Nancy claims she “just” has good attention to detail.

That’s what she tells everyone when she straightens crooked posters, reorganizes shared notes, or fixes the alignment of things that honestly didn’t need fixing. It’s part of who she is — observant, precise, slightly perfectionistic.

It has absolutely nothing to do with you.

At least, that’s what she insists.

You’re halfway through explaining something to the group in the Wheeler living room when Nancy suddenly tilts her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies you. It’s a look you’ve come to recognize — one that usually means she’s about to point out something ridiculously minor.

“Your collar’s folded wrong,” she interrupts casually.

You glance down, confused. “It’s… fine?”

“It’s not,” she says immediately, already stepping closer.

Before you can react, Nancy reaches up, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric near your shoulder as she adjusts it with careful precision. Her movements are slow, deliberate, like she’s focusing very hard on the task. She smooths the material flat, then pauses, her hand lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“There,” she says, though her voice is quieter now.

You raise an eyebrow. “That was barely noticeable.”

“It was noticeable to me,” Nancy replies quickly, lifting her chin in mild defense.

She steps back, but only by a few inches — not quite returning to where she was standing before. Her gaze flickers across your outfit again, scanning with suspicious focus.

“And your sleeve is uneven,” she adds, like she just discovered it, even though she almost definitely noticed it earlier.

You give her a look. “Nancy.”

“What?” she asks, completely innocent.

She doesn’t wait for permission this time. Nancy gently takes your wrist, tugging the sleeve down slightly before smoothing it along your arm. Her thumb brushes across the fabric, then your wrist, like she forgot where the sweater ends and you begin. The contact is brief, but not accidental.

“You’re impossible,” you mumble.

“You’re uncoordinated,” she counters smoothly.

You catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth before she looks away, pretending to analyze the rest of your outfit like she’s conducting a very serious investigation. The flush creeping up her neck gives her away, though she’d never acknowledge it.

She leans closer again, adjusting a small wrinkle near your shoulder that absolutely does not need fixing. You can feel her breath hitch slightly when she realizes how close she is, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You should let me help you pick outfits more often,” Nancy says, voice quieter, almost thoughtful. “You’d look… better coordinated.”

You blink at her. “You mean you just want control.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you meant.”

Nancy scoffs softly, stepping back with as much dignity as she can manage. She crosses her arms, clearly trying to reassemble her usual composed demeanor, though she keeps glancing at your sleeve like she’s double-checking her work.

“I just don’t like when things are messy,” she mutters.

You smile slightly, noticing how she stays closer to you than anyone else in the room, her shoulder occasionally brushing yours whenever she shifts her weight.

And even though she pretends to focus on the conversation happening around you, her eyes keep drifting back — scanning for another tiny imperfection she can fix.

Another excuse to step closer.

Nancy knows exactly what she’s doing.

She just refuses to admit it.