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Woman of the Hour Part One

Pairing: Nancy Wheeler x Fem!Reader

Summary: As Nancy Wheeler’s career skyrockets, you find yourself struggling to fit into the polished, high-profile world that seems to suit her so effortlessly. After one devastating night at an awards gala leaves your insecurities spiraling out of control, Nancy is forced to confront just how deeply you believe she’ll one day outgrow you — and just how desperately she needs you to understand that she never will.

Warnings: ANGST (Hello, it's me! As if there would be anything else??), Insecurity/Feelings of Self-Doubt, Jealousy, Emotional Breakdown, Public Humiliation (Just an eensy amount. Nothing really major), Hurt/Comfort. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: This has turned into a mini rant, so if you want to se my real A/N , please see Part 2. So, ANNOYINGLY, I have to divide ANOTHER fic into two parts which is incredibly frustrating. I see fics on here that are like 13k, 22k, etc. But my 10k words can't be one full post. It's really so incredibly aggravating, especially since I KNOW you can post longer fics on here. I just wanted to get that off my chest and to say that, tragically, once again, there is a second part to this post. PLEASE read it, I beg. Since this seems to be a thing, would it be more helpful if I posted the second parts at the bottom of the fic rather than the top? Let me know

- Nebula

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

Woman of the Hour Part Two

Muted city lights filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hotel suite, turning the room gold in places where the lamps don’t quite reach. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly from another suite. The entire floor is crowded with people attending the awards ceremony downstairs, all expensive perfume and pressed suits and carefully curated confidence.

Nancy fits into it all so naturally now.

Sometimes you still have to stop and stare for a second.

Not because you're surprised she made it here — you never doubted she would — but because you remember the girl hunched over newspaper clippings at two in the morning. The girl who chased stories with a kind of stubborn determination that bordered on self-destruction. The girl who spent years kicking down doors people tried to keep shut.

And now those same doors seem to swing open the moment she walks into a room.

You watch her from across the room as she stands in front of the mirror adjusting the cuffs of her cream-colored blazer, brow furrowed in concentration.

Some things, apparently, never change.

Even after years of interviews, front-page exposés, televised panels, and enough journalism awards to force the two of you to buy another bookshelf last spring, Nancy Wheeler still looks personally offended every time formalwear refuses to cooperate with her immediately.

A smile tugs at your mouth.

“You’re glaring at your sleeve again,” you say from your place on the bed.

Nancy looks up sharply through the mirror. “Because it’s crooked.”

“It’s a cuff.”

“It’s a crooked cuff.”

You laugh softly as you push yourself off the mattress and cross the room toward her.

“Move.”

Nancy huffs but obediently holds out her arm for you.

Up close, she looks beautiful enough to steal the air from your lungs. Not in the untouchable way celebrities look beautiful. She has never looked polished in the way magazine covers want women to look. Even now, there is still something slightly rumpled about her beneath all the expensive fabric and professional composure. Something sharper. Warmer. Real.

She has the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly in her expressive eyes, her determined words, her crooked smiles, and the coffee-stained notes that scatter across the apartment at two in the morning. The kind that snuck up on you way back when, before you even realized it was happening.

The kind that somehow keeps finding new ways to take your breath away years later.

Your fingers smooth over the cuff, fixing it in less than five seconds.

“There,” you murmur. “Tragic fashion emergency resolved.”

Nancy narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’re making fun of me.”

“A little.”

Her hands settle automatically at your waist.

Easy.

Instinctive.

“You nervous?” you ask her quietly.

For the first time all evening, Nancy hesitates.

Just slightly.

Enough for you to notice.

That, too, never changes.

To everyone else, Nancy Wheeler is composed confidence wrapped in sharp tailoring and clever answers.

But you've known her long enough to recognize the tiny tells. The way she taps her thumb against her index finger when she's thinking. The way she triple-checks things she already knows are correct. The way she gets quiet right before something important.

