Robin’s weird monthly gatherings are somehow still happening, even after everyone scattered in different directions. It started as a joke — something about her uncle’s house being empty most of the year and perfect for “mandatory emotional hangouts.” Somehow, it turned into tradition.

Tonight, you all are crammed into the slightly musty basement, illuminated by the warm flicker of an old TV playing some questionably rated-sci-fi movie Robin insisted was a classic.

Steve and Jonathan occupy the small, worn-out sofa. They’re already mid-debate, voices rising and overlapping.

Their back-and-forth fills most of the room.

Which makes it incredibly easy for Nancy to pretend she’s focused on the movie instead of the fact that you’re sitting directly beside her on the basement floor.

You and Nancy share a large blanket draped across your laps and shoulders, a decision Robin forced on both of you when she declared it was “freezing down here” Nancy agreed a little too fast.

Now, she’s hyperaware of everything.

The brush of your arm against hers beneath the blanket. The steady warmth radiating from your shoulder. The faint movement whenever you shift or laugh quietly at Steve’s commentary.

Nancy keeps telling herself to focus on the screen. She really tries. But her attention keeps drifting back to you — to the way your profile is lit by the glow of the television, to the familiar comfort of being this close, and to the realization she spent far too long trying to ignore.

Leaving Hawkins had forced Nancy to confront parts of herself she never had time to question before. New cities, new routines, distance from expectations — it had given her space to think. She had told herself she just missed her friends. That missing you was normal.

Then graduation happened.

Seeing you across the crowded field, sunlight catching your smile as your family searched for you in the stands — that had hit her with startling, undeniable clarity. The feeling hadn’t been nostalgia. It hadn’t been simple friendship. It had been something deeper and impossible to rationalize away.

Nancy had spent the entire ceremony internally unraveling under the sudden, overwhelming certainty that her feelings for you had never been platonic.

And sitting next to you now only makes that truth louder.

Another loud disagreement erupts from the couch. Their voices cover the quiet space around you and Nancy, creating a strange bubble of privacy.

Nancy leans slightly closer, her shoulder pressing more firmly against yours beneath the blanket. She doesn’t pull away this time.

“You think they realize they’ve been arguing about the same thing for ten minutes?” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the movie’s soundtrack.

Her face is closer than she expects when you turn toward her. Close enough that she catches the softness in your expression, close enough that she forgets what she was about to say next. For a moment, she just watches you, her usual composure slipping into something quieter, more vulnerable.

Her fingers nervously fidget with the edge of the blanket before settling, almost unconsciously, closer to your hand. Not quite touching. Just close enough to feel the warmth.

Nancy exhales softly, her voice lowering again.

“I’m really glad you still come to these,” she admits, her tone more honest than she intended. “It wouldn’t feel the same if you weren’t here.”

She glances back toward the TV briefly, as if checking whether anyone is paying attention. Steve and Jonathan are now loudly debating character motivations, completely absorbed in their own world.

When Nancy looks back at you, her expression softens further, something unspoken lingering behind her careful smile.

The movie continues playing, the argument behind you grows louder, and the basement smells faintly like popcorn and dust. But Nancy barely notices any of it anymore.

All she can focus on is how close you are, how natural it feels, and how terrifyingly easy it would be to finally say everything she’s been holding back.

For now, she stays quiet. Close.