i 🤍 robin buckley

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

The Right Girl

Steve x Fem!reader

summary - you’ve known steve forever. you’ve been his friend for as long as you can remember. but it’s not easy. at least not on your end. when steve is constantly gushing over this new girl he’s been seeing, it makes it hard to stand him. because you’ve got a secret. and that secret may just be that you don’t see steve as just a friend. word count - 5k warnings - heavy fluff, angst, lots of kissing, robin and reader friendship, robin being hilarious but gentle, comfort, tears, no actual smut, friends to lovers, lmk if i missed something! a/n - i had sooooo much fun writing this!!! if anyone would like to, PLEASE submit some requests!! i need ideas and i'll pretty much write anything for steve, robin, jonathan, or nancy. i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing!!!!

Working at Family Video could be uneventful some days, but nothing like this. This was the slowest day you’ve ever seen. 

Maybe it was the fluorescent lights that seem to glow brighter than they ever have before, humming with electricity and filling the quiet. Any time to think is stolen by the noise.

Maybe it was the lack of customers. Being a Wednesday night, you hadn’t expected crazy crowds. But you didn't feel that was what’s dragging the hours.

Maybe it was that Robin had been late, her familiar voice filling the air only in the second half of the shift. But still, it didn’t feel like that was the actual problem.

You had one more hypothesis, but it felt incredibly selfish to even think about.

Steve. Behind the counter, phone to his ear, talking nonstop to Dustin about the girl he’s seeing.

He’s taking her out later, some 4th or 5th date. Could be more. Certainly feels like more with how much he talks about her.

You hate that you feel jealous towards her.

You know it’s selfish to think of yourself. That this is Steve’s moment, he’s finally going steady with a girl. You wouldn’t be wishing for a change if it was the right girl.

And yeah, you want Steve to be happy.

But you wonder why he can’t be happy with you.

You’ve had a crush on him forever. Not an exactly subtle one at that. You drop hints on occasion. You try to show signs of interest, anything you can to make him see how hopelessly in love you are.

He’s absolutely oblivious.

Parts of you like his cluelessness. You wouldn’t want him to learn of your feelings while he was in a relationship. You’d never want to break two people up, no matter how much you did like Steve.

But other parts resented it. You wished almost every night that he’d notice the way you act around him. How it’s different. How you’ve never shown these same signs to other boys.

It feels like you’re trying to get a rock to love you.

You’ve got to push it down, though. Keep it inside until you get home. Work isn’t exactly the place to go deep into the meaning of your own feelings.

It’s too public.

You and Robin stock the shelves with the returned rentals, VHS tapes stacked tall on the cart you push from section to section.

It’s only when you’ve arrived at the Romance section, passing Robin the tapes that belong in the aisle, when you begin to hear him.

Steve’s on the phone with Dustin, yes. When is he not? But it’s different today. Because instead of having their usual idiotic exchange, they’re talking about that girl Steve’s been seeing.

“No dude, I’m serious, she’s different. I think she may actually be… like… the one?” There’s a small, almost shy, smile on his face as he speaks into the phone. Completely love struck, leaning on his elbows, playing with the phone cord.

Every syllable twists something in your chest.

Every look makes your face drop further.

You’re not upset because he’s happy. That’d be ridiculous. You like that he’s happy. But you want that for yourself.

You wish you could be loved by him, that maybe he’d open his eyes and realize the girl he’s known since he was 10 doesn’t just like him as a friend. That she keeps him around for more reasons than one. That she enjoys his company more than anyone else.

Of course, Robin notices the way you slow. The way you hand the VHS tapes to her slower than just moments before.

You’ve known Robin almost just as long as you’ve known Steve.

She puts together the way you’re looking at Steve, the topic he’s rambling about, and the way you look wrecked. She understands almost instantly.

That says a lot, that Robin figured it out within seconds. If she understands it, the girl who insists she has no grasp of social cues, why can’t he? Why does Steve not see this?

Or does he just ignore it?

Though neither ideal, it’d hurt less if it was the first.

“Do you want my input, or should I just shut up?” She asks, turning to you after placing down a tape. 

As soon as she does so, you put down the VHS that you’re holding. Take a breath in through your nose, let your shoulders drop.

It’s just Robin.

“Go ahead.” You say, a small smile on your lips. It’s forced, heavily, but it gets the job done. Your arms cross over your chest like a barrier. 

“Honestly? What worked with Vicks was just… being honest. Like, terrifyingly obvious.” She tells you, nodding softly like it’s so natural.

The thing is, it’s not natural. Not when Steve might have a relationship going for him, the first in a long time. And certainly not when he’s one of your oldest friends. 

You really wouldn’t like to ruin that friendship.

“Also, Steve’s the one who told me to be honest. So, context points me to the fact that it’d work for him as well.” She adds that part like she knew you weren’t convinced. Like she could tell you were in doubt.

Not of her. Of yourself.

“Thanks, Robs. That helps.” You say genuinely, offering a tilted head and a light grin.

You know you won’t take the advice.

How could you?

꧁☆꧂

30 minutes until your shift ends.

30 minutes until you get to close up the store, till you can flip that sign on the front to read “Sorry, we’re closed!”

It feels like hell, waiting for the work day to be over. With Steve constantly talking about this girl you haven’t even bothered to know the name of, you feel drained.

Physically and emotionally.

Things have slowed down in the store. Once it hits 10:30, not many people come through those doors. The ring on the bell no longer sounds.

“Me and Brenda have another date tomorrow. Right after work.” Steve says to you and Robin. The three of you were sitting in chairs behind the counter, just watching the minutes tick by.

So that’s her name. Brenda. Hearing it feels incredibly wrong.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He just wanted to fill the silence.

Robin's jaw seems to tighten for a moment, like she’s angry for you. Like hearing him talk about this in front of you fills her with anger.

She’s always been protective over you in that way.

“That’s fun.” You get out through gritted teeth. Hide the tremble in your voice, appear normally.

“Yeah. I’m starting to really think this is going somewhere.” He says, nodding and leaning back into his chair.

The smile on his face is so genuine, so full of joy and mirth that it pains you to see.

You should be happy, too. Happy that he’s happy. Happy that he’s finally found a relationship in which everything works. 

You still feel selfish for hating it.

You're not sure what happens in the minutes following. You sort of zone out. You can hear Robin and Steve exchange a few words, but the syllables don’t register in your mind.

It’s not until Robin stands up and places a hand on your shoulder that you come back to the world. 

You turn to face her, eyes slightly wide.

“Our shifts are over, we can go.” She says, smiling at you.

“Thanks.” You stand, grabbing your coat from the counter beside you as her hand falls from your shoulder. 

“Hey,” she begins, voice low though no one else is around to hear it. Steve’s already gone out to his car. “Think about what I said, okay? I promise, it can help.”

You nod, though the feeling of tightness in your chest only grows.

If only it were that simple.

꧁☆꧂

The next shift starts at noon.

Which feels cruel, honestly. Because noon means sunlight streaming through the front windows, means the world feels awake and normal and bright — and you are none of those things.

You didn’t sleep much.

You lay awake replaying Steve’s smile from the night before, the way he said her name so easily. Brenda. You hate that you know it now. Hate that it sticks in your head like a song you don’t want to hear.

Family Video looks the same as always when you walk in. Same posters taped crookedly on the walls. Same smell of carpet cleaner and plastic cases. Same bell on the door that rings when you step inside.

Steve’s already there.

Of course he is.

He’s leaning against the counter, keys tossed beside the register, hair still damp like he showered not too long ago. He looks good — effortlessly, unfairly good — in a way that makes your stomach dip before you can stop it.

“Hey,” he says, smiling when he sees you. Like last night didn’t happen. Like he didn’t talk about another girl for hours while you sat there swallowing your feelings.

“Hey,” you reply, shrugging out of your jacket.

Robin comes in a few minutes later, coffee in hand, eyes flicking between the two of you immediately. She clocks the tension like it’s her job. Maybe it is.

The shift starts slow. Painfully slow.

You’re re-stacking returns behind the counter when Steve suddenly clears his throat.

“So, uh,” he says, spinning one of the pens between his fingers. “Random question.”

Your shoulders tense instinctively.

“Okay…?” you say.

He rubs the back of his neck — a dead giveaway that he’s nervous. “I’m picking Brenda up after work today, and I was thinking about maybe changing before I go. I just—” he gestures vaguely at himself, “—don’t know if this is, like, the right vibe?”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

“Oh,” you say. That’s all that comes out at first.

Robin’s head snaps up from where she’s pretending to read a box of returns. Her eyes narrow instantly.

Steve doesn’t notice. He’s still looking at you, earnest and hopeful, like your opinion genuinely matters to him. Which somehow makes it worse.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Like, should I go more casual? Or— I don’t know — less casual?”

You force your face into something neutral. You’re very good at that. Years of practice.

“It’s fine,” you say. “Looks… nice.”

He brightens immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, even though your chest tightens. “Maybe just change the jacket. Something darker.”

He looks down at himself, considering it seriously. “Oh, yeah. That’s smart. See, this is why I ask you.”

That sentence lands like a bruise.

Robin makes a small, strangled sound that she disguises as a cough.

Steve turns to her. “You good?”

“Never better,” she says tightly, flashing him a smile that does not reach her eyes.

He shrugs, unbothered, then looks back at you. “Anything else? Like— I don’t know — hair?”

You swallow.

“It’s… fine,” you repeat. You sound like a broken record. “You look good, Steve.”

And you mean it. That’s the problem.

“Awesome,” he says, grinning. “Thanks.”

He grabs a case and wanders off to re-shelve, completely unaware of the emotional carnage he’s left behind.

The second he’s out of earshot, Robin whips around to face you.

“Oh my god,” she hisses. “Are you kidding me?”

You wince. “Robin—”

“No,” she cuts in. “Nope. Absolutely not. I draw the line at outfit consulting for the guy you’re in love with while he goes on dates with someone else.”

“I’m not in love with—”

She gives you a look.

You sigh. “Okay. Fine. But it’s not his fault.”

“It is a little his fault,” she argues. “He has eyes. And a brain. Allegedly.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Robin always does that — cracks through the heaviness whether you want her to or not.

She glances over her shoulder to make sure Steve’s still distracted, then leans closer.

“Hypothetically,” she begins, voice suddenly casual, “if someone worked with you. And hypothetically, this person had known you forever. And hypothetically, they were always there for you, listened to you ramble, supported you, gave you fashion advice—”

You already know where this is going. Your stomach twists.

“—would you ever consider that maybe they might… like you?” she finishes.

You stare at her. “Robin.”

“All I'm saying is that dingus should be getting the hint by now. And I said hypothetically.”

Steve reappears at the counter, interrupting you before you can respond.

“What’s hypothetical?” he asks.

Robin straightens immediately, plastering on an innocent expression. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”

Steve frowns. “About what?”

She tilts her head, feigning curiosity. “About whether people ever miss what’s right in front of them.”

Steve blinks. “Uh. I guess?”

She exhales sharply through her nose, clearly holding back a thousand words.

“Never mind,” she says. “It’s stupid.”

He shrugs again, already moving on. “Anyway, I’m gonna grab lunch after this. Do you guys want anything?”

You shake your head. Robin opens her mouth, then closes it.

“No,” she says. “I’m good.”

Steve nods and heads toward the door, the bell chiming as he steps outside.

The moment it stops ringing, Robin turns to you again, hands on her hips.

“I am going to lose my mind,” she mutters.

You lean back against the counter, exhaustion settling into your bones.

“He doesn’t know,” you say quietly.

“I know,” she replies, just as soft. “And that’s the problem.”

꧁☆꧂

It’s late again.

Not end-of-the-world late, but late enough that the store feels hollowed out. The overhead lights hum softly, fluorescent and unforgiving, and the aisles stretch long and empty like they’re listening.

Robin isn’t working tonight.

She said something about a study group. Or a movie night. Or maybe she just needed a break — you hadn’t really registered it. All you know is that when you clocked in and saw her name crossed off the schedule, your chest sank a little.

Now it’s just you and Steve.

He’s behind the counter, counting the till with careful focus. You’re re-shelving returns, moving on autopilot. Your hands know where everything goes even if your head doesn’t.

You’ve been quieter these past few days. You know that. You can feel it in the way conversations don’t quite land, in how you answer Steve’s questions with fewer words than usual.

He notices.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, glancing up. “You good?”

You hesitate. Just for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just tired.”

He nods slowly, like he doesn’t quite buy it but won’t push. “Yeah. Same.”

Silence settles again.

It stretches.

Then Steve sighs and leans back against the counter. “Can I ask you something?”

Your stomach tightens. “Okay.”

He hesitates now — really hesitates — rubbing his thumb along the edge of the countertop. “Have I… done something?”

You freeze.

“What?” you ask, too quickly.

“You’ve just been different,” he says carefully. “Like you’re here, but not really. And I keep thinking maybe I said something stupid.”

You swallow. The truth presses against your ribs, heavy and sharp.

“You didn’t,” you say. “I promise.”

He watches you for a long moment. His eyes don’t leave your face, like he’s searching for something you’re not giving him.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Just… wanted to make sure.”

You nod and turn back to the shelf in front of you, but your hands are shaking now. You fumble a case, almost drop it.

It’s stupid. You’re being stupid. You tell yourself that over and over.

But then —

“Brenda and I broke up.”

The words are so casual you almost miss them.

Your heart stutters.

“What?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Steve looks up, surprised. “Oh. Yeah. I guess you didn’t know.”

No. You didn’t.

“When?” you manage.

“A couple nights ago,” he says, shrugging. “It just… wasn’t working. She’s great, but… she’s just not the right girl…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “Anyway. It’s done.”

Something in you snaps.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just a quiet, internal click — like a thread pulled too tight for too long finally giving way.

“Oh,” you say.

Steve watches your face shift. He sees it this time. Really sees it.

“Hey,” he says, frowning. “What’s that look?”

You laugh.

It slips out before you can stop it — soft, breathy, absolutely humorless.

“Nothing,” you say. “It’s just… funny.”

“What is?”

You turn to face him fully now. Your chest feels too tight, your throat too small.

“You ever feel like you’re always almost there?” you ask suddenly.

Steve blinks. “What?”

“Like,” you continue, words tumbling out now that they’ve started, “you’re always almost chosen. Almost noticed. Almost enough.”

He straightens slowly. “Where is this coming from?”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “I don’t know. I just— I keep watching someone fall for people who aren’t me. And I keep telling myself that’s fine. That it’s supposed to be fine.”

Steve’s heart starts to race. He can feel it.

“You’re talking about me,” he says quietly.

You look away. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Silence crashes between you.

“I think,” you say, voice trembling now, “that if someone really wanted me, I wouldn’t have to keep guessing. I wouldn’t have to translate every look and every word and every almost.”

Steve steps closer without realizing it.

“You aren’t making sense.” he says softly. “Because… you matter to me. You always have.”

You laugh again, sharper this time. “Yeah. As your friend.”

He flinches.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you whisper. “I don’t think I can keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

“Do what?” he asks.

You finally look at him.

“Be in love with you,” you say. “Quietly.”

The world stops.

Steve feels it all at once — the late nights, the way you always listened, the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. The jealousy. The distance. The almost.

“Oh,” he breathes.

The word hits him like a punch.

“Oh.”

You shake your head, already retreating. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, don’t— wait.”

You’re already turning toward the back hallway, emotions finally spilling over. “I need a minute.”

You disappear into the bathroom before he can stop you.

The door clicks shut.

Steve stands there, stunned.

Then everything clicks into place.

He follows.

The bathroom smells like cheap soap and cleaner. You’re leaning over the sink, gripping the porcelain like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Hey,” Steve says gently from behind you.

You don’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“I know,” he says. “But I need to say this.”

You close your eyes.

“I broke up with Brenda because something felt wrong,” he continues. “Because I kept comparing her to someone I wasn’t supposed to be comparing her to.”

Your breath catches.

“I kept thinking about how easy it feels with you,” he says. “How you know me. How you see me. And I thought— that’s just friendship. It has to be.”

He steps closer.

“But now I think I’m just an idiot.”

You turn slowly.

Steve’s eyes are wide, honest, terrified.

“You weren’t almost,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t realize I was already there.”

Tears spill down your cheeks.

“Steve—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know I don’t deserve this timing. Or your trust. But I need you to know that I didn’t choose you after anyone else.”

He swallows.

“I just finally saw you.”

You stare at him like he’s said something in a language you don’t quite speak yet.

“You… saw me?” you ask quietly.

Steve nods, slow. “Yeah. And I hate that it took me this long.”

Your laugh is small, disbelieving. “Steve, I’ve been standing right in front of you for years.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “And that’s the worst part. You were always there. You still chose me. You never made me feel stupid or small or like I had to be something else.”

He rubs the back of his neck, nerves finally bleeding through. “I just thought… if I didn’t name it, I couldn’t mess it up.”

Your chest aches at that.

“I didn’t want to mess it up either,” you whisper. “That’s why I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to lose you.”

His expression softens in a way that makes your knees weak.

“You could never lose me,” he says. “Not like that.”

Silence falls again — but it’s different now. Not heavy. Just full.

Steve shifts closer, close enough that you can feel his warmth, smell the faint soap-and-cologne mix that’s so him. He doesn’t touch you yet. Like he’s giving you space to decide.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Have you ever…” He hesitates, then exhales. “Have you ever wanted me to kiss you?”

Your breath catches.

“Yes,” you admit. “More times than I can count.”

Steve’s lips part in a soft, almost awed smile. “Okay. Wow. That’s… good to know.”

You laugh quietly, wiping at your cheeks. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m nervous,” he admits. “This matters.”

That alone nearly undoes you.

“I’m scared,” you say. “That this is just… now. That tomorrow you’ll realize you were confused.”

Steve shakes his head immediately. “No. I’ve been confused for months. This is the part that finally makes sense.”

He lifts his hand slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, he brushes his thumb gently under your eye, wiping away a tear like it’s the most careful thing he’s ever done.

“You don’t have to cry,” he says softly. “I want you to know I’m here. With you. On purpose.”

Your voice trembles. “Steve…”

“Yeah?”

“Can you kiss me?” you ask. “Just— just once? If you hate it, you don’t have to do it again, or you can just walk away, or-“

His smile is small and reverent, his following words silencing your rambling. “Yeah. I can do that.”

He leans in slowly. No urgency. No pressure. His forehead rests against yours first, noses brushing, breath mingling.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s gentle. Careful. His lips barely press to yours at first, like he’s afraid of startling you. When you kiss back — tentative, then surer — he exhales softly through his nose, hand coming to rest at your waist like it belongs there.

It’s warm. Familiar. Right.

When you pull back, it’s only a few inches, foreheads still touching.

Steve’s eyes are wide, dazed. “Oh.”

You smile, teary and breathless. “Oh?”

He laughs quietly. “Yeah. Definitely didn’t hate it.”

You rest your hands against his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palms. “So… we’re doing this?”

He nods, smile spreading slowly, genuinely. “If you want to.”

“I want to,” you say without hesitation.

“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in again — softer this time, smiling into the kiss.

And this one?

This one feels like the beginning.

The kiss lingers.

It’s unhurried, easy, like neither of you is in any rush to be anywhere else. Steve’s hand stays warm and steady at your waist, thumb brushing back and forth like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. When you finally pull back, it’s only a few inches — close enough that your noses almost touch.

You smile before your brain catches up.

Then your brain does catch up.

“Hey,” you say softly, one hand still curled in the front of his jacket. “Steve?”

“Yeah?” he answers immediately, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again.

You swallow. “Just— I need to check. About Brenda.”

He doesn’t look annoyed. Or offended. Or confused.

He looks relieved.

“Oh,” he says gently. “Yeah. No, that’s— that’s fair.”

You nod quickly. “I just wanna be sure. I don’t wanna— I don’t wanna do anything wrong. And I know you told me earlier, but I wanted to check.”

Steve’s expression softens even more, if that’s possible. He brings his other hand up, resting it lightly on your arm.

“We did break up,” he says clearly. “A couple nights ago. Before today. Completely. You’re not in the wrong, I promise.”

Your shoulders loosen a fraction. “Okay.”

“She wanted different things,” he continues. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and that felt… wrong. To her. To me.”

Your heart stutters.

“So this,” you murmur, gesturing between you, “isn’t a rebound?”

Steve lets out a quiet laugh. “No. This is me finally not being an idiot.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, too — small but real.

“Good,” you say, smiling. “Just needed to hear it again.”

“Anytime,” he promises, face mirroring yours.

You don’t even realize you’ve leaned closer again until he meets you halfway, kissing you softer this time — sweeter, almost smiling into it. His hand squeezes gently at your waist, grounding.

When you break apart, Steve rests his forehead against yours.

“So,” he murmurs. “Does this mean I can keep doing that?”

You grin. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

He laughs, breathy and bright, and steals one more quick kiss before pulling back reluctantly.

“Okay,” he says, suddenly businesslike. “Before I forget how doors work.”

You both head to the front together, shoulders bumping, still smiling like idiots. Steve flips the sign with a dramatic flourish.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” he reads aloud. “Emotionally unavailable Steve Harrington has left the building.”

You snort. “That’s not what it says.”

“It should.”

He locks the door, pockets the keys, then looks at you like he’s still surprised you’re there — like this is something he doesn’t want to blink and lose.

The walk to his car is full of quiet laughter, teasing nudges.

“You know Robin’s gonna say ‘I told you so,’” you say.

“Oh, absolutely,” Steve replies. “She’s gonna be unbearable.”

“She already is.”

“True.”

He opens the passenger door for you, exaggerated and dorky. “M’lady.”

You roll your eyes but climb in. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says, shutting the door gently. “But you like me.”

You do.

Once he’s in the driver’s seat, the car is quiet for half a second — the kind that buzzes with anticipation. Steve glances at you, then back at the windshield.

“So,” he says. “Is it too much if I—”

You lean over and kiss him again before he can finish.

This one’s a little deeper, a little warmer. He smiles into it, hand sliding to your knee, thumb brushing lightly like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When you pull back, you’re both grinning.

“Guess that answers that,” he murmurs.

You nod. “Guess it does.”

He bumps your shoulder gently. “I’m really glad for tonight.”

Your chest aches in the best way. Not like it had in previous days. Not like when Steve was gushing to Dustin. This is different. “Me too.”

Steve starts the car, still smiling to himself like he can’t quite believe this is real — like he’s finally found something that fits.

And for the first time in a long time?

So have you.

꧁☆꧂

The drive to your house is quiet in the best way.

Not awkward. Not heavy. Just filled with the low hum of the engine and the faint sound of the radio playing something you’re only half listening to. Steve’s hand rests on the steering wheel, relaxed now, knuckles loose instead of white. Every so often, he glances over at you like he’s checking to make sure you’re still real.

You catch him once.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

He shakes his head, a little sheepish. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you tease.

He laughs softly. “Yeah. But good thoughts this time.”

Your neighborhood comes into view quicker than you expect. The familiar houses pass by, streetlights glowing warm against the dark. Steve slows as he pulls up in front of your place, the car rolling to a stop at the curb.

Neither of you moves right away.

“Well,” he says quietly, turning to face you. “Here we are.”

“Yeah,” you reply, suddenly aware of how close he is. Of how different this feels from every other time he’s driven you home.

There’s a small pause. Then Steve reaches out, hesitant for just a second, before resting his hand over yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I meant what I said. About being glad it’s you.”

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

You lean in first this time.

The kiss is slow and sweet, like neither of you is trying to rush it. Steve’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing lightly under your eye, like he’s memorizing the moment. When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, hopeful.

You smile. “You better.”

He grins, that familiar Steve Harrington smile — easy, warm, just for you. “Drive safe,” you say softly.

“You too,” he jokes, earning an eye roll and a laugh from you.

You open the door, stepping out into the cool night air. Before you close it, you lean back in and steal one last quick kiss, just because you can.

Steve laughs, breathless. “Okay, yeah. I’m never emotionally recovering from that.”

You shut the door, still smiling as you walk up the path to your house. Halfway there, you glance back.

Steve’s still sitting there, watching you, one hand lifted in a small wave.

You wave back.

When you turn toward your front door, your heart feels lighter than it has in a long time. And behind you, Steve finally pulls away from the curb — driving off with the quiet certainty that something good has finally, finally begun.

You think about all that’s changed. How Robin will react to this all. You decide to call her in the morning to let her know. But for now, it’s just for you. Just for you and Steve.

And that’s enough.

꧁☆꧂

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

STILL YOURS / robin buckley

cause the sign on your heart, said it's still reserved for me.

summary- this town isn't the kindest to those who are different. they shut down the mere idea that lacks normalcy. but you and robin still find a way to make your relationship work. you go to pick her up from work, a habit written into routine, but it turns into a greater adventure. and it's certainly a challenge to conceal your relationship...

word count- 11.2k

contains- talks of homophobia in the 80's (no direct homophobia towards characters, but fear of it arising), fluff, heated moments, kissing, robin just being the best person ever, let me know if anything was missed!

author's note- i had soooo much fun writing this!! it was based off a request i received! and also yes, i know build-a-bear wasn't established in 1985, but we're gonna ignore that, kay? if you're seeing this, PLEASE help a girl out and send me requests for a robin buckley au! if you'd like to see more about this, see my recent posts!!

꧁☆꧂

The bell above the door jingles for what has to be the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, and you don’t even look up anymore.

You’re not here for ice cream.

You’re here because Robin Buckley cannot drive.

Which means—like clockwork, like a routine that started when she first got the job, like something that’s become a quiet constant in your life—you’re here to pick her up.

You don’t mind it in the slightest. If anything, you like these trips to come pick her up from the mall. You love to hear about her day on the way home. To hear her complain about customers who “just have no etiquette.” 

You love how she over explains and talks with her hands and with an animated face. It’s what makes her so incredibly Robin.

You lean against the side of the counter, arms folded loosely, pretending to be invested in the brightly colored menu above the registers. The air smells like sugar and waffle cones and something faintly artificial, and the place is still buzzing with the last stretch of evening customers.

Behind the counter, Robin is mid-ramble. Steve looks like he’s only half-listening to what she’s saying.

“…and I’m just saying, if a kid asks for three scoops, minimum- and on the smallest cone possible -there should be a law that I get to refuse service. That’s not a dessert, that’s a cry for help—”

She turns slightly as she talks, gesturing with the scooper in her hand, and that’s when she spots you.

Everything about her shifts.

It’s subtle—anyone else probably wouldn’t notice—but you do. You always do.

Her shoulders drop. Her expression softens. The mild annoyance she’d been carrying around all shift melts into something lighter, something warmer.

Something that feels a little bit like it’s just for you.

“Oh,” she says, like she didn’t know you’d be here. Like you haven’t been picking her up after shifts for months now. “Hey.”

You push yourself off the counter, stepping a little closer, resting your elbows against it instead.

“Hey, sailor.”

She rolls her eyes immediately, but there’s no bite to it.

“Don’t start,” she mutters, turning back to scoop one last portion of ice cream with dramatic force. “I have been subjected to that all day. I’m one nautical-themed joke away from walking into the ocean and not coming back.”

“We’re in Indiana.”

“I’ll find a way.”

You smile, watching her finish up, watching the way she moves—quick, a little clumsy, always just on the edge of chaos. There’s a smear of something—ice cream of a sort—near her wrist, and her hat is slightly crooked. She looks tired in that way that makes her quieter when she’s not talking and softer overall.

She sets her scooper down, mutters something to Steve, and then she’s ducking under the counter, disappearing for a moment before reappearing in front of you, already tugging her hat off and running a hand through her hair—

—and it’s unfair, really, the way something so small can feel so intimate.

Her fingers slip into the roots like she’s done it a thousand times without thinking, pushing through the soft tangle, lifting it, letting it fall back into place in a way that’s messier than the neat little uniform Scoops Ahoy tries to force on her. It springs back with a quiet kind of rebellion, loose strands catching the light, framing her face in a way that makes her look more like herself—less like the version she has to play for everyone else.

You watch the movement more closely than you mean to. The slight hitch of her wrist. The way her shoulders loosen, just a little, like she can finally breathe again. It’s not just fixing her hair—it’s losing her performative layer. The stupid hat, the act, the careful edges she keeps on in public. For half a second, it feels like she’s stepping back into the version of herself that belongs to you.

And maybe that’s why your chest tightens.

Because you know you can’t reach out and tuck that strand behind her ear. You can’t let your hand follow the path hers just took, can’t linger there, can’t say anything about how perfect she looks, how you want to memorize the exact way it falls every time she does that.

But God—you notice.

You notice everything.

The way her fingers hesitate at the ends, like she’s considering doing it again just for the feeling of it. The way a few pieces fall into her eyes and she doesn’t bother moving them right away. The way she exhales, quiet and unguarded, like she forgot for a second that anyone else exists.

And when she looks up at you—

it hits all over again.

Like you’re the only one who gets to see this version of her, even in a crowded room. Like that small, absent-minded gesture is a secret being handed to you, disguised as nothing at all.

You have to look away first, just for a second, because if you don’t, you’re pretty sure it’ll show—written all over your face, in the way your breath catches, in the way your heart trips over itself like it always does when she lets herself be this soft, this real, this hers.

And when you look back, she’s still there, still a little undone, still watching you in that way that makes it feel like maybe—

just maybe—

you’ll make it out of this.

“Okay,” she exhales, like she’s shedding the entire shift in one breath. “I’m free. Emotionally damaged, but free.”

You hum, glancing at her wrist. Because that little smudge of chocolate on her skin hadn’t slipped your mind. Nothing about her ever really slips your mind.

“Hold still.”

She pauses mid-motion, blinking at you.

“What—why—”

You reach out without thinking, gently catching her wrist. Your thumb brushes over her skin as you wipe away the smear of chocolate fudge with the edge of a napkin you grabbed from the counter.

It’s quick. Quick enough to go unnoticed by anyone else around. Not that anyone was really looking.

Casual. Casual enough to pass as just two good friends sharing a simple interaction. One merely helping the other.

But your fingers linger for half a second longer than they need to.

Robin goes very still. Because of course she noticed. Of course she noticed how softly your fingers brushed over her wrist. She notices everything you do. No matter how little. It all means the same to her.

“…thanks,” she says, quieter now. Just for you.

You drop her hand like it didn’t mean anything.

It meant more than most things do.

“C’mon,” you say lightly, nodding toward the door. “Your chariot awaits.”

“My chariot is a slightly concerning sedan that makes that noise when you turn left.”

“Don’t disrespect her like that. Has she ever failed you? No.”

Robin snorts, falling into step beside you as you head for the exit. The bell jingles again as you push the door open, the evening air cooler against your skin as you step outside.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

It’s quieter out here. The distant hum of the parking lot, the fading light of the sky, the mall glowing just across the lot like it’s still wide awake.

Robin kicks lightly at the pavement as she walks.

Then, a little too casually—

“Do you… um—”

You glance at her.

She’s not looking at you.

“…do you wanna, like… walk around the mall for a bit?” she finishes, words tumbling out faster toward the end. “I just—I don’t really feel like going home yet. And it’s—y’know—it’s still open. Obviously. Because it’s a mall. And—”

You smile, just a little.

“You just don’t want to stop hanging out with me.”

She stops walking.

“Rude,” she says immediately, glaring at you. You can tell it’s not a real glare. Then, after a beat— “True. But rude.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder lightly into hers as you start toward the mall.

“Come on, dork.”

She falls into step beside you again without hesitation.

Your arms brush as you walk.

Neither of you moves away.

Neither of you reaches, though. That would be far too risky for the town that is Hawkins. They aren’t ready to handle something they aren’t familiar with.

And just like that, you turn back toward the glow of the mall together.

꧁☆꧂

The rest of the mall is louder than Scoops, somehow.

Not in the same way—less chaotic, more constant. A steady hum of voices, footsteps echoing against tile, the faint overlap of music spilling out from different stores at once. Bright lights reflect off polished floors, everything glowing in that artificial, never-quite-dimming way that makes it feel like time doesn’t really move in here.

Robin walks just a little too close to you.

Not enough for anyone to look twice.

Just enough that you feel her there.

Her shoulder brushes yours as you pass a group of kids running by, and she doesn’t pull away right away. Neither do you. It lingers—just for a second longer than it should—before she shifts like it didn’t happen at all.

She’s talking again.

Of course she is.

“And then Steve has the nerve—the nerve—to tell me that I’m being ‘too harsh’ on the children. The children,” she repeats, gesturing wildly with both hands. “As if they are not actively waging war against me with sticky fingers and poor decision-making skills.”

You glance at her, smiling.

“Sounds rough.”

“It is rough,” she insists. “I am underappreciated. Underpaid. Emotionally targeted.”

“Emotionally targeted,” you echo.

“Yes.”

You bump your shoulder into hers lightly.

She bumps you back.

It turns into a quiet rhythm as you walk—small, barely noticeable touches that could pass as accidental but never really are. Her elbow nudges yours when she gets particularly animated. Your hand brushes the back of hers when you reach for the same thing on a display table you weren’t even actually interested in.

Neither of you acknowledges it.

Neither of you stops.

A couple passes you—hands intertwined, fingers laced together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You look away first.

Robin talks louder for a second.

Not obviously.

Enough for you to notice, though.

“…and I’m just saying, if there were an award for surviving the worst shift imaginable, I would win. No contest.”

You hum, but your attention lingers somewhere else. On the space between your hands. On the fact that if you just moved yours an inch to the left—

Robin’s hand brushes yours again.

This time slower. More deliberate.

Your fingers almost catch. Almost.

But then someone walks past, and she pulls away like it didn’t happen, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send something sharp and warm straight through your chest.

You swallow it down.

You always do.

It’s not that she doesn’t want it. You know she does. It’s all she ever talks about when you’re together. And when it’s just you—only the two of you—she’s the most affectionate person you’ve ever met.

It’s just too risky in public like this.

“Hey,” you say after a second, glancing at her. “You’re being dramatic. Doesn’t Steve have the same shift?”

Her head snaps toward you.

“I am never dramatic. And sure, Steve has the same shift, but he spends the whole thing trying to pick up girls! I have to do all the real work.”

“You just said you were being emotionally targeted by children.”

“I was.”

You laugh softly. She watches you when you do. Very intently.

And something about the way you’re smiling—something small, something unguarded—makes her falter for half a second.

“…okay, but you’d defend me in court, right?” she says, a little quieter now. “Like if I did get arrested for banning children from Scoops.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Depends. Did these children deserve it?”

“They always deserve it.”

“Then yeah,” you shrug. “I’d defend you.”

It wasn’t much of a question to begin with. You’d defend her from almost anything.

Robin smiles. Not her usual one. Softer, quieter.

The kind she doesn’t give to just anyone.

“Good,” she murmurs.

You don’t realize how close you’ve both drifted until your hands brush again—and this time, neither of you pulls away immediately.

Your fingers slide just slightly against hers.

A question.

A maybe.

Her pinky hooks around yours for the briefest second.

It’s so quick you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it did. And it means everything.

The moment passes like it always does.

Not gone—never gone. Just tucked away, folded carefully into all the other almosts you’ve collected with her.

The rest of the mall stretches out in front of you like nothing just shifted between your ribs.

Like Robin’s hand didn’t just find yours in the smallest possible way and undo you completely.

She keeps talking anyway.

Of course she does.

“And I’m just saying,” she continues, gesturing vaguely at absolutely nothing as you walk, “if Steve Harrington gets one more compliment from a stranger while I am actively suffering in the background, I might lose it. I might actually become a villain.”

You hum, but you’re barely listening.

Because she’s still close enough that you can feel her warmth every time she moves.

Close enough that every step feels like a decision you’re both quietly agreeing to make again and again.

Your shoulder brushes hers.

She doesn’t move away.

You don’t either.

It’s almost unbearable how normal you both try to make it look.

Like you’re just two friends walking through a mall in Hawkins, Indiana, in a world that doesn’t notice the way you keep orbiting each other.

Just two friends, but she’s looking at you like you’re the only thing she sees. Like she’d kiss you even if people were watching. 

Because when it comes to you, Robin just can’t help herself. Her eyes trail to your lips, something shifting within her pupils. 

She looks away almost instantly.

“You make it really hard to behave in public, you know that?” You mutter to her, quiet enough to go unheard by others, loud enough to cut through the chaos of the mall so she can hear you.

She stops talking.

And when you look at her, she’s already looking at you like she’s decided something without telling you.

“Come here,” she says.

Soft.

Immediate.

And before you can even ask what she means, she’s grabbing your wrist—gentle but certain—and pulling you toward the side of the hallway where the arcade noise is louder and the lights are slightly dimmer and there’s a photo booth tucked between machines like it’s trying not to be seen.

You blink.

“Robin—”

But she’s already tugging the curtain aside.

“You started it,” she mutters.

“I absolutely did not start anything.”

“You did and you know it,” she says, and then she’s pulling you inside.

The curtain falls behind you with a soft whoosh that suddenly makes everything outside feel like a different world entirely.

It’s smaller in here than you expect.

Always is.

The bench is barely wide enough for one person, let alone two, but Robin is already sitting, already pulling you down with her like there’s no question about it.

Your legs bracket hers, knees on either side of her legs. Your thighs press together, her hands finding your waist to hold you on her lap.

And suddenly everything outside the booth feels impossibly far away.

For half a second, neither of you speaks.

“Mind telling me what we’re doing in here?” You whisper to her, brushing back her hair as she looks up at you with what may be the widest eyes you’ve ever seen.

Robin exhales.

“Okay,” she says, like she’s been holding her breath since Scoops. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t do the whole walking-around-like-that thing anymore.”

You blink at her.

“What thing?”

She looks at you like you’re being difficult on purpose.

“That thing,” she says, softer now, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then back up again. “Where you exist next to me and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t want to—”

She doesn't finish it. Doesn’t have to.

Because she’s already leaning in.

The first kiss is quick. Almost careful.

Like she’s testing whether the world will punish her for it.

It barely lasts a second, just the soft press of her mouth to yours, warm and a little uncertain at the edges, like she came in expecting to pull away any moment. But she doesn’t. Not immediately.

Instead, she stays there.

Close enough that you can feel the way she exhales through her nose, a quiet, shaky thing that doesn’t sound like her at Scoops or in front of anyone else. Close enough that the space between you stops feeling like space at all and starts feeling like a held breath.

It’s not rushed, not really—it’s just restrained, like she’s been holding something back for so long she doesn’t quite remember how to let it go gently.

Her hand tightens slightly at your waist, not pulling you closer so much as anchoring herself there, like she needs something solid to prove this is real. The photo booth hums faintly around you, fluorescent light flickering somewhere above, but it all feels distant, softened at the edges, like the world outside got turned down to a whisper.

And then—barely, barely—she shifts.

It’s small. A tilt of her head, a second attempt that isn’t hesitant anymore. The kind of movement that says she’s stopped asking permission from her fear. 

Her mouth meets yours again, and this time it lingers—just enough for the shape of it to settle in, for the warmth of her to stop feeling like surprise and start feeling like intention.

You can feel it in the way she breathes your name against your mouth without saying it out loud, in the way her fingers flex once at your waist like she’s grounding herself in the fact that you’re actually here, actually real, actually choosing this with her in a space too small to pretend anything else is happening.

When she finally pulls back, she’s smiling like she forgot how to do anything else.

“We should go. Someone might catch us,” you say immediately, even though you don’t move. You’ve got no intention of going anywhere, but you know you should.

She looks around quickly, eyes grazing the curtain and space behind the two of you.

She reverts her gaze to you.

“I don’t see how anyone would see us,” she says, like it’s obvious. “We’re literally covered.”

You let out a quiet breath that turns into a laugh before you can stop it.

“Robin.”

“What?” she asks, completely unbothered, already leaning in again like the idea of stopping is purely theoretical.

Her lips move from yours.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Not like she’s rushing anywhere, not like she’s trying to prove a point anymore—like she’s learning. Learning you for the hundredth time at the least. Like she’s memorizing you in real time, letting the urgency drain out of her in favor of something quieter, something that feels almost reverent in the small, humming space of the photo booth.

You feel it before you fully understand it—this shift in her. The way her breath changes against your skin, the way her hold at your waist steadies instead of tightens, like she’s finally stopped bracing for impact.

And then she’s not kissing your mouth anymore.

She’s kissing the corner of it first, so gentle it almost doesn’t feel real, like she’s checking if you’ll disappear if she’s too soft. When you don’t, when you just sit there breathing her in like it’s the only thing keeping you steady, she drifts lower.

Her lips brush your jaw next.

Slowly. Carefully. Like she’s tracing something she’s only ever been allowed to look at from a distance until now. Which is true in public. But when you’re alone, her lips are everywhere.

It makes something in your chest pull tight—not painful, just overwhelming in the way it always is when Robin forgets how carefully she’s supposed to exist around you in public. Because as fragile as this is, it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Another kiss—your cheek this time. Lingering just a second longer than the last, like she’s getting braver without asking permission from herself.

