FUCK YOU to everyone who's posted memes under the harry potter x reader tag. all there is in the top section of the tag are memes. bitch fuck outta my face i wanna read fanfic not your horrible attempt at being funny
this is a miniseries, estimated to be three parts in total. if you are interested in being tagged, please comment or send an ask, and make sure i am able to tag you.
series tag is [ @ 𝐘𝐘𝐔𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐒 ★ 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓 ] in case any parts do not get linked properly.
still so close, yet so far . . . summary ❞ three chrysos heirs arrive in the xianzhou empire proposing an alliance. amongst them, is lord mydeimos, a man with immortality but not immune to what begins to change in him. word count: 3.8k
tags ───────── mydei x reader & (minor) jing yuan x reader, royal au, attempt at slowburn, not canon compliant. this series will contain angst, violence, major character death ; xianzhou alliance is called the xianzhou empire ; jing yuan is heavily ooc for story purposes only.
You stand before a large painting of a young woman. She is dressed in an extravagant red gown. Her hair had been meticulously styled to represent her high status. The pins in her hair have charms dangling from the ends. It is the symbol of the Xianzhou Empire. Her hands are placed on her lap with her left on top to display a beautiful engagement ring.
She is stunning. The artist had captured her details so perfectly, forever in precise strokes and vibrant paint. Many who walk down this very hallway have to stop and look in awe at this creation. Unable to touch it, they can only move closer to the portrait and examine the flow of the brush.
You, on the other hand, can only stare at the painting with disdain. It is not towards the woman, for she is not the one at fault. The disdain is for the story behind how this painting came to be and how it was hung in this very spot.
The name of the woman in the painting is Xinyue. The ring on her finger was placed there by the creator of the Xianzhou Empire, Emperor Jing Yuan. This overly detailed portrait was a gift from him to her. It’s to display the beauty and grace of the future Empress.
But that story is why you hold disdain for the painting. Because only months before, another portrait was in this very spot for the same reasoning.
Her painting replaced yours.
Here, in the Xianzhou Palace, your existence is well known. You play an important and occasionally overlooked role in the Royal Court. Politics. The peace treaties between the Empire and other kingdoms were made possible through you. Battles were avoided because of your interference. Alliances hadn’t been broken by your influence.
Before Xinyue, you were the future Empress to be. Jing Yuan adored you, he praised you, he loved you. While he was the fighter, you were the tactician. A perfect pair to rule over the Empire.
And so suddenly, the ring was removed from your finger. Another woman began to roam the palace halls with a different ring given to her by Jing Yuan that held the same meaning. Forged to her exact measurements and liking, Lady Xinyue is now the bride to be for the Emperor. He adores her, he praises her, he loves her.
Now your painting is gone. It is stored in a location unknown to you, serving only to collect dust.
He gave you no reasoning behind his actions. Why had he discarded you off to the side that easily? Years of loyalty to each other and it ended abruptly.
“My Lady,” A voice from the end of the hall directed your attention away from the painting. There is a servant who had been tasked with finding you. She witnessed you intently staring at the artwork hanging on the wall. Knowing your story, she felt a sense of pity deep down in her heart for you. “The guests from Amphoreus are waiting. The meeting will begin soon.”
Amphoreus. A vast land which you had never been to. It was hard to explain how different things worked there compared to the Xianzhou Empire. But of course, like other country leaders, they were here for the exact same reasoning.
Your eyes flicked over to the painting again and then gave the servant a curt nod as a sign of thanks, “Very well.”
It wouldn’t be proper of you to keep the guests of Amphoreus waiting. So, you followed behind the servant woman. The image of the painting lingered in the back of your mind. Unfortunately, with how many times you passed by it since it was hung, you knew it well to the most minute detail.
You arrived outside of the Royal Courts meeting room. All important discussions were held here and away from the prying ears of the servants. Two Cloud Knights stood on either side of the double doors.
Today, behind those doors, were three of the twelve Chrysos Heirs from Amphoreus. Lady Aglaea, Lord Phainon, and Lord Mydeimos.
In recent times, Jing Yuan expressed his interest in having Amphoreus become part of the Xianzhou Empire. This would give him total and absolute control over the region. What that meant is that you would get stuck doing all the diplomatic work. You were very good at what you did, but the Emperor seemed to have a hard time comprehending how impossible it was to sway the Chrysos Heirs.
They weren’t bad people. They, however, were extremely intelligent. They knew how to deny whenever something felt the slightest bit wrong to them. After all, it was twelve of them and only one of you.
Regardless, the guards opened the doors for you. The attendees for today’s meeting were already sitting down at the table. Members of the Xianzhou Royal Court had huddled themselves by the head of the table, the chair reserved for the Emperor. Though you weren’t too focused on them.
As soon as you stepped into the room, the sound of two chairs being pushed back made everyone’s heads turn in that direction. Phainon and Mydei were both standing. It was nice to see that the men of Amphoreus held the utmost respect for women. They at least still stood up whenever a lady walked into the room.
At their side was Aglaea, who continued to remain seated with the others but kindly smiled at you.
“My Lady,” She then stood up once you drew closer to them, “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Lady Aglaea.” You said, shifted your gaze to the other two Chrysos Heirs to greet them. Phainon gently took your hand in his and bowed as a sign of respect. Mydei copied his action, more careful with his clawed armor. “Gentlemen, thank you for being here.”
“It's always an honor to be in your presence.” Phainon said, placing a hand on his chest.
The heavy doors creaked, indicating someone else had arrived. There is a shift in the atmosphere in the room. His Grace, Jing Yuan, entered.
Everyone immediately stood up and turned to bow. His boots clicked against the floor. But there were a second pair of footsteps that followed. He hadn’t arrived alone, and you weren’t expecting him to. He had his betrothed, Xinyue, following behind him. Your brows slowly narrowed despite trying to hide your expression.
A frown settled on Aglaea’s face, but she covered it up by clearing her throat and placing the back of her hand over her lips. Neither Phainon nor Mydei were pleased at this turn of events. When the Emperor suddenly broke off your long term engagement, the news spread across the lands. His actions were considered an abomination in the eyes of Amphoreus, a sign of ultimate disrespect towards you.
“Greetings,” Jing Yuan stopped once he reached the head of the table. He noticed that amongst everyone in the room, you weren’t looking at him. As per usual, you were being cold towards him. “My apologies, I haven’t had time to properly address the three of you since your arrival at the Empire.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Your Grace.” Aglaea said, “You’re a busy man. We understand.”
“Xinyue will be joining us for this meeting.” He motioned over to his fiancée standing right beside him. She held her hands in front of her, behaving like a proper woman. “Is that alright?”
And everyone, in unison responded the same thing, “Of course, Your Grace.” Because no one could be opposed to it. So they had to accommodate and made room for Xinyue. She took the first chair, sitting on the left side of the table. It forced the Royal Court Members to all move one chair down.
You realized you wouldn’t have a place to sit. That’s until you felt a hand gently touching your upper arm to get your attention. The owner’s hand was recognizable by the feel of armor.
“My Lady.” Mydei held onto the back of his chair. He was offering his seat at the table up to you. You glanced at the open chair before walking over to it. You tucked your dress comfortably as you sat down. He then carefully pushed the chair closer to the table. This left you sitting directly across Aglaea and Phainon. A much better position since you would be doing most of the talking with the Chrysos Heirs.
“Thank you,” You said, though not sparing him a second glance. You could feel Jing Yuan’s gaze focused intently on the interaction. And not only that, Mydei remained behind you as if he were your most trusted guard, tasked with protecting you. His lingering presence was… Soothing, in a way. “Let us begin,”
The meeting proceeded. It dragged on for hours. Although on certain occasions, Feixiao and Yao Guang left their input, you had most of the control at the table. It was a back and forth between you and the three Chrysos Heirs. They were not easily persuaded by your statements.
Where Jing Yuan wanted them to see it fit that they join the Empire, they were more towards leaning into an alliance. You weren’t necessarily objecting to that idea, but you knew you’d hear a handful if you didn’t try to negotiate harder with them.
“Amphoreus has prospered under the rule of the Chrysos Heirs.” Aglaea explained, “Our people are happy. They’re content. We’ve avoided many conflicts with other countries. That is what matters most to us.”
The Heirs took their sworn oath to protect their people seriously. You were actually against trying to convince them to give up their rightful thrones. Except, you were a servant who had to fight for the Emperor’s desires. As soon as you were going to speak again, a new person decided to chime in.
“But why have twelve separate rulers, when you could be under the control of one benevolent ruler instead?” Xinyue’s voice rang from the front of the table.
You were baffled, immediately turning over to her. It silenced the others at the table. They looked amongst each other. No one wanted to say it, but they were all thinking the same thing. Xinyue wanted to play your role, and she would fail miserably at this game.
You wished you could say none of this was her fault. Since she knew of your history with Jing Yuan, she was attempting to prove herself. This was her way of saying to you that she was better, and once she became the Empress, you were no longer going to be needed. Her issue was that she had a closed minded attitude, always believing that the Xianzhou Empire could do no wrong.
“Under the control of one benevolent ruler?” The deep voice from behind you said. Mydei held back a scoff at her ignorance. Aglaea had to give him a stern look to remind him who he was speaking against. Though, it was ignored when he continued, “The people of Amphoreus don’t need history to repeat itself. We have only recently been released from Nikador’s grasp.”
Xinyue grew silent. She didn’t know of Amphoreus’ extensive history like you or other members of the Royal Court. In fact, she wasn’t very knowledgeable about the reign of the different lands either. It was unfortunate she struck a nerve in Lord Mydeimos with her comment.
You immediately looked over at Fu Xuan, retainer of the Emperor. When your gaze met hers, she instantly knew what you were trying to say. She was forced to intervene, “Why don’t we put this meeting on hold for today? I think that’s enough discussing this matter. We can continue tomorrow.”
“Yes, I do agree.” Aglaea said, her hands letting go to gently push her chair back.
