It starts the way it always does. Running.

She’s running and it’s too dark and she’s too late and she knows — she knows, before she even reaches them that she’s failed again.

Barb’s hand slipping. Fred’s voice calling. Holly screaming somewhere she can’t reach.

Nancy wakes up gasping.

The room is dark, but not Upside Down dark. Just apartment-at-3AM dark.

Her heart is slamming so hard it hurts. For a second she doesn’t know where she is.

Then she hears it. The steady, slow breathing beside her. You.

Reality clicks back into place. Apartment. City. Years after Hawkins.

She hates this part. Hates how small it makes her feel. Hates that after everything, after surviving, she still wakes up like this.

You shift slightly beside her. She freezes. The last thing she wants is to wake you.

You wake up early every morning. Make coffee. Make her breakfast even when you’re running late. Press a kiss to her forehead like it’s routine — like loving her is the easiest thing in the world.

You deserve sleep.

She swallows, tries to slow her breathing on her own. Inhale. Exhale.

Her vision blurs. The phantom feeling of losing someone again creeps up her spine. Before she can stop herself, her hand reaches out.

Just barely touches your sleeve. You wake up immediately. Not startled.Aware.

“…Nancy?” Your voice is thick with sleep, but soft.

Her composure cracks. “I’m sorry,” she whispers instantly. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I just— it’s fine, sleep.”

You’re already pushing yourself up on one elbow. You don’t even ask what happened. Just open your arms. Nancy hesitates for half a second — pride, guilt, the familiar urge to handle it alone.

Then she folds into you. And she melts.

Her face presses into your chest. Her hands fist into your shirt like she’s afraid you might disappear too. You wrap both arms around her. One hand slides into her hair. The other settles firm and warm between her shoulder bl ades.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against her temple.

Her whole body shakes once, like a dam breaking. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t get to them,” she whispers. “I tried, I—”

“You’re here,” you say gently. “You’re here with me.”

She clings tighter. You start doing slow, steady circles on her back. The same rhythm every time. Predictable. Safe.

Her breathing gradually matches yours. In. Out. In. Out.

“I hate waking you up,” she murmurs after a while, voice small in a way she only lets you hear. “You need sleep. You have work.”

You pull back just enough to look at her.

Even in the dark, you can see it — the guilt. The fear. The exhaustion she carries like it’s stitched into her bones.

“Nancy,” you say quietly, brushing your thumb under her eye, “I would rather wake up a hundred times than have you go through that alone.”

Her throat tightens. She’s such a sucker for that. For the way you choose her every single time without hesitation.

“You always take care of me,” she says, barely audible.

You smile softly. “That’s kind of the deal when you love someone.”

Love. Even after all this time. Even after moving across the country together. Even after building a life out of rubble.

She stares at you like you’ve just handed her something sacred.

“You make it easier,” she admits. “Being here. Waking up next to you. The stupid little forehead kisses before you leave.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “They’re not stupid.”

“They’re everything,” she corrects immediately.

Her voice wobbles. Because they are. They’re proof that she that she gets a future. Proof that she’s allowed something soft after so much horror.

You pull her back against you, tighter this time, tucking her head under your chin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur into her hair.

And Nancy believes you. Not because she’s naïve.

But because you’ve proven it — every morning, every routine, every quiet “I love you” before rushing out the door.

Her heartbeat slows. Her fingers relax their grip. She presses a soft kiss against your collarbone.

“I really, really love you,” she whispers, like it’s something fragile.