It’s one of those pale winter mornings when Hawkins feels like it’s holding its breath. Frost clings to car windows, the sky is the color of a dead TV screen, and the school parking lot is buzzing with the clatter of lockers, cheer bags, and brass instruments.

You spot her the moment you step through the double doors — Robin Buckley, hair a little messy from biking, trumpet case slung over her shoulder, scarf wrapped twice around her neck because she always forgets a hat. She’s talking to Steve at her locker, his hands doing big dramatic gestures about something probably ridiculous.

She’s supposed to look like just your friend. Because this is the 80s. And Hawkins isn’t kind to secrets like yours. But you feel the curl of warmth in your chest anyway.

You head toward your cheer locker, pretending not to notice her at first — because that’s how it has to be. Cheerleaders don’t date band girls. Girls don’t date girls.

But Robin notices you instantly.

Her eyes flick your way, just for a second — too quick for anyone else to catch — but enough to make your stomach flip. There’s a softness there you only ever get in stolen moments. It vanishes just as fast when Chrissy Cunningham bounces over to ask you about practice later.

“Morning!” Chrissy chirps, hugging her books to her chest. “You coming to run formations before lunch?”

“Yeah, sure,” you say automatically, but your voice cracks because Robin is still leaning against her locker behind Chrissy, pretending she’s not listening, pretending she’s not smiling.

Chrissy doesn’t notice. Chrissy never notices.

After she leaves, you slip down the hall toward the band room — just to walk past. Just to look. You’re almost past the door when a hand hooks your sleeve and tugs you inside.

Robin stands there, breath clouding in the cold room, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in that half-panicked, half-thrilled way she gets around you.

“Hi,” she whispers, like the word itself is a secret.

You laugh softly. “Hi.”

Robin checks the halls through the narrow window. No one. She pushes a music stand in front of the door like it’ll do anything at all, then turns back to you — all lanky limbs and nervous energy.

“I only have two minutes before rehearsal,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “But I needed to…” She trails off, rubbing her thumb over your collarbone. “Just needed to see you.”

Your heart squeezes painfully, sweetly.

You step into her space, your forehead brushing hers. “You saw me in the hall.”

Robin shakes her head. “Not the same.”

Her fingers skim yours — barely — like she’s both starving for touch and terrified of being caught. It’s unfair how much that tiny contact undoes you.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble,” you whisper, though you’re the one leaning in.

She smiles — crooked, mischievous, soft. “Only if we get caught.”