Gabriette @xoxolittle-j - Tumblr Blog

Exactly Where She's Supposed to Be

Pairing: Robin Buckley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Working the closing shift at Hawkins Diner should feel routine, but with Robin by your side, the ordinary delves into something more. As the night stretches into a fragile pocket of almosts, having Robin there feels exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Warnings: Fluff, Mild Angst (I had to. I could not write a fic and not throw it in), Mutual Pining, Soft/Gentle Romance. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: Ahhhhhh!!! Robin, my love, I’m so happy to be writing you. I love her so much it’s not even funny. I don't necessarily write a lot of cute fluffy stuff (I yearn for the angst), but I really wanted her to have this. (Btw, the Robin slander that has been going around this season WILL NOT be tolerated). I hope you enjoy this! I think it's great (but I'm biased). As always, thank you so much for reading! I hope you have a wonderful remainder of your day

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

The diner feels suspended in time this late at night — hollow and holding its breath — as if it exists outside the rest of Hawkins once the roads empty and the neon hums low in the windows.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright for the hour, casting a washed-out glow that makes the chrome counters gleam while the corners sink deeper into shadow. Behind the counter, the coffee pot murmurs to itself, burnt and forgotten. The clock above the entrance ticks louder than it should, each second stretching longer than the last as you move through the quiet ritual of closing: wiping counters that are already clean, refilling condiment dispensers no one will use.

Robin is the only soul left inside, slumped at the counter with her cheek pressed into the palm of her hand, eyes slipping shut then snapping open again as she fights a losing battle with sleep.

You pause behind the counter, rag damp in your hands, watching as her head dips, then jerks back up. The sight tugs at something in your chest.

“Robin,” you say softly, careful not to startle her, “you don’t have to stay. It’s late. You should go home.”

She lifts her head, hair sticking up at odd angles, and squints at you like she’s trying to decide whether you’re serious. “Wow,” she mutters. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re falling asleep sitting up.”

“Incorrect,” she says immediately, straightening on her stool. “I am resting my eyes. There’s a difference.”

You arch a brow. “Mm-hmm.”

Robin exhales through her nose, then shrugs, softer now. “I’m fine. I like it here.” She gestures vaguely around the empty diner. “Very… post-apocalyptic chic.”

Her gaze flicks toward the windows as she says it — quick and unconscious — before settling back on you.

You roll your eyes, though there’s no real bite in it — only fondness. “You’re exhausted,” you tell her gently. “You need to go home and get some rest. I’m a big girl, Robs. I can handle closing by myself.”

The words barely leave your mouth before she stiffens.

“Nope,” Robin says, a little too quickly. She straightens on the stool, like she’s bracing herself. “Absolutely not.”

You blink at her. “Not… what?”

“Not the by yourself part,” she says, shaking her head. “Everything else? Fine. You? Competent. Capable. Thriving, even.” She gestures at you with one hand, the other curling around the edge of the counter like she’s anchoring herself there. Her praise makes your stomach flutter despite yourself. “But you being out here, alone, this late? Hard pass.”

There’s a nervous edge to her smile, something tight behind it that you don’t quite understand.

“Robin,” you murmur, softer now, “I’ll be okay.”

She watches you for a second longer than necessary, eyes searching your face like she’s looking for something to hold onto. You shift under the weight of her attention, heat crawling up your neck.

Her gaze flicks to the windows again — just a quick check — before she exhales and leans her elbows on the counter, dropping her voice.

“I know you will,” she says. “I just—” She stops herself, clears her throat, and shrugs. “Bad things don’t exactly keep business hours.”

She brightens, almost immediately. “Besides, I’d rather be here. With you. I’m perfectly fine right where I am.”

You tilt your head, lips pressing together to hide a smile. “You’re falling asleep.”

“I can fall asleep at home,” she counters. “Alone. In bed. Very boring.” Her mouth quirks, but there’s a thread of insistence running beneath it. “This is much better.”

Her gaze softens when it meets yours, something unguarded slipping through. “And being here with you beats being anywhere else,” she adds quietly.

Your heart stutters. You open your mouth, then close it again, flustered. “You—” You clear your throat. “You’re ridiculous.”

Robin’s smile turns impossibly fond.

You sigh, already defeated, and shake your head. “Fine,” you say. “You can stay.”

Her face lights up immediately; her shoulders loosen like she’s been holding herself together by sheer will. “Excellent choice,” she says, pointing at you. “Gold star decision-making. Ten out of ten. No notes.”