And you can feel it building in her, the way she pauses for the smallest fraction of a second between each touch, like she’s collecting courage in those tiny gaps. Like every place she kisses is a place she’s been thinking about when she’s supposed to be scooping ice cream or talking to Steve or pretending she doesn’t look at you the way she does.

Her breath stutters faintly when she moves lower again, and it hits you all at once that this isn’t just affection for her.

It’s relief.

It’s want she’s been folding in on itself for so long it’s practically bruised.

And when her lips finally reach the side of your neck, it’s not rushed. It’s not careless. It’s soft in a way that feels almost disarming—like she’s placing something there instead of taking anything at all.

And God, you want it. Of course you do.

But it can’t happen. At least, not now. Not in public.

“Rob—Robin,” you whisper, voice breathy and soft, but still trying to stop her. “You can’t.”

She pauses instantly.

Looks up at you.

All innocence.

“What?”

She’s utterly confused at your words. But her expression carries a hint of worry. Like she’s afraid she hurt you, or crossed a line you didn’t want crossed.

“You can’t leave marks,” you whisper, like saying it quieter makes it easier. “Not here.”

Something shifts in her expression.

Not frustration.

Something warmer.

Something that makes your stomach twist in a way that feels dangerously close to wanting everything at once.

“Can’t we break the rules just this once?” she asks.

And it’s not teasing.

Not really.

It’s almost pleading.

You shake your head gently, fingers brushing her wrist where she’s still holding you.

“Maybe some other time,” you say, lower now. “When literally anyone else could be a suspect. But not when it’s just you and me.”

You see it land.

The way her shoulders drop just slightly.

The way she exhales like she’s letting something go she didn’t realize she was holding.

“…fine,” she says.

She’s about to lift you off of her lap, her hands gripping your waist to pick you up. But then, like she’s bargaining with fate itself—

“One more kiss.”

You huff a laugh.

“Robin.”

“Come on, please?” She whispers, looking up at you. Some combination of those eyes and that voice convinced you.

You let her.

She kisses you again.

Soft.

Longer than “one more” implies.

When she pulls back, she’s already smiling again like she didn’t just completely forget her own promise.

“Okay,” she says. Then again, softer— “One more.”

You shake your head, laughing now for real.

“Robin.”

“What? I said one more. That was technically not long enough. So I need to reset.”

“You are making up rules as you go.”

“That’s how rules work,” she says confidently.

She kisses you again.

You’re smiling against her mouth now.

“Okay,” she mumbles afterward, forehead briefly resting against yours. “Okay, now we go.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Do we?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. Then, after a beat— “Probably.”

You laugh softly, finally pushing the curtain aside.

The mall rushes back in.

Too loud.

Too bright.

Too normal.

Robin steps out first, then turns slightly like she’s checking if reality noticed anything.

It hasn’t.

That’s the thing about Hawkins. It doesn't notice as long as you lurk where no one can see you. You can get away with things if you're careful.

But the second you gain that confidence in public? Everyone hears about it.

She offers you her hand like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You take it. There’s enough teenage girls around that replicate the closeness between you too. Enough that you’ll pass as just friends.

Good friends.

And just like that, you’re both walking again—too close, too soft, too careful.

Like nothing happened.

Like always.

꧁☆꧂

The mall keeps moving around you like it doesn’t care what just shifted between your ribs.

People pass. Laughter echoes somewhere near the arcade. A coin clatters into a machine and disappears into noise.

And Robin is still right there beside you.

Still too close.

Still acting like her entire existence didn’t just temporarily forget how to be normal in a photo booth five minutes ago.

She’s talking again almost immediately.

Of course she is.

“And I’m telling you,” she says, gesturing vaguely with her free hand while the other still brushes near yours like it hasn’t decided what it wants to do yet, “Steve’s entire argument about ‘customer service charm’ is fundamentally flawed because charm implies I have to be fake nice and I refuse—”

You’re listening.

You are.

Mostly.

But it’s hard when she keeps glancing at you like that. Like she’s still half stuck in the booth with you, like part of her didn’t fully come back out into the hallway.

You bump her shoulder lightly.

“Don’t you dare call me dramatic again because I am not.” she immediately says.

“You so are.”

“I am right,” she corrects you, like that’s somehow different.

You smile, shaking your head a little.

And that’s when she stops.

She’s gone completely still.

It’s subtle, like everything with her always is when it actually matters.

Her voice trails off without her realizing it. Her hand, mid-gesture, slowly lowers.

And then she’s looking across the mall.

Not at you.

Past you.

Like something just pulled her attention somewhere else and forgot to ask permission.

You follow her gaze.

At first, you don’t see what she’s looking at.

Just storefronts. Bright colors. Passing people. The usual blur of mall life.

And then you notice it.

A tucked-away shop wedged between a clothing store and an arcade cabinet wall.

Soft lighting. Plush displays in the window. A bright, slightly worn sign that looks like it’s trying a little too hard to be cheerful.

Build-A-Bear Workshop.

Robin goes very, very quiet.

Which is… new.

You glance at her.

“Robin?” 

She doesn’t answer right away. She’s still staring at it like it’s personally offended her. Or like it’s personally called her name.

Then—

“We have got to go.” she says, almost to herself.

Her hand catches your wrist without hesitation and she’s already pulling you with her before you can even process the shift.

“Wait—Robin—what are you doing?”

But she’s walking like she’s on a mission.

Like she just found something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Robin.”

She doesn’t stop.

She just says, very simply:

“We’re going in there.”

You blink.

“…what?”

Now she looks at you like you’re the confusing one.

“We’re going in there.”

You slow your steps.

“Robin, that place is for kids.”

That finally makes her pause.

She turns slightly, still holding your wrist, eyebrows raised like she’s offended on principle.

“Well,” she says, very matter-of-factly, “we’re not over eighteen, so we don’t qualify as adults.”

You blink.

“Robin—”

“And,” she continues, getting more confident now, like she’s building a legal case she absolutely did not think through beforehand, “according to my standards, that means we technically count as kids.”

She nods once, like that settles it.

“If you squint.”

You just stare at her.

“…that’s not how any of that works.”

Robin tightens her grip on your wrist slightly and starts walking again.

“Shut up and come on.”

That’s it.

No further argument.

No additional logic.

Just immediate confidence in a completely unserious opinion.

You let out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief—but you’re already following her again anyway.

Because of course you are.

Because she’s still holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And because she looks weirdly excited now.

Like she just decided something important.

Like this matters more than she’s admitting.

The closer you get, the brighter the store feels.

Soft lights spilling out onto the mall floor. Rows of half-finished stuffed animals sitting in little bins like they’re waiting to be chosen. Music that feels overly cheerful in a way that makes your chest ache for no reason you want to name.

Robin slows only when you reach the entrance.

She glances at you once.

Quick.

Checking.

Like she’s making sure you’re still with her in this ridiculous decision.

And then, softer than before:

“Just… trust me, okay?”

You exhale through your nose, shaking your head a little.

But your fingers squeeze hers back anyway.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

And that’s enough for her.

Robin smiles—small, bright, entirely too satisfied for someone about to drag you into a store full of stuffed animals.

And then she pulls you inside.

꧁☆꧂

The air inside hits you first.

Warm in a different way than the rest of the mall—softer, almost. Like everything in here has been designed to feel safe. Bright lights, but not harsh. Music playing overhead that’s cheerful in a way that borders on nostalgic, like something you’re supposed to remember even if you don’t.

There are bins everywhere.

Rows and rows of unstuffed animals, all slightly slumped in on themselves, waiting. Little fabric bodies with flat limbs and soft, expectant faces. It’s almost unsettling for half a second—like they’re all holding their breath.

Robin, however, is immediately focused.

Her hand slips from yours without ceremony—not because she wants to let go, but because she’s already stepping forward, already scanning the displays like she just walked into the most important decision of her life.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

You blink at her.

“Robin—”

“Wait,” she cuts you off, holding a hand up like you just tried to interrupt a life-or-death situation. “Give me a second.”

And then she’s gone.

Not far—just two steps ahead—but fully gone in the way she gets when something grabs her attention completely. She crouches slightly by one of the bins, picking up a floppy, unstuffed bear and turning it over in her hands like she’s assessing it.

You cross your arms loosely, watching her.

“…you’re kidding,” you say.

Robin doesn’t even look at you.

“No,” she says, completely serious.

She lifts the bear up, squinting at it.

“This one…” she starts slowly, like she’s about to deliver a diagnosis. “…has potential.”

You press your lips together.

“It’s a stuffed bear.”

She finally looks at you then, offended.

“It’s a life partner,” she corrects. “Be respectful.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, turning your head slightly like that might hide it.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m serious,” she insists, standing up now, still holding the bear carefully—carefully, like it matters. “You can’t just rush into this. This is a long-term commitment.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“To a stuffed animal.”

“To our stuffed animal,” she says, like that clarifies everything.

And—

It does something to you.

Small. Quiet. Immediate.

Your breath catches just slightly, like something in your chest wasn’t prepared for the way she said that. Our. So easy. So natural. Like it didn’t weigh anything at all when it lands square in the center of you.

You don’t say anything about it.

You just look at her.

Robin, completely unaware—or maybe just pretending to be—keeps going.

She sets the first bear back with a soft little shake of her head.

“No,” she decides. “Not right.”

You tilt your head.

“Not right,” you repeat.

“It’s lacking depth,” she says.

You stare at her.

“It’s fabric.”

“Exactly,” she says, like that proves her point.

You huff out another quiet laugh, shaking your head, but you step closer anyway. Close enough that your shoulder brushes hers as you look down into the bin with her.

She doesn’t react.

Not outwardly.

But she shifts just slightly toward you. Just enough.

Like always.

You reach down, picking up another one—this one a little smaller, lighter in color.

“What about this one?” you ask.

Robin leans in immediately, shoulder pressing more firmly into yours as she peers at it.

Too close.

Not enough to draw attention.

Enough that you feel it everywhere.

She studies it, serious.

“…hmm,” she hums.

You glance at her, trying not to smile.

“Well?”

She tilts her head.

“It’s… fine.”

You gasp, mock-offended.

“Fine?”

“Fine,” she repeats. “It doesn’t—spark anything.”

“You’re insane.”

“I have standards.”

“You’re picking a stuffed animal, not a soulmate.”

Robin looks at you again.

Dead serious.

“This is a soulmate.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. You can feel it in your cheeks, the way it won’t go away no matter how much you try to play it off.

“Robin, just pick a bear.”

“No.”

“Robin—”

“This is our child.”

That one lands differently.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just—

there.

You still.

Just for a second.

It’s stupid, you know it is. She doesn’t mean anything by it—not in the way your brain immediately tries to twist it into. It’s just Robin. Dramatic, over-the-top, attached to everything she decides matters.

But still—

Our child.

Something soft blooms in your chest before you can stop it. Something that feels dangerously close to imagining things you don’t let yourself imagine. Something that looks like quiet mornings and shared spaces and a version of the world where you don’t have to pretend you’re anything less than what you are together.

You swallow it down. Gently. Carefully.

Like you always do.

“…you’re ridiculous,” you say, but your voice is softer now.

Robin doesn’t catch the shift.

Or maybe she does, in the way she always does—without saying anything.

She just nudges your shoulder with hers.

“You love it,” she says.

You don’t answer that.

Because you do.

You absolutely do.

She moves to another bin, and you follow without thinking. Of course you do. You always orbit her, just like she orbits you. It’s instinct at this point.

She picks up another bear—this one a little bigger, a soft brown color, simple. No bright patterns, no gimmicks. Just… soft.

She pauses. You notice it immediately. Because she’s gone quiet again.

“…this one,” she says, softer now.

You step closer, looking at it with her. And something about it—

You don’t know what it is, but it feels right. Not because it’s special.

Because it’s simple. Warm. Familiar in a way you can’t explain.

You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing hers as you both adjust your grip on it at the same time.

It’s small.

But it’s there.

Your fingers resting against hers, both of you holding the same thing like neither of you wants to let go first.

Robin doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

She looks at you. Not at the bear. At you.

“Yeah?” she echoes.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

Something in her face softens. Not dramatic. Not obvious.

Just—

right.

“Okay,” she says.

And that’s it. Decision made. No more overthinking. No more inspecting every option like it’s a life-altering choice.

She holds the bear a little closer to her chest, careful again in that way that makes your chest ache for reasons you don’t want to name.

Like it matters.

Like this matters.

You watch her for a second longer than you mean to. The way she looks at it. The way she doesn’t look at you, but somehow still includes you in the moment anyway.

And without thinking—

you reach out.

Not obvious. Not something anyone else would notice. Just your fingers brushing lightly against the back of her hand where it holds the bear.

A quiet little squeeze.

Gone almost as soon as it’s there.

Robin’s breath catches. Just barely. She doesn’t look at you. But she leans closer.

Just a fraction. Enough that your shoulders press together again. Enough that it feels like a secret.

“Okay,” she says again, softer this time.

꧁☆꧂

Robin doesn’t let go of the bear.

Not once.

Even as you both drift further into the store—past racks of tiny clothes and shelves of little accessories and bins of hearts in every color imaginable—she keeps it tucked close to her chest like it might disappear if she loosens her grip.

You walk beside her, close enough that your arms brush every few steps.

Close enough that it feels like something more, even when it can’t be.

There’s a small line at the stuffing station.

A couple of kids, a parent or two, someone laughing too loudly somewhere behind you. The soft whir of machines hums in the background, steady and mechanical in contrast to how quiet everything feels between you.

Robin shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

Not impatient.

Just… thinking.

You watch her from the corner of your eye.

The way her fingers absentmindedly smooth over the bear’s unstuffed arm. The way she presses her thumb into the fabric like she’s grounding herself in it. In this.

It’s such a small thing.

But you feel it anyway.

When it’s your turn, the employee gives the same speech they probably give a hundred times a day—warm, practiced, bright.

“Okay! So before we stuff your bear, you get to make a wish.”

Robin glances at you immediately.

Of course she does.

You raise an eyebrow slightly, like you’re bracing for commentary.

But she doesn’t say anything.

Not this time.

“…and then you give the heart a kiss,” the employee continues, placing a small, soft fabric heart into your hand.

It’s lighter than you expect.

Simple.

Just a little red shape sitting in your palm.

You don’t overthink it.

You don’t hesitate.

You close your fingers around it, bringing it up without making a show of it. No dramatic pause. No second-guessing.

Your eyes close for just a second.

The world doesn’t disappear—but it softens. The noise fades just enough that you can focus on the feeling of it. The weight of something small that’s supposed to hold something bigger.

Your wish isn’t loud.

It isn’t complicated.

It’s simple. A simple wish that a girl who wants nothing but to be able to be happy with her girlfriend in public would make.

You press the heart gently to your lips.

Quick. Soft. Like it’s something you’re not supposed to linger on in public.

And then you open your eyes again. Robin is already looking at you. Not casually. Not like she just happened to glance over.

She’s watching you.

Like she’s trying to memorize it.

The way your expression softened without you noticing. The way you didn’t make it a joke. The way you treated something small like it mattered.

It does something to her.

You can see it.

You hand the heart back without comment, like it didn’t mean anything more than the instructions said it should.

But when you glance at her again, she’s still looking at you like it meant everything.

“Your turn,” you say quietly.

She blinks. Like she forgot for half a second that she was next.

“Oh—yeah.”

The employee places another heart in her hand. Robin takes it.

And for a moment—

she freezes.

It’s small. Easy to miss. But you know her.

Her fingers curl around the heart, but not confidently like yours did. There’s a slight pause in the movement. A hesitation that wasn’t there before when she was analyzing bears like they held the meaning of life.

Because this—

this is different.

This asks for something real.

And suddenly the world outside this moment feels closer again. Louder. Watching, even if it isn’t. The weight of what you are, what you can’t say, what has to stay quiet—

It all brushes up against her at once. She looks at the heart. Then at you.

Just for a second.

There’s something in her eyes—not panic, not exactly. Just… uncertainty. Like she’s standing on the edge of something she doesn’t know how to hold in public.

You don’t say anything. You don’t push. You just look back at her. Steady. Soft.

Like it’s okay. Like I’m right here.

That’s all it takes. Her shoulders drop just slightly. Not all the way. Just enough.

Robin brings the heart up slowly. Not dramatic. Not performative.

Careful.

Like it actually matters.

Her eyes flick to yours one more time—quick, almost instinctive—before she presses the heart to her lips. And it’s softer than you expect.

Not rushed. Not joking.

Soft in a way that feels almost… private.

Like she’s putting something into it she doesn’t have words for. Her lips linger there for just a second longer than necessary.

And when she lowers it again, her voice barely exists when it slips out—

“…don’t let me lose this.”

It’s so quiet you almost miss it. Almost. But you don’t. Because of course you don’t.

Your chest tightens. Not sharply. Just enough to remind you how much is sitting unspoken between the two of you.

She doesn’t look at you right away after she says it. Like maybe she’s not sure if she actually said it out loud.

Like maybe she’s hoping you heard it without having to acknowledge it.

The employee takes the heart back, smiling like everything is normal, like this is just another step in a simple process.

The bear gets placed under the machine.

The stuffing starts—soft whirring filling the space as it slowly comes to life, filling out, rounding into something solid and real.

Robin watches it like it’s important. Like she’s watching something become.

And without thinking—

her hand finds yours.

Her fingers brush against yours first, like always. Testing. Then settle.

Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t look at her. You don’t react in any way anyone else would notice. You just let your hand shift slightly so your fingers press back.

Quiet. Certain.

And then it’s gone. Like it never happened. Except it did. And it meant everything.

꧁☆꧂

The transition from the stuffing station to the clothing section feels like stepping into a completely different kind of chaos.

Soft chaos.

Color everywhere—tiny hangers lined up in rows, racks packed too tightly with miniature outfits, shelves stacked with shoes no bigger than your palm. Bright fabrics, glittery fabrics, absurd fabrics. Little plastic sunglasses. Hats. Shoes with laces that are purely decorative.

It’s overwhelming.

And Robin—

Robin absolutely thrives in it.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” she says immediately.

You laugh under your breath, following close behind her as she drifts toward the nearest rack like she’s been here a hundred times before.

“Dangerous?” you echo.

“Yes,” she says, already flipping through outfits with quick, decisive movements. “Because I have no self-control and this is clearly a situation that requires a lot of self-control.”

You lean slightly against the rack beside her, arms loosely folded, watching her.

“You’re dressing a stuffed bear.”

“Our stuffed bear,” she corrects instantly.

You don’t even argue this time.

She pulls something off the rack with a little gasp. “Oh my God.” You already know.

“Robin—”

She turns to you, holding it up with both hands like she just discovered something revolutionary.

A tiny sailor outfit. White and blue. Little collar. Miniature hat.

You stare at it. Then at her. Then back at it.

“…no,” you say immediately.

“Yes,” she counters, stepping closer—too close, not that either of you acknowledge it. “Look at it. Look at this. It’s perfect.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s iconic,” she corrects.

You can’t help it—you laugh, shaking your head. “You just want it because it matches your Scoops uniform.”

She gasps like you’ve deeply offended her.

“That is not the only reason.”

“It’s the only reason.”

“It’s a bonus,” she amends, already turning back to the rack like the argument is over. “And also, it’s important for bonding.”

“Bonding.”

“Yes.”

“With the bear.”

“With our child,” she says, like you’re the one being unreasonable.

You press your lips together, trying not to smile again. Failing.

She grabs a second outfit. Then a third. And suddenly her arms are full.

“Robin,” you say, reaching out instinctively to steady one of the hangers before it slips. Your fingers brush hers.

Neither of you pulls away immediately. Just for a second. Just long enough to notice.

Then you take the hanger from her like it’s the only reason your hand was there at all.

“You cannot possibly be serious,” you continue.

“I am completely serious,” she says, nodding once like that settles it. “This is a critical moment.”

You glance down at what she’s holding.

“…sunglasses?” you ask.

“Essential,” she says.

“For what?”

“Protection.”

“From what?”

“The sun.”

“We’re inside.”

“Preparation is key.”

You laugh again, softer this time, shaking your head as you hold up another tiny outfit from the rack.

“What about this one?” you ask, mostly just to see what she’ll say.

Robin leans in immediately. Too close.

Her shoulder presses into yours, her arm brushing along yours as she angles herself to look at what you’re holding. Her hair shifts slightly as she moves, and for half a second—

her breath is right there. Warm against your cheek.

“You have terrible taste,” she says quietly.

You turn your head just enough to look at her.

“You didn’t even give it a chance.”

“I didn’t need to.”

Her voice is lower now. Not intentionally. Just… softer under everything else. And you feel it anyway.

“Rude,” you murmur.

She hums like she doesn’t care, but she doesn’t move away. Not right away.

She lingers there for a second too long before pulling back just enough to grab another outfit.

It keeps happening like that. Little things.

You hand her something—your fingers brush.

She takes it—but slower than necessary. Her hand lingers just a fraction too long before letting go.

She leans in to show you something—her shoulder pressing into yours, her voice dropping slightly like it’s just for you even in a store full of people.

It’s soft. Too soft.

Almost dangerous in a place like this. And neither of you stops.

“Okay, but this—this is non-negotiable,” Robin says, holding up the sailor outfit again like she’s making a final ruling.

You sigh dramatically.

“Robin—”

“It matches me,” she says, like that alone should win the argument.

“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t get it.”

“That’s exactly why we should. Come on, you’d have something to remember me by if those kids ever kill me for Scoops sample.”

You look at her.

Really look at her.

The way she’s standing there, so earnest about something so small. The way she’s holding it like it matters. The way her eyes flick to you—not to win, but to share it.

“…you’re impossible,” you say, softer now.

She smiles. Not big. Just enough.

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward.

Just—

full.

And then—

“Are you two sisters?”

The voice comes from behind you. You both turn slightly. A worker stands there, smiling warmly, completely unaware of the way the question lands.

“Or best friends?” she adds.

And for a second—

everything stills.

It’s small. Barely noticeable from the outside. But it’s there. The pause.

You feel it in the way Robin doesn’t answer immediately.

In the way your fingers, still loosely holding one of the hangers, suddenly feel too aware of where her hand is next to yours.

You glance at her. She’s not looking at the worker. She’s looking at you. And something in her expression—

it softens.

Not hidden fast enough.

Not covered up with humor or deflection like she usually does.

Just… honest.

Open in a way that feels too big for a simple question.

“Yeah,” she says after a second.

Quiet.

“…something like that.”

Her eyes don’t leave yours when she says it.

Not for a second. It’s not defiance. It’s not a joke. It’s just—

the closest thing to the truth she can give out loud.

The worker smiles, nodding like that makes perfect sense.

“Well, you two are doing great,” she says warmly. “I love the choices of outfits.”

She gestures to the sailor outfit. Of course she does.

Then she moves on.

Just like that. The moment passes. But it doesn’t really pass. It settles.

Somewhere deeper.

You let out a small breath, shifting your weight slightly before bumping your shoulder into Robin’s.

“Something like that, huh?” you say lightly.

Robin immediately looks away.

“Okay, I didn’t— that’s not— I just—” she stumbles, words tripping over each other in a way that’s so completely her it almost makes you laugh again. “It was the easiest explanation!”

You grin. “Mm.”

“Don’t—don’t do that,” she mutters, ducking her head slightly like she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s smiling.

“Do what?”

“That.”

You laugh softly. She huffs, but it’s not real irritation. Never is with you.

Her hand shifts slightly as she adjusts the clothes she’s holding.

Your fingers brush again.

Neither of you moves away.

Not this time.

It lingers.

Just a second longer than it should.

Just long enough to mean something.

Robin clears her throat, like she’s trying to reset herself.

“Okay,” she says, a little too quickly. “Sailor outfit. Final decision.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“No more emotional depth analysis?”

“This one already has it,” she says firmly.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again.

“Of course it does.”

And just like that—

you both keep standing there. Too close. Too soft. Too careful. Like everything is balanced on something neither of you says out loud.

And neither of you wants to move away first.

꧁☆꧂

The decision, once it’s made, feels final in a way neither of you questions.

Robin clutches the little bundle of clothes and the now-stuffed bear like she’s afraid someone might take them back if she loosens her grip for even a second. You stay close as you make your way to the checkout, instinctively matching her pace, your shoulder brushing hers every few steps like it’s something your bodies decided on without consulting you.

The line is short.

Two people ahead of you.

A kid bouncing on their heels, a parent trying to wrangle them, the soft beep of the register scanning items one by one. It’s all normal. Mundane. The kind of thing that should ground the moment back into something simple.

It doesn’t.

Robin shifts beside you, adjusting her hold on the bear. Your eyes track the movement without thinking—the way her fingers smooth over the fabric again, absentminded, gentle. Like she’s reassuring it.

Like she’s reassuring herself.

“You’re holding it like it’s fragile,” you murmur.

She glances at you.

“It is fragile,” she says quietly. “It just got born.”

You huff out a soft laugh, looking away for a second so she doesn’t see how much that lands.

“Right. Of course.”

She nudges your shoulder lightly.

You nudge her back.

The line moves forward.

You step up together—close enough that your arms press from elbow to wrist for a second too long before either of you shifts. Not away. Just… adjusted. Enough to look normal.

Not enough to actually create space.

Robin sets everything on the counter carefully. The bear first. Then the little sailor outfit, smoothing it out like presentation matters.

You lean your elbows lightly against the edge of the counter, watching her.

She’s focused.

A little too focused.

Like if she looks busy enough, she won’t have to think about anything else still sitting between you from the last ten minutes.

The cashier smiles, scanning the items one by one. The soft beep echoes in the small space between you.

“Did you have fun today?” they ask, casual, warm.

Robin answers immediately.

“Yes,” she says, a little too quick, a little too bright. “Very educational experience.”

You bite back a smile.

“Educational?” you echo under your breath.

She elbows you lightly.

“I learned a lot about responsibility,” she mutters back.

“Mm. I’m sure you did.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real bite to it.

The total comes up.

You both reach for your wallets at the same time.

Pause.

Look at each other.

“No,” you both say at once.

You laugh.

Robin huffs.

“I’m paying,” she insists.

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“You picked it out.”

“Exactly,” she says, like that’s proof. “It’s my responsibility.”

“Our responsibility,” you correct softly.

That stops her.

Just for a second.

Her expression flickers—something warm, something quiet—and then she looks away again, shaking her head slightly.

“…fine,” she mutters. “We’re splitting it.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to.

The cashier finishes up, hands you the small bag with the bear tucked carefully inside, along with the folded outfit.

Robin takes it as soon as he sets it down.

Of course she does.

“Thank you,” she says, softer now. And then you’re moving again. Out of the store. Back into the mall.

The difference hits immediately. It’s quieter out here.

Not actually quieter—the mall is still full, still humming—but it feels quieter. Like stepping out of something contained and into open air again.

Like you can breathe a little easier.

Robin slows just slightly as you walk, her shoulder brushing yours again, automatically finding that same closeness without either of you acknowledging it.

You match her pace. Of course you do.

For a few seconds, neither of you says anything. You just walk.

The bag in her hands, the soft noise of footsteps around you, the glow of the mall lights stretching out ahead.

There’s something lingering. Not heavy.

Just… warm.

Like you’re both still inside that store in some small way. Still holding onto something you don’t want to name out loud.

Robin shifts the bag to one hand. Her other hand drops to her side. Close to yours.

Not touching. Not yet.

Your fingers brush first.

Light.

Accidental—enough to pass that way.

She doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you. It happens again. This time slower. More deliberate. Your pinky hooks around hers for a second—testing, the same way it always is.

She inhales softly. Then her fingers turn.

Interlacing with yours fully.

Quick. Subtle. Like she decided before she could talk herself out of it. Your hand fits into hers like it’s supposed to be there.

Natural. Easy.

You don’t look at her.

You don’t react in any way anyone else would notice. You just let your grip settle. Warm. Certain.

Robin exhales quietly beside you. Not tense. Not nervous. Just… softer.

She starts talking again after a second.

But it’s different now.

Quieter. Less performative. Like she’s not trying to fill space anymore—just sharing it.

“And I’m just saying,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing lightly against yours in a way that feels almost absentminded, “if this bear ends up having better emotional stability than me, I’m going to be deeply offended.”

You smile faintly, eyes still forward.

“I think that’s a very real possibility.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

She nudges your shoulder with hers again. You lean into it just slightly. Not enough for anyone to realize.

Enough that she feels it. Her hand tightens around yours for half a second. Then relaxes again.

Neither of you lets go. And the mall keeps moving around you.

People passing. Voices overlapping. Lights reflecting off the floor.

But you stay in your own little pocket of it. Close. Quiet.

Fingers laced together like it’s the most natural thing in the world—

as long as no one’s looking too closely.

꧁☆꧂

The mall doors slide open with a soft mechanical hum, and the world outside greets you differently than it did earlier.

Cooler.

Quieter.

Real.

The artificial brightness of the mall fades behind you, replaced by the dim glow of parking lot lights flickering on one by one as the sky dips further into evening. The air feels softer out here, like it’s not pressing in on you the same way.

And maybe it’s just that no one’s really looking.

Robin walks beside you, the bag swinging lightly from her wrist. Every few steps, it rustles—the faint crinkle of tissue paper inside—and she glances down at it like she needs to check that it’s still there.

Like it could disappear if she doesn’t.

You smile a little to yourself.

“You know it’s not going anywhere, right?”

She looks up at you immediately.

“I know,” she says, quick. Then, softer— “I just… want to make sure.”

You don’t tease her for that.

You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.

Because there’s something about the way she says it that feels like she’s not just talking about the bear.

Your shoulders brush as you walk.

Neither of you moves away.

The parking lot stretches out in front of you, rows of cars catching bits of yellow light, the distant sound of someone starting an engine somewhere far off. It feels bigger than it did earlier. Emptier.

Safer.

Robin's free hand still rests comfortably in yours, fingers interlinked, her thumb tracing little circles on your knuckles.

She wouldn’t dare let go.

You squeeze her hand once.

She squeezes back immediately.

And neither of you lets go. No one’s watching, anyway. What’s the harm?

Your car comes into view, sitting under a flickering light that hums quietly overhead.

Robin lets go of your hand only long enough for you to unlock it, and even then, her fingers trail against yours for as long as they can before slipping away.

You open the passenger door for her.

She pauses.

Looks at you.

There’s something soft in her expression—something quiet and full all at once.

“Thank you,” she says, like it means more than just the door.

You just nod a little, smiling.

“Anytime.”

She climbs in, immediately placing the bag carefully on her lap like it’s something fragile. Something important. She opens it just enough to peek inside, adjusting the bear slightly, smoothing down its tiny outfit like she’s making sure it’s comfortable.

You walk around to the driver’s side, sliding in, the familiar feel of the seat grounding in a way everything else tonight hasn’t been.

For a second, neither of you starts the car.

It’s quiet.

Just the faint ticking of cooling metal, the distant buzz of the parking lot lights, the soft rustle of tissue paper as Robin adjusts the bear again.

“You’re gonna wear it out before we even get home,” you murmur.

“I am making sure it is properly situated,” she replies immediately, serious. Then, after a beat— “It’s had a long day.”

You huff a quiet laugh, starting the engine.

The car hums to life.

Robin finally settles, placing the bear gently between you on the center console, one hand still resting lightly on it like she’s not ready to let go completely.

Like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there.

The drive starts slow.

The headlights cut through the dim parking lot as you pull out, the radio left low—barely there, just soft background noise blending into the quiet.

Robin leans back in her seat. Exhales.

The kind of exhale that feels like the end of something. Or maybe the beginning.

“You know,” she says after a moment, voice softer now, “that might have been the best decision I’ve ever made.”

You glance at her briefly.

“The bear?”

“Yes, the bear,” she says, like it’s obvious. Then—quieter— “And… everything else.”

Your chest tightens a little at that. You don’t say anything right away.

You just reach over, hand finding hers. Simple. Easy. Allowed now that no one can see you. The privacy of the car envelopes the two of you.

She takes it instantly, fingers curling around yours, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles like she needs the contact just as much as you do.

The bear sits between you, silent.

A witness.

A few minutes pass like that.

The road stretches out ahead in long, uninterrupted lines of asphalt and light, streetlamps sliding over the windshield in steady intervals like a quiet pulse. Inside the car, everything feels softened at the edges—the hum of the engine, the faint rattle of movement, the distant world outside you both thinning into something that barely exists.

Robin shifts beside you.

It’s not sudden. Not restless. More like she’s finally letting herself settle after holding too much tension for too long. The seatbelt creaks faintly as she adjusts, shoulder brushing the door, and then she turns just slightly toward you like it’s the most natural thing in the world to stop facing forward.

Her other hand—free now—finds you without hesitation.

It comes to rest on your thigh with a kind of quiet certainty that makes your breath catch before you can stop it. Not gripping. Not grabbing. Just there. Warm through the fabric, grounding in a way that feels almost startling in its simplicity.

Like she’s decided, without saying it, that she doesn’t need to pretend anymore.

You don’t move. You don’t look at her right away. It feels too fragile for that, like even acknowledgment might shift something out of place. But your fingers, still loosely intertwined with hers, tighten just slightly in response anyway—an instinct you don’t bother hiding.

She notices.

Of course she does.

There’s a small pause, barely a heartbeat, and then her thumb moves over your hand again. This time slower. Deliberate in a way that feels like her earlier hesitation has been replaced with something steadier, something more sure of itself.

It drags once over your knuckles, then again, like she’s tracing a language only the two of you understand. Not rushed. Not trying to lead anywhere. Just… staying. Learning the shape of you in the quiet.

Her leg shifts a fraction closer in the narrow space of the car, not enough to announce itself, just enough that you feel it—enough that the contact between you stops feeling like an accident of proximity and starts feeling like a choice she keeps making over and over again.

And when her thumb pauses for a second, pressing a little more firmly into your hand before easing again, it doesn’t feel like silence.

It feels like she’s speaking anyway.

“You’re staring,” you say after a moment, eyes still on the road.

There’s a pause.

“…I am not.”

You glance at her. She is. Completely.

Her head tilted slightly toward you, her expression open in a way she only ever lets herself be when it’s just the two of you.

You raise an eyebrow.

She looks away immediately.

“I was not,” she insists, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.

“Mmhm.”

“I wasn’t,” she repeats, weaker this time.

You smile. “Okay.”

A beat. Then, quieter—

“What?”

She looks back at you, cautious.

“What ‘what’?”

“That look,” you say softly. “What was that for?”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Then—

“…nothing.”

You don’t buy it. You don’t push it, either. Instead, you just glance at her again.

Smile a little.

“Just me, or something?” you add, gently.

And that—

that gets her.

Her entire face changes in an instant. Flustered. She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, turning toward the window like she can hide it.

“That is not fair,” she mutters.

You grin. “It’s true.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. Really smiling. The kind that lingers.

When stopped at a red light, you feel her shift closer to you.

She lifts the hand she had long since intertwined with yours, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. Her lips meet your skin with a gentleness you’d never expect to receive from such a casual, familiar gesture.

She’s kissed your hand before. Kissed far more than your hand, but it feels different each time.

You don’t think you’ll ever really get used to it. To any of this. Because Robin Buckley is the most perfect girl you’ve ever met.

And she’s yours.

She doesn’t look at you right away. Like she’s giving you a second to process it. 

When she does, her expression is soft. A little shy.

“…hi,” she says quietly.

You let out a breath that turns into a small laugh.

“Hi.”

The light turns green. You start driving again. But your hand stays in hers.

The rest of the drive feels like something suspended. Like time slowed down just enough to let you sit in it.

Robin keeps talking, but it’s different now. Quieter. Softer.

Stories that trail off into small laughs, into comfortable silence, into moments where neither of you says anything at all.

Just… exist. Her hand never leaves yours. Sometimes her thumb traces absent patterns against your skin.

Sometimes she just holds on, like she doesn’t want to risk losing it.

The car eventually turns onto your street. Familiar to the both of you. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels safe.

Robin shifts again, her hand tightening around yours just slightly. Like she’s holding onto the last bit of something.

The bear sits between you, still carefully positioned, its tiny outfit slightly wrinkled from being adjusted too many times.

You pull into the driveway. The engine idles for a second before you turn it off.

And suddenly—

it’s very still.

No music. No road. Just you. And her. And the quiet.

Robin doesn’t move right away. Neither do you. Your hands are still intertwined between you.

Her thumb brushes yours once more. Slow. Soft.

“…today was really good,” she says quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

A beat. Then, softer—

“I like this.”

You glance at her.

“What?”

She shrugs slightly, but she doesn’t look away.

“This,” she repeats. “Us. Doing dumb things and… not having to pretend as much.”

Your chest tightens again. In a good way. You squeeze her hand.

“Me too.”

She smiles. Small. But real. That smile that it seems Robin reserves for you and only you.

And then, after a second—

“I love you.”

It’s quiet. Simple. Like she’s been holding it in all night and finally let it out where it feels safe to exist.

You don’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

Her breath catches just slightly. Like it still surprises her every time. Even after months and months of being together.

She leans over the console a little, just enough to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

Then another. Closer to your jaw, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

You turn your head slightly—

and catch her lips with yours. It’s gentle. Slow.

Unhurried in a way nothing inside the mall ever was. No risk. No hiding.

Just warmth. Just her.

When you pull back, she’s smiling again.

Of course she is. She always is when it’s you.

“Okay,” she says after a moment, like she’s convincing herself. “We should… go inside.”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moves. She laughs quietly.

“Okay, seriously.”

“Yeah.”

Still—neither of you moves.

Finally, she pulls back, grabbing the bear carefully, holding it against her chest like it’s something precious.

Like it means something. Like you do.

You both get out of the car. The night air wraps around you again, cooler now, quieter.

Robin walks close beside you. So close your arms brush immediately.

And this time—neither of you even pretends not to notice.

The door closes behind you. The night settles.

And the world fades quietly around the two of you—

still soft, still warm, still yours.

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

STILL YOURS / robin buckley

cause the sign on your heart, said it's still reserved for me.

summary- this town isn't the kindest to those who are different. they shut down the mere idea that lacks normalcy. but you and robin still find a way to make your relationship work. you go to pick her up from work, a habit written into routine, but it turns into a greater adventure. and it's certainly a challenge to conceal your relationship...

word count- 11.2k

contains- talks of homophobia in the 80's (no direct homophobia towards characters, but fear of it arising), fluff, heated moments, kissing, robin just being the best person ever, let me know if anything was missed!

author's note- i had soooo much fun writing this!! it was based off a request i received! and also yes, i know build-a-bear wasn't established in 1985, but we're gonna ignore that, kay? if you're seeing this, PLEASE help a girl out and send me requests for a robin buckley au! if you'd like to see more about this, see my recent posts!!

꧁☆꧂

The bell above the door jingles for what has to be the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, and you don’t even look up anymore.

You’re not here for ice cream.

You’re here because Robin Buckley cannot drive.

Which means—like clockwork, like a routine that started when she first got the job, like something that’s become a quiet constant in your life—you’re here to pick her up.

You don’t mind it in the slightest. If anything, you like these trips to come pick her up from the mall. You love to hear about her day on the way home. To hear her complain about customers who “just have no etiquette.” 

You love how she over explains and talks with her hands and with an animated face. It’s what makes her so incredibly Robin.

You lean against the side of the counter, arms folded loosely, pretending to be invested in the brightly colored menu above the registers. The air smells like sugar and waffle cones and something faintly artificial, and the place is still buzzing with the last stretch of evening customers.

Behind the counter, Robin is mid-ramble. Steve looks like he’s only half-listening to what she’s saying.

“…and I’m just saying, if a kid asks for three scoops, minimum- and on the smallest cone possible -there should be a law that I get to refuse service. That’s not a dessert, that’s a cry for help—”

She turns slightly as she talks, gesturing with the scooper in her hand, and that’s when she spots you.

Everything about her shifts.

It’s subtle—anyone else probably wouldn’t notice—but you do. You always do.

Her shoulders drop. Her expression softens. The mild annoyance she’d been carrying around all shift melts into something lighter, something warmer.

Something that feels a little bit like it’s just for you.

“Oh,” she says, like she didn’t know you’d be here. Like you haven’t been picking her up after shifts for months now. “Hey.”

You push yourself off the counter, stepping a little closer, resting your elbows against it instead.

“Hey, sailor.”

She rolls her eyes immediately, but there’s no bite to it.

“Don’t start,” she mutters, turning back to scoop one last portion of ice cream with dramatic force. “I have been subjected to that all day. I’m one nautical-themed joke away from walking into the ocean and not coming back.”

“We’re in Indiana.”

“I’ll find a way.”

You smile, watching her finish up, watching the way she moves—quick, a little clumsy, always just on the edge of chaos. There’s a smear of something—ice cream of a sort—near her wrist, and her hat is slightly crooked. She looks tired in that way that makes her quieter when she’s not talking and softer overall.

