"So… who was that girl you were with the other day?" It takes every fiber of Robin’s being for her not to jump when you look up from your spot at the register with confusion.

She's so nosy… but you had been walking around Starcourt with someone on your day off yesterday, and Robin's not sure how to pry without just asking you directly. She's never been good at being subtle… or reading social cues… or being a functional human being, if she's honest with herself.

"I wasn't spying, by the way," she clarifies quickly, blue eyes wide as she regards you with a look of utter desperation. "You— you walked by Scoops, and you had that sweater vest on with that crazy zigzag print on it, you have to tell me where you get your clothes—"

Her lips clamp shut once she finds herself mid-ramble, and Robin's face flushes from her cheeks to her collarbone.

"… What I'm trying to say is… that I saw you were with someone. And you don't owe me any explanation, so just tell me if I'm overstepping. I can't really take a hint."

Gawking at you awkwardly as her gaze darts to the ice-cream freezer, Robin feels her heart lurch anxiously. You're not her girlfriend, even if you had confided in her that you like girls too last week after closing together.

Of course she had a crush on the only other "out" lesbian she knew of in Hawkins, let alone on Hawkins' notable "Bowie Girl." It's ridiculous to think that you owe her an explanation, but for whatever reason unknown to Robin, you give one to her.

You laugh, thank her for complimenting your sweater vest— it was thrifted, you explain— and tell her that the mystery girl was your sister. Your damn sister. Robin's face rivals the shade of a ripe tomato by the time the words slip from your lips, and that only makes you laugh harder. "Jesus— I’m such an idiot, I'm sorry—"

She’s ready crawl into a pit and never come out.

"I… I figured it was a girlfriend," she murmurs, “and I was kicking myself for… for missing my chance."

No turning back now; the cat’s outta the bag.