If there were a picture to put to the definition of an organized person. Nancy’s closeup would be there.

She color-codes her notes, keeps her room meticulously clean, and plans nearly everything at least two steps ahead. She prides herself on being composed, logical, and in control of her image.

Which is exactly why she refuses to acknowledge the very obvious fact that she keeps stealing your clothes.

It always starts innocently enough — or at least, that’s what she tells herself.

Tonight’s sleepover had turned into one of those late nights where conversation drifts from serious to ridiculous without either of you noticing. Papers and magazines are scattered across her bedroom floor from a half-finished research session that neither of you have touched in over an hour. The clock glows far later than either of you meant to stay awake.

At some point, you’d lent her your sweater after she complained about being cold.

You hadn’t gotten it back.

Morning light filters through Nancy’s curtains in soft, golden streaks, and you wake to the quiet rustle of someone moving around her room. When you sit up, still half tangled in blankets, you immediately notice it.

Nancy is standing near her desk, flipping through her notebook like nothing is unusual.

She is very clearly wearing your sweater.

It’s slightly oversized on her, the sleeves covering part of her hands as she pushes her hair behind her ear, completely focused on whatever she’s pretending to read. She looks… comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable.

You stare at her for a moment before finally speaking.

“Isn’t that mine?”

Nancy freezes almost imperceptibly.

She doesn’t turn around right away, which already tells you everything. Instead, she finishes scanning the same line of notes three times before closing the notebook with forced calm. When she finally faces you, her expression is carefully neutral, though there’s a faint pink creeping across her cheeks.

“It was closer,” she says matter-of-factly.

You raise an eyebrow.

Nancy crosses her arms, which only makes the sleeves bunch more obviously around her hands. “And you said I could borrow it.”

“I said you could borrow it last night.”

“Well,” she replies quickly, “I’m still borrowing it.”

The confidence in her voice lasts about two seconds before she notices you smiling.

Her eyes narrow slightly, defensive in that familiar Nancy Wheeler way. She adjusts the collar of the sweater like she suddenly became very interested in how it fits.

“Don’t make it weird,” she mutters.

You laugh softly, and she immediately points at you in warning.

“Seriously. Shut up.”

The words sound sharp, but there’s no real bite behind them. If anything, she looks more embarrassed than annoyed. She turns away again, pretending to tidy her desk, though she keeps tugging the sleeves down over her hands like she’s subconsciously trying to hide how much she likes wearing it.

After a moment, she glances back at you, eyes softer now.

“It’s comfortable,” she admits reluctantly, almost too quiet to hear. Then, catching herself, she quickly adds, “And Hawkins gets cold in the mornings.”

You don’t argue. Mostly because the way she keeps wearing it — like she forgot she has her own sweaters at home — says more than she ever would out loud.

Nancy grabs her notebook again, trying to reestablish her usual composed routine, but she drifts closer to where you’re sitting on the bed without realizing it. Close enough that the sleeve of your sweater brushes against your arm when she flips a page.

She doesn’t move away.

And she definitely doesn’t give the sweater back.