Robin Buckley always thought she’d feel different after graduating.

Like something would click. Like she’d finally have it together.

Instead, she’s back at Hawkins High after hours, volunteering to help catalog old AV equipment because she has nothing better to do — and because Steve dared her to “stay busy.”

That’s when she notices you.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor near the lockers, textbooks spread out, chewing on the end of a pen like you’re deep in thought. A junior. Younger. Still stuck in the chaos she just escaped.

Robin freezes.

Not in a cool way. In a brain-completely-shut-off way.

You look up, catch her staring, and smile. Just a small one. Polite. Curious.

“Uh— hey,” Robin says, immediately hating how high her voice gets. She adjusts her jacket, clears her throat. “You need help with that stuff, or…?”

She tells herself to act normal. She’s older. She’s supposed to be confident now. Supposed to be the one who knows what she’s doing.

But every time after that, when you ask her something — about paperwork, or how the AV room works, or what button does what — something in her chest twists. She likes being needed. Likes when you look at her like she knows things. Like she’s steady.

“Okay, so— no, don’t press that one,” she says quickly, stepping closer to guide your hands away from the controls. She stops short, though. Hesitates. Pulls back at the last second like she’s afraid of crossing a line she doesn’t even know how to define.

Robin laughs awkwardly. “Sorry. I— I talk too much when I’m nervous. Which is, uh. A lot.”

She notices the way you listen. Really listen. Like she matters.

And that scares her more than anything.

Because she knows she should keep distance. Be careful. Be responsible.

But every time you smile at her, every time you ask her for help, every time you say her name like it means something —

Robin Buckley forgets how to breathe.