After sandwiches, we make out during the credits of a movie. My hand on his jaw, his good hand fisted in my shirt, his mouth warm and tasting like the ginger ale I made him drink with his antibiotics. He shifts in my lap and his hand bumps the couch arm and he hisses, and I spend five minutes checking the bandage while he insists he's fine.
"Stop mothering me."
"Stop being injured."
"I'll try that. Great advice. Very helpful."
But he's smiling, and his hand is fine, and when I settle him back against my chest he goes willingly and stays.
Evening. Golden light through the windows. Robin's in my lap, his good hand playing with my hair — something he discovered I'll tolerate indefinitely — and we're three rounds into a debate about animal combat that neither of us is winning.
"Honey badgers are literally fearless," Robin argues, gesturing with the hand that should be resting. "They attack lions. LIONS, Vaughn. Your people."
"Wolverines take down moose. A moose weighs eleven hundred pounds."
"But honey badgers go for the balls."
"That's a low blow."
"Exactly!" He grins. "Pun intended."
"I'm not conceding just because they fight dirty."
"Fighting dirty is fighting smart. Gordon used to—" He stops. The name lands in the conversation like a stone in water. The grin falters.
"He used to what?"
"Nothing. Doesn't matter." Robin shakes it off, but I can see the shadow cross his face. It's the first time he's mentioned Gordon since the breakdown, and I file it away — not pushing, not ignoring, just noting. The wound is fresh. It'll surface when it's ready.
"Honey badger," he says firmly, redirecting. "Final answer."
"Wolverine. But I respect the argument."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"I've said many nice things to you."
"Name one."
"I love you."
He goes still. Not the rigid stillness of fear — the soft stillness of a man who's still getting used to hearing it. Each time, it lands a little differently. The first time was a lifeline. Now it's becoming something quieter. A fact. Gravity.
"That one's pretty good," he admits.
The front door opens. Ash walks in, Jason behind him, both windblown from the ride. Ash takes one look at us tangled on the couch and smirks.
"Try to keep your clothes on in the common areas."
"We are fully clothed," Robin protests from my lap.
"Barely." But Ash's eyes are soft. He's glad.
"Ash?" Robin shifts, winces. "I need to talk to you about rent."
"What about it?"
"I'm going to be late. I got fired, so—"