She sets her scooper down, mutters something to Steve, and then she’s ducking under the counter, disappearing for a moment before reappearing in front of you, already tugging her hat off and running a hand through her hair—

—and it’s unfair, really, the way something so small can feel so intimate.

Her fingers slip into the roots like she’s done it a thousand times without thinking, pushing through the soft tangle, lifting it, letting it fall back into place in a way that’s messier than the neat little uniform Scoops Ahoy tries to force on her. It springs back with a quiet kind of rebellion, loose strands catching the light, framing her face in a way that makes her look more like herself—less like the version she has to play for everyone else.

You watch the movement more closely than you mean to. The slight hitch of her wrist. The way her shoulders loosen, just a little, like she can finally breathe again. It’s not just fixing her hair—it’s losing her performative layer. The stupid hat, the act, the careful edges she keeps on in public. For half a second, it feels like she’s stepping back into the version of herself that belongs to you.

And maybe that’s why your chest tightens.

Because you know you can’t reach out and tuck that strand behind her ear. You can’t let your hand follow the path hers just took, can’t linger there, can’t say anything about how perfect she looks, how you want to memorize the exact way it falls every time she does that.

But God—you notice.

You notice everything.

The way her fingers hesitate at the ends, like she’s considering doing it again just for the feeling of it. The way a few pieces fall into her eyes and she doesn’t bother moving them right away. The way she exhales, quiet and unguarded, like she forgot for a second that anyone else exists.

And when she looks up at you—

it hits all over again.

Like you’re the only one who gets to see this version of her, even in a crowded room. Like that small, absent-minded gesture is a secret being handed to you, disguised as nothing at all.

You have to look away first, just for a second, because if you don’t, you’re pretty sure it’ll show—written all over your face, in the way your breath catches, in the way your heart trips over itself like it always does when she lets herself be this soft, this real, this hers.

And when you look back, she’s still there, still a little undone, still watching you in that way that makes it feel like maybe—

just maybe—

you’ll make it out of this.

“Okay,” she exhales, like she’s shedding the entire shift in one breath. “I’m free. Emotionally damaged, but free.”

You hum, glancing at her wrist. Because that little smudge of chocolate on her skin hadn’t slipped your mind. Nothing about her ever really slips your mind.

“Hold still.”

She pauses mid-motion, blinking at you.

“What—why—”

You reach out without thinking, gently catching her wrist. Your thumb brushes over her skin as you wipe away the smear of chocolate fudge with the edge of a napkin you grabbed from the counter.

It’s quick. Quick enough to go unnoticed by anyone else around. Not that anyone was really looking.

Casual. Casual enough to pass as just two good friends sharing a simple interaction. One merely helping the other.

But your fingers linger for half a second longer than they need to.

Robin goes very still. Because of course she noticed. Of course she noticed how softly your fingers brushed over her wrist. She notices everything you do. No matter how little. It all means the same to her.

“…thanks,” she says, quieter now. Just for you.

You drop her hand like it didn’t mean anything.

It meant more than most things do.

“C’mon,” you say lightly, nodding toward the door. “Your chariot awaits.”

“My chariot is a slightly concerning sedan that makes that noise when you turn left.”

“Don’t disrespect her like that. Has she ever failed you? No.”

Robin snorts, falling into step beside you as you head for the exit. The bell jingles again as you push the door open, the evening air cooler against your skin as you step outside.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

It’s quieter out here. The distant hum of the parking lot, the fading light of the sky, the mall glowing just across the lot like it’s still wide awake.

Robin kicks lightly at the pavement as she walks.

Then, a little too casually—

“Do you… um—”

You glance at her.

She’s not looking at you.

“…do you wanna, like… walk around the mall for a bit?” she finishes, words tumbling out faster toward the end. “I just—I don’t really feel like going home yet. And it’s—y’know—it’s still open. Obviously. Because it’s a mall. And—”

You smile, just a little.

“You just don’t want to stop hanging out with me.”

She stops walking.

“Rude,” she says immediately, glaring at you. You can tell it’s not a real glare. Then, after a beat— “True. But rude.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder lightly into hers as you start toward the mall.

“Come on, dork.”

She falls into step beside you again without hesitation.

Your arms brush as you walk.

Neither of you moves away.

Neither of you reaches, though. That would be far too risky for the town that is Hawkins. They aren’t ready to handle something they aren’t familiar with.

And just like that, you turn back toward the glow of the mall together.

꧁☆꧂

The rest of the mall is louder than Scoops, somehow.

Not in the same way—less chaotic, more constant. A steady hum of voices, footsteps echoing against tile, the faint overlap of music spilling out from different stores at once. Bright lights reflect off polished floors, everything glowing in that artificial, never-quite-dimming way that makes it feel like time doesn’t really move in here.

Robin walks just a little too close to you.

Not enough for anyone to look twice.

Just enough that you feel her there.

Her shoulder brushes yours as you pass a group of kids running by, and she doesn’t pull away right away. Neither do you. It lingers—just for a second longer than it should—before she shifts like it didn’t happen at all.

She’s talking again.

Of course she is.

“And then Steve has the nerve—the nerve—to tell me that I’m being ‘too harsh’ on the children. The children,” she repeats, gesturing wildly with both hands. “As if they are not actively waging war against me with sticky fingers and poor decision-making skills.”

You glance at her, smiling.

“Sounds rough.”

“It is rough,” she insists. “I am underappreciated. Underpaid. Emotionally targeted.”

“Emotionally targeted,” you echo.

“Yes.”

You bump your shoulder into hers lightly.

She bumps you back.

It turns into a quiet rhythm as you walk—small, barely noticeable touches that could pass as accidental but never really are. Her elbow nudges yours when she gets particularly animated. Your hand brushes the back of hers when you reach for the same thing on a display table you weren’t even actually interested in.

Neither of you acknowledges it.

Neither of you stops.

A couple passes you—hands intertwined, fingers laced together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You look away first.

Robin talks louder for a second.

Not obviously.

Enough for you to notice, though.

“…and I’m just saying, if there were an award for surviving the worst shift imaginable, I would win. No contest.”

You hum, but your attention lingers somewhere else. On the space between your hands. On the fact that if you just moved yours an inch to the left—

Robin’s hand brushes yours again.

This time slower. More deliberate.

Your fingers almost catch. Almost.

But then someone walks past, and she pulls away like it didn’t happen, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send something sharp and warm straight through your chest.

You swallow it down.

You always do.

It’s not that she doesn’t want it. You know she does. It’s all she ever talks about when you’re together. And when it’s just you—only the two of you—she’s the most affectionate person you’ve ever met.

It’s just too risky in public like this.

“Hey,” you say after a second, glancing at her. “You’re being dramatic. Doesn’t Steve have the same shift?”

Her head snaps toward you.

“I am never dramatic. And sure, Steve has the same shift, but he spends the whole thing trying to pick up girls! I have to do all the real work.”

“You just said you were being emotionally targeted by children.”

“I was.”

You laugh softly. She watches you when you do. Very intently.

And something about the way you’re smiling—something small, something unguarded—makes her falter for half a second.

“…okay, but you’d defend me in court, right?” she says, a little quieter now. “Like if I did get arrested for banning children from Scoops.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Depends. Did these children deserve it?”

“They always deserve it.”

“Then yeah,” you shrug. “I’d defend you.”

It wasn’t much of a question to begin with. You’d defend her from almost anything.

Robin smiles. Not her usual one. Softer, quieter.

The kind she doesn’t give to just anyone.

“Good,” she murmurs.

You don’t realize how close you’ve both drifted until your hands brush again—and this time, neither of you pulls away immediately.

Your fingers slide just slightly against hers.

A question.

A maybe.

Her pinky hooks around yours for the briefest second.

It’s so quick you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it did. And it means everything.

The moment passes like it always does.

Not gone—never gone. Just tucked away, folded carefully into all the other almosts you’ve collected with her.

The rest of the mall stretches out in front of you like nothing just shifted between your ribs.

Like Robin’s hand didn’t just find yours in the smallest possible way and undo you completely.

She keeps talking anyway.

Of course she does.

“And I’m just saying,” she continues, gesturing vaguely at absolutely nothing as you walk, “if Steve Harrington gets one more compliment from a stranger while I am actively suffering in the background, I might lose it. I might actually become a villain.”

You hum, but you’re barely listening.

Because she’s still close enough that you can feel her warmth every time she moves.

Close enough that every step feels like a decision you’re both quietly agreeing to make again and again.

Your shoulder brushes hers.

She doesn’t move away.

You don’t either.

It’s almost unbearable how normal you both try to make it look.

Like you’re just two friends walking through a mall in Hawkins, Indiana, in a world that doesn’t notice the way you keep orbiting each other.

Just two friends, but she’s looking at you like you’re the only thing she sees. Like she’d kiss you even if people were watching. 

Because when it comes to you, Robin just can’t help herself. Her eyes trail to your lips, something shifting within her pupils. 

She looks away almost instantly.

“You make it really hard to behave in public, you know that?” You mutter to her, quiet enough to go unheard by others, loud enough to cut through the chaos of the mall so she can hear you.

She stops talking.

And when you look at her, she’s already looking at you like she’s decided something without telling you.

“Come here,” she says.

Soft.

Immediate.

And before you can even ask what she means, she’s grabbing your wrist—gentle but certain—and pulling you toward the side of the hallway where the arcade noise is louder and the lights are slightly dimmer and there’s a photo booth tucked between machines like it’s trying not to be seen.

You blink.

“Robin—”

But she’s already tugging the curtain aside.

“You started it,” she mutters.

“I absolutely did not start anything.”

“You did and you know it,” she says, and then she’s pulling you inside.

The curtain falls behind you with a soft whoosh that suddenly makes everything outside feel like a different world entirely.

It’s smaller in here than you expect.

Always is.

The bench is barely wide enough for one person, let alone two, but Robin is already sitting, already pulling you down with her like there’s no question about it.

Your legs bracket hers, knees on either side of her legs. Your thighs press together, her hands finding your waist to hold you on her lap.

And suddenly everything outside the booth feels impossibly far away.

For half a second, neither of you speaks.

“Mind telling me what we’re doing in here?” You whisper to her, brushing back her hair as she looks up at you with what may be the widest eyes you’ve ever seen.

Robin exhales.

“Okay,” she says, like she’s been holding her breath since Scoops. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t do the whole walking-around-like-that thing anymore.”

You blink at her.

“What thing?”

She looks at you like you’re being difficult on purpose.

“That thing,” she says, softer now, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then back up again. “Where you exist next to me and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t want to—”

She doesn't finish it. Doesn’t have to.

Because she’s already leaning in.

The first kiss is quick. Almost careful.

Like she’s testing whether the world will punish her for it.

It barely lasts a second, just the soft press of her mouth to yours, warm and a little uncertain at the edges, like she came in expecting to pull away any moment. But she doesn’t. Not immediately.

Instead, she stays there.

Close enough that you can feel the way she exhales through her nose, a quiet, shaky thing that doesn’t sound like her at Scoops or in front of anyone else. Close enough that the space between you stops feeling like space at all and starts feeling like a held breath.

It’s not rushed, not really—it’s just restrained, like she’s been holding something back for so long she doesn’t quite remember how to let it go gently.

Her hand tightens slightly at your waist, not pulling you closer so much as anchoring herself there, like she needs something solid to prove this is real. The photo booth hums faintly around you, fluorescent light flickering somewhere above, but it all feels distant, softened at the edges, like the world outside got turned down to a whisper.

And then—barely, barely—she shifts.

It’s small. A tilt of her head, a second attempt that isn’t hesitant anymore. The kind of movement that says she’s stopped asking permission from her fear. 

Her mouth meets yours again, and this time it lingers—just enough for the shape of it to settle in, for the warmth of her to stop feeling like surprise and start feeling like intention.

You can feel it in the way she breathes your name against your mouth without saying it out loud, in the way her fingers flex once at your waist like she’s grounding herself in the fact that you’re actually here, actually real, actually choosing this with her in a space too small to pretend anything else is happening.

When she finally pulls back, she’s smiling like she forgot how to do anything else.

“We should go. Someone might catch us,” you say immediately, even though you don’t move. You’ve got no intention of going anywhere, but you know you should.

She looks around quickly, eyes grazing the curtain and space behind the two of you.

She reverts her gaze to you.

“I don’t see how anyone would see us,” she says, like it’s obvious. “We’re literally covered.”

You let out a quiet breath that turns into a laugh before you can stop it.

“Robin.”

“What?” she asks, completely unbothered, already leaning in again like the idea of stopping is purely theoretical.

Her lips move from yours.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Not like she’s rushing anywhere, not like she’s trying to prove a point anymore—like she’s learning. Learning you for the hundredth time at the least. Like she’s memorizing you in real time, letting the urgency drain out of her in favor of something quieter, something that feels almost reverent in the small, humming space of the photo booth.

You feel it before you fully understand it—this shift in her. The way her breath changes against your skin, the way her hold at your waist steadies instead of tightens, like she’s finally stopped bracing for impact.

And then she’s not kissing your mouth anymore.

She’s kissing the corner of it first, so gentle it almost doesn’t feel real, like she’s checking if you’ll disappear if she’s too soft. When you don’t, when you just sit there breathing her in like it’s the only thing keeping you steady, she drifts lower.

Her lips brush your jaw next.

Slowly. Carefully. Like she’s tracing something she’s only ever been allowed to look at from a distance until now. Which is true in public. But when you’re alone, her lips are everywhere.

It makes something in your chest pull tight—not painful, just overwhelming in the way it always is when Robin forgets how carefully she’s supposed to exist around you in public. Because as fragile as this is, it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Another kiss—your cheek this time. Lingering just a second longer than the last, like she’s getting braver without asking permission from herself.

And you can feel it building in her, the way she pauses for the smallest fraction of a second between each touch, like she’s collecting courage in those tiny gaps. Like every place she kisses is a place she’s been thinking about when she’s supposed to be scooping ice cream or talking to Steve or pretending she doesn’t look at you the way she does.

Her breath stutters faintly when she moves lower again, and it hits you all at once that this isn’t just affection for her.

It’s relief.

It’s want she’s been folding in on itself for so long it’s practically bruised.

And when her lips finally reach the side of your neck, it’s not rushed. It’s not careless. It’s soft in a way that feels almost disarming—like she’s placing something there instead of taking anything at all.

And God, you want it. Of course you do.

But it can’t happen. At least, not now. Not in public.

“Rob—Robin,” you whisper, voice breathy and soft, but still trying to stop her. “You can’t.”

She pauses instantly.

Looks up at you.

All innocence.

“What?”

She’s utterly confused at your words. But her expression carries a hint of worry. Like she’s afraid she hurt you, or crossed a line you didn’t want crossed.

“You can’t leave marks,” you whisper, like saying it quieter makes it easier. “Not here.”

Something shifts in her expression.

Not frustration.

Something warmer.

Something that makes your stomach twist in a way that feels dangerously close to wanting everything at once.

“Can’t we break the rules just this once?” she asks.

And it’s not teasing.

Not really.

It’s almost pleading.

You shake your head gently, fingers brushing her wrist where she’s still holding you.

“Maybe some other time,” you say, lower now. “When literally anyone else could be a suspect. But not when it’s just you and me.”

You see it land.

The way her shoulders drop just slightly.

The way she exhales like she’s letting something go she didn’t realize she was holding.

“…fine,” she says.

She’s about to lift you off of her lap, her hands gripping your waist to pick you up. But then, like she’s bargaining with fate itself—

“One more kiss.”

You huff a laugh.

“Robin.”

“Come on, please?” She whispers, looking up at you. Some combination of those eyes and that voice convinced you.

You let her.

She kisses you again.

Soft.

Longer than “one more” implies.

When she pulls back, she’s already smiling again like she didn’t just completely forget her own promise.

“Okay,” she says. Then again, softer— “One more.”

You shake your head, laughing now for real.

“Robin.”

“What? I said one more. That was technically not long enough. So I need to reset.”

“You are making up rules as you go.”

“That’s how rules work,” she says confidently.

She kisses you again.

You’re smiling against her mouth now.

“Okay,” she mumbles afterward, forehead briefly resting against yours. “Okay, now we go.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Do we?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. Then, after a beat— “Probably.”

You laugh softly, finally pushing the curtain aside.

The mall rushes back in.

Too loud.

Too bright.

Too normal.

Robin steps out first, then turns slightly like she’s checking if reality noticed anything.

It hasn’t.

That’s the thing about Hawkins. It doesn't notice as long as you lurk where no one can see you. You can get away with things if you're careful.

But the second you gain that confidence in public? Everyone hears about it.

She offers you her hand like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You take it. There’s enough teenage girls around that replicate the closeness between you too. Enough that you’ll pass as just friends.

Good friends.

And just like that, you’re both walking again—too close, too soft, too careful.

Like nothing happened.

Like always.

꧁☆꧂

The mall keeps moving around you like it doesn’t care what just shifted between your ribs.

People pass. Laughter echoes somewhere near the arcade. A coin clatters into a machine and disappears into noise.

And Robin is still right there beside you.

Still too close.

Still acting like her entire existence didn’t just temporarily forget how to be normal in a photo booth five minutes ago.

She’s talking again almost immediately.

Of course she is.

“And I’m telling you,” she says, gesturing vaguely with her free hand while the other still brushes near yours like it hasn’t decided what it wants to do yet, “Steve’s entire argument about ‘customer service charm’ is fundamentally flawed because charm implies I have to be fake nice and I refuse—”

You’re listening.

You are.

Mostly.

But it’s hard when she keeps glancing at you like that. Like she’s still half stuck in the booth with you, like part of her didn’t fully come back out into the hallway.

You bump her shoulder lightly.

“Don’t you dare call me dramatic again because I am not.” she immediately says.

“You so are.”

“I am right,” she corrects you, like that’s somehow different.

You smile, shaking your head a little.

And that’s when she stops.

She’s gone completely still.

It’s subtle, like everything with her always is when it actually matters.

Her voice trails off without her realizing it. Her hand, mid-gesture, slowly lowers.

And then she’s looking across the mall.

Not at you.

Past you.

Like something just pulled her attention somewhere else and forgot to ask permission.

You follow her gaze.

At first, you don’t see what she’s looking at.

Just storefronts. Bright colors. Passing people. The usual blur of mall life.

And then you notice it.

A tucked-away shop wedged between a clothing store and an arcade cabinet wall.

Soft lighting. Plush displays in the window. A bright, slightly worn sign that looks like it’s trying a little too hard to be cheerful.

Build-A-Bear Workshop.

Robin goes very, very quiet.

Which is… new.

You glance at her.

“Robin?” 

She doesn’t answer right away. She’s still staring at it like it’s personally offended her. Or like it’s personally called her name.

Then—

“We have got to go.” she says, almost to herself.

Her hand catches your wrist without hesitation and she’s already pulling you with her before you can even process the shift.

“Wait—Robin—what are you doing?”

But she’s walking like she’s on a mission.

Like she just found something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Robin.”

She doesn’t stop.

She just says, very simply:

“We’re going in there.”

You blink.

“…what?”

Now she looks at you like you’re the confusing one.

“We’re going in there.”

You slow your steps.

“Robin, that place is for kids.”

That finally makes her pause.

She turns slightly, still holding your wrist, eyebrows raised like she’s offended on principle.

“Well,” she says, very matter-of-factly, “we’re not over eighteen, so we don’t qualify as adults.”

You blink.

“Robin—”

“And,” she continues, getting more confident now, like she’s building a legal case she absolutely did not think through beforehand, “according to my standards, that means we technically count as kids.”

She nods once, like that settles it.

“If you squint.”

You just stare at her.

“…that’s not how any of that works.”

Robin tightens her grip on your wrist slightly and starts walking again.

“Shut up and come on.”

That’s it.

No further argument.

No additional logic.

Just immediate confidence in a completely unserious opinion.

You let out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief—but you’re already following her again anyway.

Because of course you are.

Because she’s still holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And because she looks weirdly excited now.

Like she just decided something important.

Like this matters more than she’s admitting.

The closer you get, the brighter the store feels.

Soft lights spilling out onto the mall floor. Rows of half-finished stuffed animals sitting in little bins like they’re waiting to be chosen. Music that feels overly cheerful in a way that makes your chest ache for no reason you want to name.

Robin slows only when you reach the entrance.

She glances at you once.

Quick.

Checking.

Like she’s making sure you’re still with her in this ridiculous decision.

And then, softer than before:

“Just… trust me, okay?”

You exhale through your nose, shaking your head a little.

But your fingers squeeze hers back anyway.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

And that’s enough for her.

Robin smiles—small, bright, entirely too satisfied for someone about to drag you into a store full of stuffed animals.

And then she pulls you inside.

꧁☆꧂

The air inside hits you first.

Warm in a different way than the rest of the mall—softer, almost. Like everything in here has been designed to feel safe. Bright lights, but not harsh. Music playing overhead that’s cheerful in a way that borders on nostalgic, like something you’re supposed to remember even if you don’t.

There are bins everywhere.

Rows and rows of unstuffed animals, all slightly slumped in on themselves, waiting. Little fabric bodies with flat limbs and soft, expectant faces. It’s almost unsettling for half a second—like they’re all holding their breath.

Robin, however, is immediately focused.

Her hand slips from yours without ceremony—not because she wants to let go, but because she’s already stepping forward, already scanning the displays like she just walked into the most important decision of her life.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

You blink at her.

“Robin—”

“Wait,” she cuts you off, holding a hand up like you just tried to interrupt a life-or-death situation. “Give me a second.”

And then she’s gone.

Not far—just two steps ahead—but fully gone in the way she gets when something grabs her attention completely. She crouches slightly by one of the bins, picking up a floppy, unstuffed bear and turning it over in her hands like she’s assessing it.

You cross your arms loosely, watching her.

“…you’re kidding,” you say.

Robin doesn’t even look at you.

“No,” she says, completely serious.

She lifts the bear up, squinting at it.

“This one…” she starts slowly, like she’s about to deliver a diagnosis. “…has potential.”

You press your lips together.

“It’s a stuffed bear.”

She finally looks at you then, offended.

“It’s a life partner,” she corrects. “Be respectful.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, turning your head slightly like that might hide it.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m serious,” she insists, standing up now, still holding the bear carefully—carefully, like it matters. “You can’t just rush into this. This is a long-term commitment.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“To a stuffed animal.”

“To our stuffed animal,” she says, like that clarifies everything.

And—

It does something to you.

Small. Quiet. Immediate.

Your breath catches just slightly, like something in your chest wasn’t prepared for the way she said that. Our. So easy. So natural. Like it didn’t weigh anything at all when it lands square in the center of you.

You don’t say anything about it.

You just look at her.

Robin, completely unaware—or maybe just pretending to be—keeps going.

She sets the first bear back with a soft little shake of her head.

“No,” she decides. “Not right.”

You tilt your head.

“Not right,” you repeat.

“It’s lacking depth,” she says.

You stare at her.

“It’s fabric.”

“Exactly,” she says, like that proves her point.

You huff out another quiet laugh, shaking your head, but you step closer anyway. Close enough that your shoulder brushes hers as you look down into the bin with her.

She doesn’t react.

Not outwardly.

But she shifts just slightly toward you. Just enough.

Like always.

You reach down, picking up another one—this one a little smaller, lighter in color.

“What about this one?” you ask.

Robin leans in immediately, shoulder pressing more firmly into yours as she peers at it.

Too close.

Not enough to draw attention.

Enough that you feel it everywhere.

She studies it, serious.

“…hmm,” she hums.

You glance at her, trying not to smile.

“Well?”

She tilts her head.

“It’s… fine.”

You gasp, mock-offended.

“Fine?”

“Fine,” she repeats. “It doesn’t—spark anything.”

“You’re insane.”

“I have standards.”

“You’re picking a stuffed animal, not a soulmate.”

Robin looks at you again.

Dead serious.

“This is a soulmate.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. You can feel it in your cheeks, the way it won’t go away no matter how much you try to play it off.

“Robin, just pick a bear.”

“No.”

“Robin—”

“This is our child.”

That one lands differently.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just—

there.

You still.

Just for a second.

It’s stupid, you know it is. She doesn’t mean anything by it—not in the way your brain immediately tries to twist it into. It’s just Robin. Dramatic, over-the-top, attached to everything she decides matters.

But still—

Our child.

Something soft blooms in your chest before you can stop it. Something that feels dangerously close to imagining things you don’t let yourself imagine. Something that looks like quiet mornings and shared spaces and a version of the world where you don’t have to pretend you’re anything less than what you are together.

You swallow it down. Gently. Carefully.

Like you always do.

“…you’re ridiculous,” you say, but your voice is softer now.

Robin doesn’t catch the shift.

Or maybe she does, in the way she always does—without saying anything.

She just nudges your shoulder with hers.

“You love it,” she says.

You don’t answer that.

Because you do.

You absolutely do.

She moves to another bin, and you follow without thinking. Of course you do. You always orbit her, just like she orbits you. It’s instinct at this point.

She picks up another bear—this one a little bigger, a soft brown color, simple. No bright patterns, no gimmicks. Just… soft.

She pauses. You notice it immediately. Because she’s gone quiet again.

“…this one,” she says, softer now.

You step closer, looking at it with her. And something about it—

You don’t know what it is, but it feels right. Not because it’s special.

Because it’s simple. Warm. Familiar in a way you can’t explain.

You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing hers as you both adjust your grip on it at the same time.

It’s small.

But it’s there.

Your fingers resting against hers, both of you holding the same thing like neither of you wants to let go first.

Robin doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

She looks at you. Not at the bear. At you.

“Yeah?” she echoes.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

Something in her face softens. Not dramatic. Not obvious.

Just—

right.

“Okay,” she says.

And that’s it. Decision made. No more overthinking. No more inspecting every option like it’s a life-altering choice.

She holds the bear a little closer to her chest, careful again in that way that makes your chest ache for reasons you don’t want to name.

Like it matters.

Like this matters.

You watch her for a second longer than you mean to. The way she looks at it. The way she doesn’t look at you, but somehow still includes you in the moment anyway.

And without thinking—

you reach out.

Not obvious. Not something anyone else would notice. Just your fingers brushing lightly against the back of her hand where it holds the bear.

A quiet little squeeze.

Gone almost as soon as it’s there.

Robin’s breath catches. Just barely. She doesn’t look at you. But she leans closer.

Just a fraction. Enough that your shoulders press together again. Enough that it feels like a secret.

“Okay,” she says again, softer this time.

꧁☆꧂

Robin doesn’t let go of the bear.

Not once.

Even as you both drift further into the store—past racks of tiny clothes and shelves of little accessories and bins of hearts in every color imaginable—she keeps it tucked close to her chest like it might disappear if she loosens her grip.

You walk beside her, close enough that your arms brush every few steps.

Close enough that it feels like something more, even when it can’t be.

There’s a small line at the stuffing station.

A couple of kids, a parent or two, someone laughing too loudly somewhere behind you. The soft whir of machines hums in the background, steady and mechanical in contrast to how quiet everything feels between you.

Robin shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

Not impatient.

Just… thinking.

You watch her from the corner of your eye.

The way her fingers absentmindedly smooth over the bear’s unstuffed arm. The way she presses her thumb into the fabric like she’s grounding herself in it. In this.

It’s such a small thing.

But you feel it anyway.

When it’s your turn, the employee gives the same speech they probably give a hundred times a day—warm, practiced, bright.

“Okay! So before we stuff your bear, you get to make a wish.”

Robin glances at you immediately.

Of course she does.

You raise an eyebrow slightly, like you’re bracing for commentary.

But she doesn’t say anything.

Not this time.

“…and then you give the heart a kiss,” the employee continues, placing a small, soft fabric heart into your hand.

It’s lighter than you expect.

Simple.

Just a little red shape sitting in your palm.

You don’t overthink it.

You don’t hesitate.

You close your fingers around it, bringing it up without making a show of it. No dramatic pause. No second-guessing.

Your eyes close for just a second.

The world doesn’t disappear—but it softens. The noise fades just enough that you can focus on the feeling of it. The weight of something small that’s supposed to hold something bigger.

Your wish isn’t loud.

It isn’t complicated.

It’s simple. A simple wish that a girl who wants nothing but to be able to be happy with her girlfriend in public would make.

You press the heart gently to your lips.

Quick. Soft. Like it’s something you’re not supposed to linger on in public.

And then you open your eyes again. Robin is already looking at you. Not casually. Not like she just happened to glance over.

She’s watching you.

Like she’s trying to memorize it.

The way your expression softened without you noticing. The way you didn’t make it a joke. The way you treated something small like it mattered.

It does something to her.

You can see it.

You hand the heart back without comment, like it didn’t mean anything more than the instructions said it should.

But when you glance at her again, she’s still looking at you like it meant everything.

“Your turn,” you say quietly.

She blinks. Like she forgot for half a second that she was next.

“Oh—yeah.”

The employee places another heart in her hand. Robin takes it.

And for a moment—

she freezes.

It’s small. Easy to miss. But you know her.

Her fingers curl around the heart, but not confidently like yours did. There’s a slight pause in the movement. A hesitation that wasn’t there before when she was analyzing bears like they held the meaning of life.

Because this—

this is different.

This asks for something real.

And suddenly the world outside this moment feels closer again. Louder. Watching, even if it isn’t. The weight of what you are, what you can’t say, what has to stay quiet—

It all brushes up against her at once. She looks at the heart. Then at you.

Just for a second.

There’s something in her eyes—not panic, not exactly. Just… uncertainty. Like she’s standing on the edge of something she doesn’t know how to hold in public.

You don’t say anything. You don’t push. You just look back at her. Steady. Soft.

Like it’s okay. Like I’m right here.

That’s all it takes. Her shoulders drop just slightly. Not all the way. Just enough.

Robin brings the heart up slowly. Not dramatic. Not performative.

Careful.

Like it actually matters.

Her eyes flick to yours one more time—quick, almost instinctive—before she presses the heart to her lips. And it’s softer than you expect.

Not rushed. Not joking.

Soft in a way that feels almost… private.

Like she’s putting something into it she doesn’t have words for. Her lips linger there for just a second longer than necessary.

And when she lowers it again, her voice barely exists when it slips out—

“…don’t let me lose this.”

It’s so quiet you almost miss it. Almost. But you don’t. Because of course you don’t.

Your chest tightens. Not sharply. Just enough to remind you how much is sitting unspoken between the two of you.

She doesn’t look at you right away after she says it. Like maybe she’s not sure if she actually said it out loud.

Like maybe she’s hoping you heard it without having to acknowledge it.

The employee takes the heart back, smiling like everything is normal, like this is just another step in a simple process.

The bear gets placed under the machine.

The stuffing starts—soft whirring filling the space as it slowly comes to life, filling out, rounding into something solid and real.

Robin watches it like it’s important. Like she’s watching something become.

And without thinking—

her hand finds yours.

Her fingers brush against yours first, like always. Testing. Then settle.

Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t look at her. You don’t react in any way anyone else would notice. You just let your hand shift slightly so your fingers press back.

Quiet. Certain.

And then it’s gone. Like it never happened. Except it did. And it meant everything.

꧁☆꧂

The transition from the stuffing station to the clothing section feels like stepping into a completely different kind of chaos.

Soft chaos.

Color everywhere—tiny hangers lined up in rows, racks packed too tightly with miniature outfits, shelves stacked with shoes no bigger than your palm. Bright fabrics, glittery fabrics, absurd fabrics. Little plastic sunglasses. Hats. Shoes with laces that are purely decorative.

It’s overwhelming.

And Robin—

Robin absolutely thrives in it.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” she says immediately.

You laugh under your breath, following close behind her as she drifts toward the nearest rack like she’s been here a hundred times before.

“Dangerous?” you echo.

“Yes,” she says, already flipping through outfits with quick, decisive movements. “Because I have no self-control and this is clearly a situation that requires a lot of self-control.”

You lean slightly against the rack beside her, arms loosely folded, watching her.

“You’re dressing a stuffed bear.”

“Our stuffed bear,” she corrects instantly.

You don’t even argue this time.

She pulls something off the rack with a little gasp. “Oh my God.” You already know.

“Robin—”

She turns to you, holding it up with both hands like she just discovered something revolutionary.

A tiny sailor outfit. White and blue. Little collar. Miniature hat.

You stare at it. Then at her. Then back at it.

“…no,” you say immediately.

“Yes,” she counters, stepping closer—too close, not that either of you acknowledge it. “Look at it. Look at this. It’s perfect.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s iconic,” she corrects.

You can’t help it—you laugh, shaking your head. “You just want it because it matches your Scoops uniform.”

She gasps like you’ve deeply offended her.

“That is not the only reason.”

“It’s the only reason.”

“It’s a bonus,” she amends, already turning back to the rack like the argument is over. “And also, it’s important for bonding.”

“Bonding.”

“Yes.”

“With the bear.”

“With our child,” she says, like you’re the one being unreasonable.

You press your lips together, trying not to smile again. Failing.

She grabs a second outfit. Then a third. And suddenly her arms are full.

“Robin,” you say, reaching out instinctively to steady one of the hangers before it slips. Your fingers brush hers.

Neither of you pulls away immediately. Just for a second. Just long enough to notice.

Then you take the hanger from her like it’s the only reason your hand was there at all.

“You cannot possibly be serious,” you continue.

“I am completely serious,” she says, nodding once like that settles it. “This is a critical moment.”

You glance down at what she’s holding.

“…sunglasses?” you ask.

“Essential,” she says.

“For what?”

“Protection.”

“From what?”

“The sun.”

“We’re inside.”

“Preparation is key.”

You laugh again, softer this time, shaking your head as you hold up another tiny outfit from the rack.

“What about this one?” you ask, mostly just to see what she’ll say.

Robin leans in immediately. Too close.

Her shoulder presses into yours, her arm brushing along yours as she angles herself to look at what you’re holding. Her hair shifts slightly as she moves, and for half a second—

her breath is right there. Warm against your cheek.

“You have terrible taste,” she says quietly.

You turn your head just enough to look at her.

“You didn’t even give it a chance.”

“I didn’t need to.”

Her voice is lower now. Not intentionally. Just… softer under everything else. And you feel it anyway.

“Rude,” you murmur.

She hums like she doesn’t care, but she doesn’t move away. Not right away.

She lingers there for a second too long before pulling back just enough to grab another outfit.

It keeps happening like that. Little things.

You hand her something—your fingers brush.

She takes it—but slower than necessary. Her hand lingers just a fraction too long before letting go.

She leans in to show you something—her shoulder pressing into yours, her voice dropping slightly like it’s just for you even in a store full of people.

It’s soft. Too soft.

Almost dangerous in a place like this. And neither of you stops.

“Okay, but this—this is non-negotiable,” Robin says, holding up the sailor outfit again like she’s making a final ruling.

You sigh dramatically.

“Robin—”

“It matches me,” she says, like that alone should win the argument.

“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t get it.”

“That’s exactly why we should. Come on, you’d have something to remember me by if those kids ever kill me for Scoops sample.”

You look at her.

Really look at her.

The way she’s standing there, so earnest about something so small. The way she’s holding it like it matters. The way her eyes flick to you—not to win, but to share it.

“…you’re impossible,” you say, softer now.

She smiles. Not big. Just enough.

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward.

Just—

full.

And then—

“Are you two sisters?”

The voice comes from behind you. You both turn slightly. A worker stands there, smiling warmly, completely unaware of the way the question lands.

“Or best friends?” she adds.

And for a second—

everything stills.

It’s small. Barely noticeable from the outside. But it’s there. The pause.

You feel it in the way Robin doesn’t answer immediately.

In the way your fingers, still loosely holding one of the hangers, suddenly feel too aware of where her hand is next to yours.

You glance at her. She’s not looking at the worker. She’s looking at you. And something in her expression—

it softens.

Not hidden fast enough.

Not covered up with humor or deflection like she usually does.

Just… honest.

Open in a way that feels too big for a simple question.

“Yeah,” she says after a second.

Quiet.

“…something like that.”

Her eyes don’t leave yours when she says it.

Not for a second. It’s not defiance. It’s not a joke. It’s just—

the closest thing to the truth she can give out loud.

The worker smiles, nodding like that makes perfect sense.

“Well, you two are doing great,” she says warmly. “I love the choices of outfits.”

She gestures to the sailor outfit. Of course she does.

Then she moves on.

Just like that. The moment passes. But it doesn’t really pass. It settles.

Somewhere deeper.

You let out a small breath, shifting your weight slightly before bumping your shoulder into Robin’s.

“Something like that, huh?” you say lightly.

Robin immediately looks away.

“Okay, I didn’t— that’s not— I just—” she stumbles, words tripping over each other in a way that’s so completely her it almost makes you laugh again. “It was the easiest explanation!”

You grin. “Mm.”

“Don’t—don’t do that,” she mutters, ducking her head slightly like she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s smiling.

“Do what?”

“That.”

You laugh softly. She huffs, but it’s not real irritation. Never is with you.

Her hand shifts slightly as she adjusts the clothes she’s holding.

Your fingers brush again.

Neither of you moves away.

Not this time.

It lingers.

Just a second longer than it should.

Just long enough to mean something.

Robin clears her throat, like she’s trying to reset herself.

“Okay,” she says, a little too quickly. “Sailor outfit. Final decision.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“No more emotional depth analysis?”

“This one already has it,” she says firmly.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again.

“Of course it does.”

And just like that—

you both keep standing there. Too close. Too soft. Too careful. Like everything is balanced on something neither of you says out loud.

And neither of you wants to move away first.

꧁☆꧂

The decision, once it’s made, feels final in a way neither of you questions.

Robin clutches the little bundle of clothes and the now-stuffed bear like she’s afraid someone might take them back if she loosens her grip for even a second. You stay close as you make your way to the checkout, instinctively matching her pace, your shoulder brushing hers every few steps like it’s something your bodies decided on without consulting you.

The line is short.

Two people ahead of you.

A kid bouncing on their heels, a parent trying to wrangle them, the soft beep of the register scanning items one by one. It’s all normal. Mundane. The kind of thing that should ground the moment back into something simple.

It doesn’t.

Robin shifts beside you, adjusting her hold on the bear. Your eyes track the movement without thinking—the way her fingers smooth over the fabric again, absentminded, gentle. Like she’s reassuring it.

Like she’s reassuring herself.

“You’re holding it like it’s fragile,” you murmur.

She glances at you.

“It is fragile,” she says quietly. “It just got born.”

You huff out a soft laugh, looking away for a second so she doesn’t see how much that lands.

“Right. Of course.”

She nudges your shoulder lightly.

You nudge her back.

The line moves forward.

You step up together—close enough that your arms press from elbow to wrist for a second too long before either of you shifts. Not away. Just… adjusted. Enough to look normal.

Not enough to actually create space.

Robin sets everything on the counter carefully. The bear first. Then the little sailor outfit, smoothing it out like presentation matters.

You lean your elbows lightly against the edge of the counter, watching her.

She’s focused.

A little too focused.

Like if she looks busy enough, she won’t have to think about anything else still sitting between you from the last ten minutes.

The cashier smiles, scanning the items one by one. The soft beep echoes in the small space between you.

“Did you have fun today?” they ask, casual, warm.

Robin answers immediately.

“Yes,” she says, a little too quick, a little too bright. “Very educational experience.”

You bite back a smile.

“Educational?” you echo under your breath.

She elbows you lightly.

“I learned a lot about responsibility,” she mutters back.

“Mm. I’m sure you did.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real bite to it.

The total comes up.

You both reach for your wallets at the same time.

Pause.

Look at each other.

“No,” you both say at once.

You laugh.

Robin huffs.

“I’m paying,” she insists.

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“You picked it out.”

“Exactly,” she says, like that’s proof. “It’s my responsibility.”

“Our responsibility,” you correct softly.

That stops her.

Just for a second.

Her expression flickers—something warm, something quiet—and then she looks away again, shaking her head slightly.

“…fine,” she mutters. “We’re splitting it.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to.

The cashier finishes up, hands you the small bag with the bear tucked carefully inside, along with the folded outfit.

Robin takes it as soon as he sets it down.

Of course she does.

“Thank you,” she says, softer now. And then you’re moving again. Out of the store. Back into the mall.

The difference hits immediately. It’s quieter out here.

Not actually quieter—the mall is still full, still humming—but it feels quieter. Like stepping out of something contained and into open air again.

Like you can breathe a little easier.

Robin slows just slightly as you walk, her shoulder brushing yours again, automatically finding that same closeness without either of you acknowledging it.

You match her pace. Of course you do.

For a few seconds, neither of you says anything. You just walk.

The bag in her hands, the soft noise of footsteps around you, the glow of the mall lights stretching out ahead.

There’s something lingering. Not heavy.

Just… warm.

