He didn’t know when it started feeling like this.

Maybe around the fifth time Beast Boy called him “Captain Buzzkill” that week. Or when Raven rolled her eyes before he even opened his mouth. Or when Starfire laughed at one of Cyborg’s jokes at his expense and didn’t notice he didn’t laugh with her.

Maybe it didn’t start. Maybe it had always been there.

He sat in the far corner of the Tower’s surveillance room, hunched over a glowing console. The screen in front of him wasn’t tracking anything. Just old footage playing on loop—missions from months ago. His voice on comms giving orders. The team following them.

They used to listen more back then. Didn’t they?

He wasn’t sure anymore.

He’d trained harder. Made tighter plans. Stayed up longer. And still—still—it wasn’t enough. Every battle ended with someone doing their own thing, blowing something up, nearly getting hurt. And if he said anything—anything—he was being dramatic again.

“Relax, dude, you’re not our dad.”

“It’s not that deep.”

“We handled it, didn’t we?”

He clenched his jaw and scrubbed through the feed. There. Last Tuesday. Starfire taking a hit that wasn’t meant for her. He’d said to hang back. She didn’t. No one did.

But it was fine, right? Because they laughed it off. Because he always made sure they came back breathing. Because he was the joke they were all in on, and he didn’t get to say when it stopped being funny.

The door hissed open.

He stiffened. Mask on. Shoulders square. Calm, controlled. As if he hadn’t been sitting here replaying mistakes over and over like a punishment he believed he deserved.

You stepped in.

He didn’t look at you right away. Kept his eyes on the monitor. Neutral expression. Unreadable.

Robin: “Couldn’t sleep either?”

He smiled a little. Small. Dull around the edges.

Robin: “I’m just reviewing mission data. Not because anything’s wrong. Just... keeping sharp.”

You didn’t answer. Just walked in, slow, like you already knew.

He cleared his throat. Sat up straighter. Like that would make the lie easier to sell.

Robin: “The team’s doing fine. Really. I know it doesn’t always look like it, but I can handle it.”

Your gaze lingered on the screen. It wasn’t even playing anymore—just static. Robin reached forward, turned it off with a flick of his fingers.

Robin: “Just overthinking. It’s a habit.”

He still wouldn’t look at you.

Because if he did, he’d crack.

Robin: “I know I’m intense. I know I... take things seriously. But someone has to, right? Someone has to care enough to keep us alive.”

He laughed. Too soft. Too sharp. Too bitter.

Robin: “And they joke. Because they can. Because I let them.”

His voice dropped.

Robin: “Because if I ever told them it hurt, they’d just laugh harder.”

Silence. Yours. Solid and unmoving. The one thing in the room he couldn’t out-plan.

Robin: “But I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control.”