadiness in Steve’s voice, the way he didn’t push or pry. “You’re alright, Harrington,” he said, his lips twitching. “Didn’t expect you to be my cheerleader.”

Steve grinned, stealing a fry. “What can I say? I’m a giver. Plus, Max would kill me if I let you mope.”

Billy snorted, and for the first time that day, he felt a little lighter, like maybe he could survive this. Steve stuck around, their conversation easy, basketball, music, dumb shit about school, and Billy realized he didn’t mind the company. Steve was solid, a friend in a way he hadn’t had before, and it made the day bearable.

Billy Hargrove’s sneakers scuffed the worn tiles of Hawkins General Hospital, the whispers and stares felt like needles in his skin. His first day back after everything, Neil’s attack, the hospital, the sling, had been brutal, the gossip about his bruises and Susan’s death trailing him like a shadow.

He sat in the clinic’s waiting room now, his leg bouncing, his arm free of the sling but still stiff, aching when he moved too fast. The sterile smell of antiseptic and the hum of fluorescent lights made his stomach twist, his nerves frayed from the day. He glanced at the clock, willing the appointment to be over, wanting nothing more than to get back to the cabin, to Hopper’s steady presence.

Hopper sat across from him, slouched in a too-small chair, a dog-eared hunting magazine open but unread in his lap. His flannel was rumpled, his beard scruffier than usual, but his eyes were sharp, flicking to Billy every few seconds, checking on him without a word. Billy caught his gaze, and Hopper’s lips twitched, a small, reassuring smile that made Billy’s chest loosen, just a little. “You good, kid?” Hopper asked, his voice low, gruff, but soft around the edges, the pet name slipping out like it was natural.

Billy shrugged, his cheeks flushing, his voice rough. “Yeah,” he said, not quite convincing, his fingers picking at the hem of his jacket. “Just want this over with. Hate doctors.”

Hopper chuckled, closing the magazine and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “You and me both, sweetheart,” he said, his tone teasing but warm. “But you’re almost done. Gotta make sure you’re healing right.”

Billy nodded, his throat tight, the word sweetheart hitting him like a warm wave, easing the tension in his shoulders. The nurse called his name, and he stood, his heart racing, his steps hesitant. Hopper stood too, his hand brushing Billy’s lower back, a quiet, grounding touch. “I’ll be right here,” Hopper said, his eyes steady, full of that protective love Billy was still getting used to. “You’ve got this, baby.”

The exam room was small, the paper on the table crinkling under Billy as he sat, his jaw tight. The doctor, a middle-aged guy with glasses and a calm voice, checked his chart, then prodded Billy’s ribs, his arm, asking about pain levels, mobility. “You’re healing well,” the doctor said, his tone professional but kind. “Ribs are solid, arm’s getting there. No basketball or heavy lifting yet, okay? Give it another month. But you’re cleared for light activity, walking, stretching. Keep up the physical therapy.”

Billy nodded, his relief tinged with frustration, the idea of waiting another month chafing at him. “Yeah, okay,” he said, his voice low, his eyes on the floor. “Can I drive yet?”

The doctor smiled, jotting a note. “Short trips, sure. No marathons. You’re doing great, Billy. You’ve been through a lot.”

Billy’s throat tightened, the praise unexpected, and he mumbled a thanks, his cheeks flushing as he headed back to the waiting room. Hopper stood the second he saw him, his eyes searching Billy’s face, soft and concerned. “All good, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand brushing Billy’s arm, warm and steady.

“Yeah,” Billy said, his voice softer now, his smile small but real. “Cleared for light stuff. No basketball yet, which sucks, but… I’m okay.”

Hopper’s grin was wide, proud, and he slung an arm around Billy’s shoulders, guiding him toward the Blazer. “That’s my boy,” he said, his voice thick with affection. “You’re tougher than you look, baby. Let’s celebrate, burgers at Benny’s, my treat.”

Billy laughed, the sound light, free, his heart racing at Hopper’s words, the way they made him feel cherished, seen. “You’re always buying,” he teased, sliding into the passenger seat, his body relaxing as Hopper started the engine, the radio humming with some old rock song.

At the diner, they sat in a corner booth, the smell of fries and coffee filling the air. Hopper pushed the ketchup across the table, his grin teasing as he watched Billy dig into his cheeseburger. “Gotta keep you fed,” he said, his voice low, playful. “Can’t have you wasting away on me.”

