Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain had started before dawn. Not a storm, just that kind of fine rain, enough to soak everything and give the street a grayish shine. Finney always said the city looked prettier that way: with no sun to hide anything, with no shadows, just the humidity embracing everything.

At 7:45, like every morning, Finney Blake opened the shop door. The jingle of the little bells at the entrance was the first note of the day. A cold draft came in with him, carrying the smell of wet earth.

He turned on the lamp in the corner. He arranged a stack of books no one ever bought and set the complimentary coffee they offered customers to heat. He drew a small heart on the sugar jar label, because that was the kind of detail he did without thinking much, even though he would never admit it aloud.

At 8:50, the street was still almost empty. The mechanic shop across the street was starting to lift its metal shutter, squeaking like an old animal. Finney looked out the window just as he recognized the silhouette he was waiting for, even if he didn’t say so.

Robin Arellano was walking toward the workshop with a wrinkled hoodie, the hood down, and his headphones hanging from his neck. His hands were buried in his pockets. His head was slightly tilted forward as if the rain were pushing him. His hair was soaked, dripping onto his eyelashes.

Finney felt a sting of something that wasn’t exactly concern nor exactly tenderness, but resembled both a little too much.

Robin lifted his gaze just then and saw him from the other side of the street.

He gave him a small gesture with his hand, a quick, slightly crooked smile, as if he didn’t want to admit it was for him.

Finney returned it with a small, almost invisible movement.

Like always.

Like every day.

At 9:12, Robin crossed the street.

He came without an umbrella.

Again.

Finney pressed his lips together, took a deep breath, and mentally prepared himself not to say anything, because he never said the things he was thinking, but then he saw how Robin stopped in front of the traffic light, soaked, barely trembling, shrinking under the rain as if the world had dropped itself onto him.

And something inside Finney moved.

It was a small impulse, intimate, almost secret. One of those he only had when he was alone.

But this time he wasn’t.

He grabbed the transparent umbrella they kept behind the counter, opened it, and walked out of the bookstore without thinking twice.

The rain hit his arms, his neck, his hair. Even so, he walked quickly toward him.

“Robin,” he said, barely audible over the noise of the falling water.

Robin blinked in surprise when Finney placed the umbrella over both of them. One half covering Finney, the other extending toward him like a gesture that weighed more than any word.

Robin lifted his gaze. Finney saw his expression change: from confusion, to recognition… and finally to something softer.

“Were you… waiting for me?” the brunette asked, with that rough morning voice that made Finney’s chest vibrate.

Finney swallowed. “No. I mean… yes. But no.” He wanted to die a little.

Robin laughed, a low, warm laugh that mixed with the sound of the rain hitting the umbrella’s plastic.

“Thanks, Finney. Really.” He ran a wet hand through his hair, a useless but charming gesture. “I forgot the umbrella again.”

“I know,” Finney said before thinking.

Robin looked at him with a smile that lodged itself under his ribs. “Are you watching over me?”

“I observe,” Finney corrected, red as the traffic light.

“I like that,” Robin said, slowly, as if testing the weight of each word.

Finney’s heart made a treacherous jump.

They crossed the street slowly, sharing the small space under the umbrella. Each step forced them a little closer. Robin was warm, even soaked. Finney felt his shoulder brush his in a way that seemed written.

When they reached the bookstore door, Robin looked at him from the side, under the soft light spilling from inside.

“Can I stay for a minute before going into the workshop?” he asked.

“You can stay as long as you want,” Finney replied, not realizing he had said it out loud.

Robin smiled as if the sky had just opened just for him.

And Finney understood, in that exact moment, that the rain wouldn’t be to blame if something in his life changed from that day on.

Because at 9:12 that morning, someone unexpected had begun to enter his routine.

And Finney, for the first time in a long while, didn’t want to avoid it.

Chapter Text

The rain that morning wasn’t as strong as the one on the umbrella day, but Finney was nervous anyway. He didn’t know why. Or well… he did know.
It was 9:07.

Five minutes left.

Finney straightened the counter for the third time even though it was already perfect. He cleaned an imaginary smudge from the glass, straightened a jar of cookies, and checked that the coffee was hot. His hands trembled just slightly, enough for him to notice.

He took a deep breath.
It shouldn’t matter this much.
But it did.

At 9:12, Robin crossed the street with that carefree walk he always had. Worn shoes, grease-stained hands, headphones hanging from his neck. His black jacket open, wet on the shoulders because, once again, he didn’t bring an umbrella.

Finney felt a small pull in his chest. He hated him a little for that.

“Morning, bookkeeper,” Robin greeted as soon as he walked in, shaking water from his hair. “It’s raining again. You know whose fault it is? Fate wanting me to see you every day.”

Finney lowered his gaze so the smile wouldn’t show.

“Same coffee as always?” he asked, trying to sound normal.

