Page 125 of If Only In Our Dreams

One of his painted fingers pushed against the furrow between my brows. “Why so serious?” he asked in a horrible Joker impression.

“Baby, when andhowdo you eat?” I blurted.

Robin blinked. His finger stroked over my eyebrow before he cupped my jaw and grinned up at me. “Ever heard of this thing called takeout?”

“You can’t eat takeout every day,” I replied, immediately concerned. “It’s not good for you.”

“I don’t have a Ben in L.A. to cook my meals for me,” Robin countered with a laugh.

“Maybe you need one,” I muttered, betraying my own truth.

Robin blinked again, eyes going wide. He didn’t seem to know what to say. And I knew I’d pushed a little too hard, so Ibacked off, leaning down to press a kiss against his forehead as I processed all the new information I’d just learned.

If Robin truly wasn’t ready for me to at least be a more permanent fixture in his life down here, the least I could do was hire him a personal chef, right? Or a food service?

I had enough money.

Between my salary as a doctor and my book royalties I was set for life.

“I’ll figure it out,” I promised him, so he wouldn’t stress about something new. When he released me I went off to figure out where he slept. If he didn’t have a proper bed I was not going to be happy. I wouldn’t put it past Robin to sleep on the couch simply because he was too tired to head up to the loft.

I was more than a little relieved when I entered his bedroom and discovered he did, in fact, have a bed. A very nice bed. With a thousand different kinds of pillows, and at least five blankets all with varying Halloween prints.

Robin was right behind me when I paused, taking it all in. The night stand with a bunch of abandoned mugs on it—probably from the tea downstairs. The pile of books at the base of the bed, most of which were mine. The guitar in the corner of the room, older and more well-worn than the one he used on stage. The tiny little knick knacks and trinkets that sat in the windowsill. Probably momentos from his travels.

What was most telling of all, however, was the book shelf against the back wall. It was full of photos. Most of which looked like they’d been shoddily shot on a cell phone. Pictures of Bubba and Miles—at varying ages. All carefully, delicately printed and stuck into a variety of mismatching frames.

The rest of the apartment was bland. It looked like something out of a catalog and not somewhere that someone could call a home. But this room…with its black curtains, its character, and nest of a bed—yes.

Yes,this wasthe kind of place Robin should live.

He reminded me of a crow in a way, collecting small shiny things for later. I had no doubt every rock, every shell, every penny had a memory attached. It was fitting that crows were his favorite animal.

“Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to tidy up,” Robin apologized from behind me. “I don’t like having someone in here to clean. Feels weird, you know? Like I’m Bruce Wayne or some shit, when I’m not.”

“Don’t apologize.” I twisted, opening up my arm so that he could settle into the hollow there just like he did at home when we snuggled on the couch. Robin hummed, wriggling in close, making a happy little sound in the back of his throat. “I like your room.”

“It’s way messier than yours is,” Robin laughed, self-consciously kicking a leg out to try and hide a stray pair of underwear on the floor beneath a wayward blanket that lay bunched against the wall near our feet.

“I don’t mind,” I told him honestly. And I didn’t.

“I’m usually really tired by the time I get back here,” Robin tried to explain. “I kinda just strip and then flop down…and…tryto sleep?”

There was emphasis on the word try, and again, my heart ached.

Robin had told me about his insomnia. He’d told me about all of the little things he’d struggled with since it’d steadily been worsening. Including the times he feared he’d pass out like he had on stage. The concrete floors concerned me, as did the idea of putting him here—leaving him alone, where things could get bad all over again.

It hadn’t taken long for me to figure out that Robin slept far better with me than he did on his own. He told me oncethat I was like a narcotic. I wasn’t sure if that was an accurate comparison, but I hadn’t argued.

It wasn’t my place to tell him what to think of me. I was just happy he thought of me at all.

He shone so bright sometimes, all I could do was bask in his light.

Robin made his way past me, flopped onto his bed with a quiet groan, his legs sticking straight out like a goth starfish. I grinned, following after him with a chuckle. Carefully sinking to my knees, I reached for his boots. He didn’t kick me off, simply holding still as I began to unbuckle them, one buckle at a time.

“My feet probably stink,” Robin complained, still not moving.

“That happens when you wear shoes and walk all day,” I replied, gently tugging one shoe off before moving on to the other.

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