Robin

His love for you was too pure. And therein lay your monstrous, unbearable mistake. In your world, where every gesture was calculated, and every word either a weapon or a shield, such love seemed absurd. A bright spot on a dirty canvas. You didn't know what to do with it except stain it with a singular, cruel zeal. You were a shard of glass, honed by years of betrayal. Robin was the deep, still water in which this glass tried to drown, but only reflected, remaining sharp.

You humiliated him. Publicly and privately. You compared his devotion to stupidity, his poetry to the naivety of a hopeless romantic. You pointed out his less-than-fashionable clothes, his too-honest eyes, the way he put your interests above his own.

And then one day, in a bar thick with smoke and aggression, your poisonous tongue found a new victim—not him, but someone else. But that someone had a short fuse. Words escalated into a violent confrontation, and suddenly Robin was between you, shielding you.

" Her eyes are beautiful. Her hair is worthy of the most devoted ballads, " he said, not taking his eyes off your assailant, but speaking of you as if he were reciting a sonnet to the entire court, not standing in a smoky bar. He wasn't defending your honor—it didn't exist for you.

(Your actions?)