i 🤍 robin buckley

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

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

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

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

Everything about her shifts.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, sailor.”

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

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

“We’re in Indiana.”

“I’ll find a way.”

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe that’s why your chest tightens.

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

But God—you notice.

You notice everything.

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

And when she looks up at you—

it hits all over again.

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

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

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

just maybe—

you’ll make it out of this.

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

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

“Hold still.”

She pauses mid-motion, blinking at you.

“What—why—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It meant more than most things do.

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

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

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

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

For a second, neither of you says anything.

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

Robin kicks lightly at the pavement as she walks.

Then, a little too casually—

“Do you… um—”

You glance at her.

She’s not looking at you.

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

You smile, just a little.

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

She stops walking.

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

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

“Come on, dork.”

She falls into step beside you again without hesitation.

Your arms brush as you walk.

Neither of you moves away.

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

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

꧁☆꧂

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

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

Robin walks just a little too close to you.

Not enough for anyone to look twice.

Just enough that you feel her there.

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

She’s talking again.

Of course she is.

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

You glance at her, smiling.

“Sounds rough.”

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

“Emotionally targeted,” you echo.

“Yes.”

You bump your shoulder into hers lightly.

She bumps you back.

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

Neither of you acknowledges it.

Neither of you stops.

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

You look away first.

Robin talks louder for a second.

Not obviously.

Enough for you to notice, though.

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

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

Robin’s hand brushes yours again.

This time slower. More deliberate.

Your fingers almost catch. Almost.

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

You swallow it down.

You always do.

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

It’s just too risky in public like this.

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

Her head snaps toward you.

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

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

“I was.”

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow.

“Depends. Did these children deserve it?”

“They always deserve it.”

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

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

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

The kind she doesn’t give to just anyone.

“Good,” she murmurs.

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

Your fingers slide just slightly against hers.

A question.

A maybe.

Her pinky hooks around yours for the briefest second.

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

But it did. And it means everything.

The moment passes like it always does.

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

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

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

She keeps talking anyway.

Of course she does.

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

You hum, but you’re barely listening.

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

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

Your shoulder brushes hers.

She doesn’t move away.

You don’t either.

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

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

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

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

She looks away almost instantly.

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

She stops talking.

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

“Come here,” she says.

Soft.

Immediate.

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

You blink.

“Robin—”

But she’s already tugging the curtain aside.

“You started it,” she mutters.

“I absolutely did not start anything.”

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

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

It’s smaller in here than you expect.

Always is.

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

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

And suddenly everything outside the booth feels impossibly far away.

For half a second, neither of you speaks.

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

Robin exhales.

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

You blink at her.

“What thing?”

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

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

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

Because she’s already leaning in.

The first kiss is quick. Almost careful.

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

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

Instead, she stays there.

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

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

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

And then—barely, barely—she shifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She reverts her gaze to you.

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

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

“Robin.”

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

Her lips move from yours.

Slow.

Deliberate.

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

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

And then she’s not kissing your mouth anymore.

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

Her lips brush your jaw next.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s relief.

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

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

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

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

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

She pauses instantly.

Looks up at you.

All innocence.

“What?”

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

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

Something shifts in her expression.

Not frustration.

Something warmer.

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

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

And it’s not teasing.

Not really.

It’s almost pleading.

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

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

You see it land.

The way her shoulders drop just slightly.

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

“…fine,” she says.

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

“One more kiss.”

You huff a laugh.

“Robin.”

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

You let her.

She kisses you again.

Soft.

Longer than “one more” implies.

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

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

You shake your head, laughing now for real.

“Robin.”

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

“You are making up rules as you go.”

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

She kisses you again.

You’re smiling against her mouth now.

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

You raise an eyebrow.

“Do we?”

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

You laugh softly, finally pushing the curtain aside.

The mall rushes back in.

Too loud.

Too bright.

Too normal.

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

It hasn’t.

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

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

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

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

Good friends.

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

Like nothing happened.

Like always.

꧁☆꧂

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

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

And Robin is still right there beside you.

Still too close.

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

She’s talking again almost immediately.

Of course she is.

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

You’re listening.

You are.

Mostly.

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

You bump her shoulder lightly.

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

“You so are.”

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

You smile, shaking your head a little.

And that’s when she stops.

She’s gone completely still.

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

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

And then she’s looking across the mall.

Not at you.

Past you.

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

You follow her gaze.

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

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

And then you notice it.

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

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

Build-A-Bear Workshop.

Robin goes very, very quiet.

Which is… new.

You glance at her.

“Robin?” 

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

Then—

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

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

“Wait—Robin—what are you doing?”

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

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

“Robin.”

She doesn’t stop.

She just says, very simply:

“We’re going in there.”

You blink.

“…what?”

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

“We’re going in there.”

You slow your steps.

“Robin, that place is for kids.”

That finally makes her pause.

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

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

You blink.

“Robin—”

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

She nods once, like that settles it.

“If you squint.”

You just stare at her.

“…that’s not how any of that works.”

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

“Shut up and come on.”

That’s it.

No further argument.

No additional logic.

Just immediate confidence in a completely unserious opinion.

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

Because of course you are.

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

And because she looks weirdly excited now.

Like she just decided something important.

Like this matters more than she’s admitting.

The closer you get, the brighter the store feels.

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

Robin slows only when you reach the entrance.

She glances at you once.

Quick.

Checking.

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

And then, softer than before:

“Just… trust me, okay?”

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

But your fingers squeeze hers back anyway.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

And that’s enough for her.

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

And then she pulls you inside.

꧁☆꧂

The air inside hits you first.

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

There are bins everywhere.

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

Robin, however, is immediately focused.

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

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

You blink at her.

“Robin—”

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

And then she’s gone.

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

You cross your arms loosely, watching her.

“…you’re kidding,” you say.

Robin doesn’t even look at you.

“No,” she says, completely serious.

She lifts the bear up, squinting at it.

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

You press your lips together.

“It’s a stuffed bear.”

She finally looks at you then, offended.

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

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

“Oh my God.”

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

You raise an eyebrow.

“To a stuffed animal.”

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

And—

It does something to you.

Small. Quiet. Immediate.

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

You don’t say anything about it.

You just look at her.

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

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

“No,” she decides. “Not right.”

You tilt your head.

“Not right,” you repeat.

“It’s lacking depth,” she says.

You stare at her.

“It’s fabric.”

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

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

She doesn’t react.

Not outwardly.

But she shifts just slightly toward you. Just enough.

Like always.

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

“What about this one?” you ask.

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

Too close.

Not enough to draw attention.

Enough that you feel it everywhere.

She studies it, serious.

“…hmm,” she hums.

You glance at her, trying not to smile.

“Well?”

She tilts her head.

“It’s… fine.”

You gasp, mock-offended.

“Fine?”

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

“You’re insane.”

“I have standards.”

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

Robin looks at you again.

Dead serious.

“This is a soulmate.”

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

“Robin, just pick a bear.”

“No.”