You laugh under your breath as you duck your head to the side, attempting to hide your smile. “Two hours,” you add. “That’s how long until closing.”

“Two hours,” Robin echoes, nodding solemnly. “Great. Love that. Plenty of time.” She glances around the diner, then hops down from her stool with renewed purpose. “Okay, cool. I’m helping.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she’s already moving — grabbing a handful of napkins from the open storage box on the counter and wandering toward the nearest booth. She slides into it sideways, spreading the napkins across the table like she’s about to conduct a very unnecessary experiment.

“Robin,” you warn lightly.

“I’m being useful,” she insists, tongue poking out in concentration as she rearranges them into a stack that looks nothing like the neat rows you’d left behind. “This is what a supportive girlfriend looks like.”

You lean against the counter, arms folding as you watch her. You shake your head, a smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re going to mess everything up.”

“Wow,” she says, affronted, clutching one napkin to her chest. “Bold of you to assume it wasn’t already like this.”

You roll your eyes fondly and turn back to your work, letting her have her victory.

She talks the entire time — about nothing and everything. A story about Steve that keeps derailing. A half-formed rant about a song she heard on the radio earlier. A sudden, intense opinion on the structural integrity of diner booths, punctuated by her bouncing lightly against the vinyl seat to test her theory. You barely respond, just humming or smiling when appropriate, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She never does.

Every so often, she looks up from wherever she’s perched — across the booth, halfway down the aisle — just to make sure you’re still there.

At some point, she wanders off toward the jukebox, crouching in front of it like it’s a puzzle she intends to solve. You hear the clink of buttons, her quiet hum of concentration.

Then — music.

Your favorite song filters softly through the diner speakers, low and warm and unmistakable. The one she always plays for you. The one that somehow became yours without either of you ever saying it out loud.

You look up from the inventory sheet you were working on, heat creeping up your neck as your gaze drifts over to her.

Robin’s already watching you over her shoulder. When she catches your expression, her mouth curls into a small, pleased smile — like she’s just handed you something secret.

A smile breaks across your face and you duck your head quickly, suddenly very invested in the inventory sheet, your heart doing something foolish in your chest.

The song continues to play softly as you finish up the inventory sheet, the numbers blurring together more than usual. You set the clipboard down and glance around the diner, taking stock of what still needs to be done.

That’s when you notice the napkins.

They’re still sitting where Robin left them — crooked, uneven, a mess.

You sigh, smiling to yourself, and move toward the booth to straighten them, gathering the stack in your hands and aligning the edges the way you like.

“Hey,” Robin says, appearing at your side. “I worked really hard on those.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You massacred them,” you reply fondly.

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second—” She reaches out to help, grabbing the edge of the stack at the same time you do.

Your fingers brush.

It’s barely anything — just a fleeting touch — but it sends a small, unmistakable jolt through you both. Neither of you pulls away right away. Your hand stays there, resting against hers, warm and familiar, and suddenly you’re acutely aware of how close she is — her shoulder near yours, her arm brushing yours every time she shifts.

“Sorry,” she murmurs automatically, though she doesn’t move.

“It’s fine,” you say, just as softly.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, like you’ve both silently agreed on something, you turn your attention back to the napkins, focusing very hard on them as you adjust them together. Your movements are slower now, more careful — like you’re both afraid of breaking something fragile. Every so often, your knuckles graze. Fingers bump, lingering half a second longer than necessary.

Each time it happens, your pulse jumps.

Robin’s breathing shifts — barely noticeable, but you catch it anyway. Her breath draws a little deeper, a hitch she doesn’t mean to make. You feel it more than you hear it. It sends a flutter through your stomach, nerves fizzing beneath your skin.

You risk a glance at her face — her eyes fixed on your hands like she’s memorizing them.

Her hair has fallen out of place again, curling softly at her temples where she’s run her hands through it too many times tonight. There’s a faint crease between her brows from the concentration.

Your gaze drifts over her freckles, scattered lightly across her nose and cheeks — softer than you remember, warmed by the diner lights. You’ve always loved them. They remind you of constellations, ones you could trace if you let yourself get too close.

She looks tired. Soft. Beautiful in a way that makes your chest ache.

You notice the way her mouth curves even when she isn’t smiling, the familiar shape of it — the one you know too well. You’ve traced it in your mind more times than you’d ever admit. The thought makes your face heat instantly.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring until her eyes flick up and catch yours.