Like you’re both still inside that store in some small way. Still holding onto something you don’t want to name out loud.

Robin shifts the bag to one hand. Her other hand drops to her side. Close to yours.

Not touching. Not yet.

Your fingers brush first.

Light.

Accidental—enough to pass that way.

She doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you. It happens again. This time slower. More deliberate. Your pinky hooks around hers for a second—testing, the same way it always is.

She inhales softly. Then her fingers turn.

Interlacing with yours fully.

Quick. Subtle. Like she decided before she could talk herself out of it. Your hand fits into hers like it’s supposed to be there.

Natural. Easy.

You don’t look at her.

You don’t react in any way anyone else would notice. You just let your grip settle. Warm. Certain.

Robin exhales quietly beside you. Not tense. Not nervous. Just… softer.

She starts talking again after a second.

But it’s different now.

Quieter. Less performative. Like she’s not trying to fill space anymore—just sharing it.

“And I’m just saying,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing lightly against yours in a way that feels almost absentminded, “if this bear ends up having better emotional stability than me, I’m going to be deeply offended.”

You smile faintly, eyes still forward.

“I think that’s a very real possibility.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

She nudges your shoulder with hers again. You lean into it just slightly. Not enough for anyone to realize.

Enough that she feels it. Her hand tightens around yours for half a second. Then relaxes again.

Neither of you lets go. And the mall keeps moving around you.

People passing. Voices overlapping. Lights reflecting off the floor.

But you stay in your own little pocket of it. Close. Quiet.

Fingers laced together like it’s the most natural thing in the world—

as long as no one’s looking too closely.

꧁☆꧂

The mall doors slide open with a soft mechanical hum, and the world outside greets you differently than it did earlier.

Cooler.

Quieter.

Real.

The artificial brightness of the mall fades behind you, replaced by the dim glow of parking lot lights flickering on one by one as the sky dips further into evening. The air feels softer out here, like it’s not pressing in on you the same way.

And maybe it’s just that no one’s really looking.

Robin walks beside you, the bag swinging lightly from her wrist. Every few steps, it rustles—the faint crinkle of tissue paper inside—and she glances down at it like she needs to check that it’s still there.

Like it could disappear if she doesn’t.

You smile a little to yourself.

“You know it’s not going anywhere, right?”

She looks up at you immediately.

“I know,” she says, quick. Then, softer— “I just… want to make sure.”

You don’t tease her for that.

You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.

Because there’s something about the way she says it that feels like she’s not just talking about the bear.

Your shoulders brush as you walk.

Neither of you moves away.

The parking lot stretches out in front of you, rows of cars catching bits of yellow light, the distant sound of someone starting an engine somewhere far off. It feels bigger than it did earlier. Emptier.

Safer.

Robin's free hand still rests comfortably in yours, fingers interlinked, her thumb tracing little circles on your knuckles.

She wouldn’t dare let go.

You squeeze her hand once.

She squeezes back immediately.

And neither of you lets go. No one’s watching, anyway. What’s the harm?

Your car comes into view, sitting under a flickering light that hums quietly overhead.

Robin lets go of your hand only long enough for you to unlock it, and even then, her fingers trail against yours for as long as they can before slipping away.

You open the passenger door for her.

She pauses.

Looks at you.

There’s something soft in her expression—something quiet and full all at once.

“Thank you,” she says, like it means more than just the door.

You just nod a little, smiling.

“Anytime.”

She climbs in, immediately placing the bag carefully on her lap like it’s something fragile. Something important. She opens it just enough to peek inside, adjusting the bear slightly, smoothing down its tiny outfit like she’s making sure it’s comfortable.

You walk around to the driver’s side, sliding in, the familiar feel of the seat grounding in a way everything else tonight hasn’t been.

For a second, neither of you starts the car.

It’s quiet.

Just the faint ticking of cooling metal, the distant buzz of the parking lot lights, the soft rustle of tissue paper as Robin adjusts the bear again.

“You’re gonna wear it out before we even get home,” you murmur.

“I am making sure it is properly situated,” she replies immediately, serious. Then, after a beat— “It’s had a long day.”

You huff a quiet laugh, starting the engine.

The car hums to life.

Robin finally settles, placing the bear gently between you on the center console, one hand still resting lightly on it like she’s not ready to let go completely.

Like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there.

The drive starts slow.

The headlights cut through the dim parking lot as you pull out, the radio left low—barely there, just soft background noise blending into the quiet.

Robin leans back in her seat. Exhales.

The kind of exhale that feels like the end of something. Or maybe the beginning.

“You know,” she says after a moment, voice softer now, “that might have been the best decision I’ve ever made.”

You glance at her briefly.

“The bear?”

“Yes, the bear,” she says, like it’s obvious. Then—quieter— “And… everything else.”

Your chest tightens a little at that. You don’t say anything right away.

You just reach over, hand finding hers. Simple. Easy. Allowed now that no one can see you. The privacy of the car envelopes the two of you.

She takes it instantly, fingers curling around yours, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles like she needs the contact just as much as you do.

The bear sits between you, silent.

A witness.

A few minutes pass like that.

The road stretches out ahead in long, uninterrupted lines of asphalt and light, streetlamps sliding over the windshield in steady intervals like a quiet pulse. Inside the car, everything feels softened at the edges—the hum of the engine, the faint rattle of movement, the distant world outside you both thinning into something that barely exists.

Robin shifts beside you.

It’s not sudden. Not restless. More like she’s finally letting herself settle after holding too much tension for too long. The seatbelt creaks faintly as she adjusts, shoulder brushing the door, and then she turns just slightly toward you like it’s the most natural thing in the world to stop facing forward.

Her other hand—free now—finds you without hesitation.

It comes to rest on your thigh with a kind of quiet certainty that makes your breath catch before you can stop it. Not gripping. Not grabbing. Just there. Warm through the fabric, grounding in a way that feels almost startling in its simplicity.

Like she’s decided, without saying it, that she doesn’t need to pretend anymore.

You don’t move. You don’t look at her right away. It feels too fragile for that, like even acknowledgment might shift something out of place. But your fingers, still loosely intertwined with hers, tighten just slightly in response anyway—an instinct you don’t bother hiding.

She notices.

Of course she does.

There’s a small pause, barely a heartbeat, and then her thumb moves over your hand again. This time slower. Deliberate in a way that feels like her earlier hesitation has been replaced with something steadier, something more sure of itself.

It drags once over your knuckles, then again, like she’s tracing a language only the two of you understand. Not rushed. Not trying to lead anywhere. Just… staying. Learning the shape of you in the quiet.

Her leg shifts a fraction closer in the narrow space of the car, not enough to announce itself, just enough that you feel it—enough that the contact between you stops feeling like an accident of proximity and starts feeling like a choice she keeps making over and over again.

And when her thumb pauses for a second, pressing a little more firmly into your hand before easing again, it doesn’t feel like silence.

It feels like she’s speaking anyway.

“You’re staring,” you say after a moment, eyes still on the road.

There’s a pause.

“…I am not.”

You glance at her. She is. Completely.

Her head tilted slightly toward you, her expression open in a way she only ever lets herself be when it’s just the two of you.

You raise an eyebrow.

She looks away immediately.

“I was not,” she insists, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.

“Mmhm.”

“I wasn’t,” she repeats, weaker this time.

You smile. “Okay.”

A beat. Then, quieter—

“What?”

She looks back at you, cautious.

“What ‘what’?”

“That look,” you say softly. “What was that for?”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Then—

“…nothing.”

You don’t buy it. You don’t push it, either. Instead, you just glance at her again.

Smile a little.

“Just me, or something?” you add, gently.

And that—

that gets her.

Her entire face changes in an instant. Flustered. She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, turning toward the window like she can hide it.

“That is not fair,” she mutters.

You grin. “It’s true.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. Really smiling. The kind that lingers.

When stopped at a red light, you feel her shift closer to you.

She lifts the hand she had long since intertwined with yours, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. Her lips meet your skin with a gentleness you’d never expect to receive from such a casual, familiar gesture.

She’s kissed your hand before. Kissed far more than your hand, but it feels different each time.

You don’t think you’ll ever really get used to it. To any of this. Because Robin Buckley is the most perfect girl you’ve ever met.

And she’s yours.

She doesn’t look at you right away. Like she’s giving you a second to process it. 

When she does, her expression is soft. A little shy.

“…hi,” she says quietly.

You let out a breath that turns into a small laugh.

“Hi.”

The light turns green. You start driving again. But your hand stays in hers.

The rest of the drive feels like something suspended. Like time slowed down just enough to let you sit in it.

Robin keeps talking, but it’s different now. Quieter. Softer.

Stories that trail off into small laughs, into comfortable silence, into moments where neither of you says anything at all.

Just… exist. Her hand never leaves yours. Sometimes her thumb traces absent patterns against your skin.

Sometimes she just holds on, like she doesn’t want to risk losing it.

The car eventually turns onto your street. Familiar to the both of you. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels safe.

Robin shifts again, her hand tightening around yours just slightly. Like she’s holding onto the last bit of something.

The bear sits between you, still carefully positioned, its tiny outfit slightly wrinkled from being adjusted too many times.

You pull into the driveway. The engine idles for a second before you turn it off.

And suddenly—

it’s very still.

No music. No road. Just you. And her. And the quiet.

Robin doesn’t move right away. Neither do you. Your hands are still intertwined between you.

Her thumb brushes yours once more. Slow. Soft.

“…today was really good,” she says quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

A beat. Then, softer—

“I like this.”

You glance at her.

“What?”

She shrugs slightly, but she doesn’t look away.

“This,” she repeats. “Us. Doing dumb things and… not having to pretend as much.”

Your chest tightens again. In a good way. You squeeze her hand.

“Me too.”

She smiles. Small. But real. That smile that it seems Robin reserves for you and only you.

And then, after a second—

“I love you.”

It’s quiet. Simple. Like she’s been holding it in all night and finally let it out where it feels safe to exist.

You don’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

Her breath catches just slightly. Like it still surprises her every time. Even after months and months of being together.

She leans over the console a little, just enough to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

Then another. Closer to your jaw, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

You turn your head slightly—

and catch her lips with yours. It’s gentle. Slow.

Unhurried in a way nothing inside the mall ever was. No risk. No hiding.

Just warmth. Just her.

When you pull back, she’s smiling again.

Of course she is. She always is when it’s you.

“Okay,” she says after a moment, like she’s convincing herself. “We should… go inside.”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moves. She laughs quietly.

“Okay, seriously.”

“Yeah.”

Still—neither of you moves.

Finally, she pulls back, grabbing the bear carefully, holding it against her chest like it’s something precious.

Like it means something. Like you do.

You both get out of the car. The night air wraps around you again, cooler now, quieter.

Robin walks close beside you. So close your arms brush immediately.

And this time—neither of you even pretends not to notice.

The door closes behind you. The night settles.

And the world fades quietly around the two of you—

still soft, still warm, still yours.

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

guys i need HELP.

okay guys, so id like to start an au for robin buckley x reader, but im not sure what the au could be??? can people PLEASE give me some ideas??? cause like i want to do one where i can write the first part and then get requests for the next one i should write! so please, send me some requests with ideas for what the au could be! thanks!!!!!

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

i need HELP

okay guys, so id like to start an au for robin buckley x reader, but im not sure what the au could be??? can people PLEASE give me some ideas??? cause like i want to do one where i can write the first part and then get requests for the next one i should write! so please, send me some requests with ideas for what the au could be! thanks!!!!!

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

i need HELP

okay guys, so id like to start an au for robin buckley x reader, but im not sure what the au could be??? can people PLEASE give me some ideas??? cause like i want to do one where i can write the first part and then get requests for the next one i should write! so please, send me some requests with ideas for what the au could be! thanks!!!!!

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

what type of requests are you wanting for robin? like established!relationship, fluff, angst?? cause im so desperate for fics

literally ANY requests!!!!

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

gang i need requests RIGHT NOW.

i’m in such bad block and i want to write for robin buckley so bad but i NEED ideas on what to write. can you PLEASE leave requests in my inbox? thanks gang!

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

HITS DIFFERENT / steve harrington

it hits different, it hits different cause it’s you.

summary- moving on from guys had always been easier for you. minor setbacks. nothing major. but this time hit different than it normally did. and it wasn't just by chance. it was because of him. steve harrington.

word count- 8.7k

contains- angst, breakup, drinking underage, emotional spiral, protective robin, heavy alcohol use, drinking, partying, robin being literally the best, vomiting, fluff, kissing, really happy ending after all the angst i promise!

author's note- based on taylor swift's "hits different", one of my FAVES. this was SOOOO fun to write! please please PLEASE leave me some requests or things you enjoyed! my ask box is open!!! thank you SOOO much for reading, i hope you enjoy this as much as i did while writing!

April, 1986

You and Steve had been a thing for a long while.

It wasn’t a casual thing. Not temporary in the slightest. If you asked anyone, they would say they believed it would last.

Dustin would say Steve was way too in love with you to ever think about ending things.

Robin would say you were way too in love with Steve to ever think about ending things.

Anyone in the party could tell you that.

Until things stopped being things.

You’d gotten into a stupid fight when things started heating up in the Upside Down. He had been overprotective. You’d seen it as he didn't believe in you. He’d seen it as his way of showing his care. You brought it up and things exploded.

You thought he didn’t trust you. He told you it wasn’t that. You had pushed him and he got defensive. Then came the dreaded “Maybe we just aren’t right for each other anymore.” 

After those words were out, you couldn’t take them back. No matter how hard you wished to. No matter how much you didn’t mean them. 

Silence.

It’s not like you wanted things to end. You were both afraid of what was going on beneath Hawkins. Afraid of losing each other.

Despite it, that was the end. 

You left his house with tears running down your face. You’d spent years walking into that house like it was yours. You never thought you’d walk out of it alone.

You walked home alone through the rain, water drenching your clothes, the droplets soaking in and running deep like your feelings. It felt like a miracle when the familiar car of your best friend, Robin, rolled up beside you.

Obviously you were soaked. It’s April. It's always raining. 

But she could tell you were crying. She knew something had happened. She wasn’t ever the best with social cues. Not in kindergarten, not in elementary school, not in middle school, and not in high school. But she knows you like the back of her hand.

The headlights slowed beside you. The car door flew open before you could pretend you were fine.

“Okay,” she said carefully, taking in your soaked clothes and shaking hands. “What happened?”

You tried to swallow it down. You really did. You didn’t want her to hear the tremble in your voice.You didn’t want her to know just how terrible you felt right now.

“It’s over.”

The words sounded wrong out loud. Too small for what they meant.

Robin blinked. She knew you meant Steve. “Over like… over over?”

You nodded.

She didn’t ask anything else.

Just stepped closer, hand on your back as she gently guided you towards the passenger seat. “Get in. You look like a drowned Victorian child.”

Despite everything, a broken laugh escaped you. She had a way of making you feel better.

She cranked the heat the second the door shut, tossing her jacket over your shoulders.

For a few blocks, neither of you said anything.

She turned toward your street. It made you sick.

Thinking of having to face the memories of Steve that lingered on every surface of your house felt like a prison sentence. You can’t do it.

“Don’t,” you said.

Robin glanced over. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t take me home.”

She hesitated. This wasn’t good and she knew it.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “So where are we going?”

You stared out the windshield, rain blurring the world into something unrecognizable.

“Somewhere loud.”

Robin made a face. “That’s never a good sentence.”

“I need a bar. Or a party.”

She laughed once — short and disbelieving. “You are seventeen, I’m not taking you to a bar.”

“Robin, I said a bar or a party. I know Laurens having one tonight.”

The way you said it made her grip the steering wheel tighter.

She sighed. She didn’t think it was a good idea, but who was she to refuse you this? You just broke up with your boyfriend of multiple years. Clearly, an escape is needed.

“Lauren’s house is already going to be a disaster,” she muttered. “You crying in a corner might actually improve the vibe.”

You let out a weak huff of laughter, staring at your hands twisted in your lap.

“I don’t want to cry,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t want to think.”

Robin’s jaw tightened at that. She understood more than you realized.

“Okay,” she said finally, giving in and flicking on her blinker and turning away from your street. “We go for an hour. You get loud music. You get bad punch. And the second you start spiraling, I’m dragging you out.”

You nodded, even though you both knew she’d stay as long as you needed.

“And,” she added, glancing at you, “if anyone even looks at you wrong tonight, I will ruin their life.”

That made you smile properly this time.

The car sped up slightly, rain tapping against the windshield in uneven rhythms.

You leaned your head against the cold glass, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. And for a second, just a second, you thought about Steve sitting alone in his room.

You pushed the thought away.

Somewhere loud. That’s all you needed.

i washed my hands of us, at the club.

You hadn’t meant to get that drunk tonight.

“Just enough to forget.” That’s what you told yourself. A couple drinks, loud music filling your ears, that should be enough.

Lauren’s house was already pulsing when you walked in.

Music thumped through the walls, bass rattling picture frames. The living room lights were off, replaced by mismatched lamps and Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling. Why they were there in the middle of April, you’ve got no clue.

The air smelled like cheap perfume, sweat, and whatever sugary disaster was being served in red plastic cups.

Robin stayed close behind you as you stepped inside.

“Okay,” she muttered near your ear. “Ground rules. You do not disappear. You do not chug anything handed to you by a guy you don’t know. And—”

You were already reaching for a cup.

She grabbed your wrist lightly. “Maybe start slow?”

“I am starting slow,” you said, pulling free and taking a long swallow.

It burned.

Good.

You barely tasted it.

Someone shouted your name. Someone else pulled you into a quick hug. The music was loud enough that you didn’t have to talk much, which was perfect.

Robin lingered at your side for the first twenty minutes.

You finished your first cup too fast.

Then another.

“Okay,” Robin said, watching you refill. “Maybe alternate with water?”

You shook your head. “Water’s boring.”

“This is how hangovers are born.”

“I don’t care.”

You didn’t.

Because every time the music dipped for even half a second, every time you didn’t have a drink in hand, your brain filled the space with him.

Steve standing in his room.

Steve running a hand through his hair.

Steve saying maybe we just aren’t right for each other anymore.

Your throat tightened.

You tipped the cup back again.

Robin saw it that time.

She stepped closer. “Hey. Slow down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

You laughed — too loud, too sharp. “You’re right. I’m fantastic, actually. Best night of my life.”

Another refill.

Your words were starting to blur together. The room felt softer around the edges. Warmer. Easier. When someone bumped into you, you stumbled slightly, catching yourself on the wall.

Robin’s hand was on your elbow immediately.

“Okay,” she said more firmly now. “You’ve had enough.”

“I haven’t even—” you squinted at your cup like it offended you. “I haven’t even had that much.” Every word slurred into the next, sentences dragging on.

“You can barely stand.”

“I can so—” You pushed away from the wall to prove it and immediately swayed.

Robin caught you again.

Your laugh came out wobbly. “See? M’so balanced.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick.” Her voice held such worry for you that it almost made you want to stop. To not drink another thing that night.

But a thought of him crept its way in. You knew you needed more to forget.

You leaned closer to her, lowering your voice like it was a secret.

“I just need it to be quiet in my head.”

You pointed to your skull, a small, tipsy smile spreading on your face, though you looked almost upset.

That did it.

Her expression shifted.

Someone turned the music up even louder. The floor vibrated. You felt that ache in your chest again — sharp and sudden.

You saw him in your mind like he was standing across the room.

You swallowed hard.

You pulled away from Robin and grabbed another drink off the kitchen counter without even checking what it was.

“Hey—” she started.

You drank it anyway.

Because if you were drunk enough, maybe you wouldn’t picture him.

Maybe you wouldn’t wonder if he was regretting it. Maybe you wouldn’t start crying in the middle of Lauren’s stupid living room.

The room spun slightly when you turned back toward the music.

Robin stepped in front of you this time.

“That’s it,” she said quietly. “You’re done.” She tried to reach for the cup you were holding, but you moved your arm back.

You tried to glare at her, but it probably looked more like a confused squint.

“M’not done,” you slurred. “He doesn’t get to just— just—”

Suddenly the room felt too loud.

Because they were playing your song. You and Steve’s song. Time After Time, Cyndi Lauper. Over the years of your relationship, you’d claimed that it was fitting. Of course, he went along. He would go along with anything you said.

It played years ago at your school dance, where the two of you solidified your relationship. Ever since, it’s been your song.

And now you’re picturing him again. You can’t stay in here. Can’t stay as the lyrics and the backtracks fill the room.

Just seconds ago, you told Robin that you were fine. That you wanted to keep drinking and stay at the party and forget.

But now, you couldn't neglect the events from earlier. The music filled your head, forcing you to confront it all. 

You practically begged her to take you home after that.

i pictured you with other girls, in love. then threw up on the street.

Robin took you home after that. She knew it wouldn’t be fair to make you sit through that song.

Just like she knew she couldn’t let you drink another thing.

She didn’t say “I told you so.”

She didn’t say anything at all as she guided you out of the house, one hand firm on your back so you wouldn’t stumble off the porch. The cold air hit you immediately, sharp and sobering in the worst way.

The song was still faintly audible from inside.

You swallowed hard.

She helped you into the passenger seat, buckled you in when your fingers fumbled too much to manage it yourself.

Must’ve been the spiked punch causing you to shake.

Or maybe the many cans (you had lost count) of beer.

Possibly the whiskey you’d drank.

Or it could’ve been the drinks you took from the counters without knowing their contents.

Maybe it was all of them.

The drive started quiet.

Only the hum of the engine. The steady sweep of windshield wipers. Rain streaking across the glass like it hadn’t done enough damage already tonight.

You leaned your head against the window again, cold glass coming into contact with your burning skin.

Everything felt heavy. Your body. Your chest. Your thoughts.

Robin kept glancing over at you, worry written between every line of her face.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

You nodded too quickly.

Big mistake. The pain splitted through your skull, like lightning striking your temples. The world tilted slightly as the alcohol blurred the edges of reality. That's when the big problems started.

You pictured him.

Not how he looked earlier — red-eyed, frustrated, scared.

No.

You pictured him laughing.

You pictured him at Scoops, leaning over the counter like he used to, flashing that stupid charming smile at some girl with glossy hair and perfect teeth. Some girl who always made you feel insecure. Some girl you envied with everything in you.

You pictured her touching his arm.

You pictured him not pulling away.

Your stomach twisted.

You hated it. Hated yourself for thinking it. Hated that your brain wouldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t move on that fast.

He wouldn’t.

But what if he did?

While no, he didn’t work at Scoops anymore, and no, he wasn’t working a shift tonight, he would be in the morning.

What if there was some girl at Family Video tomorrow? What if he smiled at her the way he used to smile at you? What if she didn’t argue with him about being overprotective? What if she thought it was sweet?

Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe. Inhaling got harder the more you thought.

You pressed your forehead harder into the glass.

“I hate this,” you muttered.

Robin glanced at you. “Hate what?”

You shook your head, but the images wouldn’t stop.

Now it was worse.

Now you were picturing him slow dancing with someone else. Her hands around his neck. His forehead resting against hers, arms slid low around her waist. Swaying like the two of you at the dance a few years back.

In the back, Time After Time played low on his record player. 

On the vinyl he bought just for you. Because he knew it was your favorite song. He knew it was your song.

You pictured her in his room. Wearing his faded, grey t-shirt that you’d always steal from him.

In his bed. On the same side you’d lay.

Your stomach lurched violently.

“Pull over,” you said suddenly, already rolling down the window of her car.

Robin didn’t hesitate. She swerved toward the curb immediately.

You barely got the window down in time.

It happened fast. Messy. Unceremonious. Rain mixed with your vomit on the pavement. 

Robin reached across you instinctively, holding your hair back even though most of it was out the window anyway.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Okay. Breathe.”

“I pictured him,” you whispered hoarsely, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “With other girls. In love.”

The words broke halfway through. Almost as if the thought made you want to puke your guts out again. You stopped yourself.

“He’s not doing that. Sure, he’s a dingus, but not that much of a dingus.” She told you, gathering your hair and brushing it back behind your ears.

“You don’t know that,” you choked out, turning from the window to face her. “What if he doesn’t even miss me?”

Her jaw clenched.

“Steve Harrington?” she scoffed quietly. “He’s probably staring at his ceiling right now like the world ended.”

You let out a small, miserable laugh that turned into another shaky breath.

Rain kept falling. The streetlight above you flickered.

Your stomach still churned, but it wasn’t just the alcohol anymore. It was the grief. The jealousy. The unbearable not knowing.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” you admitted quietly. “Even when I try.”

“I know,” she said, a painful smile on her lips. 

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t start the car again yet.

Just kept her hand steady at the back of your head while the rain washed the street clean.

After a minute, she reached into the glove compartment and handed you a napkin from inside it. “Next time,” she muttered, trying to lighten it, “we spiral without whiskey. Or beer.”

You huffed weakly.

She started the car again.

You leaned back into the seat, exhausted now. Drained. Your head lolled slightly toward her.

Robin kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift like she was ready to reach for you again if needed.

Neither of you said anything else.

The rain kept falling. The radio hummed low.

And even through the nausea and the blur and the ache, he was still there in your mind.

each bar plays our song, nothing has ever felt so wrong.

The rest of the drive wasn’t too bad.

You’d somehow found a way to turn off your head, to stop the spiral of thoughts in your mind.

You hardly thought of Steve as Robin drove you home.

Everything was peaceful. Until it was.

Robin reached forward absentmindedly, twisting the volume knob on the radio.

Static cracked for half a second.

And then—

“Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick…”

It was quiet. Soft. Barely even loud enough to matter. But you knew it instantly.

Your entire body went rigid.

Robin did too.

 There it was. Time After Time. Your song, again.

“Oh, no—” she muttered, fingers fumbling with the dial before she managed to turn it off. Silence fell over the car. Heavier than you’d hoped.

Too late.

You had already heard it.

Just those first few notes were enough. Enough to pull you right back to the gymnasium lights at your first dance. To his hands at your waist. To the way he’d smiled at you like there was no one else in the room.

Nothing has ever felt so wrong.

Not the fight. Not the drinking. Not even throwing up on the side of the road.

Robin cleared her throat. “Okay. That’s banned. Radio’s canceled. Forever.”

You stared straight ahead.

You tried to laugh.

It didn’t come out right.

“I’m sorry.” she muttered, suddenly feeling as though it was her fault the universe was against you.

“It’s fine,” you said quietly.

It was far from fine.

Every stupid place in this town has played it at some point. School dances. The skating rink. Family barbecues. The grocery store last summer when he spun you around in aisle seven because it came on over the speakers.

You knew you wouldn’t ever be able to escape him.

Not when that song was looming over your life in every corner.

The car felt smaller now.

Colder.

Robin didn’t turn the radio back on. God, she wouldn’t dare.

She drove the rest of the way in silence, like she was guarding you from the world.

But the melody was already stuck in your head.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t turn that off.

"oh my, love is a lie." shit my friends say to get me by.

Robin pulled up in front of your house but didn’t turn the engine off right away.

The porch light was on even though no one was home. Your dad was away on one of his multiple month long business trips. Your mom was working until morning at the hospital.

She glanced over at you. Your makeup was smeared. Your hair a mess. Eyes glassy and swollen. Clearly the night had taken a toll on you.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Here’s what we’re not going to do.”

You sniffed. “What?”

“We’re not going to decide that this means you’re unlovable. Or doomed. Or cursed by some ancient Greek tragedy.”

You gave her a weak look, lips pursed together. “Feels a little Greek tragedy-ish.” You mutter, nodding your head.

She exhaled through her nose.

“Love is a lie,” she declared suddenly, dramatic and flat, hands hitting her thighs. “A capitalist construct designed to sell greeting cards and slow dance tickets.”

Despite yourself, you let out a tiny huff, turning your head to her.

She softened immediately.

“I’m serious,” she said, quieter now. “It’s just brain chemicals. You’ll detox. You’ll be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

You stared down at your hands.

“Love is a lie.” you repeated faintly, almost to yourself, like if you said it enough it could become true.

Robin reached over, squeezing your shoulder, pulling your eyes back to her.

“That’s right. Total scam.”

She didn’t mean it. You knew she didn’t mean it.

She was just trying to build a life raft out of sarcasm and hand it to you.

“I’m walking you in,” she said, killing the engine.

Inside, the house was too quiet. Too normal.

Robin hovered while you kicked your shoes off clumsily, steadying you when you swayed.

“You good?” she asked.

You nodded. You could tell she didn’t believe you.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” she said carefully. “And if you start spiraling, you call me. I don’t care if it’s three a.m.”

You nodded again.

She hesitated at the door.

Then, softer, “This doesn’t get to ruin you, okay?”

The door clicked shut behind her, silence rushing in.

You stood there for a moment.

The house felt heavier without her.

Without him.

“Love is a lie.” you whispered again, leaning back against the door. You almost believed it.

It would be easier if you did.

If love wasn’t real, then this wouldn’t hurt so much. But if love was fake, then what you had with Steve wasn’t real either.

And that thought made your chest cave in.

You slid down the door slowly, sitting on the floor.

“It’s just shit she says to get me by,” you muttered to the empty room.

Because Robin doesn’t believe love is a lie.

And neither do you.

Not really.

That’s the problem.

May, 1986

It’s been a month since you and Steve broke things off.

Doesn’t mean it’s stopped hurting you.

In fact, it actually hurts worse than it did before.

Because you keep wondering why he didn’t come back.

Why doesn't he miss you. If he ever will miss you. If he’s moved on.

There are so many things you wish you could ask him. But you can’t.

and I never don't cry at the bar, yeah, my sadness is contagious.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of pretending you were fine. Weeks of avoiding certain streets. Weeks of Robin watching you like you might crack open at any second.

So when she said, “It’s just for an hour. Graduation thing. I know the bartender. We’ll stand in the back. You don’t even have to drink,”

You told yourself you could handle it.

Robin knew some people from band who were a grade above you both. That’s why you were going. For Robin.

It still felt wrong to go anywhere associated with Steve.

It was his grade. What if he was there? 

You hoped with everything in you that he wouldn’t be.

The Hideout smelled like beer and cigarettes and sweat. Seniors crowded the tiny dance floor, celebrating freedom like Hawkins wasn’t still sitting on top of something monstrous.

Robin stayed close to you. Closer than usual.

You leaned against the wall, nursing something weak that she’d insisted on ordering herself.

It contained barely any alcohol.

That was the difference between you and Robin. She could handle alcohol. You couldn’t. Not since the night after you broke up with Steve.

You have to get shitfaced to feel anything. And by the time that happens, you’ve already lined yourself up for terrible hang overs and puking your guts up.

“See?” she said. “You’re fine. I told you coming here would be okay.”

You nodded.

You almost believed her.

Across the room, someone was laughing too hard. A couple was pressed close near the music table, the girl’s hands looped behind the guy’s neck.

He whispered something to the guy running the songs over her shoulder before his attention was completely on her again.

You tried not to look. But now, you were curious.

The kid running the table put on a new record, one that looked strangely familiar.

The second it started, your chest tightened.

Time After Time. 

It seemed like the song followed you everywhere you went. You could never get away from synth cords in the back tracks.

You watched how her face lit up when it played. How he smiled watching how excited she quickly became. It was clear that he’d gotten the song played just for her.

You saw yourself and Steve in them.

You had to turn away.

You stared at your drink. Never would you have guessed it would hurt this long.

You thought by May you’d be better.

You thought by May you’d be annoyed when someone said his name. That you’d be able to walk into a room and not scan it for him automatically.

But there you were.

Scanning.

Robin noticed before you said anything.

She always did.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You nodded too fast. Your throat tightened anyway.

Across the room, the couple by the table started slow dancing properly now. The girl rested her head on his chest.

And it hit you.

Steve had done that once.

At that stupid winter formal with the same song playing in the back.

He’d rested his chin on top of your head and whispered, “If we break up, I’m never dancing again.”

You laughed then.

You didn’t laugh now.

Your vision blurred.

You blinked hard.

Too late.

Tears slipped down before you could stop them.

Robin swore under her breath. Of course, she’d heard the song. She just hoped you didn’t.

Hey, hey—” She stepped in front of you slightly, blocking your view. “Don’t do that. Come on, look at me.”

You tried.

The shift was immediate.

Robin’s face fell. The joking edge disappeared. Her shoulders tightened.

Now she looked like she was hurting too. It’s like she was catching your sadness.

“I didn’t think it would still feel like this,” you admitted, voice cracking. “It’s been a month.”

“That’s not that long,” she said quickly.

“It feels like it is.”

Around you, people were still laughing.

Still dancing.

Still moving on.

You weren’t.

You wiped your cheeks angrily.

“I feel like I never don’t cry.” you muttered bitterly. “At a party. Or a bar. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

Robin gave you a sad smile. “Well, you’re very committed to the bit.”

You let out a broken sound that was almost a laugh.

But she was right.

Every time you tried to be normal, it ended like this.

You thinking of him.

You crying.

Robin getting quiet because she didn’t know how to fix it.

Your sadness was contagious.

It leaked into every room.

“I can’t keep doing this to you,” you whispered.

Robin’s expression hardened.

“Doing what?”

“Ruining everything.”

“You are not ruining anything,” she said immediately. “You’re heartbroken. That’s different.”

The song swelled again.

Someone cheered.

You pressed your palms to your eyes.

“I thought I was better at this,” you said. “I used to be better at this.”

Robin wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “But this one mattered.”

That was the problem.

That was always the problem.

Across the room, the couple laughed again.

You couldn’t watch.

That's when you started to drink again. You just couldn’t handle the thoughts. You ordered something you didn’t even know the contents of, just that it had a high percentage of alcohol.

That's what you need right now. An escape.

i slur your name till someone puts me in a car,

The first shot burned. The second didn’t.

That was how you knew you were in trouble.

The alcohol hit your bloodstream fast — too fast. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept properly in weeks. You’d been living on coffee and grief. Robin noticed the switch immediately.

“Okay,” she said cautiously, watching you tip back your third shot glass. “Slow down.”

“I’m going slow,” you insisted, even though you absolutely were not. Your voice already sounded thicker. Warmer. Edges blurred.

The music felt louder now. The lights fuzzier. The room softer.

And for a second — just a second — it worked.

Your chest didn’t feel so tight. Your head didn’t feel so loud. You laughed at something Robin said. Too hard. Too long. See? You were fine.

Until you weren’t.

Because across the room, someone shouted a name that sounded almost like his. And your brain filled in the rest.

Steve.

It was like your body reacted before your mind could.

“Steve wouldn’t—” you started, words tangling together.

Robin stiffened. “What?”

You blinked at her like she’d interrupted something important.

“He wouldn’t dance like that,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward nothing. “He— he always— he always does that thing with his shoulders first. Like he thinks he’s smooth.”

You giggled. It didn’t sound right.

Robin stepped closer.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Maybe let’s switch to water.”

You ignored her.

“Steve,” you said again, testing the name in your mouth like it was something you weren’t supposed to have anymore.

It came out wrong. Soft but broken.

You laughed again, but your eyes were glassy now.

“You know what’s funny?” you said, leaning in too close to Robin. “He said he’d never dance again if we broke up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. Robin swallowed.

“That was a dumb thing for him to say,” she muttered.

You shook your head.

“No, no, it wasn’t dumb. It was sweet. He’s sweet.” Your face crumpled slightly. “He’s so— He’s not coming to this stupid thing! He’s—“

You lost the words halfway through. Instead, you said his name again.

Slower this time.

“Steeeve.”

It dragged out. Slurred. Heavy.

Robin grabbed your arm gently.

“Come on, you’ve got to stop thinking about him.”

But you were past that point.

You were at the part where the alcohol doesn’t numb — it magnifies.

Every feeling got bigger.

The music got louder. The lights got harsher. The ache got deeper.

“Steve,” you said again, louder now.

A couple of people nearby glanced over.

Robin’s jaw tightened.

“Shhh,” she said. “Hey, Steve isn’t here.”

You shook your head, stubborn.

“No, he— he doesn’t get to just— just—” Your words collapsed into themselves. “He doesn’t get to stop loving me.”

That was it.

That was the thing you hadn’t said out loud yet.

Robin’s expression changed.

You swayed slightly.

She steadied you.

“I still love him,” you said, blinking up at her like this was breaking news. “Rob, I still— I still—”

Your throat closed. Tears spilled fast this time. And you kept saying it.

His name.

Over and over, each time more slurred.

“Stev— Stee—” you huffed frustratedly. “Why can’t I say it right?”

You laughed again. Then you cried harder.

A senior near the bar looked at you weird. Someone whispered something. Robin shot them a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“That’s it,” she said quietly. “We’re done.”

You tried to protest.

“M’not done,” you mumbled. “I need another—”

“No, you need a bed,” she said firmly.

You shook your head, wobbling.

“I need him.”

That one was barely audible, but she heard it.

Her face softened. She wrapped your arm over her shoulder.

“Okay,” she muttered. “We’re leaving before you confess your eternal love to the entire graduating class.”

You didn’t argue this time. You just kept whispering his name under your breath as she guided you toward the door.

“Steve. Steve. Steve.”

Like if you said it enough, he might appear.

The cool night air hit your face and you gasped dramatically.

Robin practically dragged you to the car. You were still talking.

Still slurring.

“Y’know what he smells like?” you said suddenly, deeply serious.

“Oh my god,” Robin muttered.

“He smells like— like hairspray and mint gum and— and summer.”

She opened the passenger door. You try to slide into the seat but you almost miss it entirely.

She caught you before you fell, steadying you at the waist.

“Okay,” she said through gritted teeth. “Sit.”

You obeyed… mostly. She buckled you in because your hands kept missing the latch. You blinked at her slowly.

“You think he misses me?” you asked.

The question was so small. So sober in its drunkenness. Yet she didn’t have an answer for you. She couldn’t tell you if he did or didn’t. The door closed gently.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she got in the driver’s seat, starting the engine of her car. As she pulled out of the parking lot, you pressed your forehead to the window.

The glass was cool.

Comforting.

You whispered his name again.

Softer now. Like you were afraid it might shatter if you said it too loud.

Robin gripped the steering wheel.

She hated this. Hated watching you unravel. Hated that she couldn’t fix it.

Behind her, the bar lights faded in the rearview mirror.

In the passenger seat, you were still murmuring:

“Steve.”

And this time, your voice broke completely.

June, 1986

Ever since that day you’d gotten drunk at the senior party, you hadn’t touched an ounce of alcohol.

The waves of hurt came back every now and then when there was a reminder of him, but you’d grown to deal with the pain in different ways.

It’s been two months now.

Two months since the break up.

Schools out, meaning it shouldn’t hurt much anymore. Less seeing him. Less hearing about him. Less forced proximity.

But it doesn’t hurt less.

Because in those months, you had something to hold onto.

But now? Now it just feels like he's gone completely. Like what little of him you had has disappeared before your eyes.

The weight behind your ribs hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s only intensified.

i find the artifacts, cried over a hat.

Your house felt bigger in the summer. Emptier. The air was heavier, like it was holding its breath.

You told yourself you were cleaning.

That was the excuse.

School was out. Closets needed sorting. Shelves needed dusting. You needed something to do with your hands.

Because when they were idle, they reached for things they shouldn’t.

Like bottles.

The box had been under your bed since April. You’d shoved it there the night after the break up.

Not thrown away.

Just… hidden.

Out of sight.

You hadn’t been brave enough to look.

Until now.

You knelt on the floor slowly, the wood warm against your knees. Reached under the bed. Your fingers brushed cardboard.

You froze.

Your pulse quickened like you’d touched something alive.

It was ridiculous.

It was just a box.

But it felt heavier when you dragged it out. Like it knew what it contained.

You sat back on your heels.

Stared at it. Two months. You’d survived over two months. You could survive this.

You lifted the lid. The smell hit first.

Not strong. Not obvious.

But faintly familiar.

Laundry detergent. Old paper. A trace of something like cologne that had long since faded but hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Your chest tightened.

Right on top was a movie ticket stub.

You picked it up carefully.

Back to the Future.

July, 1985.

You could see it instantly—

The two of you squeezed into the back row. Steve whispering dumb commentary in your ear. His arm draped around you. The way he laughed too loud during the skateboard scene.

You’d shushed him.

He’d kissed your temple in retaliation.

You’d kept the ticket because he’d drawn your initials with a plus sign between them, surrounded by a heart. 

Your thumb traced the faded ink.

You set it down gently beside you.

Under it was a cassette tape.

Handwritten label.

“Road Trip Mix – S.H.”

Your throat went dry.

You remembered that drive.

Windows down. Summer air loud and warm. Him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel off beat. You yelling at him for skipping your favorite track.

He’d said, “I made this for you, you menace.”

You’d said, “Exactly. For me. Don’t skip the best songs!” and hit his shoulder playfully.

He’d laughed.

You pressed the tape to your chest for a second before placing it down too.

Next—

A hoodie.

