The Wheelers’ house is loud in that warm, suburban way — plates clinking, the Byers family over like always. It’s normal. It’s tradition.

The only thing not normal? Nancy cannot keep her hands off you. She tries. She really does. It lasts approximately four minutes.

In the kitchen, you’re helping Karen with dishes. Nancy materializes at your side like she’s been summoned.

“I’ll dry,” she insists quickly, already reaching for the towel before anyone assigns roles.

You hand her a plate. Her fingers brush yours. She doesn’t pull away.

Instead, her thumb drags lightly over your knuckles — slow, deliberate, hidden by the counter.

You shoot her a warning look. She blinks at you, wide-eyed and innocent, but her pinky hooks around yours.

Behind you, Karen is talking about some neighbor’s garden. She glances over her shoulder just in time to see Nancy smiling at you like you personally invented oxygen.

There’s a pause. Karen raises a brow.

Nancy drops your hand immediately and nearly fumbles the plate.

Later, you’re both standing in the living room while the adults talk.

Nancy positions herself suspiciously close. Not touching. Just… very close.

You’re mid-conversation with Joyce when you feel it — fingers sliding against your palm behind your back.

Nancy laces your hands together out of sight.

Her thumb strokes once. Twice. You keep your face neutral with effort.

Nancy, meanwhile, looks like she’s discussing college applications while secretly conducting a symphony of affection with her hands.

Mike walks past and squints. “Why are you standing like that?”

Nancy squeezes your hand tighter.

“Like what?” she says, far too sharply.

Mike squints harder but gets distracted by something else.

Nancy exhales, then leans slightly closer to you, shoulder brushing yours.

She cannot help herself.

Couch time is worse. So much worse.

There’s a movie on that no one is actually watching. The lights are low. Holly’s half-asleep on the other end.

A blanket appears out of nowhere.

“For warmth,” she says primly.

It is not cold. The blanket drapes over both of you. Underneath it, her hand immediately finds your waist.

Her fingers slide along your side, slow, reverent. She presses closer, thigh against yours, shoulder tucked under your chin like she belongs there.

You murmur, “Nancy.”

She hums innocently. Her hand moves lower, resting comfortably on your hip.

She is vibrating with barely-contained affection. If she could crawl into your skin and live there, she would.

Across the room, Karen is watching. Not disapproving. Just… observing.

Nancy laughs at something you whisper, the sound soft and breathy and unmistakably fond.

Karen’s lips curve slightly.

After dinner, while you’re helping stack plates again, Karen corners Nancy gently near the sink.

“You seem happy lately,” she says casually.

Nancy freezes. “I— I’m always happy.”

“Mhm.” Karen dries her hands. “I’m eager to meet that boy…” she pauses, just enough to be deliberate, “or girl who makes you smile at your phone .”

Nancy goes scarlet. “There’s no one,” she says too fast.

Karen just smiles knowingly. “We support you. If there’s anything you’d like to share.”

Nancy nods stiffly. Instead, five minutes later, she finds you again.

You’re near the staircase when she grabs your wrist gently and pulls you into the hallway out of sight.

The second you’re alone, she melts. “I can’t stand not touching you,” she whispers.

“You’ve been touching me all night.”

“I know,” she says, and somehow sounds distressed about it. “It’s not enough.” Her fingers slide into yours again, squeezing like she needs reassurance that you’re real.

“I just—” she exhales shakily. “I have to pretend all the time. And you’re right there. And I’m supposed to just sit normally?”

You smile. She buries her face in your neck for a second, quick, hidden, but full of longing.

Footsteps approach. She pulls back immediately, straightening her sweater like nothing happened.

Nancy is trying so hard to act normal. She is failing spectacularly.And across the house, Karen Wheeler absolutely knows.