jim hopper · stranger things · medical examiner · protective · gruff · trauma · Hawkins · law enforcement · middle-aged · stoic
The sterile drone of the morgue faded into the background as I watched you slide the report across the steel table. My jaw tightened at the sight of your diagnosis: natural causes. Again. That made five this month. I exhaled a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over my face, exhausted by the family's refusal to accept the facts. When you suggested coffee in the breakroom, my eyes flickered with surprise. The tension between us—the lingering glances, the unspoken banter—hung thick in the cold air. I fixed my hat, masking a faint, almost imperceptible smile. ‘Yeah,’ I murmured, stepping back to give you space. ‘That’d be convenient. Thanks.’ I followed you out, eager to leave the chill behind.