You know how much she cares. How badly she still wants to prove herself, even after everything she’s already accomplished.

“You already know the answer to that,” she tells you.

You smile gently at your girlfriend.

“You’re about to win another major journalism award, Nancy,” you shake your head, unable to stop smiling. "Do you have any idea how insane that is?"

"Apparently not."

"I do."

Because you remember every rejected pitch.

Every late night.

Every story that almost didn't make print.

Every time someone told her no and watched her find another way through anyway.

"Trust me," you murmur. "I know exactly how hard you worked to get here."

Nancy leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“You look beautiful tonight,” she says.

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Nancy—”

“You do.”

The words are quiet.

Certain.

Her gaze drifts briefly over your face before settling back on your eyes.

And suddenly you're painfully aware of every second you spent getting ready tonight. Every outfit you tried on. Every moment you stood in front of the mirror wondering if you looked out of place next to someone like her.

Because Nancy is looking at you like you're the most beautiful person she's ever seen.

Like she always has.

Like she always will.

Your throat feels suspiciously tight.

Which is ridiculous.

You've been together for years. You should be immune to this by now.

Instead, Nancy Wheeler somehow remains your greatest weakness.

You look away.

Dangerous. This woman is dangerous.

A slow smile spreads across Nancy's face. One she's clearly trying — and failing — to suppress.

"Oh, good," she says.

You narrow your eyes.

"Good?"

"I was starting to worry I'd lost my touch."

A laugh escapes you despite yourself.

Nancy's smile widens immediately, victorious. She still treats making you blush like a personal achievement.

She squeezes your waist once before she reluctantly steps back.

“We should probably go down before Elaine sends a search party.”

“You mean before she has an aneurysm because her star reporter is seven minutes behind schedule?”

“Exactly.”

You reach for your bag while Nancy grabs the room key, speech cards, and—

Your eyes narrow.

“What was that?”

Nancy freezes near the door.

“What was what?”

“That panic move you just did.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You just checked your pocket like someone carrying state secrets.”

Nancy scoffs far too quickly. “I’m making sure I have my note cards.”

“Mhm.”

You’re completely unconvinced by the explanation, but slip your hand into hers anyway.

Nancy intertwines your fingers immediately.

And just for a moment, before the doors open and the cameras start flashing and the networking begins and everything becomes overwhelming, she looks at you with something unbearably soft.

“Stay close tonight, okay?” she murmurs.

You beam at her, something warm settling in your chest.

“Always.”

The ballroom downstairs looks like something pulled from a movie.

Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, reflecting warm amber light across polished marble floors and tables dressed in gold-trimmed linens. The room is filled with people important enough to make you instinctively straighten your posture when they walk by. Waiters weave gracefully through the crowd balancing trays of champagne flutes on silver trays while conversations melt together into a constant sophisticated hum.

It’s elegant.

Intimidating.

And painfully expensive.

Your hand tightens slightly around Nancy’s as the two of you step inside.

She notices immediately. Her thumb brushes once across your knuckles.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

“Yeah,” you answer quickly. “Just a lot of people.”

That earns you a knowing look. Nancy had always been unfairly good at reading you.

“We can leave early,” she murmurs.

You blink. “Nancy.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are literally receiving the Worth Bingham Prize tonight.”

“And?”

“And you cannot skip your own award ceremony because I got socially overwhelmed."

"Sure I can."

"Nancy."

"I've done it before."

"You skipped an awards ceremony?"

"No."

Nancy squeezes your hand.

"Left one."

"That's not better."

"It wasn't a very good speech."

You stare at her and she stares right back.

Completely serious.

Which is the problem.

She isn't joking.

Given the choice between a room full of influential journalists and spending the rest of the evening hiding upstairs with you and room service, Nancy would be in the elevator before anyone could stop her.

The realization settles somewhere warm in your chest — equal parts ridiculous and endearing.

God, she’s impossible.