“Robin—”

“This is our child.”

That one lands differently.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just—

there.

You still.

Just for a second.

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

But still—

Our child.

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

You swallow it down. Gently. Carefully.

Like you always do.

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

Robin doesn’t catch the shift.

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

She just nudges your shoulder with hers.

“You love it,” she says.

You don’t answer that.

Because you do.

You absolutely do.

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

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

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

“…this one,” she says, softer now.

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

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

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

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

It’s small.

But it’s there.

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

Robin doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

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

“Yeah?” she echoes.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

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

Just—

right.

“Okay,” she says.

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

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

Like it matters.

Like this matters.

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

And without thinking—

you reach out.

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

A quiet little squeeze.

Gone almost as soon as it’s there.

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

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

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

꧁☆꧂

Robin doesn’t let go of the bear.

Not once.

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

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

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

There’s a small line at the stuffing station.

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

Robin shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

Not impatient.

Just… thinking.

You watch her from the corner of your eye.

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

It’s such a small thing.

But you feel it anyway.

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

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

Robin glances at you immediately.

Of course she does.

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

But she doesn’t say anything.

Not this time.

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

It’s lighter than you expect.

Simple.

Just a little red shape sitting in your palm.

You don’t overthink it.

You don’t hesitate.

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

Your eyes close for just a second.

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

Your wish isn’t loud.

It isn’t complicated.

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

You press the heart gently to your lips.

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

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

She’s watching you.

Like she’s trying to memorize it.

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

It does something to her.

You can see it.

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

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

“Your turn,” you say quietly.

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

“Oh—yeah.”

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

And for a moment—

she freezes.

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

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

Because this—

this is different.

This asks for something real.

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

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

Just for a second.

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

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

Like it’s okay. Like I’m right here.

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

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

Careful.

Like it actually matters.

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

Not rushed. Not joking.

Soft in a way that feels almost… private.

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

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

“…don’t let me lose this.”

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

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

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

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

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

The bear gets placed under the machine.

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

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

And without thinking—

her hand finds yours.

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

Just for a second. Just enough.

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

Quiet. Certain.

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

꧁☆꧂

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

Soft chaos.

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

It’s overwhelming.

And Robin—

Robin absolutely thrives in it.

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

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

“Dangerous?” you echo.

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

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

“You’re dressing a stuffed bear.”

“Our stuffed bear,” she corrects instantly.

You don’t even argue this time.

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

“Robin—”

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

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

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

“…no,” you say immediately.

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

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s iconic,” she corrects.

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

She gasps like you’ve deeply offended her.

“That is not the only reason.”

“It’s the only reason.”

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

“Bonding.”

“Yes.”

“With the bear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You cannot possibly be serious,” you continue.

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

You glance down at what she’s holding.

“…sunglasses?” you ask.

“Essential,” she says.

“For what?”

“Protection.”

“From what?”

“The sun.”

“We’re inside.”

“Preparation is key.”

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

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

Robin leans in immediately. Too close.

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

her breath is right there. Warm against your cheek.

“You have terrible taste,” she says quietly.

You turn your head just enough to look at her.

“You didn’t even give it a chance.”

“I didn’t need to.”

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

“Rude,” you murmur.

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

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

It keeps happening like that. Little things.

You hand her something—your fingers brush.

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

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

It’s soft. Too soft.

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

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

You sigh dramatically.

“Robin—”

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

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

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

You look at her.

Really look at her.

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

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

She smiles. Not big. Just enough.

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward.

Just—

full.

And then—

“Are you two sisters?”

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

“Or best friends?” she adds.

And for a second—

everything stills.

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

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

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

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

it softens.

Not hidden fast enough.

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

Just… honest.

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

“Yeah,” she says after a second.

Quiet.

“…something like that.”

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

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

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

The worker smiles, nodding like that makes perfect sense.

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

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

Then she moves on.

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

Somewhere deeper.

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

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

Robin immediately looks away.

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

You grin. “Mm.”

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

“Do what?”

“That.”

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

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

Your fingers brush again.

Neither of you moves away.

Not this time.

It lingers.

Just a second longer than it should.

Just long enough to mean something.

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

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

You raise an eyebrow.

“No more emotional depth analysis?”

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

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

“Of course it does.”

And just like that—

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

And neither of you wants to move away first.

꧁☆꧂

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

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

The line is short.

Two people ahead of you.

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

It doesn’t.

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

Like she’s reassuring herself.

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

She glances at you.

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

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

“Right. Of course.”

She nudges your shoulder lightly.

You nudge her back.

The line moves forward.

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

Not enough to actually create space.

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

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

She’s focused.

A little too focused.

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

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

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

Robin answers immediately.

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

You bite back a smile.

“Educational?” you echo under your breath.

She elbows you lightly.

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

“Mm. I’m sure you did.”

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

The total comes up.

You both reach for your wallets at the same time.

Pause.

Look at each other.

“No,” you both say at once.

You laugh.

Robin huffs.

“I’m paying,” she insists.

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“You picked it out.”

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

“Our responsibility,” you correct softly.

That stops her.

Just for a second.

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

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

You don’t argue. You don’t need to.

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

Robin takes it as soon as he sets it down.

Of course she does.

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

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

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

Like you can breathe a little easier.

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

You match her pace. Of course you do.

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

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

There’s something lingering. Not heavy.

Just… warm.

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

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

Not touching. Not yet.

Your fingers brush first.

Light.

Accidental—enough to pass that way.

She doesn’t pull away.

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

She inhales softly. Then her fingers turn.

Interlacing with yours fully.

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

Natural. Easy.

You don’t look at her.

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

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

She starts talking again after a second.

But it’s different now.

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

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

You smile faintly, eyes still forward.

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

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

as long as no one’s looking too closely.

꧁☆꧂

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

Cooler.

Quieter.

Real.

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

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

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

Like it could disappear if she doesn’t.

You smile a little to yourself.

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

She looks up at you immediately.

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

You don’t tease her for that.

You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.

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

Your shoulders brush as you walk.

Neither of you moves away.

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

Safer.

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

She wouldn’t dare let go.

You squeeze her hand once.

She squeezes back immediately.

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

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

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

You open the passenger door for her.

She pauses.

Looks at you.

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

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

You just nod a little, smiling.

“Anytime.”

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

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

For a second, neither of you starts the car.

It’s quiet.

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

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

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

You huff a quiet laugh, starting the engine.

The car hums to life.

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

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

The drive starts slow.

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

Robin leans back in her seat. Exhales.

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

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

You glance at her briefly.

“The bear?”

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

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

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

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

The bear sits between you, silent.

A witness.

A few minutes pass like that.

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

Robin shifts beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

She notices.

Of course she does.

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

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

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

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

It feels like she’s speaking anyway.

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

There’s a pause.

“…I am not.”

You glance at her. She is. Completely.

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

You raise an eyebrow.

She looks away immediately.

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

“Mmhm.”

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

You smile. “Okay.”

A beat. Then, quieter—

“What?”