“Obviously.” Robin leaned his elbows on the counter. He shouldn’t, because it left stains, but Finney never corrected him.

While Finney prepared the coffee, Robin watched him in silence. Not an uncomfortable silence; a curious one. The kind that only forms when someone actually stops to look.

And that day Robin looked. Really looked.

He noticed that Finney was holding the cup with trembling hands. Not much, just a slight, almost invisible tremor. Anyone else would’ve thought it was from the heat or the movement… but not Robin. Withdrawal.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

Finney froze for a second, the cup suspended between them.

“Yeah… yeah. I just…” he tried to come up with something. “Just slept poorly.”

Robin had only known him for a few weeks, but he already understood those silent little lies one tells so they don’t scare anyone.

“Finney,” he repeated his name quietly, like he didn’t want to break him. “If your hand is shaking, it’s not because you slept little.”

Finney pressed his lips together. He hated being noticed. He hated feeling see-through.

But something in Robin’s voice didn’t sound like mockery or annoyance. It sounded like concern. Like someone who had noticed a detail that had never mattered to anyone before.

“It’s nothing,” Finney whispered, placing the coffee in front of him.

Robin didn’t take the cup. Not yet.

“Look…” he said with a half-smile. “I know what it’s like to get nervous. Sometimes even my legs shake when I have to talk to a difficult customer. Or when life gets weird.” He looked at him straight on, without hesitating. “If you ever… you know, want to talk, I’m right across the street. It’s not that far.”

Finney felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee.

“Thanks,” he said, barely audible.

Robin finally picked up the cup, but he did it slowly, as if he didn’t want to break the moment.

“See you tomorrow, yeah?” he asked.

Finney nodded.

“At 9:12,” he replied.

Robin smiled, that smile that lights up his whole face.

“I knew you did pay attention to the time.”

And he left.

Finney watched the door close, his heart racing and his hands trembling a little less.
As if someone had seen a side of him he didn’t fully understand himself… and instead of stepping away, they had stayed closer.

Chapter Text

The next week dawned gray, as if the whole sky were waiting for something. Finney was too.

He didn’t admit it to anyone, least of all to himself, but he no longer checked the clock out of habit. Now he did it because he knew what came after.
9:12.
That time was becoming a fixed point in a day that would otherwise be like any other.

And even though the rain wasn’t falling, the air was humid and heavy, one of those days when it feels like a storm could break at any moment.

At exactly 9:12, Robin crossed the street.
This time he wasn’t soaked. But his hair was messy, his hands dirty, and he wore a tired smile. A smile Finney already recognized as I had a horrible morning but seeing you fixes it a little.

“Morning, bookkeeper,” Robin greeted, dropping his headphones onto the counter. “It didn’t rain today, but I still came without an umbrella. Just in case.”

Finney let out a soft laugh, one he hadn’t released in days.

“You use it as an excuse,” he said without thinking.

It was a small and simple sentence. But for Finney it meant a lot: he wasn’t used to answering anyone with confidence. With Robin it was different, he didn’t know why.
Or maybe he did.

Robin raised an eyebrow, amused.

“An excuse for what?”

Finney fell silent, and Robin waited. He always waited. He never rushed him, never pressured him, never forced him to speak faster than he could. That was strange. And rare. And… nice.

“To come,” Finney admitted, staring at the floor.

Robin smiled with a softness he almost never showed.

“Well.” He shrugged. “Yeah. It’s an excuse to come.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm, like a coat on a cold day. Finney took a breath and dared to say something else, something he had been holding back for days.

“I like it… when you come.”

Robin went still, and Finney felt panic rising in his throat.

“I mean,” he tried to correct himself, “sometimes the shop is really quiet and… you make it less… I don’t know. Never mind. Forget—”

“No.” Robin interrupted him, resting a hand gently on the counter. “I’m not going to forget it.”

Robin’s voice had something new. Something steady that Finney hadn’t heard from him before.

“I like coming too,” he continued. “A lot more than I should, to be honest.”

Finney’s chest tightened. It didn’t hurt. It felt… open. Uncertain, but open.

Robin paid for the coffee but didn’t leave right away. Instead, he stayed there, as if he didn’t want to step too far away.

“Has it always been like this?” Robin asked.

Finney looked at him, confused.

“What has?”

“Your hands shaking. Or getting nervous when you talk about yourself.”

Finney lowered his gaze. It was strange that such a direct comment didn’t make him retreat. With anyone else he would’ve shut himself like a lock. But Robin said it without judgment, without pity, without hurry. Just curiosity and genuine interest.

“Always,” Finney answered, barely audible. “I’m… not very good with people.”

Robin looked at him as if he really understood him, not just listened.

“Well…” he said at last, with a half-smile. “You’re doing pretty well with me.”

Finney felt a soft blush growing up his neck.

Robin took his coffee, but before leaving he added:

“I’m coming again tomorrow. Even if I don’t need coffee. Even if it doesn’t rain. Even if I don’t have excuses.”