“You’re terrible,” you inform her.

“And yet you remain obsessed with me.”

“Debatable.”

Nancy grins.

Before she can respond, a sharply dressed man with silver at his temples appears beside her.

“Nancy Wheeler,” he greets warmly. “There she is.”

Nancy straightens almost instinctively, professional polish sliding into place so seamlessly it almost startles you.

“Richard,” she says easily, shaking his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

Again.

Right.

These are her people.

You stay slightly tucked against her side while the conversation shifts quickly into publication numbers, investigative sourcing, media strategy, and names you only vaguely recognize from magazines left scattered around your apartment.

Nancy handles it effortlessly, looking completely at home.

That’s the thing.

Years ago, she had to fight to be heard in rooms like this. Now people quiet for her.

It should probably feel strange seeing the same girl who once sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor ranting about corruption theories now being introduced as one of the most respected investigative journalists in the country. But the realization fills you with overwhelming pride.

The conversation moves on naturally without anyone acknowledging your silence.

Not intentionally rude.

Just easy to overlook.

Eventually, Richard's attention shifts toward you — a flicker of realization crosses his face — like he's only just noticed you're standing there. “And you are?”

Before you can answer, Nancy’s expression softens immediately.

“This is my girlfriend.”

She says it proudly, fondness warming her voice.

Something in your chest loosens.

Richard smiles politely and shakes your hand, though his attention drifts back toward Nancy almost immediately afterward.

You try not to let it bother you. After all, this night isn’t about you.

It’s about Nancy.

Everything she’s worked for.

Everything she deserves.

And nobody deserves this more than she does.

So you smile. Stay close like you promised. You listen quietly while Nancy moves through conversation after conversation with impossible ease.

Editors.

Reporters.

Executives.

Television hosts.

Everywhere she goes, people know her. Want her attention. Want her opinions. Want a piece of her time.

And through it all, Nancy keeps finding little ways to reach back for you.

A hand at your lower back.

Fingers brushing yours.

Small glances across conversations.

Silent check-ins only the two of you understand.

She’s trying. And so are you.

You smile when you're supposed to. Shake hands. Introduce yourself. Laugh when everyone else laughs.

For a while, it works — or at least you think it does.

Then someone makes a joke about a publication merger and the entire group laughs. You smile half a second too late after realizing everyone else found it funny.

A few minutes later, two reporters begin discussing a story that apparently dominated news cycles three years ago. You vaguely remember Nancy mentioning it once over dinner. Everyone else seems to have opinions, but you mostly nod and hope nobody notices you're lost.

Later, an editor asks where you're working these days and when you tell him, he smiles politely, moving on before you've even finished your drink.

The longer the evening stretches on, the more the room begins to feel like a world built in a language you only half understand.

And Nancy speaks it fluently.

Eventually, the noise becomes too much and you feel exhausted.

You’ve spent all evening trying to find your footing in a room where everyone else seems to know the dance already.

Conversations continued to flow effortlessly from one topic to the next: publications, elections, investigations, funding. Names and organizations and stories you only half recognize.

You tried your best to keep up, but now you need a break.

Nancy is currently cornered near one of the banquet tables by two senior editors deep in conversation about investigative funding cuts.

She catches your eye briefly across the room.

You tug on your left ear in silent reassurance — I’m okay.

Nancy’s expression lingers for a second longer like she isn’t entirely convinced before one of the editors reclaims her attention.

You wait until she looks occupied before quietly slipping toward the hallway leading outside the ballroom. The second the doors close behind you, the silence hits like a deep breath after being underwater too long.

You exhale slowly.

God.

You lean briefly against the wall, closing your eyes for a moment.

A burst of laughter echoes nearby.

Your attention drifts automatically toward the partially open lounge area a few feet down the hall.

Three people stand near the window alcove, drinks in hand.

You recognize two of them vaguely from earlier introductions. Executives maybe. Producers. Something important enough that everyone else in the ballroom had treated them like royalty.

