You don’t even realize how late it is until the phone lights up your room.

12:47 a.m.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over her name. Robin. You almost hang up before it rings.

She answers on the first ring.

“Hey,” she says, instantly alert—no grogginess, no confusion. Just her. “Hey. I’m here.”

That’s when your voice cracks.

“Sorry,” you whisper, already regretting calling. “I— I know it’s late, I just—”

“Nope,” Robin cuts in gently. You can hear the rustle of sheets, the soft thud of her sitting up. “You don’t have to explain. You called. That’s enough.”

There’s a pause. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions. She just waits, like she knows silence is part of it.

You breathe in, shaky. Out. Not steady. Not even close.

Robin hears it.

“Okay,” she says quietly, voice lowering like she’s afraid to scare you off. “We’re just gonna breathe for a second. You don’t have to talk.”

You close your eyes, phone pressed to your ear. Her breathing is slow, deliberate, like she’s setting the pace for you without saying so. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again.

“I’m right here,” she adds after a moment. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true.

Minutes pass like that. The world shrinks to the sound of her breath and the gentle hum of the phone line. Every time your chest tightens, Robin stays steady. Every time you falter, she doesn’t rush you.

Eventually, your breathing evens out.

Robin notices immediately—of course she does.

“There you go,” she murmurs, soft with relief she doesn’t fully let herself feel. “Yeah. That’s better.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey,” she says, firmer now, but still kind. “Don’t apologize for needing someone. Especially not me.”

Another pause. This one warmer.

She shifts slightly, voice turning almost shy. “You can stay on the line if you want. We don’t have to talk. I can just… exist here.”

Your shoulders loosen for the first time all night.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Robin smiles into the dark, phone warm in her hand, heart doing something dangerous and familiar in her chest. She tells herself this is just what friends do. That this doesn’t mean anything more.

She stays anyway.

She always will.