Dark blue.

Too big for you.

You didn’t have to unfold it to know that it was his.

You’d stolen it one night when you’d fallen asleep on his couch. He’d let you keep it.

You lifted it slowly.

Brought it to your face.

The scent was faint now. Almost gone.

That hurt worse somehow.

You remembered sitting in the passenger seat wearing it. Sleeves swallowing your hands. Him glancing over at red lights like you were the best thing he’d ever seen.

“You look better in my clothes than I do,” he’d said once.

You’d rolled your eyes.

But you wore it every chance you got.

You folded it carefully and set it aside.

Underneath that—

A polaroid.

Your breath caught.

It was taken at the lake two summers ago.

Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your head tilted toward his. Sunburn across both your noses. Water dripping from your hair.

You were laughing at something outside the frame.

He wasn’t looking at the camera.

He was looking at you.

You stared at it too long. Set it face down.

You dug deeper. A folded note.

You unfolded it slowly.

His handwriting. Slanted and messy.

“Stop overthinking everything. You’re braver than you think. I believe in you.”

Your vision blurred instantly. You remembered the day.

You’d been panicking about everything happening in Hawkins. Convinced you weren’t strong enough.

He’d pressed that note into your hand before you left.

“I mean it,” he’d said quietly.

You swallowed hard. Your hands shook now. You kept going.

A cheap plastic bracelet from the carnival.

You remembered him winning it for you and acting like it was diamond.

A crumpled receipt from Family Video with your names scribbled in the corner.

A matchbook from The Hideout from the first time he’d taken you somewhere that wasn’t Scoops or the movies.

Each thing a portal.

You weren’t imagining it. It had been real.

You were still sitting there, surrounded by artifacts of a relationship that felt archaeological now, when your fingers brushed fabric again.

White with navy letters.

You knew before you fully saw it.

Your breathing changed.

Slow. Careful.

Like approaching something fragile.

You lifted it. The Scoops Ahoy hat.

Well, not the Scoops hat, but one of them. He had two. Since he was at your place before work on too many occasions to count, he left one there in case he was in a rush and had to take the back up.

Bright white. Blue trim. Slightly bent at one corner.

You stared at it like it might blink. It shouldn’t have hit you this hard.

It was stupid. A costume.

You remembered the first day he wore it. How dramatically offended he’d been about the shorts. How you’d teased him mercilessly.

“Ahoy, sailor,” you’d said, tipping the hat off his head.

He’d grabbed your wrist and pulled you close over the counter when no one was looking. “You better behave,” he’d murmured.

You’d laughed into his shoulder.

You remembered sitting on the counter after closing, stealing cherries from the topping bar while he counted the register.

You remembered the way he’d adjust the hat in the mirror and ask, “Be honest. Do I pull this off? I feel like it’s blowing my best feature.”

You’d told him yes every time.

You remembered leaning over the counter one slow afternoon, watching him argue with Robin.

You remembered the way he’d lean his elbows on the glass and grin at you like you were in on some private joke.

You remembered how proud he’d been the day he got out of that job. How you’d told him he deserved better. How he’d kissed you in the parking lot after his last shift.

The hat trembled in your hands.

And suddenly— You couldn’t breathe.

This one artifact, those stupid string of memories it brought, it was undoing you.

The fact that there had been so many normal days. So many moments that weren’t dramatic.

Just him.

You pressed the hat to your chest. Your shoulders started shaking before you even realized you were crying.

Not the loud kind. Not the hysterical kind.

The quiet, breaking apart kind.

You bent forward slowly, curling over it like you were protecting something. Because in a way, you were. You were protecting what it had meant.

Your tears soaked into the fabric. You thought about how careful he’d been with you.

How much he’d tried. How scared he’d been of losing you. How you’d both said things you didn’t mean.

You thought about the crease by his eyes when he smiled. The way he pushed his hair back. The way he said your name when he was tired.

Grief lived in the details. You understood that now.

You pressed your forehead to the brim of the hat.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered to the empty room.

But the weight behind your ribs shifted slightly. Not lighter. Just clearer.

You weren’t moving on. You weren’t healing. You were still in it. And that was the truth.

July, 1986

Three months.

Three months and somehow, you still hadn't come to terms with any of this.

You still haven't drank any more alcohol, but the pounding of your head and the way you always stood shakily would suggest otherwise.

You had gotten a little better at masking it all, though.

Still, you couldn't ever imagine yourself with another guy. Couldn't imagine waking up beside someone new. Couldn't imagine going to a winter formal with an unfamiliar face.

You couldn't imagine a life without Steve.

i heard your key turn in the door, down the hallway.

The house was too quiet again.

Summer had a way of stretching the hours thin. The cicadas outside buzzed lazily in the heat, sunlight pooling golden across the hardwood floors. Your parents were both gone—your dad still out of town, your mom working a double shift.

You hadn’t planned to remember what today was.

You truly hadn’t.

But when you’d woken up that morning and looked at the calendar pinned beside your desk, it had been circled in faded blue ink.

July 14th.

You’d circled it when you got the calendar. When you were still together. One year since your first official date. Not the dance. Not the “are we?” phase.

The real one.

The night he’d shown up at your door with flowers he’d very obviously bought from Melvald’s and tried to pretend were expensive.

You’d forgotten to erase the circle. So now it sat there. Mocking you.

You told yourself it was stupid to care.

You told yourself anniversaries didn’t count when you weren’t together anymore.

You told yourself it was just a date. A random day of 

But all day, everything felt heavier. You tried reading. You couldn’t focus. Tried cleaning more. There was nothing left to clean. Tried not to think about him.

That failed immediately.

By early evening, the house had started to feel like it was closing in.

You wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge without knowing why. Stared at nothing. Closed it again. Walked to your bedroom and sat down on your bed.

The quiet was loud.

And then—

You heard it.

A sound so small you almost thought you imagined it.

The faint metal click of a key sliding into the front door lock.

Your body went completely still.

Your heart didn’t race at first.

It stopped.

Then it slammed against your ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise.

No one else had a key.

Except—

The lock turned.

The door opened.

For a split second, your brain tried to rationalize it. Your mom? No, she wouldn’t be home for hours.

A burglar? But burglars didn’t use keys.

And then you heard it.

That familiar creak of the door swinging shut gently. Not forceful. Not rushed.

Careful.

Like someone who knew exactly how much pressure the hinges needed.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale.

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

It had to be your mom. She must’ve gotten off work early, or had to swing by the house to grab something.

If not your mom, your dad. Maybe his business trip had been cut short, so he’s back now.

There’s no way it could’ve been anyone else.

You stepped out of your bedroom without thinking. The hallway felt impossibly long.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you moved toward the front of the house.

And then—

You saw him.

Standing just inside the doorway was Steve Harrington.

He looked different somehow. Or maybe it was just that you hadn’t seen him up close in months. His hair was longer. Slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

He froze when he saw you.

Like he hadn’t expected you to appear that fast. Like maybe he hadn’t expected you at all.

Your voice came out before your brain caught up.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t what you meant to say. You meant to say a thousand things. But all that came out was:

“Steve.”

His name tasted different now.

His hand was still wrapped around the key in the lock.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You stared at the key. Then at him.

“You still have that?”

His expression shifted. Almost sheepish. Almost guilty.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I, uh… I was gonna bring it back.”

Silence. You stepped closer, slow, cautious.

“Why didn’t you knock?”

You thought maybe he’d forgotten that was the normal thing to do. Maybe, just maybe, he’d spent so much time coming in without a second thought that it was hard to unlearn the habit.

“I did,” he said quickly. “Twice. You didn’t answer. I thought maybe—” He swallowed. “I thought maybe you weren’t home.”

You hadn’t heard anything. Your heart was beating too loud. He pulled the key out slowly and held it up like evidence.

“I should’ve given this back weeks ago,” he said quietly.

You looked at him fully now. Really looked at him. His eyes were tired. Red around the edges. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much either.

The hallway felt smaller.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was fragile.

He inhaled slowly. “I didn’t want today to pass without…” He stopped himself.

Your stomach flipped. “Without what?”

He looked at you like he was debating whether to jump off a cliff.

“Without saying something.”

Your chest tightened. You hadn’t mentioned the date. You hadn’t told anyone.

But he remembered.

Of course he remembered. He remembered everything important.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

His laugh was quiet. Not amused. Just soft.

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember a lot of things.”

That did it. Your eyes burned immediately. You folded your arms around yourself, not defensively—just to keep from shaking.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you admitted.

You're not sure what you meant. The day or ever.

He flinched slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you again. The kind where both people are holding something breakable.

“I thought you were done,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. “I thought you were.”

You both stood there, the weight of those months settling between you like a third presence.

“I didn’t mean it,” you said suddenly. The words came out fast. Urgent.

“I didn’t mean that we weren’t right for each other. I was scared and you were pushing and I felt like you didn’t trust me and I— I panicked.”

His face crumpled slightly. “I know,” he said quickly. “I know. I shouldn’t have let it get there.”

“You said it too.”

“I know.” His voice broke on the last word.

“I’ve replayed that fight like a hundred times,” he admitted. “Every single night. I keep thinking if I’d just said something different. If I’d just listened instead of getting defensive.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“I thought you didn’t come back because you didn’t miss me,” you whispered.

He stared at you like you’d just insulted gravity.

“Are you kidding me?”

His voice wasn’t loud. But it was intense.

“I didn’t come back because I thought you needed space. Because I thought if I showed up, I’d just make it worse.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I care so much it’s ruining my life,” he said before he could stop himself.

Silence. You blinked at him.

“What?”

He ran a hand through his hair—there it was, that nervous habit you knew so well.

“I haven’t slept properly in months,” he admitted. “I keep thinking about you walking out that night. I keep thinking about how I let you leave.”

Your heart felt like it was splitting open.

“I didn’t want to leave,” you said.

“I didn’t want you to either.”

The words hung there. Raw. Unfiltered. Your breathing grew uneven.

“I thought you’d moved on,” you said. 

He stepped forward slightly.

“There hasn’t been anyone else.”

Your breath caught.

“There won’t be,” he added, softer.

The hallway felt charged now.

Like static before a storm.

“I still love you,” you said.

You didn’t plan to. You didn’t build up to it. It just fell out of you.

You wish it hadn’t. But there was no pride left to protect. His eyes closed briefly, like the words physically hit him.

“Good,” he whispered. Your heart stopped again.

“Because I still love you too.”

And this time, it didn’t feel like grief. It felt like oxygen. You took a step closer. Then another.

You were close enough now to see the faint crease between his brows. The way his hands trembled slightly at his sides.

“I almost didn’t come,” he admitted. “I sat in my car for like ten minutes. I thought maybe you’d slam the door in my face.”

You shook your head immediately.

“I could never.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “For making you feel like I didn’t believe in you. I was scared. I didn’t want anything to happen to you. I thought if I just protected you hard enough, I could control it.”

“I know,” you said.

“I should’ve trusted you.”

“I should’ve trusted you too.”

The space between you disappeared. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed.

He reached for you slowly.

Like you might vanish.

His hands settled at your waist, hesitant at first.

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

And then you were crying.

Not the broken kind from the hat.

Not the drunk kind from the bar.

He held you tight.

Like he had been holding himself back for two months and finally didn’t have to anymore.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I did too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

There were tears in his eyes too.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then he kissed you. Not desperate. Not frantic. Slow. Careful.

Like relearning something sacred. His hand came up to cup your jaw. Yours slid into his hair automatically.

It felt the same. It felt different. It hit different.

Because you almost lost it. Because you know now what it feels like without him.

He rested his forehead against yours when you finally pulled apart.

“I’m not letting you walk out like that again,” he said quietly.

“I’m not planning on trying again,” you replied.

A small, shaky smile tugged at his mouth. “Good.”

The house didn’t feel empty anymore.

The hallway that had felt impossibly long now felt like the beginning of something again.

And somewhere in the quiet of July, with the cicadas humming outside and the last of the daylight slipping through the windows—

It didn’t hurt anymore. Because it was him. And it always had been.

Maybe love wasn’t a lie.

it hits different cause it's you.

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

HITS DIFFERENT / steve harrington

it hits different, it hits different cause it’s you.

summary- moving on from guys had always been easier for you. minor setbacks. nothing major. but this time hit different than it normally did. and it wasn't just by chance. it was because of him. steve harrington.

word count- 8.7k

contains- angst, breakup, drinking underage, emotional spiral, protective robin, heavy alcohol use, drinking, partying, robin being literally the best, vomiting, fluff, kissing, really happy ending after all the angst i promise!

author's note- based on taylor swift's "hits different", one of my FAVES. this was SOOOO fun to write! please please PLEASE leave me some requests or things you enjoyed! my ask box is open!!! thank you SOOO much for reading, i hope you enjoy this as much as i did while writing!

April, 1986

You and Steve had been a thing for a long while.

It wasn’t a casual thing. Not temporary in the slightest. If you asked anyone, they would say they believed it would last.

Dustin would say Steve was way too in love with you to ever think about ending things.

Robin would say you were way too in love with Steve to ever think about ending things.

Anyone in the party could tell you that.

Until things stopped being things.

You’d gotten into a stupid fight when things started heating up in the Upside Down. He had been overprotective. You’d seen it as he didn't believe in you. He’d seen it as his way of showing his care. You brought it up and things exploded.

You thought he didn’t trust you. He told you it wasn’t that. You had pushed him and he got defensive. Then came the dreaded “Maybe we just aren’t right for each other anymore.” 

After those words were out, you couldn’t take them back. No matter how hard you wished to. No matter how much you didn’t mean them. 

Silence.

It’s not like you wanted things to end. You were both afraid of what was going on beneath Hawkins. Afraid of losing each other.

Despite it, that was the end. 

You left his house with tears running down your face. You’d spent years walking into that house like it was yours. You never thought you’d walk out of it alone.

You walked home alone through the rain, water drenching your clothes, the droplets soaking in and running deep like your feelings. It felt like a miracle when the familiar car of your best friend, Robin, rolled up beside you.

Obviously you were soaked. It’s April. It's always raining. 

But she could tell you were crying. She knew something had happened. She wasn’t ever the best with social cues. Not in kindergarten, not in elementary school, not in middle school, and not in high school. But she knows you like the back of her hand.

The headlights slowed beside you. The car door flew open before you could pretend you were fine.

“Okay,” she said carefully, taking in your soaked clothes and shaking hands. “What happened?”

You tried to swallow it down. You really did. You didn’t want her to hear the tremble in your voice.You didn’t want her to know just how terrible you felt right now.

“It’s over.”

The words sounded wrong out loud. Too small for what they meant.

Robin blinked. She knew you meant Steve. “Over like… over over?”

You nodded.

She didn’t ask anything else.

Just stepped closer, hand on your back as she gently guided you towards the passenger seat. “Get in. You look like a drowned Victorian child.”

Despite everything, a broken laugh escaped you. She had a way of making you feel better.

She cranked the heat the second the door shut, tossing her jacket over your shoulders.

For a few blocks, neither of you said anything.

She turned toward your street. It made you sick.

Thinking of having to face the memories of Steve that lingered on every surface of your house felt like a prison sentence. You can’t do it.

“Don’t,” you said.

Robin glanced over. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t take me home.”

She hesitated. This wasn’t good and she knew it.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “So where are we going?”

You stared out the windshield, rain blurring the world into something unrecognizable.

“Somewhere loud.”

Robin made a face. “That’s never a good sentence.”

“I need a bar. Or a party.”

She laughed once — short and disbelieving. “You are seventeen, I’m not taking you to a bar.”

“Robin, I said a bar or a party. I know Laurens having one tonight.”

The way you said it made her grip the steering wheel tighter.

She sighed. She didn’t think it was a good idea, but who was she to refuse you this? You just broke up with your boyfriend of multiple years. Clearly, an escape is needed.

“Lauren’s house is already going to be a disaster,” she muttered. “You crying in a corner might actually improve the vibe.”

You let out a weak huff of laughter, staring at your hands twisted in your lap.

“I don’t want to cry,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t want to think.”

Robin’s jaw tightened at that. She understood more than you realized.

“Okay,” she said finally, giving in and flicking on her blinker and turning away from your street. “We go for an hour. You get loud music. You get bad punch. And the second you start spiraling, I’m dragging you out.”

You nodded, even though you both knew she’d stay as long as you needed.

“And,” she added, glancing at you, “if anyone even looks at you wrong tonight, I will ruin their life.”

That made you smile properly this time.

The car sped up slightly, rain tapping against the windshield in uneven rhythms.

You leaned your head against the cold glass, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. And for a second, just a second, you thought about Steve sitting alone in his room.

You pushed the thought away.

Somewhere loud. That’s all you needed.

i washed my hands of us, at the club.

You hadn’t meant to get that drunk tonight.

“Just enough to forget.” That’s what you told yourself. A couple drinks, loud music filling your ears, that should be enough.

Lauren’s house was already pulsing when you walked in.

Music thumped through the walls, bass rattling picture frames. The living room lights were off, replaced by mismatched lamps and Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling. Why they were there in the middle of April, you’ve got no clue.

The air smelled like cheap perfume, sweat, and whatever sugary disaster was being served in red plastic cups.

Robin stayed close behind you as you stepped inside.

“Okay,” she muttered near your ear. “Ground rules. You do not disappear. You do not chug anything handed to you by a guy you don’t know. And—”

You were already reaching for a cup.

She grabbed your wrist lightly. “Maybe start slow?”

“I am starting slow,” you said, pulling free and taking a long swallow.

It burned.

Good.

You barely tasted it.

Someone shouted your name. Someone else pulled you into a quick hug. The music was loud enough that you didn’t have to talk much, which was perfect.

Robin lingered at your side for the first twenty minutes.

You finished your first cup too fast.

Then another.

“Okay,” Robin said, watching you refill. “Maybe alternate with water?”

You shook your head. “Water’s boring.”

“This is how hangovers are born.”

“I don’t care.”

You didn’t.

Because every time the music dipped for even half a second, every time you didn’t have a drink in hand, your brain filled the space with him.

Steve standing in his room.

Steve running a hand through his hair.

Steve saying maybe we just aren’t right for each other anymore.

Your throat tightened.

You tipped the cup back again.

Robin saw it that time.

She stepped closer. “Hey. Slow down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

You laughed — too loud, too sharp. “You’re right. I’m fantastic, actually. Best night of my life.”

Another refill.

Your words were starting to blur together. The room felt softer around the edges. Warmer. Easier. When someone bumped into you, you stumbled slightly, catching yourself on the wall.

Robin’s hand was on your elbow immediately.

“Okay,” she said more firmly now. “You’ve had enough.”

“I haven’t even—” you squinted at your cup like it offended you. “I haven’t even had that much.” Every word slurred into the next, sentences dragging on.

“You can barely stand.”

“I can so—” You pushed away from the wall to prove it and immediately swayed.

Robin caught you again.

Your laugh came out wobbly. “See? M’so balanced.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick.” Her voice held such worry for you that it almost made you want to stop. To not drink another thing that night.

But a thought of him crept its way in. You knew you needed more to forget.

You leaned closer to her, lowering your voice like it was a secret.

“I just need it to be quiet in my head.”

You pointed to your skull, a small, tipsy smile spreading on your face, though you looked almost upset.

That did it.

Her expression shifted.

Someone turned the music up even louder. The floor vibrated. You felt that ache in your chest again — sharp and sudden.

You saw him in your mind like he was standing across the room.

You swallowed hard.

You pulled away from Robin and grabbed another drink off the kitchen counter without even checking what it was.

“Hey—” she started.

You drank it anyway.

Because if you were drunk enough, maybe you wouldn’t picture him.

Maybe you wouldn’t wonder if he was regretting it. Maybe you wouldn’t start crying in the middle of Lauren’s stupid living room.

The room spun slightly when you turned back toward the music.

Robin stepped in front of you this time.

“That’s it,” she said quietly. “You’re done.” She tried to reach for the cup you were holding, but you moved your arm back.

You tried to glare at her, but it probably looked more like a confused squint.

“M’not done,” you slurred. “He doesn’t get to just— just—”

Suddenly the room felt too loud.

Because they were playing your song. You and Steve’s song. Time After Time, Cyndi Lauper. Over the years of your relationship, you’d claimed that it was fitting. Of course, he went along. He would go along with anything you said.

It played years ago at your school dance, where the two of you solidified your relationship. Ever since, it’s been your song.

And now you’re picturing him again. You can’t stay in here. Can’t stay as the lyrics and the backtracks fill the room.

Just seconds ago, you told Robin that you were fine. That you wanted to keep drinking and stay at the party and forget.

But now, you couldn't neglect the events from earlier. The music filled your head, forcing you to confront it all. 

You practically begged her to take you home after that.

i pictured you with other girls, in love. then threw up on the street.

Robin took you home after that. She knew it wouldn’t be fair to make you sit through that song.

Just like she knew she couldn’t let you drink another thing.

She didn’t say “I told you so.”

She didn’t say anything at all as she guided you out of the house, one hand firm on your back so you wouldn’t stumble off the porch. The cold air hit you immediately, sharp and sobering in the worst way.

The song was still faintly audible from inside.

You swallowed hard.

She helped you into the passenger seat, buckled you in when your fingers fumbled too much to manage it yourself.

Must’ve been the spiked punch causing you to shake.

Or maybe the many cans (you had lost count) of beer.

Possibly the whiskey you’d drank.

Or it could’ve been the drinks you took from the counters without knowing their contents.

Maybe it was all of them.

The drive started quiet.

Only the hum of the engine. The steady sweep of windshield wipers. Rain streaking across the glass like it hadn’t done enough damage already tonight.

You leaned your head against the window again, cold glass coming into contact with your burning skin.

Everything felt heavy. Your body. Your chest. Your thoughts.

Robin kept glancing over at you, worry written between every line of her face.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

You nodded too quickly.

Big mistake. The pain splitted through your skull, like lightning striking your temples. The world tilted slightly as the alcohol blurred the edges of reality. That's when the big problems started.

You pictured him.

Not how he looked earlier — red-eyed, frustrated, scared.

No.

You pictured him laughing.

You pictured him at Scoops, leaning over the counter like he used to, flashing that stupid charming smile at some girl with glossy hair and perfect teeth. Some girl who always made you feel insecure. Some girl you envied with everything in you.

You pictured her touching his arm.

You pictured him not pulling away.

Your stomach twisted.

You hated it. Hated yourself for thinking it. Hated that your brain wouldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t move on that fast.

He wouldn’t.

But what if he did?

While no, he didn’t work at Scoops anymore, and no, he wasn’t working a shift tonight, he would be in the morning.

What if there was some girl at Family Video tomorrow? What if he smiled at her the way he used to smile at you? What if she didn’t argue with him about being overprotective? What if she thought it was sweet?

Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe. Inhaling got harder the more you thought.

You pressed your forehead harder into the glass.

“I hate this,” you muttered.

Robin glanced at you. “Hate what?”

You shook your head, but the images wouldn’t stop.

Now it was worse.

Now you were picturing him slow dancing with someone else. Her hands around his neck. His forehead resting against hers, arms slid low around her waist. Swaying like the two of you at the dance a few years back.

In the back, Time After Time played low on his record player. 

On the vinyl he bought just for you. Because he knew it was your favorite song. He knew it was your song.

You pictured her in his room. Wearing his faded, grey t-shirt that you’d always steal from him.

In his bed. On the same side you’d lay.

Your stomach lurched violently.

“Pull over,” you said suddenly, already rolling down the window of her car.

Robin didn’t hesitate. She swerved toward the curb immediately.

You barely got the window down in time.

It happened fast. Messy. Unceremonious. Rain mixed with your vomit on the pavement. 

Robin reached across you instinctively, holding your hair back even though most of it was out the window anyway.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Okay. Breathe.”

“I pictured him,” you whispered hoarsely, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “With other girls. In love.”

The words broke halfway through. Almost as if the thought made you want to puke your guts out again. You stopped yourself.

“He’s not doing that. Sure, he’s a dingus, but not that much of a dingus.” She told you, gathering your hair and brushing it back behind your ears.

“You don’t know that,” you choked out, turning from the window to face her. “What if he doesn’t even miss me?”

Her jaw clenched.

“Steve Harrington?” she scoffed quietly. “He’s probably staring at his ceiling right now like the world ended.”

You let out a small, miserable laugh that turned into another shaky breath.

Rain kept falling. The streetlight above you flickered.

Your stomach still churned, but it wasn’t just the alcohol anymore. It was the grief. The jealousy. The unbearable not knowing.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” you admitted quietly. “Even when I try.”

“I know,” she said, a painful smile on her lips. 

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t start the car again yet.

Just kept her hand steady at the back of your head while the rain washed the street clean.

After a minute, she reached into the glove compartment and handed you a napkin from inside it. “Next time,” she muttered, trying to lighten it, “we spiral without whiskey. Or beer.”

You huffed weakly.

She started the car again.

You leaned back into the seat, exhausted now. Drained. Your head lolled slightly toward her.

Robin kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift like she was ready to reach for you again if needed.

Neither of you said anything else.

The rain kept falling. The radio hummed low.

And even through the nausea and the blur and the ache, he was still there in your mind.

each bar plays our song, nothing has ever felt so wrong.

The rest of the drive wasn’t too bad.

You’d somehow found a way to turn off your head, to stop the spiral of thoughts in your mind.

You hardly thought of Steve as Robin drove you home.

Everything was peaceful. Until it was.

Robin reached forward absentmindedly, twisting the volume knob on the radio.

Static cracked for half a second.

And then—

“Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick…”

It was quiet. Soft. Barely even loud enough to matter. But you knew it instantly.

Your entire body went rigid.

Robin did too.

 There it was. Time After Time. Your song, again.

“Oh, no—” she muttered, fingers fumbling with the dial before she managed to turn it off. Silence fell over the car. Heavier than you’d hoped.

Too late.

You had already heard it.

Just those first few notes were enough. Enough to pull you right back to the gymnasium lights at your first dance. To his hands at your waist. To the way he’d smiled at you like there was no one else in the room.

Nothing has ever felt so wrong.

Not the fight. Not the drinking. Not even throwing up on the side of the road.

Robin cleared her throat. “Okay. That’s banned. Radio’s canceled. Forever.”

You stared straight ahead.

You tried to laugh.

It didn’t come out right.

“I’m sorry.” she muttered, suddenly feeling as though it was her fault the universe was against you.

“It’s fine,” you said quietly.

It was far from fine.

Every stupid place in this town has played it at some point. School dances. The skating rink. Family barbecues. The grocery store last summer when he spun you around in aisle seven because it came on over the speakers.

You knew you wouldn’t ever be able to escape him.

Not when that song was looming over your life in every corner.

The car felt smaller now.

Colder.

Robin didn’t turn the radio back on. God, she wouldn’t dare.

She drove the rest of the way in silence, like she was guarding you from the world.

But the melody was already stuck in your head.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t turn that off.

"oh my, love is a lie." shit my friends say to get me by.

Robin pulled up in front of your house but didn’t turn the engine off right away.

The porch light was on even though no one was home. Your dad was away on one of his multiple month long business trips. Your mom was working until morning at the hospital.

She glanced over at you. Your makeup was smeared. Your hair a mess. Eyes glassy and swollen. Clearly the night had taken a toll on you.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Here’s what we’re not going to do.”

You sniffed. “What?”

“We’re not going to decide that this means you’re unlovable. Or doomed. Or cursed by some ancient Greek tragedy.”

You gave her a weak look, lips pursed together. “Feels a little Greek tragedy-ish.” You mutter, nodding your head.

She exhaled through her nose.

“Love is a lie,” she declared suddenly, dramatic and flat, hands hitting her thighs. “A capitalist construct designed to sell greeting cards and slow dance tickets.”

Despite yourself, you let out a tiny huff, turning your head to her.

She softened immediately.

“I’m serious,” she said, quieter now. “It’s just brain chemicals. You’ll detox. You’ll be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

You stared down at your hands.

“Love is a lie.” you repeated faintly, almost to yourself, like if you said it enough it could become true.

Robin reached over, squeezing your shoulder, pulling your eyes back to her.

“That’s right. Total scam.”

She didn’t mean it. You knew she didn’t mean it.

She was just trying to build a life raft out of sarcasm and hand it to you.

“I’m walking you in,” she said, killing the engine.

Inside, the house was too quiet. Too normal.

Robin hovered while you kicked your shoes off clumsily, steadying you when you swayed.

“You good?” she asked.

You nodded. You could tell she didn’t believe you.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” she said carefully. “And if you start spiraling, you call me. I don’t care if it’s three a.m.”

You nodded again.

She hesitated at the door.

Then, softer, “This doesn’t get to ruin you, okay?”

The door clicked shut behind her, silence rushing in.

You stood there for a moment.

The house felt heavier without her.

Without him.

“Love is a lie.” you whispered again, leaning back against the door. You almost believed it.

It would be easier if you did.

If love wasn’t real, then this wouldn’t hurt so much. But if love was fake, then what you had with Steve wasn’t real either.

And that thought made your chest cave in.

You slid down the door slowly, sitting on the floor.

“It’s just shit she says to get me by,” you muttered to the empty room.

Because Robin doesn’t believe love is a lie.

And neither do you.

Not really.

That’s the problem.

May, 1986

It’s been a month since you and Steve broke things off.

Doesn’t mean it’s stopped hurting you.

In fact, it actually hurts worse than it did before.

Because you keep wondering why he didn’t come back.

Why doesn't he miss you. If he ever will miss you. If he’s moved on.

There are so many things you wish you could ask him. But you can’t.

and I never don't cry at the bar, yeah, my sadness is contagious.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of pretending you were fine. Weeks of avoiding certain streets. Weeks of Robin watching you like you might crack open at any second.

So when she said, “It’s just for an hour. Graduation thing. I know the bartender. We’ll stand in the back. You don’t even have to drink,”

You told yourself you could handle it.

Robin knew some people from band who were a grade above you both. That’s why you were going. For Robin.

It still felt wrong to go anywhere associated with Steve.

It was his grade. What if he was there? 

You hoped with everything in you that he wouldn’t be.

The Hideout smelled like beer and cigarettes and sweat. Seniors crowded the tiny dance floor, celebrating freedom like Hawkins wasn’t still sitting on top of something monstrous.

Robin stayed close to you. Closer than usual.

You leaned against the wall, nursing something weak that she’d insisted on ordering herself.

It contained barely any alcohol.

That was the difference between you and Robin. She could handle alcohol. You couldn’t. Not since the night after you broke up with Steve.

You have to get shitfaced to feel anything. And by the time that happens, you’ve already lined yourself up for terrible hang overs and puking your guts up.

“See?” she said. “You’re fine. I told you coming here would be okay.”

You nodded.

You almost believed her.

Across the room, someone was laughing too hard. A couple was pressed close near the music table, the girl’s hands looped behind the guy’s neck.

He whispered something to the guy running the songs over her shoulder before his attention was completely on her again.

You tried not to look. But now, you were curious.

The kid running the table put on a new record, one that looked strangely familiar.

The second it started, your chest tightened.

Time After Time. 

It seemed like the song followed you everywhere you went. You could never get away from synth cords in the back tracks.

You watched how her face lit up when it played. How he smiled watching how excited she quickly became. It was clear that he’d gotten the song played just for her.

You saw yourself and Steve in them.

You had to turn away.

You stared at your drink. Never would you have guessed it would hurt this long.

You thought by May you’d be better.

You thought by May you’d be annoyed when someone said his name. That you’d be able to walk into a room and not scan it for him automatically.

But there you were.

Scanning.

Robin noticed before you said anything.

She always did.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You nodded too fast. Your throat tightened anyway.

Across the room, the couple by the table started slow dancing properly now. The girl rested her head on his chest.

And it hit you.

Steve had done that once.

At that stupid winter formal with the same song playing in the back.

He’d rested his chin on top of your head and whispered, “If we break up, I’m never dancing again.”

You laughed then.

You didn’t laugh now.

Your vision blurred.

You blinked hard.

Too late.

Tears slipped down before you could stop them.

Robin swore under her breath. Of course, she’d heard the song. She just hoped you didn’t.

Hey, hey—” She stepped in front of you slightly, blocking your view. “Don’t do that. Come on, look at me.”

You tried.

The shift was immediate.

Robin’s face fell. The joking edge disappeared. Her shoulders tightened.

Now she looked like she was hurting too. It’s like she was catching your sadness.

“I didn’t think it would still feel like this,” you admitted, voice cracking. “It’s been a month.”

“That’s not that long,” she said quickly.

“It feels like it is.”

Around you, people were still laughing.

Still dancing.

Still moving on.

You weren’t.

You wiped your cheeks angrily.

“I feel like I never don’t cry.” you muttered bitterly. “At a party. Or a bar. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

Robin gave you a sad smile. “Well, you’re very committed to the bit.”

You let out a broken sound that was almost a laugh.

But she was right.

Every time you tried to be normal, it ended like this.

You thinking of him.

You crying.

Robin getting quiet because she didn’t know how to fix it.

Your sadness was contagious.

It leaked into every room.

“I can’t keep doing this to you,” you whispered.

Robin’s expression hardened.

“Doing what?”

“Ruining everything.”

“You are not ruining anything,” she said immediately. “You’re heartbroken. That’s different.”

The song swelled again.

Someone cheered.

You pressed your palms to your eyes.

“I thought I was better at this,” you said. “I used to be better at this.”

Robin wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “But this one mattered.”

That was the problem.

That was always the problem.

Across the room, the couple laughed again.

You couldn’t watch.

That's when you started to drink again. You just couldn’t handle the thoughts. You ordered something you didn’t even know the contents of, just that it had a high percentage of alcohol.

That's what you need right now. An escape.

i slur your name till someone puts me in a car,

The first shot burned. The second didn’t.

That was how you knew you were in trouble.

The alcohol hit your bloodstream fast — too fast. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept properly in weeks. You’d been living on coffee and grief. Robin noticed the switch immediately.

“Okay,” she said cautiously, watching you tip back your third shot glass. “Slow down.”

“I’m going slow,” you insisted, even though you absolutely were not. Your voice already sounded thicker. Warmer. Edges blurred.

The music felt louder now. The lights fuzzier. The room softer.

And for a second — just a second — it worked.

Your chest didn’t feel so tight. Your head didn’t feel so loud. You laughed at something Robin said. Too hard. Too long. See? You were fine.

Until you weren’t.

Because across the room, someone shouted a name that sounded almost like his. And your brain filled in the rest.

Steve.

It was like your body reacted before your mind could.

“Steve wouldn’t—” you started, words tangling together.

Robin stiffened. “What?”

You blinked at her like she’d interrupted something important.

“He wouldn’t dance like that,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward nothing. “He— he always— he always does that thing with his shoulders first. Like he thinks he’s smooth.”

You giggled. It didn’t sound right.

Robin stepped closer.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Maybe let’s switch to water.”

You ignored her.

“Steve,” you said again, testing the name in your mouth like it was something you weren’t supposed to have anymore.

It came out wrong. Soft but broken.

You laughed again, but your eyes were glassy now.

“You know what’s funny?” you said, leaning in too close to Robin. “He said he’d never dance again if we broke up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. Robin swallowed.

“That was a dumb thing for him to say,” she muttered.

You shook your head.

“No, no, it wasn’t dumb. It was sweet. He’s sweet.” Your face crumpled slightly. “He’s so— He’s not coming to this stupid thing! He’s—“

You lost the words halfway through. Instead, you said his name again.

Slower this time.

“Steeeve.”

It dragged out. Slurred. Heavy.

Robin grabbed your arm gently.

“Come on, you’ve got to stop thinking about him.”

But you were past that point.

You were at the part where the alcohol doesn’t numb — it magnifies.

Every feeling got bigger.

The music got louder. The lights got harsher. The ache got deeper.

“Steve,” you said again, louder now.

A couple of people nearby glanced over.

Robin’s jaw tightened.

“Shhh,” she said. “Hey, Steve isn’t here.”

You shook your head, stubborn.

“No, he— he doesn’t get to just— just—” Your words collapsed into themselves. “He doesn’t get to stop loving me.”

That was it.

That was the thing you hadn’t said out loud yet.

Robin’s expression changed.

You swayed slightly.

She steadied you.

“I still love him,” you said, blinking up at her like this was breaking news. “Rob, I still— I still—”

Your throat closed. Tears spilled fast this time. And you kept saying it.

His name.

Over and over, each time more slurred.

“Stev— Stee—” you huffed frustratedly. “Why can’t I say it right?”

You laughed again. Then you cried harder.

A senior near the bar looked at you weird. Someone whispered something. Robin shot them a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“That’s it,” she said quietly. “We’re done.”

You tried to protest.

“M’not done,” you mumbled. “I need another—”

“No, you need a bed,” she said firmly.

You shook your head, wobbling.

“I need him.”

That one was barely audible, but she heard it.

Her face softened. She wrapped your arm over her shoulder.

“Okay,” she muttered. “We’re leaving before you confess your eternal love to the entire graduating class.”

You didn’t argue this time. You just kept whispering his name under your breath as she guided you toward the door.

“Steve. Steve. Steve.”

Like if you said it enough, he might appear.

The cool night air hit your face and you gasped dramatically.

Robin practically dragged you to the car. You were still talking.

Still slurring.

“Y’know what he smells like?” you said suddenly, deeply serious.

“Oh my god,” Robin muttered.

“He smells like— like hairspray and mint gum and— and summer.”

She opened the passenger door. You try to slide into the seat but you almost miss it entirely.

She caught you before you fell, steadying you at the waist.

“Okay,” she said through gritted teeth. “Sit.”

You obeyed… mostly. She buckled you in because your hands kept missing the latch. You blinked at her slowly.

“You think he misses me?” you asked.

The question was so small. So sober in its drunkenness. Yet she didn’t have an answer for you. She couldn’t tell you if he did or didn’t. The door closed gently.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she got in the driver’s seat, starting the engine of her car. As she pulled out of the parking lot, you pressed your forehead to the window.

The glass was cool.

Comforting.

You whispered his name again.

Softer now. Like you were afraid it might shatter if you said it too loud.

Robin gripped the steering wheel.

She hated this. Hated watching you unravel. Hated that she couldn’t fix it.

Behind her, the bar lights faded in the rearview mirror.

In the passenger seat, you were still murmuring:

“Steve.”

And this time, your voice broke completely.

June, 1986

Ever since that day you’d gotten drunk at the senior party, you hadn’t touched an ounce of alcohol.

The waves of hurt came back every now and then when there was a reminder of him, but you’d grown to deal with the pain in different ways.

It’s been two months now.

Two months since the break up.

Schools out, meaning it shouldn’t hurt much anymore. Less seeing him. Less hearing about him. Less forced proximity.

But it doesn’t hurt less.

Because in those months, you had something to hold onto.

But now? Now it just feels like he's gone completely. Like what little of him you had has disappeared before your eyes.

The weight behind your ribs hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s only intensified.

i find the artifacts, cried over a hat.

Your house felt bigger in the summer. Emptier. The air was heavier, like it was holding its breath.

You told yourself you were cleaning.

That was the excuse.

School was out. Closets needed sorting. Shelves needed dusting. You needed something to do with your hands.

Because when they were idle, they reached for things they shouldn’t.

Like bottles.

The box had been under your bed since April. You’d shoved it there the night after the break up.

Not thrown away.

Just… hidden.

Out of sight.

You hadn’t been brave enough to look.

Until now.

You knelt on the floor slowly, the wood warm against your knees. Reached under the bed. Your fingers brushed cardboard.

You froze.

Your pulse quickened like you’d touched something alive.

It was ridiculous.

It was just a box.

But it felt heavier when you dragged it out. Like it knew what it contained.

You sat back on your heels.

Stared at it. Two months. You’d survived over two months. You could survive this.

You lifted the lid. The smell hit first.

Not strong. Not obvious.

But faintly familiar.

Laundry detergent. Old paper. A trace of something like cologne that had long since faded but hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Your chest tightened.

Right on top was a movie ticket stub.

You picked it up carefully.

Back to the Future.

July, 1985.

You could see it instantly—

The two of you squeezed into the back row. Steve whispering dumb commentary in your ear. His arm draped around you. The way he laughed too loud during the skateboard scene.

You’d shushed him.

He’d kissed your temple in retaliation.

You’d kept the ticket because he’d drawn your initials with a plus sign between them, surrounded by a heart. 

Your thumb traced the faded ink.

You set it down gently beside you.

Under it was a cassette tape.

Handwritten label.

“Road Trip Mix – S.H.”

Your throat went dry.

You remembered that drive.

Windows down. Summer air loud and warm. Him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel off beat. You yelling at him for skipping your favorite track.

He’d said, “I made this for you, you menace.”

You’d said, “Exactly. For me. Don’t skip the best songs!” and hit his shoulder playfully.

He’d laughed.

You pressed the tape to your chest for a second before placing it down too.

