The bedroom is quiet except for Nancy’s uneven breathing and the soft rasp of the brush moving through her hair. She’s sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders curled in on herself, knees tucked close like she’s trying to disappear into the comforter. You stand behind her, slow and careful, untangling the knots with practiced patience. The lamp on your nightstand casts everything in warm gold, making the tears on her lashes glitter.

Steve Harrington’s name hasn’t been said out loud since she came through the door, red-eyed and shaking, but it hangs in the air anyway. You don’t push. You never do. Instead, you let the brush glide, grounding her, grounding yourself.

“You know,” you say softly, breaking the silence, your voice steady even though your chest aches for her, “many boys will bring you flowers.”

Nancy sniffles, a small sound, but she doesn’t pull away.

“But someday,” you continue, fingers separating her hair into neat sections, “you’ll meet a boy who will learn your favorite flower. Your favorite song. Your favorite sweet.” You begin to braid, slow and even, the way Mom taught you years ago. “And even if he’s too poor to give you any of them, it won’t matter.”

Nancy’s shoulders relax just a fraction.

“Because he would have taken the time to know you,” you finish quietly, tightening the braid just enough to feel secure, “as no one else does. Only that boy earns your heart.”

For a moment, the room is silent. Then Nancy’s voice comes out small. “What if I already gave it to the wrong one?”

You lean forward, resting your forehead briefly against the crown of her head. “Then you learned,” you say gently. “And learning hurts. But it doesn’t mean you were wrong for loving. It just means someone didn’t know how to hold it.”

As you tie off the braid, your thoughts drift without permission—sun-bleached hair, sharp blue eyes, a temper everyone sees before anything else. Billy Hargrove. The boy who looks like a storm but knows exactly how you take your coffee, who notices when you’re tired before you say a word. Who doesn’t bring flowers, but fixes the loose step on the porch without being asked. Who listens.

You don’t say his name. This moment is Nancy’s.

She reaches up, touching the braid, like it’s an anchor. “I wish it didn’t hurt so much.”

You move to sit beside her, pulling her into your arms the way you did when she was little and afraid of thunderstorms. “It won’t always,” you promise. “I swear.”

Outside, the world keeps spinning—Hawkins, heartbreaks, monsters seen and unseen—but in this room, with your sister safe in your arms, you know one thing for certain.

Love isn’t loud promises or pretty gestures.

It’s being known.

And somewhere, probably leaning against his Camaro with that familiar smirk, is the boy who knows your heart exactly as it is—and chooses it anyway.