Finney lifted his gaze, surprised.

“Why?”

Robin shrugged, with that carefree gesture only he could make look sincere.

“Because it’s already part of my day,” he said. “And because I want to be here, with you.”

And he left.

Finney watched the door close, his heart pounding hard, but in a different way.
It wasn’t fear—it was something new.

Outside, the sky was still cloudy.
But inside, Finney felt a hollow open into possibilities he had never allowed himself to imagine.

And Robin, somehow, was already a routine.
A routine he didn’t want to lose.

Chapter Text

The storm began before noon, a distant roar that first made the windows vibrate and then darkened the entire street. Finney blew out the scented candle as a precaution and approached the window.

The sky was almost black.

At that hour Robin should be working, moving tools, arguing with some customer, shouting over the noise of the machines. But from the bookstore window, Finney only saw the workshop dimly lit, with the door half-closed, as if the weather had stopped everything.

A thunderclap exploded so loudly that the bookstore shook.

Finney gave a small jump.
He hated thunderstorms.
He hated the sudden sound, the flashes of light, and the feeling that something could break without warning.

He took a deep breath, he had to keep working, but his hands were trembling again.

Not because of the storm. Well, yes… but also because of something else.

For days he had felt something moving inside him, something he didn’t know if he wanted to face. Every soft word from Robin, every long look, every small gesture… everything was changing him. And Finney didn’t know if he was ready to be seen so deeply.

The sound of the door pulled him from his thoughts. Robin came in drenched, hair dripping, coat completely stuck to his body. This time he did bring an umbrella… broken. Half the ribs snapped.

“The storm beat me,” he said, shaking himself like a dog. He tried to smile, but he looked tense.

Finney felt a strange, almost urgent impulse to approach him. But he stayed still behind the counter, as if there were an invisible line he was afraid to cross.

“Are you okay?” he asked, worried, his brow furrowed and his big brown eyes fixed on him.

Robin took his time answering.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

That made Finney lift his gaze.
Robin never said “I don’t know.” He always seemed sure, even when he wasn’t.

Another thunderclap burst. Finney tensed his shoulders.

Robin noticed immediately.

“Do they scare you?”

“Thunderstorms,” Finney swallowed. “Yes.”

Robin took one step closer. Then another, and Finney didn’t move.

“Do you want me to stay for a while?” Robin asked, without trying to touch him. “Just… here. Until the worst passes.”

Finney hesitated, not because he didn’t want him to.
But because wanting scared him.

“If you have work…” he began.

“Finney, I’m here. I’m not going back out in the middle of a storm.”

There was a silence, a heavy one.
The kind of silence where two people are thinking the same thing, but neither dares to say it.

Finney lowered his gaze to his trembling hands. He felt exposed, clumsy, broken. He didn’t want Robin to see him like that.
But Robin already had, and instead of stepping back, he had come closer.

“Sometimes I don’t know what to expect from you.” Finney whispered, almost without realizing he had said it aloud.

Robin stopped breathing for a second.

“Is that good or bad?”

Finney bit his lip and looked at the window, where the rain hit hard, then looked back at him.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “It scares me.”

Robin’s expression changed. His gaze stopped being playful and became more serious, more vulnerable.

“I’m scared of what I’m feeling too,” he said, voice low, tense, sincere. “I’m not used to… this. Wanting to stay in the same place. Wanting to see someone every day.” He paused. “Wanting to stay with you.”

Finney felt his heart give a strange beat. As if something inside him said yes while his mind said careful.

“Robin… I…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted softly, without pressure. “I just wanted to be honest. Because lately I feel like if I don’t say things, they get stuck.” He let out a nervous laugh. “And you know I’m not good at keeping anything to myself.”

Finney looked down again.
His fingers played with the edge of the counter.
He wanted to respond. He wanted to open up. He wanted to tell him that he felt things too, that he also waited for him at 9:12, that he wanted him to stay.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

“Thank you for… staying” was all he managed to say.

Robin smiled softly. Not his workshop smile, not his bold smile. A smaller, gentler one.

“Always,” he replied.

They stayed like that, facing each other while the storm shook the bookstore. Both with words stuck, both with a fear they didn’t know how to name.

There were many conversations they still couldn’t have, many feelings neither dared to touch.

The storm would pass. But what was growing between them wouldn’t.

____________

Another thunder shook the street, but this time neither of them jumped.
Robin was sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the shelves. Finney, legs crossed, sat in front of him, holding two cups of tea because the coffee wasn’t enough for both of them anymore.

Outside it rained as if the sky had decided to empty itself all at once.
Inside there was a strange, soft calm.

“I never understood why you have a vanilla candle burning all the time,” Robin said, smelling the air. “I feel like I’m living inside a dessert.”

Finney rolled his eyes.

“It’s warm. It keeps the bookstore from smelling damp.”

