Chapter Text
She stands there for a moment, too stunned to react, cold water dripping from the hem of her coat and running down into her shoes. The driver doesn’t even slow down.
Great. Just great.
Nancy lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a laugh, except it doesn’t. She wipes her face with the sleeve of her already ruined coat and keeps walking because what else is she supposed to do? Go home and admit defeat at two in the afternoon?
She clutches her tote bag tighter under her arm, silently praying the sketchbook inside survived. The bag is old and the zipper sticks half the time and she keeps meaning to replace it, but that would require money she doesn't have.
If the sketches got ruined, then today officially wins worst day of the year. And it’s only March.
She stops under the weak shelter of a bus stop and carefully opens the bag just enough to peek inside. The sketchbook is slightly bent at the corners but dry, thank God. She runs her fingers over the cover anyway, like she needs to physically confirm it's still there. At least something survived today.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket.
Robin: Did they love you????
Nancy stares at the message while waiting for the light to change.
She types No. Deletes it.
Types Not really. Deletes that too.
Finally she writes:
Still thinking about it.
She hates herself a little for that. The lie sits heavy in her chest as she crosses the street with the rest of the crowd, anonymous and forgettable among people who probably have actual jobs to go back to. Another buzz.
Robin: Okay but thinking is good right???
Nancy exhales through her nose.
Yeah.
Three dots appear instantly.
Robin: Come home early if you can. I found discounted dumplings and I'm making soup.
Nancy pauses on the sidewalk before answering.
That sounds good.
Another message almost immediately.
Robin: Also I stole tea bags from work. Fancy ones.
Nancy can practically hear the pride in that.
You're a criminal.
Robin: For you? Always.
Nancy slips the phone back into her pocket and keeps walking, a little slower now. The idea of hot soup in a chipped bowl at their tiny kitchen table feels impossibly far away and strangely comforting at the same time.
She tries not to think about the rent due next week. Or the email from the loan company she hasn't opened yet. Or the way her father's voice sounds in her head, calm and practical and impossible to argue with.
It's a stable position, Nancy. Benefits. Real income. You're talented, but talent isn't always enough.
She had nodded at the time, staring down into her coffee like if she looked up she might agree. Maybe he was right. Maybe fashion school had been an expensive mistake. Maybe she should accept the job offer and stop pretending she was one good opportunity away from making it.
Robin never says that out loud, but Nancy can tell she worries. The careful way she avoids asking about money. The casual Don't worry about groceries this week that sounds too rehearsed. The way she insists the spare room would stay Nancy’s no matter what.
Nancy hates how grateful that makes her feel. Hates even more that she needs it.
Another gust of cold wind pushes through the street and she pulls her damp coat tighter around herself, immediately regretting it when the fabric presses wet and cold against her sleeves. Perfect. Her reflection catches briefly in the dark window of a closed storefront and she stops without meaning to.
Her hair is frizzing at the edges, mascara faintly smudged under her eyes, coat wrinkled and spotted with dirty water. She looks less like an aspiring designer and more like someone who got lost on the way to somewhere better.
No one looking at her right now would guess she spent three nights finishing that portfolio. Or that she stayed up until two adjusting stitching details no one even noticed.
"You're not what we're looking for."
Sometimes it's an email. Sometimes it's a polite smile from a receptionist who won't meet her eyes for too long. Sometimes it's a quick glance at her work before the folder gets closed. Today it had been the worst kind — the sympathetic kind.
"You have potential."
She almost would have preferred a flat-out no. Nancy forces herself to keep moving. Because if she stops, she might actually cry, and she refuses to do that on a sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon.
Home is still twenty minutes away. Soup is waiting. Robin is waiting. And tomorrow she can decide again whether to give up.
Jonathan notices her by accident. Or at least that’s what it feels like at first — just another movement in a crowded room, another blur of color and noise and bodies shifting under the lights. Then he looks again. And doesn’t stop.
She’s a few yards away on the dance floor, half turned towards Robin, laughing at something that gets lost in the music. Brown curls bouncing as she moves, not perfectly styled or careful, just natural and alive in a way that makes everything else around her feel slightly muted.