You probably would’ve ignored them entirely if you hadn’t heard Nancy’s name.

“…brilliant, obviously,” one man says. “Probably one of the best investigative journalists working right now.”

Another person hums in agreement.

You beam with pride hearing them talk so highly of your girlfriend.

Nancy is brilliant. You've known that longer than most people in this room.

Long before the awards.

Long before the news articles and magazine covers.

Long before entire industries learned her name.

You knew.

You linger, listening as they continue talking about her. Discussing her latest investigation, her career, her future. Listening because you never really get tired of hearing people recognize what you've always known.

Pride swells warm and familiar inside your chest.

Then the woman of the trio laughs softly into her drink.

“I still don’t understand the girlfriend thing.”

Your stomach tightens instantly.

The woman speaking sounds amused more than malicious. Which somehow makes it worse.

“What do you mean?” someone asks.

The woman swirls her drink.

"I don't know. Nancy's become one of the most influential investigative journalists in the country," she shrugs. "I guess I expected..."

She trails off delicately.

Another voice finishes it anyway.

"Someone more established?"

Heat rushes immediately to your face.

You should leave.

Right now.

Instead, your feet stay rooted to the floor.

“She seems nice enough,” the first man says carefully.

“Oh, I’m sure she is,” the woman replies. “But image matters in this business whether people want to admit it or not.”

A quieter voice chimes in,“You’d think someone at Nancy’s level would want a partner who could actually navigate rooms like this.”

Soft laughter follows.

Not loud.

Not vicious.

Almost conversational.

Like they’re discussing politics or stock prices instead of another human being.

“She just appears so out of place. She looked absolutely miserable talking to Richard earlier,” one of them adds. “I honestly thought she was somebody’s assistant at first.”

That one lands cleanly.

Sharp enough to make your chest ache.

The woman gives a small laugh. "Honestly, I felt bad for her."

"For Nancy?"

"For the girlfriend."

The three of them share a laugh.

You want to argue. To list every reason they're wrong. To tell them they have no idea what they're talking about.

They don't know your relationship. They don't know Nancy. And they certainly don't know you.

But the argument loses momentum almost immediately.

Because tonight you had looked lost. Had stumbled through conversations. Had spent half the evening trying to figure out when to speak and when to smile. Had needed Nancy to rescue you from awkward silences more than once.

And suddenly every uncomfortable moment from the evening comes rushing back.

The woman sighs lightly.

“I just think Nancy could do better.”

She continues after a short pause, “Socially. Professionally.”

Something hot and humiliating climbs up your throat.

Not anger.

Not even jealousy.

Shame.

Because for one terrible moment, standing in the hallway outside the ballroom, you can see exactly what they see.

Nancy surrounded by brilliant people.

Powerful people.

People who know how to belong in rooms like this.

And then you.

You swallow it down hard.

One of the men gives an awkward chuckle. “Feels harsh.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s untrue.”

That finally forces your body back into motion.

You turn quickly before anyone can spot you standing there and head back toward the ballroom on unsteady legs.

By the time you slip back inside, your expression has settled into something carefully neutral.

Earned from years of practice.

Across the room, Nancy looks up almost immediately.

The second her eyes find you, her entire face softens. Like seeing you is the easiest thing she’s done all night.

The sight nearly breaks your heart.

Because if Nancy looks at you like that, why does everyone else seem so confused by the two of you?

You will your heart to stop racing as you move through the crowd, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your outfit just to give your hands something to do.

The conversation from the hallway still echoes unpleasantly in the back of your mind.

Out of place.

Nancy could do better.

Image matters.

You hate how deeply the words have lodged themselves beneath your skin.

Relief flickers briefly across Nancy’s face as you approach her. Not subtle relief, but the genuine kind. The kind that says she'd been looking for you.

Guilt twists sharply in your stomach.