“And how would it smell without the candle?”

“Like… old books.”

Robin opened his mouth in fake horror.
“What a tragedy.”

Finney couldn’t help laughing. It was a small, soft laugh, but real.
Robin noticed immediately. In fact, he kept looking at him as if he had just witnessed a miracle.

“What?” Finney asked, bringing a hand to his face. “Do I have something…?”

“No,” Robin answered, smiling. “It’s just… I hadn’t heard you laugh like that. You look cute.”

Finney felt a strange warmth in his chest, as if something asleep had woken up.

“I haven’t laughed like that in a while,” he admitted softly.

Robin looked at him with a tenderness that made Finney drop his gaze.

“Well, you should do it more often,” he said. “It suits you.”

Finney wanted to tell him that it was hard, that there were days when laughing felt impossible, that anxiety took his breath away. But those were conversations for another time.
Even so, he let fall a tiny truth, something he didn’t usually say:

“With you… it’s easier.”

Robin froze, as if the phrase had marked him.

“Then I’m coming every day,” he said with a smile that lit up even the darkest corners. “You’re not getting away from me.”

Finney let out another laugh, freer, more his, more genuine than any in a long time.
And Robin listened to it as if it were the most important thing in the world.

The storm kept hitting the windows, but inside, between warm cups and silly jokes, the two of them discovered something new:

Some people don’t come to break your routine.
They come to teach you that you can breathe better when you’re no longer alone.

Chapter Text

Finney’s house had always been too big for three people. Or maybe it was the silence that made it feel that way; the walls absorbed life as if they had spent years training to smother any uncomfortable noise.

Finney set his keys down on the little ceramic dish his mother had painted before she got sick. It still had a small crack on the edge—Gwen had broken it when she was a child, trying to “see if it sounded different,” and for some reason, Finney had never fixed it. He liked it that way, imperfect, like an honest memory.

“You got home late today,” Gwen said from the couch, without lifting her eyes from the notebook she was drawing in.

Finney shrugged.
“It rained. And Robin… well, he showed up.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, Robin. The one with mechanic hands who turns you all tomato-colored?”

Finney rolled his eyes. “I am not a tomato.”

“Finney, you blush because he breathes near you,” she replied, smiling just a little.

He didn’t answer. He went into the kitchen, looking for a glass of water. As soon as he touched the pitcher, he noticed how his fingers were trembling. He tried to hide it, pressing his hand against the counter.

Gwen watched him from the doorway. “Again?”

Finney pressed his lips together. “It’s normal. It’ll pass.”

“You can talk to me, you know?”

He shook his head. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know where to start. For a long time, the smell of weed had been the fastest way to shut off the world and the things that hurt too much. Since his mother’s death, the smoke had worked like a blanket, wrapping him up, isolating him, letting him breathe without feeling as much.

But lately that refuge made him feel more alone than protected. And when Robin showed up, soaked, persistent, with that dumb smile that carried the smell of gasoline and coffee… Finney felt seen. Truly seen. Enough to try quitting, even if it was hard.

His father appeared in the hallway, scratching his neck with a soda bottle in hand. “You okay, son?” he asked in a rough voice.

He wasn’t a harsh man, just tired. He had dealt with the loss in his own way: staying silent, working too much, learning to cook just enough so no one would starve.

Finney swallowed. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

His father nodded as if he understood something Finney still couldn’t say.
“If you need to go out for a walk or… distract yourself, do it. Don’t stay locked in.”

When he returned to the bedroom, Gwen was waiting for him, sitting on the bed with her legs crossed.

“Look at me,” she said, firm voice but soft tone.

Finney sighed but lifted his gaze.

“You’re quitting smoking because of someone, right?”

Finney’s throat tightened.
“I’m quitting smoking for me, Gwen.”

She gave a sideways smile. “Uh-huh. And the motivation doesn’t have a name, huh?”

He didn’t answer. He just ran his hand along his neck, nervous, aware of the faint tremor still there, persistent. Gwen watched him the way someone looks at a brother who’s finally trying to breathe again after years underwater.

“I’m glad,” she said. “Even if everything shakes at the beginning. It’s a sign that you’re coming back.”

Finney sat beside her, exhaling slowly. Outside, it was raining again. Not as hard as before, but enough for him to imagine Robin running under the downpour, without an umbrella, like always.

And for a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to think that maybe, if things kept going like this, his hands would tremble a little less when he saw him tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The rain didn’t fall; it struck. The hail was strong, the streets looked like improvised rivers, the wind bent the trees, and the lights flickered as if they were afraid too. Finney closed the bookstore early; there were barely any customers, and the water had already begun seeping in through the door.

Even so, he left the lamp on.
A part of him… was waiting for him.

At exactly 9:12, the impossible hour, even that day, the little bell above the door rang, followed by a slam crushed by the wind.

