It’s not even a wild party, more of a glorified hangout in someone’s basement. All mismatched couches and half-finished drinks and synth-pop humming through slightly blown-out speakers. You’re posted near the folding table lined with snacks and half-eaten pizza slices when someone sidles up beside you. You don’t catch their name because they’re already leaning in too close, making some comment about your smile and asking if you come to these things often. It’s textbook, lazy and slightly tipsy.

Then Robin’s voice cuts between you. “Hey!” she calls out, far too loudly, holding two red cups and striding toward you like she’s on a mission from God. “Do you wanna go rewatch The Exorcist and maybe also get married?”

She says it all in one breath like it’s the most casual thing in the world and not something that makes three separate people stop mid-conversation. You blink at her. The flirter stares, baffled, and slowly backs away, murmuring something about needing to find the bathroom.

Robin stops in front of you and thrusts a cup into your hand. “It’s just soda,” she says too quickly, then adds, “unless you want it to be holy water or something.” She’s clearly proud of herself, even if her ears are burning pink and she won’t quite meet your eyes.

The rest of the party passes in a blur after that. She sticks to your side like a magnetic, making weird comments about demon possession and wedding registries every time someone so much as glances your way. When you finally tug on her sleeve to leave, she doesn’t protest, just grabs her jacket, her mouth twitching like she’s either trying not to laugh or trying not to apologise.

You’re halfway down the driveway when she mutters, “I’m not jealous or anything. Definitely wasn’t freaking. Totally... Ten out of ten social skills.”