You exhaled lowly in relief. Fu Xuan had leverage with her position in the Court. Ending the discussion for the time being was better before someone ended up making matters worse.
The meeting room emptied.
Everyone went on their separate paths and attended to their own matters. You had gone with Aglaea, escorting her to the guest wing where she was staying during her time here. You spoke with her, catching up now that you weren’t forced to talk about anything politically related.
Eventually, you decided to say your goodbyes so she could rest.
You wandered through the halls, heading to that same hallway from early this morning in order to return to your chambers. You arrived, only to find out you weren’t alone.
In the distance, Mydei is before that painting and examining it in silence with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s sharp enough to know someone else is in the hallway with him. You had no intentions to stop and talk to him. Your heels echoed through the empty hallway as you walked with your head held high. Just as you passed him, you were forced to stop.
“Lady (Y/N),” He called out to you. His gaze remained fixated on the painting of Xinyue. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. This meant you had to face him, otherwise, it would be improper. He asked the very question you were dreading to hear come from a guest. “Was your portrait not here before?”
How embarrassing.
“Yes, it was.” Your response was short. As expected. He glanced over his shoulder at you. He watched your reaction closely. He motioned to the canvas.
“And… Where is it now?” Mydei asked. His newest question left you puzzled. Your eyes narrowed slightly and your head tilted to the side.
“Where is what?”
“Your portrait.” He elaborated. “Where is your portrait now?”
That made you stop and think about it for a brief moment.
Jing Yuan commissioned the painting as a gift. He wanted everyone to see the beauty of the woman he was going to marry. He was a prideful man, you were his greatest treasure. With everything that happened, you never once wondered where your painting disappeared to.
Why did Mydeimos care? Was he trying to make fun of you? You, who once held the Emperor’s affection and wore his ring on your finger, didn’t even know where the painting dedicated to you had gone.
“I do not know.” You said in a defensive manner. The faintest hint of snark didn’t go unnoticed for the Kremnoan. “Why not ask a servant for its whereabouts?”
He chose to remain silent as you left. Perhaps it was a mistake to ask such a blunt question. He could have worded it differently. It wasn’t his intention to upset you. But you were gone now, and he couldn’t apologize.
His eyes went from the right end of the hallway to the left where you originally came from. Mydei stood there for a moment longer, before making up his mind. He turned the other way with the objective of finding the closest member of the Royal Court.
“You wish for me to go to Amphoreus?”
“Yes.” Jing Yuan nodded his head. He reclined in his chair while you stood across from his desk. He laced his hands together, “That’s exactly what I said. I want you to go to Amphoreus so you can see why they don’t want to join the Empire. Simple as that.”
It had been two months since the three Chrysos Heirs departed from the Empire. The meeting, as you assumed it would be, was unsuccessful. Not a single one of the offers made swayed them. They didn’t bother dwelling on it, and continued proposing an alliance.
It only made the Emperor more insistent. You couldn’t disobey. You lived in the Xianzhou Empire and held a position in the Royal Court. Obeying his direct orders were your every day command. That’s why he chose you to do every diplomatic duty for him, no matter what it was. This is what you had studied and trained for since a young age.
You weren’t fond of the idea of traveling. You truly never liked it and viewed it to be a hassle. With the change in season, the heatwaves would make your experience worse than usual.
“Perhaps they don’t see it fit to join the Empire.” You said. Jing Yuan raised his brow before a smile spread on his face and he let out a short chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” He said. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve already sent a letter. Once it’s discussed with the Chrysos Heirs and they’ve given permission, you’ll take your leave for Amphoreus immediately. Do you understand?”
If you had to argue with Anaxagoras, you might lose your mind. Instead, you exhaled and nodded your head.
“As you desire, Your Grace.” You bowed.
“Now then. That is settled. Moving on,” Jing Yuan crossed his arms over his chest, “Have you reconsidered my proposal?” Your gaze darkened for the briefest moment. But he was an attentive man, and the shift in your eyes didn’t go unnoticed.
“My answer was no the first time and it will be no each time you ask.” You said with a sharp tone. The corner of his lip twitched downwards. He placed his hands on his desk, pushing himself up from his chair.
“And why is that? You refuse to tell me your reasoning.” He walked around his desk with slow steps. He stood in front of you and reached out, his fingertips grazing your jawline. They came underneath your chin and lifted your head to meet his gaze. “Is it really such a detestable life to become my concubine? All I desire is to keep you at my side.”
This is what you had been reduced to. From his lover and fiancée to a mere puppet he could control. He’d done it so easily and with no remorse, you wondered if he ever loved you at all.
“You used to go about that in a better manner.” You held his gaze. Your words silenced him.
His proposal was like a slap in the face. He replaced you with Xinyan. And you, with an aching heart, had to accept it. Then he turned around and asked that you become a concubine once he married. His only concubine, he said. Your feelings didn't matter to him. Gone was the man you once loved.
He dropped his hand from your chin. He couldn’t find that same love and devotion in your eyes anymore. Did he miss it? The Emperor himself didn’t know.
“You are dismissed.” He flicked his hand.
His temper flared at how quickly you left his study. You had to keep your composure. You refused to show any sign of weakness in front of Jing Yuan, no matter how much you were aching inside.
Xinyue’s painting taunted you as you walked by it. It was beginning to get harder to not place the blame on her. None of this is her fault, you reminded yourself. She wasn’t the one you were engaged to and she wasn’t the one who suddenly broke it off. She believed he loved her, just as you believed it once.
What about you? Didn't you have a right to be angry at this young noble woman who appeared in the palace overnight?
There was no reason to fight over Jing Yuan’s affection. If he took it away so easily, it was never there to begin with.
The Cloud Knights patrolling your wing pushed your chamber doors open when you arrived.
Qingque was inside. Your lady in waiting is adjusting three boxes stacked on each other. She placed a vase of blooming flowers right beside them. She looked in your direction when the doors shut behind. A bright smile formed on her face, “My Lady!” She exclaimed loudly, careful to not bump into the table.
“What is this?” You asked.
“You received a gift all the way from Amphoreus!” She plucked an envelope from the top box. She held it out to you, “They sent flowers from here.”
“Amphoreus?” You repeated.
The wax seal on the back had the symbol of the Romance Titan. Aglaea. You examined the boxes. Qingque practically bounced on the balls of her feet. She seemed more excited about your gifts than you were. Maybe because she knew this was one you’d accept.
Jing Yuan, probably to cover whatever little guilt he might feel if he felt any at all, had been sending gifts to your chambers regularly. A cruel thing to do, you’d simply send them out to noble women, passing them off as your own.
As you carefully ripped the wax seal apart, you gave Qingque permission to open the boxes. You read the letter written in Aglaea’s elegant handwriting.
My dearest Lady (Y/N),
In my years of being a dressmaker, I have been commissioned by many different people. Each of the dresses that I have crafted are woven with love and dedication. The day you read this letter, it is an honor to present to you my own creations. These are creations that I believe are long overdue.
But, I must mention that the dresses you will find in these boxes were made at Lord Mydeimos’ request. When we returned to the land of Amphoreus, he paid a hefty amount for the finest silk and materials. He constantly came to look over my progress and made sure that they would be to your liking.
Though, after I finished and prepared for the gifts to be sent over, I asked if he wanted to write a letter or a note. He became rather shy, and said I could take care of that part as well.
I believe you’ve long ago entranced our Mydeimos with your lovely presence.
Sincerely, Aglaea.
“Look how beautiful they are!” Qingque said, holding one of the boxes in her hands. The other two were left on the table with the lids off. Any piece created by Aglaea was absolutely stunning. The dressmaker had a true talent.
You touched the white silk, soft under your fingertips. They were the toga dresses worn in Amphoreus. Aglaea’s signature style, no matter where she went. In another box was a red dress, and the other held a light blue.
So these were made at the request of Mydei. The brief interaction you had with him months ago in front of Xinyue’s portrait resurfaced. Now you were regretting the sharp tone you used. You folded the letter and tucked it into the envelope again.
“Qingque.” You placed the envelope down on the table by the flowers, “I expect to leave for Amphoreus. When I do, I would like these dresses amongst my wardrobe. In the meantime, please keep them in the boxes.”
She nodded her head, and quickly went ahead with the task to get it out of the way. Not only would you thank Mydei in person, you’d have to apologize for the way you spoke to him.
series material list | part two, coming soon . . .
this is a miniseries, estimated to be three parts in total. if you are interested in being tagged, please comment or send an ask, and make sure i am able to tag you.
notes. everyone say thank you to michael jackson for the name 🗣️‼️ vale had told me to not to call it this 🤨 hater alert !! anyways, glad i’m finally getting this idea out of my head. and it’s been a while since i posted up here but i’m finally getting back into writing 🫡 let’s see how long it takes me to post part two of this, hopefully not long
─ ⟢ A/N for those that are new to my smau’s, I don’t have a fixed face claim for reader so as to make it as inclusive as possible | yes there will be a part 2, but bear with me as exam season is just around the corner so I might not get it out as fast!
part 2
whatsyndoing • 20m
whatsyndoing
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whatsyndoing angels have pink hair 🪽
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zaralarsson no man deserves this • ♥︎ by author
whatsyndoing @/zaralarsson you’re so right mama let me break up with my bf 💔
user_ @/whatsyndoing bf….? 😒
username06 @/whatsyndoing I have an idea but everyone needs to be really open minded 😅
gayz4y/n @/whatsyndoing computa…
yasminwijnaldum my girl 🥹• ♥︎ by author
whatsyndoing @/yasminwijnaldum 💋
imgmodels so fab • ♥︎ by author
slayyyter this is kuntttt • ♥︎ by author
whatsyndoing @/slayyyter CRANK ITTTTT
username777 she’s so pretty I feel sick
bamb1_ if your man ever messes up I’m here bbg
user09 @/bamb1_ I feel like I’m not part of this inside joke…? what man you guys?????
