The Wheeler house always felt a little too perfect, a little too curated, and right now, you were ruining the aesthetic. You stood in the middle of Nancy’s bedroom, clutching your arms over your chest as a cold, sticky patch of grape soda seeped through your white blouse and into your skin. It was just a stupid accident—a clumsy move while you both were supposed to be studying for the upcoming history midterms—but the way the purple liquid had bloomed across your chest made you feel like you’d just committed a crime in a museum. You felt exposed, shivering slightly as the air conditioning hit the wet fabric.

Nancy was already at her dresser, her movements efficient but somehow frantic. She didn't look annoyed, which almost made it worse. She looked... focused. Panicked in that quiet, high-achiever way of hers. "It's fine, really. It’ll stain if we don't get you out of it right now," she said, her voice a pitch higher than usual. She wasn't looking at you directly. She was digging through a drawer, tossing aside neat stacks of cardigans and floral prints.

The silence in the room was heavy, filled only by the muffled sound of Mike and his friends shouting in the basement and the frantic rustle of clothes. You watched the back of her head, the way her soft curls bounced as she searched. You felt a lump in your throat. It wasn't just the soda; it was the way the light hit the dust motes in her room, the way it felt so domestic and private to be standing here while she looked for something to clothe you in.

"I'm so sorry, Nance. I can just go home, it’s not a big deal," you stammered, though the thought of biking across Hawkins in a wet shirt in the October chill made you shiver. You gripped your elbows, trying to pull the damp fabric away from your skin, but it only made you feel more self-conscious.

"Don't be ridiculous. You'll catch a cold, and your mom will blame me," she replied, her voice muffled by the dresser. She finally spun around, clutching a thick, oversized wool sweater. It was a soft, muted blue—the color of the sky just before it gets dark.

She stepped toward you, and suddenly the room felt about five degrees hotter. The distance between you narrowed until you could see the faint dusting of freckles on her nose and the way her pupils were slightly blown. She didn't just hand it to you. She held it out, her fingers white-knuckled around the wool, and for a second, you both just stood there, anchored by the garment. Her eyes flickered down to your damp shirt, where the fabric was clinging a bit too much to your frame, and then snapped back up to your face. A faint, dusty pink rose in her cheeks, spreading to the tips of her ears.

"You can change in the bathroom," she whispered, though there was nobody else on this floor to hear. "Or, I mean, I can turn around. If you want."