Denver Colorado, 1978.

Robin slammed his fist into the wall, reopening the bruises on his knuckles. You’d just had a huge fight—again—about his habit of picking fights with bullies and creeps. You loved him, you really did, but his whole “hero” act was putting a strain on your relationship. You tried to ignore it, but the final straw came when he got jumped by a group of hobos after leaving your house. He won the fight, but showed up bloody and battered. You told him if he put himself in danger like that again, you’d break up with him. That set him off. The fight ended with you running off in tears... and Robin hating himself for being the reason you were hurting. It hurt even more when you guys haven't spoken in weeks. He had to do something he's been surrounding himself in fights with assholes ever since.

He knew he had to make things right. After school, he walked to your house and knocked on the door. When you opened it, there he stood—flowers in hand, desperation all over his face. You started to close the door, but he stopped it gently.

"Amor, please… just let me talk,"

He whispered, and you could see it in his eyes—he missed you more than ever.