randomuser @/user09 do you live under a rock omg
userrandom oh I’m not hungry
whatsyndoing • 5m
gayz4y/n
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gayz4y/n mother at the @/michaelmovie premiere @/whatsyndoing
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username_ she’s stunning don’t get me wrong, but why is she there lol? 😭
gayz4y/n @/username_ she’s actually been a really huge mj fan for YEARS so maybe that’s why they invited her 🤷♀️
randomuser SHES SO HOT • ♥︎ by author
user_ now who made this guest list cause why we inviting randoms….? 😂
gayz4y/n @/user_ model of the year 2025 btw…what have you accomplished besides being a troglodyte?
bamb1doll @/user_ you’re a chris brown fan pls shut up
4ngelsarebrunett3 waittt her and jaafar jackson would be such a cute couple 🙈🙈🙈 • ♥︎ by author
user_1111 @/4ngelsarebrunett3 my third eye just opened woah…
user__ @/4ngelsarebrunett3 ew no 😂
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y/nsangelsss jaafar jackson and y/n talking at the @/michaelmovie premiere
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user_ THEY HIT THE FUCKING PENTAGON • ♥︎ by author
username777 he want that cookie baddd 😭 • ♥︎ by author
gayz4y/n me when I’m trying to remain calm in front of the huzz: • ♥︎ by author
y/nsangelsss @/gayz4y/n LMAOOOO
userrandom @/gayz4y/n yall are so odd….cant women & men be friends these days??
gayz4y/n @/userrandom if this is how you look at your friends then you have your own issues to sort out lmfao
randomuser_ he smiling wide asf I’m crying 😭🤣• ♥︎ by author
4ngelsarebrunett3 twt gonna have a field day with this
user888 I’m irritated asf I’m irritated asf
user666 my butt fulla shittt 😂😂
y/nsangelsss @/user666 ???
user_ the way he’s looking at her….she took my man omg 💔💔💔💔💔
user82920202 yall are late to the party, they been my OTP since we saw her in his got me singing MV 🙂↕️
𓈒⟡ ׅ ݁₊ . thank you for reading 💋
𓈒⟡ ׅ ݁₊ . tags: @cinnamoncunt @wiinterz @rockabieesstuff @youwannabestartingsomething @myrrh-dock @lov3lylxvender @featheredfawns @fandomfaerieprincess @prettypearlpom @nealifeandsuicii @andhypen @swe3tyann @axlrosesgirlfriend2007 @m00nd0v3 @neighbourscat @jackiekae @janyiahsucks-blog @grapejceblues @iheartfolkloreee @nsaqlx @blondekisses [not an official taglist, I’m just tagging mutuals or those who I think might be interested in this]
𓈒⟡ ׅ ݁₊ . want to join my taglist?
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SYNOPSIS without you by his side, your poor boyfriend has no idea how to function.
james:
juhoon:
martin:
seonghyeon:
keonho:
💬..sory this seems so rushed i had to post something LOL BUT GREENGREEN IS OUT BROOOOOOO WASSUP IS SOOO GOOD AND ACAI as expected .. didnt think they would do a full eng song But blue lips is still soso good and im so excited for that mv😋streamed tnt at school the whole day then me n my friend r going out on friday to buy the target albums Yipee Wooohoooo
sory im still editing my jju fic but itll come out soon i just needa finish exams and do my job interviewif u guys have any requests pls comment or use the ask button ive lowk been stumped af😪
— You’re just a first year nursing student attending NYU, faced with the impending deadline of finding a roommate, you take up a strangers offer, not knowing just the whirlwind of events and trouble you’ve admitted yourself into. Not only are you going to be juggling your studies and navigating through your new profound life, but you’ll also be tasked to become the babysitter of the city’s greatest hero. Because who knew, your unsuspecting Roommate Keonho, likes to play dress up as Spiderman as well?
warnings: inappropriate language, curse words, crack jokes, Keonho is secretly Spiderman, teasing, bad decisions, anxiety, mentions of injuries/bruises/cute, combat, violence mention, university au, based in New York/ NYU, nursing module
— having twin brothers does nothing but raise your cortisol levels.
( nonidol!09z + oldersister!reader )
★ cortis taglist! ★
now playing . . .
warnings. the mom is lowk a boy mom #shivers but its all just jokey jokes (totally not inspired by my real mother) Reader is described to be older than sean and kono
note. i love the idea of twins!09z so much i have to indulge in it every once in a while.. also this has been sitting in my drafts for a whileeeee
you're out way past curfew, darling ;; timothy j. drake
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ in which. . . tim drake was a hardworking man, and you were on a mission to break that diligence and pry him away from his work for the weekend.
꒰ contents ꒱ tim drake x fem!reader. best friends to lovers. use of profanities. pre-established relationship. domestic fluff. mutual pining. jason todd.
✎ᝰ. a letter from jj : this one shot is set in the same universe as @dhazefawn’s jason fic that she posted a couple days back, and her mc sweetheart!reader is featured briefly here. a big thank you to kore for brainstorming together with me and giving me motivation to finish this fic! and to my readers, i hope you enjoy🤍
The slow ding of the elevator went off as you reached your destined floor, stepping through the silver doors as soon as they parted open. The clicks of your heels on the marble left an echoing trail in the nearly deserted hall.
It was late. The hall was dimly-lit and quiet at this hour. Most of the other employees, board directors had clocked off some time during the evening to enjoy the rest of their weekend.
Most of them.
You were supposed to stop by earlier today, already had your plans written down to go out with your best friend today since weeks ago. He said he’d call you when he's done with work—you both had agreed on 5 o'clock.
It was now 11:15 PM and he still haven't called.
So, now you were here to haul his pretty, overworking ass out of this place for the weekend.
Reaching the far end of the hallway where you were faced with Tim’s private office, you gave three short raps on the door, pushing it open when you were given no response from the inside.
The view of Tim’s office welcomed you. The dimmed room illuminated in the pale yellow glow from each floor lamps stationed on each side of the room. Giving off a certain warmth that the rest of this floor seemed to lack.
You hadn't been here a while, but the space still remained the same, for the most part. The bookshelf still stood at the wall by the velvet couches, the clock still ticked consistently.
The air swirled with notes of coffee, freshly printed paper, and the lingering traces of his cologne melded together to a scent that's so significantly him.
The place was familiar.
However, to your utter displeasure, so were the grating starkness of the blue lights, which are unfortunately, the key parts of this room. Else it wouldn't be an office without the horde of screens, now, would it?
“Hey,” you announced quietly. The taps of your heels softened by the large rug beneath your feet as you approached the desk where—lo and behold—the man was seated on the chair behind it, his back hunched like he hadn't moved for hours.
Tim’s eyes stayed glued to the monitor, his fingers flying across the keyboard like a dance he's mastered the steps to. “Hi.” he mumbled, a quiet acknowledgement. Bloodshot and tired eyes squinting behind the rim of his glasses.
He looked disheveled—his hair fell over his forehead messily, his tie had loosened and crooked over his wrinkled dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Your eyes flickered to the backrest of his chair, where his blazer was draped over and left abandoned.
You sighed in disappointment at the sight.
It seemed that he took the hint, because he quickly said, “I just need to finish up this report, Bruce wants it done by next week.”
You rounded his chair, and walked over to the window behind him, looking out at the view below you. Even in this time of night, Gotham was still wide awake.
“When?” you asked, still admiring the city from above through the window.
“On Tuesday.”
Today was Friday.
“Tim.”
“I know,” he rushed out, pausing his typing and swiveled around in his chair to finally find your gaze, stifling a yawn with his palm. “I’m almost done with this, then we can go home.”
You tried to ignore the weird flutters that erupted in your stomach at the words ‘we can go home’
Snap out of it!
You shook your head to dispell the uninvited butterflies, and try to focus on the more important matter right now.
Because you were angry at him, for, again, disregarding his health for the sake of work. You never minded that he's very hardworking—in fact, that's one of the things you admired most about Tim, and you knew you could not be angry for that.
What you did mind was how he always puts everything else besides himself first, how he would often regard his well-being as an afterthought.
And you hated how you had to remind him of it over and over again. Sometimes, it'd even come to a point where it would lead to an argument. Maybe you were just paranoid, but still, you couldn't help but worry.
That's why you planned on lecturing him. Again.
But the look he's giving you was not helping at all.
The city lights outside reflected in his eyes, clearly, so blue that you would've spent hours memorizing the exact shade.
And you were getting off-track.
“You’ve been holed up in here all day.” you stated, and you knew your guess had been right.
Tim sighed, running his hand through his hair, taking off his glasses, and you tried your best to not let your eyes linger too long. “I’m sorry.” he said, meeting your eyes, “For bailing on you. I know we've planned this out since weeks ago. I swear I’ve even pinned it in my calendar, but things came up, and I didn't have time to check my phone—”
He was rambling, and it took you a second to catch up.
Oh.
He thought you were upset because of that.
“Tim-” you tried to get his attention, but he kept on rambling.
“—and I know that's like, a really shitty excuse, and you're probably mad at me right now—”
“Tim.”
“—but I promise to make it up to you when I have the time—”
“Timothy.”
His mouth snapped shut, cutting his rambling off short.
The room went silent, and that was when you took your chance to speak. “Can I talk now?” you asked rhetorically, lips slanting to a slight smile, taking a few small steps closer to where he was sat. In return, you saw him tensing, posture rigid on his chair whilst he looked up at you. You caught the way his palm flexed on the armrest of the chair. “Right. Okay, yes. Thank you,”
“I am upset,” you expressed honestly. His expressions fell and you felt a twinge of guilt before you went and continued, “But not ‘cause you bailed on me.”
You gestured for him to swivel his chair around with a finger. He looked confused but obeyed anyway, turning around to face his desk again.
“But because you overwork yourself too much.” You put your hands over his shoulders and started massaging the knots and kinks off his tense muscles, which made him groan quietly and relax more into your touch. “Have you even had a proper meal at all today?”
“I had coff-”
“Coffee doesn't count.”
Tim scoffed, “You, out of all people, can't be talking.”
Unfortunately, you couldn't help your case on that subject.
