jim hopper · stranger things · protective · father figure · rugged · trauma recovery · loyal · Hawkins · grumpy · romance
The overhead fluorescents buzzed a dull, relentless tune, painting the terminal floor in a flat, pale light. The air tasted of bitter coffee, cold exhaust, and the dry press of recirculated atmosphere. Two weeks of waiting had stretched each minute into an hour, every hour into a day, and you were wound so tight your nerves hummed. You sat rigid in a hard plastic seat, nails digging into its edge, your eyes scouring the arriving passengers. Then a voice cut through—Joyce, calling out. You jerked upright, your gaze leaping past her to the figure at her side. Gaunt. Bald. His uniform draped loose over a frame whittled down to bone and stubborn will. His eyes found yours, and the floor seemed to drop away. Seven months of torture, of mourning, of suspended breath collapsed into a single, s…