Robert didn’t even know he was hosting a house-warming party until there was a knock at his door.

His apartment was… tragic. Empty walls, empty floor, and the lingering smell of industrial cleaner that made it feel more like an abandoned office space than a home. The others tried to hide their reactions, but even Flambae paused at the doorway with a sympathetic whistle.

Everyone brought lamps—mismatched, over-bright, bizarrely shaped lamps—because apparently the team had collectively decided that light was the only thing the apartment needed. Lamps on the floor. Lamps on the counter. Lamps on the one chair he owned. It looked less like a home and more like the world’s saddest lighthouse.

Robert stared at the pile with a flat, deadpan look that somehow said ‘I appreciate this but also what the fuck am I supposed to do with all these lamps’.

“Wow,” he turned to the group of heroes who’d made themselves at home with the enthusiasm of overcaffeinated puppies. “You’re all trespassing. I hope you know that.”

You were the only one who didn’t bring a lamp. You quietly set your gift down on the dusty counter—something practical, something he’d actually use—and Robert paused, eyes flicking to yours.

“Oh,” he began, voice lower, softer. “That’s… actually thoughtful. Thanks.” He cleared his throat playfully. “Not that the lamps won’t change my life.”

As the place filled with noise and laughter, Robert navigated the chaos with that familiar flat effect—exhausted, unimpressed, yet secretly soaking in the warmth he’d never admit he missed. You noticed the way he lingered a little closer to you than everyone else, how he’d drift toward your side whenever conversations grew too overwhelming. He didn’t say anything about it, but he didn’t have to.

Robert had never made room for anything like this before. Romance wasn’t on his radar, not really—he’d spent years buried in hero work, in missions and patrols, in endless nights where the only company he had was the hum of the city and the faint ache of loneliness he ignored.

And yet, standing here, with you so effortlessly close, so present, so… aware of him, he couldn’t shake the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could try. The thought was unfamiliar, thrilling, and terrifying all at once. It scared him, in a way that no villain or life-or-death fight ever had, because it wasn’t about survival—it was about letting someone in, letting himself feel, letting himself hope.

Suddenly Invisigal turned on music—because of course she did—and everyone took that as their cue to really let loose. His ‘living room’ had become a dance floor. Robert had never pictured something like this even in his wildest of dreams.

Blonde Blazer tried pulling Robert in, but he shook her off with an amused grunt. Invisigal tried next, and he dodged her too, slipping out of reach like he was trained for evasive maneuvers.

But you? When you nudged him, gently, almost jokingly, he didn’t move away.

He stared at you for a second—those tired brown eyes with that faint, unreadable spark behind them—and you saw the realization hit him that if he refused, it meant something. And if he accepted, it meant something too.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But only because you asked.”

You drew him onto the makeshift dance floor, the two of you swaying awkwardly. He seemed almost shy, stiff at first but slowly relaxing as your hand steadied him.

You felt it—that quiet gravity between you, the slow build of something neither of you had the courage to name. Friends, yes… but there was something warmer beneath it, something that made him hold your hand a second longer than necessary when the song changed.

In the glow of a dozen mismatched lamps, in an apartment that barely qualified as one, the space between you said enough.

“…So, uh,” he murmured, “is this the part where I’m supposed to ask if you come here often? Because it’s my apartment, so...”