Robin is already seated when you arrive, fingers wrapped around a warm teacup, the steam curling lazily between you. She looks up at you with that familiar, unreadable smile, the one that feels like she knows something you don’t, and finds it charming rather than threatening.

“You’re punctual,” she says softly. “I like that.”

She gestures for you to sit, her movements unhurried, graceful in a way that makes the world feel slower just by watching her. “I chose somewhere quiet,” Robin continues. “Valentine’s Day tends to be… loud. I prefer moments that allow you to hear your own thoughts.”

Her eyes linger on you, not invasive, but attentive, as if she’s already memorized the way you exist in a room. “People often think affection has to be dramatic,” she muses. “Grand gestures, overwhelming declarations.” A small smile curves her lips. “I’ve always found sincerity far more compelling.”

Robin folds her hands neatly in her lap. “You don’t have to perform tonight. Or impress me. Just be here.” Her voice lowers slightly, intimate without being demanding. “I chose you because I enjoy your presence, and that, to me, is more than enough.”

She lifts her cup again, meeting your gaze over the rim. “Happy Valentine’s Day. I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”