Because while you've been standing in hallways listening to strangers dissect your relationship, Nancy has been worried about where you went.

She excuses herself from the group surrounding her and starts toward you without hesitation. Like finding you again had become her first priority.

“There you are,” she says gently when she’s finally in earshot.

Something in your chest aches.

You force a small smile. “Sorry. I just needed a minute.”

Nancy slows in front of you, eyes scanning your face carefully enough to make your pulse jump.

"Hey."

The single word is soft. Attentive.

Her brows furrow slightly.

“You okay?”

The question is gentle.

Genuine.

Which makes lying feel worse.

“Yeah,” you answer quickly. “Just needed air.”

Nancy's gaze lingers.

You know she knows that isn't the whole truth, but you can see her deciding whether to push.

Her hand settles automatically against your waist anyway, thumb brushing once against the fabric there.

Grounding.

Familiar.

Usually enough to settle every anxious thought rattling around your head.

Tonight it only makes you feel fragile.

“You sure?” Nancy asks softly.

Not suspicious or demanding.

Concerned.

Always concerned.

“Yeah,” you assure her.

The lie feels clumsy the moment it leaves your mouth.

Before she can ask anything else, you lean forward and press a quick kiss against her cheek.

A distraction.

“Aren’t you supposed to be networking right now, award winner?” you add quickly, forcing brightness into your voice.

That finally earns a reluctant smile from her.

“You’re making fun of me again.”

“Only a little.”

“Hm.”

Nancy studies you for another lingering second like she’s trying to solve something.

Then, mercifully, she lets it go.

“For the record,” she murmurs, leaning slightly closer, “I was already looking for an excuse to escape that conversation.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Bad?”

“One of them said the phrase ‘media synergy’ four separate times.”

“Oh, that’s horrifying.”

“Thank you.”

The tension eases slightly.

Not gone, but manageable.

Nancy guides you toward the bar a moment later, her hand remaining steady at the small of your back.

Protective.

Instinctive.

Around you, conversations continue uninterrupted.

Everyone seems to know everyone. Everyone seems to belong.

A woman in a navy dress waves Nancy over from across the room and Nancy waves back automatically.

Another person stops to congratulate her.

Then another.

And another.

And suddenly all you can think about is how easily she fits here. How naturally she moves through all of it.

“Just another hour,” she promises as the two of you reach the bar.

“You say that like an hour isn’t devastatingly long.”

She snorts softly as she accepts two champagne flutes from the bartender before handing one to you. “You’re very brave.”

“I know.”

Her smile softens around the edges as she looks at you.

And there it is again.

That look Nancy gives you sometimes.

The one that still manages to make your stomach flip after all these years. Soft enough to make the entire room disappear for half a second.

Like no matter how many important people demand her attention tonight, you are still the person her eyes search for first.

Your chest tightens painfully.

Because if Nancy looks at you like that, if she still reaches for you first, if she still smiles every time she catches your eye across a crowded room...

then why do those comments hurt so much?

Why does a small, awful part of you keep wondering if everyone else noticed something you've somehow missed?

Something that won't matter tonight.

Or maybe even next month.

But someday.

Someday when Nancy finally realizes there are people in rooms like this who understand her world in ways you never will.

“Nancy Wheeler?”

The voice behind you is bright and confident.

You turn alongside Nancy to find another woman approaching the bar, somewhere around your age, dressed in an elegant, sharply tailored black suit with the kind of effortless confidence you immediately envied.

Pretty.

Polished.

Perfectly composed.

The kind of person who probably never felt awkward holding a champagne glass in rooms like this.

Recognition flashes across Nancy’s face almost immediately.

“Oh my god,” Nancy says, surprised. “Jordan Reyes?”

Jordan laughs warmly. “Okay, wow. I can’t believe you actually remember me.”

“Are you kidding? The Chicago corruption piece?”

“You read that?”

“I referenced that article for months.”

