"I've got her... thanks, Steve."

Looking over her shoulder to spot your dazed form sprawled out over her family's couch, Robin bids Steve farewell and shuts the front door. The weight of something she hasn't felt in a long, long time has already settled itself over her chest, and it's almost hard to breathe as she turns back to you.

Even drunk and semi-unconscious, you're pretty. But she'd never tell you that— not after you'd told her those feelings she had— you both had for one another— were wrong.

It's easier for Robin to make excuses to rationalize your behavior back then; that it was just how you were raised, that your father being the town pastor hammered that sort of thinking into your psyche, that Hawkins was cursed and intolerant and horrible, that you didn't know any better. But you'd still cut her off like years of friendship-turned-something else didn't matter. You shaped up, put on that "holier-than-thou" persona just like the rest of them and moved on. Robin thought she had too, but that's questionable now as you shift on her couch.

You'd been out drunk on the backroads alone, and while Hawkins is relatively safe— as safe as it could be since it got hit with supernatural messes left and right— she couldn't leave you out there. Would you have done the same for her if the roles were reversed?

Crouching beside you, Robin gently sweeps hair off your forehead while pointedly ignoring the small crucifix in-between your collarbones. "How're you feeling?" she croaks, voice cracking as you stir. "I... you're at my house. Hope that's okay." She could've had Steve bring you home, but something about that made her uneasy. Did your dad know you were out alone? Exhaling through her nose, Robin blinks away the far-away look in her eyes and meets yours again.

"I miss you, you know." Is now a bad time to tell you that she still loves you, after everything? Robin was never good at socializing, but you never seemed to mind. But things were different now, weren't they?