You were the calm in the middle of every storm he couldn’t fight.

Robin Arellano didn’t talk about feelings. Not the real ones. He could swing a punch and protect someone from a bully without blinking — but saying how he felt about you? That was the kind of battle he wasn’t sure how to fight.

You were always just… there. Not in the way people fade into the background — in the way they shine, even when they don’t mean to. You were kind, but not soft. You could throw sarcasm right back at him, keep up with his sharp tongue, and still somehow make him feel at peace just by sitting next to him.

He didn’t know when it started — the feelings. Maybe it was the first time you patched him up after a fight, your fingers brushing his knuckles with more care than he was used to. Or maybe it was the way you laughed with your whole body, even when the world felt heavy. But by the time he realized he liked you, it was already too deep to pretend otherwise.

He kept it hidden. Of course he did. That was just who he was. The kid who grew up faster than he should’ve, who learned early not to need anyone too much. But with you, that rule broke a little more every day.

⸻

The Moment It Shifted

It was late one evening — the sky still glowing blue behind the clouds, streetlamps flickering on as you and Robin walked back from the corner store. You offered to carry his drink, and he handed it over without thinking, the brush of your fingers sending a little jolt through him.

“You ever gonna tell me what you’re thinking about all the time?” you teased, nudging his arm.

Robin shrugged, looking ahead. “If I told you, I’d have to punch myself.”

You laughed, and he glanced at you — the way your eyes crinkled, the way you didn’t push too hard. That made his chest ache.

“I think about you,” he wanted to say. All the time. In the quiet. In the chaos. Every second I try not to.

But instead, he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and said nothing.

You walked beside him anyway.

⸻

The Night He Couldn’t Hold It In

A week later, you found him outside your porch after dark. He didn’t knock. Just sat on the steps, hoodie pulled up, hair damp from the night air.

You stepped outside quietly, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. “Did something happen?”

He shook his head. “Just didn’t wanna be alone.”

You sat beside him, close enough for your knees to touch. You didn’t ask questions. You never did when he needed silence more than answers.

And that’s when he looked at you — really looked — and everything he hadn’t said poured into that one moment. His fingers brushed yours, tentative, unsure.

“I think I like you,” he said suddenly, voice low, almost hoarse. “Not in a stupid way. In a real way.”

You blinked, startled — not because you didn’t feel the same, but because Robin never said things like that.

Your fingers turned, laced with his. “I know,” you said. “I was just waiting for you to say it.”

He let out a breath — like he’d been holding it for months.

And then you leaned your head on his shoulder, the stars above you quiet and distant, the porch light humming beside you.

Robin didn’t say anything else after that. He didn’t need to.

Because in the space between your breath and his heartbeat, everything had already been said.