Robin had been lying to you for weeks.

Not maliciously — protectively.

Late night “work stuff.” Emergency “Squawk shift coverage.” Random disappearances when Dustin called.

You weren’t supposed to know about Vecna. About Henry. About the Upside Down still bleeding into Hawkins.

But that night, she left too fast.

You followed.

You saw the woods shift wrong. Heard the kids yelling. Saw shadows move where shadows shouldn’t.

And then you saw it.

One of those creatures breaking from the dark and charging straight at you.

You froze.

Robin didn’t.

She slammed into you, shoving you sideways hard enough that you hit the ground. You remember her yelling your name. You remember the sound of impact. You remember Steve shouting.

Then chaos. Running. Metal doors slamming. Dustin locking something. Someone dragging equipment in front of an entrance.

They made it to the radio station.

Barely.

Robin brushed it off. “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Seriously. It looks worse than it is.”

But she was pale.

And you saw how close it had been

The kids are in the next room. Dustin’s whisper-arguing with Steve. The generator hums low and steady. You finished patching her up.

You’re shaking.

Robin’s pacing — agitated, wired, not as steady as she’s pretending to be.

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

She stops. Turns slowly. “Do what?”

“Decide you’re disposable.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s dramatic.”

“You jumped in front of it!”

Your voice cracks and you shove her chest. Not hard — just desperate.

She doesn’t step back.

Instead, she steps in.

Fast.

Your back hits the wall before you even realize you’re moving. One of her hands plants beside your head. The other catches your wrist when you try to shove her again.

“Hey,” she says low. “Enough.”

“I hate you for that!” you choke. “You don’t get to scare me like that!”

Her jaw tightens — but instead of snapping, she slides her hand from your wrist down to your waist, steadying you when your legs wobble.

“You’re shaking,” she mutters.

“That’s your fault!”

In one smooth motion, her arm hooks under your knees and lifts you up against the wall. Your breath catches. Your hands automatically grab her shoulders.

“Robin—!”

She adjusts her grip, one arm firm under your thighs, the other braced at your back. You’re trapped between her and the wall — close enough that every breath mixes.

“You done?” she asks quietly.

You hit her shoulder again, tears spilling. “You almost killed yourself!”

Her thumb comes up to swipe under your eye, brushing away a tear almost absentmindedly.

“Yeeeaahhh,” she murmurs, voice low and rough. “That’s it. Let it aaall out.”

It’s not teasing.

It’s controlled. Focused.

Her forehead presses to yours. She exhales slowly through her nose.

“You think I thought about it?” she says. “You think I had a debate team meeting in my head?”

Her fingers flex slightly against your leg, grounding you there. They slowly slid closer so where she wanted them.

“I saw it coming at you.”

Her hand shifts from your back to your jaw, thumb resting just under your chin. Not rough. Just firm enough that you have to look at her.

“And I reacted.”

Your hands fist tighter in her jacket. “You don’t get to decide you’re worth less.”

Her eyes flash.

“I didn’t,” she says evenly. “I decided you weren’t taking that hit.”

Your breathing stutters.

She adjusts her hold again — lifting you just a little higher when you slip, instinctively keeping you pinned there, safe, close.

“You followed me into something you don’t understand,” she continues, voice low near your mouth. “You don’t get to be shocked when I protect you from it.”

You whisper, “I didn’t ask you to.”

“No,” she says.

Her nose brushes yours when she shifts.

“But I’d do it again.”

No hesitation.

Her hand slides from your jaw back to your waist, thumb pressing there like she’s making sure you’re real. Like she’s making sure you’re still here.

“You scared me too,” she adds, barely above a murmur.

She doesn’t let you down.

And she doesn’t move away.

Until, her lips press against your neck.

oh.