She looks back at you, cautious.

“What ‘what’?”

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

She hesitates. Just for a second. Then—

“…nothing.”

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

Smile a little.

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

And that—

that gets her.

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

“That is not fair,” she mutters.

You grin. “It’s true.”

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

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

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

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

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

And she’s yours.

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

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

“…hi,” she says quietly.

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

“Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kind of quiet that feels safe.

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

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

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

And suddenly—

it’s very still.

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

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

Her thumb brushes yours once more. Slow. Soft.

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

You nod. “Yeah.”

A beat. Then, softer—

“I like this.”

You glance at her.

“What?”

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

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

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

“Me too.”

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

And then, after a second—

“I love you.”

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

You don’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

You turn your head slightly—

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

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

Just warmth. Just her.

When you pull back, she’s smiling again.

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

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

“Probably.”

Neither of you moves. She laughs quietly.

“Okay, seriously.”

“Yeah.”

Still—neither of you moves.

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

Like it means something. Like you do.

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

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

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

The door closes behind you. The night settles.

And the world fades quietly around the two of you—

still soft, still warm, still yours.

You’d gotten into a stupid fight when things started heating up in the Upside Down. He had been overprotective. You’d seen it as he didn't believe in you. He’d seen it as his way of showing his care. You brought it up and things exploded.

You thought he didn’t trust you. He told you it wasn’t that. You had pushed him and he got defensive. Then came the dreaded “Maybe we just aren’t right for each other anymore.” 

After those words were out, you couldn’t take them back. No matter how hard you wished to. No matter how much you didn’t mean them. 

Silence.

It’s not like you wanted things to end. You were both afraid of what was going on beneath Hawkins. Afraid of losing each other.

Despite it, that was the end. 

You left his house with tears running down your face. You’d spent years walking into that house like it was yours. You never thought you’d walk out of it alone.

You walked home alone through the rain, water drenching your clothes, the droplets soaking in and running deep like your feelings. It felt like a miracle when the familiar car of your best friend, Robin, rolled up beside you.

Obviously you were soaked. It’s April. It's always raining. 

But she could tell you were crying. She knew something had happened. She wasn’t ever the best with social cues. Not in kindergarten, not in elementary school, not in middle school, and not in high school. But she knows you like the back of her hand.

The headlights slowed beside you. The car door flew open before you could pretend you were fine.

“Okay,” she said carefully, taking in your soaked clothes and shaking hands. “What happened?”

You tried to swallow it down. You really did. You didn’t want her to hear the tremble in your voice.You didn’t want her to know just how terrible you felt right now.

“It’s over.”

The words sounded wrong out loud. Too small for what they meant.

Robin blinked. She knew you meant Steve. “Over like… over over?”

You nodded.

She didn’t ask anything else.

Just stepped closer, hand on your back as she gently guided you towards the passenger seat. “Get in. You look like a drowned Victorian child.”

Despite everything, a broken laugh escaped you. She had a way of making you feel better.

She cranked the heat the second the door shut, tossing her jacket over your shoulders.

For a few blocks, neither of you said anything.

She turned toward your street. It made you sick.

Thinking of having to face the memories of Steve that lingered on every surface of your house felt like a prison sentence. You can’t do it.

“Don’t,” you said.

Robin glanced over. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t take me home.”

She hesitated. This wasn’t good and she knew it.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “So where are we going?”

You stared out the windshield, rain blurring the world into something unrecognizable.

“Somewhere loud.”

Robin made a face. “That’s never a good sentence.”

“I need a bar. Or a party.”

She laughed once — short and disbelieving. “You are seventeen, I’m not taking you to a bar.”

“Robin, I said a bar or a party. I know Laurens having one tonight.”

The way you said it made her grip the steering wheel tighter.

She sighed. She didn’t think it was a good idea, but who was she to refuse you this? You just broke up with your boyfriend of multiple years. Clearly, an escape is needed.

“Lauren’s house is already going to be a disaster,” she muttered. “You crying in a corner might actually improve the vibe.”

You let out a weak huff of laughter, staring at your hands twisted in your lap.

“I don’t want to cry,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t want to think.”

Robin’s jaw tightened at that. She understood more than you realized.

“Okay,” she said finally, giving in and flicking on her blinker and turning away from your street. “We go for an hour. You get loud music. You get bad punch. And the second you start spiraling, I’m dragging you out.”

You nodded, even though you both knew she’d stay as long as you needed.

“And,” she added, glancing at you, “if anyone even looks at you wrong tonight, I will ruin their life.”

That made you smile properly this time.

The car sped up slightly, rain tapping against the windshield in uneven rhythms.

You leaned your head against the cold glass, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. And for a second, just a second, you thought about Steve sitting alone in his room.

You pushed the thought away.

Somewhere loud. That’s all you needed.

i washed my hands of us, at the club.

You hadn’t meant to get that drunk tonight.

“Just enough to forget.” That’s what you told yourself. A couple drinks, loud music filling your ears, that should be enough.

Lauren’s house was already pulsing when you walked in.

Music thumped through the walls, bass rattling picture frames. The living room lights were off, replaced by mismatched lamps and Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling. Why they were there in the middle of April, you’ve got no clue.

The air smelled like cheap perfume, sweat, and whatever sugary disaster was being served in red plastic cups.

Robin stayed close behind you as you stepped inside.

“Okay,” she muttered near your ear. “Ground rules. You do not disappear. You do not chug anything handed to you by a guy you don’t know. And—”

You were already reaching for a cup.

She grabbed your wrist lightly. “Maybe start slow?”

“I am starting slow,” you said, pulling free and taking a long swallow.

It burned.

Good.

You barely tasted it.

Someone shouted your name. Someone else pulled you into a quick hug. The music was loud enough that you didn’t have to talk much, which was perfect.

Robin lingered at your side for the first twenty minutes.

You finished your first cup too fast.

Then another.

“Okay,” Robin said, watching you refill. “Maybe alternate with water?”

You shook your head. “Water’s boring.”

“This is how hangovers are born.”

“I don’t care.”

You didn’t.

Because every time the music dipped for even half a second, every time you didn’t have a drink in hand, your brain filled the space with him.

Steve standing in his room.

Steve running a hand through his hair.

Steve saying maybe we just aren’t right for each other anymore.

Your throat tightened.

You tipped the cup back again.

Robin saw it that time.

She stepped closer. “Hey. Slow down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

You laughed — too loud, too sharp. “You’re right. I’m fantastic, actually. Best night of my life.”

Another refill.

Your words were starting to blur together. The room felt softer around the edges. Warmer. Easier. When someone bumped into you, you stumbled slightly, catching yourself on the wall.

Robin’s hand was on your elbow immediately.

“Okay,” she said more firmly now. “You’ve had enough.”

“I haven’t even—” you squinted at your cup like it offended you. “I haven’t even had that much.” Every word slurred into the next, sentences dragging on.

“You can barely stand.”

“I can so—” You pushed away from the wall to prove it and immediately swayed.

Robin caught you again.