Robin came in soaked to the bone. His clothes dripped, his hair stuck to his forehead, and his hands trembled as he took off his backpack.

“Are you crazy?” Finney asked, running toward him. “You’re going to get sick! What were you doing outside in this weather?”

Robin breathed as if he had run miles. “I had to come.”

Finney took his hands. They were cold, hard, as if the storm had settled inside his skin.

“Robin, you could’ve stayed at the workshop.”

“No.” He lifted his gaze directly to Finney’s eyes. “I didn’t want… to be alone today.”

Finney felt that knot in his chest, the one that appeared every time someone truly needed him. He led him toward the back of the bookstore, where there was a small bench and a towel they used to dry wet books.

Robin let it happen. His fingers were trembling, but not from the cold.
Finney knew it. It was the same kind of tremor he had felt so many days himself.

“I thought…” Robin swallowed. “That if I didn’t come, you’d think I didn’t care anymore. And I don’t know why, but that scared me more than the storm.”

Finney went still. His heart pounded so hard he felt the vibration in his throat.

“Robin… I would never think that.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Robin said, laughing nervously. “I’m weird today. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything flooded, the streets, the workshop, everything… and I could only think about getting here. I didn’t want anything to happen to you.”

Finney put a hand on his cheek, almost without thinking. The trembling eased a little.

“I’m fine,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

Robin closed his eyes. No thunder could cover the sound of his breathing.

“Do you know what scares me?” he finally asked. “That every time something bad happens, my first impulse is to come to you. Like you’re… I don’t know, a safe place. And that had never happened to me.”

Finney felt a strange, deep warmth rising from his stomach to his hands.
His own fear was there too, present, pounding against his ribs: the fear of being seen, of being depended on, of being needed too much… and not being enough.

“I’m scared of the same thing,” he confessed. “That you become important. Because when someone becomes important… it hurts more to lose them.”

Robin opened his eyes and looked at him with a seriousness he didn’t use often.

“Then don’t lose me.”

Finney swallowed. The wind blew harder outside, rain slammed against the windows, the sky roared. But between the two of them, the noise faded.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he replied, barely audible.

Robin smiled, soaked and shivering, but with a soft, real expression.

“Then let me stay for a while.”

Finney nodded. He handed him a blanket. They sat together, back to back, breathing at the same rhythm while the city flooded.

For the first time, they didn’t run from their fears. They faced them.
And they remained close, as if they were learning to hold on.

The rain kept striking as if it wanted to tear the door off. But in the back of the bookstore, the world was different.

Robin wasn’t trembling from the cold anymore.
Finney noticed when he placed his hand on Robin’s arm and felt something different: it wasn’t the usual anxious tremor… it was a fast, contained pulse, as if Robin were holding something inside that needed to come out.

“Finn,” he said softly. “Can I ask you something without scaring you?”

Finney tensed immediately.

“If you ask like that, I’m already scared.”

Robin let out a small laugh, but it wasn’t his usual one; it was more fragile.

“Why are your hands trembling so much?” he asked. “Today more than other days.”

Finney froze. It was as if the storm had slammed into his chest.

“I’m…” He searched for air. “I’m quitting something. Something that was hurting me.”

Robin didn’t interrupt. He didn’t frown, didn’t look at him like he was a problem, just waited attentively.

Finney knew the moment had come. The truth was simple, but saying it felt like opening a wound.

“I used to smoke,” he admitted. “A lot. Since Mom… since she’s gone. And I quit a few days ago. That’s why my hands…”

Robin looked at him with a gentleness that didn’t match the way he usually faced life. Almost as if, for once, he didn’t want to be strong but careful.

“Did you quit for me?” he asked so quietly it almost got lost in the rain.

Finney slowly shook his head.

“I quit for myself,” he answered honestly. “But doing it while you… I don’t know, while you exist in my day felt wrong. Like I didn’t want to stain something that… that makes me feel good.”

Robin took a deep breath, as if a part of him settled forever into that sentence.

“I don’t want to be something that hurts you either,” he said.

And it was right there, in that moment, that Finney felt something inside him break and fall into place at the same time. Like cracks in old books, marks that don’t ruin the story, but make it more real.

“Robin…” he whispered, not knowing what to do with all that pain and healing happening at once. “I don’t know how to… handle this.”

Robin moved closer, slowly, without invading.

“You don’t have to handle anything,” he said. “Just let me be here. Even if it’s here, even if it’s like this. Even if the whole city keeps flooding.”

Finney didn’t answer; he simply rested his forehead on Robin’s shoulder for a second, like someone testing if something is safe.

And it was.

Robin lifted a hand and placed it over Finney’s, firm, warm, without pressure.

“You’re not alone,” he murmured. “Even if you think you are.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it was necessary. They breathed together while the storm kept tearing through the outside world, as if the entire city were overflowing just to force them to speak about what they had buried inside.

