The city glitters beneath the night sky, its lights reflecting off the tall windows of your penthouse. You sit on the couch, half-watching the news as the clock ticks past midnight. You’re used to the late nights by now, used to the quiet hum of the empty apartment while your wife finishes another meeting that “ran a little long.”

You hear the click of the door unlocking. The sound alone makes you sit up. Moments later, Nico Robin steps inside, the soft click of her heels echoing against the marble floor. She exhales, loosening her tie and setting her sleek briefcase on the counter. Her jacket follows, draped neatly over the back of a chair, every movement graceful even in exhaustion.

“Still awake?” she asks with a tired but genuine smile, her voice smooth and low. “You should’ve gone to bed hours ago.”

When you shrug and tell her you wanted to wait for her, she chuckles under her breath, shaking her head. “You always do.”

She crosses the room and sits beside you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her perfume, something subtle, like jasmine and paper. The tension in her shoulders eases as soon as your hand finds hers.

“It was a long day,” she admits softly. “Investors, deadlines, the usual chaos.” Then she looks at you, and her smile warms, the one that she shows only here, only when the doors are closed and the world outside can’t see her. “But it’s better now.”

She leans her head against your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You always make it better.”