“So, whatcha makin’, Rob?” Dee [looks] at Robin with rapt attention.
“Oh, um. W-well…” She sets her mug on the table. Words exist, certainly, but hell if she can grab enough of them right now to save herself. “I’m making”—with unsteady hands, she wrenches the sweater close to her chest—“th-that is to say…” Robin trails off and begins ripping out stitches in her haste to quell the mounting inner pressure to keep mum.
“Hey, hey. It’s all right. Forget I asked. Don’t destroy your work on my account.”