There’s something about the way she moves — loose, unselfconscious, like she forgot anyone else might be watching. Or like she wouldn’t care if they were.
Her clothes stand out without trying too hard. Not flashy exactly, just deliberate — textures and shapes that look thrown together until you realize they’re not. Effortless in a way that clearly took effort. Cool without needing permission.
Jonathan leans one elbow against the bar and keeps looking. She throws her head back laughing at something Robin said and the sound doesn’t reach him through the music, but he can almost imagine it anyway.
There’s a warmth to it. Unfiltered. Real. He takes a sip from his drink and realizes a second later he didn’t taste it.
She spins slightly when the rhythm changes, hair catching the light, and there’s a second where she looks completely carried away — eyes half-closed, smiling like nothing else exists outside this moment.
Jonathan feels something strange settle low in his chest. Quiet but immediate. Like recognition without context. He watches her for another few seconds before he even realizes he’s staring. And once he does — He still doesn’t look away.
Beside him, Steve follows his line of sight. It takes about two seconds. Then he smirks.
“Well.”
Jonathan doesn’t respond. Steve leans closer.
“That was fast.”
Jonathan frowns slightly. “What?”
Steve nods toward the dance floor. Jonathan doesn’t pretend not to understand. Steve folds his arms.
“You haven’t stopped looking at her.”
Jonathan takes another drink. “I’m just—”
“Looking.”
Jonathan exhales. Steve grins.
“Everyone knows you’re single now.”
Jonathan rolls his eyes faintly.
“That’s not—”
“You could at least talk to her.”
Jonathan shakes his head immediately.
“No.”
Steve looks unimpressed.
“Why not?”
Jonathan glances back toward her before he can stop himself. She’s still laughing, pulling Robin into another spin. Something in his chest tightens again.
“I’m not doing that.”
Steve tilts his head.
“Doing what?”
Jonathan gestures vaguely.
“Going up to strangers in bars.”
Steve snorts.
“You’re literally in a bar.”
Jonathan ignores that. Steve nudges his shoulder.
“Go dance.”
“No.”
“Buy her a drink.”
“No.”
“Say hi.”
Jonathan shakes his head again. Steve watches him for a second. Then:
“You like her.”
Jonathan lets out a quiet scoff.
“I don’t even know her.”
Steve shrugs.
“Didn’t say you loved her.”
Jonathan looks back again anyway. Just for a second. Nancy laughs again, bright and easy and completely unaware. Jonathan exhales slowly. If love at first sight is real — and he’s never believed that it is — then whatever this feeling is comes uncomfortably close. Steve nudges him again.
“Seriously.”
Jonathan doesn’t move. Steve sighs dramatically.
“Man, you just got dumped. This is perfect timing.”
Jonathan winces slightly at the word. Steve notices but keeps going.
“What else are you gonna do? Go home and stare at the ceiling?”
Jonathan says nothing. Steve jerks his chin toward the dance floor.
“She’s right there.”
Jonathan watches her for one more long second. Then looks down at his glass. Still undecided.
Hours pass without any of them really noticing. One round turns into another, and then another after that. The music shifts, the crowd changes, people come and go, but the four of them stay — sometimes at the bar, mostly on the dance floor.
At some point Steve disappears toward the smoking area with someone he met. Robin drifts into a conversation with a girl near the DJ booth, laughing too loudly, gesturing with her whole body the way she does when she’s drunk and comfortable.
Nancy and Jonathan stay. Dancing turns easier the more they drink. Closer, too.
At first it’s casual — hands brushing, shoulders bumping, laughing when they step on each other’s feet. But somewhere along the way the space between them disappears almost without permission. Now they move together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Too close to pretend it’s accidental. Her hands rest on his shoulders, then slide down. His hands settle at her waist, steady and warm through the thin fabric of her clothes. The bass pulses through both of them at the same time.
Nancy looks up at him, slightly unfocused, trying to place something that keeps tugging at the edge of her thoughts.
“You look familiar,” she says, half shouting over the music.
Jonathan smiles faintly. “I get that sometimes.”
