𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙞𝙣 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙮

Family Video is too quiet. Like… suspiciously quiet. The kind of quiet that makes the fluorescent lights hum louder than they should and turns the smell of carpet cleaner and stale popcorn into a personality trait. Outside, the snow has been falling nonstop, thick flakes smearing the windows into a blurry white mess. Hawkins looks like it got trapped inside a snow globe and shaken way too hard. Steve ditched an hour ago. Something about “Harrington family Christmas stuff” and “don’t burn the place down” and “please lock up, my dad will literally kill me.” He threw on his coat, flashed a grin that said I am absolutely not thinking about you two being alone together, and disappeared into the storm. So now it’s just you and Robin. Alone After closing. With a dusty VHS player that may or may not be haunted, a half-empty popcorn machine, and approximately eight million things neither of you are saying. Robin, for her part, is pretending she’s totally normal about it. She’s been pacing for the last ten minutes, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, Converse squeaking softly against the tile as she drifts between the aisles. She keeps pulling tapes off the shelves, squinting at the covers, and then shoving them back like they personally offended her. “Okay but who is renting Out of Africa for Christmas?” she says suddenly, holding up the tape and waving it at you. “Like, I respect the drama, I do, but also? Bold choice. Aggressively bold.” She doesn’t wait for an answer before sliding it back into place and grabbing another. “And don’t even get me started on the people who rent horror movies during the holidays. That’s not festive, that’s a cry for help.” The silence creeps back in. Robin clears her throat. “So. Wow. Snow, huh.” You smile a little. “Yeah. Kind of a lot of it.” She laughs too loud, like she’s relieved you spoke. “Right? Like—wow—nature really said ‘what if Hawkins was inaccessible.’ Love that for us.” She paces again. Then again. Then she stops near the counter, drumming her fingers against the glass. You can practically see the thoughts stacking up behind her eyes, bouncing around like pinballs. Eventually, inevitably, she starts talking. “Okay, so, real question,” she says, leaning against the counter and tilting her head at you. “Do you think Christmas is… like… a lot?” You blink. “A lot how?” She exhales, relieved you asked. “Just—a lot. Emotionally. Spiritually. Socially. There’s so many rules. And expectations. And traditions. My family does this thing where we all have to sit in the living room and listen to my aunt play the piano, and no one’s allowed to talk, and it’s supposed to be ‘meaningful,’ but mostly I’m just wondering if my face looks weird when I’m bored.” You laugh, and that only encourages her. “And don’t get me wrong,” she adds quickly, hands flying as she talks. “I like parts of it. The lights are cool. The music slaps—like, objectively, some of the best songs of all time, I will die on that hill. But there’s also this pressure to feel… I don’t know. Magical? And sometimes I just feel… confused.” She trails off, chewing on her bottom lip. Then, like it just now occurs to her, she gestures around the store. “Anyway! Wow, sorry. Did not mean to emotionally ambush you between Top Gun and The Goonies.” She finally sits down—right next to you on the counter stool. Closer than necessary. Your shoulders brush, just barely. She freezes for half a second, like she’s deciding whether to move. She doesn’t. “Totally an accident,” she says quickly. “This stool just… attacked me.” Outside, the snow keeps falling. Inside, the quiet feels less sharp now. Softer. Like it’s listening instead of judging. Robin reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, flipping through static until something vaguely festive appears. She doesn’t really watch it, though. Her knee bounces, energy buzzing under her skin. “Do you ever think about the future?” she asks suddenly. You glance at her. “Sometimes.” She nods, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah. Me too. And it’s—terrifying? Because everyone else seems to have, like, a plan. And I’m just here like, ‘Cool, what if I work at a video store forever and collect random facts about bands no one listens to anymore?’” She laughs, but there’s something fragile underneath it. “I don’t wanna mess it up,” she admits quietly. "Growing up. Becoming… whatever I’m supposed to be.” She finally looks at you then. Really looks. “But you—you get it. You don’t make it weird when I ramble or freak out or say the wrong thing. You just… listen.” Her voice softens. “That means a lot. Like. A lot a lot.” The moment stretches. Then she clears her throat and grins, trying to lighten it. “Wow. Okay. Emotional spiral over. I swear I’m fun at parties.” You smile and tell her what Christmas means to you. You talk about the parts you love, the parts you don’t, the memories that stick. Robin listens like every word matters. She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t joke. Just nods, eyes warm, completely present. When you finish, she lets out a slow breath. “Yeah,” she says softly. “That makes sense.” She bumps your shoulder with hers. “Thanks for telling me. Seriously.” The TV crackles. Snow taps against the windows. For a while, you just sit there together—too close, not close enough—wrapped in the quiet, the glow of the screen, the weird comfort of being snowed in with someone who makes the world feel a little less overwhelming. Robin yawns dramatically. “Okay. If we’re stuck here, I vote we at least make it cozy. Popcorn? Blanket? Extremely questionable Christmas movie?” She grins at you. “Snowed-in rules. We survive together.” And for the first time all night, the quiet feels exactly right