Don't say that you think that they know, Robin thinks as you both sit outside the gymnasium together, her trumpet case on the pavement by her feet and your clarinet one beside you at your hip. Don't say that you think that they know.

They being the student body of Hawkins High; Robin doesn't know when everyone stopped minding their business, so why wasn't she told? Ever since the school year began, every single look in your shared direction's got her heart racing a mile a minute, and she can't help but people see past the friendly front the two of you put up within school grounds.

Robin can tell that the stress of pretending has been eating away at you too— the way your leg's bouncing right now is the perfect nervous tell all on its own— but she just doesn't know what else she can do to convince you that things will be fine. That no one knows that the two of you are more than just friends.

"It's... it's going to be okay," Robin whispers eventually, looking up from the pavement beneath her feet and turning to look at you. Somehow, you always look ethereal in the green-and-white uniform of the Hawkins High Marching Band; she's lucky if she just barely resembles Lucky the Leprechaun on competition days. "We're okay. People are probably just looking for entertainment now that Steve's not on campus anymore."

She chuckles awkwardly at that, but the tightness in her chest doesn't quell since you don't laugh. You're clearly beyond comfort through humor, so Robin sighs and lets her arm drape over your shoulder after removing her hat. "We're going to get through this," she tries again, her tone serious now that she's opting to take your worries head-on. "Just like we did Starcourt, babe. Hawkins High doesn't even come close to that flesh monster."

Right; because small, mostly conservative midwest towns are a cakewalk when compared to their otherworldly monster counterparts. Robin looks out into the carpark in search of her mom's sedan before returning to you. "I... I got you. We're okay."