Billy rolled his eyes, his cheeks pink, but his smile was real, his heart full. “Whatever, Chief,” he said, stealing a fry from Hopper’s plate, their banter easy, warm. Hopper’s hand brushed his under the table and Billy felt it, the safety, the love. The sense that he was healing, not just his body but his heart. The day’s weight lifted, the stares and whispers fading, Hopper’s presence drowning out everything but this moment, this life they were building together.

Back at the cabin that evening, the air was heavy, the warmth of the woodstove not quite enough to chase away the chill of Billy’s nightmares. They’d gotten worse lately, Neil’s face haunting him every time he closed his eyes, those cold eyes, those fists, Susan’s blood on the floor. He woke gasping, his heart pounding, his body slick with sweat. It was late, the cabin dark, Max and El asleep in El’s room, and Billy sat up on the couch, his good hand trembling as he tried to breathe.

Hopper appeared, his silhouette filling the doorway, his flannel rumpled from sleep. “Hey,” he said, his voice low, rough with concern. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Billy shook his head, his throat tight, tears burning his eyes. “No,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Nightmares. They won’t… they won’t stop.”

Hopper was at his side in an instant, sitting on the couch, his arm wrapping around Billy’s shoulders, careful but firm. “C’mere,” he murmured, pulling Billy close, letting him lean against his chest. “You’re safe. He’s not here. Just breathe.”

Billy clung to him, his good hand fisting in Hopper’s shirt, his sobs quiet but raw. Hopper’s arms were solid, warm, and Billy felt the panic start to ebb, replaced by a desperate need for this, for Hopper, for his strength, his care. “I can’t stop seeing it,” Billy whispered, his voice shaking. “Him. Her. The blood. I should’ve done more.”

Hopper’s hand rubbed slow circles on Billy’s back, his voice steady. “You did everything you could,” he said, his tone fierce but gentle. “You kept Max safe. You fought, Billy. You’re still fighting. That’s enough.”

Billy’s tears fell harder, and he pressed his face against Hopper’s chest, the flannel soft against his cheek. “I need you,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them, raw and honest. “I… I love you, Hop. I know it’s fucked up, but I do.”

Hopper’s breath caught, his hand stilling, and for a moment, the cabin was silent, the air thick with emotion. Billy’s heart pounded, fear and hope crashing together, and he started to pull back, afraid he’d ruined everything. But Hopper’s hand moved to his face, cupping his cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. “Hey,” Hopper said, his voice rough, thick with feeling. “It’s not fucked up. I… I feel it too, kid.”

Billy’s eyes widened, searching Hopper’s face, and what he saw there, warmth, conflict, need, made his chest ache. Hopper leaned in, slow, giving Billy time to pull away but Billy didn’t.

Their lips met, soft and tentative. A kiss full of built-up emotion, tear-streaked and trembling. Billy’s good hand slid to Hopper’s neck, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening, desperate and gentle all at once. It was everything Billy hadn’t known he needed, safe, warm, real.

They pulled back, their foreheads resting together, their breaths uneven. “I’m here,” Hopper whispered, his voice a promise, his hand still cupping Billy’s face. “I’ve got you.”

Billy nodded, tears still falling, but his heart felt lighter, like he could breathe again. “Don’t let go,” he whispered, his voice shaking, and Hopper’s arms tightened around him, a vow without words.

They stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, the fire’s glow casting soft shadows. Hopper’s hand moved to Billy’s hair, stroking gently, and Billy leaned into it, his body relaxing, the nightmares fading for now. The kisses came again, soft and slow, each one a whisper of promises, I’m here, I love you, you’re enough. Billy’s heart raced, his need for Hopper overwhelming, but it wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, a healing he hadn’t thought possible.

The next morning, the cabin was quiet, Max and El still asleep. Billy woke in Hopper’s arms, the chief’s steady breathing a comfort against his back. He didn’t move, didn’t want to break the moment, the warmth of Hopper’s body grounding him. Hopper stirred, his arm tightening briefly before he sat up, his eyes soft but conflicted as he looked at Billy.

“Morning,” Hopper said, his voice rough with sleep, his hand brushing Billy’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Billy nodded, his cheeks flushing, the memory of last night’s kiss burning bright. “Yeah,” he said, his voice soft. “Better than okay.”