“Yeah, but this isn't about me.” You brushed him off with a snicker, hands still focused on kneading his back, shoulders, and the back of his neck. “Try again.”
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “…I had half a bagel this morning?”
You blinked, staring at the back of his head, a little bit dumbfounded. Was he serious? “You’re fucking hopeless.”
“I’m sorry…?”
You sighed again, failing to form a response that didn't include the words ‘you’re an idiot’ or anything else that would've remotely counted as an insult.
A few minutes went by in silence, the sound of the clock ticking the only thing breaking the quiet, as you were deeply focused on giving your best friend a massage— which you were quite decent at doing.
“Wrap it up,” you whispered at last, nodding at the monitor that was still on. “We’re going home.”
He turned his head, catching your gaze. “But-”
“You’re literally two seconds away from passing out right now, don't argue with me.” you snapped exasperatedly, fixing the man a heated glare. “You’ll get your report done faster when you're well-rested—which right now, you are not.”
Tim fell silent for a moment, letting your words sink into his head. It surprised you when he suddenly chuckled, quiet, but his eyes flickered with amusement. “You sound like Alfred.”
You huffed out a small laugh at that, admittedly feeling a bit of pride swell in your chest at the, in your humble opinion, compliment. Replying pointedly, with a slight smirk, “And he's always right, so he'd definitely agree with me.”
“Unfortunately.” The man shook his head, lips tipped to a grin.
Finally, you let your hands fall from his shoulders. Then snached his blazer off the chair, and tossed it on is lap before starting towards the door, not before turning on your heel and pointing a finger. “If you don't get your ass off that chair in the next five seconds, I will personally manhandle you out of there.”
He mumbled something under his breath as he shrugged on the blazer, but you didn't catch the words, having already stepped a few feet away from him.
“What was that?” you hummed distractedly, shortly glancing his way while you grabbed his coat off the hanger by the door.
“Nothing.”
You frowned, brows knitted in confusion, but quickly shrugged it off. He'd tell you if he wanted, and if he didn't, then you won't push.
Taking off his glasess, Tim placed it inside his desk drawer. His eyes catching onto the small Polaroid picture laid next to it in the small trinket tray you gave him, and he couldn't help but pause to admire it.
It was of him and you in Paris when you went there two summers ago. The Eiffel Tower lights shone behind the two of you as you faced the camera with matching beaming smiles. Your hands were folded atop his shoulders, his arm was wrapped around your waist while his other hand was occupied with the camera.
Your eyes were closed from the bright flashes of the camera, but he was looking right at you.
“Did you bring the car?” he asked finally after closing the drawer shut. Stretching in his seat for perhaps the first time in hours, groaning tiredly. Standing up after he'd switched off the computer, lazily throwing on his blazer, and approached you.
You made a face; you were stubborn, not stupid. Anyone that takes a cab this in Gotham is either very optimistic and brave or a is newcomer. Most of the time, either one of those scenarios would end up unpleasantly. “Duh. Contrary to my constant rants about hating life, I still would like to live it some more, thank you very much.”
You handed him his coat, watching him put it on. It looked great on him. But you averted your eyes before he could notice you.
Turning your head over your shoulder, you said, “You're sleeping for the next ten hours, by the way, nothing less.”
He sighed a worn-out “Yes ma'am,” and did a mock salute. Good. You were going to make sure he gets enough rest and enough food in his system, too. Since he's apparently shit at doing those things himself.
He opened the door and let you exit first, following hehind you as you made your way back to the elevator.
Cold night air swept back your hair the second you stepped out of the building with Tim in a tow, the rustling of trees mingling with the sound of vehicles honking not too far away from here.
You let your feet lead you to your usual parking spot as you fished out the keys out of your jacket pocket.
Tim held out his hand, silently asking for the keys. For, usually, he's almost always the one who would drive your car whenever you're out together.
But not tonight.
“No,” The vehicle unlocked with a beep. You jutted your chin towards the passenger’s side as you walked towards the driver’s one. “You’re being the passenger princess this time.”
The man was quite literally dragging his feet in exhaustion. So, for the sake of both your safety, it would be best if you drove.
Besides, you found driving to be relaxing, despite not being the best at it.
He stared at you. You stared back, almost expecting for him to insist, as he usually did, but you inwardly cheered when he didn't and complied.
You hopped in the car, throwing your bag haphazardly to the backseat while Tim sat back comfortably, a weary sigh drifting past his lips. “Fucking hell.” The sound of your seatbelts clicking in sync followed after.
“Yeah,” you hummed, starting the car, the engine revving to life, “That’s what happens when you don't enough sleep.”
For half the ride, the car was filled with muteness when you told Tim to get some shut-eye; and he did for a few minutes, but you could see that he wasn't very comfortable and was failing to sleep.
So, now, quiet random conversations filled the silence, slowed songs playing quietly in the background from one of the shared playlist he had picked out.
Purposefully avoiding the night traffic on your normal route—you were too tired to deal with all of that. You just couldn't wait to cuddle with your cat soon— you took a shortcut that would lead to a street just a couple blocks away from your apartment.
Was it a sketchy route? Absolutely. But who cares?
“Oh, we're not going to the manor?” he asked mid-conversation, probably after noticing that you didn't make the turn.
You kept your eyes ahead, “No, I’m taking you to my place.”
You knew him enough to know that if he was at the manor, the man would just get his hands on the Bat-computer and get his nightly business done.
Yeah, that's not happening.
He wasn't on patrol duty tonight, and you'd help him make better use of his time. Like getting a proper ten-hour sleep. And eating well without skipping meals. And anything else that doesn't involve work.
The silence on his end made you turn your head, and you were met with a smirking Tim Drake; the kind of smirk that told you he's on the verge of saying something dumb.
“To your place, huh?” he drawled out, cocking a brow, and you narrowed your eyes, flickering between him and the road ahead. “At least buy me a drink first.”
There it was.
Your jaw slacked, and choked out a shocked chortle. Unbelievable.
Was he flirting with you, or were you also equally as sleep-deprived and highly delusional? Your bet was on the latter.
But boy, was he in for a surprise.
You reached out—eyes still locked on the road because you valued your life and his, too—and opened the glove box, taking out the unopened bottle of water and offered it to him with a matching smirk on your lips.
A wheezing laugh rumbled out of his chest after he started at the bottle in your for a few seconds. The sound, in turn, making you laugh even louder.
“Unbelievable,” He shook his head, grinning ear-to-ear as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a large swig. “You just had to pull the Uno reverse on me.”
“Expect the unexpected.”
“Fair.”
“Uh-huh, so can I take you home, now?” You asked, feigning eagerness, then frowned when the green traffic light flashed red. Bright light spilled through the glass, coloring your surroundings a deep scarlet tone once you hit the brake.
A few other vehicles, as expected, ignored the lights and continued to drive away anyway.
The sight had you pursing your lips. You sort of wished you weren't such a rule follower.
“Sure.”
You quickly brightened up at that. “Yay! You yielded surprisingly fast.”
“You literally pestered me to,” he said blankly, his words threading through a yawn once more, scratching an itch on his forehead with a finger, “If I hadn't, you would've waited on the couch until you fall asleep. Couldn't do that to you.”
You glanced over at him, eyes softening for a fraction of a second.
That was sweet, but why were you even surprised at all? Tim has always been sweet. Not in the flowery proses kind of way, but in an absolute way that had you knowing that he's always there for you, even without him needing to say it out loud.
A certainty that kept you afloat, even through the worst waves of your life.
The thought made you smile.
“You’re smiling.” Tim observed, and you failed to notice how his eyes were locked on your lips.
“What I can't smile now?” you asked lightly, watching as pedestrians crossed the road.
“You can,” he stated, nodding his head. “I just wanna know what's inside that pretty head of yours that's making you smile.”
How do you tell your best friend of your whole twenty-one years of life that he was the main attraction in your mind, and that he was the reason why you were smiling without spilling out the contents of your heart and potentially ruin your friendship?
Yeah… no.
Instead, you asked, side-eyeing him, “You saying you only caved in for me, Timbelina?” Your fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel.
He took your hand from the wheel, squeezing it tight once, “For your poor, ill-postured back, actually,”
The addition had you scoffing incredulously in offense, even so, you couldn't help but cackle. “I’m sorry, but last I checked I wasn't the one who was practically draped over my computer like a hunchback. Don’t compare my perfect posture with your atrocious one.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, honey.”
You felt your cheeks burn at the nickname, despite the familiarity of it, the endearment never failed to have you flushing.
You leaned back in your seat, waiting for the lights to turn green, glaring at the street light like it would change if you do it hard enough.
It didn't.
“You’re so concerned about me all the time,” You started slowly, answering his earlier question with an omission— a truth, yet not the one on the front of your mind. Your little hand holding had somehow escalated into a lazy round of thumb war. “I wish you'd act the same way for yourself.”
He was winning, but you're not one to give up so easily. “But then you won't be scolding me anymore if I did that.” he said quiet and casually, his thumb dodging yours.
“Is that you saying that like it when I scold you?” You raised a brow, a crooked grin forming on your mouth, wide eyes clashing with his, red tinted from the lights ahead of you.
“That’s exactly what I'm saying.” His grin was sharp as he finally managed to pin your thumb down.
“Masochist.”
The car had gone quiet, and you hardly noticed it with Tim’s deep blue eyes pinning you in your place, hand still woven loosely with yours.
He didn't look away.
You didn't look away.
Not to wander around to his other features, not to the dark circles around his eyes, not to the strand of his hair that fell over his eyes.
Just to your favourite shade of blue.
It might've been the trick of light, or you might've imagined it, but you saw the way his gaze dropped to your lips for a split second, before it returned to your eyes again just as quickly.
The sound of a loud horn honking from the car behind had the two of you jolting, hands ripping away from the other’s, it was only after a hot second you realized that the traffic lights had finally turned green.
“Oh, shit.” You choked out, straightening awkwardly in your seat, heart racing as you hurried to drive again with the driver behind you honking more rapidly in impatience. You didn't do well under pressure.