In the middle of the disaster, they found something calm, small and shared.

A refuge.

Chapter Text

Robin’s house always smells like something boiling in the kitchen. It’s not exactly food; sometimes it’s just water with herbs that his mom leaves on the stove “so the air feels alive,” as she says, but it’s a warm, familiar smell. A smell that reminds Robin that no matter how chaotic things are outside, inside that house everything works somehow.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder because his hands were busy fixing the broken zipper on his backpack. From the table, Ernesto looked at him with his head resting on his hands. He was 16, too much energy contained in a body too small.

“That thing broke again,” his brother said.

“Yeah, well…” Robin dropped the backpack on the floor, resigned. “Some things don’t want to be fixed.”

“Like you,” Ernesto replied, without lifting his eyes from the notebook where he was doing homework.

Robin ruffled his hair, even though Ernesto growled as if he were being tortured.

His mom appeared from the hallway, apron badly tied and hands damp. She had that look that knows more than she says, as if she had spent years watching her kids from a distance that doesn’t suffocate but never stops seeing.

“You’re late again,” she said, but her tone wasn’t a scold, it was soft. “A lot of work?”

Robin shrugged and poured himself a glass of water.

“More or less. But…” he paused, not knowing how to fill the space. “Today was… different.”

Ernesto looked up immediately, smelling gossip.

“Different how? Like ‘I argued with a customer’ or like ‘there’s a boy involved’?”

Robin threw a crumpled napkin at him. Ernesto caught it like it was a ball.

Robin’s mother crossed her arms.

“Robin, are you seeing someone?”

“No!” he answered quickly, too quickly. “I just…” and then it appeared, involuntarily, the memory of the bookstore, the dim light, the smell of old paper, Finney holding a book as if it were something fragile. “I just tried a couple of new things.”

His mom smiled, a small smile, but full of certainty.

“Well. I’m glad. It was about time something shook your world a little.”

Robin tried to ignore the tightness in his throat at those words. How, without meaning to, he thought of Finney. Of his soft laugh, his trembling hands, the way he looked at him as if he were surprised every time that Robin existed.

Ernesto went back to writing, but spoke without lifting the pencil from the paper:

“Whoever it is… I hope they look at you nicely, because you sometimes look like a wet dog.”

Robin opened his mouth to scold him, but ended up laughing. His mom did too. It was a sound that filled the house for a few seconds.

Then Robin leaned against the counter and looked at the two of them: his family, imperfect, loud, but always holding him up. A part of him felt like he was changing, as if he were walking toward something he didn’t know how to name. But at least now, he didn’t feel afraid.

Just a new impulse.

And somewhere, very close, the memory of a boy behind a counter, surrounded by books and holding a storm inside his chest.

Chapter Text

The morning was strangely still, as if the sky had inhaled before raining but never released the air. Finney walked pushing his bike with an expression of quiet defeat, one that wouldn’t surprise anyone who knew him well enough. Or rather, no one except Robin, the only one who actually seemed to notice.

The bookstore hadn’t opened that day. The lights were off, the door closed. The little bell hanging from the frame moved with the wind. Robin had passed by early before going to the shop, frowning when he saw the “closed” sign hanging crooked. He didn’t think much of it at first… but now, hours later, he was about to find out why.

The shop smelled like oil, hot rubber, and beaten metal. An old radio crackled with interference. The noise was constant, tools clashing, screws falling, the compressor turning on every now and then like a grumpy animal.

In the middle of that familiar chaos, Robin looked up. There was Finney, standing at the entrance, the handlebars crooked and the front wheel bent as if he’d had a bad day and the bike had simply decided to join him.

“What happened to it?” Robin asked, dropping what he was doing without thinking.

Finney shrugged.

“A pothole. Or several. I don’t know. It just… stopped moving.”

Robin walked over, took the bike from Finney’s hands, and then looked at him properly, his hands were shaking. More than on other days. More than other times. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t fear. It was withdrawal. It was silent struggle.

But Robin didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

“Come here,” he murmured. “Sit there. I’ll fix it in a bit.”

Finney obeyed, letting out a choked sigh as he sat on a low stool, staring at the oil-stained floor of the shop as if all the memories he avoided looking at were reflected there.

Robin worked fast, confident, but every now and then he glanced at him with the kind of look only someone who cares too much could have. A look that said “I see you” without saying it aloud.

“You didn’t open today,” Robin commented while loosening some bolts. It didn’t sound accusatory, just… concerned.

“No. I couldn’t.” Finney took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Sometimes… I just can’t.”

Robin nodded. He didn’t push.

“Nightmare?” he finally asked.

Finney clenched his jaw.

“Not exactly. Just… one of those days when if I go outside, I feel like something is going to break me on the way.”

Robin set the tool down, straightened up, and leaned one arm on the handlebars, looking down at him gently.

“But you came.”

Finney looked up.

“Because the bike broke.”