Next—

A hoodie.

Dark blue.

Too big for you.

You didn’t have to unfold it to know that it was his.

You’d stolen it one night when you’d fallen asleep on his couch. He’d let you keep it.

You lifted it slowly.

Brought it to your face.

The scent was faint now. Almost gone.

That hurt worse somehow.

You remembered sitting in the passenger seat wearing it. Sleeves swallowing your hands. Him glancing over at red lights like you were the best thing he’d ever seen.

“You look better in my clothes than I do,” he’d said once.

You’d rolled your eyes.

But you wore it every chance you got.

You folded it carefully and set it aside.

Underneath that—

A polaroid.

Your breath caught.

It was taken at the lake two summers ago.

Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your head tilted toward his. Sunburn across both your noses. Water dripping from your hair.

You were laughing at something outside the frame.

He wasn’t looking at the camera.

He was looking at you.

You stared at it too long. Set it face down.

You dug deeper. A folded note.

You unfolded it slowly.

His handwriting. Slanted and messy.

“Stop overthinking everything. You’re braver than you think. I believe in you.”

Your vision blurred instantly. You remembered the day.

You’d been panicking about everything happening in Hawkins. Convinced you weren’t strong enough.

He’d pressed that note into your hand before you left.

“I mean it,” he’d said quietly.

You swallowed hard. Your hands shook now. You kept going.

A cheap plastic bracelet from the carnival.

You remembered him winning it for you and acting like it was diamond.

A crumpled receipt from Family Video with your names scribbled in the corner.

A matchbook from The Hideout from the first time he’d taken you somewhere that wasn’t Scoops or the movies.

Each thing a portal.

You weren’t imagining it. It had been real.

You were still sitting there, surrounded by artifacts of a relationship that felt archaeological now, when your fingers brushed fabric again.

White with navy letters.

You knew before you fully saw it.

Your breathing changed.

Slow. Careful.

Like approaching something fragile.

You lifted it. The Scoops Ahoy hat.

Well, not the Scoops hat, but one of them. He had two. Since he was at your place before work on too many occasions to count, he left one there in case he was in a rush and had to take the back up.

Bright white. Blue trim. Slightly bent at one corner.

You stared at it like it might blink. It shouldn’t have hit you this hard.

It was stupid. A costume.

You remembered the first day he wore it. How dramatically offended he’d been about the shorts. How you’d teased him mercilessly.

“Ahoy, sailor,” you’d said, tipping the hat off his head.

He’d grabbed your wrist and pulled you close over the counter when no one was looking. “You better behave,” he’d murmured.

You’d laughed into his shoulder.

You remembered sitting on the counter after closing, stealing cherries from the topping bar while he counted the register.

You remembered the way he’d adjust the hat in the mirror and ask, “Be honest. Do I pull this off? I feel like it’s blowing my best feature.”

You’d told him yes every time.

You remembered leaning over the counter one slow afternoon, watching him argue with Robin.

You remembered the way he’d lean his elbows on the glass and grin at you like you were in on some private joke.

You remembered how proud he’d been the day he got out of that job. How you’d told him he deserved better. How he’d kissed you in the parking lot after his last shift.

The hat trembled in your hands.

And suddenly— You couldn’t breathe.

This one artifact, those stupid string of memories it brought, it was undoing you.

The fact that there had been so many normal days. So many moments that weren’t dramatic.

Just him.

You pressed the hat to your chest. Your shoulders started shaking before you even realized you were crying.

Not the loud kind. Not the hysterical kind.

The quiet, breaking apart kind.

You bent forward slowly, curling over it like you were protecting something. Because in a way, you were. You were protecting what it had meant.

Your tears soaked into the fabric. You thought about how careful he’d been with you.

How much he’d tried. How scared he’d been of losing you. How you’d both said things you didn’t mean.

You thought about the crease by his eyes when he smiled. The way he pushed his hair back. The way he said your name when he was tired.

Grief lived in the details. You understood that now.

You pressed your forehead to the brim of the hat.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered to the empty room.

But the weight behind your ribs shifted slightly. Not lighter. Just clearer.

You weren’t moving on. You weren’t healing. You were still in it. And that was the truth.

July, 1986

Three months.

Three months and somehow, you still hadn't come to terms with any of this.

You still haven't drank any more alcohol, but the pounding of your head and the way you always stood shakily would suggest otherwise.

You had gotten a little better at masking it all, though.

Still, you couldn't ever imagine yourself with another guy. Couldn't imagine waking up beside someone new. Couldn't imagine going to a winter formal with an unfamiliar face.

You couldn't imagine a life without Steve.

i heard your key turn in the door, down the hallway.

The house was too quiet again.

Summer had a way of stretching the hours thin. The cicadas outside buzzed lazily in the heat, sunlight pooling golden across the hardwood floors. Your parents were both gone—your dad still out of town, your mom working a double shift.

You hadn’t planned to remember what today was.

You truly hadn’t.

But when you’d woken up that morning and looked at the calendar pinned beside your desk, it had been circled in faded blue ink.

July 14th.

You’d circled it when you got the calendar. When you were still together. One year since your first official date. Not the dance. Not the “are we?” phase.

The real one.

The night he’d shown up at your door with flowers he’d very obviously bought from Melvald’s and tried to pretend were expensive.

You’d forgotten to erase the circle. So now it sat there. Mocking you.

You told yourself it was stupid to care.

You told yourself anniversaries didn’t count when you weren’t together anymore.

You told yourself it was just a date. A random day of 

But all day, everything felt heavier. You tried reading. You couldn’t focus. Tried cleaning more. There was nothing left to clean. Tried not to think about him.

That failed immediately.

By early evening, the house had started to feel like it was closing in.

You wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge without knowing why. Stared at nothing. Closed it again. Walked to your bedroom and sat down on your bed.

The quiet was loud.

And then—

You heard it.

A sound so small you almost thought you imagined it.

The faint metal click of a key sliding into the front door lock.

Your body went completely still.

Your heart didn’t race at first.

It stopped.

Then it slammed against your ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise.

No one else had a key.

Except—

The lock turned.

The door opened.

For a split second, your brain tried to rationalize it. Your mom? No, she wouldn’t be home for hours.

A burglar? But burglars didn’t use keys.

And then you heard it.

That familiar creak of the door swinging shut gently. Not forceful. Not rushed.

Careful.

Like someone who knew exactly how much pressure the hinges needed.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale.

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

It had to be your mom. She must’ve gotten off work early, or had to swing by the house to grab something.

If not your mom, your dad. Maybe his business trip had been cut short, so he’s back now.

There’s no way it could’ve been anyone else.

You stepped out of your bedroom without thinking. The hallway felt impossibly long.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you moved toward the front of the house.

And then—

You saw him.

Standing just inside the doorway was Steve Harrington.

He looked different somehow. Or maybe it was just that you hadn’t seen him up close in months. His hair was longer. Slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

He froze when he saw you.

Like he hadn’t expected you to appear that fast. Like maybe he hadn’t expected you at all.

Your voice came out before your brain caught up.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t what you meant to say. You meant to say a thousand things. But all that came out was:

“Steve.”

His name tasted different now.

His hand was still wrapped around the key in the lock.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You stared at the key. Then at him.

“You still have that?”

His expression shifted. Almost sheepish. Almost guilty.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I, uh… I was gonna bring it back.”

Silence. You stepped closer, slow, cautious.

“Why didn’t you knock?”

You thought maybe he’d forgotten that was the normal thing to do. Maybe, just maybe, he’d spent so much time coming in without a second thought that it was hard to unlearn the habit.

“I did,” he said quickly. “Twice. You didn’t answer. I thought maybe—” He swallowed. “I thought maybe you weren’t home.”

You hadn’t heard anything. Your heart was beating too loud. He pulled the key out slowly and held it up like evidence.

“I should’ve given this back weeks ago,” he said quietly.

You looked at him fully now. Really looked at him. His eyes were tired. Red around the edges. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much either.

The hallway felt smaller.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was fragile.

He inhaled slowly. “I didn’t want today to pass without…” He stopped himself.

Your stomach flipped. “Without what?”

He looked at you like he was debating whether to jump off a cliff.

“Without saying something.”

Your chest tightened. You hadn’t mentioned the date. You hadn’t told anyone.

But he remembered.

Of course he remembered. He remembered everything important.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

His laugh was quiet. Not amused. Just soft.

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember a lot of things.”

That did it. Your eyes burned immediately. You folded your arms around yourself, not defensively—just to keep from shaking.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you admitted.

You're not sure what you meant. The day or ever.

He flinched slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you again. The kind where both people are holding something breakable.

“I thought you were done,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. “I thought you were.”

You both stood there, the weight of those months settling between you like a third presence.

“I didn’t mean it,” you said suddenly. The words came out fast. Urgent.

“I didn’t mean that we weren’t right for each other. I was scared and you were pushing and I felt like you didn’t trust me and I— I panicked.”

His face crumpled slightly. “I know,” he said quickly. “I know. I shouldn’t have let it get there.”

“You said it too.”

“I know.” His voice broke on the last word.

“I’ve replayed that fight like a hundred times,” he admitted. “Every single night. I keep thinking if I’d just said something different. If I’d just listened instead of getting defensive.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“I thought you didn’t come back because you didn’t miss me,” you whispered.

He stared at you like you’d just insulted gravity.

“Are you kidding me?”

His voice wasn’t loud. But it was intense.

“I didn’t come back because I thought you needed space. Because I thought if I showed up, I’d just make it worse.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I care so much it’s ruining my life,” he said before he could stop himself.

Silence. You blinked at him.

“What?”

He ran a hand through his hair—there it was, that nervous habit you knew so well.

“I haven’t slept properly in months,” he admitted. “I keep thinking about you walking out that night. I keep thinking about how I let you leave.”

Your heart felt like it was splitting open.

“I didn’t want to leave,” you said.

“I didn’t want you to either.”

The words hung there. Raw. Unfiltered. Your breathing grew uneven.

“I thought you’d moved on,” you said. 

He stepped forward slightly.

“There hasn’t been anyone else.”

Your breath caught.

“There won’t be,” he added, softer.

The hallway felt charged now.

Like static before a storm.

“I still love you,” you said.

You didn’t plan to. You didn’t build up to it. It just fell out of you.

You wish it hadn’t. But there was no pride left to protect. His eyes closed briefly, like the words physically hit him.

“Good,” he whispered. Your heart stopped again.

“Because I still love you too.”

And this time, it didn’t feel like grief. It felt like oxygen. You took a step closer. Then another.

You were close enough now to see the faint crease between his brows. The way his hands trembled slightly at his sides.

“I almost didn’t come,” he admitted. “I sat in my car for like ten minutes. I thought maybe you’d slam the door in my face.”

You shook your head immediately.

“I could never.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “For making you feel like I didn’t believe in you. I was scared. I didn’t want anything to happen to you. I thought if I just protected you hard enough, I could control it.”

“I know,” you said.

“I should’ve trusted you.”

“I should’ve trusted you too.”

The space between you disappeared. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed.

He reached for you slowly.

Like you might vanish.

His hands settled at your waist, hesitant at first.

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

And then you were crying.

Not the broken kind from the hat.

Not the drunk kind from the bar.

He held you tight.

Like he had been holding himself back for two months and finally didn’t have to anymore.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I did too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

There were tears in his eyes too.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then he kissed you. Not desperate. Not frantic. Slow. Careful.

Like relearning something sacred. His hand came up to cup your jaw. Yours slid into his hair automatically.

It felt the same. It felt different. It hit different.

Because you almost lost it. Because you know now what it feels like without him.

He rested his forehead against yours when you finally pulled apart.

“I’m not letting you walk out like that again,” he said quietly.

“I’m not planning on trying again,” you replied.

A small, shaky smile tugged at his mouth. “Good.”

The house didn’t feel empty anymore.

The hallway that had felt impossibly long now felt like the beginning of something again.

And somewhere in the quiet of July, with the cicadas humming outside and the last of the daylight slipping through the windows—

It didn’t hurt anymore. Because it was him. And it always had been.

Maybe love wasn’t a lie.

it hits different cause it's you.

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

guys guys guy i like REALLY need fic recommendations. im actually so stuck in writers block rn. so like, yk, steve or robin requests, ill write anything for them! pleaseeee drop recs!!

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

guys im TRYING to finish this for you. im sorry, but i WILL be posting very soon!!!

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

I Don't Want Distance...

Steve Harringtonx x fem!reader

summary - steve goes out with tons of girls, but never once had he seen that the girl right in front of him was crushing on him hard. all it takes for the realization to finally hit him is a bit of distance. but he doesnt want distance. not now. word count - 2.5k warnings - angst, fluff, jancy if you squint, jealousy, clueless steve, sassy robin, fluff, let me know if i missed anything! a/n - this probably sucks, but it was based on a request i recieved! i hope this was what that person was looking for!!! keep the requests coming, ty for reading! also this was kinda just dumping my brain quickly, sorry again if it sucks!

For as long as you can remember, you’ve liked Steve Harrington.

The tightness in your chest each time you see him isn’t a new phenomenon. It’s reoccurring.

And you’re starting to grow sick of having to feel it without getting to be with him.

Each and every day at Scoops is torture to you. Sure, the pay sucks and it’s not the most ideal job, but that isn’t the worst part of it all.

Having to watch him flirt with countless girls, never getting to be one of them yourself? That definitely tops the list as your least favorite thing about working with your two best friends.

While most of his attempts end in embarrassing failure (and yet another tally under Robin’s “You Suck” section of the whiteboard), there have been a few instances that didn’t follow this blueprint.

For example, just last week he had landed a date with Lauren Smith. She’s a cheerleader. A popular one, at that. She’s got blonde curly hair and rosy bowed lips and a presence that effortlessly draws attention.

She’s effervescence, blue eyeshadow, and satin ribbons. 

All of which you happen to not be.

That’s the type of girl you’d expect to be with Steve Harrington. Someone who’s the perfect poster child. The cheerleader who gets whatever she wants.

But a part of you wondered if it could ever be different. If Steve could like someone who wasn’t absolutely flawless.

Because yeah, you like him. And you’re not like Lauren. Not at all.

You weren’t a cheerleader. You weren’t insanely rich. Your hair was darker. (who’s wasn’t? her hair was the lightest shade of platinum possible.)

You’d known Steve forever. The two of you are extremely close. This all makes you wonder if he really can’t see how you feel about him. How when you look at him, your head tilts a fraction further than where it’d normally rest. How your eyes get this glint whenever you realize he’s talking to you. How you drop everything to listen to him.

You’d done everything right for years, and yet, you still weren’t the option.

But you’d been good at keeping it all in throughout your life. You don’t want to risk the years of bond that the two of you had built.

Best to stay quiet than to ruin something you’d deemed perfect.

——

You found out about Lauren because Dustin can’t keep his mouth shut for his life.

Steve had become a mentor and dear friend to Dustin over the years. The two were practically inseparable. Codependent on each other.

Steve needed Dustin’s advice and Dustin needed Steve’s.

Everyone had been in the Wheelers basement one hot summer night. School had only let out a couple weeks prior, making it the beginning of July. 

Lucas and Max were laying side by side on the floor, laughing about something no one else knew.

Mike, El, and Will were talking on the couch, sprawled out across the cushions with a bag of chips.

Nancy and Jonathan had gone upstairs ages ago. No one bothered to ask or intervene.

Dustin and Steve were on the floor. No one knew why when there were several chairs open that they could choose to occupy. Nonetheless, they were on the floor, watching the tv.

You were sitting with Robin, comparing your schedules for Scoops in July. All the same hours. The third person listed with the two of you was Steve. 

I guess they liked to put all the teens on one shift. The busiest shift, at that.

You weren’t really aware of anything else going on in the basement, too busy laughing at a stupid joke Robin cracked. That was until you heard Dustin’s voice.

“So Steve,” he began, the smirk already appearing. “How are things with Lauren?” 

There it was. That feeling in your chest that never seemed to disappear all the way. It softened at times, but it was always there. Pressing against the back of your ribs. 

Lauren. 

You knew the name.

There was only one Lauren in Hawkins High, and that was Lauren Smith. The cheerleader. The girl who’s effervescence and blue eyeshadow and satin ribbons.

The girl everyone envied.

Robin knew how you felt about Steve. Which is why once she heard the words from Dustin, she reached for your arm, showing you that you had someone in this world.

You gave her a weak smile, swallowing the lump in your throat.

That’s when you decided that you couldn’t be around Steve anymore.

Being around him meant having to hear of this girl. Having to hear of his relationship. 

And hearing of his relationship meant a constant state of melancholy.

You needed to get over him. Being upset all the time wasn’t fair. Not to Steve or yourself. 

Distance was the best thing you could think of. If you weren’t around him, there wouldn’t be anything to add to your dismay. 

So that’s what you did. You pulled yourself away. Slowly, at first. Then you withered quickly. 

The further you got from him, the lighter your chest felt. 

——

As time went on, Steve slowly started to realize you had been pulling back. He just didn’t know why.

So he went to Robin. The only girl who knew you better than he did.

You were on break in the back of Scoops, your Walkman blasting some tape at full volume. The two of them were in the front. The rush had came and left, leaving an opening for Steve.

He leaned his forearms on the counter across from Robin, looking straight at her.

“I can tell something’s up.” Robin had sighed, wiping down surfaces with a cleaning solution and a cloth. She pushed Steve’s arms off the counter when he got in her way. 

“What is it, Harrington?”

He walked back around the counter to her side, letting out a long exhale, fingers drumming on the edge of the glass case. 

“Do you know if I did something to make her hate me?” He asks her; pointing with his thumb to the wall that you’re behind.

Of course Robin knows what’s going on. She’s known since the beginning.

“No idea, dingus. She’s probably just tired of your idiocy.” She said, shrugging with a lift of her eyebrows.

Steve rubbed his temple at that.

“Yeah, really funny. You seriously don’t know?” 

“Not a clue, as I said.” She replied, looking at him as she finished wiping the counter.

——

Today, you got off work early. You had plenty of sick hours and something was particularly bugging you today. Robin and Steve insisted they had it. 

So you left. Went home and just sat on the couch, watching reruns of 80’s rom coms. 

Steve had bugged Robin for the rest of the shift.

“Seriously, Robs. You’ve got to know something.” he says while shutting the window to the back for the night.

Just five minutes to closing.

Robin had to keep telling herself that. Only five minutes and she can get out of there. 

But the headache was pounding. And when Steve asked again, she relented.

“You can’t be that stupid! She likes you, Steve! And the whole Lauren thing is crushing her!” 

She yelled the words at him, far too loud for the almost empty mall.

Oh shit.

Steve’s face fell. Now he understood.

He wasn’t even with Lauren anymore, but he hadn’t mentioned that. Not once. 

Maybe if he had, things wouldn’t be so shitty. Maybe his own best friend, the girl he’s known for over a decade, wouldn’t be avoiding him.

“You’re closing by yourself, Buckley. I’ve got to go.”

——

It’s a little past 10 when you hear a knock on your door.

At first, you think you imagined it.

No one comes over this late. Not unless it’s an emergency. Not unless something’s wrong.

The knock comes again. Firmer this time.

Your heart does something strange in your chest. A stutter. A lurch.

You push yourself off the couch, wiping your palms on your shorts like you’re about to take a test you didn’t study for. The TV continues playing behind you — canned laughter echoing down the hallway as you make your way to the door.

You don’t check the peephole.

You don’t know why you don’t.

You just open it.

And there he is.

Steve Harrington.

His hair is slightly flattened on one side like he ran his hand through it too many times. His Scoops uniform is still on, sailor hat shoved into his back pocket. He looks a little breathless. Like he ran up your driveway.

For a second, neither of you speak.

Your throat tightens immediately.

“Hi,” he says softly.

That stupid tightness in your chest returns full force.

“Hi,” you reply, just as quiet.

There’s a beat. Then another.

“I—” He exhales sharply and rubs the back of his neck. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want him to. But because you don’t trust yourself if he does.

Still, you step aside.

He walks in slowly, like he’s entering somewhere sacred. You close the door behind him, the click sounding much louder than it should.

He turns to face you.

And God, he looks nervous.

“I talked to Robin,” he blurts.

Your stomach drops.

“Steve—”

“No, just— just let me say this. Please.”

You nod.

He runs a hand over his face.

“I’m so sorry.”

The words hit you harder than you expect.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it. I’m sorry I didn’t notice you pulling away. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren’t—” He stops, swallows. “Like you weren’t important.”

Your eyes sting.

“You are,” he says quickly. “You’ve always been. You’re— you’re my person, okay? You’ve been my best friend since we were kids. And I didn’t even realize I was hurting you.”

You look down at your hands because looking at him feels like too much.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just— I needed space.”

“Because of Lauren.”

You nod once.

Steve lets out a breath. “We went on two dates.”

You blink.

“What?”

“Two,” he repeats. “And the second one was a disaster. She spent twenty minutes talking about herself and didn’t ask me a single question. I broke it off a week ago.”

You look up at him then.

“A week ago?”

“Yeah.”

Your chest tightens for a different reason now.

“I didn’t tell you because…” He huffs a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It mattered,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He softens.

“I know that now.”

Silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

“I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t… enough,” he says carefully. “Or like you weren’t an option.”

You flinch slightly at that word.

Option.

“I just figured you didn’t see me that way,” you admit. “You go for girls like her. Cheerleaders. Girls who walk into a room and everyone turns their head.”

He stares at you like you just said something unbelievable.

“You think that’s what I want?”

“Isn’t it?”

He steps closer. Not touching you. Just closing the space.

“I’ve dated that,” he says quietly. “You know what it’s like?”

You shake your head.

“It’s exhausting.”

You let out a soft breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“I don’t want perfect,” he continued. “I want someone who knows me. Who calls me out when I’m being an idiot. Who laughs at my jokes even when they’re bad.”

Your pulse is pounding in your ears.

“Someone who’s been right in front of me for years,” he finishes.

The air shifts.

Your voice comes out smaller than you intend. “Steve…”

“I was scared too, you know,” he says. “You’re my best friend. I didn’t want to mess that up. So I kept everything… normal. Safe.”

Your heart skips.

“Everything?” you ask.

He looks at you like it’s obvious.

“You think I didn’t notice how you look at me?”

Your breath catches.

“You tilt your head,” he says softly. “Just a little. Like you’re trying to understand something important.”

Heat floods your face.

“And when I talk,” he continues, stepping even closer now, “you get this look. Like I’m the only person in the room.”

Your back nearly brushes the wall.

“I thought I imagined it,” he admits. “So I ignored it. And then Dustin opened his big mouth and you started pulling away and it felt like someone yanked the ground out from under me.”

There’s barely any space between you now.

“I don’t want space,” he says.

You can feel his breath.

“I don’t want distance.”

His voice drops.

“I want you.”

The world goes quiet.

“Are you sure?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says instantly. “For once in my life, I’m really sure.”

Your hands are trembling slightly. You hate that they are.

“Steve, if this ruins us—”

“It won’t,” he says. “Because I’m not choosing you as some experiment. I’m choosing you because you’re the first person I think about when something happens. Because when you stopped talking to me, I felt it everywhere. Because I don’t care about perfect.”

His hand slowly lifts, hesitates.

Then he cups your cheek.

“I care about you.”

That’s what breaks you.

You surge forward before you can overthink it, your hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him down.

The kiss is soft at first.

Tentative.

Like both of you are afraid the other might disappear.

But then he kisses you back.

Really kisses you.

One hand sliding to your waist, the other still warm against your cheek. It’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s slow and full and years of unspoken things finally finding somewhere to go.

Your heart isn’t tight anymore.

It’s open.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together. Both of you a little breathless.

He smiles against your skin.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky laugh.

“So… what now?” you ask.

“Now?” he says softly. “Now I stop being an idiot. And I take you on a real date.”

You smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“I choose you.”

The words settle deep inside you.

Choose.

For so long, you felt like you were standing on the sidelines. Like you were the safe option. The background character. The girl who watches.

But standing here, with his arms around you, with his lips still warm from yours—

Maybe you don’t have to watch anymore.

Maybe you can be the girl who gets chosen.

Maybe you always were.

And as he leans in to kiss you again, softer this time, slower—

You think that for the first time in years, your chest doesn’t hurt at all.

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

The Calm After the Storm

Robin Buckley x fem!reader comfort

summary - when you applied for a job at scoops ahoy alongside your girlfriend and best friend, you'd never have expected to get roped into the mess you did. evil russians, monsters from another dimension, all sorts of shit you have to endure. and sometimes, the injuries get bad. but robins always going to be there by your side. word count - 2.7k warnings - injury, mentions of blood, violence, homophobia, steve mentions, fluff, comfort, dizziness, fractured ankle, lmk if i missed anything!! a/n - i wrote this up really fast for a request i had for robin x reader comfort, so sorry if it sucks. if anyone has any requests, please leave them! always open to ideas!

When you applied for a job at Scoops Ahoy, the tiny ice cream shop tucked in the corner of Starcourt Mall, you never would’ve expected this.

Well yes, you expected minimum wage and loud days with long shifts and Steve, your very good friend, and Robin, your girlfriend, to be arguing constantly.

You’d only wanted the job as an excuse to hang out with them.

But you never would’ve expected to become entangled in a whole mess with the Russians.

Nonetheless, once Robin had cracked that Russian code, you’d of course gone along with them to figure out more on the subject matter.

The Russian guards had captured Steve, Robin, and yourself, the two younger kids, Dustin and Erica, having escaped your grasp. In the process, you’d rolled your ankle, most likely fractured.

When that guard got in Robin's face, the cruel words he had said to her just set you off. Completely. There was no way you could stay silent.

“Don’t talk to my girlfriend like that.” You bark at him, all heads snapping in your direction.

Shit.

From the moment you spoke the words, you regretted them. It’s not that you don’t love when people know Robin is yours, it’s that now they have something against the both of you.

If torturing one of you doesn’t work, they can just move to the other.

His mouth twists.

Not confusion. Not surprise.

Something far uglier.

He looks at Robin like she’s something stuck to the bottom of his boot. Something unwanted and disgusting. Something that doesn’t belong.

He looks back at you, gaze still full of what he had directed at Robin.

“Girlfriend?” He echoes, tilting his head slightly.

His eyes drag between the two of you, never once flickering to the other person tied with you. He doesn’t need to look at Steve. Not when he’s already gotten a knuckle to the jaw. He doesn’t want another. Not with how hard that guy can hit.

“In my country,” The guard begins, tone cool and bitter, “this is not something you’d announce so proudly.”

Of course, neither of you give a fuck. 

You’re too in love to care.

A slow, humorless smile spreads across his face. “But it does make my job… easier.”

And this is what you had feared. This is why you had to press your eyes closed for a moment after letting the nature of you and Robin's relationship slip.

“You love her?” He says, turning back to Robin, leaning in close as if he’s mocking the way she can’t move right now.

She doesn’t answer.

Because she’s stubborn, and because she gets worked up when anything is negatively said about you, she spits in his face.

“Go to hell.” she snapped, jaw tight and eyebrows narrowed.

He stills instantly, shutting his eyes and wiping the spit from his cheek.

Then he laughs. 

It’d be shocking if it didn’t lack humor. But it did.

“I guess I’ll see for myself.” He says, taking a couple strides back to you, planting himself there. 

The first punch is quick.

You almost don’t even comprehend what happened. You wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the pain splitting though your skull.

His fist had struck you in the corner of your eye, hard and heavy, head throbbing.

It’ll make for a nasty black eye.

“Holy shit- don’t touch her!” Robin yells. You can hear it over the buzzing of your mind. At least you know you’re still partially in there.

“Don’t touch her, you say?” The guard turns to her, smiling unwaveringly.

His fist makes contact again, only this time, his eyes stay locked on Robin.

The pain ripples from your temple now, spreading throughout your skull and intensifying in waves. Your ears ring on impact.

Another, square between your eyes, harder than the last.

You turn your head to see at least a bit of her. She’s struggling against the rope that binds her ankles and hands, face contorted in pain like it hurts her more than it hurts you.

Now, she stays quiet. She knows that talking gets you injured. And even though she could run her mouth for hours, she holds her tongue.

You couldn’t tell that the alarms of the secret base were sounding. You thought it was just the ringing of your ears. The way the guards all turn and rush out of the room is the only way you truly know that they were called.

It’s a miracle, really. Impeccable timing. As soon as they leave, Erica and Dustin burst out of the vent on the side of the wall. 

“What the hell happened to you guys?” Erica asks, voice low as she rushes over to cut the ropes binding Robin’s wrists.

Dustin comes to your aid, untying your wrists and cutting the cord tethering your ankles to the chair. While Erica works on Robin’s ankles, Dustin helps Steve out of his restraints.

“Evil Russians.” Robin mutters, but there's something deeper in her tone.

Before, the five of you would joke about the enemy. Call them evil for fun, get a good laugh out of it. But after what they’d done to you tonight, Robin no longer thought of it in that way. She thought of them as truly, purely evil.

The second she's free, she rushes to your side, kneeling in front of you. You hadn’t been able to stand up from your chair yet, head absolutely reeling. The ceiling is spinning with a combination of heavy drugs and getting your lights punched out.

Her hands find yours, taking them gently, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your knuckles as if she needs to show you she’s there. She brings one to her lips, pressing a kiss to your wrist to get your eyes to lift to hers.

They do, reluctantly.

You don’t want her to see the severity of your injury. To know just how badly that Russian hurt you. That’d set her off.

But you can’t hide from her.

Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, blood staining your color-drained face in several lacerations. Your forehead, the corner of your eye, your temple. 

She drops your hands, taking your face in her hands. 

“Hey, baby. Do you think you can stand?” she asks gently, brushing your hair out of your face. You give her a weak nod as response, eyes meeting hers.

“Okay, good, that's good.” She breathes a sigh of relief, face lightening a bit. The fact that you still have at least a shred of awareness is comforting to her. “Steve, come help me.” The concern in her voice is practically radiating off of her.

Each of them takes one of your shoulders, holding you up and helping you stand. Between the fractured ankle, the way the drugs they’d injected cause the room to spin, and the pounding in your skull from the fists of the guard, you need all the help you can get.

The five of you make your way down the halls, slipping undetected through corridors. You move as fast as you can for someone who feels they’ll collapse at any moment.

Getting back is difficult, sure, but you learn to manage.

꧁☆꧂

You don’t remember the details of returning to Starcourt’s ground level. You only remember that Robin’s hand had never once left yours.

Because everyone's either leaving or in the theatre for the night's last showing of Back to the Future, including Dustin and Erica, the three of you that remain decide the bathroom would be a good place to hide out. Especially considering everyone's current condition.

Robin has a hand around your shoulders, the other holding onto yours, leading you gently and slowly to the bathroom. She’s supporting much of your weight because of your ankle. 

Steve seems to be following, but Robin is determined to put a stop to that.

“Harrington, go to the boys bathroom.” She says, voice leaving little room for argument.

Steve tries anyway.

“What? Why? I can help-” he begins, hands out slightly, protesting against Robin.

“You are not helping me clean the blood off my girlfriend in the girls’ bathroom.”

That's the end of it. He knows she's serious, hears the authority in her voice. He walks the other way, muttering something about it being ridiculous as he pushes open the bathroom door.

The girls’ bathroom is too bright.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting harshly off white tile, off mirrors that Robin immediately avoids looking into. The door swings shut behind you with a hollow echo, and suddenly it’s just the two of you.

Just the quiet.

Just the shaking.

Robin guides you down slowly until your backs hit the cool tile wall. She slides down first, easing you with her so you don’t jar your ankle. Her arm never leaves around your shoulders.

“Okay. Okay.” She exhales like she’s convincing herself more than you. “We’re good. We’re good. We’re alive. That’s— that’s step one.”

You try to smile at her. It doesn’t fully form.

Her hands come up immediately.

“Don’t— don’t move.” Her voice softens instantly. “I’ve got you. Just sit there. Let me see.”

She pulls away just enough to look at you properly, and the second she does, her face falls.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just… quietly devastated.

There’s bruising already forming near your eye. A split along your temple. Dried blood at your brow. Nothing catastrophic — but enough.

Her jaw tightens.

Her hands hover for half a second before gently cradling your face.

“The lights make it look worse, I promise.” you try to assure her, though you’ve got no idea what she's seeing, or if your words are true in the slightest.

“I’m gonna clean it up, okay?” she says softly. “It might sting. I’ll be quick. I promise.”

You nod faintly. All your trust is in her. You’d let her do anything.

She scrambles to her feet for a moment, grabbing paper towels and wetting them with shaky hands. You notice it — the tremor that the drugs bring.

She’s for sure feeling nauseous from what those Russians injected her with, even though she’d never admit it. You just wish she’d let you take care of her too.

“Robin,” you murmur.

“I’m fine.” She cuts in quickly. Too quickly. “Drugs are still— whatever. Doesn’t matter. You’re bleeding.”

She kneels back in front of you.

Carefully, so carefully, she dabs at the blood near your temple. Her touch is featherlight, like you’re glass.

You flinch.

She freezes.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry— I’m sorry—” she begins, words tumbling quickly from her lips.

“No,” you whisper. “It just stings.”

Her shoulders drop a fraction. “Okay. Okay. Sting is normal. Sting means you’re… you’re alive.” She swallows. “Alive is good.”

She resumes, slower this time. Wiping gently. Cleaning the cut near your brow. Her thumb brushes your cheek instinctively afterward, soothing.

You notice she looks pale.

“You’re gonna pass out before I do,” you mumble.

She huffs softly. “Rude. I am being an incredible girlfriend right now.”

That earns the smallest laugh from you.

Her expression softens immediately at the sound.

“There she is,” she murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

She leans in and presses the softest kiss just beneath your uninjured eye, lips lingering after the contact is broken

Her forehead rests against yours for a moment after, your eyes fluttering shut.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. The way her voice cracks tells you all you need to know.

Your eyes open. “You didn’t—”

“I spit in his face.” Her voice trembles again. “I should’ve known he’d take it out on you. I just— I couldn’t let him talk about you like that. About us.”

You reach up weakly, fingers curling into the fabric of her Scoops uniform.

“I can take the punches, Robs. I’d do it again,” you say quietly. “For you.”

Her breath shakes.

.Don’t,” she says, voice firm but small. “Don’t say that like it’s noble. I don’t want you hurt for me.”

She pulls back just enough to really look at you.

“When he hit you,” she continues, voice lower now, raw, having to swallow the lump in her throat before she can continue, “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t—” She swallows hard. “I’ve never felt that useless in my life.”

You gently cup her wrist.

“You weren’t useless,” you whisper. “You were tied up, Robin. It’s not like it’s your fault.”

Her eyes flicker over your face, searching for doubt. There isn’t any.

She exhales shakily and leans forward again, this time kissing your forehead — careful of the cut.

“I hate that they touched you,” she murmurs against your skin. “I hate that they made you bleed.”

You give her a faint smile. “You’re shaking.”

She laughs softly through her nose. “Yeah, well. My bloodstream is like ninety percent Soviet mystery chemicals right now.”

Despite that, she shifts closer, bracing one arm behind you to support your weight fully so you don’t have to hold yourself up.

“Ankle,” she says gently. “Let me see it.”

You hesitate.

She raises an eyebrow. “I am not above giving you a lecture while concussed.”

You sigh dramatically but extend your leg slightly.

She’s careful as she touches it, fingers light, assessing without pressing too hard.

“Okay. Swollen. It could be worse.” she says, though it sounds as if she's trying to ease her own nerves more so than yours. “We’ll ice it when we can. Or steal ice from Scoops. Crime is okay tonight.”

You smile at that.

She notices every tiny shift in your expression.

“Head still spinning?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“On a scale of one to Steve Harrington flirting confidence?”

You snort weakly. “Like… senior year Steve.”

“Oof. Okay. That’s severe.”

She shifts again, this time pulling you gently so your head rests against her shoulder instead of the tile.

“There,” she murmurs. “Use me. I make a better pillow.”

You melt into her without hesitation.

Her fingers comb carefully through your hair, avoiding the sore spots. Slow strokes. Over and over.

She presses another kiss to your hairline.

“You scared me,” she admits quietly. “When they all left and you weren’t responding right away, I thought—”

She stops herself.

You squeeze her hand.

“I’m here.”

She nods against you.

“I know. I know.” A beat. Softer now. “And I’m not going anywhere. Okay? Not because of some asshole with a badge. Not because of some country that thinks we’re wrong.”

Her thumb traces slow circles on your arm.

“You’re mine,” she says quietly. “And I am very stubborn about keeping what’s mine.”

You tilt your head up slightly to look at her.

“Possessive much?”

She smirks faintly. “Only when concussed.”

Then her expression softens again.

“You did nothing wrong,” she says firmly. “Nothing. Loving me isn’t something to regret.”

Your throat tightens slightly.

“I don’t,” you whisper.

“Good.” She kisses the corner of your mouth softly. Not heated. Just tender. “Because I’d announce it again too.”

You sit there for a while like that.

Her holding you. You breathing against her collarbone. Both of you shaky. Both of you alive.

After a minute, she nudges your chin gently.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“When we get out of this,” she says, brushing her nose lightly against yours, “you’re letting me baby you for like… a week. Minimum. I’m talking ice packs. Terrible movies. I will fight Steve for remote control privileges.”

You hum faintly. “You already fight Steve for that.”

“True. But now it’ll be justified.”

Another soft kiss. This time to your lips.

Slow. Careful. Checking if you’re okay.

You are.

She rests her forehead against yours again.

“Tell me if you feel worse,” she murmurs. “Tell me if the room spins more. Tell me if you’re scared. Don’t try to be brave about it.”

You nod.

“I’m a little scared,” you admit quietly.

Her grip tightens gently.

“Okay,” she says softly. “That’s okay. I’m scared too.”

A beat.

“But we’re scared together. And that’s way less lonely.”

Her hand laces through yours, squeezing once.

“And if anyone ever touches you like that again,” she adds, voice dropping just slightly, still calm but firm, “they’ll have to go through me first.”

You believe her.

Completely.

And for the first time since the base, your breathing evens out.

Because she’s there.

And she isn’t letting go.

꧁☆꧂

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

But Daddy I Love... Her?

MASTERLIST

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pairing: robin buckley x fem!wheeler reader summary: navigating a same sex relationship in the 80's is harder than you anticipated. but for robin? you'd endure anything. when you invite her over for dinner after growing sick of waiting, things blow up. your conservative parents are less than happy to say the least. what will the two of you do when your relationship is stretched to the thinnest? will you stick together, or break under the pressure of this town? total word count (so far): 17.7k warnings: conservative parents, homophobia, comfort, fluff, tears, arguments, kissing, robin being the cutest person ever, lmk if i missed anything!

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part 1: But Daddy, I Love.... Her?

part 2: on the way!!

part 3 on the way!!!

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click here for my blog and to leave requests!! open to requests for this fic as well as anything for steve harrington, nancy wheeler, or jonathan byers!!!!

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[robinbuckleyloverrr]

August Slipped Away...

summary - summer doesn't last forever, but the memories do. while trying to focus on the difficulty of yet another crawl, you can't seem to ignore the looming memories of what you and steve shared. how ever since then, there's been great distance between you, despite never being more than a few feet apart. word count - 8.7k warnings - heavy fluff, lots of kissing, robin and reader friendship, robin being hilarious but gentle, comfort, tears, mentions of smut, no actual smut, rekindling of old flames. a/n - i had sooooo much fun writing this!!! if anyone would like to, PLEASE submit some requests!! i need ideas and i'll pretty much write anything for steve, robin, jonathan, or nancy. i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing!!!!

It was another crawl. 4 pm in the basement of “The Squawk,” the workplace of two close friends, Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington. It seemed it became an unspoken rule for nights like this, that everyone was to arrive early. You always found ways to spend it, though. Ways to lighten the mood before the difficult tasks.

It’s loud and messy in the cool basement, but comfortable. Like a safe place in this whole tangled jumble of fate.

Dustin says this could be the end of the word.

Robin insists that over the top.

Most people don’t offer an opinion. They don’t want to be so badly mistaken.

To be honest, you yourself don’t know what to make of it all. The only thing that’s really made sense recently were these moments before crawls, where everything was chaotic and providing an outlet for escape.

You like it best like this.

Dustin and Will sit on the rug, arguing about some dumb science project from 3 years ago that no one seems to remember. Mike watches from afar, as does Joyce. They seem to both be keeping an eye on Will. Crawls create tension for the Byers. They never know when Will could face an issue.

He’s been teetering on the edge for a while now.

He has good and bad days.

Max and Lucas are tucked away in a quiet corner, whispering something to one another, giggling softly. They haven’t really left one another’s sides ever since Max came out of her coma. She sits across from his seat in her wheelchair, both hands in his. It’s comforting to see love bloom even in the darkest of times.

