It always started with laughter.

The three of you — curled up on the couch in Steve’s living room, half-drunk on cheap wine and the comfort of surviving another goddamn apocalypse. Your legs over Steve’s lap, Robin leaning into your shoulder. Some dumb horror movie flashing in the background, forgotten.

You were Steve’s girlfriend. Had been for months. The kind of relationship people in Hawkins never got to have — passionate, honest, and full of stolen kisses in grocery aisles and lazy mornings in bed. But somewhere along the way, Robin started staying the night too. At first just crashing on the couch. Then on the floor beside the bed. Then…

One night, Steve fell asleep before you two. And Robin just… looked at you. Really looked at you.

“You make it hard to breathe sometimes,” she murmured, eyes glossy, voice barely a whisper. “Not in a bad way. In a ‘this is killing me’ way.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Robin—”

“I know, I know,” she cut you off, shaking her head and sitting back. “You’re his. And he’s great. He is. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

⸻

A few nights later…

You were in Steve’s room, wrapped in a sheet, skin still warm from his touch. He was in the shower, humming some 80s song off-key. You padded into the kitchen to grab water, half-naked, dazed.

Robin was there. Leaning against the counter. Eyes dragging down your body before she caught herself.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Didn’t know you were… y’know. Mid-post-sex hydration.”

You bit your lip, then tilted your head. “You stayed over again.”

“Habit, I guess.”

Silence.

The tension? Unbearable.