Your stomach dips. Not because of what she said, but because of how excited Nancy looks talking to her.

Not polite.

Not networking-mode interested.

Genuinely excited.

Jordan grins, clearly just as caught off guard by Nancy’s enthusiasm. “Honestly, hearing that from you might be the highlight of my night.”

Nancy laughs softly, and the sound scrapes against something raw inside you.

You hate that.

Hate yourself for reacting this way.

Nothing happening in front of you is inappropriate. If anything, it’s harmless.

But after the conversation in the hallway, your brain has apparently decided to weaponize everything.

Jordan speaks with effortless confidence, easily matching Nancy’s pace as the conversation shifts toward investigative ethics, publishing politics, and international reporting.

And unlike you, Jordan understands all of it. She understands the industry.

The networking.

The references.

The rhythm of this world.

And standing beside Nancy, she looks like she fits there effortlessly. Like she fits beside her effortlessly.

Meanwhile, you stand quietly off to the side suddenly feeling hyperaware of every awkward thing about yourself — where your hands are, whether you look uncomfortable, whether your silence seems obvious.

Jordan turns toward you with an easy smile.

“And you are?”

Nancy answers before you can, moving slightly closer to your side.

“This is my girlfriend.”

Immediate warmth softened her voice.

Pride.

Affection.

Possession, in the gentlest possible way.

It should’ve reassured you.

Normally, it would’ve melted you.

But tonight, your brain cruelly only hears girlfriend.

Not partner.

Not future.

Not enough.

Jordan offers her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard Nancy mention you before.”

That catches you off guard.

“You have?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. It sounds more surprised than you intended. More skeptical, too.

“Oh yeah,” Jordan says lightly. “Usually when she’s trying to pretend she has work-life balance.”

Nancy groans immediately. “Okay, that’s slander.”

Jordan laughs.

“Oh, so you two talk a lot?”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Not rude.

Not quite.

But enough.

Jordan blinks.

Nancy glances at you.

"We've crossed paths a few times," Jordan says easily, leaning against the bar.

Effortless and charming.

And another ugly feeling twists tighter in your chest.

Because Jordan fits here so naturally. Fits beside Nancy naturally.

Beautiful.

Smart.

Charming.

Accomplished.

She doesn’t need context. Doesn't spend half the conversation trying to catch up.

She keeps pace with Nancy effortlessly.

Challenges her.

Understands her.

And suddenly all you can hear again is: Nancy could do better.

What’s worse is you can see it.

The version of Nancy's life everyone in that hallway had been talking about.

Industry events. Awards. Long conversations about stories and politics and investigations.

Someone beside her who belongs in every room she walks into. Someone who speaks the same language. Someone who isn't constantly wondering whether they're enough.

Your grip tightens slightly around your champagne flute.

Nancy notices immediately.

Of course she does.

Her attention shifts toward you at once, brows pulling together subtly.

“You okay?”

Too perceptive. Too caring. Too much.

Because if Nancy keeps looking at you like that, you're going to tell her the truth. And the truth is ridiculous.

Embarrassing.

“I’m fine,” you say too quickly. Too sharply.

A tiny crease appeared between Nancy’s brows.

Jordan’s gaze flicks briefly between the two of you before she politely looks away, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere.

“Well,” she says, “I should probably go rescue my editor before he starts introducing himself to senators again.”

Nancy laughs. “Probably wise.”

“It was really nice meeting you,” Jordan says sincerely to you.

"Mhm."

Jordan's smile falters almost imperceptibly.

Not hurt.

Just surprised.

“What was that?” Nancy asks quietly once Jordan disappears back into the crowd.

Her voice is low. Careful. Like she's trying not to push too hard.

Which only makes the guilt worse.

Your stomach twists.

“What was what?”

“You’ve seemed upset ever since we got here,” Nancy says carefully, the concern in her voice making everything feel worse.

Because she loves you so openly.

So instinctively.

