The field is quiet in that tense, waiting way that makes everything feel louder than it should. The wind moves through the tall grass, the sound almost soothing if it weren’t for the weapons laid out on blankets, the traps half-assembled, the knowledge of what’s coming hanging heavy in the air.

Nancy is checking her gun for the third time when you approach.

“I want you to show me,” you say. “How to shoot. Properly.”

She looks up sharply. “No.”

It’s immediate. Instinctive. Protective.

You blink. “Nancy—”

“It’s not—” She exhales, runs a hand through her hair. “It’s dangerous. And I don’t have time to—”

“I’m going out there too,” you say, quieter now. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

That makes her pause.

Nancy tells herself she’s being responsible when she sighs and nods, gesturing for you to follow her a few steps away from the others. This is strategy. Preparation. Leadership. Absolutely not an excuse to isolate you.

Definitely not.

“Okay,” she says, professional tone locked in. “Listen carefully.”

She hands you the gun, showing you how to hold it. Her fingers brush yours briefly, and she ignores the strange jolt that runs straight through her chest.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” she instructs. “You need stability.”

You adjust, glancing back at her. “Like this?”

She steps closer without thinking. Too close. Close enough that she can smell the soap you used, close enough that her thoughts derail for half a second.

“Yes— no— wait.” She stops herself, swallowing. “I mean— here.”

Nancy places her hands on your shoulders to correct your posture, her touch careful, deliberate. She’s done this before. She’s trained people before. This is fine.

Except then she realizes she needs to show you how to brace properly.

She hesitates. Just for a second.

Then she steps directly behind you.

Her breath catches as she presses lightly against your back, adjusting your stance. One hand settles near your elbow, guiding your arm up. The other steadies your waist. The contact is brief, instructional—

—and completely wrecks her.

“Okay,” she says, voice a little too tight. “You— you need to relax your shoulders. You’re tense.”

She is projecting. Deeply.

You nod, trying to focus, unaware that Nancy’s internal monologue has gone fully off the rails.

This is normal. This is fine. This is not—

She leans closer to demonstrate sight alignment, her chin nearly over your shoulder. Her heartbeat is suddenly very loud in her ears.

“Breathe,” she murmurs. “Slow. Don’t rush the shot.”

Her hands stay where they are a second longer than necessary. She notices. You probably don’t.

Or maybe you do.

The realization hits her like a truck.

Oh.

Oh no.

This isn’t nerves about Vecna. This isn’t adrenaline. This is… you. The way being this close makes her brain short-circuit. The way the thought of you getting hurt makes her chest ache.

She pulls back abruptly, clearing her throat.

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I— that’s enough for now.”

You turn, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she says immediately. Too immediately. “No, you were— you did great. Really.”

She won’t meet your eyes.

Nancy takes a step back, folding her arms like she’s bracing herself. Somewhere behind her ribs, something clicks into place, terrifying and undeniable.

She is very much not as straight as she thought she was.

And it is very much your fault.

“Just—” she says, softer now. “Stay close to me tonight. Okay?”

It sounds like an order.

It feels like a confession she’s not ready to say out loud.