She studies him like she might figure it out if she looks long enough. But the thought slips away before it can settle. Because his hand shifts at her waist and suddenly she’s not thinking about anything else. And then he’s kissing her. Not tentative. Not uncertain. Like they both crossed the same invisible line at the same moment.
Nancy’s fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer without even realizing she’s doing it. The noise of the bar blurs into something distant and unimportant. He tastes like tequila and lime and something warmer underneath.
And he’s— He’s a very good kisser.
Confident without being overwhelming, like he actually pays attention to her reactions instead of just guessing. It makes her head spin in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.
She laughs softly against his mouth at one point, breathless and surprised at herself. He smiles into the kiss. After that, things stop feeling linear.
The bar turns into the sidewalk. The sidewalk turns into the back of a cab, the city lights sliding past the windows in streaks of color while they sit too close together, knees pressed together, hands finding each other without discussion.
Somewhere in between she texts Robin something short and incoherent that probably just says she’s going home. Or maybe she doesn’t. Later she won’t be completely sure.
What she does remember clearly is the quiet when they step into his place — the sudden absence of music ringing in her ears.
And then his hands again. And hers. Clothes dropped in an uneven trail across the floor.
By the time they reach the bed, they’re laughing softly in that unfocused way that comes with being tired and drunk and caught up in something that feels unexpectedly right.
After that, the world narrows. Skin against skin. Close enough that there’s no space left between them.
Nancy’s fingers press into his shoulders, then down his back, nails dragging lightly and then less lightly when she forgets to be careful. He exhales sharply against her neck and she feels the sound of it as much as she hears it.
If he was a good kisser— He’s even better at this. Not rushed. Not careless. Attentive in a way that surprises her. It’s been a while since anything felt this easy, this natural, like she doesn’t have to perform or pretend or overthink every reaction.
She lets herself get carried away. Lets herself feel everything instead of analyzing it. For once she isn’t worrying about tomorrow or interviews or rent or whether she’s making the right choices.
There’s just warmth and closeness and the steady rhythm of breathing that gradually slows afterward. Later, she lies half-curled against him, hair tangled across the pillow, the room dim and unfamiliar around her.
Her fingertips trace absentminded patterns along his arm as sleep starts pulling at her. Somewhere in the back of her mind there’s still that faint sense of recognition she never quite solved.
But it feels distant. Unimportant. Right now all she knows is that she hasn’t felt this good in a very long time. And she falls asleep before she can wonder about it any further.
Nancy wakes up slowly and painfully. Her head is pounding in heavy, uneven waves, each pulse making her regret every decision she made the night before. Light leaks in through tall windows somewhere to her left, far too bright and unforgiving.
She groans and buries her face deeper into the pillow. Never again. Seriously. Never again. Tequila is officially banned for the rest of her life.
Her mouth feels dry, her limbs heavy, her thoughts moving through syrup. For a minute she just lies there with her eyes closed, trying to piece together where she is in the most basic sense.
Bed. Sheets. Pillow. Fine. Normal. Except— The mattress is way too comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Robin bought theirs secondhand from a woman in Queens who swore it was “barely used,” and it absolutely does not feel like this.
Nancy cracks one eye open. The ceiling is unfamiliar. Very unfamiliar. Too high. Too clean.
“…What.”
Her voice comes out hoarse.
She blinks a few times, squinting at the light. Slowly, carefully, she pushes herself up onto one elbow.
The room comes into focus in uneven pieces. Large windows. Minimalist furniture. Actual artwork on the walls. And a view. A view. Nancy frowns.
“…Since when do we live in a penthouse?”
Her brain takes a few seconds to catch up. We don’t.
She goes very still. Then she looks down.
She is— Oh no. She is completely naked.
Nancy freezes.
“…Why am I naked.”
Her voice is quieter now. More cautious.
She glances quickly around the room like answers might be written on the walls. Clothes. There are clothes on the floor. Not organized. Definitely not hers alone. Memory flickers in uneven flashes.
Music. Dancing. Tequila. Kissing—
Oh. Oh no. Nancy presses a hand to her forehead.