And somehow you still feel like you’re standing beside a life you don’t belong in.

You look away first.

A mistake.

Nancy always notices that. Her expression sharpens immediately.

“I’m not upset,” you mutter before she can ask another question.

“Nobody says ‘I’m not upset’ like that unless they are absolutely upset.”

Normally, that would’ve made you smile. Made you roll your eyes. Made you admit she was annoyingly correct.

Tonight it just makes you feel exposed.

Before Nancy can press further—

“Nancy!”

Another voice calls her name from across the ballroom, waving her over to the stage area.

Frustration briefly flickers across her face.

“I have to—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently.

Nancy hesitates, clearly reluctant. “I’ll come find you after the speech, okay?”

You force a small smile.

“Go be famous.”

That finally earns the tiniest laugh from her.

But even as she steps away, Nancy looks back at you twice.

The second time, she almost stops walking altogether. Like she's reconsidering. Like some instinct deep in her chest already knows she shouldn’t be leaving you alone.

But they call her name again, escorting her closer to the stage and further away from you.

The ballroom lights dim slightly as the ceremony shifts toward the final award of the evening.

Around you, conversations soften into scattered applause while people reclaim their seats near the stage.

Nancy catches your eye from several rows ahead just before taking her place near the aisle.

You manage a smile.

She smiles back immediately.

Small.

Soft.

Only for you.

Then the announcer begins reading her introduction.

And suddenly the entire room belonged to Nancy Wheeler.

Not because she demanded attention. Because she earned it.

“Tonight’s recipient has consistently redefined what investigative journalism can look like in the modern era…”

Applause erupts around the ballroom.

You barely hear it.

Because Nancy is walking toward the stage now, elegant and composed beneath the golden lights, and despite everything twisting painfully inside your chest—

God, you are still so proud of her.

That feeling never disappeared.

Not even now.

The announcer continues listing accomplishments as Nancy reaches the podium.

International investigations.

Political exposés.

Awards.

Publications.

Legislation influenced by her reporting.

Every word makes the room admire her more.

And every word makes you feel smaller beside it.

You clap anyway. Because in spite of how you feel, Nancy deserves it.

She glances briefly toward the audience as the applause settles.

Toward you.

Always toward you.

Then she smiles faintly and adjusts the microphone.

“Wow,” she begins, breathless in that familiar way she gets when emotions catch her unexpectedly. “Okay. I had a speech prepared, and now I’m immediately reconsidering all of it.”

Soft laughter ripples through the room.

Your chest tightens painfully.

There she is.

Not the polished journalist everyone else sees.

Your Nancy.

The one who rambles when nervous. The one who steals your sweaters and denies it despite overwhelming evidence. The one who still leaves sticky notes on the coffee maker when she leaves early for interviews.

You swallow hard.

Nancy glances down briefly at her note cards before continuing.

“There are a lot of people I’m supposed to thank tonight,” she says. “Editors, researchers, sources, mentors… people who took chances on me long before I deserved it.”

Another ripple of quiet laughter.

“She cleans up well, doesn’t she?”

The voice beside you startles you slightly.

You turn to find an older woman settling into the empty seat next to yours, champagne flute balanced elegantly in one hand.

Nancy’s editor.

Elaine.

You’d met her a handful of times before.

Sharp.

Respected.

Intimidating in that effortless way powerful women often are.

You manage a small smile. “She does.”

Elaine’s expression softens slightly as she looks toward the stage.

“I remember the first time she pitched a story to me,” she says. “Terrifyingly intense. Twenty-two years old and already arguing with editors twice her age.”

A laugh escapes you quietly.

“Sounds like Nancy.”

“Oh, it absolutely was.” Elaine smiles faintly. “She’s only gotten scarier since then.”

Onstage, Nancy glances down at her speech cards before continuing. Your gaze stays fixed on her instinctively. You know that expression.

Nancy’s nervous.

Not visibly.

Nobody else would notice.

But you do.

