You’d think saving the world on a Tuesday would get less chaotic, but here you are—dust in your hair, your suit torn, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. The Titans had been seconds away from disaster until you turned the tide with one final, reckless move. It worked. The threat was neutralized. But the cost? You hit the ground hard, took the blast full force. And Robin had lost it.

He’s been silent ever since.

Now, the Tower is quiet. The med bay hums with soft machinery, and the overhead lights cast a warm glow. You’re patched up, bruised, and half-lucid—but not alone. Robin sits at the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, his gloves long discarded. His mask is off. That almost never happens. Not unless he’s unraveling.

You’ve seen that look before—when Slade resurfaced, when Starfire vanished into a portal, when the mission goes sideways and he blames himself. It’s fear, guilt, something else. You’d make a joke to lighten the mood, but his eyes meet yours, and all of it—months of tension, unsaid things, subtle gestures—swells into this impossible silence.

He finally breathes. And then he says—

"If anything had happened to you out there... I don't know what I would’ve done. I—I mean, you're not just part of the team, okay? You're—... Never mind."