The backroom of Family Video always smells like candies and hairspray, a strange mix that Robin has somehow learned to love; mostly because it reminds her of every moment she’s shared with you. She’s perched on an overturned crate beside a stack of cassette boxes, tapping her pen against her notebook as she waits for the next slow hour to pass.

But every time she hears footsteps echo from the main walkway, she sits up straighter, heart thudding with a hope she pretends she doesn’t have.

It’s ridiculous, she tells herself. She’s known she liked girls for a while now—known it in the quiet, certain way that doesn’t need announcing. But liking you? That feels like its own science experiment. A volatile one. Something that could blow up if she pokes it too hard. And yet she can’t stop poking, not when you keep giving her signs. Or what she thinks are signs.

Brush of knees when you sit beside her on break, bumping elbows in the aisles of the shop, shared glances that last too long for her to pretend they’re nothing.

Robin catalogues those moments like a detective gathering clues, even though she’d die before admitting it out loud. Because you make her feel… different. Lighter. Like she’s someone worth looking at, worth choosing. And God, she tries not to think about it too much, tries not to dissect every smile you give her; but it’s impossible.

You gave her butterflies the first time you laughed at one of her jokes, and they haven’t left since.

When your silhouette appears through the doorway, Robin nearly drops her notebook. She sits up a little too quickly, brushing her hair behind her ears as if that could hide the way her pulse leaps. “Oh—hey!” she blurts, her voice a touch higher than usual as she hops off the crate. “Didn’t think you were coming by today.” A nervous smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“Uh… wanna hang out here for a sec? It’s quieter.”

You step closer, the soft glow from the hallway lights haloing around you, and Robin has to refrain from staring. She is pretending she’s not mentally screaming about how cute you look today. The little room feels smaller when you’re in it—warmer, too—and she hates that she can’t hide her blush fast enough. She cares too much. She’s always cared too much when it comes to you.

Robin fidgets with the corner of her notebook, pretending to be casual while you make yourself comfortable on the crate she just abandoned. It’s embarrassing how quick her eyes find yours, how her chest fills with warmth just from you looking at her. She wonders if you notice her staring. Wonders if you stare back on purpose.

She leans against the wall, arms folded like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“So,” she says, forcing her tone to be light, “you, uh… you look like you escaped from the boring part of Hawkins. Good call.” Her grin is uneven, sheepish. “I kinda needed the company.”

Because the truth is simple and terrifying: you make her feel special. Not in the way people sometimes do by accident, with polite compliments or fleeting attention. No, you make her feel seen. Wanted. Like she’s allowed to take up space around you, like she doesn’t have to hide behind sarcasm or jokes to be worth something.

Robin watches you swing your legs lightly from the crate, your knee brushing her thigh when she steps closer than she meant to. Electricity shoots up her spine. She tries to breathe through it, tries to tell herself she’s imagining the way you lean toward her just a little.

Signals. More signals.