For half a second, neither of you moves. Her expression softens, something warm and reverent passing over her face.

You look away first, flustered beyond saving, heart pounding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. Your fingers curl in on themselves, a nervous habit you’ve never quite been able to break.

When you risk another glance, she’s smiling — not wide or smug, but gentle. Fond.

It makes your chest feel too full.

When you finally finish, neither of you moves right away. Your hands rest side by side on the tabletop — close. Not touching.

Then Robin’s pinky inches closer.

It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. Just a brush. Then she gently hooks it around yours.

Your breath stutters, shallow and sudden.

She doesn’t rush it — lets you pull away if you want to. When you don’t, her fingers curl more fully, slipping into your hand like they’ve been waiting for permission.

Your face feels warm. Embarrassingly so. You can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth.

Robin beams at you — open and soft and a little triumphant — like she’s just discovered something wonderful. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can get the words out, headlights sweep across the front windows.

Your hands snap apart instinctively as a car passes by, light flashing through the diner before disappearing down the road.

The space between you feels suddenly much larger.

Your fingers twitch.

It’s instinctive — your hand shifting forward a fraction, chasing the warmth that was left behind before your brain catches up and you still yourself. You curl your fingers into your palm, nails biting lightly into your skin, grounding yourself in place.

Robin notices, exhaling, something quiet and frustrated slipping through it.

“I hate that,” she says quietly.

Your brows knit. “Hate what?”

She hesitates, like she’s weighing whether she’s allowed to say this at all. Then she exhales, slow and careful. “When you do that,” she murmurs, nodding toward your hand, “it makes it really hard to pretend I’m the only one feeling this.”

Your breath catches. You swallow, suddenly very aware of how much you want to reach for her — to close the small, aching gap between you, to soothe the part of her that sounds like it hurts.

Robin leans her hip against the booth seat, voice quieter now — not dramatic, just honest. “I think about you all the time,” she admits. “About holding your hand. About standing too close. About how much I have to stop myself from touching you when we’re in public.” A faint, almost self-conscious smile curves her mouth. “And I tell myself it’s fine. That it’s enough just knowing you’re there.”

She looks at you then, eyes searching. “But sometimes — like right now — it doesn’t feel like enough.”

Your chest tightens. The words land gently, reverently, like she’s setting something fragile between you.

She clears her throat, glancing away before the moment can overwhelm her. Her eyes flick toward the milkshake machine with a conspiratorial glint.

“Anyway,” she adds quickly, retreating into something safer, “if I’m going to sit here wanting you from a legally acceptable distance, I’m gonna need a milkshake. For… emotional support.”

She tilts her head, playful again — though there’s something gentler under it now, like she’s offering you an exit and hoping you’ll take it with her.

You laugh softly, the sound a little breathless, feeling the tension ease just enough to breathe again. You nod. “Okay. One milkshake. But I get the first sip.”

Robin beams, straightening from her tilt against the booth, “Deal.”

You walk toward the milkshake machine, grateful for something to do with your hands. The steady churn fills the diner, loud in the quiet.

You scoop chocolate ice cream into the metal cup and pour in the milk, the scent sweet and familiar. With a small, unconscious smile, you drizzle in chocolate syrup — then hesitate, adding a little extra because you know she likes it that way.

When you lift the cup to the machine, it rattles far too loudly in the empty diner. You wince, shoulders hunching instinctively, as if the noise might give you away.

Robin watches you like it’s the most interesting thing she’s seen all night.

She leans against the counter, chin propped in her hand, eyes following every small movement you make. The awareness of it sends warmth creeping up your neck. You keep your focus on the milkshake, even as your mouth curves into a shy smile you can’t quite help.

“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “this is very kind of you. Heroic, even.”

“I’m saving your life,” you reply, deadpan.

“Exactly.”

When it’s done, you pour the thick, glossy shake into a tall glass and slide it across the counter toward her, already reaching for a second straw.

Robin’s hand lands gently over yours.

“Hey,” she says, “We can share.”

Your face warms instantly. You hesitate — just a beat — then nod, small and acquiescent. The kind of nod that feels more like a confession than an answer.

Her smile softens, like she’s won something small and precious.

You bring the straw to your lips and take the first sip. It’s slow coming up the straw, but once the milkshake hits your tongue it’s cold, sweet, and chocolate-rich — exactly how you know she’ll love it.