Your laugh came out wobbly. “See? M’so balanced.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick.” Her voice held such worry for you that it almost made you want to stop. To not drink another thing that night.

But a thought of him crept its way in. You knew you needed more to forget.

You leaned closer to her, lowering your voice like it was a secret.

“I just need it to be quiet in my head.”

You pointed to your skull, a small, tipsy smile spreading on your face, though you looked almost upset.

That did it.

Her expression shifted.

Someone turned the music up even louder. The floor vibrated. You felt that ache in your chest again — sharp and sudden.

You saw him in your mind like he was standing across the room.

You swallowed hard.

You pulled away from Robin and grabbed another drink off the kitchen counter without even checking what it was.

“Hey—” she started.

You drank it anyway.

Because if you were drunk enough, maybe you wouldn’t picture him.

Maybe you wouldn’t wonder if he was regretting it. Maybe you wouldn’t start crying in the middle of Lauren’s stupid living room.

The room spun slightly when you turned back toward the music.

Robin stepped in front of you this time.

“That’s it,” she said quietly. “You’re done.” She tried to reach for the cup you were holding, but you moved your arm back.

You tried to glare at her, but it probably looked more like a confused squint.

“M’not done,” you slurred. “He doesn’t get to just— just—”

Suddenly the room felt too loud.

Because they were playing your song. You and Steve’s song. Time After Time, Cyndi Lauper. Over the years of your relationship, you’d claimed that it was fitting. Of course, he went along. He would go along with anything you said.

It played years ago at your school dance, where the two of you solidified your relationship. Ever since, it’s been your song.

And now you’re picturing him again. You can’t stay in here. Can’t stay as the lyrics and the backtracks fill the room.

Just seconds ago, you told Robin that you were fine. That you wanted to keep drinking and stay at the party and forget.

But now, you couldn't neglect the events from earlier. The music filled your head, forcing you to confront it all. 

You practically begged her to take you home after that.

i pictured you with other girls, in love. then threw up on the street.

Robin took you home after that. She knew it wouldn’t be fair to make you sit through that song.

Just like she knew she couldn’t let you drink another thing.

She didn’t say “I told you so.”

She didn’t say anything at all as she guided you out of the house, one hand firm on your back so you wouldn’t stumble off the porch. The cold air hit you immediately, sharp and sobering in the worst way.

The song was still faintly audible from inside.

You swallowed hard.

She helped you into the passenger seat, buckled you in when your fingers fumbled too much to manage it yourself.

Must’ve been the spiked punch causing you to shake.

Or maybe the many cans (you had lost count) of beer.

Possibly the whiskey you’d drank.

Or it could’ve been the drinks you took from the counters without knowing their contents.

Maybe it was all of them.

The drive started quiet.

Only the hum of the engine. The steady sweep of windshield wipers. Rain streaking across the glass like it hadn’t done enough damage already tonight.

You leaned your head against the window again, cold glass coming into contact with your burning skin.

Everything felt heavy. Your body. Your chest. Your thoughts.

Robin kept glancing over at you, worry written between every line of her face.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

You nodded too quickly.

Big mistake. The pain splitted through your skull, like lightning striking your temples. The world tilted slightly as the alcohol blurred the edges of reality. That's when the big problems started.

You pictured him.

Not how he looked earlier — red-eyed, frustrated, scared.

No.

You pictured him laughing.

You pictured him at Scoops, leaning over the counter like he used to, flashing that stupid charming smile at some girl with glossy hair and perfect teeth. Some girl who always made you feel insecure. Some girl you envied with everything in you.

You pictured her touching his arm.

You pictured him not pulling away.

Your stomach twisted.

You hated it. Hated yourself for thinking it. Hated that your brain wouldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t move on that fast.

He wouldn’t.

But what if he did?

While no, he didn’t work at Scoops anymore, and no, he wasn’t working a shift tonight, he would be in the morning.

What if there was some girl at Family Video tomorrow? What if he smiled at her the way he used to smile at you? What if she didn’t argue with him about being overprotective? What if she thought it was sweet?

Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe. Inhaling got harder the more you thought.

You pressed your forehead harder into the glass.

“I hate this,” you muttered.

Robin glanced at you. “Hate what?”

You shook your head, but the images wouldn’t stop.

Now it was worse.

Now you were picturing him slow dancing with someone else. Her hands around his neck. His forehead resting against hers, arms slid low around her waist. Swaying like the two of you at the dance a few years back.

In the back, Time After Time played low on his record player. 

On the vinyl he bought just for you. Because he knew it was your favorite song. He knew it was your song.

You pictured her in his room. Wearing his faded, grey t-shirt that you’d always steal from him.

In his bed. On the same side you’d lay.

Your stomach lurched violently.

“Pull over,” you said suddenly, already rolling down the window of her car.

Robin didn’t hesitate. She swerved toward the curb immediately.

You barely got the window down in time.

It happened fast. Messy. Unceremonious. Rain mixed with your vomit on the pavement. 

Robin reached across you instinctively, holding your hair back even though most of it was out the window anyway.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Okay. Breathe.”

“I pictured him,” you whispered hoarsely, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “With other girls. In love.”

The words broke halfway through. Almost as if the thought made you want to puke your guts out again. You stopped yourself.

“He’s not doing that. Sure, he’s a dingus, but not that much of a dingus.” She told you, gathering your hair and brushing it back behind your ears.

“You don’t know that,” you choked out, turning from the window to face her. “What if he doesn’t even miss me?”

Her jaw clenched.

“Steve Harrington?” she scoffed quietly. “He’s probably staring at his ceiling right now like the world ended.”

You let out a small, miserable laugh that turned into another shaky breath.

Rain kept falling. The streetlight above you flickered.

Your stomach still churned, but it wasn’t just the alcohol anymore. It was the grief. The jealousy. The unbearable not knowing.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” you admitted quietly. “Even when I try.”

“I know,” she said, a painful smile on her lips. 

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t start the car again yet.

Just kept her hand steady at the back of your head while the rain washed the street clean.

After a minute, she reached into the glove compartment and handed you a napkin from inside it. “Next time,” she muttered, trying to lighten it, “we spiral without whiskey. Or beer.”

You huffed weakly.

She started the car again.

You leaned back into the seat, exhausted now. Drained. Your head lolled slightly toward her.

Robin kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift like she was ready to reach for you again if needed.

Neither of you said anything else.

The rain kept falling. The radio hummed low.

And even through the nausea and the blur and the ache, he was still there in your mind.

each bar plays our song, nothing has ever felt so wrong.

The rest of the drive wasn’t too bad.

You’d somehow found a way to turn off your head, to stop the spiral of thoughts in your mind.

You hardly thought of Steve as Robin drove you home.

Everything was peaceful. Until it was.

Robin reached forward absentmindedly, twisting the volume knob on the radio.

Static cracked for half a second.

And then—

“Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick…”

It was quiet. Soft. Barely even loud enough to matter. But you knew it instantly.

Your entire body went rigid.

