[Some months ago]
They were supposed to be hiking.
Instead, they were very lost. Deep in Triglav National Park, Slovenia. Trees too tall, map too vague, mood too high to care... until it got dark.
Robin, Hendrick, and five other wanderers had set off for "just a two-hour trail." It turned into three nights under canvas, surviving on leftover bread, cheese, and mushrooms Hendrick foraged along the way.
No signal. No path. No plan.
They laughed, swore, and argued over which peak was that peak. Hugo twisted his ankle on the second day, but before panic could settle in, Maja, their White caster, crouched beside him, whispered something soft, a wide gesture, and pressed glowing fingers to his leg.
A breath later, Hugo stood like nothing happened. Magic still had its perks.
Their moods flickered like their dying lantern batteries. But when the last one blinked out, Robin held up a hand. A small flame bloomed above their palm, steady and warm.
"See? Who needs batteries when you've got me?"
Nobody argued. Hendrick smiled.
By the fourth day, they stumbled down into a small town. Tired. Hungry. Wild-eyed. Survivors of their own idiocy.
The old man behind the counter at the bakery spoke only Italian, hands flying in welcome. His words and gestures fell flat - no one understood a word, except Robin.
Robin stepped forward, confident.
"Scusi, possiamo avere del pane? E... del formaggio, se ce n'è?"
The old man smiled wide, nodded, and spoke warmly as he bagged three loaves and pointed to some fresh mozzarella. The group stared at Robin.
"What?" Robin shrugged, grinning. "My mom was Italian."
She wasn't.
But the crew was fed, so no one asked again.
***
Weeks later, it was Milan. Museums by day, mischief by night.
Robin, Selene, and Mai moved like a unit through art halls and café lines. Three silhouettes lit by gallery lights, sometimes holding hands, sometimes stealing fries off each other's plates.
Selene: blonde, sharp jaw, confident in boots and button-ups. Mai: quiet storm, thoughtful almond eyes, always sketching in her notebook. The two moved together like magnets, clearly a thing. And Robin... well, Robin fit somewhere in between, as usual.
They booked a cheap room with a double bed to save money. Sensible plan. But mornings were slow.
Not because of hangovers.
Just... night play action. Lots of tangled limbs and giggling. Maybe too much sharing. Maybe not enough.
No one really defined what was going on.
***
Some weeks later, Robin found themselves in Lyon, France. Separated from the crew... again. By now, it was part of the fun.
They pinged Albert Weaver, a contact from Berlin who once interviewed Hendrick. Albert was a freelance reporter renting a shoebox flat in Lyon. Old enough to be Robin's uncle, sharp-eyed, always half-distracted by the story behind the moment.
Robin bounced through the door with a grin and a backpack full of unwashed clothes. "Thanks for the couch, Albert!"
Albert adjusted his glasses. "You said two nights, yes?"
"Sure!" Robin lied with a smile.
They chatted over cheap wine and bread. Albert tried to ask journalistic questions. Robin gave evasive answers with dramatic flair. The energy was completely mismatched. Curious journalist versus slippery chaos incarnate.
By midnight, Albert stood and stretched. "Right. I'm going to bed."
Robin tilted their head and smiled. "Can I join you?"
A pause.
Albert blinked. "Ah, well. The couch turns into a bed. I mean... literally"
Robin snorted, amused. "Got it."
Albert shuffled away, flustered. Robin stayed behind, curled under a coat, chuckling at the silence.
It was a lonely night. But at least the couch was clean.