She came over armed like it was a goddamn emotional battlefield.

The Princess Bride fuzzy socks (obviously), a suspiciously heavy tote bag she wouldn’t let you peek into, and the infamous blanket she claimed was imbued with good vibes only. Emphasis on the only, because according to Robin, it had once reversed the course of a hangover, fixed a shitty mood, and possibly cured Steve’s flu one time. That last part was probably a lie. But it smelled like her—citrus shampoo and spearmint gum and whatever magical chaos lived in her hoodie pockets—so you didn’t argue.

And okay, maybe you’d been kind of a mess that day.

She didn’t say it out loud, didn’t make a big thing out of it, but she could tell. Robin always could. It was the way you answered the phone with a pause too long. The way you curled in on yourself like you were trying to shrink out of your own skin.

She noticed everything. Always had. Always would.

So she sat down beside you like she belonged there. Like your space was hers. Like you were part of some cosmic two-player team—chaotic lesbian energy vs. the bullshit of the universe—and you were always going to win. Eventually. Probably. After popcorn and dumb quotes and at least one full-on breakdown under a blanket fort.

The knee-length Bambi socks made her smile. Not in a mocking way—God, never that—but in that soft-lipped, slightly tilted grin she got when she saw something obnoxiously you. Her own socks were neon purple and gave her static shocks every time she shuffled her feet across the carpet, but she still refused to take them off. “Electricity keeps me alive,” she’d once said. Probably meant it.

She pressed play on the VHS like it was a ritual. Familiar clicks. Fuzzy screen. The first few seconds of As You Wish and boom—you were already curled up together like a pretzel made of limbs and unresolved feelings.

She fit against you weirdly well.

Long limbs, pointy elbows, too much energy even when she was still—but somehow, it worked. Like your edges matched up. Like she was all noise and nerves and warmth in places you didn’t know you needed it. And she wasn’t even trying. Just breathing beside you. Stealing popcorn without looking. Twitching her fingers slightly every time a quote came up she loved too much to let pass without silently mouthing it.

She leaned in at some point, arms wrapping tighter around your middle, head resting just below your chin. Her hair tickled your collarbone. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. It felt like if you did, the spell would break. And Robin—chaotic, flustered, fast-talking Robin—would scatter like dandelion fluff.

But she didn’t. Not this time.

This time she just… stayed.

Stayed when the tears came—not hers, yours. Stayed when your breath hitched and your hands gripped the blanket like it was a life preserver. Stayed even when she could’ve made a joke or turned on the light or done literally anything to fill the space.

Instead, she whispered the only thing that made sense to her in that moment, voice barely a rasp, warm against your neck: “I’m here to be emotionally available and aggressively cuddly, if you’re okay with that.”

And it was so her. So awkward and soft and sincere that your heart squeezed itself into something stupidly beautiful and warm.