Robin did too.

 There it was. Time After Time. Your song, again.

“Oh, no—” she muttered, fingers fumbling with the dial before she managed to turn it off. Silence fell over the car. Heavier than you’d hoped.

Too late.

You had already heard it.

Just those first few notes were enough. Enough to pull you right back to the gymnasium lights at your first dance. To his hands at your waist. To the way he’d smiled at you like there was no one else in the room.

Nothing has ever felt so wrong.

Not the fight. Not the drinking. Not even throwing up on the side of the road.

Robin cleared her throat. “Okay. That’s banned. Radio’s canceled. Forever.”

You stared straight ahead.

You tried to laugh.

It didn’t come out right.

“I’m sorry.” she muttered, suddenly feeling as though it was her fault the universe was against you.

“It’s fine,” you said quietly.

It was far from fine.

Every stupid place in this town has played it at some point. School dances. The skating rink. Family barbecues. The grocery store last summer when he spun you around in aisle seven because it came on over the speakers.

You knew you wouldn’t ever be able to escape him.

Not when that song was looming over your life in every corner.

The car felt smaller now.

Colder.

Robin didn’t turn the radio back on. God, she wouldn’t dare.

She drove the rest of the way in silence, like she was guarding you from the world.

But the melody was already stuck in your head.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t turn that off.

"oh my, love is a lie." shit my friends say to get me by.

Robin pulled up in front of your house but didn’t turn the engine off right away.

The porch light was on even though no one was home. Your dad was away on one of his multiple month long business trips. Your mom was working until morning at the hospital.

She glanced over at you. Your makeup was smeared. Your hair a mess. Eyes glassy and swollen. Clearly the night had taken a toll on you.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Here’s what we’re not going to do.”

You sniffed. “What?”

“We’re not going to decide that this means you’re unlovable. Or doomed. Or cursed by some ancient Greek tragedy.”

You gave her a weak look, lips pursed together. “Feels a little Greek tragedy-ish.” You mutter, nodding your head.

She exhaled through her nose.

“Love is a lie,” she declared suddenly, dramatic and flat, hands hitting her thighs. “A capitalist construct designed to sell greeting cards and slow dance tickets.”

Despite yourself, you let out a tiny huff, turning your head to her.

She softened immediately.

“I’m serious,” she said, quieter now. “It’s just brain chemicals. You’ll detox. You’ll be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

You stared down at your hands.

“Love is a lie.” you repeated faintly, almost to yourself, like if you said it enough it could become true.

Robin reached over, squeezing your shoulder, pulling your eyes back to her.

“That’s right. Total scam.”

She didn’t mean it. You knew she didn’t mean it.

She was just trying to build a life raft out of sarcasm and hand it to you.

“I’m walking you in,” she said, killing the engine.

Inside, the house was too quiet. Too normal.

Robin hovered while you kicked your shoes off clumsily, steadying you when you swayed.

“You good?” she asked.

You nodded. You could tell she didn’t believe you.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” she said carefully. “And if you start spiraling, you call me. I don’t care if it’s three a.m.”

You nodded again.

She hesitated at the door.

Then, softer, “This doesn’t get to ruin you, okay?”

The door clicked shut behind her, silence rushing in.

You stood there for a moment.

The house felt heavier without her.

Without him.

“Love is a lie.” you whispered again, leaning back against the door. You almost believed it.

It would be easier if you did.

If love wasn’t real, then this wouldn’t hurt so much. But if love was fake, then what you had with Steve wasn’t real either.

And that thought made your chest cave in.

You slid down the door slowly, sitting on the floor.

“It’s just shit she says to get me by,” you muttered to the empty room.

Because Robin doesn’t believe love is a lie.

And neither do you.

Not really.

That’s the problem.

May, 1986

It’s been a month since you and Steve broke things off.

Doesn’t mean it’s stopped hurting you.

In fact, it actually hurts worse than it did before.

Because you keep wondering why he didn’t come back.

Why doesn't he miss you. If he ever will miss you. If he’s moved on.

There are so many things you wish you could ask him. But you can’t.

and I never don't cry at the bar, yeah, my sadness is contagious.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of pretending you were fine. Weeks of avoiding certain streets. Weeks of Robin watching you like you might crack open at any second.

So when she said, “It’s just for an hour. Graduation thing. I know the bartender. We’ll stand in the back. You don’t even have to drink,”

You told yourself you could handle it.

Robin knew some people from band who were a grade above you both. That’s why you were going. For Robin.

It still felt wrong to go anywhere associated with Steve.

It was his grade. What if he was there? 

You hoped with everything in you that he wouldn’t be.

The Hideout smelled like beer and cigarettes and sweat. Seniors crowded the tiny dance floor, celebrating freedom like Hawkins wasn’t still sitting on top of something monstrous.

Robin stayed close to you. Closer than usual.

You leaned against the wall, nursing something weak that she’d insisted on ordering herself.

It contained barely any alcohol.

That was the difference between you and Robin. She could handle alcohol. You couldn’t. Not since the night after you broke up with Steve.

You have to get shitfaced to feel anything. And by the time that happens, you’ve already lined yourself up for terrible hang overs and puking your guts up.

“See?” she said. “You’re fine. I told you coming here would be okay.”

You nodded.

You almost believed her.

Across the room, someone was laughing too hard. A couple was pressed close near the music table, the girl’s hands looped behind the guy’s neck.

He whispered something to the guy running the songs over her shoulder before his attention was completely on her again.

You tried not to look. But now, you were curious.

The kid running the table put on a new record, one that looked strangely familiar.

The second it started, your chest tightened.

Time After Time. 

It seemed like the song followed you everywhere you went. You could never get away from synth cords in the back tracks.

You watched how her face lit up when it played. How he smiled watching how excited she quickly became. It was clear that he’d gotten the song played just for her.

You saw yourself and Steve in them.

You had to turn away.

You stared at your drink. Never would you have guessed it would hurt this long.

You thought by May you’d be better.

You thought by May you’d be annoyed when someone said his name. That you’d be able to walk into a room and not scan it for him automatically.

But there you were.

Scanning.

Robin noticed before you said anything.

She always did.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You nodded too fast. Your throat tightened anyway.

Across the room, the couple by the table started slow dancing properly now. The girl rested her head on his chest.

And it hit you.

Steve had done that once.

At that stupid winter formal with the same song playing in the back.

He’d rested his chin on top of your head and whispered, “If we break up, I’m never dancing again.”

You laughed then.

You didn’t laugh now.

Your vision blurred.

You blinked hard.

Too late.

Tears slipped down before you could stop them.

Robin swore under her breath. Of course, she’d heard the song. She just hoped you didn’t.

Hey, hey—” She stepped in front of you slightly, blocking your view. “Don’t do that. Come on, look at me.”

You tried.

The shift was immediate.

Robin’s face fell. The joking edge disappeared. Her shoulders tightened.

Now she looked like she was hurting too. It’s like she was catching your sadness.

