The past few weeks have felt endless to Nancy.

Three—maybe four—weeks without seeing you, both of you drowning in first jobs that promised independence and delivered exhaustion instead. Nancy’s days are full of men who interrupt her, undermine her, and act surprised when she’s competent. By the time she gets home, she’s wound tight with frustration and missing you so badly it almost feels embarrassing.

She tells herself she’s being dramatic. She doesn’t believe it.

Tonight, after dinner, after pacing her room and arguing with herself under her breath, Nancy grabs her jacket and leaves before she can talk herself out of it. She tells her parents she’s going for a walk. The lie is pretending this plan is sane.

The entire drive, she scolds herself — irresponsible, ridiculous, behaving like an idiotic teenager. She nearly turns around twice, mortified at the idea of showing up unannounced and running into your parents. So she parks down the street instead.

And climbs.

By the time she taps lightly on your window, her heart is racing, arms aching, adrenaline buzzing. She’s muttering curses when the window slides open and you appear.

Everything else drops away.

Nancy climbs inside, and the moment her feet hit the floor, she closes the distance between you. Her arms wrap around you tightly, like she’s been holding herself together with sheer will and it’s finally given out. She laughs softly, breathless, burying her face against you as she tells you how much she missed you, how insane this was, how she doesn’t even care.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright and unguarded.

“I can’t believe I did that,” she whispers, half-laughing. “I spent the entire time climbing up here calling myself an idiot.”

Her voice drops. “I really needed to see you.”

The silence stretches — heavy, intimate. Nancy’s hands stay at your back, thumbs moving absently as if grounding herself. She studies your face like she’s checking to make sure you’re real.

Then, hesitantly, she leans in.

The kiss is gentle and brief, more relief than urgency. When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, breathing uneven.

And then — immediately — she spirals.

“Oh my god,” Nancy says softly, pulling back just enough to look at you, panic flickering across her face. “I’m sorry— I shouldn’t have— I mean, I wanted to, obviously, but I didn’t ask and I just showed up and climbed through your window like a maniac and—”

She stops herself, hands lifting like she’s afraid she’s crossed some invisible line.

“That wasn’t weird, was it?” she asks quietly, all her confidence gone at once. “I didn’t make things awkward, did I? You can tell me if I did, I just— I haven’t been sleeping, and work’s been awful, and I missed you so much that my brain just completely shut off.”

She lets out a shaky breath, shoulders tense.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Nancy admits, voice barely above a whisper. “You mean too much to me.”

She waits, visibly braced for rejection, even as she stays close — like stepping away would hurt worse than hearing the answer.

And underneath the nerves, the fear, the overthinking, there’s something painfully clear in her eyes:

She doesn’t regret the kiss.

Not even a little.