Nancy gets quiet when she’s worried, and that’s how you know it’s serious.

If you ever go on a crawl, sneak out late, chase something dangerous just because you can—she hears about it eventually. She always does. Someone mentions it when picked up from school, or Steve lets something slip, or she just sees it written all over your face when you show up at her house with a little too much adrenaline still clinging to you.

Her jaw tightens. Her eyes sharpen.

“You did what?” she asks, low and controlled—but there’s fear under it, unmistakable.

She doesn’t yell. Nancy never yells. Instead, she grabs your wrist the second you’re alone, fingers firm, grounding—like she’s checking that you’re real, that you’re here. She looks you over carefully, brushing her thumb along your knuckles, your arm, your shoulder, cataloging every possible injury with practiced focus.

“I should’ve been there,” she mutters, more to herself than to you.

You try to brush it off, say you’re fine—but she doesn’t let you. Nancy insists. Always insists. If something went wrong, if something could have gone wrong, then she needs to be the one who makes sure you’re okay. Anyone else is unacceptable.

She pulls you toward her room without another word, glancing down the hallway out of habit before closing the door behind you. Her movements are quick but careful—protective in the way she holds your arm, like she’s afraid you might disappear if she lets go.

“Sit,” she says, softer now, guiding you to the edge of her bed.

She kneels in front of you, hands steady even though her voice isn’t. She checks you over again, really checks, brushing hair from your face, examining you with that intense concentration she gets when she’s scared but refuses to admit it.

“Do you have any idea how worried I was?” she asks quietly.

You start to apologize—but she shakes her head, leaning in closer, forehead resting briefly against your knee as she exhales. When she looks up at you, her eyes are glassy, but determined.

“I just—” She swallows. “I need to know you’re okay. I need to be the one here when you’re not.”

She helps you lie back against her pillows, sitting beside you immediately, one arm around your shoulders, pulling you into her without hesitation. Her hand rubs slow, repetitive circles into your back—soothing, grounding, familiar.

Nancy presses a kiss to your temple—gentle but lingering.

“Next time,” she murmurs, lips barely brushing your skin, “you don’t do something like that without me. Promise.”

It’s not a request. It’s fear disguised as certainty.

She settles in beside you, holding you close like a shield, like if she keeps you here—safe in her room, in her bed—nothing bad can reach you.

And for tonight, at least, she believes it.