“I didn’t think it would still feel like this,” you admitted, voice cracking. “It’s been a month.”

“That’s not that long,” she said quickly.

“It feels like it is.”

Around you, people were still laughing.

Still dancing.

Still moving on.

You weren’t.

You wiped your cheeks angrily.

“I feel like I never don’t cry.” you muttered bitterly. “At a party. Or a bar. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

Robin gave you a sad smile. “Well, you’re very committed to the bit.”

You let out a broken sound that was almost a laugh.

But she was right.

Every time you tried to be normal, it ended like this.

You thinking of him.

You crying.

Robin getting quiet because she didn’t know how to fix it.

Your sadness was contagious.

It leaked into every room.

“I can’t keep doing this to you,” you whispered.

Robin’s expression hardened.

“Doing what?”

“Ruining everything.”

“You are not ruining anything,” she said immediately. “You’re heartbroken. That’s different.”

The song swelled again.

Someone cheered.

You pressed your palms to your eyes.

“I thought I was better at this,” you said. “I used to be better at this.”

Robin wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “But this one mattered.”

That was the problem.

That was always the problem.

Across the room, the couple laughed again.

You couldn’t watch.

That's when you started to drink again. You just couldn’t handle the thoughts. You ordered something you didn’t even know the contents of, just that it had a high percentage of alcohol.

That's what you need right now. An escape.

i slur your name till someone puts me in a car,

The first shot burned. The second didn’t.

That was how you knew you were in trouble.

The alcohol hit your bloodstream fast — too fast. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept properly in weeks. You’d been living on coffee and grief. Robin noticed the switch immediately.

“Okay,” she said cautiously, watching you tip back your third shot glass. “Slow down.”

“I’m going slow,” you insisted, even though you absolutely were not. Your voice already sounded thicker. Warmer. Edges blurred.

The music felt louder now. The lights fuzzier. The room softer.

And for a second — just a second — it worked.

Your chest didn’t feel so tight. Your head didn’t feel so loud. You laughed at something Robin said. Too hard. Too long. See? You were fine.

Until you weren’t.

Because across the room, someone shouted a name that sounded almost like his. And your brain filled in the rest.

Steve.

It was like your body reacted before your mind could.

“Steve wouldn’t—” you started, words tangling together.

Robin stiffened. “What?”

You blinked at her like she’d interrupted something important.

“He wouldn’t dance like that,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward nothing. “He— he always— he always does that thing with his shoulders first. Like he thinks he’s smooth.”

You giggled. It didn’t sound right.

Robin stepped closer.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Maybe let’s switch to water.”

You ignored her.

“Steve,” you said again, testing the name in your mouth like it was something you weren’t supposed to have anymore.

It came out wrong. Soft but broken.

You laughed again, but your eyes were glassy now.

“You know what’s funny?” you said, leaning in too close to Robin. “He said he’d never dance again if we broke up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. Robin swallowed.

“That was a dumb thing for him to say,” she muttered.

You shook your head.

“No, no, it wasn’t dumb. It was sweet. He’s sweet.” Your face crumpled slightly. “He’s so— He’s not coming to this stupid thing! He’s—“

You lost the words halfway through. Instead, you said his name again.

Slower this time.

“Steeeve.”

It dragged out. Slurred. Heavy.

Robin grabbed your arm gently.

“Come on, you’ve got to stop thinking about him.”

But you were past that point.

You were at the part where the alcohol doesn’t numb — it magnifies.

Every feeling got bigger.

The music got louder. The lights got harsher. The ache got deeper.

“Steve,” you said again, louder now.

A couple of people nearby glanced over.

Robin’s jaw tightened.

“Shhh,” she said. “Hey, Steve isn’t here.”

You shook your head, stubborn.

“No, he— he doesn’t get to just— just—” Your words collapsed into themselves. “He doesn’t get to stop loving me.”

That was it.

That was the thing you hadn’t said out loud yet.

Robin’s expression changed.

You swayed slightly.

She steadied you.

“I still love him,” you said, blinking up at her like this was breaking news. “Rob, I still— I still—”

Your throat closed. Tears spilled fast this time. And you kept saying it.

His name.

Over and over, each time more slurred.

“Stev— Stee—” you huffed frustratedly. “Why can’t I say it right?”

You laughed again. Then you cried harder.

A senior near the bar looked at you weird. Someone whispered something. Robin shot them a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“That’s it,” she said quietly. “We’re done.”

You tried to protest.

“M’not done,” you mumbled. “I need another—”

“No, you need a bed,” she said firmly.

You shook your head, wobbling.

“I need him.”

That one was barely audible, but she heard it.

Her face softened. She wrapped your arm over her shoulder.

“Okay,” she muttered. “We’re leaving before you confess your eternal love to the entire graduating class.”

You didn’t argue this time. You just kept whispering his name under your breath as she guided you toward the door.

“Steve. Steve. Steve.”

Like if you said it enough, he might appear.

The cool night air hit your face and you gasped dramatically.

Robin practically dragged you to the car. You were still talking.

Still slurring.

“Y’know what he smells like?” you said suddenly, deeply serious.

“Oh my god,” Robin muttered.

“He smells like— like hairspray and mint gum and— and summer.”

She opened the passenger door. You try to slide into the seat but you almost miss it entirely.

She caught you before you fell, steadying you at the waist.

“Okay,” she said through gritted teeth. “Sit.”

You obeyed… mostly. She buckled you in because your hands kept missing the latch. You blinked at her slowly.

“You think he misses me?” you asked.

The question was so small. So sober in its drunkenness. Yet she didn’t have an answer for you. She couldn’t tell you if he did or didn’t. The door closed gently.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she got in the driver’s seat, starting the engine of her car. As she pulled out of the parking lot, you pressed your forehead to the window.

The glass was cool.

Comforting.

You whispered his name again.

Softer now. Like you were afraid it might shatter if you said it too loud.

Robin gripped the steering wheel.

She hated this. Hated watching you unravel. Hated that she couldn’t fix it.

Behind her, the bar lights faded in the rearview mirror.

In the passenger seat, you were still murmuring:

“Steve.”

And this time, your voice broke completely.

June, 1986

Ever since that day you’d gotten drunk at the senior party, you hadn’t touched an ounce of alcohol.

The waves of hurt came back every now and then when there was a reminder of him, but you’d grown to deal with the pain in different ways.

It’s been two months now.

Two months since the break up.

Schools out, meaning it shouldn’t hurt much anymore. Less seeing him. Less hearing about him. Less forced proximity.

But it doesn’t hurt less.

Because in those months, you had something to hold onto.

But now? Now it just feels like he's gone completely. Like what little of him you had has disappeared before your eyes.

The weight behind your ribs hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s only intensified.

i find the artifacts, cried over a hat.

Your house felt bigger in the summer. Emptier. The air was heavier, like it was holding its breath.

You told yourself you were cleaning.

That was the excuse.

School was out. Closets needed sorting. Shelves needed dusting. You needed something to do with your hands.