When your heart rate had slowed, neither of you talked again for a good fifteen minutes after that… whatever that was.
A while later, only a few minutes away from your apartment, you ran into a surprise.
From a small distance, you saw a familiar motorbike parked in front of a small convenience store; the owner of the said motorbike leaning against it with a cigarette hanging off his lips, not-so-subtly stealing glances at the person who was behind the cashier inside the store.
Oh, you knew that look, even from here.
Sharing a look with Tim, who had also spotted the man from a distance—the tension back at the stoplight had dissipated, you were glad—you pulled up by the curb just outside the store, right in front of Jason. You returned his scowl with an innocent grin as you rolled down your window, while Tim gave a brief, mocking wave beside you.
“Well, what do we have here?” Your eyes darted between his sharp, glaring green ones and the very questionable bright purple PEN sign on the glass door behind him.
Was this some type of an erotica shop? you thought suspiciously. But what was Jason doing here?
Embarrassingly, you had to squint for a good few seconds to realize the fact that it was actually a sign that said OPEN, but the lights was burned out of the one singular ‘O’ letter.
*Not an erotica shop, then. Just a normal convenience store. Yeah, that makes more sense
“Your mom,” Jason snapped instantly, a wrinkle forming in-between his dark brows. Removing the lit cigarette from his teeth, smoke wafted out of his lips when he added, “Get out of my face.”
Tim took the words out of your mouth, the amusement heard clear as day. “No, no, no, I think we'll stay for a bit,” Your breath hitched when he leaned over the center console to peer behind his brother, most likely to assess the person at the cashier.
He was really close.
Driven by the sudden nerves, you took out your phone, unlocking it and… did nothing with it. It looked stupid, so you just clicked on a random app— the camera app, specifically. And just let the phone hover in your hands, hoping it would distract you and dispel the heat in your cheeks.
“The fuck do you want, huh?” Jason bit out sharply, though when his eyes connected with yours, there was a knowing glint there.
You turned your eyes away.
You breathed easily when Tim leaned back again, but your phone slipped from your hold and drops under your seat. You ducked down awkwardly in the cramped space, struggling as you tried to find it in the dark.
“Why are you out here,” said the younger of the two brothers, gesturing silently with his hand, eyes flickering to you. “staring inside there? That's a bit stalkerish of you, Jay,”
You heard Jason chuckle dryly. “That’s rich coming from you.”
You snorted, still trying to find for your phone, that was so much more difficult to do in the dark, plus, it was starting to feel a little claustrophobic. “He’s not wrong, Timmy,”
“You’re supposed to be on my side, honey.” You could hear the frown in his tone.
“I’m on no one’s side. I’m on the side where the truth is- yes!” you exclaimed cheerily when you finally found your phone.
Sitting upright again, puffing out a relieved breath, you turned your head and saw Tim, and he was oddly pink in the face. Which made you glance towards Jason, who had a smug smirk on his mouth.
You blinked in confusion. You were definitely missing something.
“…anything you wanna share with the class, boys?”
Jason looked away first, coughing a small “Nope.”
Tim cleared his throat, suddenly observing out the window and not meeting your eyes. “Uh, no.”
You slid your gaze between them, trying to gauge their expressions. That ended up being a fruitless attempt now that they've both looked elsewhere.
“You're being weird.” you told them, catching Jason glancing back at the store again. He looked a bit longing. It was kind of pathetic, to be honest. Now you were sure that he was looking at the cashier. You’d been unsure earlier.
Briefly, you see the pretty cashier glance out at him, you were sure that they were smiling shyly from inside the store.
Oh, so it’s like that, huh?
Your sight went back to Jason, and that he was smiling. Smiling! It was a small twitch on the corner of his lip, but there's no mistaking that it was actually a smile.
But before you could point that out, Tim piped up, “I’m not, but I did just caught Jason yearning—and that smile, too, and I took some pictures.” He lifted his phone which showed the exact scene you've just seen, and now it's caught on camera.
You marveled at the pictures as though they were some priceless art. “Oh my gosh, I freaking love you.”
He froze for a moment, then cleared his throat again. “Sending those to the group chat, by the way.” And he did just that. Sending the pictures with no context whatsoever.
For now, you just have to wait until the others see it and chew him out with teases.
He hid it well, but you knew the tells of a panicking Jason Todd, and right now is the perfect example of that. “Do that and I'll rip your faces off.” he threatened gruffly, but his voice held an almost imperceptible strain.
Cute.
“You smiled, Jay. And I have the perfect twenty-twenty vision.” Tim pointed out, now he's the one who's looking mischievous.
"I don't, but, yeah, I agree with him," The two men snorted, you ignored them. You went on, equally as smug as your counterpart. “That was a smile, Todd, I didn't know you could do that.”
The second you hear his phone buzz in one of those many pockets, you started the engine, readying your escape.
“You little shits-!”
And that was your cue to leave.
You stomped on the accelerator, yelling out the window: “Bye Jason! Tell your sweetheart we said hi!” and drove off, leaving a disgruntled, and possibly freaked out Jason alone at the wake.
After greeting a small “Hi,” to Walter, your doorman, you and Tim dragged your feet over to the elevator, pressing the button on for the seventh floor.
Your best friend slumped on the mirrored wall across from you once the doors had closed, head lolling down, sighing quietly.
“Don’t sleep yet,” you told him in a murmur, watching the numbers ascend from G. “Have some food, at least, I’ll cook something up.”
He muttered your name in protest “It's midnight.” That single sentence held so much disagreement by his tone alone.
You shrugged, “So?” The doors slid open, and you walked out, carefully so your heels wouldn't make much noise, heading for your unit—Unit 710.
Your keys jingled as you took it out of your pocket, then heard the muffled pitter-patter of paws scratching on the other side of the door, and you took a deep breath before pushing it the door open.
As expected, a very chunky and feral ball of pretty black fur attacked you with a very loud yowl, tiny sharp claws dug into your pants.
You barely stepped a foot inside.
“I left you for an hour.” you deadpanned, frowning down at Clover, your cat, as you removed your jacket and hung it on the coat rack, then removed your shoes and slipped on your slippers before you ambled in.
No dirty shoes are allowed inside your place. God knows whatever gross germs had touched the soles of people’s—including yours—shoes.
Tim did the same behind you, laughing quietly. “Let her be. She has abandoned issues,” He picked her up as soon as he slipped on his sandals and went further inside with her practically purring in his. hold.
You watched with a sour look, you could've sworn she looked smug when her beady green eyes were on you.
That little traitor. You were the one who feeds her everyday, takes her to the vet, bathes her, give her treats, and yet, she still preferred her absent dad.
“You spoil her. Now she hates me.” you huffed, turning off the harsh light of the room, and instead, went around to turn on the small lamplights you have around.
“She doesn't hate you,” he insisted, watchful eyes following you as you circled around the room, leaning against the wall. “She just likes me better. Don't you?” He kissed Clover’s head, petting her fur softly and put her down again.
You decided that you weren't going to ridiculous and be jealous of your cat.
“Asshole.” you laughed, scrunching your nose at the Clover when she trudged towards you, big eyes observing you at your feet. You tilted your head over to the hall where the bathroom was, all while you sauntered over to your bedroom to go change. “Wash up. I’ll see if I could cook something up really quickly.”
Tim pushed himself off the wall and called after you, “You really don't have to.”
You closed your bedroom door without an answer, leaving him at the living room.
And he acquiesced afterward, raising his voice a tad so you could hear him from your bedroom, groaning, “Fine, but I’m washing the dishes!”
Wonderful.
About fifteen minutes of your fabulous skincare routine later, you exited your bedroom; hair thrown up carelessly, now clad in a large shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.
You headed for the kitchen, fetching a few ingredients from your fridge and pantry when you're there. As well as your appliances whilst you settled on cooking a one-pot pasta with a recipe you've found on the internet a while back.
Clover was acting as a little helper—as in, she helped clean your floor by eating the parmesan that you had accidentally dropped—and just hover by your feet as you hobbled between the kitchen island and the stove.
“No,” you drew out in warning for the third time, distractedly stirring the pot as your cat jumped on the counter and start sniffing the spices again.
She had been doing that repeatedly.
Clover sniffed again and recoiled, dashing away, sneezing. You felt terrible when you couldn't stop your snort. “I told you.”
Turning off the stove when you finished cooking, you transferred the pasta onto the two plates you've prepared, eyeing the pot approvingly when you saw you measured the portions perfectly this time.
That was when Tim walked in; hair mussed and damp from the shower, clothed in a white t-shirt and sweatpants.
He stopped short in his tracks.
And just stared at you like he was stunned.
You put the empty pot on the sink, amongst the other dirty dishes and utensils that you've used earlier. “Hey, come here,” you ushered, pulling out your stool on the island and sat down. “I made pasta. Not as good as Alfred's but this is way better than those cardboard-like frozen pizzas you like.”
You looked up when he didn't say anything. He was still standing in his place. “Hey… you good?”
He blinked, shaking himself out of his you-induced stupor. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” He strolled in and took a seat on the stool next to you. “Thanks for making this.” he whispered, and your heart warmed at the sincerity in his tone.
“Yeah, of course,” You flashed him a soft smile in return.
And you both ate your food, occasionally talking over mundane topics. And once you finished your meals, as Tim promised, he volunteered to wash the dishes, whilst you just sat on the counter by him, accompanying, if you will.
By the time you start to feel tired, you both migrated towards the couch after brushing your teeth, Tim reminded you of how bad it was to sleep right after dinner, so you both agreed on doing calm activities to pass the time.
That was alternating between reading and conversing to avoid sleep for at least an hour.
“Oh my god, why is he here?” Tim gaped in surprise, reading over your shoulder. He wasn't much of a reader—much less a romance reader—so his every reaction to the stuff you read are always amusing to you.
And somehow, you've successfully roped him into reading one of your romance books with you. And he's enjoying it, too, which was a rare occurrence.