Hopper’s lips twitched, a small smile, but his eyes held that same conflict, like he was wrestling with what this meant. “Good,” he said, standing, his hand lingering on Billy’s shoulder. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

The day passed in a haze of quiet moments, Hopper’s touches gentle, brushing Billy’s hand as he passed him coffee, resting a hand on his back as they moved through the kitchen. Billy felt it all, every touch a spark, every glance a promise. Max noticed, her eyes sharp as she ate her cereal, a smirk playing on her lips.

“You two are gross,” she said, her tone teasing but warm, and Billy flicked a spoon at her, his face red.

“Shut up, Max,” he muttered, but his smile was real, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

El, oblivious to the tension, just grinned, her voice earnest. “It’s nice,” she said, looking between them. “You’re happy.”

Billy’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t deny it, his eyes flicking to Hopper, who was pretending to focus on his coffee but failing to hide his own smile. Steve dropped by later, his car loaded with snacks and a new mixtape for Max. He caught Billy’s eye, his grin knowing.

“Looking good, Hargrove,” Steve said, tossing him a bag of chips. “You and Hop seem… cozy.”

Billy’s face flushed, and he muttered, “You’re worse than Max,” but his heart wasn’t in it. Steve just laughed, clapping him on the shoulder, his voice low.

“Told you,” Steve said. “You’re allowed to be happy. Don’t fuck it up.”

Billy nodded, his throat tight, and watched Steve joke with Max and El, the cabin filled with warmth, with family. The nightmares still came, but Hopper was there, his arms a safe haven, his kisses a balm. Billy was healing, not just his body but his heart, and it was because of Hopper, his strength, his love, his quiet promises. For the first time, Billy felt like he could face the past, like he could be more than Neil’s punching bag. And with Hopper by his side, he believed it.

The Beemer’s engine rumbled to a stop outside the cabin, the summer evening air warm and heavy, carrying the faint scent of lake water and blooming flowers from Billy's garden. The radio hummed low, some old Fleetwood Mac song fading out as Steve Harrington killed the ignition, his hands lingering on the wheel, his knuckles white for a second before he relaxed. Billy leaned back in the passenger seat, his curls loose and messy from the day's chaos. He glanced at Steve, catching the way the guy's jaw worked, his eyes fixed on the dashboard, like he was chewing on words he wasn't sure how to spit out.

"You good, Harrington?" Billy asked, his voice casual, light, but his eyes sharp, picking up on the tension. He stretched his legs, his sneakers bumping the glove compartment, the silver ring on his finger glinting in the fading light. The mall had been fun, a distraction from Neil's appeal bullshit hanging over them, but Steve had been quieter on the drive back, his usual banter dialed down.

Steve exhaled, running a hand through his hair, still perfect, somehow, despite the heat, and turned, his eyes meeting Billy's, hesitant but steady. "Yeah, man," he said, his voice a little too quick, his grin forced. "Just… thinking. You and Hop, you're good together, you know? Like, really good."

Billy's heart skipped, his cheeks flushing slightly, but he nodded, his smile small but real. "Yeah," he said, his voice soft, his eyes flicking to the cabin, where Hopper's silhouette moved in the window, probably starting dinner. "He's… everything. Makes me feel like I can breathe, you know? Safe. Seen."

Steve nodded, his fingers drumming on the wheel, his eyes distant for a second, like he was weighing something heavy. "That's cool," he said, his voice quieter now, his gaze dropping to his hands. "I mean, what’s it like? Being with… a guy. Like, really being with one. Does it feel… different? Or the same?"

Billy paused, his heart racing, the question hitting close, raw. He’d come out to Steve in pieces, through teasing, through the way he leaned into Hopper without hiding, but this felt like Steve peeling back his own layers, testing the water. Billy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice low, sure. "It’s… it’s Hopper," he said, his smile soft, his eyes shining with the memory of Hopper’s touch, his praises. "That’s what makes it different. He sees me, all the fucked-up parts, Neil, the bruises, the fear, and he loves me anyway. Makes me feel wanted, you know? Like I’m enough. The physical stuff… it’s intense, yeah. But it’s the trust, the way he holds me after, calls me ‘sweet boy’ like it’s a promise. It’s home."

Steve swallowed, his eyes flicking up, his voice hesitant, almost a whisper. "Yeah," he said, his fingers stilling on the wheel. "Sounds… nice. I’ve been thinking about that. Like, what if… what if I’m not just into girls? What if there’s more? But I’m not… I’m not ready to figure it out yet. Just… wondering what it’s like for you."