Eleven and Hopper are upstairs right now. They didn’t tell anyone they were going. It was more like a silent leave of absence. Whatever they are discussing, it must be important.

Robin and Nancy are standing at the towering shelves of vinyl records that are stored down in the basement, looking through them and sharing thoughts on albums. Normally, that’s where you’d be. With them. With your friends.

Well, you’d be there or in the one other location you’ve yet to think over.

The couch. The couch where Jonathan is sitting, leaning back against the cushions and laughing in a low tone on the occasion.

You wouldn’t be over there because of him, though. You’d be over there because of the boy beside him. They boy who before and during last summer, you knew better than anyone. The boy who you’d confidently say knew you better than anyone.

Steve Harrington.

It’s not like you guys had a fight or anything. Just after what you two shared this summer, after the no strings attached agreement that harmed more than it helped, you drifted apart.

Last year, you’d be next to him on that couch, laughing at each other and talking too loudly without a care in the world. But this year, that’s all changed. You keep your distance because you know it’s best if you do. He keeps his distance and you’re not really sure why.

Maybe he’s in the same boat as you. Trying to uphold his end of the deal.

Or maybe because he saw you, really saw you, this summer, he doesn’t want anything to do with you now.

If either, you sincerely hope it’s the first one.

You try not to appear too lost in your thoughts, though. Even through the chaos, it’s inevitable that with such a large group of people, someone would notice the absence of another’s spark.

“Why couldn’t this be in the summer? Like, after this, I have a calc test to study for.” Dustin complained from the rug, Will nodding in agreement beside him.

“Oh my gosh, do you guys remember last summer? I’d give anything to go back to those times.” Robin adds from the side where the vinyls are held. She’s shuffling through the discs, occasionally stopping to ramble about one with the older Wheeler child beside her.

“I know, right? Everything was so much easier then.” Lucas says from the corner, his unwavering gaze on Max broken for a moment. His eyes still flicker to her though, like the very thought of losing sight of her again is painful to him.

The words, though not uttered for just you, hit like they’re personal.

Steve still looks unfazed. You wonder if he cares at all. If he remembers it all like you do. If he remembers the time you shared together over the months where the sun was high and burning in the sky.

It takes you back. Back to the hot, sticky month of August.

꧁☆꧂

The air felt different back then. Not just warm and humid. There was something more in that air, something delicate and perfect and suspended in gold. It felt like it would never end. But it did. All good things seem to end.

Yet that one, that moment, that summer, felt perfect.

August had a way of doing that. Stretching time until it felt endless, until it felt impossible to imagine a future where things weren’t exactly like this.

The smell comes back first.

The heavy scent of gas. The aroma of warmth in the air. The sweet fragrance of the freshly cut blades of grass mingling with the perfume of poppies and blooming daisies.

And then there was him.

Steve.

You can vividly remember the sound of his voice that evening, the soft, low sound that carried 

through the open windows of his Beamer. 

You can see the colors of the sky again, just like they had been on the day. The fiery reds and glowing oranges of the sunset were already faded, replaced by the blue hues that rushed to fill their space and bright twinkle of stars. The sun had already set, but the sky was still light. 

8:57. That was the time that his car’s digital clock read. 

You’d memorized every detail of your time together. You never thought you’d be thinking it over in these circumstances, though.

In that moment, so little yet so long ago, you were sitting in the driver's seat of Steve’s beloved car. Your hands were tight around the steering wheel, knuckles white. The engine's low hum filled the air in the field, windows rolled down.

Steve sits beside you, one arm resting lazily on the open window, the other one lightly holding your knee, like he could ground you through the light contact alone.

“Relax,” he laughs out, soft and deep and so completely Steve. It’s not teasing. Not cruel.

“You’re acting like it’s going to explode.”

“You never really know, do you? Not until it’s already too late!” you argue, though you can’t wipe the smile off your lips. Your eyes are fixed in front of you, staring out into the wide meadow of grass that stretches on under and past the car. “I’ve never driven a car before.”

“That’s kind of the point..?” he says, turning his head to look at you. His lips curve upward in that sweet, familiar smile, eyes crinkling in the corners. “You have to start somewhere. So how about here?”

He’s surprisingly calm in all of this. 

Steve, who never let anyone even step too close to his Beamer out of fear they’d scratch it. Who’d only take his car out when the weather was nice and he could ensure there’d be no threat to his car. And yet, he’s letting you, someone who hasn’t ever driven before, drive his car. 

It’s strange how trusting he is of you. In fact, you’re more nervous than he is.

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat dramatically. All of the thinking and anticipation that the situation was creating was quite taxing on the brain.

“You’re so inspirational. Truly. Have you considered getting into motivational speaking?” you throw at him, head turning against the seat to face him with the slightest smirk despite your nervous demeanor.

He snorts, shaking his head while his eyes remain stationary on your face. 

“Okay, jeez,” he relents, leaning closer to you now. “Put your foot on the gas. Slowly. Like you’re trying not to drive us into Lovers Lake.”

You roll your eyes, but press your sneaker into the pedal anyways.

The car lurches forward.

“Okay, Steve, I can’t do this.” you say, foot leaving the gas in an instant. The nerves are getting to you. You’re worried that something could happen, that you’ll do something wrong and mess up his beamer in some way and he’ll never talk to you again.

It’s ridiculous, sure. With how close you two are, you don’t believe that anything could set you two on different paths.

If only you’d known back then, what a single summer could do.

“Hey, just look at me for a second.” he says, syllables quickly following your own spoken words. His hands reach gently for your wrists, trying to provide some soothe to your ne

“You’re fine. I wouldn’t have suggested you drive if I didn’t think you could do it.” he mutters, voice impossibly gentle, but still holding the tone he always has. It makes your breath catch in your throat.

He doesn’t drop your hands. He guides them to the steering wheel, his own resting over yours, fingers slotted in the gaps between yours.

Your heart seems louder than the engine now. You're afraid he can hear it, hoping he can’t.

Your foot presses lightly on the gas, his car moving steadily forward through the grass. It’s nerve racking, driving without any experience. Especially when you can’t focus on much when Steve is next to you. You guys have always been close, ever since first grade. Familiar with one another. Doesn’t make it easier.

“See?” he states as if he knew it all along, eyes darting from you to the ground ahead and back and forth. “You’re a natural.” 

Something in the way he says it is different than you normally hear him speak. It sounds softer, like he’s admiring you more than complimenting.

You glance over at him. He’s already looking.

Even when you look away, eyes on the field, you can feel his eyes burning holes on you. Upon returning your attention to driving, you realize you’re close to the bank of Lovers Lake. Not dangerously close, but getting there. You step off the gas instantly, gaze turning back to him.

His eyes haven’t left your face when you look back. They’re unwavering.

For a moment, the world feels quieter than it should be. Like the field has stopped breathing, like the cicadas in the trees have paused just to listen. The only thing that feels real is the warmth of his hands over yours and the softness of the blue sky.

“You’re staring.” You murmur, trying to sound casual. There’s this little hint in your voice that you feel might give you away. After all, he knows you.

He scoffs lightly, no bite behind the noise.

“Yeah, because you almost drove us into Lovers Lake.” he counters, but his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, as if to absentmindedly trace a pattern across them. His eyes fall down to where your hands are under his, pressed on the wheel.

“I need to supervise.” he adds, looking back up at you with mock seriousness. 

“‘Supervise?’” you repeat, laughing softly at his choice of wording. “You sound like my dad. Don’t tell me you’re getting all wise.”

He makes a face at that, nose scrunching. “Okay, rude,” he begins. “First of all, I am so much cooler than your dad.” 

You let out a small laugh at that, the tension in your chest easing just a little. The car bumps slightly over uneven ground, and instinctively, Steve’s hand tightens on yours.

“Be careful,” he murmurs when your foot bumps the gas. Something in the way he says it feels different. 

You know it isn’t about the car, it’s about you. He needs you safe, not his beamer. No matter how much he loves that car, you come above it on the list of his priorities.

“Does it feel weird?” You suddenly blurt out into the relative quiet of the car, shifting your body slightly to face him more directly.

“What?” He blinks, slight confusion crossing his gaze.

“Driving,” you clarify quickly, eyes back on the road. “Like, being in control of something that could go wrong so easily. Does it ever get easier?”

You can see him contemplating through the way his eyebrows furrow. A small action, but a pronounced one. 

“It doesn’t, I guess. You just get more comfortable.” he admits. “If you think about it, it’s better that way, right? If everything was always safe, life would be pretty boring.”

You hum in response, not sure if you truly agree.

“I think your definition of boring is different from mine.” you laugh, gaze unwavering. It’d be hard to look away now.

“Okay, whatever. But it’s not like you’re alone on that road.” he adds, voice quieter like speaking too loud would shatter the embrace of the nightfall. “I’m here. Most of the time.”

“Most of the time? Jeez, really reassuring to the girl behind the wheel.” you joke with him, though something tightens in your chest. Truth be told, it does make you feel a bit lighter. Like driving isn’t some distant thing. Like next year, with his help, when you actually begin taking courses, it won’t be the worst thing.

It’s always been easier with him. It’s more comfortable, less pressure to be preformative. With him, you can be whoever you want to be.

His words are simple. Casual. Probably harboring no meaning to him.

But for you? It’s a completely different story. The syllables that spill from his lips, each settling deeper and deeper into your chest, hold the meaning of the world. They in themselves could tell stories that no novel could.

Something gives you the courage to reverse the car. One of his hands drifts from yours on the wheel, but he keeps the other close by. He wouldn’t ever stray far. Not that summer.

When you come to a natural stop in the center of the grassy meadow, a heavy silence settles over the two of you. The faint hum of the engine keeps the lack of noise from being awkward.

“You did good,” Steve says finally, voice softer than before. Less teasing.

Having looked the opposite direction in the mirror while reversing, you turn back to him now, eyebrows slightly lifted.

“That’s all? No dramatic, over the top speech about my hidden talent and bright future as a race car driver?” You joke. Joking is easier than letting the hard feelings linger. A smile is spreading gently across your face, dimples appearing defined on your soft, pink cheeks.

He laughs, one of those laughs that starts low and raspy somewhere deep inside, before it cracks into something brighter. It’s messy and real and so unmistakably Steve. For someone you’ve seen this way hundreds of times, it sure does do something to you. This summer changed everything. It made you see him differently than you ever have.

“You’re impossible,” he replies.

“Correction,” you interject sharply, holding up a finger. You can't help the smile that's still wide on your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes and stretching your cheeks. “I’m talented.” You tilt your head to the side, expression changing gradually into a smirk.

He shakes his head at your antics, but his smile remains present. 

For a second, there's soft silence. No one speaks.

His hand remains atop yours, neither of you moving.

And somewhere in the quiet beginning of the month, you both knew something was different. What you didn’t yet know is what it would ultimately end up doing to what you had.

And what it did was destroy it.

꧁☆꧂

“Helloooooo..?”

 You hear, a hand waving over your face at the same time. The voice matches Robins, which checks about, because upon glancing diagonally up, your eyes land on her freckled face. 

Now everything feels like it’s coming in comparison to the summer.

While she still harbors the light markings dusted across her nose and cheeks, they are less pronounced than they were in the height of the heat. Her eyes are a shade more grey than blue, while the exact opposite was true in the humid climate of the month you dread dwelling on.

You blink, coming back to your senses. In the basement. Before a crawl. Everyone is here, not just you and Steve.

Get it together.

“Thought we lost you there for a second.” Robin says with a sigh of relief.

You blink again, forcing your thoughts back into place. The basement feels louder now. Brighter. Too alive compared to the quiet field you’d just been standing in moments ago.

“Sorry. I’m fine,” you reply quickly, the words tumbling out faster than they should. “Just zoning out.”

Robin narrows her eyes slightly, clearly unconvinced, but she doesn’t push. That’s one thing you’ve always loved about her. She knows when to ask questions and when to let things go.

You and her were actually brought together by Steve, when they both worked at Scoops. Naturally, you found yourself there most days in the summer, hanging around Steve. This was 2 summers ago. Not the summer when August lingered like old, stale memories.

You and Robin clicked in an instant. Now, it’s hard to imagine life without her by your side. Since everything with Steve got rocky, you’ve been with her even more often. But still, what you shared with the boy remains a mystery to her and everyone else.

“You looked like you were about to cry.” She softly adds, placing a hand on your shoulder as she stands next to you. It’s quiet enough so no one but you can make it out, loud enough for you to hear.

“No, I didn’t,” you protest, scoffing lightly. It doesn’t come out how you want it to.

“Yeah, you did.”

“Robin,”

She smiles softly, like it hurts her to do. Like seeing you in this state doesn’t deserve the grin that’s normally plastered on her face with the inability to be willed away. “Okay, okay. I’ll drop it. But tell me if something’s really up, okay?” 

You nod, pushing down the lump in your throat.

“You’re dramatic, Buckley.” You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Her hand’s still on your shoulder, still looking down at you. You hope she can’t read you, but you know she probably can.

“That’s rich coming from you.” It’s a joke, one made in an attempt to lighten things.

Before you can respond to that, Dustin’s voice cuts clean across the basement.

“Okay, but seriously,” he says, sitting up straighter on the rug, “summer is objectively the best season. No school, no homework, no life-threatening interdimensional monsters—”

“Are you trying to jinx it?” Mike mutters instantly, hands thrown out to the sides.

Jonathan laughs from the couch. “You’re forgetting the most important part.”

Everyone turns toward him.

“The drives,” he says, leaning back casually. “You know, late-night drives where nothing feels real and everything feels possible.”

You get what he means. The nights where it feels like it couldn’t ever be too late, like you’re free to do whatever you want to do. Like you can be whoever you want to be.

Something inside your chest tightens. It’s so sudden that it hurts.

Steve, who’s sitting beside him, stiffens. It wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone who wasn’t watching him, but you caught it. You always do.

“Yeah,” Lucas adds thoughtfully from the corner. “Those nights where going home just doesn’t seem like an option.” 

Max nods, squeezing his hand.

Robin hums. “Or when you end up doing something that definitely wasn’t planned, but feels right anyways.”

Her tone is light. Harmless.

But the words hit you like a tidal wave.

Your fingers curl into your palms, nails biting crescent moons into the skin of your palms. The pain gives you something to focus on other than the words uttered meaninglessly. Your gaze drops to the floor. 

The basement feels smaller.

The laughter around you continues. Dustin arguing with Mike again, Nancy chiming in with some sarcastic remark, Jonathan laughing too loud. Someone turns up the radio slightly. Someone else drops a box of supplies with a clatter.

But their voices blur together.

All you can hear is the echo of a different night.

A different car.

A different kind of silence.

When you look up from the floor, there’s someone else who doesn’t look present in the light banter of the group. Steve. His eyes are already on you. If you thought you may be able to bear it before, you know you definitely can’t now.

You stand up before anyone can stop you.

“I’m gonna get some air,” you say, voice too casual to be convincing. As you get up off your seat, Robin's hand tightens in the slightest in your shoulder. 

“Are you sure?” she asks, expression softer than before. Whatever hint of teasing was present earlier is completely gone. It’s hard for her to really convey her feelings through tone, but you can tell. 

“Yeah, it’s just stuffy in here.” You nod quickly.

No one questions it.

No one follows you.

You take the stairs two at a time, the noise of the basement fading with each step. When you push open the back door, the cold evening air hits your face, sharp and grounding.

You inhale deeply. Once. Twice. Nothing changes.

It seems as if you can’t get enough oxygen into your lungs no matter how hard you try.

Because the memory has already came back. It’s already resurfaced, looming over you like a dark cloud.

It’s worse than the other one. It burns deeper in your chest. And suddenly, you’re not standing outside the Squawk anymore. 

You’re in the backseat of Steve's car, hair plastered to your forehead and neck with sweat.

꧁☆꧂

The air in the backseat is thick.

Too warm. Too close. Like the night pressed itself into the car with you, refusing to give either of you space to breathe.

The windows are fogged over, streaked with half-dried fingerprints and the remnants of summer heat that refuses to let go. Your skin sticks where it touches the leather seat. Steve’s shoulder brushes yours every time the car shifts slightly, settling deeper into the grass beneath the tires.

Neither of you is talking.

You don’t know when that happened — when the teasing stopped, when the jokes fell away, when the space between you became something charged and fragile instead of familiar.

Steve exhales, slow and unsteady. You feel it more than you hear it.

“This is…,” he starts, then stops. Swallows. Tries again.

“This might be a bad idea.”

You laugh softly, breathless, because it already feels too late for that.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”

But you don’t move away.

Instead, you tilt your head toward him, just slightly. Close enough that your forehead brushes his temple. Close enough that you can feel his pulse — fast, uneven — where your hands are braced against the seat.

The closeness does something to him.

You feel it in the way his breath stutters, in the way his fingers curl reflexively at your side, like he’s holding onto you without realizing he’s doing it.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

You should.

You know you should.

But all you can think about is how the summer has already changed everything, how this feels like the final step over a line you’ve been standing on for weeks.

So instead, you whisper, “Steve.”

Just his name.

It’s enough.

The world narrows to heat and breath and the soft sounds you make when neither of you is pretending anymore. Time stretches, warps, becomes something unrecognizable. The car creaks slightly as you shift closer, closer, until there’s nowhere left to go.

For a while, nothing exists but the two of you and the night pressing in around the car.

And then — just as suddenly — reality rushes back in.

It’s quieter afterward.

Not awkward. Not uncomfortable.

Just… heavy. Like the line that the two of you just crossed is too far gone for you to ever switch back to the side you were on. Like you two can never truly go back to the before.

You’re sitting beside him again now, backs against opposite doors, knees still touching in the center like neither of you quite knows how to move away yet. The windows are still fogged, the engine still humming low, the stars still scattered across the sky like nothing has changed.

But everything has changed. 

Steve drags a hand down his face, then lets it fall into his lap. He doesn’t look at you right away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough around the edges.

You nod, even though your chest feels tight. “Yeah. Are you?”

Another pause.

“Yeah,” he says. Then, quieter, “I just… I don’t want this to mess things up.”

The words land harder than you expect.

You turn your head to look at him. His gaze is fixed straight ahead now, jaw tight, like he’s already trying to build distance between you and what just happened.

“We said no strings,” you remind him softly.

“I know,” he replies quickly. Too quickly. “I just meant— I don’t want to hurt you.”

Your throat aches.

“You won’t,” you say, because you mean it. Because you believe it. Because admitting otherwise would break something you’re not ready to face.

He finally looks at you then.

There’s something unreadable in his eyes. Something like regret, or fear, or maybe the realization that this summer is already slipping through his fingers.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Okay.

It sounds like an agreement.

It sounds like a promise.

It sounds like the beginning of the end.

Once the moment dies down, you both slip your shed clothes back on, ignoring the heat that just spilled between your bodies like it was the most natural thing in this world.

When he starts the car again, the headlights cut across the field, illuminating the tall grass one last time before you pull away.

You don’t say another word to him that night.

But you’ll think about this evening for a long time.

꧁☆꧂

The night air feels colder than it should.

It seeps through your clothes, presses against your skin, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes the tightness in your chest more obvious. Like there isn’t enough space inside your lungs. Like every breath you take is too shallow, too fast, like you’re borrowing air you haven’t earned.

You rest your hands on your knees, leaning forward slightly as you try to steady yourself.

In.

Out.

Nothing works.

The door creaks open behind you.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Okay,” Robin says softly, carefully, like she’s stepping into a room where something fragile might break. “Either you’re secretly practicing for a hyperventilating competition, or something is very wrong.”

You let out a weak huff of a laugh that barely counts as one.

“That bad, huh?” you murmur.

She comes to stand beside you, not crowding you, just close enough to be there. Her shoulder brushes yours, grounding in the way only she knows how to be.

“You disappeared,” she says. “You looked like you were about to bolt into another dimension. Steve almost followed you.”

That does it.

Your breath stutters.

Robin notices immediately.

“Okay. That reaction tells me everything I need to know.” She gently nudges your arm, attempting to lighten the mood. When you don’t respond, head dropping lower, her demeanor shifts.

“Hey,” she mutters softly. “Talk to me.” 

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the pavement. It’s always been easy to tell Robin everything going on in your life. She gets you in ways no one really could.

“I just…” Your voice cracks, and you hate how weak it makes you feel. “I feel like I’m suffocating. Like the walls are closing in or something. I don’t know why it’s hitting me so hard right now.”

Robin doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t rush you.

She nods instead.

“Okay,” she says calmly. “That’s fine. We can work with that.” She demonstrates exaggeratedly. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Pretend you’re blowing out birthday candles.”

Despite yourself, you snort.

“Funny,” you mutter, though there’s no bite behind it.

“That’s me,” she replies in a joking manner, then softens. “You’re safe. You’re here. No monsters, no impending doom, just me and the world’s ugliest back door.”

You breathe with her. Slowly. Deliberately.

After a moment, the pressure in your chest eases just enough to think.

Robin watches you the whole time.

“Does this…possibly,” she begins gently, voice low as if to not break whatever shred of this world you’re holding on to. “Have anything to do with a certain boy? Specifically, Steve?”

Your heart drops.

You glance at her, startled. “How—”

“I have eyes,” she says simply. “You two have been… weird. Capital W.” She hesitates. “And you guys have been distant. That’s not on brand for you two. You used to be inseparable.”

You swallow.

“No one knows,” you say quietly. “Not Nancy. Not Jonathan. Not anyone.”

Robin lifts a hand, solemn. “Cross my heart, hope I never have to work retail again.”

You laugh weakly.

Then the words start spilling out.

You tell her about the summer. About the drives. About Lovers Lake. About the no-strings agreement that felt safe until it wasn’t. About how close you got without ever saying what it meant. About the night in the car, the weight of it. The way everything changed afterward. The way Steve pulled back just enough to make you doubt yourself. How things weren’t ever the same once it was over.

Robin listens. Really listens.

She doesn’t interrupt once.

By the time you finish, your throat aches and your eyes sting.

“I think,” you admit quietly, “that I fell in love with him without realizing I was allowed to. And now I don’t know how to exist in the same room as him without feeling like I’m drowning.”

Robin exhales slowly.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, honey.”

She turns fully toward you and pulls you into a hug before you can protest. It’s warm and firm and smells faintly like laundry detergent and vinyl sleeves.

“I’m really sorry,” she says into your hair. “You don’t deserve all this. And that sounds… really hard.”

You cling to her for a second longer than you mean to.

“I hate that no one knows,” you whisper. “It feels like it didn’t even matter.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still on your arms.

“Hey,” she says seriously. “Just because it was private doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. Some things are just… sacred. Even if they hurt.”

You nod, tears finally spilling over.

Robin grins softly through it. “Also? Steve Harrington is not in control of his emotions. That’s not on you.”

That makes you laugh. Really laugh.

“Thank you,” you say, wiping your eyes.

“Anytime,” she replies. “You and me? We’re a team. Always.” She bumps your shoulder. “Now come on. Let’s go save the world or whatever. But if you need to bail at any point, I do know how to fake an emergency.”

You take one more steady breath.

This time, it feels like enough.

But you know it’s fragile. That one small thing could set you back to where you were.

Robin reaches for the door handle first.

“Ready?” she asks softly, thumb brushing against the chipped paint of the back door like she’s giving you an out.

You nod, even if it’s a little unconvincing.

“As I’ll ever be.”

She squeezes your hand once before pushing the door open, the noise of the basement bleeding back into the night—voices overlapping, someone laughing too loudly, the radio crackling faintly through old speakers. For a split second, it feels like too much again.

The door barely even cracks open before you hear it.

“Hey.”

Steve’s voice.

It’s quiet, but not uncertain. He’s not in the wrong place.

Robin stops instantly. Slowly, she turns her head back toward you, eyebrows lifting in a silent question. You feel your heart drop straight into your stomach.

Steve’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. His hair is a mess—more than usual—and his eyes flick between you and Robin like he’s bracing for impact.

“Can I… uh,” he clears his throat, jaw tightening. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

The world seems to narrow.

Robin’s gaze snaps to you. Protective. Steady. She waits.

You swallow.

“Yeah,” you say, before you can overthink it. “Okay.”

Robin nods once, already backing away. “I’ll—uh—go make sure Dustin doesn’t blow something up,” she says, pointedly. Then, quieter, just for you: “I’ll be right inside.”

She gives Steve a look that very clearly says don’t screw this up, then disappears down the stairs, door clicking behind her.

And suddenly, it’s just the two of you.

Steve gestures toward the steps outside, the ones tucked just beneath the overhang of the back door. “Can we sit?”

You nod again.

You sit beside him, not touching, but close enough that you’re aware of the warmth radiating off his arm. The night has settled fully now, darker than before, quieter. Somewhere far off, a car passes. Crickets chirp. The world keeps going.

Neither of you speaks.

The silence stretches.

It’s not empty. It’s heavy. Full of everything you’ve never said.

Steve drags a hand through his hair, then lets it fall to his knee. He stares out at the parking lot, eyes unfocused.

“I saw you leave,” he says finally. “You looked… upset.” He utters the last word like he’s settling, like he would’ve chosen another word if he could find it in the moment.

You huff out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Guess I was.”

Another pause.

“I almost followed you,” he admits. “Didn’t know if you’d want that.”

You glance at him then. He still isn’t looking at you.

“I didn’t know what I wanted,” you say honestly. “I just knew I couldn’t breathe in there anymore.”

That makes him wince.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I know I didn’t do anything tonight, but—”

“It’s not just tonight,” you cut in gently.

That finally gets him to look at you.

There’s something raw in his expression. Unguarded. The same look he used to get when it was just the two of you in the car, windows down, bodies pressed together, faces flushed. Pretending the world didn’t exist.

“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s why I asked to talk.”

He shifts slightly, turning more toward you. His knee brushes yours, just barely. Neither of you moves away.

“Everyone was talking about summer,” he continues. “And it just—” He exhales. “I kept thinking about how easy it used to be. With you.”

Your chest tightens.

“I remember teaching you how to drive,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You were convinced my car was gonna explode.”

You smile despite yourself. “You told me I was a natural.”

“I wasn’t lying,” he says softly. Then, after a beat, “I remember thinking that night that I’d do anything to keep you safe. Even if it meant not saying the things I wanted to say.”

Your breath catches.

“Steve—”

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t want you,” he says, suddenly. The words come out rushed, like he’s been holding them in for months. “I need you to know that.”

You freeze.

He looks at you fully now, eyes bright and earnest and a little terrified.

“I left because I thought I didn’t deserve you,” he continues. “Because every time you looked at me like that, or trusted me with something that mattered, it felt like I was stealing something I hadn’t earned.”

Your throat aches.

“I thought staying—letting it keep going—was selfish,” he says quietly. “Because eventually, you’d realize you deserved someone better. And I didn’t want to be the reason you settled.”

Silence crashes down around you.

You stare at him, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says immediately. “I know. And I hate that I did. I just—” He shakes his head. “I didn’t know how to be brave enough to stay.”

Something breaks open in your chest then.

“You didn’t hurt me by staying,” you say softly. “You hurt me by leaving.”

His eyes close.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, slowly, Steve lifts a hand—hesitant, like he’s asking permission even now—and lets it rest against your cheek.

You lean into it without thinking. His thumb brushes soft lines across your skin, grounding in the way that it had been this summer. Exactly how he did it before he’d kiss you in the front seat during a driving lesson. Exactly how he’d do it before taking you in the backseat.

The kiss starts like a question.

Soft. Careful. His lips brush yours once, tentative, like he’s giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you press closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, grounding yourself in the familiar shape of him. The kiss deepens, just slightly—warm and unhurried and achingly familiar.

It feels like hot, sticky August.

Minus the heat and humidity. 

Like late nights and open roads and the kind of closeness that only exists when you’re young and reckless and honest.

Steve exhales against your mouth, forehead resting against yours when you finally pull back, just a fraction.

“I remember,” he murmurs.

“So do I,” you whisper.

For the first time in a long time, the silence between you doesn’t feel like something waiting to swallow you whole.

It feels like space.

Steve doesn’t pull away right away.

If anything, he leans in again, like he’s afraid the moment might disappear if he gives it too much space. His hand stays warm against your jaw, thumb brushing slow, careful strokes like he’s relearning you. Like he’s reminding himself that this is real. That you’re real.

The kiss deepens—not rushed, not desperate—but familiar. It’s the kind of kiss that carries memory in it. Late nights. Summer air. The backseat of his car. All of it threaded together in the way his mouth moves against yours, like he already knows exactly how you fit.

You sigh into him without meaning to, and he feels it—responds instantly, pressing closer, his other hand finding your waist like it always used to. Like muscle memory never forgot you.

For a second, the world narrows to just this. The step beneath you. The night air. Steve Harrington kissing you like he’s finally letting himself want something out loud.

Then—

“Wow.”

You both recognize the voice.

Steve groans softly, forehead dropping to yours as if the interruption physically pains him. As if tearing your lips from his when he just got the contact back hurts more than thought possible.

You laugh breathlessly and turn your head just in time to see Robin standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised so high it might disappear into her hairline.

She looks between you. Once. Twice.

Then she grins.

“Oh my god,” she says, delighted. “I leave you two alone for five minutes and suddenly it’s the world’s most emotionally charged rom-com outside The Squawk.”

You cover your face with one hand, the other still slung loose around Steve's neck. “Robin—”

She waves you off. “No, no, don’t stop on my account.” Her eyes flick to Steve. “Seriously, Harrington. Took you long enough.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, cheeks pink. “You gonna tell everyone?”

Robin pretends to think about it, tapping her chin. “Tempting. Very tempting. But I’ll spare you. For now.” She steps back inside, then pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “For the record,” she adds, smug, “I called it.”

Then she disappears, laughter trailing behind her as the door swings shut.

There’s a beat of silence.

You look at Steve.

Steve looks at you.

“…She’s never gonna let me live that down,” he mutters.

You laugh softly. “Absolutely not.”

He smiles—really smiles—and shakes his head. “Worth it.”

Then he leans in again, slower this time. Like he’s asking. Like he’s making sure you’re still here, still choosing this.

You answer by kissing him back.

It’s softer now, but deeper somehow. Less about catching up and more about staying. His forehead rests against yours between kisses, noses brushing, breaths mingling. The night feels quieter. Kinder.

For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like something is ending.

It feels like something is finally being allowed to begin again. Like out of the heat of August, the cool night air and satellites that blur softly with the stars looming above, there can finally be something new born. Something far better than the confusion of the summer.

[robinbuckleyloverrr]

But Daddy I Love… Her?

Robin Buckley x Wheeler!fem user

summary - you and robin have been together for ages. it isn’t the easiest, being in a same sex relationship in the 80’s. but you both manage. you’re in love, so you endure it. One day, you ask your parents if she could come over to have dinner with you. They accept this idea, thinking it’s a boy. They have no clue that their daughter, who they’ve raised on their own extremely conservative beliefs is dating a girl. Things don’t go the best when they find out the nature of your relationship… word count - 11k warnings - conservative parents, homophobia, comfort, fluff, tears, arguments, kissing, light body kissing, slight absence of clothing, no real smut. a/n - i had sooooo much fun writing this!!! if you guys want a part two, i’d be extremely willing to write one!! left it on kind of a cliff hanger in hopes of making a second part!! lmk in the comments! also, i’m obsessed with my girl robin lately, so here we are!!

A quiet hum of unease was settled beneath your ribs, impossible to ignore, too pronounced to take your mind off of. Fear and hope twisted together somewhere deep in your body, and there was one upcoming event to blame. Specifically, a dinner with your parents.

And Robin.

Robin. She’s been your girlfriend for a long time now. Of course, your parents know of her, but they don’t know her. You’ve talked non-stop about the bubbling blonde who always has something to say, no matter the situation. You’ve gushed endlessly about the person who never fails to make you laugh, no matter your mood. There was just one thing you conveniently “forgot” to mention to your extremely conservative parents.

And it was that Robin was a girl.

Your parents hadn’t ever really asked, they just assumed it was a boy. So why bring it up to them? They didn’t support such beliefs, and they had thought she was a boy anyway, so why burst that bubble?

“Where does he work?”

“Is he going to college next year?”

“What does he like to do for fun?”

Those were all questions you’d been asked by them. You never really bothered to rectify them. On one occasion, you came close to correcting them, weakly interjecting. But you stopped. Better to let them believe what they wanted than to possibly have to ruin your relationship.

But you’d grown tired of waiting.

You asked your parents if they’d like to meet Robin. If it’d be okay if “they” came over to have dinner with you. They of course accepted this, open to the idea of meeting your boyfriend. Oh, were they in for quite the shock.

In short, Robin will be arriving in about 10 minutes. And you haven’t been able to tell them. 

You sit at your vanity, the warmth and familiarity of your room the only provided sense of comfort throughout this tangle of nerves. The soft colors, the glow of the lights, the gentle decor. Fuck. So much could go wrong. What if they’re upset with you? Not just upset, but angry? You’ve always tried to be pleasing to your parents, academically and emotionally and in every other way possible.

You were a good kid. Perfect grades, perfect morals, perfect behavior. But you couldn’t help that you fell in love with a girl. That you fell in love with Robin Buckley. It’s the way you were wired.

“Everybody is wired in a certain way. However it is that you are, it’s your business. I like you no matter what you like.”

That’s what your friend Steve would say. He was always really supportive of you, and Robin’s sexualities. When Robin came out to the both of you in the Starcourt bathroom, your confession followed suit. Both of you had told Steve, and almost no one else.

Some had their suspicions. Dustin and Will noticed the signs, the indicators of your relationship with Robin. A brush of the knee, a bump of the elbow, a lingering glance. They were perceptive in that way.

You and Robin sat Max down one night and told her. You both had a close relationship with the younger redhead, so you knew you could trust her. She and Steve have practically become your biggest supporters through all this.

Robin’s life was different from yours. She lived all the way across town, over by Mirkwood. You live on Maple Street. Her mom was often at work, but when she was around, she was there for Robin. They talked. She supported her daughter.

You don’t have that luxury.

There are so many thoughts racing through your brain. Thoughts of Robin, how seeing her will feel like a breath of fresh air. Thoughts of your friends, of what they know and what they believe. Thoughts of what your parents will do upon discovering that you don’t have a boyfriend. That you have a girlfriend.

Your room feels tighter now, as if you’re being suffocated by your own thinking. With a shaky hand, you swipe mascara onto your curled lashes. It’s harder to take a breath now, but you manage. 

It’s fine. You’ll be fine. You’re overthinking it all.

That’s what you tell yourself. But God, is that hard to believe. Hard to believe that your parents who harbor nothing but traditional beliefs will be okay with this.

You try to get your mind off it. Try to think of anything else to bring yourself back. Robin’s laugh. Robin’s smile. Robin’s unwavering, bubbly self. 

All those thoughts just bring you back to how your parents could crush it all out of her tonight.

Your abundant thoughts are cut off by the sound of the doorbell ringing throughout your house. 

꧁☆꧂

It came as a slight shock that she came.

You told her everything. You told her your parents likely wouldn’t support this, that they may be mad at the both of you. You told her that she might get sent home immediately, that you don’t want her to come if she doesn’t feel comfortable.

You told her not to come if she wasn’t comfortable with it. The last thing you ever wanted was for her to feel out of place. 

But nonetheless, she was here. She was at your front door.

You rushed down the stairs, curls bouncing against the fabric of the sweater covering your body. God, you were shaking really hard. You make your way to the door, taking deep breaths with each step. 

“Is he here, sweetie?” your mom called from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. Your dad, who was watching the football game on the couch, stood up too, coming towards the door.

Your heart is beating faster by the second, hands still shaky by your sides. You stride to the door, stopping before it, steadying yourself.

“Yeah, I’ll get the door.” you reply to your mothers question.

Deep breaths. It’s fine. It’ll all turn out okay.

You keep telling yourself that. But the tightness in your chest tells a different story. A story far more tragic that seems way more likely.

A shaky hand reaches for the door, both your parents behind you. You twist the handle and pull it open, revealing Robin standing there.

You turn to your parents. They haven’t put it together yet. They’re refusing to believe it, that this could be the Robin you’ve been talking about all along.

She was standing there in the doorway, that same wide smile on her face, unwavering since the day you met. Her blonde hair is down, reaching almost to her shoulders. Her bangs frame her face beautifully, the blue hues of her eyes matching those of her sweater vest. The navy sleeveless tank top was layered over a white undershirt, paired with her light wash jeans.

Just by looking at her, you can tell she tried her best to look presentable for your parents. She doesn’t like dressing up very much. But she did today.

“Hello! You must be Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler! I’m Robin, it’s so nice to meet you both! I’ve heard really good things about both of you!” she spews nervously, brushing a strand of her golden hair behind her ear.

You’re looking at your parents, the tiniest smile on your face appearing from pure nerves. They still look confused, but you can see the pieces being put together in their minds. 

Their daughter is dating a girl. This is Robin. This is why the pronoun “he” never once came out of her mouth when describing who she was in love with.

“Oh, uhm… it’s nice to meet you too, Robin! Can you just hold on one second?” your mom asks her through a heavily forced smile. Shit. You know things aren’t going in a positive direction.

Robin nods quickly, swallowing the lump in her throat as they slam the door on your entire world, the one thing you wanted. Your parents turn to you, eyes fixed on your face. The forced smiles are gone. They are definitely upset.

Your mother is the first to break the silence.

“Explain.” she says in a tone far from light. It’s just a word, one word, but it lands. 

You open your mouth, trying to say something, to say anything, but no words come out. You close it again, looking back and forth from your parents' faces. Your dads tight jaw and crossed arms, your mom’s downward facing lips and narrowed eyes.

Definitely not happy.

“So,” he begins, voice low and controlled. He’s good at keeping his temper. “That's Robin.” 

It’s not a question. He knows that’s her.

You nod slowly, head dipping barely before coming back up. You keep your eyes on his face, watching his reactions.

“And Robin is… a girl.” Again, not a question. Just a fact stated grimly. 

“Yes.” your throat burns. That feeling of tightness from in your bedroom comes back, but this time, it’s worse. It feels like it’s been multiplied. There’s a silence between the three of you. Long, stretching, dreadful. It’s like everyone is holding their breath. 

It feels like hours rather than seconds before your mother lets out a sigh, rubbing her temple as if to push away the reality of the situation. She’s processing this all, how she could’ve raised her daughter so perfectly and done everything right and yet this is still how you turned out.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” are the first words spoken from your mother since the revelation. It’s a simple question, really. One she could probably answer herself. You didn’t tell them because you knew they wouldn’t support you. That you’d have to throw it all away to please them.

But you’d rather burn your whole life down than listen to one second of their griping and moaning.

“I- I tried to,” you whisper, voice cracking. You thought you were stronger than this, that you could speak now without sounding weak. “I just didn’t know how to.” you finished, getting through your sentence as you swallow the lump in your throat.

“That’s not an answer,” your dad snapped, voice suddenly sharper than its previous tone. “We asked about him. About a boyfriend. You let us believe a lie.” 

“I didn’t lie,” you utter, cheeks heating, but it sounds frail even to your own ears. Your argument isn’t sounding the strongest.

“Well you didn’t tell us the truth. You knew what we thought.” your mother added, eyes narrowing in your direction. 

“I was scared.” you say, nails biting crescent moons into the skin of your palms. You focus on the pinch of pain you feel as your fists clench. Anything to ground yourself. Anything to get you to quit thinking about the nervous girl who was trying her absolute best for you and your parents, the same girl waiting out on that porch.

“Scared of what? Of telling us the truth?” your dad scoffs out, running a hand over his face before it returns to its original position, crossed tightly over his chest.

“Of disappointing you.” it’s quieter than any other words you’ve emitted this evening. While you really didn’t want to make them upset at you, you couldn’t keep ignoring your heart. You couldn’t ignore that you were in love with Robin.

The confession stops them for a moment. And for a second, you think it worked. That it’s over.

It’s not enough.

“This isn’t normal.” she speaks, the exact words you were afraid of hearing. You knew she thought this. But you’d foolishly let yourself believe you could change her mind. “And we aren’t going to pretend it’s normal.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. You can hear the unwavering beating of it as loud as a drum. Definitely not changing her mind.

“She’s not just some experiment, mom. She’s my girlfriend.” you say, voice still soft and rather pathetic. But you’re holding your ground. You try your best to keep upright, to stand up to their beliefs. After all, it is for the girl you love.

“Not under this roof.” your dad grunted, expression hardening as his jaw tightens, teeth gritting against one another. This is possibly the most upset you’ve ever seen your father.

Those four words hit harder than anything else has.

Your mother takes a step closer, her tone icy cold. “I thought we raised you better than this. We told you not to put us through this.” 

You can feel your eyes stinging now, feel the tears pooling in your eyes. You try not to let them fall. You bite your lip to distract yourself, keeping it in.

