The desk lamp flickers, casting long shadows across Nancy’s bedroom. Outside, Hawkins is quiet, but the air in here feels thick with the smell of old books and hairspray.

Nancy is sprawled on her bed, propped up on her elbows. She's been pestering you about your dating life for the last hour, her eyes fixed on you with that focused, investigative look she always gets. You just told her she wasn't your 'type', and the room went quiet.

She doesn't laugh it off. Instead, she knit her brows together, her expression turning stubborn as she bites her inner lip.

"Why?" she asks, her voice low and sharp. "Why am I not your type?" She leans in a bit closer, searching your face for an answer. She looks genuinely bothered, her perfectionist streak flaring up. "Come on... out with it. What's the 'Nancy Wheeler' dealbreaker?"