Billy’s throat tightened, his heart aching for Steve, the guy who’d gone from enemy to friend, from babysitter to family. He reached out, his hand clapping Steve’s shoulder, his voice soft but firm. "It’s scary as hell at first," he said, his eyes meeting Steve’s, raw with understanding. "Hiding it, wondering if you’re broken. But when you find someone who gets it, who makes you feel safe… it’s everything. You don’t have to rush, man. Figure it out on your own time. But if you need to talk, I’m here. No judgment."

Steve’s eyes glistened, his smile shaky but real, his hand covering Billy’s for a second, a quiet thank you. "You’re a good guy, Hargrove," he said, his voice thick, his grin returning, lighter now. "Didn’t see that coming a year ago. Thanks."

Billy nodded, his heart full, his smile real. "Yeah, well," he said, his voice light, teasing to ease the moment. "Takes one to know one, Harrington. Now get outta here before Hopper thinks you’re stealing me away."

Steve laughed, the sound bright, breaking the tension, and he started the engine, the radio crackling back to life. "Wouldn’t dream of it," he said, his eyes warm. "Tell the chief I said hi. And… thanks, really."

Billy clapped his shoulder one last time, stepping out into the warm evening air, the gravel crunching under his sneakers. The cabin door opened, Hopper stepping out, his flannel rumpled, his beard scruffy, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Billy. "There’s my sweet boy," he said, his voice low, full of love, his arms opening as Billy walked into them, their bodies fitting together like they were made for it.

Steve pulled away, his taillights fading down the drive, and Billy leaned into Hopper, his heart racing from the conversation, the trust he’d shared with Steve. "What was that about?" Hopper asked, his hand sliding to Billy’s waist, his lips brushing Billy’s hair, his voice curious but warm.

Billy smiled, his voice soft, his eyes meeting Hopper’s, full of affection. "Just guy talk," he said, his hand gripping Hopper’s flannel. "You, me, the usual."

Hopper’s grin was wicked, his hand tightening on Billy’s hip, pulling him closer. "The usual, huh?" he murmured, his voice a low growl, his eyes darkening with desire. "Sounds like trouble, my love."

Billy laughed, the sound light, free, his body melting into Hopper’s touch, pliant and needy. "Always with you, Chief," he whispered, their lips meeting in a slow, deep kiss, the cabin’s warmth spilling out, their bond stronger, brighter. Steve’s questions, his hinted journey, it was there, but here, with Hopper, Billy was home, his love open, his heart full.

The cabin smelled like pine and cinnamon, the kind of scent that made you think of Christmas cards and old movies. It was mid-December, and the place was a mess of tinsel and half-strung lights, the woodstove crackling to keep the chill at bay. Billy Hargrove was on the couch, his sling finally off but his arm still stiff, eyeing the box of decorations Hopper had dragged in from the shed like it was a personal challenge. The chief stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, his flannel sleeves rolled up, looking like he was about to give a pep talk to a football team.

“Come on, kid,” Hopper said, his voice gruff but teasing. “You’re in charge of Christmas this year. Make this place look like something out of a damn Hallmark movie.”

Billy snorted, leaning back against the pillows, his curls a mess. “You serious? I don’t do tinsel and glitter, Hop. That’s Max’s thing.”

Max, sprawled on the floor with a string of lights tangled around her hands, shot him a look. “Don’t drag me into this,” she said, but her lips twitched, a smirk hiding there. “You’re the one moping on the couch. Get up and help.”

El piped up from the kitchen, where she was digging through a box of ornaments, her eyes bright. “It’s fun,” she said, holding up a lopsided star made of popsicle sticks. “We make it pretty. For Christmas.”

Billy rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn’t in it. The cabin had become home, more than Cherry Lane ever was, and the idea of decking it out for the holidays stirred something in him, something warm, something he hadn’t felt since he was a kid, before his mom left. He glanced at Hopper, who was watching him with that steady, warm look that made Billy’s chest ache, and sighed. “Fine,” he muttered, pushing himself up, wincing as his ribs twinged. “But if I end up covered in glitter, I’m blaming you, Chief.”

Hopper chuckled, the sound low and warm, and tossed him a strand of tinsel. “Deal with it, kid. You’re tougher than a little sparkle.”

