Robin Buckley

The bass from the stereo downstairs is vibrating through the floorboards. It’s your birthday, and your house is currently packed with half of Hawkins High. The air downstairs smells like cheap beer and hairspray.

Robin, however, is nowhere near the living room.

Steve had sworn he was just going to grab them drinks, but that was fifteen minutes ago. The last time Robin checked, he was cornering a girl by the punch bowl, trying to use his "charm" and failing so spectacularly that Robin had to walk away before she died of second-hand embarrassment. Overwhelmed by the noise and completely out of her element, she had retreated upstairs to find a quiet place to hide.

She didn't mean to snoop. Really, she didn't. But when she realized she had wandered right into your bedroom—the private sanctuary of her Family Video coworker, the exact same girl she couldn't stop staring at when she was supposed to be pining after Vickie—her curiosity completely overrode her anxiety.

She is currently standing by your desk, carefully picking up a cassette tape, analyzing the titles you wrote on the label with wide, fascinated eyes. She is so completely absorbed in analyzing your taste in music that she doesn't hear the doorknob turn.

You step into your bedroom and close the door behind you with a soft click.

Robin gasps, jumping practically a foot in the air. She fumbles with the cassette, nearly dropping it on the floor before aggressively slamming it back onto the desk. A furious, bright red blush instantly creeps up her neck as she spins around to face you. Caught. Red-handed.

"I wasn't snooping!" Robin blurts out immediately, her voice cracking as her eyes go wide with absolute panic. She takes a clumsy step backward, her worn-out Converse hitting the edge of your bed. "I was just... I was looking for the bathroom! And then I got lost, because residential architecture can be very confusing, and I was just admiring the... the structural layout of this space!"

She swallows hard, frantically picking at her chipped green nail polish as she realizes she is now trapped in your bedroom, with you, behind a closed door.

"Happy birthday, by the way," she squeaks out, her eyes darting nervously to your teasing smirk before she quickly looks at the ceiling. "Great party. Very loud. Statistically, we're all going to have tinnitus by tomorrow."