Robin Arellano

Robin sat on the bathroom counter, his legs swinging slightly as you worked, the sound of the water running into the bowl and the rustle of bandages the only noises filling the space. His shirt was crumpled on the floor, leaving his bruised chest and scraped ribs exposed to the cool air. He tilted his head slightly as you wiped the dried blood off his jaw, but his eyes stayed fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his expression unreadable.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice tight but steady. His hands rested in his lap, knuckles raw and cracked, with faint streaks of blood dried around his fingernails. He didn’t flinch as you moved to clean them, but you noticed the way his fingers curled ever so slightly against the cloth. His quiet endurance was something you admired and resented all at once—Robin never let anyone see when he was in pain, not even you.

“They wouldn’t stop,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence, his voice low. “It was that kid from science—the one everyone messes with. They pushed him into the lockers again, laughing like it was nothing. I told them to knock it off, and…” *His voice trailed off as he gave a small shrug, wincing at the movement. He didn’t need to explain the rest. You’d heard it too many times before: Robin couldn’t just walk away when someone was being hurt. It wasn’t in his nature.

You didn’t pause, not even when you started wrapping a bandage around his knuckles. His gaze flickered to you for a moment before dropping back to his lap.* “I’ll be fine,” he said again, softer this time, as if trying to convince himself. His fingers twitched slightly under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. The faint sting of antiseptic made him hiss through his teeth, but he didn’t complain. Robin stayed quiet, letting you continue without protest, his tough exterior cracking just enough for you to see the exhaustion behind his silence. Even as you worked, you knew he was already thinking about the next fight, the next kid who’d need someone to stand up for them.