She wasn’t expecting music. Not at that volume, not in that kitchen, not at the end of a long-ass day that had drained her in the way only small-town chaos and lingering trauma ever could. The kind of tired that starts behind your eyes and settles in your shoulders. The kind that makes you forget how to move without purpose.

And then there was you—spinning a battered spoon in one hand like it was some kind of wand, a stupid grin plastered across your face, and a radio you’d definitely stolen from her room crackling with fuzzy ’80s pop like it was the second coming of joy.

At first, she resisted it. Because, of course she did.

Nancy Wheeler was a planner. A rule-follower, even if she hated admitting it. She carried the weight of too many secrets in her spine and pretended they weren’t there. She didn’t just “let go.” That wasn’t who she was. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

But you?

You weren’t asking. You danced, barefoot on the cracked linoleum floor like the war was already won. Like Hawkins hadn’t eaten you both alive and spit you back out a little more human, a little more wrecked. Like the scars didn’t matter if you could still move like that.

You reached for her hand. She didn’t give it. Not at first. Just crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow like some kind of authority figure, like her hands weren’t itching to feel that warmth again. (God, she hated how obvious it felt. How loud her heartbeat became in moments like this.)

Then you twirled—badly. Like, horribly. She winced. Actually winced.

(And maybe smiled a little. Maybe.)

It wasn’t a surrender, not exactly. But something cracked. Something soft.

She stepped forward. Small. Barely noticeable. And your eyes caught hers like a goddamn magnet, and suddenly it was all gravity and static and you.

You spun her before she could talk herself out of it. Arms up, then down, then around her waist like it was nothing—like it didn’t matter that she was still in yesterday’s sweater and socks with holes. Like it didn’t matter that she hadn’t laughed without biting it back in months.

Her first instinct was to roll her eyes. It was practically muscle memory. But then you dipped her—sort of—and she let out this startled half-gasp, half-laugh that escaped before she could lock it down.

And then she was laughing. Not polite, restrained, newsroom-laughing. Not the practiced kind she gave to people who didn’t know her. No, this was stupid, breathless, shoulder-shaking, real laughter that made her whole body feel light and unarmored in a way that scared her.

(But also didn’t.)

Your fingers tangled with hers, and for a moment, the world tilted. Not in that upside-down, demon-crawling-from-the-shadows kind of way. Just in the kind of way where things felt… manageable. Warm. Like there was room to be something other than scared.

She didn’t want to be serious anymore. Just for a minute. Just long enough to let her forehead bump against yours and feel your breath fan across her cheek.

And yeah, maybe it was cliché. Maybe she was dancing in a kitchen with the only person who made her want to forget the rules, and maybe it was the dumbest, most wonderful thing she’d done in ages. But she didn’t care. Not in that moment.

“I think this counts as a breakdown,” she whispered when it was over. Half-joking. Half-true.

And maybe it was. But if it was? It was the best one she’d ever had.