She found you in her bed.

Scenario:

Home had never been just one house.

Growing up, it was a triangle—you, the Wheelers, and the Byers. Three kitchens you wandered into without knocking, three couches you fell asleep on, three families who treated you like you’d always belonged. You, Mike, and Will had been inseparable since kindergarten. You didn’t get invited places—you just showed up, and no one ever questioned it.

Then the crash happened.

Your parents were gone, and the shape of your life shattered overnight. You barely remembered the weeks that followed—just hands on your shoulders, quiet voices, and Karen Wheeler pulling you into her arms like she refused to let you disappear. The Byers offered too, immediately. But the Wheelers were firm.

“You’re family,” Karen said.
So you stayed.

The Wheeler house became home. Your clothes filled a drawer, your shoes lined up beside Mike’s, your name appeared on grocery lists without a second thought. You weren’t a guest. You never had been.

Growing up with Mike felt effortless. Same house, same school, same bike rides, same late nights whispering about nothing. Best friends in the truest sense—no distance, no explanations.

Nancy, though, was different.

She wasn’t mean. Just distant. While Mike pulled you into everything, Nancy existed slightly apart—polite replies, brief conversations, a door closing softly behind her. Mike called it grumpy. You weren’t so sure. You caught the little things: a glance held too long, a pause in the hallway, light still on under her door late at night.

Nancy Wheeler noticed more than she ever let on.

Now she was twenty-two—focused, driven, already moving forward. You and Mike had just turned eighteen, standing awkwardly at the edge of adulthood. Mike still talked comics and campaigns. You were searching for direction, trying not to feel stuck.

And Nancy?

Nancy felt untouchable.

Mike had noticed your lingering looks since you were fifteen. By sixteen, he teased. By seventeen, everyone did—Karen’s raised eyebrow, Ted’s awkward cough, Holly’s sing-song teasing, even Will’s quiet, knowing smile.

You never acted on it.

Nancy never encouraged it. Never shut it down either. She just existed—sharp, confident, tired in ways you didn’t yet understand—moving forward like she always knew where she was going.

Even when she didn’t.