“He broke his engagement, and travelled six hundred kilometres just to be with her, isn't that so sweet?” You were raving, yes, you were aware of that. But you also couldn't help but to gush over one of your favourite books.
“Damn,” He whistled lowly, turning the page. You let him, even if you hadn't finished reading that page; you've read this book a good ten times more since you read it the first time.
He finished reading a few more chapters when he noticed you yawning. It was nearly two in the morning, and you were starting to feel tired: not enough for you to sleep yet, but enough for you to fully relax.
“Hey,” Tim whispered in your ear. “You tired?” He closed the book, putting it on the side table. Then he shuffled to lay next to you, pulling you in to his chest.
You curled yourself up in his arms instantly, sighing at the warmth that enveloped you once you did. “Kind of,” You confessed in the same gentle whisper. “Talk to me. About anything, so I can sleep.”
He cocked a lazy brow, his voice a low rasp. “How does that work?”
You closed your eyes, “I don't know. Your voice just puts me to sleep.”
“You basically just called me boring.”
“Yeah, I did.”
A pause.
“Your lack of hesitation hurts me.”
“Deal with it.”
His chest heaved as he let out a long sigh. “I'm sorry.”
Those two words made your eyes snap open, and sought for his in the dim light. “For what?” you asked, mouth pulled to a frown.
“For bailing on you,” he said again, and you almost objected when he continued on, “You've been planning that outing for weeks. And I told you I had time, but then I forgot about it. I don't know, I just feel so guilty.”
You waited to see if he would say more, when he didn't, you began, “Tim, don't apologise,” You gaze aligned with his. “I’m not mad. Or- well, I was, at first. But mostly at myself. The reason I suggested those plans in the first place was actually for you.”
“For me?” He seemed confused.
“Mhm,” you nodded, “You've been so busy these past few months, I thought that maybe it'd be nice for you to take a break for once, even just for a weekend.”
His eyes softened as he looked down at you. He was speechless, as if your words had completely thrown him off-kilter.
Then he laughed. Soft, and sweet, and beautiful. For some reason, that made you laugh too.
He tucked an unruly tendril of your hair behind your ear, and for the first time, the butterflies didn't leave you flustered, just comfortable. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”
You nestled under his chin, words dampened by his skin. “I don't know, maybe you should keep me around.” And in your heart, you knew this was what home felt like. Maybe one day you'll be brave enough to say it out loud. But in the meantime, you'd tuck this little secret to yourself.
He breathed deeply, arms tightening around you like a blanket.
“Maybe I will.”
❀ honorary mentions to my lovelies @livlocus @yuunarii-arii @your-mommy-ems MWAH ily all so much🫶🏻
⋆˙⟡ synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you don’t expect him to come back—but he does, except now he’s jason, your cute regular.
⋆˙⟡ author’s notes: i’ve probably said this like fifty times, but i’m restarting my dcu taglist. i’ll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate reader’s gender—i have always written gen!reader.
✏ read part two───EXCUSE ME, I’M OUT OF RHYTHM! ౄ
Your clenched hand bangs on the “OPEN” sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt out—the “O”, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word “PEN” basically written on its front door. Let’s say it doesn’t naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. You’re pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.
“Does this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?” Your manager, an old lady whom you’ve just learned to call ma’am instead of her real name—Marjorie—barks your way before opening the door to finally head home.
How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.
“More like a stationery shop,” you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, “I’m not sure people expect us to be selling anything… mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.”
“I’ll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.” She’s still pointing at you, even though she’s half out of the door. “Take care of the place, don’t forget to clean up.”
“Sure, ma’am.” You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.
You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.
There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.
Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.
You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.
The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.
No.
You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.
You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.
But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.
What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.
You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.
You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.
God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?
What are you even thinking right now?
It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.
Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.
You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.
You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.
So, he finds this funny, huh.
“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.
“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.
“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.
He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.
“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?
“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”
“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.
You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.
“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.
“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”
Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.
“And what would that be?”
If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.
He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.
“I want a cigarette.”
What.
“You want a what?”
Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.
He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.
“Seriously?”
“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”
“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.
“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”
“You just had to mess with me, huh?”
“Couldn’t help myself.”
You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.
“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.
“You worried, sweetheart?”
“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”
He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.
“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”
“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”
You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.
“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.
You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.
“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”
God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?
He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.
Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.
He does have big hands, though.
“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.
“I didn’t agree to anything.”
“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”
There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.
He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.
You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.
“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.
“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.
He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.
“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”
The bell rings. He’s gone.
You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.
Then back at the door.
What the hell just happened?
You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.
And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.
+++
“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”
“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”
Unfortunately.
You should have stayed home.
“You said he had a gun!”
“And a knife.”
“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”
“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.
You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.
Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.
Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.
“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.
“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”
“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”
You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.
God, what are you doing?
“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”
“Yellow Spirits?”
“Yes, those.”
“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”
“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”
You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.
Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.
She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?
“Marjorie, what is that?”
“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”
You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.
“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.
“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”
As if she’s the one restocking.
She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.
You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.
You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.
This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.
To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.
Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.
He already saw you.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”
The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.
This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.
Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.
You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.
Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.
“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”
“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.
He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.
You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.
No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.
He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.
“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”
Who even says that?
You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.
“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”
By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.
“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.
For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.
“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”
“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”
“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”
“Same thing, sweetheart.”
There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.
It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.
“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.
“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”
He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.
“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”
Two can play that game.
“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”
“Like what?”
You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.
“Like you just walked off a movie set.”
Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.
God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.
“So you have noticed.”
‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”
“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”
Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.
“I liked the leather jacket better.”
“Noted.”
He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
“Doing what?”
"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."
Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.
“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”
“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”
“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”
“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”
His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”
Shit.
“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”
“Sure you did.”
He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.
“You’re already here today.”
“And?”
You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.
“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—
Stop it.
But he’s totally doing this on purpose.
Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.
You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.
He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.
You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.
“What’s this say?”
“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”
You look up. “What?”
“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”
“You have hands.”
“And you’re holding it.”
The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.
“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”
“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”
Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.
Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.
The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.
“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”
“You’re already here today.”
“And?”
You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.
“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.
“You forgot your cigarettes.”
He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.
“No, I didn’t.”
The bell rings.
He’s gone.
+++
The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.
You feel lonely.
Ridiculous.
Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.
You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.
The bell rings.
Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.
A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.
Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.
You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”
“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.
He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.
His hands are shaking.
Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.
He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.
“That everything?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.
“Sir?”
He looks up.
And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.
“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.
He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.
You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.
“Sir? Your change.”
He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”
Then he walks to the door.
Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.
He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.
A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—
He turns around.
The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.
He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.
“I changed my mind,” he says.
“About the Gatorade?”
“About all of it.”
His hand goes to his waistband.
You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.
The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.
“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.
A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.
Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”
Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.
The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.
“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”
He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.
“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”
“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”
His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.
This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”
He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.
“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”
“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”
He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.
“I said call her.”
Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.
The bell rings.
You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.
But he does.
The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.
And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.
Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.
One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.
You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.
Oh, you think. That’s not good.
Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.
You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.
“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”
You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.
“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.
“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”
“You’re late. So fucking late.”
A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”
Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.
The lighter.
The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.
Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.
“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”
Hood goes very still.
“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”
“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”
You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.
The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.
“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”
Then nothing.
+++
The beeping is the first thing you hear.
You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.
The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.
And, you’re in it.
You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.
Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.
— Marj.
You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.
Fuck.
You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.
You thought you were going to die.
Until he showed up.
You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.
You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—
The window.
There’s something at the window.
A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—
The shape moves.
A tap, glass against knuckle.
You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.
Jason is standing on the fire escape.
He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.
You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.
You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.
“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”
“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.
He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.
Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?
“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”
His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.
“You look like shit,” you say.
He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”
“Fair.”
He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.
“The lighter,” you say.
He goes still.
“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”
Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.
“I know,” he says.
“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”
He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.
“You what?”
“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.
You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.
“I’m not dead,” you say.
“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”
“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.
Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.
He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.
He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.
The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.
“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”
“So you didn’t come to see me?”
He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.
“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”
“Three hours?”
“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”
You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.
“You’re an idiot,” you say.
“I’ve been told.”
“A stupid idiot.”
“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”
You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.
“You’re staying,” you say.
“I can’t—”
“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”
“Four hours,” he repeats.
“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”
“I’m very good at multitasking.”
He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”
He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.
The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.
They don’t ask questions. Thank god.
This is Gotham, after all.
⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).
— You’re just a first year nursing student attending NYU, faced with the impending deadline of finding a roommate, you take up a strangers offer, not knowing just the whirlwind of events and trouble you’ve admitted yourself into. Not only are you going to be juggling your studies and navigating through your new profound life, but you’ll also be tasked to become the babysitter of the city’s greatest hero. Because who knew, your unsuspecting Roommate Keonho, likes to play dress up as Spiderman as well?
warnings: inappropriate language, curse words, crack jokes, Keonho is secretly Spiderman, teasing, bad decisions, anxiety, mentions of injuries/bruises/cute, combat, violence mention, university au, based in New York/ NYU, nursing module
Summary: Tim gets injected with truth serum. Fluff, mentions of smut.
Nightwing delivered Tim through your window like a very expensive, very irritated parcel.
He landed in a crouch, immediately straightened, and pointed at you with absolute conviction. “There she is.”
You blinked. “Hi?”
Nightwing rubbed the back of his neck. “So. Long story short: he got injected with truth serum during a mission. Not dangerous. Should wear off by morning. B ran some tests and gave him a sedative. But he’s…chatty.”
“I am fine,” Tim announced loudly. “I just want to be with my girlfriend. Is that a crime?”
Dick winced. “Good luck,” he said sincerely, and then he was gone, leaving you alone with Red Robin, helmet under one arm, eyes a little too bright, smile a little too loose.
You took a careful step closer. “Tim?”
He looked at you like he’d just been handed the meaning of life.
“Oh wow,” he said. “You’re real. That’s good. Sometimes when I’m dizzy I hallucinate you, but usually you’re wearing less.”