Billy caught the tinsel, his lips twitching into a smile, and got to work. He wasn’t about to admit it, but he kind of liked it, the chaos of it all, Max and El arguing over where to hang the ornaments, the way the lights flickered as they strung them up. He draped tinsel over the bookshelf, his movements slow but deliberate, and when El handed him a snowman ornament with a goofy grin, he hung it without complaint, her giggle worth the effort.

Max climbed onto a chair to pin a star to the top of the small tree they’d dragged in from the lot, and Billy steadied her, his good hand on her back. “Don’t fall, dumbass,” he said, his voice soft, teasing, and she stuck her tongue out at him, but her eyes were bright, happy in a way they hadn’t been in weeks.

Hopper watched from the sidelines, his coffee mug in hand, a smile tugging at his lips. The cabin was coming together, lights twinkling, ornaments glinting, the whole place feeling like a home, not just a hideout. He caught Billy’s eye, nodding approvingly. “Not bad, Hargrove,” he said, his voice warm. “You’ve got a knack for this.”

Billy’s cheeks flushed, and he ducked his head, pretending to adjust a light. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” he muttered, but his smile was real, shy and soft, and Hopper’s chest tightened at the sight.

The day passed in a blur of laughter and chaos, the four of them turning the cabin into something out of a Christmas movie, just like Hopper wanted. By evening, they were sprawled around the living room, eating cookies El had insisted on baking. The tree glowed in the corner, and Billy leaned back on the couch, his body tired but his heart full, the warmth of the moment wrapping around him like a blanket.

Hopper sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed, and Billy felt that familiar spark, the one that had been growing since that first kiss. He stole a glance at Hopper, taking in the way the firelight caught the lines of his face, the way his eyes softened when he looked at Billy. It was dangerous, this feeling, but Billy was tired of fighting it.

The next morning, Hopper was up early, his boots quiet on the floor as he slipped outside. Billy was still asleep on the couch, curled under the blankets, his face peaceful in a way that made Hopper’s heart do a weird little flip. He’d been planning something for weeks, something he hadn’t told anyone, not even Joyce. The Camaro, Billy’s pride and joy, still sitting in the impound lot with slashed tires and a busted window, was fixed, thanks to a mechanic friend who owed Hopper a favor. It was more than just a car; it was freedom, a piece of Billy’s soul, and Hopper wanted to give it back.

He drove to the lot, the Camaro gleaming under the morning sun, its tires new, its body polished. The mechanic had outdone himself, and Hopper felt a surge of anticipation as he parked it just out of sight of the cabin, covering it with a tarp. He wanted it to be a surprise, a real Christmas gift, the kind Billy had never had, not from Neil, not from anyone.

Back at the cabin, Billy was up, helping El with breakfast, his movements slow but steady. Max was coloring at the table, her eyes flicking to Billy with a mix of worry and relief. She’d noticed the change in him, the way his bravado had softened, the way he smiled more, especially around Hopper. It was weird, but good, and she wasn’t about to jinx it by saying anything.

Hopper walked in, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, everybody,” he said, his voice loud enough to get their attention. “Got something to show you. Outside.”

Billy raised an eyebrow, setting down the spatula he’d been using to flip pancakes. “What’s this, Chief? You hiding a reindeer out there?”

Hopper chuckled, shaking his head. “Better. Come on.”

They followed him out, Max and El trailing behind, their breath puffing in the cold air. Hopper led them to the tarp-covered shape by the shed, his eyes flicking to Billy, who looked confused but curious. “Ready?” Hopper asked, his voice softer now, his gaze locked on Billy.

Billy nodded, his heart thudding, and Hopper pulled the tarp away with a flourish. The Camaro gleamed in the sunlight, its blue paint shining, its tires whole, not a scratch in sight. Billy froze, his breath catching, his eyes wide as he took it in. “Holy shit,” he whispered, his voice thick. “You… you fixed it?”

Hopper nodded, his smile soft but proud. “Yeah, kid. Thought you deserved something good. Merry Christmas.”

Billy’s throat tightened, and he stepped forward, his good hand running over the hood, the metal cool under his fingers. It wasn’t just a car, it was freedom, escape, the one thing Neil hadn’t been able to take from him. And Hopper had given it back. Tears burned his eyes, and he turned to Hopper, his voice shaking. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Nobody’s ever… thank you.”