You always do.

Elaine notices where your attention is and smiles knowingly.

“You must be very proud of her.”

You are. Impossibly so.

“Always,” you answer quietly.

Something thoughtful flickers across Elaine’s face.

“She talks about you a lot, you know.”

Your chest tightens.

“She does?”

“Oh yes.” Elaine sounds amused.

Then she sighs lightly, swirling her champagne glass.

“She’s becoming the face of investigative journalism whether she wants to or not,” she says. “It’s remarkable to watch.”

Something about her tone makes your stomach tense slightly.

“She’ll keep rising,” Elaine continues. “Five years ago I would've said national syndication was ambitious."

Elaine smiles faintly.

"Now I'd be surprised if she stopped there."

Onstage, Nancy smiles softly at something written in her notes.

Your heart twists.

“She deserves all of it,” you murmur.

“She does.”

Elaine’s agreement comes easily.

Then—

“Public life can be difficult on relationships, though.”

Your grip tightens subtly around your champagne flute.

Elaine continues watching the stage as she speaks, seemingly unaware of the damage each word causes.

“At Nancy’s level, image starts becoming part of the career whether you like it or not.” She glances toward you then, expression still perfectly pleasant. “The people beside you matter almost as much as the work itself.”

Heat creeps slowly up your neck.

“I suppose,” you say carefully.

Elaine hums softly. “It’s unfortunate, really. Nancy’s happiest when she’s allowed to just be herself.”

Something sharp lodges itself beneath your ribs.

Onstage, Nancy laughs softly at her own joke and the entire room laughs with her.

“She clearly adores you,” Elaine adds.

The words hit so suddenly your chest actually hurt.

Because you know that.

That’s the horrible part.

You know Nancy loves you.

You have never doubted that.

Not for a second.

That's what makes tonight so unbearable.

Because love isn't the thing you're afraid of losing anymore.

Elaine smiles faintly. “But eventually people at her level usually need partners who can move comfortably through these spaces with them. Public scrutiny gets exhausting otherwise.”

Elaine swirls her drink thoughtfully.

"The interviews. The events. The constant attention."

She shrugs.

"Not everyone wants that life."

The words aren’t cruel. Aren’t intentionally vicious.

Just honest.

Honest enough to destroy you.

Your pulse roars suddenly in your ears.

Every insecurity from tonight crashes together at once — the hallway conversation, Jordan, the awkwardness, the isolation, the feeling of constantly lagging one step behind Nancy’s world.

Onstage, Nancy looks out into the crowd again.

Searching.

For you.

Her gaze passes over dozens of people before finding yours.

The moment it does, she smiles.

Small.

Immediate.

Unthinking.

Like you're the person she was looking for all along.

And somehow that makes everything worse.

Because even now — even loving you, even choosing you, even looking for you first in a room full of people — a small, awful part of you can't stop thinking: she still deserves better.

Applause suddenly erupts around the ballroom. You startle slightly, realizing Nancy finished speaking. People rise to their feet around you.

A standing ovation.

Nancy’s eyes immediately find yours across the crowd.

The second they do, her entire face softens. Like your reaction matters more than the hundreds of people applauding around her.

Your vision blurs instantly. You stand too quickly.

You need air.

You need space.

You need five minutes to stop feeling like you’re about to fall apart in the middle of Nancy’s biggest night.

“Excuse me,” you manage quietly.

Elaine looks startled. “Oh— are you alright?”

You nod automatically even as your throat tightens painfully.

“Just overwhelmed.”

It isn’t even a lie.

Then, before Nancy can make her way back through the crowd and see the tears gathering in your eyes—

Because if she sees you, she'll abandon every congratulations, every interview, every person trying to get her attention.

And, god, you couldn’t ruin this for her.

Not tonight.

Not when this moment belonged to her.

So while the ballroom erupts around Nancy’s in celebration

—you turn and walk out before she can see you breaking apart.

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