“No,” Robin corrected, with a barely-there smile. “Because you knew I could fix it.”

The silence that followed was the kind of silence that heals.

Finney looked away, and Robin saw him rub his hands together to hide the tremor. It didn’t work. Nothing did.

“You’re not smoking anymore, right?” Robin asked quietly.

Finney shook his head.

“No. A few days ago I smoked one, I’m trying to stop little by little. My mom would hate to see me like this.”

The words came out slowly, as if they weighed something.

“You miss her a lot.”

“Every day.”

Robin took a deep breath, as if absorbing a bit of someone else’s pain.

“Finney…” he began, but didn’t know how to finish.

Then, unexpectedly, Finney smiled. A small smile, tired, but real.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t need to say anything. Really. Just… thanks for letting me be here.”

Robin felt something loosen inside him, like a rope that had been too tight finally giving way.

“You can be here whenever you want,” he replied without thinking, almost urgently.

Finney lowered his head, hiding what that sentence did to him, not wanting his flushed cheeks to be seen.

Robin went back to work, but now more gently, more attentive. Every bolt tightened, every tap, every movement held a kind of care, as if he weren’t just fixing a bike but a broken piece of Finney’s day.

When he finished, he wiped his hands on an old rag and patted the seat.

“Done.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

Finney looked at him with a mix of disbelief and affection that Robin wasn’t prepared for.

“At least let me buy you a coffee,” Finney said, trying to sound casual.

“At your closed bookstore?” Robin replied, teasing him. Finney’s ears turned red.

“We can go around the corner… or I can make it at my place.”

Robin swallowed.

Finney noticed and smiled, this time for real, without weight. A smile so rare the world should’ve stopped when it appeared.

“Just coffee, Robin.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Robin said, but the blush gave him away.

Finney grabbed the bike and stood up. The wheel spun perfectly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and Robin knew he wasn’t talking about the bike.

When Finney left the shop, Robin followed him with his eyes. And for a moment, just a moment, Finney turned around, as if searching for confirmation that someone really cared about him.

And there was Robin. Looking at him.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Finney went to the workshop again when Robin's shift had ended.

Robin walked behind Finney through streets he’d known since he was a kid, but that now felt different. Maybe because of the heavy weather, or maybe because Finney moved with a strange calm, as if he were afraid to arrive and wanting to at the same time.

The house was on a quiet corner, one of those that seem frozen at an undefined hour of the day. The paint was a little chipped, the small yard had uneven grass, a window with old curtains that moved just slightly.

Finney leaned the bike against the wall and adjusted his jacket, as if he needed to prepare himself before going in.

"It’s… a bit messy," he warned without looking at him.
"I don’t mind," Robin answered, and it was true.

Finney opened the door. Inside, it smelled like books, old wood, and something else, that faint scent of clothes drying indoors because there’s no sun outside. It was warm. It was sad. It was Finney.

Gwen was sitting on the couch, doing her homework with a bitten pencil and a furrowed brow. She looked up when they entered.

"Hi, Robin," she said without surprise, as if she knew this moment would come. Gwen was like that. She saw things before they happened.

"Hey, Gwen."

Finney left his keys on the table and ran a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture.

"Dad?" he asked, looking toward the hallway.

"At work," Gwen replied, going back to writing. "He said he’ll be back late."

Finney let out a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh, but Robin caught it.

"I’m making coffee," Finney said. "Do you want some?"

"Yeah," Robin answered, but he wasn’t looking at the kitchen. He was looking at him. His tense posture. His restless fingers. His short breathing, as if being there stirred something deep inside him.

Finney disappeared into the warm shadows of the hallway, and Robin stayed a few seconds with Gwen, who watched him with a seriousness far beyond her age.

"You’re helping him, right?" she asked without lifting her head.
Robin blinked.

"I’m trying."

"He doesn’t let people help him. He never does." Gwen spun the pencil between her fingers. "But with you, he does."

Robin felt that comment settle in his chest.

"Gwen…"

"Just look after him a little…" she said softly. "He’s not as strong as he looks."

Before Robin could answer, Finney came back with two cups. His hands trembled a bit, so a drop of coffee fell on his shirt, but he acted like it didn’t matter.

"Let’s go to my room," he said shyly. "It’s too noisy here."

Gwen let out a short laugh.
"It’s not like I talk that much."

Robin smiled, but followed Finney down the hallway. The bedroom door was ajar, letting out a scent of sweet dust and old pages. When he pushed it open fully, Robin saw a small but cozy space: a shelf full of messy books, a bed against the wall, a desk with papers piled up, and a tilted lamp.

There were photos. Not many. One of them, framed, showed a young woman holding a small Finney, both laughing at the camera.

"That’s your mom," Robin said, trying not to sound intrusive.

"Yeah," Finney answered, placing the cup on the desk. "She liked taking pictures of me. She said a smile always helped with something."

