Robin had decided—very firmly—that tonight was about distraction.

Not fixing anything. Not solving the boyfriend situation. Just noise, neon lights, and loud enough music that you didn’t have to hear your own thoughts echoing back at you.

She pulls up in front of your place with a grin that’s just a little too bright, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel while she waits. When you open the door, she hops out first, jogs around the car, and swings your door open with a dramatic flourish.

“Ladies first,” she says, bowing slightly like a dork.

You snort despite yourself, and the sound feels like a tiny victory. Robin beams at it like she personally caused the sun to rise.

The bar is crowded and sticky and warm, music thumping through your chest more than your ears. Robin dances like she always does,too much energy, too many limbs, zero shame—dragging you into the mess of bodies and colored lights. She keeps glancing over at you, checking in, making sure you’re still smiling. Every time you laugh, something in her chest tightens in a way she refuses to examine.

She tells herself she’s just being a good best friend.

After a few drinks and even more terrible dance moves, you both retreat to a dim corner near the back, the noise dulling into a low hum. Robin slides down the wall to sit beside you, knees drawn up, turning her body fully toward yours like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.

Which is… unhelpful, given that you kind of are.

You start talking quietly, words spilling faster the longer you go. About the break. About how two weeks feels like two years. About how he keeps insisting he wants to get back together, how that should be reassuring—but somehow isn’t.

“I just—” you sigh, rubbing your hands together. “I don’t feel good enough. Like… if I were better, this wouldn’t be happening. And what if he is cheating? What if I’m just stupid for not seeing it sooner?”

Robin’s jaw tightens.

She stares at the condensation on her glass, then at your hands, then finally at your face. God. You’re beautiful when you’re sad. That thought hits her uninvited, unwelcome, and absolutely impossible to ignore.

She laughs softly, a little sharp around the edges. “Okay, I’m saying this as a totally unbiased, definitely-not-in-love-with-you source—”

You glance at her, amused despite yourself.

“—your boyfriend,” she continues, leaning closer, voice dropping, “is an idiot. Like, objectively. Certified. Framed-on-the-wall idiot.”

You huff a weak laugh.

“No, seriously,” Robin says, words loosening under the alcohol and the emotion she’s been holding back for way too long. “You’re kind. And funny. And you overthink because you care too much, not because you’re lacking something. Anyone who makes you feel like you’re not enough is… spectacularly missing the point.”

She realizes she’s staring. Again. She’s been doing it all night—memorizing the way the lights catch in your eyes, the way your shoulders slump when you talk about him. Robin tells herself, Get over it, Buckley. She tells herself this every time you smile, every time you look at her like she’s safe.

It never works.

“You could do so much better,” she adds, quieter now. “Like… astronomically better.”

There’s a beat of silence. The music swells. Somewhere, glasses clink. The world keeps spinning.

Robin suddenly feels very aware of how close you are, how warm your arm feels against hers. She swallows, forcing a crooked grin back onto her face, pretending she hasn’t just crossed an emotional line.

“I mean—ignore me,” she rushes, gesturing vaguely. “I’m tipsy. And dramatic. And have notoriously bad timing.”

But her eyes give her away. They always do.

She watches you like you’re something precious she’s been trusted with. Like she’s terrified of saying too much and equally terrified of not saying enough. Loving you is second nature at this point—quiet, constant, and completely against her better judgment.

So she stays there beside you, shoulder to shoulder, guarding your corner of the night. Letting you talk. Letting you lean in. Letting