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—
brain worms about pre-nibelheim sephiroth who has to wake up extra early for his duties at shinra, despite his soft mumbling about it being too early. he’ll rise up from the bed, the sheets lowering in a smooth, velvet pool at his legs — until he catches sight of your hair peeking out under the covers from the other side of the bed. his brows’ll raise a bit, cat-like eyes flickering over your figure before he slowly leans over you to see if your eyes are open; a low sigh escapes him once he realizes they’re not.
his skin, foreign to the new wave of temperature, pebbles at the cool as his feet touch the cold floor. he can feel some of the small tangles in his hair and he cringes, immediately heading straight to the bathroom in need of a brush and some hair oil. but when he walks out — he’ll hold his breath at the sight of your figure that’s shifted positions in your sleep.
(he contemplates army crawling to get to the door considering how small the room is, before scoffing at how ridiculous the idea seems).
so he practically tip-toes through the rest of the room before making his way towards your kitchen, a warm feeling washing over him when he sees the small tupperware you packed filled with the contents of last night’s dinner. the post-it loosely stuck to the lid reads, ‘for seph’, with two small hearts drawn next to it. his lips are threatened to be tugged into a small smile.
he’ll cook you breakfast with a concentrated face, furrowed brows and all as he tries his hardest not to make noise with the pots and pans. while the eggs are on the stove, he’ll slip back into the room to grab his stuff for work; protective measures he wears under his armor, shoes, et cetera et cetera before rushing down to complete the rest of breakfast. before you, he didn’t cook much — the first morning he had woken up with you and you asked him how he liked his eggs, he didn’t know what to say. instead, he asked how you liked yours.
(a soft laugh and a shake of your head before you turned towards him again. “it’s rude to respond to a question with another question, you know.”
sephiroth half-heartedly cocked his head at your answer. his mouth opened to apologize before you ended up speaking before he did with a casual, “i don’t mind scrambled.”)
so you served him scrambled eggs, his favorite (now). to be honest, he hasn’t tried any other type of cooked egg — but in any dish with eggs, he’ll always look to you before asking if you could scramble them, even if the recipe calls for over-easy.
a deft hand grips the spatula firmly as he scrapes all the food into another tupperware, decorating it with some small garnish here and there to make it look extra tasty for you when you when you wake up — but when he’s on his way back to the bedroom and placing the food on your nightstand drawer, his eyes stay glued to you.
his chest softens at the sight; your head resting on the satin pillow with your lips slightly parted. his hand, now leather clad with the rough texture of his gloves, come to swipe away at your baby hairs stuck to your face. lashing fluttering at the sensation, you squirm a bit and sephiroth holds his breath as he silently curses himself. to his relief, you grumble something before turning your head to the opposite side, your hands coming to rest at your stomach.
his head turns curiously as he studies you for a bit, the back of his throat tightening a bit once he swears that he sees you lips upturning in your sleep and a small mumble of something indistinct. a sharp exhale leaves him before he rips his eyes away and they fall back on the food. his hand goes to a nearby shelf where he spots a pack of old sticky notes. brushing off the dust and ripping one off, he grabs a pen off your nightstand before writing your name, slanted cursive decorating the note before he sticks it on the lid.
you stir in your sleep a bit more, your hand coming down to the rest upon the sheets right where sephiroth would be, the lack of body heat making you pout as all you’re left with is the coolness of the blanket. he notices this, and it only makes it harder for him to part with you. even when he was sure that his heart was full to its content, he found a large gap as it slowly formed in the shape of you.
sephiroth looks back at the food — before grabbing the post-it with a sigh and clicking the pen again. he looks back up at you, and then draws a little heart next to your written name.
I’m trying to be more creative with requests so you’re not writing the same stuff. Could you do ilia Malinin x reader where the reader is like a famous singer or celebrity. Please and thank you <33
THANKSSSSS SO MUCHHHH🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
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Ilia Malinin dating headcanons
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When you’re a celebrity/singer:
* Will go across all length to come to anything you do and support you.
* (If you ran actor) He loves helping you go over your lines. Yes he will make an accent and get in to character even more than you. Fake hair tosses and acting like the diva he is.
* (If you’re a singer) He will use your songs to his programs and when training. He especially listens to it when you’re apart, it makes him feel closer to you.
* (If your an actor) He will also make a program of one of your characters you play. He will always asks for your notes on it. If there’s anything you think isn’t right he’ll change it.
* He LOVES showing you off to the public. In media, walking around the city, interviews. Any interviews he will find a way to always make a little comment about you.
“So Ilia how did you feel during that program?”
“Well I kept thinking about how I needed to win this to get to the championship”
“and then I also fought about **name** as I haven’t been able to see them all weekend”
* (if your a singer) At every show or concert he’ll come too and will meet you after with the biggest bouquet of flowers that matches your outfit.
* He fangirls so much when he sees edits og the two of you. He has a folder of edits on TikTok. It has atleast 300 edits in it most of them is edits of you. And yes he will watch them when he misses you. When he finds some amazing once he sends them to you.
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I have a few ideas and might try some soon.
I hope you have a great day, morning or afternoon🩷