“Okay,” she mutters weakly. “Okay.”
That part she can deal with. Probably. Maybe. Then she swings her legs carefully over the side of the bed and stands up, immediately regretting it when the room tilts slightly.
“Bad idea.”
She steadies herself with one hand against the mattress. Breathes. Waits for the floor to stay where it belongs. Then she looks up again. And notices the wall opposite the bed. Frames. Several of them. Gold and silver discs mounted behind glass. Nancy squints. Steps closer. Her headache pulses again but she ignores it.
They look official. Shiny. Plaques with engraved text. Recognition hits in slow, disbelieving pieces.
“…What.”
She leans closer. Platinum records. Multiple. Her stomach drops. WAIT. Nancy straightens abruptly.
“No.”
She looks around the room again, this time with new urgency. The furniture. The space. The view. The unfamiliar but expensive-looking everything. And then— Last night. The bar. The dancing. The guy. Her eyes widen.
“…Wait.”
Pieces click together all at once. The familiar face. Robin’s phone. The article. The drummer. Nancy presses both hands to her head.
“Oh my God.”
A beat.
“Oh my God.”
Her voice drops to a whisper.
“I slept with a rockstar.”
Nancy grabs the first thing she finds on the floor. A man’s shirt — dark, soft fabric, definitely expensive, definitely not hers. It smells faintly like cologne layered over cigarette smoke, the scent unfamiliar but oddly grounding. She pulls it on quickly. It hangs almost to mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing her hands, collar slipping loose over one shoulder. Ridiculously oversized, but right now modesty ranks higher than fashion.
Her heart is still beating too fast. Because she needs confirmation. Actual confirmation. Otherwise she is going to start losing her mind. Last night feels like something she dreamed — fragments instead of a full story. Music and laughter and tequila and hands at her waist and— Nancy presses her lips together. Focus.
She steps carefully out of the bedroom, one hand braced against the wall until the hallway steadies. The apartment opens into a wide living space that looks even bigger in daylight. Clean lines. Big windows. Too many expensive-looking objects that she doesn’t want to touch. Her bag sits on the coffee table like proof that she didn’t hallucinate the whole thing.
“Oh thank God.”
She hurries over and digs through it, pushing aside her wallet and sketchbook until she finds her phone. She presses the button. Nothing.
“…No.”
Again. Still dead. Nancy drops her head back with a quiet groan.
“Of course.”
She exhales slowly, trying not to spiral. Okay. Fine. She’ll just— A sound from the kitchen makes her freeze. Movement. Footsteps. Nancy turns slowly. And then she sees him.
Jonathan stands near the counter, shirtless, hair sticking up in uneven directions like he ran his hands through it too many times. He looks like he just woke up — relaxed, unguarded, and unfairly good-looking in a way that feels almost inconvenient.
Nancy’s stomach flips before she can stop it. Which is not the point. She reminds herself of that immediately. Not. The. Point. Jonathan glances over and smiles easily, like this is the most normal morning in the world.
“Hey.”
Nancy blinks. He gestures toward the counter.
“I made coffee.”
For a second she just stares at him. Coffee. Like this is normal. Like she wakes up in strangers’ penthouses every day. Like she didn’t realize approximately ten minutes ago that he might be famous. Nancy is pretty sure she’s losing her mind.
“Thanks,” she manages.
Her voice sounds distant to her own ears. Jonathan pours a cup and slides it toward her. Up close, he looks exactly like she remembers — which is somehow worse than if he didn’t. Because what she does remember is dangerously clear. Not everything. But enough. The warmth of his hands. The way he kissed her like he actually meant it. And— Nancy grips the edge of the counter lightly. The sex. God. It had been… Something out of this world. Which is extremely inconvenient information to have right now. Because this situation is confusing enough without that detail making things worse.
Jonathan leans back against the counter, relaxed. Nancy takes a careful sip of coffee, mostly to give herself something to do.
“How did I even end up here?” she asks finally, half to herself. Jonathan smiles faintly.
“Cab.”