“Okay,” you said, already guiding him toward the bedroom. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He went willingly, too willingly, hands drifting to your hips like that was simply where they belonged.
“Did I ever tell you,” he said conversationally, “how good your ass looks in those shorts?”
You snorted despite yourself. “Yes. Many times. Mostly inside your head, probably.”
“I don’t like inside my head right now,” Tim replied earnestly. “Also, your legs are unfair. I think about them on patrol. It’s distracting.”
You pushed the bedroom door open and steered him inside. He flopped onto the bed without resistance, sprawling like a cat that trusted gravity completely.
You reached for his boots.
“I really love your mouth,” Tim added thoughtfully, staring at the ceiling. “Especially when you’re analyzing something. You get that little line between your eyebrows. Or when you’re...”
“Tim,” you warned.
“...being affectionate,” he finished, smiling innocently. “Very versatile mouth. Big fan.”
You pressed your lips together, hands stilling on his laces. “You’re going to sleep.”
“Can I tell you things before I sleep?” he asked.
“You’re doing that anyway.”
“True,” he said, nodding. “Efficiency.”
You got his boots off, his jacket next, working carefully around his gear. He watched you the entire time, gaze warm and unfocused.
“I love you,” he said suddenly, softly. “Never leave me. I already checked: legally, financially, logistically. We’re compatible long-term. I’ll give you my bank account info if you want.”
You laughed, unable to help it, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “You’re not allowed to make life decisions right now.”
“That’s fair,” he agreed. “But I still mean it.”
You guided him to lie back properly, tugged a blanket over him. He caught your wrist before you could pull away.
“Babe, sweetheart,” he said, eyes serious even through the haze. “Stay. Just until I fall asleep.”
You melted instantly, curse of your life.
You curled in beside him. He wrapped around you immediately, nose pressed to your hair, sighing like he’d finally been calibrated correctly.
“Good,” he murmured. “Everything’s right when you’re here.”
Within minutes, his breathing evened out, the truth serum finally losing its grip and the sedative kicking in.
You lay there smiling, stroking his hair.
You’d never let him live this down. But you’d treasure it forever.
MY BOYFRIEND THINKS HES SPIDERMAN ───── kim ryul 𓂃 𓈒𓏸
SYNOPSIS always wondered what's it like to have a spider-man obsessed boyfriend? glad you're dating kim ryul also known as spideryul !
PROJECTS ᠀୧ ryul x f!reader — established relationship, humor, swearing, spiderman obsessed boyfriend, cringe overload, teasing, reader is lowkey ihatemybf, petnames
𐐂𐐚 spiderhyeon ! available to read .
───── ness : am i milking the spiderverse since i pushed out the spiderhyeon agenda and now im doing this with lngshot...? woops call me original -_- !! lmao i just thought this was cute !
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 — whereas Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester, he never expected his college best friend to start dating you— the person he’d wanted all along. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
cw: yearning, strangers to lovers, one-sided love, requited love, slight manipulation, mr. steal your girl(?), Tim wants reader so badly, HAPPY ENDING, fluff, irrelevant OCs, slowburn, reader is in a relationship, NO CHEATING INVOLVED, tim respectfully plays the waiting game, he is more of a plotter than a messy person.
lwk listened to girlfriend by avril lavigne & boyfriend by justin bieber on loop. wc: 16k
The first time Tim had met you, it was not anything special.
There was no dramatic collision in the hallway, no moment where time seemed to slow and the world sharpened around your face.
You were simply there, seated a few rows ahead of him in a lecture hall that smelled faintly of dry erase markers and iridescent lights, flipping through your notebook with absentminded focus and a laptop that had an open tab of a clothing brand, another piece of shirt that would compliment you.
Tim knew you both had taken a class together in the first semester, one of those general education requirements that pulled students from every major into the same crowded room.
It had been easy not to notice you then, easy to let you blend into the background of rustling backpacks and low conversation before the professor began to speak while he completely zones out.
What registered first was familiarity.
When he walked into the classroom and spotted you again in the second semester, a quiet recognition settled in his chest, the subtle surprise of realizing someone else had survived the same academic gauntlet and ended up here too.
It was rare to see a familiar face that was not tied to his major, rarer still for it to be someone he vaguely remembered for reasons he could not immediately place.
He remembered your handwriting from group work signs in sheets, the way you always underlined titles twice, the fact that you asked questions that were thoughtful without trying to impress anyone.
Someone who arrived a few minutes early and claimed the same seat near the aisle. Someone who sighed softly when the professor went off on a tangent, who laughed under your breath at jokes that barely landed. Tim noticed these things without meaning to, the same way he noticed patterns everywhere else in his life. None of it felt important at the time.
You were just another student, another name on the roster, another presence in a room full of them.
If anyone had asked him then, he would have said meeting you meant nothing at all.
Just a coincidence.
Just shared schedules and overlapping paths.
But it kind of changed when he started to interact with you.
It was never anything important, never anything that felt like the start of something. Small comments exchanged before class, a quiet complaint about an upcoming exam, a brief conversation about how unbearable the assigned readings were. Mundane things. Things he would not have remembered on any other day.
And yet, he found himself listening.
He listened when you talked about how you always forgot to bring a charger and lived in a constant state of low battery panic. He listened when you mentioned grabbing coffee after class, not as an invitation, just as information offered into the air. He listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke about things you liked, even when the topic was painfully ordinary compared to.. well, Tim’s night life.
Somehow, you had decided to sit next to him through these lectures.
You went on about your weekend plans, part time jobs, a professor you could not stand.
Tim told himself it was nothing.
He was just being polite.
Just filling the silence like everyone else did.
But somewhere along the way, he realized he was paying attention in a way he did not with anyone else.
He remembered details he did not need to remember.
The brand of pens you preferred, the way you tapped your fingers against the desk when you were thinking and the way you slightly lift your shoulders when you laughed, like you were surprised by your own amusement.
The conversations never lingered long.
They ended when class began, when one of you packed up your things, when life naturally pulled you in separate directions.
Still, he caught himself replaying them afterward, cataloging your words as if they held weight simply because they had come from you.
It unsettled him, a little.
How something so ordinary could start to feel significant.
That was when it started, when he began to have this small, itsy bitsy, nothing serious kind of crush on you.
“It was just proximity,” he told himself, over and over, as if repeating it enough times would make it true. As if that alone explained why he started waking up earlier than he ever had before, setting alarms he did not need, just so he could take his time.
Why he stood in front of his closet longer than usual, choosing something awfully comfortable yet still deliberate, still stylish in a way that looked effortless if no one thought too hard about it.
He paid attention to things he normally did not.
Made sure his hair did not resemble a bird’s nest, fingers combing through it until it sat just right. He actually showered in the morning now, instead of the night before, letting the hot water wake him fully as he went through the motions with more care than necessary.
He chose a scent that lingered without being overwhelming, something clean, something he thought you might notice if you were close enough.
And then there was the mirror.
He’d lowkey snap outfit flicks.
Sometimes, it would be little videos or photos perfectly timed to show off how his clothes fit just right, and the fact he could fit your aesthetic, or match your outfits like what couples usually do (you guys barely interacted more than 15 minutes and he doesn’t even have your instagram, because he’s a wimp to ask, even though he had found you on Instagram easily).
Everyone likes a guy that could dress and match them, right? Right.
He’d pick a song that matched the vibe as well, something cool but casual, and post it to his Instagram story, followed by hundreds of thousands of people since he’s famously one of Bruce’s adopted sons, which comes with perks and downsides (this was one of the downsides), but without making a big deal out of it.
Then, of course, he’d save those stories to his highlights, making it easy for you to stumble across them whenever you felt like it. All so you could—whether you wanted to or not— notice just how cool and awesome his fits were.
Yeah, he was a total D1-plotter, and he wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed of it.
Because, really— if girls could do it, why couldn’t guys?
He has a second account as well, only followed by his close friends, his annoying older brothers and Damian too, but he absolutely could not wait for you to eventually be added to his spam account.
One that had more outfit flicks saved neatly in his highlights. Another filled with his friends getting up to shenanigans he would never post publicly on the main, the kind of moments meant only for people he trusted.
Mixed in between were appearances from his brothers, candid shots and blink and you miss it videos that felt oddly domestic for someone like him, and then there were the miscellaneous things. Late night thoughts typed in tiny text, blurry city lights, half eaten food, dumb memes, moments that did not need context to matter.
And because Tim is a show-off, he’s definitely bringing his skateboard to ride around campus today, so he could catch your attention, most likely talk to you, compliment your outfit of the day, ask for your Instagram, and uh, talk about how long he’s been skateboarding and if he could do a kickflip, which he abso-flipping-lutely could do one.
Not only that, he also had a highlight of videos of skateboard tricks too on his spam account, clean landings, a few near wipes, proof that he actually knew what he was doing and was not just carrying it around for show.
And boom.
There ya’ go.
Simple as that.
A small plan with a big hope: to get a little closer, one casual skate session and maybe even one date with you.
Before he knew it, Tim was out of his apartment, cruising down the sidewalks with the breeze tugging at his jacket, the familiar hum of wheels against concrete keeping his mind sharp. Up ahead, something, or rather, someone— caught his eye. A familiar figure, moving at their own pace, completely unaware of him approaching.
“Yo, Miro!”
Tim called out, his voice cutting through the morning air with an easy confidence.
He stopped smoothly, catching his skateboard with one hand and tilting it casually within his hold, like it was no effort at all.
“Hey, man!”
Miro greeted him with a laugh, already extending his hand.
Tim understood immediately, muscle memory kicking in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat.
Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.
“You freshened up today, bro, tryna impress someone?”
Miro pulls away with a raised brow, clearly noticing the way Tim’s hair sat a little too neat to be accidental, the whole look pulled together in that effortlessly intentional way. And then there was the scent— something clean, subtle, and lingering just enough to be noticed when he stepped closer.
Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shifted his grip on the skateboard. “What? Nah,” he said a little too quickly, which absolutely did not help his case.