"You don’t smile much now."

"Because I’m useful for fewer things," he replied, as if it weren’t sad but just a simple fact.

Robin frowned and stepped closer.

"Don’t say that."

Finney didn’t respond. He just sat on the bed, hunched over, clasping his hands to hide the trembling. Robin sat beside him, not touching him, but close.

"Today…" Finney began, voice rough. "Today was hard. I couldn’t open the bookstore. I couldn’t do anything. Everything felt really… heavy."

"But you came to the workshop," Robin said.

"Because I knew I wouldn’t be alone there. I’m not alone here either. That helps."

There was a long silence, the kind that doesn’t hurt, the kind that sits comfortably between two people who are beginning to trust.

Finney took a deep breath.

"I didn’t think quitting smoking would hit me this hard," he confessed quietly. "But… I think I used it so I wouldn’t think. So I wouldn’t feel so much. So I wouldn’t… remember her."

Robin looked down at his hands, trembling softly at the edge of the bed.

"You can tremble if you need to," he murmured. "I’m not going anywhere."

It was the exact phrase. Not more, not less.

Finney looked at him, surprised, as if no one had ever said that to him like that before. His eyes grew slightly wet, not enough to cry, but enough for something inside him to loosen.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Robin took his cup. Finney did the same. And for a while, they just talked about small things, silly things. Things without importance. Things that filled the room in a sweet way.

Finney laughed once, a real laugh. And Robin looked at him as if that laugh were a small, domestic miracle.

When the coffee was gone, Finney rested his head against the wall, breathing with a strange relief.

"I didn’t think today would be a good day," he said calmly. "But now… I don’t know. It feels better."

"It feels less lonely," Robin replied.

Finney opened his eyes and looked at him for a long moment, deep, as if that phrase were a key unlocking a door that had been shut for years.

And there, in that small room, with old photos, the smell of coffee, and the sound of a pencil scratching in the living room, something began to change between them.

Very slowly.
Very quietly.
Like all important things.

Chapter Text

Finney was resetting the coffee machine because he had decided, without saying it out loud, that today he needed three coffees to survive. He was alone in the bookstore, with soft music in the background, when the door flew open.

Way too open.

“FINNEYYY!!” Robin shouted, walking in soaked to the bone, holding something wrapped in a plastic bag. “¡Casi me muero!" (I almost died!)

Finney stared at him, blinked, sighed.

“It’s nine eleven… you were one minute early for your dramatic entrance,” he said, crossing his arms. “You arrived early to die.”

Robin dropped the bag on the counter as if it were a bomb.

“I need coffee. And also… I need you not to judge me.”

“Mmhm… I can give you one of those two things,” Finney replied, serving the coffee.

Robin, meanwhile, tried to take off his wet jacket without untying the sleeves. He got stuck. Struggled. Twisted. Hit a bookshelf. Almost knocked down a book. And Finney, used to this, didn’t even blink.

“But what happened to you?” Finney asked, handing him the cup.

Robin took a deep breath.

“A duck attacked me.”

Silence.

Finney slowly froze, still holding the cup in the air.

“A duck?”

“Two ducks!” Robin corrected, offended. “I was walking through the park and one looked at me weird. And the other started running. What did you want me to do? I ran too!”

Finney covered his mouth to avoid laughing, but it was useless. He ended up letting out a soft laugh, one of those he rarely manages.

“You ran from two ducks?”

“They were hostile!” Robin insisted, pointing at his wet clothes. “And on top of that I fell in a puddle. Literally. A puddle.”

Finney tried to keep a straight face… but he lost it again.

“Robin…” he said, resting a hand on the counter, laughing. “I swear sometimes I feel like you’re a side character who escaped from a comedy.”

“Hey! I’m the protagonist,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “If anything, you’re the mysterious bookseller I fall in love with.”

Finney froze for a second, cheeks red, but Robin kept talking as if he hadn’t said anything important.

“Oh, right,” he added, opening the mysterious bag. “I brought you something.”

He pulled out a book. A completely wrong book. So wrong that Finney almost had a heart attack.

“Robin… why did you bring me How to Survive Attacks from Wild Urban Park Animals?” Finney asked, incredulous.

“Duh,” Robin said. “Because I need it. And because I thought it would make you laugh.”

Finney took a deep breath… and smiled. For real.

“Alright. But… please stop fighting with the local wildlife.”

“I never promise anything,” Robin replied, taking his coffee. “Besides, maybe the duck was jealous. It saw my beauty and attacked.”

Finney looked at him as if he were the most ridiculous and most beloved being in the universe.

“You know what?” he said, laughing as he returned to the counter. “Sometimes I think God was bored when He created you.”

Robin put a hand dramatically on his chest.

“Oh, Finney… are you telling me I’m an experimental piece?”

“More like a limited edition,” he said. “A lot of chaos, not much common sense.”

Robin smiled.

And Finney did too.