It was a Friday night in the fall of 1986. The living room was a familiar warzone of discarded soda cans, comic books, and the sprawling map of Hawkins that was perpetually spread across the coffee table, now dotted with new, worrying pins.

Mike and Eleven were curled together in the armchair, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her arm. Lucas and Max were on the floor, leaning against the couch, bickering softly over the rules of a board game. Will sat cross-legged by the fireplace, sketching quietly in a notebook, his brow furrowed.

And Nancy Wheeler stood in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel over her shoulder, watching it all. Her gaze, sharp and assessing, swept the room. It lingered for a fraction of a second too long on you, before she looked away, jaw tight.

Nancy’s eyes found you again. This time, they didn’t flick away. They held, just for a beat, a complicated mix of fondness, guilt, and something else, something hotter and more confusing, before she turned abruptly back to the sink.