Hopper’s hand landed on his shoulder, warm and steady, and Billy leaned into it, his heart racing. “You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Hopper said, the pet name slipping out, soft and natural, and Billy’s cheeks flushed, his eyes flicking to Hopper’s, a spark passing between them.

Max whooped, breaking the moment, and ran to check out the car, El following with a grin. Billy stayed where he was, his eyes locked on Hopper, the weight of the gift hitting him hard.

It wasn’t just about the car, it was love, care, something real. He wanted to kiss Hopper right there, to pour everything he felt into it, but Max and El were too close, so he just squeezed Hopper’s hand, his touch lingering.

The Billy's good mood was shattered the next day at school. He had been back for a week, navigating the halls with his head down, ignoring the whispers and stares. He’d gotten used to it, or at least he thought he had, until he opened his locker after gym and froze.

Spray paint dripped across the metal, red and angry: You’re dead. I’ll finish it. 

The words hit like a punch, Neil’s voice echoing in his head, and Billy’s knees buckled, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Steve was there in an instant, his hand on Billy’s shoulder, steadying him. “Hey, hey, breathe,” Steve said, his voice calm but urgent. “What the hell is this?”

Billy couldn’t speak, his eyes locked on the words, his heart pounding. Steve pulled him away, guiding him to the bathroom, away from the gawking crowd. “It’s him,” Billy whispered, his voice shaking. “Neil. He’s back.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed steady. “We don’t know that,” he said, though his eyes betrayed his worry. “Could be some asshole kid playing a prank. But we’re telling Hopper, alright? He’ll handle it.”

Billy nodded, his hands trembling, and Steve stayed with him, his presence a lifeline. They called Hopper from the school office, and within twenty minutes, the chief was there, his Blazer screeching into the parking lot. Billy was sitting on a bench outside, Steve beside him, when Hopper strode up, his face a storm of anger and concern.

“Show me,” Hopper said, his voice low, dangerous. Billy led him to the locker, the spray paint still dripping, and Hopper’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, then turned to Billy, his voice softening. “You okay, baby?”

Billy’s cheeks flushed at the pet name, but he nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he lied, his voice shaking. “Just… freaked me out.”

Hopper’s hand landed on his shoulder, warm and firm, and he pulled Billy close, his voice low. “He’s not touching you,” he said, his tone a vow. “Not now, not ever. You hear me, sweetheart?”

Billy nodded, leaning into Hopper’s arms, his body trembling but safe. The fear was still there, Neil’s shadow looming, but Hopper’s presence drowned it out, his strength a shield. They stood like that, Billy’s face pressed against Hopper’s chest, the world fading until it was just them, the chief’s hand stroking his back, whispering reassurances. “I’ve got you,” Hopper murmured, his lips brushing Billy’s hair. “You’re safe, kid.”

Steve watched from a distance, his eyes soft, a small smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t say anything, just nodded at Hopper and headed back to class, giving them space. Billy clung to Hopper, his heart racing, the fear mixing with something warmer, something that felt like love.

That night, the cabin was quiet, the Christmas lights casting a soft glow. Max and El were in El’s room, playing records, their laughter a faint hum. Billy sat on the couch, his knees pulled up, his eyes distant. The locker, the words, Neil, it was all too close, too real. Hopper sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed, his hand resting on Billy’s knee, a steady anchor.

“Talk to me,” Hopper said, his voice low, gentle. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Billy swallowed, his throat tight, and leaned into Hopper, his head resting on the chief’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s out there, Hop. He’s gonna come back. He always does.”

Hopper’s arm wrapped around him, pulling him closer, his hand stroking Billy’s hair. “He’s not getting near you,” he said, his voice fierce but soft. “I’ve got the whole damn station on this, and I’m not letting him anywhere near you or Max. You’re mine to protect, sweetheart.”

Billy’s heart was still racing, the spray-painted words on his locker, You’re dead. I’ll finish it., burned into his mind like a brand.

The cabin was quiet now, the Christmas lights casting a soft glow, the fire crackling in the woodstove, but the warmth couldn’t touch the cold knot of fear in his chest. He sat on the couch, his knees pulled up, his hands trembling as he stared at the floor, Neil’s voice echoing in his head, sharp and cruel. Hopper was beside him, his broad frame a solid wall, his hand resting on Billy’s knee, warm and grounding. The chief’s eyes were soft but fierce, his jaw tight with barely contained anger, and Billy clung to that, needing the strength, the safety.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Hopper said, his voice low, steady, cutting through the haze of Billy’s thoughts. “We’re not letting him get to you. Not again. We need a plan, okay? Something solid, so you feel safe.”

