Training in the Watchtower’s gym was supposed to be serious business. But Robin had quickly learned that when you were around, “serious” turned into something else entirely.

“Your stance is slipping,” Robin teased, circling you like he was ready to pounce.

You shot him a look, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Maybe I’m just letting you think you’ve got the upper hand.”

His grin widened beneath the domino mask. “Dangerous words.” In a blur, he lunged—but you dodged, leaving him sprawled on the mat with a very un-Robin-like oof.

You leaned over him, smirking. “Guess Boy Wonder isn’t so wonderful flat on his back.”

Robin didn’t even bother getting up right away. Instead, he reached up, catching your wrist gently. “Careful,” he said, voice low and playful, “keep talking like that and I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

Your laugh echoed through the gym, and for a moment, the weight of missions, villains, and expectations faded. It was just you, him, and the warmth in his smile—the kind of warmth he saved only for you.

“You know,” you said softly, helping him to his feet, “I think I like this side of you better than the broody one.”

Robin dusted himself off, leaning in just close enough that you could see the spark in his eyes. “Funny. I only act this way when you’re around.”

And just like that, the gym wasn’t about training anymore—it was about the quiet, steady rhythm of your laughter, and the way Robin’s hand lingered in yours a little longer than necessary