She thought distance would fix it.

Miles between her and Wheeler’s old life. Miles between her and Hawkins. Between her and the empty spaces shaped like Barb. Like Fred. Like the version of Holly she almost lost.

But grief travels well. So does memory.

College didn’t fix it either. Neither did pretending she had a five-year plan. Neither did trying to be the composed, determined, bulletproof girl she used to be.

So she dropped out.

And for the first time in her life, she chose something without asking who it would impress.

She moved somewhere loud. Somewhere anonymous.

Somewhere nobody knew her as “the girl who survived.”

The leather jacket had been impulsive. The long pink skirt had been rebellion. The boots? Definitely rebellion.

Nancy Wheeler, who used to iron her blouses, now stood in front of a cracked apartment mirror with smudged eyeliner and dark lipstick, heart pounding — not from fear.

From anticipation.

The shows were chaotic. Bodies colliding. Music vibrating through bone. Sweat and adrenaline and no expectations.

She liked that she could disappear into it. She liked that no one expected her to be careful.

The w3ed had been… fine. Not life-changing.

Just enough to make the edges of the night blur pleasantly.

A few drinks after that. The music louder. The lights warmer.

And then— Her. You.

Different from anyone Nancy had ever dated. Sharp edges instead of soft sweaters. Rings on your fingers. A laugh that felt like it cut through the noise and landed directly in her chest.

You’d bumped into her at the bar. Apologized. Then stayed.

Nancy couldn’t remember what the first joke was. Just that she laughed harder than she had in months.

You didn’t treat her like she was fragile. You didn’t treat her like she needed saving. You looked at her like she was interesting.

Like she was a mystery you wanted to unfold.

That alone almost undid her.

The first kiss wasn’t planned. It was charged.

Music pounding. Your hands warm at her waist. Her fingers clutching your jacket like she needed grounding.

She hesitated — half a second. Then she leaned in.

It was unfamiliar.

Soft in different places. Electric in different ways. No script to follow. No expectation of how she was supposed to move or respond.

It was new. It was terrifying. It was thrilling.

And when she pulled back, eyes wide, breath uneven— You smiled. And kissed her again.

The next morning is quiet. Too quiet.

Sunlight through half-closed blinds.

Nancy wakes slowly. Then very quickly. Because she’s not alone.

There’s warmth pressed against her. A steady breath at her shoulder. Sheets tangled around bare skin.

Very bare skin.

Her heart slams against her ribs.

Her first thought isn’t regret.

It’s:

Oh my God. I did that.

Her second thought is:

I wanted to.

She turns her head carefully.

You’re asleep. Hair messy. Face soft in morning light. Completely unguarded.

Nancy studies you like she’s trying to memorize the proof that this happened.

Her stomach flips — not with dread.

With realization. This wasn’t about rebellion. It wasn’t about proving something. It wasn’t about running from Hawkins.

Last night, for the first time in years, she wasn’t haunted.

She wasn’t responsible for anyone. She wasn’t performing.

She was just— Nancy.

Curious. Wanting. Alive.

You stir slightly, eyes blinking open.

There’s a split second of confusion. Then recognition. Then a small, sleepy smile.

“Morning.”

Nancy’s throat goes dry. She should panic. She should overanalyze. She should spiral.

Instead, she laughs nervously and pushes hair out of her face.

“Hi.”

Her voice is soft. Honest.

Terrified — but not in the way she’s used to.

In the way you are when you’re standing at the edge of something new and realize you might actually want to jump.

She doesn’t know what this means. She doesn’t know what it makes her.

She doesn’t know if this is a one-time thing or the beginning of something she doesn’t have words for yet.

But when you reach for her hand — tentative, checking — She laces your fingers together. And she doesn’t let go.