You hum in satisfaction. “That’s good.”

“My turn!” Robin announces, already reaching for the glass — her fingers brushing yours as you let go. The contact is brief, but it sends a quiet spark through you, something that lingers longer than it should.

You watch as she wraps her lips around the straw and drinks. Her gaze stays on you the entire time, the motion unhurried, deliberate — like she’s tasting more than just the milkshake. You start to smile, assuming she’s pleased, until she freezes.

Just for a second.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the glass as she pulls the straw from her mouth slowly, lips parting as she exhales — a soft, shaky breath she definitely didn’t mean to let out.

“Oh,” she says.

“What?” you ask, concern flickering through the haze, heart skipping.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes stay fixed on the straw like it's suddenly the most important thing in the room. She swallows, then takes another sip — smaller this time, careful. Like she’s confirming something.

When she pulls away, she laughs softly under her breath, looking up at you, eyes bright, utterly undone. “You taste like strawberries.”

Heat blooms along your neck, spills into your chest. Your stomach flips as the words land, caught halfway between surprise and something dangerously close to panic.

“Oh—” you start, then stop, suddenly acutely aware of your mouth. Of the strawberry chapstick you put on out of habit. Of the fact that it’s apparently… transferable.

The realization makes your face burn.

You look away quickly, heart pounding, mortified by the intimacy of it—by how close that is to kissing her. How close you were without even realizing it. Your fingers curl in on themselves, like you might somehow hide the thought if you hold still enough.

You definitely don’t know what to do with the image now stuck in your head.

“Robin—”

“I know, I know,” she laughs quickly, already waving it off. “I swear I’m not being weird about it. I just—” She stops, bites her lip, then grins. “Okay, I am being weird about it. But in my defense, that’s basically kissing-adjacent and you did not warn me.”

You laugh despite yourself, nerves fizzing under your skin.

She nudges the glass toward you with her finger. “Next time, a heads up. Or I might do something reckless. Like lean in. Or pass out.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “But you like me.”

You do lean in then — just a little — close enough that your shoulders brush. Close enough to feel her warmth without crossing any lines.

“So,” she says, casual as anything, like she isn’t leaning just a little too close, “how much longer until you’re officially done being a responsible employee?”

You glance up at the clock on the wall. “An hour and fifteen minutes.”

Robin’s face falls in an exaggerated pout. “Devastating. Truly. I may never recover.”

You smile despite yourself, the corner of your mouth giving you away before you can stop it. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” she says. Then, quieter, softer, like it matters more than she’s willing to admit, “But I want to.”

She shifts closer again, deliberate this time, her shoulder brushing yours. The warmth of her seeps through your sleeve, familiar and distracting all at once.

“However,” she continues, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “I would like to formally propose that you close early. Or —” her eyes flick briefly toward the back hallway, mischievous and hopeful, “— we disappear into the storage room for, like, five minutes. For science.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Wow,” she says, hand to her chest. “Didn’t even consider it.”

“There are cameras back there,” you remind her, trying — and failing — to sound stern. “And I am not getting fired because you can’t behave.”

Robin sighs dramatically, slumping against the counter like the weight of the world has just been placed on her shoulders. “Hawkins really hates romance.”

“And also lawsuits.”

That earns a tired little huff of laughter. She looks up at you again, her smile soft and fond. “Worth a try.”

Before you can respond, she reaches for the milkshake again, stealing another sip — eyes never leaving your face, like she’s daring you to stop her.

You don’t. You just shake your head, smiling, and let her have it.

-*-

Time starts to lose its shape after that.

The clock still ticks, still moves forward, but everything else slows — stretches — settles into something hazy and quiet. The diner feels smaller now, like it’s curled in on itself for the night. Even the neon outside seems dimmer, buzzing low and lazy against the windows.

You keep working. Sweeping. Wiping. Moving with the muscle memory of someone who’s done this a hundred times before.

Robin’s last reserves of energy fade with the hour.

She stops talking as much. Her jokes come slower, softer, punctuated by yawns she doesn’t bother hiding. She’s regressed to fidgeting with the plastic straw from her shake, eyes heavy as she drifts in and out of consciousness.

She yawns — big and unapologetic.

“You okay over there?” you ask, trying not to smile.

“Mmm,” she hums. “Thriving.”

Her eyes close.

“Hey,” you say gently.

