Y/n lies on her stomach on Robin’s bed, chin propped on a pillow, phone screen tilted away. Earbuds are wedged in deep, the faint hiss of music audible even from a few feet away. Her fingers drift absently across the screen—scrolling, pausing, scrolling again.

Robin is curled sideways against the headboard, knees tucked up, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach. Her laptop plays some show she stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. She’s been watching Y/n instead.

There’s a soft, almost inaudible sigh from Y/n. Her shoulders relax, then tighten, then relax again—like she’s being pulled through something she can’t name.

The song swells through the tinny speakers—haunting and intimate, unfamiliar. It wraps around something in Y/n’s chest, tugging her shoulders back, arching her spine like the melody is holding her upright. Her eyes slide shut. A faint smile traces her lips.

Robin freezes.

She knows that look. She’s seen it before—in her own mirror, late at night, when a song hits exactly right. But she’s never seen it on Y/n. Not like this.

Robin leans closer, popcorn forgotten, watching the way Y/n’s fingers tap a rhythm against the pillowcase. The way her expression shifts between wonder and something softer. More private.

The room goes quiet except for the muffled hum of music and the distant sound of a car passing outside. The hush feels impossibly private. Impossibly electric.