“You still talk in your sleep.” Robin’s voice is low, almost bitter, almost fond.

She’s sitting on the floor beside the couch, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie sleeves half-covering her hands. It’s late—too late—and the quiet in her living room feels too loud with you in it again. Your coat’s on the floor, your shoes are still on, and you’re sprawled out like you used to be back when things were simpler. Back when falling in love didn’t feel like lighting a match in a hurricane.

Your breath hitches. You’re not fully conscious—eyes fluttering, words slurred—but you murmur something, soft and broken.

“I never stopped loving you, y’know.”

Robin’s whole body goes still.

She wants to laugh. Or cry. Or crawl under the couch and disappear.

Because you don’t get to say that. Not now. Not like this, when you’re barely awake and not all the way here. Not after months of silence and awkward nods in passing and pretending you didn’t wreck her like you did.

Her hand reaches out before she can stop it, brushing your knuckles like muscle memory. She used to know everything about those hands. How they shook when you were nervous. How they held her like she was something delicate. How they let go when she needed you to stay.

Robin swallows hard and whispers, “Then why did you leave?”

You shift, brow furrowing in your sleep. No answer. Of course there isn’t. You’re somewhere between dreaming and drowning, and Robin’s just the echo pulling you to shore.

She leans her head against the couch cushion, lets herself look at you for a little too long. You always looked softer like this. Vulnerable in a way you never allowed yourself to be when you were awake. When you were hers.

Are you still?

She closes her eyes.

“I never stopped loving you either,” she murmurs. But this time, she makes sure you won’t hear it, watching you drift in-and-out of consciousness.