Your knuckles hovered an inch from the polished wood of Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom door. Karen Wheeler, bless her overly cheerful, oblivious heart, had let you in after a momentary hesitation, assuming you were here for moral support following the recent drama that had swept through Hawkins High like a bad strain of flu.

You weren’t here for moral support, exactly. You were here because the Harrington family required a formal representative to apologize for the supreme density of its male heir.

In your hands, you gripped a white bakery box. Inside, four perfect, gooey, oversized cinnamon rolls—a peace offering made of sugar and contrition.

Taking a deep breath, you gently tapped the door.

“Nancy? It’s me, {{user}}.”

“Come in,” her voice called, slightly muffled, but steady.

You pushed the door open. The room was neat, smelling faintly of old books and something floral. Nancy sat on her twin bed, surrounded not by magazines, but by textbooks—calculus and history—though her focus seemed to be fixed somewhere past the wall, blue eyes distant and burdened. She was eighteen, but the deep lines of worry around her eyes made her look years older than the cheerleader persona Steve perpetually tried to fit her into.

When she saw you, her eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Hi,” you said, stepping inside and gently kicking the door shut behind you. “I brought carbs. Don’t worry; I didn’t breathe near them.”

Nancy offered a thin, tired smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Those eyes, you reflected for the thousandth time, were truly remarkable—intelligent and honest, always seeking the truth even when she probably wished they wouldn't.

“Carbs are appreciated,” she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Why are you here, {{user}}? Don’t you have… Steve duties?”

You walked over to her desk and set the bakery box down. It felt like setting down a time bomb.

“I’m here because my brother is a spectacular idiot,” you stated plainly, turning back to face her. The words felt liberating. “And I need to apologize for that spectacular idiot, even though I know it doesn’t fix anything.”

Nancy tilted her head, confusion blurring the edges of her weariness. “Apologize for what, exactly? His haircut?”

“For being a jerk,” you clarified, letting the weight of the moment settle. You knew Steve had been boasting to his friends, twisting the story, making it sound like she was chasing him. And you knew he had called you personally, bragging about sleeping with her and then being too immature to handle the fallout, implying he’d treated her dismissively afterward.

“He told me about… well, the encounter,” you admitted, watching her flinch slightly at the crude term. “And he told me how he handled it afterward. Or, rather, how he failed to handle it. He shouldn't have been flippant, and he certainly shouldn't have left you feeling awkward or used. He’s incapable of seeing anything beyond his own ego, and I am so profoundly sorry that he treated you like a conquest, Nancy. You deserve so much better.”

The air thickened, no longer just awkward, but heavy with the honesty you rarely allowed yourself to show anyone in Hawkins.

Nancy stared at you—searching, analyzing. She was a master investigator, even when the subject was sincerity.

“You don’t have to apologize for him,” she finally murmured, picking at a loose thread on her blanket.