She nods slowly. Right. That sounds plausible. Still surreal. Nancy glances around the apartment again, then back at him. Still trying to reconcile the quiet guy making coffee with the platinum records she saw ten minutes ago. Still trying to catch up with her own life. Because twelve hours ago she was crying over job rejections. And now she’s standing barefoot in a borrowed shirt in a rockstar’s kitchen. Nothing about that progression makes sense. She takes another sip of coffee anyway, like it might help reality settle into place.
She reintroduces herself just in case she didn’t the night before.
“I’m… Nancy,” she says, a little awkwardly, fingers tightening around the oversized mug of coffee. “In case I forgot to do that.”
Jonathan leans back against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You did,” he says. “A couple times, actually.”
Nancy squints at him. “No, I didn’t.”
“You did,” he insists gently. “First when we met, then again after tequila shot number…” he pauses, pretending to calculate, “six? Seven?”
She groans and presses her fingers to her temples.
“Oh my God. Don’t say tequila.”
Jonathan chuckles. “Noted.”
“This is your fault, by the way,” she adds, pointing at him accusingly. “You did this to me.”
“My fault?”
“Yes. You bought the shots.”
“You said yes.”
“You encouraged me.”
“You didn’t need encouragement.”
Nancy exhales through her nose, but a reluctant smile pulls at her lips.
“Okay,” she admits. “Maybe not.”
She takes a careful sip of coffee, like she's negotiating with her own stomach. It works. Barely. Jonathan watches her over the rim of his mug.
“You look better than you did ten minutes ago.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s an optimistic observation.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. For a moment there's a small, comfortable silence. Strange, considering she woke up in a stranger’s apartment wearing nothing but his shirt. Which suddenly reminds her. Her eyes flick up to him again.
“I should probably clarify something.”
Jonathan raises an eyebrow.
“That sounds serious.”
“It’s not,” she says quickly. “Well—maybe a little.”
He waits.
“Robin — my roommate — she’s a huge fan of your band,” Nancy explains. “That’s mostly why I know who you are.”
Jonathan nods slowly.
“Okay.”
“She’s like… really into the music."
Jonathan smiles.
“Good to know.”
“But me?” Nancy shrugs. “I mean, I like some songs, obviously, because she plays them all the time, but I’m more of a pop girl.”
“Pop girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Any favorites?”
Nancy thinks.
“Depends on the week.”
“That's diplomatic.”
“It’s honest.”
Jonathan nods.
“I respect that.”
“You’re not offended?”
“Why would I be offended?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Musicians seem sensitive.”
“We are,” he admits. “But not about that.”
She smiles faintly into her coffee. He gestures toward the outlet by the couch.
“You can charge your phone there.”
“Oh—thank you.”
Nancy gets up, the shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder as she walks into the living room. Her bag is exactly where she left it. At least something makes sense. She digs around until she finds her phone, then comes back. Jonathan hands her the charger.
“Here.”
“Thanks.”
Their fingers brush briefly. She pretends not to notice. The phone is dead-dead. Black screen. Completely gone. Nancy plugs it in and sits on the edge of the couch, waiting. Jonathan lingers in the doorway.
“Moment of truth.”
“Don’t say that.”
He smiles. A minute passes. Then another. Finally the screen flickers to life. Nancy exhales in relief.
“Okay. Good.”
Then the notifications start appearing. One after another. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Her brow furrows.
“Why do I have—”
She stops counting. Too many. Texts. Missed calls. Voicemails. Not just Robin. Names she hasn’t seen in years. People from fashion school. People she barely talked to after graduation. Which is weird. Really weird. Jonathan watches her expression shift.
“That bad?”
“I don’t know.”
Her stomach tightens. She opens the messages.
Robin: CALL ME
Robin: ARE YOU ALIVE
Robin: Nancy please answer
Robin: OH MY GOD
Robin: Pick up your phone
Robin: Seriously
Robin: Nancy
And the last one:
Whatever you do do NOT open Instagram
Nancy stares at the screen. Slowly.
“Oh no.”
Jonathan tilts his head.
“What?”
Nancy looks up at him.
“I think something happened.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Something else?”
She presses her lips together.
“…I’m a little scared to find out.”