Billy’s breath hitched, his eyes flicking to Hopper’s, the pet name making his cheeks flush despite the fear. “A plan?” he asked, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “Like what? He’s… he’s out there, Hop. He’s coming.”

Hopper’s hand squeezed his knee, firm but gentle, his touch a vow. “He’s not getting near you, baby,” he said, his voice a low growl, protective, dominant. “I’m not letting that happen. But we’re gonna be ready, just in case.”

He stood, grabbing a notepad and pen from the kitchen table, his movements deliberate, and sat back down, closer now, his shoulder brushing Billy’s. “Alright,” Hopper said, his voice calm but commanding, like he was briefing his deputies. “First, we’re getting new locks on the doors, deadbolts, the works. I’ll have Callahan install them tomorrow. Second, you and the girls need a signal, something quick to call me or the station if anything feels off. Maybe a code word.”

Billy nodded, his throat tight, his hands still trembling but his mind latching onto Hopper’s words, the practicality grounding him. “Code word,” he said, his voice steadier now. “Like… ‘Camaro.’ Easy to remember.”

Hopper’s lips twitched, a flicker of a smile, and he jotted it down, his hand brushing Billy’s as he wrote. “Good one, sweet boy,” he said, his voice soft, full of pride. “If you say ‘Camaro,’ I’m there, no questions. Next, we keep a weapon handy, not for you to use, just in case. There’s a bat in the shed, right? We’ll put it by the door.”

Billy’s eyes widened, but he nodded, his fingers picking at the hem of his shirt. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quiet. “I can do that. And… maybe I teach Max and El how to get out quick, through the back window or something. If he shows up.”

Hopper’s hand moved to Billy’s shoulder, warm and steady, his eyes shining with something that made Billy’s chest ache, love, pride, protection. “Smart thinking, baby,” he said, his voice low, his thumb brushing Billy’s collarbone. “We’ll practice it with them tomorrow. And I’m talking to the station, getting patrols around here doubled. He’s not getting close, Billy. I swear it.”

Billy’s breath shook, but he leaned into Hopper’s touch, his body relaxing, the fear ebbing under the chief’s strength. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his eyes stinging. “I trust you, Hop. I just… I’m scared.”

Hopper’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, his lips brushing Billy’s hair. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But you’re not facing this alone. You’ve got me, Max, El, the whole damn town if I have to. He’s not touching you, my love. Not ever.”

Billy clung to him, his face pressed against Hopper’s flannel, the familiar scent of coffee and pine drowning out the echoes of Neil’s voice. He nodded, his tears soaking into Hopper’s shirt, his heart racing but lighter, the plan a lifeline, Hopper’s love a shield. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw, his hands fisting in Hopper’s flannel, needing the closeness, the safety.

Hopper held him tighter, his hand stroking Billy’s back, his voice a vow. “Always, baby,” he said, his lips brushing Billy’s ear. “You’re mine to protect. Forever.”

Billy’s heart thudded at the pet name, his cheeks flushing, and he turned his face into Hopper’s neck, his breath shaky. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “But I… I need you. So much.”

Hopper’s hand cupped Billy’s face, tilting it up, their eyes locking. “You deserve everything, baby,” he said, his voice rough with feeling. “And I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

Their lips met, slow and soft, a kiss full of promises and need. Billy melted into it, his good hand sliding to Hopper’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. The kisses deepened, gentle but desperate, each one a vow, I’m here, I love you, you’re safe. They curled up together on the couch, Billy tucked against Hopper’s side, their hands entwined, the Christmas lights glowing around them.

Max poked her head out of El’s room, catching sight of them, and smirked. “Gross,” she teased, but her voice was warm, her eyes soft. “You two are hopeless.”

Billy flipped her off, but his smile was real, his heart lighter despite the fear. El followed, her grin bright. “It’s nice,” she said, her voice earnest, and Billy’s cheeks flushed, his hand tightening in Hopper’s.

The night stretched on, Billy and Hopper tangled together, their touches gentle, their whispers full of love. The fear of Neil was still there, a shadow looming, but Hopper’s arms, his voice, his love, it was enough to keep it at bay. Billy was healing, his heart knitting back together with every touch, every promise, and for the first time, he believed he could face whatever came next, as long as Hopper was there.