“It’s not like I chose it.” you whisper. You really didn’t choose it. You tried to be normal, tried to please your parents. But the urges became too strong. “I just… I love her.”

Your dad lets out a humorless laugh, the sound sharp like a knife to the chest. “Love?” he repeats, like the word tastes wrong when uttered about two people of the same gender. “You’re a kid. You don’t even understand what you’re saying.”

Tears spill down your cheeks before you can stop them. They’re full of so many pent up emotions and thoughts. Full of love for your beautiful girlfriend. Full of longing for your parents approval, for them to see things from your perspective. Full of the weight of everything that’s been crushing down on you. The tears have been a long time coming.

“Please,” you begin. “Just meet her. Talk to her. I promise, she’s been really good for me.” the words are uttered through tears and the lump in your throat. She really has been good for you. She’s shown you who you really are, shown you that you’re worthy of love.

Your mother doesn’t even answer. Not verbally, at least. She just shakes her head at you, gaze on the floor instead of on your face.

“She’s not coming into our home.” she says firmly, her tone of voice suggesting that there’s no room for negotiation. The words freeze you in your tracks.

“She’s still out on that porch and she needs to go home. Now.” your father interjects, each syllable tightening the pain you already felt somewhere deep and twisting inside your chest.

This can’t be happening. You’d known this wasn’t a good idea, you knew that you should’ve protected her. But she had wanted to come. She wanted to help change their minds. And now, it’s hurting you both.

You're about to speak, mouth open, but you’re cut off.

“You’re not allowed to see her anymore,” your mother continues, her voice leaving no room for argument. “You’re grounded. Phone, outings, everything. This stops now.”

Your voice breaks completely, holding back shaky sobs.

“You can’t do that.” you interject weakly. You know she can. Her house, her rules.

“Yes, we can. We’re your parents.” your dad adds, confirming your suspicions. They don’t support this. They won’t ever support this. Robin, the love of your life, has to leave. After she did all she could to make a good impression. God, did she try.

“She didn’t do anything wrong.” you cry, hands shaking by your sides. “If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. I should’ve told you. Don’t punish her for what I did, please.”

You're begging them now. The last thing you want is for her to take the fall for this. 

Your mothers eyes soften for a second. Your dads jaw unclenches. For a moment, you think that you’re getting through to them, that they are starting to see from your perspective. But no. Both of their lighter features harden again.

“This isn’t about her.” your mom says, voice low.

You know it’s a lie.

“I’ll tell her she needs to go home.” your dad begins, turning to the door. It hurts somewhere deep inside your chest. Somewhere deep inside your fragile chest. Your heart lurches at the thought of him talking to her, his anger looming down on the girl who does nothing but love with her whole heart.

“No,” you gasp, stopping him in his tracks as you grab his arm. “Please, I’ll tell her. Let me tell her.” you beg, the tears still soft on your warm cheeks.

He hesitates, a contemplative look on his face. Then, a nod. One, stiff nod.

“Five minutes and I want her out of here and you in your room.” he tells you, stepping away and back down the hall. 

For some reason, this answer feels like a breath of fresh air. Even though you’re grounded and Robin has to leave, you get to break it to her. She doesn’t have to face the hatred burning in your fathers chest. 

“We’ll discuss this later.” your mother says quietly, the final thought added before she returns to the kitchen. 

And somehow it hurts worse than anything yelled ever could.

꧁☆꧂

You didn’t have to think about it at all. Not for one second. The door creaks open as you step out into the doorway, not shutting the door just yet.

Cold air rushes past your skin, but it doesn’t compare to the way your chest feels. The raw, exposed, and shattered feeling of tightness in your chest.

Robin’s still standing there.

For a second, she looks exactly the same as she did minutes ago. Same posture. Same sweater vest. Same hands shoved nervously into her pockets.

But her smile has changed. It doesn’t reach her eyes anymore.

It’s still there, stretched across her face like she’s forcing it to stay. Like if she lets it fall, the weight of the situation will come crashing down with it.

“Hey.” she says softly, the word sounding awfully large through the silence despite its small structure.

It stutters your breath for a moment. 

When you gain it back, you take a step down from the doorway, landing on the porch. The door clicks to a close behind you. The tiny sound feels too final for the situation. 

Robin’s eyes run over your face, the same features she grew familiar with over the years. But the second her retinas land, she catches the tear tracks on the glow of your pink cheeks. It’s more concerning that you didn’t bother to wipe them away than the fact they are there. Her smile falters, just for a second.

“You okay?” she asks, but her voice suggests that she knows the answer to her own question.

You just shake your head.

And that’s all it takes to get her moving forward. Not rushing, not dramatic, just moving. Like it’s instinct to her, like another option never crossed her mind.

Her hands find your forearms first, her long fingers warm against your cool skin. Then she pulls you in, gently but firmly, like she’s afraid the both of you will fall apart right there if not held together by something. 

Your forehead pressed to hers, heads tipped in towards each other. You can feel her breath, can feel her hands moving to your sides, how her grip tightens slightly when she does so. You can feel the emotion radiating off one body to the other.

“I’m so sorry.” you whisper softly, chest cracked open. You’re sorry for so much. For being a mess right now, for dragging her into this situation, for not telling your parents the truth. You just don’t know how to fix it all.

“No,” she interjected, shaking her head, soft enough that your foreheads never have to part. “Don’t do that.” 

“They hate it. They hate us. They said that you’re not welcome here anymore, and that I'm grounded, and that-“ you’re cut off by your own sobs. You have to admit, it makes you feel sort of weak. But you never did have to hide from her.

Her hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs trekking across in slow gentle movements. They push the lingering tears from your warm cheeks, wishing she could brush the sorrow away with them.

“Hey,” she murmurs softly, that hint of raspiness in her voice still present. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. You really do try for her.

“Please?” she whispers, voice breaking. There’s a hint of melancholy in her words now, like it hurts her just as badly, if not worse.

The sound gets your chin to lift. Her eyes are glossy now too, but you can tell she’s holding it in. She knows you need her. There’s a small, forced smile in her lips, one that wavers every few seconds.

“You warned me.” she assures you, brushing your curls out of your face on both sides, fingers tucking the strands behind your ears before returning to their earlier position. “Remember?” 

You swallow.

“You told me it could end badly. You told me they might react like this.” She pulls back to look at you for a moment, both hands still cupping your jaw. Her forehead presses into yours once more, more firmly, as if to ground you further.

“And I still came.” she whispers, sounding almost like an accusation. Like she blames herself for your dread, even though this is far from her fault. 

She lets out this soft sound, somewhere between a sight and a light, humorless laugh. “That’s on me, okay?” she finishes, voice trembling through the syllables.

You shake your head against hers once more, harder this time, willing her to listen to you. You want her to know this isn’t her fault. She didn’t cause any of this, never. 

“No. It’s not. I shouldn’t have even suggested the idea. I should’ve-“ 

She leans back to disconnect the contact of your foreheads, lips leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. It’s a quick peck, but it stops your rambling.

She kisses you again. This time, it’s on your cheek, lingering a bit longer. It feels sacred, like the press of her lips is the only thing that could tether you to this earth. Then another, right above the corner of your mouth. It pulls a half smile out of you, eyes fixed on hers. Acting on instinct, your hands reach for hers, fingers locking into each other.

You know what your parents would think. How disapproving they’d be of this. But you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Robin is right there in front of you, looking and being the most perfect anyone ever could.

“I won’t blame myself if you don’t.” she says gently, a small smile on her lips. “Deal?” her thumbs run over your knuckles, brushing soft lines on your skin. 

“Kay.” you relent, lips trembling. It earns a tiny, sad smile from her. 

“We’re supposed to be on the same team.” she adds delicately, her voice cracking higher on the last syllable.

That’s when the tears really start to fall.

She doesn’t hesitate to pull you closer, wrapping her arms around you fully. Your face sinks into her shoulder, and you feel her chin rest atop your soft head of curls. The embrace is familiar, the warmth and feeling it brings.

One of her gentle hands moves up and down your back, steady and warm.

“I heard some of it.” she admits quietly, like she was too afraid to say it for your own sake. Your body stiffens instantly, thoughts coursing through your veins. 

What if she’s upset that you didn’t fight hard enough?

What if she agrees with them?

What if-

The tightening of her hold is enough to stop the impending cycle of pondering.

“But it’s okay,” she rushes to tell you, sensing your worry. “I mean, not okay, but… I knew, or you told me, it may happen. And I don't regret coming. Not even a little.” 

You lift your head softly from her shoulder, careful, as if you could break something that’s already so fragile. Your eyes are red rimmed, the mascara you had shakily applied earlier staining the skin under your lashes.

“You don’t?” you question softly, almost as if you can’t believe she would want to be here. That this girl would want to endure the worst for you.

She shakes her head softly.

“No,” she emphasized, a hint of amusement in her voice. It’s like the very thought makes her want to laugh. “I’d rather be here with you for five minutes like this than nothing at all.”

Her voice was more serious on that last bit, gentle but firm. It makes your heart ache, squeezing her hands tighter. It just hurts you worse.

Why would your parents ever want to ruin this girl? To take away the source of your happiness, split you up when it’s so clear you’re both in love?

“I hate that they said those things. About you.” you admit quietly, voice a little shaky from the previous tears. It’s truly awful that anyone could ever say something negative about her when all she does is love everything and everyone. 

Robin shrugs lightly, trying to act casual even though her wavering voice betrays the act. It’s more so for herself than you. She knows you can see through any mask she puts up.

“I’ve been called worse.” she jokes softly, though there isn’t any real humor behind it. Just a fact. 

A frown spreads on your face as you remember why you actually came out on this porch. As you remember that you have to send her away, that you aren’t allowed to see her.

“Robin.”

She exhales slowly, leaning forward to the point where your noses brush each other. It’s light contact, but any was always and still enough to stutter the beat of your heart.

“Hey,” she mumbles. “I’m sorry, the joke was stupid.” Her smile slowly fades, becoming just a light curve of her mouth. She’s missing your point.

You didn’t say her name because of the joke, not at all. You said it because you need to get something off your chest. The very words of your parents that have been weighing you down since they were emitted.

“They said I can’t see you anymore.” you utter, voice impossibly soft and quiet, almost as if saying it too loudly would break something that’s already teetering on the edge.

It doesn’t matter how low it came out, because Robin heard you. She had thought your parents told you that in the house, but chalked it up to paranoia. Now she knows it’s true. Exactly what she feared.

Her eyes soften. You can see the words coursing through her body, you can feel that she’s thinking. It hits her hard, the idea of never being able to hold you again. Never being able to kiss you or brush your hair out of your eyes. Never being able to comfort you in moments like these or celebrate the highs with you.

She pushes it down.

“Well,” she begins, a little shaky, but it’s still her. Still that sweet, raspy voice you’ve grown to love over the years. “they didn’t say anything about phone calls.” she attempts a crooked half smile.

A watery laugh escapes your lips despite the dire situation. 

Robin smiles more genuinely now, relieved that she could get a laugh out of you. It feels like a victory. A small one, but still an accomplishment. 

Her hands trail down where they had wrapped around your shoulders, finding your fingers once more. Her thumbs trace slow circles across the backs of your delicate hands, trying anything she can to ground you in this.

“It’s not your fault.” she breathed softly, her voice quieter than earlier. You nod, even though it hurts to do. It still feels like you’re the one to blame for this predicament.

She leans down to press one more soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment in silence.

“I love you.” she speaks, like her chest has been cracked open and the words came straight from her heart. It’s one of the most genuine statements you've ever heard. From anyone.

It shocks you that someone could love you that much. You used to believe you were impossible to love, that you didn’t even deserve it. That in order to be liked, you had to be the most perfect that was possible. Robin showed you that you were worthy of it, that you were meritorious of affection. For that, you owe everything to her.

“I love you too.” you mutter back, heart swelling painfully. The strong love that both of you feel for one another is overwhelming.

She squeezes your hands one last time, as if to memorize every single detail of how they feel in her own. Reluctantly, she steps back. But she doesn’t drop your hands.

Not until the very last second does she loosen her grip. Without hers to hold onto, your hands shake by your sides, watching as she retreats.

꧁☆꧂

Your house is quiet. Too quiet.

It’s not the soft, comforting quiet. No, it’s the kind of quiet that presses against your ears, heavy and suffocating. The hallway light is off now. Your parents’ bedroom door is shut. The television downstairs has long been turned off.

You’re lying in bed, the soft colors of your room swirling in the surrounding. It should be comforting, the familiar warmth. But it isn’t. Not when you haven’t stopped thinking about her. 

About her physically, sure. The soft blond lockes of hair that caught the light of the setting sun. The blue of her sweater vest and eyes that matched perfectly. The gentleness of her hands on your body. The curve of her cupid's bow. You could think about her beauty for hours.

But that’s not what’s sticking right now.

What’s really got you hung up is the way she handled everything tonight. The softness of her voice. How calm she kept. How focused she was on grounding you. How her thumbs brushed the tears off your cheeks. How she kissed your forehead. How she didn’t let go until she absolutely had to. She really was perfect.

You try to focus on what’s around you. The soft patter of rain on your window. The hum of the heater beside your bed. The glow of the bedside lamp with the tiny tulips painted on its shade.

And then there’s a ringing. The phone.

One ring comes, freezing you in your position. Your heart stutters, caught in your throat. You decide to wait a moment. Maybe it’s not her.

But it rings again.

You get up off your bed this time, walking over to the opposite wall where your pasted phone sits against the baby blue walls. You lift the phone slowly off the wall, almost as if you’re afraid to answer it.

“Hello?” you whisper into the transmitter, afraid that any sound too loud would wake your parents. They're just down the hall.

There’s a pause over the line, complete silence other than the hum of electricity.

Then comes the sound.

“Okay, good. For a second I wasn’t sure you were alive.” the raspy, familiar voice of the girl who was on your porch just hours ago.

You clamp a hand over your mouth to keep the sound of your laugh from echoing down the halls.

“Robin.” you breathe out quietly, voice full of shaky relief. You lean against the wall of your bedroom, sliding down until you’re sitting with your back against it. Your knees are pulled up against your chest, phone cord stretching to where you sit.

“Yeah, that’s me.” she says softly. You can hear her smile through the line.

Her voice sounds closer than it should, like she’s in the next room over rather than all the way across your town. God, do you wish she was here right now. 

“Did I wake you up?” she asks, suddenly worried. It is pretty late.

You shake your head even though she can’t see you, leaning back until your skull hits the wall with a soft thud.

“No. I couldn’t sleep anyways.” you say, a light smile on your lips. You're glad to be talking to her, even if it is over the phone.

“Same.” she admits immediately, a small silence following. It’s not an awkward moment. It’s comfortable. It says more than a lot of words could.

“So,” Robin starts, breaking the quiet. “on a scale of 1 to ‘my parents confiscated my entire existence,’ how bad is it?” she says it in that signature teasing tone, the one she uses to lighten a situation.

You have to bite your lip to keep them from parting into a smile.

“I’m grounded until further notice,” you mumble under your breath, afraid that mentioning something related to the topic could alert your parents. They’re asleep, so hopefully they stay that way.

“Ahh, typical.” she says thoughtfully. There’s a lightness in her voice though.

You laugh quietly under your breath, stifling the sound by pressing your face into the fabric of your pajama pants.

“You aren’t taking this one bit seriously.” you say, picking your head back up to speak into the phone once more. 

“Yes I am,” she says quickly, a light sound that’s halfway between a sigh and a laugh following. “I’m just… strategically coping with my humor. You know, since I'm really funny and all.” 

She’s really good at making you feel better.

You smile even wider, gaze dropping to the floorboards. One hand twirls the cord of your phone gently around your fingers, the other holding it to your ear. Sitting on the cold floor, back against the wall, you feel grounded. Like you couldn’t possibly be in the predicament that began earlier.

“Are you okay? Really okay?” you ask her, emphasizing the ‘really.’ She has a tendency of telling half the truth to avoid your worry. She doesn’t ever lie, at least not to you.

She hesitates a second.

Then, “Yeah,” she utters. “I mean… yeah. I’m fine.” Her tone of voice suggests the complete opposite of what she told you. Combine that with the hesitation and stutter of her breath, and you are certain that she’s not alright.

“Robin.” you say, gently but firmly. As if to let her know that you’re there for her, but that she needs to tell the truth. You know better than to let it slide.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little not fine,” she relents with a sigh, the sound carrying across Hawkins to your receiver. “But I'm not shocked.”

Your fingers tighten around the handset.

“I hate that they hurt you.” you whisper, referring to your parents. You absolutely loathe how they treated Robin today, how they wouldn’t even allow her in the house.

“They didn’t hurt me.” she says gently, and for a second you don’t believe it. “They hurt you. Which is worse.” she finishes, and now you do trust her. 

It’s enough to make your chest ache.

There’s another pause, shorter than the previous one, still comfortable. She clears her throat dramatically on the other end, apparent that she is about to say something out of the blue.

“Also,” she starts, her voice already conveying that she’s holding back a laugh. “Your dad is absolutely terrifying.”

You giggle softly, breathy and quiet.

“Robin.”

“I’m serious! I only saw the guy from outside, but I mean, I have to admit, he made me shake harder than I was already.” she tells you, tone light and airy. Something in the way she says it tells you that it’s the absolute, embarrassing truth.

You bury your face into your knees once more to stifle the soft sounds spewing from your lips. You can’t get caught now. 

“Stop,” you start, muffled by the plaid cotton of your pants that cover your knees. “You’ll get me caught, dingus.”

“Sorry.” she mutters through her own breathless laughs, a soft thud carrying across the line. “But I'm already banned from your house. So I might as well leave something behind.” She's joking, but God, do you love it.

You’re smiling so hard it hurts, cheeks lifting, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“You know, you looked really pretty tonight.” Robin says suddenly, the truth in her voice thick. It catches you off guard for a moment, the confessions unexpected arrival. It aches somewhere in your chest to hear her compliment you, even after everything she had to endure this afternoon.

“What?” you question, voice sort of high pitched in confusion.

“Yeah,” she continues softly in a convincing manner. “Like… stunningly beautiful. I just didn’t want to say anything on the porch because your mother looked like she would legally prosecute me.”

It flusters you for some reason, cheeks heating and flushing a light shade of pink. It’s not like it’s new, the syllables that spill from her tongue. But every time, it pulls some thread of your heart.

“You looked really nice too.” you admit quietly, like a sacred confession that can’t be spoken too loudly for the fear that it’ll ruin something.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you nod once more, despite her lack of view. “The sweater vest brought out your eyes. And your hair was cute. Like always.”

“I’ll have you know the second I got home, the sweater vest came off.” she says through a laugh. She never really did like to dress up. You imagine her now, sitting on her bed, phone held to her ear, probably wearing a big t-shirt and sweatpants. That’s the Robin you love most. The real, raw, Robin. Your Robin.

“Of course it did. I wouldn’t expect any different from you, Robs.” the nickname slips out, rolling off your tongue with ease.

There’s a soft silence, broken only by the soft sound of your voice. Less teasing now, more open.

“Robin?” you whisper, as if you're questioning if you should even be speaking in the moment.

“Yeah?” her voice comes through, soft and full of question.

“I really, really miss you.” you admit, voice impossibly low, words barely even spoken. But she knows you mean it more than anything else you said tonight. That even though it’s only been a few hours without her, you long to be in her presence again.

“I miss you too.” she says back, and the tone of voice that conveys her happiness isn’t hidden in the slightest.

You smile into the darkness of your bedroom, another quiet moment passing through.

“So hypothetically…” she starts, back to that regular voice of hers, the one that’s full of energy and heavily teasing. It makes you tense, to hear her suddenly switch up.

“How creaky would your bedroom window be if you were to… oh, I don’t know. Leave through it..?” she finishes, the last few syllables cracking in a higher pitch.

You blink, biting your lip softly.

“Robin Buckley.”

“What? I said hypothetically. I’m just asking.” She feigns innocence, though nothing about the previous words she had blurted out previously. You can almost see what she’s doing right now, how her shoulders are lifted in anticipation. You know her.

“Hypothetically, they’d be creaky. Very, very creaky.” You answer, giving into her games.

“Okay, then hypothetically,” she keeps going, smirk evident in her voice. It’s amusing how good she is at all of this. How she can play a situation so well without even thinking too hard about it. “how grounded are you?”

“Extremely.” you whisper under your breath, afraid that speaking any louder would cause you to crack and let out a laugh or some strangled sound. You can’t risk it.

There’s a soft pause on both parties before she breaks it.

“And hypothetically, what if we were to ignore that one little obstacle?” she asks, a hint of reluctance in her raspy voice.

Your heart pounds in your chest. You have to bite your lip to keep a look from spreading on your face. She does make a good point. You don’t always have to be the rule follower that your parents want. In fact, now that they know your secret, it’s best if you didn’t listen to their rules. You’re done letting them control you.

They can’t counteract the chemistry between you and Robin, nor can they undo the destiny.

Robin laughs over the line, shattering the thoughts. “I’m kidding. Mostly. Unless… you don’t want me to be?” she continues, though there’s a desperation in her words. She’s hoping you’ll tell her you want to sneak away from your life. That you want an escape. 

An escape to her.

“Maybe I will,” you say, no hint of a joke anywhere. You truly do mean it. You’ve been dying to see her, dying to get away from this house that feels like it’s suffocating you.

“Yeah?” she asks, almost like she can’t believe that you would actually agree to it. That you, who’s only ever done what would please your parents, is going to sneak out. Especially at night. And especially to go against their wishes and hang out with a girl.

“Yeah. See you in 30?” You ask, hopeful she actually wants this. Hopeful she wants you.

“Okay, yeah. See you then, rebel.” she teases. You can hear the faint rustle of sheets and she moves around on her bed, a smile spreading on your face at the nickname.

“I’ll see you then.” you reply before hanging up the phone, standing up off the cold floorboards of your room. 

This is sure to be fun.

꧁☆꧂

Your heart is still racing as you hang up the phone, gently resting it back on its hook, clicking it into place on the wall. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing in the silence.

You’re going to see her soon. The thought alone lightens the feeling in your chest.

It’s sort of hard to believe that you’re sneaking out. Your parents don’t ever bother to check your room, so you’re in the clear.

You move quietly across your bedroom, every step calculated. The floorboards creak beneath your feet, but you pause after each one, listening carefully for movement from down the hall.

Nothing.

You slip on a hoodie, tugging it over your head, then grab your sneakers from beside your door. You don’t bother with socks. There isn’t time. Your fingers fumble slightly as you tie the laces, nerves buzzing through your veins.

You glance at your window. It stares back at you like a challenge.

Carefully, slowly, you slide it open.

The night air rushes in immediately, cool and damp against your skin. The smell of rain hits you all at once. You hadn’t realized it was still storming.

You swing one leg over the windowsill, then the other, lowering yourself carefully onto the soft grass below. The ground is wet, your shoes instantly soaking through, but you don’t care.

You take off down the street before there’s time to think twice. You need to see her. The rain isn’t gentle at all.

It pours down.

It soaks your hair within seconds, curls plastered against your forehead and cheeks. Your hoodie clings to your skin, heavier as the water seeps deep into the fabric. The streetlights and the satellites blur with the stars as droplets stream across your eyelashes, dropping off and sliding down your cheeks. They mirror the path of your earlier tears that have since dried.

You keep walking though. Why wouldn’t you when the girl you’ve risked everything for is waiting at the end of the road?

That thought alone is enough to keep you going, to carry your feet all the way across town.

By the time you reach her house, you’re soaked down to the bone. Of course, it was all worth it. Now that you’re here, you can’t imagine being anywhere else.

Her porch light is on. You only hesitate a second before telling forward onto her doorstep, knocking softly on the grey-painted wood. It swings open almost immediately, the hinges creaking softly. 

Robin stands there. She’s wearing an oversized, white band t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up slightly. He plaid pajama pants, much like your own, hang low on her hips. Her hair is up in a messy bun, like she had tied it back to prevent her fingers from running through it a million times as she awaited your arrival.

The sight is refreshing.

“Oh my God,” she breathes through a tiny laugh, eyes widening as she takes in the sight of you. She can’t believe you followed through.

You try to laugh, but it comes out shaky.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come here. You snuck out?” she says in disbelief, stepping closer to you, voice somewhere between concern and awe. 

You shrug, rain dripping from your lashes. “Guess I'm taking a page out of your book. I’m a ‘rebel’ now.” It's followed by another shaky giggle, shaking your head softly as the water drips from your curls.

“It was worth it, though.” you add with a smirk, head tilting to the side.

Something in her expression softens upon hearing your confession, her hands reaching out to hold your wrists. Gently, she pulls you inside the house, door shutting behind the two of you with a click.

Her house is warm. Much warmer than the cool night air that mingles with the piercing rain. It’s there in the familiar warmth of her home that you’re suddenly aware of how soaked you are.

Water drips from the ends of your hair, down your hoodie, splashing down onto Robins carpet. 

She stares at you a second, then laughs. A real, raw laugh, the sound that brings a lightness to your chest. It’s not teasing or loud. It’s just soft and fond, full of love. 

“You’re soaked.” She gets out through her giggles, still holding both your wrists. There's a smile on her lips, light and refreshing. “You’re dripping all over my floor.” There's no anger in her tone, just a teasing lightness of her voice.

“I noticed that.” You say, letting out a laugh that mirrors her own, though a bit more breathless. You glance down at your clothes, watching the droplets fall over one another to the floor. When you look back up at her, there's something different in her expression. Something new and changed.

Her lips twitch. “You should probably…” she gestures vaguely at your hoodie, fingers leaving your wrists. “Take this off.” she fakes innocence in her voice, a small smirk visible on her face. She’s good, really good. Your breath stutters.

“Because,” she rushes to add too quickly, head tilting down. Her eyes don’t leave yours though, looking up at you through her lashes. “You’re going to catch a cold. And that would be bad. Very bad. And extremely medically irresponsible of me to let happen.” She rambles on, hoping that the more she speaks, the more convincing she becomes.

You raise an eyebrow at her in amusement.

“Medically irresponsible?”

“Yes,” she nods seriously, like this is the most obvious thing she’s said all night. “I care about public health, Wheeler. Don’t discredit me.” it’s teasingly low, soft, like it's meant only for your ears to hear.

You laugh at her, shaking your head softly, wet curls bouncing from side to side with the motion. Water droplets fling from the strands, spiralling across the room. “Sure you do.” That earns a grin from her.

“Well?” she asks, lifting her hands slightly, shoulders scrunching. “Unless you want to walk around soaked like some tragic romance novel character.” In true Robin fashion, she has the most specific jokes. Funny, though. She always manages to make you happier. 

You hesitate for a moment before slowly pulling your hoodie over your head. Underneath, your loose t-shirt clings to your skin, soaked as well. You drop your hoodie to the ground by her front door, fixing your hair once it's discarded.

Her eyes flick away for half a second before returning to you. 

“Okay,” she says, voice softer, almost shy. You’ve never heard her this way. “Yeah, that one should probably go too.” There she is.

“Robin.”

“I’m just saying,” she says quickly, hands up like she's been caught in crime, defending herself. Her eyes are up now, suddenly interested in the pattern of her ceiling. “Hypothetically. From a medical standpoint.”

You laugh again, your cheeks burning. But ultimately, you nod, giving in to her jokes and pulling the t-shirt off. You throw it to where your sweatshirt is placed on the ground, leaving you in only the soft fabric of your bra.

It’s colder without the covering of the cloth, but you don’t mind it. Normally, you’d be shy. You’d be trying to cover yourself in any way that's possible. But you don’t really mind if Robin sees you. She already knows you better than anyone, inside and out. So what can it hurt? 

She swallows, trying to pretend her eyes aren’t actively tracing your every feature.

“I’ll get you something to put on,” she says as she disappears down the hallway, not leaving any room for you to say anything. You stand there awkwardly for a moment, crossing your arms over yourself in the absence of her presence. You listen to the soft sounds of the rain, pattering on the glass of the windows and the shingles on the roof.

Her footsteps sound again as she comes back with one of her t-shirts.

It’s much too big for you, but that was expected. Robin only really wears loose shirts, so you had anticipated the larger size. She hands it to you, fingers brushing your own.

“Here” she says softly, one hand rubbing the back of her neck while you slip on the shirt. It smells like her. Like her perfume that she's worn the same for years. Like laundry detergent and something warm and familiar that you can’t name.

She watches you for a moment, how the fabric hangs loose from your frame. Then, she takes a step closer to you. Her hands lift hesitantly, hovering near your waist like she's asking silently for your permission, head tilted gently. 

You nod, a smile spreading on your lips.

Her arms wrap instantly around your waist, your body melting at the contact. Your own encircle her neck, having to reach slightly upwards. Your forehead rests in the space between her shoulder and neck, her hands warm and steady on your sides.

“Are you sure that you’re real?” she murmurs into your wet curls, her face pressed into your crown. She plants a kiss to the top of your head, gentle and grounding.

“I think so.” You whisper back, pulling your face out of the crook of her neck, shifting so that your foreheads press together. Her nose brushes yours lightly, and for a moment, you forget everything from earlier. Forget that your parents insist this isn’t normal. 

It feels too right to ever be considered wrong.

“So…” she begins quietly, her voice low like speaking too loudly or suddenly would break the fragile moment. “Worth it?” a tiny smile forms now.

“Yeah.” You reply without a moment's hesitation. It’s not something that required thought. Not at all. In fact, you cannot think of another place on this earth that you’d rather be right now.

Her smile widens at that, your hands leaving her neck and trailing down to her waist. They find her shirt, fingers curling into the soft, white fabric. For a moment, there aren’t any words exchanged between the two of you. It seems like it’s been that way a lot recently, even though you both tend to always have something to talk about. 

You breathe each other in through the silence until Robin tilts her head in slightly, lips hovering closer to your own. She hesitates a moment, unsure if this is what you want. If this is what she even deserves, after what your parents put you through today.

“Is this okay?” she mutters under her breath, not pressuring you in the slightest. If you were to say no right now, she’d back up immediately. 

But you wouldn’t say that.

“Yes.” You say instantaneously. 

Her lips meet yours softly, unrushed and slow, full of emotion. It’s pronounced enough to let you know she's there, but soft enough that she wouldn’t break something fragile by accident. Your hands slide up to her shoulders as hers grip your waist more firmly.

It makes the world melt away.

Everything from earlier fades. The rain, the fear, your parents. All that's left is her and the contact, the soft kiss, the grip of her hands that know you inside and out. When you pull away, your foreheads stay together.

Robin exhales a shaky breath, eyes half lidded with a smile.

“Okay…” she whispers, head tilting slightly to the side without breaking the press of your heads.

You smile back at her, teeth showing in amusement. “What?” you question her. She just shakes her head lightly, pulling back from your forehead to run her eyes over your face.

“Nothing.” she starts, looking down at you. “Just thinking about how great my idea of sneaking you out was.” It earns a laugh from your lips, her smile cracking open. For the first time since your parents yelling, you feel safe.

꧁☆꧂

It was sort of a blur how you ended up in Robin’s bedroom. 

One minute, you were standing in the hallway, rain still dripping from your hair, her hands warm on your waist. The next, she was guiding you backward, fingers laced with yours, bumping softly into the edge of her bed.

She laughs quietly when you stumble a little, hands tightening on yours instinctively. 

“Graceful.” she murmurs, voice low but not quiet. It cracks as she speaks, that raspy tone more present when combined with the shortness of breath from her lips crashing onto yours repeatedly.

“You love it.” You whisper back to her, head tilting to the side. You know she does.

The bed dips as you sit, and she follows immediately, knees brushing as they land on either side of yours, hands still holding onto you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp and the faint flashes of the streetlights that shine through the heavy rain.

Everything feels heavy, quiet, charged. Like one wrong move would set something off.

It’s not awkward. It’s right.

Full of everything you didn’t get to say. Full of everything that you almost lost tonight. Full of the fact that you’re here now, in her presence.

Her eyes flick over your face, slower than before. More intentional. Her thumb traces the line of your jaw gently, like she’s memorizing you.

“You okay?” she asks softly, a light smile on her lips that looks like it would disappear if you said no.

You nod. “I am now.” your hands slink around her neck with your words, clasping together behind her. It steadies you and ground her.

That’s all it takes.

Her lips meet yours again, slower than before, but deeper this time. Not rushed or frantic, no. Just full. Warm, soft, safe. Everything about it is familiar in just the way you love, perfect in the way she is.

Your hands slide into her hair, fingers brushing the loose strands that escaped her messy bun. She exhales softly into your mouth, one hand moving to your waist, the other resting at your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. It’s not like there was much before anyways.

The kiss deepens. Not rough, not aggressive, just emotional. Like everything you couldn’t say is pouring into the contact instead.

When you break apart for air, her forehead rests on yours. Your breath kindles with hers as you both breathe deeply, faces flushed from the kisses, noses brushing.

“God,” she whispers, like it’s meant for your ears and your ears only. “I missed you.” it comes out shaky and raw and real.

“Well I’m here now.” you reply with a cheesy smile, fingers twirling the strands of her hair gently.

Her hands slide down your sides, fingers grazing the hem of your (actually, her,) shirt. She hesitates a second, like she’s torn between speaking the words that popped into her head or just kissing you again. Her fingers hook into the fabric, and that’s when she chooses talking.

“I know you just got this on,” she murmurs, voice lifting at the end in that soft, nervous way, “but would it… would it hurt to take it off again?” her tone climbs, like she’s reluctantly getting the words off her tongue.

There’s this tiny, almost shy smile on her lips when she says it. Not confident or cocky. It’s just the face of a girl who’s completely lovestruck, hopeful and in need of you.

Your breath catches, pressing your forehead into hers once more.

“Only if you help me.” you relent, causing her soft breath to stutter into a laugh. She giggled in that unpolished way she always did, half breathy, half raspy, like it was being dragged from somewhere deep inside her chest. She never could contain it. And you loved it.

Her fingers gently pull the shirt up, slowly and carefully, giving you every chance to stop her. You don’t.

You lift your arms to let her pull it over your head. Normally, you’d be shy. You’d be reluctant and trying to hide behind the nearest structure. 

But it’s just Robin. You know you don’t have to hide.

Even though there’s an absence of clothing now, the room feels instantly warmer. Her eyes run over your frame, not hungrily, though. Like savoring every view. Full of awe more than anything else.

“Wow.” she breathes quietly under her breath, like the word slipped out without permission.

You laugh, soft and flustered. “Don’t be weird, Robs.” you joke, cheeks heating. She flusters you, even after all this time. 

And right now, this is when you know. Your parents can’t change this. They can’t take it away.

They can’t change the beat of your heart when she touches you. 

“I’m always weird.” she utters back in an unserious manner, smiling at the red hues spreading on your cheeks. She kisses you once more, before you even have time to say another word.

This one’s different. While the ones before were slow, deep, un-rushed and perfect, this one takes all of those components and multiplies them. Everything feels more charged, heavier and more intentional. It’s perfect.

Her hands find your waist again, holding you like you’re something precious, something fragile. Yours slide over her shoulders, down her arms, pulling her closer.

The bed creaks softly as she shifts, guiding you back until you’re lying against the mattress, her body hovering over yours, not trapping, not heavy. Just there.

You feel safer here than you have in most other places, surrounded by the comforting familiarity of her room and body.

Her lips trail from your mouth to your cheek, sliding down to your jaw, back up to your temple, each and every kiss slower and more deliberate than its predecessor. There's a deep meaning behind every press of your mouths.

“Tell me if anything feels too much.” she breathes against your lips, not daring to kiss you again until you agree.

“I will.” you nod softly. “I promise you, I will.” 

That’s all the confirmation she needs.

She kisses you again, long, slow, emotional. All while she’s trying to memorize the feeling of you under her hands and body.

The world outside fades away completely. 

The rain.

Your parents.

The fear.

The yelling.

The grounding.

All of it’s gone.

There’s only her.

Her warmth.

Her hands.

Her voice.

Her presence.

There’s not really anywhere else you’d rather be right now.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe that this is enough. That this is all you’ll ever need. that even without your parents approval, this is the answer.

Robin’s hand finds yours again, fingers intertwining like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles slowly and she pressed your hands into the bed beneath you, grounding you in the moment. Her forehead rests against yours, noses brushing softly, breaths tangled together.

“You’re shaking,” she whispers, voice low, gentle. You hadn’t noticed, but of course she had.

“I’m not,” you lie quietly, though you can feel the tremble running throughout your frame. 

Robin doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, she shifts to sit up on her knees, her arms wrapping around you again, pulling you up into a seated position as well. You melt into her immediately, your cheek resting against her collarbone. Her heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.

“Hey,” she murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. Then another. And another. “You’re safe here, okay?” it’s as if she sensed what your thoughts were wandering to. She probably did. After all, she does know you. Really know you.

The words settle deep in your chest.

You tilt your head up to look at her, eyes meeting hers in the dim, warm glow of her bedroom. There’s something different in her gaze now. Not just love, though there is a lot of it held in her eyes.

There’s something more fragile, almost like she’s afraid. Not for herself, just for this. Just for fear that this could end if the wrong person caught you.

“Hey,” you whisper back, lifting your hand to her cheek. Your thumb brushes under her eye gently. “Don’t look like that.”

She lets out a quiet, breathy laugh. It sounds the same as it usually would, but it doesn’t reach her eyes this time. Her blue irises that would normally light up with mirth now don’t have a singular spark.

“I’m just thinking.” she serenely admits, almost like she didn’t want to tell you.

“About what?” 

She hesitates at that. Her eyes part from yours for a moment, head tilting back to gaze at the ceiling. You can see the movement of her throat, how she swallows deeply, gathering every bit of courage she has.

“About how mad they looked.” Her eyes drop down again, meeting yours softly. They look a little glossy, not to the point of tears though. It twists something deep in your stomach that she’s still thinking about it. You don’t want her to worry.

For a second, the world rushes back in. Your house. The slammed door. Your mother’s voice. Your father’s words.

You swallow hard, just as she had seconds before.

“They don’t matter,” you say, though your voice isn’t as steady as you want it to be. You wish you could fake it better, that you could mask it all for her.

Robin studies your face carefully, like she’s trying to memorize every detail. Then she leans forward again, brushing her lips against yours—soft, slow, reassuring.

“I’ve decided I’m done listening to them,” she whispers against your mouth, voice low and teasing. “mainly because I really want to kiss you again.” a quiet laugh bubbles out of her lips, your hands tightening in her shirt.

“Okay… then I’m done too.” you say with a smile, closing the gap between your lips, pressing them together softly.

But even as you say it, something uneasy settles in your chest. Because deep down, you know your parents better than anyone. And they don’t let things go that easily. If they caught the two of you… you don’t even know what would spark.

Robin kisses you again, slower this time, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. The bed shifts slightly beneath you as she leans closer, her warmth surrounding you completely.

It makes you forget again.

Until there’s a sudden, sharp sound. Not just one sound, three. Like knuckles hitting the solid wood of Robin’s front door.

Knocking, is what it was. It stops your heart. 

Robin freezes, her body going completely still. Her eyes snap toward the hallway, then back to you. Someone would have had to knock hard to get the sound to carry all the way down her halls to this room. 

“Did you hear that?” She whispers, head tilted to the side as if she imagined it. She knows she didn’t when another, heavier knock sounds.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Robin shifts herself off your lap, keeping a hand around your waist.

“Uh… are you expecting someone?” she murmurs, trying to sound calm, but her voice cracks.

You shake your head slowly. “No.” Who could possibly be here, at Robin’s house, and especially at this hour. In the pouring rain. The silence that settles over the both of you is unbearable and looming.

Robin swallows, brushing her hair back nervously. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, maybe it’s just my neighbor or something. Or Steve. Or—”

“Robin,” you softly interrupt her, a hand placing gently on her arm. 

You’re already reaching for the shirt on the bed when she looks at you, your hands shaking as you pull it over your head. Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re convinced she can hear it.

“Just stay here, all right? I’m sure it’s no one.” you murmur, flashing her a smile that doesn’t quite do the job as you stand up from her bed.

“Are you sure? I mean, what if-“ she starts, about to ramble nervously again.

“I’ve got this, okay? I’ll be back in a second.” you say calmly, even though you can feel your pulse pounding through your entire body. You kiss her temple as she often does to you before walking down her hallway.

Your feet hit the floor delicately, landing yourself in front of her grey door. You reach for the handle to pull it open, reluctantly and carefully. Because deep inside, you’re terrified. You don’t know why, but you can feel the shaking of your limbs.

As soon as it opens, your breath disappears. 

You’d had thought you were safe earlier, that your parents wouldn’t bother to check your room that night. That they never did, so why would they start now?

But they must’ve turned the handle to your door, discovered your absence, and heard the sound of rain too loudly, coming from your open window.

They must’ve known you snuck out that night.

That’s the only explanation that could explain how they are on Robin's doorstep in this exact moment.

꧁☆꧂