“I’m awake,” she insists immediately, blinking hard, sitting up straighter. “Just… blinking for a long time.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing and turn back to what you’re doing, though your attention keeps snagging on her all the same.

A minute passes.

Then two.

Then Robin speaks again, voice softer now, words blurring together around the edges like she’s thinking out loud.

“You ever notice,” she murmurs, “how your voice gets nicer at night?”

You pause, broom stilled mid-sweep, and glance over your shoulder. “My voice?”

“Yeah,” she says, eyes half-lidded. “It’s like… quieter. But not in a sad way. In a ‘please read me a story’ way.”

Heat creeps into your face, warm and sudden. “You’re delirious.”

“Possibly,” she admits, lips curling into a sleepy smile. “But I stand by it.”

You finish sweeping the last row beneath the counter, the soft rasp of bristles against tile filling the quiet. When you straighten, your shoulders ache pleasantly — the kind of tired that means the end is close. You reach for the box of sugar packets beneath the register, grateful this is the last task.

Behind you, there’s a soft scrape. A shift of weight.

Robin slides off the stool, padding over to where you’re restocking the sugar packets. She doesn’t help — just leans against the counter beside you, head tipping gently until it bumps your shoulder.

You freeze for half a second.

She doesn’t move away.

Instead, she sighs — deep and content — like she’s finally gotten comfortable.

“You smell like coffee and strawberries,” she murmurs, voice muffled against you. “It’s unfair.”

Your heart stutters. You keep your hands busy, folding sugar packets with more care than strictly necessary. “Rob…”

“I know,” she says sleepily. “I’m being needy. But it’s late and I’m tired and I’ve wanted to kiss you literally all day, so you’re gonna have to emotionally deal with that.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it — soft, breathy. You shake your head, warmth blooming across your cheeks, but you don’t step away. Your shoulder stays right where it is, steady beneath her temple.

She nudges you weakly. “How much time now?”

You check the clock. “Fifteen minutes.”

She groans like it causes her actual pain, forehead pressing more firmly into you. “That’s… so long.”

“It’s really not.”

“It is when I’m this tired,” she counters. “And this close to you.”

Her fingers find the hem of your sleeve — not grabbing, just resting there. Her thumb rubs absently against the fabric, slow and thoughtless, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

You very much realize.

She turns her face slightly, cheek brushing the fabric of your uniform, nose almost— almost— touching your collarbone.

Your heart stumbles.

“I have been so good,” she mumbles. “And patient. Like, historically patient. All night. All day, actually.” A tiny huff of a laugh. “Do you know how hard that is?”

You swallow. “Robin…”

She tilts her head just enough to look up at you, eyes glossy and pleading in that unfair way she knows works on you. “Please,” she whispers, “Just one. I swear. One tiny, very respectful kiss.”

You glance instinctively toward the windows.

Still empty.

No headlights. No movement. Just your reflections layered over the diner lights — two ghosts standing too close together.

“No one’s out there,” Robin murmurs, following your gaze. “See? It’s just us.”

You hesitate. You always do.

She sees it and softens immediately, voice gentler now. “Hey,” she says. “You don’t have to. I just—” She huffs a tired breath. “I wanted to ask. Before I do something stupid. Like fall asleep on your shoulder and drool.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of you.

She smiles, hopeful but patient. “So… can I?”

Your chest feels too full. Your head feels light. And the truth — the one you’ve been circling all night — settles heavy and undeniable.

You nod.

“Okay.”

Her face lights up instantly. “Really?”

“One kiss,” you say, soft but steady.

She doesn’t rush you.

She leans in slowly, giving you time to change your mind. Her nose brushes yours, unsteady and sweet, like she’s running on fumes and pure affection. When her lips finally meet yours, it’s not dramatic or desperate. Just a soft, warm press, lingering long enough to make your chest ache in the best way.

It’s gentle. Uncomplicated. Perfect.

She pulls back with a tiny, satisfied sigh, forehead dropping briefly against your shoulder.

“Okay,” she breathes, smiling softly. “I’m good now.”

You laugh quietly, dizzy and warm, and rest your head against hers for just a second longer — selfish, fleeting — before stepping away.

“Go sit down,” you tell her.

“Yes, boss,” she says, grinning, already drifting back toward her spot at the counter like she’s won something very important.She curls back on her stool, chin in hand, watching you as she has all night — like you are exactly where she’s supposed to be.

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