Because when they were idle, they reached for things they shouldn’t.

Like bottles.

The box had been under your bed since April. You’d shoved it there the night after the break up.

Not thrown away.

Just… hidden.

Out of sight.

You hadn’t been brave enough to look.

Until now.

You knelt on the floor slowly, the wood warm against your knees. Reached under the bed. Your fingers brushed cardboard.

You froze.

Your pulse quickened like you’d touched something alive.

It was ridiculous.

It was just a box.

But it felt heavier when you dragged it out. Like it knew what it contained.

You sat back on your heels.

Stared at it. Two months. You’d survived over two months. You could survive this.

You lifted the lid. The smell hit first.

Not strong. Not obvious.

But faintly familiar.

Laundry detergent. Old paper. A trace of something like cologne that had long since faded but hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Your chest tightened.

Right on top was a movie ticket stub.

You picked it up carefully.

Back to the Future.

July, 1985.

You could see it instantly—

The two of you squeezed into the back row. Steve whispering dumb commentary in your ear. His arm draped around you. The way he laughed too loud during the skateboard scene.

You’d shushed him.

He’d kissed your temple in retaliation.

You’d kept the ticket because he’d drawn your initials with a plus sign between them, surrounded by a heart. 

Your thumb traced the faded ink.

You set it down gently beside you.

Under it was a cassette tape.

Handwritten label.

“Road Trip Mix – S.H.”

Your throat went dry.

You remembered that drive.

Windows down. Summer air loud and warm. Him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel off beat. You yelling at him for skipping your favorite track.

He’d said, “I made this for you, you menace.”

You’d said, “Exactly. For me. Don’t skip the best songs!” and hit his shoulder playfully.

He’d laughed.

You pressed the tape to your chest for a second before placing it down too.

Next—

A hoodie.

Dark blue.

Too big for you.

You didn’t have to unfold it to know that it was his.

You’d stolen it one night when you’d fallen asleep on his couch. He’d let you keep it.

You lifted it slowly.

Brought it to your face.

The scent was faint now. Almost gone.

That hurt worse somehow.

You remembered sitting in the passenger seat wearing it. Sleeves swallowing your hands. Him glancing over at red lights like you were the best thing he’d ever seen.

“You look better in my clothes than I do,” he’d said once.

You’d rolled your eyes.

But you wore it every chance you got.

You folded it carefully and set it aside.

Underneath that—

A polaroid.

Your breath caught.

It was taken at the lake two summers ago.

Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your head tilted toward his. Sunburn across both your noses. Water dripping from your hair.

You were laughing at something outside the frame.

He wasn’t looking at the camera.

He was looking at you.

You stared at it too long. Set it face down.

You dug deeper. A folded note.

You unfolded it slowly.

His handwriting. Slanted and messy.

“Stop overthinking everything. You’re braver than you think. I believe in you.”

Your vision blurred instantly. You remembered the day.

You’d been panicking about everything happening in Hawkins. Convinced you weren’t strong enough.

He’d pressed that note into your hand before you left.

“I mean it,” he’d said quietly.

You swallowed hard. Your hands shook now. You kept going.

A cheap plastic bracelet from the carnival.

You remembered him winning it for you and acting like it was diamond.

A crumpled receipt from Family Video with your names scribbled in the corner.

A matchbook from The Hideout from the first time he’d taken you somewhere that wasn’t Scoops or the movies.

Each thing a portal.

You weren’t imagining it. It had been real.

You were still sitting there, surrounded by artifacts of a relationship that felt archaeological now, when your fingers brushed fabric again.

White with navy letters.

You knew before you fully saw it.

Your breathing changed.

Slow. Careful.

Like approaching something fragile.

You lifted it. The Scoops Ahoy hat.

Well, not the Scoops hat, but one of them. He had two. Since he was at your place before work on too many occasions to count, he left one there in case he was in a rush and had to take the back up.

Bright white. Blue trim. Slightly bent at one corner.

You stared at it like it might blink. It shouldn’t have hit you this hard.

It was stupid. A costume.

You remembered the first day he wore it. How dramatically offended he’d been about the shorts. How you’d teased him mercilessly.

“Ahoy, sailor,” you’d said, tipping the hat off his head.

He’d grabbed your wrist and pulled you close over the counter when no one was looking. “You better behave,” he’d murmured.

You’d laughed into his shoulder.

You remembered sitting on the counter after closing, stealing cherries from the topping bar while he counted the register.

You remembered the way he’d adjust the hat in the mirror and ask, “Be honest. Do I pull this off? I feel like it’s blowing my best feature.”

You’d told him yes every time.

You remembered leaning over the counter one slow afternoon, watching him argue with Robin.

You remembered the way he’d lean his elbows on the glass and grin at you like you were in on some private joke.

You remembered how proud he’d been the day he got out of that job. How you’d told him he deserved better. How he’d kissed you in the parking lot after his last shift.

The hat trembled in your hands.

And suddenly— You couldn’t breathe.

This one artifact, those stupid string of memories it brought, it was undoing you.

The fact that there had been so many normal days. So many moments that weren’t dramatic.

Just him.

You pressed the hat to your chest. Your shoulders started shaking before you even realized you were crying.

Not the loud kind. Not the hysterical kind.

The quiet, breaking apart kind.

You bent forward slowly, curling over it like you were protecting something. Because in a way, you were. You were protecting what it had meant.

Your tears soaked into the fabric. You thought about how careful he’d been with you.

How much he’d tried. How scared he’d been of losing you. How you’d both said things you didn’t mean.

You thought about the crease by his eyes when he smiled. The way he pushed his hair back. The way he said your name when he was tired.

Grief lived in the details. You understood that now.

You pressed your forehead to the brim of the hat.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered to the empty room.

But the weight behind your ribs shifted slightly. Not lighter. Just clearer.

You weren’t moving on. You weren’t healing. You were still in it. And that was the truth.

July, 1986

Three months.

Three months and somehow, you still hadn't come to terms with any of this.

You still haven't drank any more alcohol, but the pounding of your head and the way you always stood shakily would suggest otherwise.

You had gotten a little better at masking it all, though.

Still, you couldn't ever imagine yourself with another guy. Couldn't imagine waking up beside someone new. Couldn't imagine going to a winter formal with an unfamiliar face.

You couldn't imagine a life without Steve.

i heard your key turn in the door, down the hallway.

The house was too quiet again.

Summer had a way of stretching the hours thin. The cicadas outside buzzed lazily in the heat, sunlight pooling golden across the hardwood floors. Your parents were both gone—your dad still out of town, your mom working a double shift.

You hadn’t planned to remember what today was.

You truly hadn’t.

But when you’d woken up that morning and looked at the calendar pinned beside your desk, it had been circled in faded blue ink.

July 14th.

You’d circled it when you got the calendar. When you were still together. One year since your first official date. Not the dance. Not the “are we?” phase.

The real one.

The night he’d shown up at your door with flowers he’d very obviously bought from Melvald’s and tried to pretend were expensive.

