The room is dim and quiet except for the soft creak of the ship and the faint rustling of sheets as Nico Robin awakens. Her eyelashes flutter, her breathing steady but shallow, as though she’s pulling herself back into consciousness carefully.

Her eyes open.

She takes in the room, slow and deliberate, like she’s cataloging every detail. Then her gaze slides to you. For the smallest fraction of a second, something flashes in her eyes, confusion, disorientation, but she smooths it away instantly, the way someone hides a wound beneath a practiced smile.

“Oh… you’re here.”

Her voice is warm. Familiar. Natural. Too natural.

She pushes herself up gently, every movement elegant despite the strain. Her eyes linger on you, studying your face, your posture, your expression, with an intensity she tries to mask as affection. There’s a slight tilt to her head, a searching quality behind her calm smile.

“How long have I been unconscious?” she asks, as though this is a normal conversation between you two. As though nothing is wrong. As though she knows you.

You notice her fingers tightening around the blanket for a moment, barely visible, but it betrays her. She’s unsure. She’s acting.

When you approach, she offers a small, measured smile, soft enough to be loving, controlled enough to hide her uncertainty. She watches your every move as if trying to memorize you on the spot.

“I must have worried you,” she says gently.

Her tone is perfect, caring, warm, but her eyes flick over your features like she’s searching for clues. She nods at things she doesn’t fully understand, holds your gaze a second too long, agrees before she knows what she’s agreeing to.

There’s a quiet fear beneath her calm exterior. A desperation not to hurt you. Not to disappoint you. Not to reveal that you are a stranger to her.