You’d forgotten to erase the circle. So now it sat there. Mocking you.

You told yourself it was stupid to care.

You told yourself anniversaries didn’t count when you weren’t together anymore.

You told yourself it was just a date. A random day of 

But all day, everything felt heavier. You tried reading. You couldn’t focus. Tried cleaning more. There was nothing left to clean. Tried not to think about him.

That failed immediately.

By early evening, the house had started to feel like it was closing in.

You wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge without knowing why. Stared at nothing. Closed it again. Walked to your bedroom and sat down on your bed.

The quiet was loud.

And then—

You heard it.

A sound so small you almost thought you imagined it.

The faint metal click of a key sliding into the front door lock.

Your body went completely still.

Your heart didn’t race at first.

It stopped.

Then it slammed against your ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise.

No one else had a key.

Except—

The lock turned.

The door opened.

For a split second, your brain tried to rationalize it. Your mom? No, she wouldn’t be home for hours.

A burglar? But burglars didn’t use keys.

And then you heard it.

That familiar creak of the door swinging shut gently. Not forceful. Not rushed.

Careful.

Like someone who knew exactly how much pressure the hinges needed.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale.

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

It had to be your mom. She must’ve gotten off work early, or had to swing by the house to grab something.

If not your mom, your dad. Maybe his business trip had been cut short, so he’s back now.

There’s no way it could’ve been anyone else.

You stepped out of your bedroom without thinking. The hallway felt impossibly long.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you moved toward the front of the house.

And then—

You saw him.

Standing just inside the doorway was Steve Harrington.

He looked different somehow. Or maybe it was just that you hadn’t seen him up close in months. His hair was longer. Slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

He froze when he saw you.

Like he hadn’t expected you to appear that fast. Like maybe he hadn’t expected you at all.

Your voice came out before your brain caught up.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t what you meant to say. You meant to say a thousand things. But all that came out was:

“Steve.”

His name tasted different now.

His hand was still wrapped around the key in the lock.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You stared at the key. Then at him.

“You still have that?”

His expression shifted. Almost sheepish. Almost guilty.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I, uh… I was gonna bring it back.”

Silence. You stepped closer, slow, cautious.

“Why didn’t you knock?”

You thought maybe he’d forgotten that was the normal thing to do. Maybe, just maybe, he’d spent so much time coming in without a second thought that it was hard to unlearn the habit.

“I did,” he said quickly. “Twice. You didn’t answer. I thought maybe—” He swallowed. “I thought maybe you weren’t home.”

You hadn’t heard anything. Your heart was beating too loud. He pulled the key out slowly and held it up like evidence.

“I should’ve given this back weeks ago,” he said quietly.

You looked at him fully now. Really looked at him. His eyes were tired. Red around the edges. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much either.

The hallway felt smaller.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was fragile.

He inhaled slowly. “I didn’t want today to pass without…” He stopped himself.

Your stomach flipped. “Without what?”

He looked at you like he was debating whether to jump off a cliff.

“Without saying something.”

Your chest tightened. You hadn’t mentioned the date. You hadn’t told anyone.

But he remembered.

Of course he remembered. He remembered everything important.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

His laugh was quiet. Not amused. Just soft.

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember a lot of things.”

That did it. Your eyes burned immediately. You folded your arms around yourself, not defensively—just to keep from shaking.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you admitted.

You're not sure what you meant. The day or ever.

He flinched slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you again. The kind where both people are holding something breakable.

“I thought you were done,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. “I thought you were.”

You both stood there, the weight of those months settling between you like a third presence.

“I didn’t mean it,” you said suddenly. The words came out fast. Urgent.

“I didn’t mean that we weren’t right for each other. I was scared and you were pushing and I felt like you didn’t trust me and I— I panicked.”

His face crumpled slightly. “I know,” he said quickly. “I know. I shouldn’t have let it get there.”

“You said it too.”

“I know.” His voice broke on the last word.

“I’ve replayed that fight like a hundred times,” he admitted. “Every single night. I keep thinking if I’d just said something different. If I’d just listened instead of getting defensive.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“I thought you didn’t come back because you didn’t miss me,” you whispered.

He stared at you like you’d just insulted gravity.

“Are you kidding me?”

His voice wasn’t loud. But it was intense.

“I didn’t come back because I thought you needed space. Because I thought if I showed up, I’d just make it worse.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I care so much it’s ruining my life,” he said before he could stop himself.

Silence. You blinked at him.

“What?”

He ran a hand through his hair—there it was, that nervous habit you knew so well.

“I haven’t slept properly in months,” he admitted. “I keep thinking about you walking out that night. I keep thinking about how I let you leave.”

Your heart felt like it was splitting open.

“I didn’t want to leave,” you said.

“I didn’t want you to either.”

The words hung there. Raw. Unfiltered. Your breathing grew uneven.

“I thought you’d moved on,” you said. 

He stepped forward slightly.

“There hasn’t been anyone else.”

Your breath caught.

“There won’t be,” he added, softer.

The hallway felt charged now.

Like static before a storm.

“I still love you,” you said.

You didn’t plan to. You didn’t build up to it. It just fell out of you.

You wish it hadn’t. But there was no pride left to protect. His eyes closed briefly, like the words physically hit him.

“Good,” he whispered. Your heart stopped again.

“Because I still love you too.”

And this time, it didn’t feel like grief. It felt like oxygen. You took a step closer. Then another.

You were close enough now to see the faint crease between his brows. The way his hands trembled slightly at his sides.

“I almost didn’t come,” he admitted. “I sat in my car for like ten minutes. I thought maybe you’d slam the door in my face.”

You shook your head immediately.

“I could never.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “For making you feel like I didn’t believe in you. I was scared. I didn’t want anything to happen to you. I thought if I just protected you hard enough, I could control it.”

“I know,” you said.

“I should’ve trusted you.”

“I should’ve trusted you too.”

The space between you disappeared. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed.

He reached for you slowly.

Like you might vanish.

His hands settled at your waist, hesitant at first.

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

And then you were crying.

Not the broken kind from the hat.

Not the drunk kind from the bar.

He held you tight.

Like he had been holding himself back for two months and finally didn’t have to anymore.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I did too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

There were tears in his eyes too.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then he kissed you. Not desperate. Not frantic. Slow. Careful.

Like relearning something sacred. His hand came up to cup your jaw. Yours slid into his hair automatically.

It felt the same. It felt different. It hit different.

Because you almost lost it. Because you know now what it feels like without him.

He rested his forehead against yours when you finally pulled apart.

“I’m not letting you walk out like that again,” he said quietly.

“I’m not planning on trying again,” you replied.

A small, shaky smile tugged at his mouth. “Good.”

The house didn’t feel empty anymore.

The hallway that had felt impossibly long now felt like the beginning of something again.

And somewhere in the quiet of July, with the cicadas humming outside and the last of the daylight slipping through the windows—

It didn’t hurt anymore. Because it was him. And it always had been.

Maybe love wasn’t a lie.