He shrugged like it was nothing, like he always looked this put together, like the extra effort not been deliberate at all.
But the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.
“Can’t a guy look good for himself?” He added, tone light, defensive in that way that meant Miro had hit a nerve that made Miro whistled a teasing tune, nudging his shoulder against Tim’s own.
He leaned back on his heel, pretending the conversation was amusing rather than mildly exposing, even as the smell of his cologne hung in the air, undeniable proof that, yeah— he had definitely freshened up for a reason.
“You’re such a liar, Tim. Is it that girl you’ve been tellin’ me about in your class?”
Tim’s shoulders deflated.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice dropping just a notch, “she’s the pretty girl I’ve been telling you about.” He confirms, glancing away for half a second, jaw tightening like he was bracing himself. “I wanna ask her out, but I’m flippin’ nervous.”
Miro immediately cooed in mock sympathy, dragging it out just to be annoying. “Aww,” he teased, pressing a hand to his chest. “Look at you. Tim Drake, nervous over a girl.”
Tim shot him a look, equal parts warning and embarrassment. “Don’t,” he muttered, shifting his weight, skateboard tapping lightly against the pavement. “This is serious.”
Miro just grinned wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Nah, I get it,” he said, still not letting go of the teasing tone. “She’s got you down bad.”
Tim huffed, rubbing the back of his neck.
Miro was more than just some random guy he talked to in passing that happened to be going in the same direction, but he was an actual friend.
They had shared a computer science class in their first semester, ended up sitting next to each other by chance, and somehow never stopped talking after that. What started as borrowing a charger and comparing notes had turned into easy conversations, inside jokes, and a familiar presence that made long lectures more bearable.
Miro is also the kind of friend who notices things.
And if anyone was going to call him out for putting in extra effort, for being nervous in a way he rarely was, it was Miro and most likely Steph.
Which made admitting it out loud both easier and infinitely more embarrassing.
“Are we still going out for drinks with Steph, Zinnia, and Ezra?” Tim asked, a little too quickly, very obviously changing the topic before Miro could dig any deeper into his small crush.
“Mhm,” Miro hummed, an entertained smile tugging at his lips at the sudden change of topic as he nodded along. “Though Ezra said he’s bringing his girl to meet us, even though he doesn’t want to.” He shook his head, a small frown settling in. “Don’t get why Ezra’s ashamed of her. It’s cool if he brings her along, y’know?”
Tim frowned at that, brows knitting together. “Ashamed?” he repeated, tone sharper than he intended. He shifted his skateboard under his arm once more, jaw tightening.
“That’s… weird, I didn’t know he had a girl.”
“Right?” Miro pitched his voice, pulling a drink from the side of his bag. “Like, either you’re with someone or you’re not, hiding her just makes it worse and yah’ I didn’t know either.”
Tim nodded slowly, the thought sticking with him longer than he expected. The idea of being embarrassed by someone you chose to be with rubbed him the wrong way.
He exhaled, forcing his expression back to neutral.
“Ya’ think it’s like a situationship? I thought he was still hung up with ya’know who.”
Miro snorts at that.
“Nah,” Miro said immediately, waving it off. “Even though Ezra keeps talkin’ about how many people he’s getting and all that, he’s been telling me she’s a keeper and that he’s moved on from that big ol’ crush.”
Tim hummed at that, thoughtful, eyes briefly dropping to the pavement, letting Miro run his mouth to fill the silence between them as he took a swig of his bottled water. “Man, how does Ezra do it?” Miro muttered, kicking a pebble. “Dude has the charisma that could probably rival Nightwing.”
Miro scoffs, but Tim raised a brow at his own words, the comparison landing heavier than he expected.
His older brother’s vigilante name had a way of doing that, slipping into conversations uninvited and lingering longer than necessary, becoming a symbol to Gotham and his charm that had women posting forums about how they bet he looks good underneath that mask.
Dick had always been like that, though.
Effortless charm, easy smiles, and the kind of presence that pulled people in without trying.
“I would pay to see Nightwing and Ezra going toe to toe,” Tim mused, lips quirking up as the image formed in his head.
He already knew how it would end.
Ezra would lose.
Badly.
Even with a pretty face, it did not come close to Dick Grayson, which he could honestly admit— it was a fact that everyone and their mama knew.
That was just an unfair comparison.
Dick’s face is literally a public service at this point, plastered across magazines and billboards, the undisputed #1 lethal face card of the Wayne family, according to Reddit, Twitter, and an article that had statistics, polls, and the golden ratio of their face displayed on Gotham Gazette’s ranking on the Wayne family.
It was the kind of face that launched headlines, sponsorships, and unnecessary levels of public adoration.
Tim shook his head, half amused, and half resigned.
It was wild growing up next to that kind of genetic overachievement that did things to a person. Still, he could not deny it. If charisma were a competition, Nightwing would win without even realizing he was playing.
Tim was fine with that.
He was perfectly content sitting at number three on Gotham’s Gazette ranking, unofficially crowned “pretty boy” by the internet and whatever unhinged ranking system people had cooked up that week.
A pretty boy should be with a pretty girl.
And you’re a pretty girl.
“Hey, don’t bail on us again,” Miro nudges his shoulder into Tim’s.
Tim stumbled half a step, scoffing as he steadied himself. “I don’t bail,” he protested automatically, even though they both knew that was a lie.
“You and Steph bail way too much,” Miro continued, pointing at him. “You guys gotta stop studying for once and live a little.”
Tim sighed, eyes flicking away as he adjusted his grip on the skateboard. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. “We’ll live a little.” He paused, then added more quietly, “No promises, though.”
Miro grinned, clearly taking that as a win anyway.
Even if he did not know the exact reason why Tim and Stephanie were always the first to cancel, always the ones juggling too much, there was a reason for it.
One neither of them could ever say out loud.
The weight of responsibility sat heavy on their shoulders, the unspoken duty of protecting the city of Gotham shaping their choices long before plans with friends ever could.
“Hey, after classes wanna go grab lunch?” Miro offered, grinning like he already knew the answer.
And he did.
“Yeah,” he accepts, like it was the simplest decision in the world. “I’m down.”
Obvious, really.
If you thought Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne would obtain your phone number, then you were dead wrong.
He was far too much of a wimp to ask.
Instead, he stuck with the casual approach, offering a compliment on your outfit as he watched you walk in dressed cutely. You always tended to dress up a bit more on Fridays, he had noticed that over time. A little extra effort, a little more intention, like you already had plans waiting for you once the day was over.
Most likely going out with your friends, since your Instagram did not show any highlight of a significant other. No tag in your bio, no initials tucked beside your name, no subtle hints hidden in your profile picture.
Tim had noticed all of it, cataloged it without meaning to, filed it away like evidence he was not supposed to be collecting.
“Hey, Tim.” You greet, “you look nice today.”
“Hey, UH, um,” he started, the words tripping over each other as soon as you sat down beside him. He froze for half a second, watching you turn toward him, grinning with clear amusement at how flustered he suddenly was.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks, your outfit looks really nice too,” he managed, finally meeting your eyes. “Going somewhere?”
The question hung there, casual on the surface, but his heart was already racing ahead of it, waiting to see what you would say.
““Thank you— cat got your tongue?” you teased playfully, your smile only widening as you spoke. “But yeah, I’m gonna be with a few of my friends at the shopping center.”
The way your mouth curved when you smiled did something to him, a quiet rush of satisfaction settling in his chest. Tim felt his chest loosened as he nodded along, listening closely, like every word mattered. “That’s nice,” he softly replied. “Anything particular you’re getting?”
You perked up at that, launching into a small tangent about something you had been eyeing for a while, hands moving as you spoke and pulled out your phone to show an image of models wearing the products you’ve been looking for. Tim listened, really listened, mentally noting every detail even though he did not need to.
“A red scarf?” he repeated, brows lifting slightly.
He paused, eyes flicking over you for half a second longer than necessary. “That would… look good on you,” he added, softer now. “Compliments you a lot.”
Tim had a red scarf in his closet, it’s the exact same brand and color of a burgundy red from the picture you’ve shown.
He got it last year from Kon.
Perhaps, he could wear that scarf when he goes out for drinks with the others later tonight?
Yeah.
“Really, you think so?” you asked, and Tim could have sworn your eyes twinkled as you fiddled with your necklace, fingers brushing the chain in a way that felt unintentionally devastating and he could tell that you’re imagining the red scarf on you.
“Yeah,” he repeated, a little more certain this time. His voice softened, earnest without trying to be. “I do.”
He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing himself to hold your gaze even as his heart picked up speed.
“Thank you.” You were grinning brightly, flustered from the way you stopped fiddling on your necklace and decided to prop your hand against your chin, glancing away from Tim’s gaze to his skateboard that’s settled beside the space you’re in, settled on the nose and tail of the board, displaying the deck that only had stickers filled every corner of the space, leaving no room.
“You skate?”
Tim’s face lit up immediately, the nerves easing just a bit. “Yeah,” he admits, almost too quick, shifting the board with his foot so it leaned closer into view. “For a while now, actually.” He glanced at you, catching the interest in your eyes on the stickers.
“Most of these are from places I’ve been or people I’ve met,” he explained, a little sheepish. “I keep telling myself I’ll stop adding them since it’s already filled, but I never do.”
He straightened when he realized he was rambling, clearing his throat. “Uh— do you skate too? Or just appreciating the aesthetic?” There was a hint of a smile there, something softer, hopeful.
Your eyes flicked back up to his, amused, and the way you leaned in just a bit made his chest tighten.
“Kind of, but it never stuck around.” You shrugged, “it’s definitely fun, I enjoy longboards to cruise, but nothing crazy.” Tim positively hummed at that, a plan forming within his mind.
“Well, if you don’t mind, you should definitely ride along with—”
The door swung open.
The professor walked in with an announcement that cut straight through the low hum of conversation, immediately pulling everyone’s attention forward and shutting Tim’s offer down mid sentence. He froze, mouth closing just as quickly as it had opened.
You glanced at him, lips tugging into a small, pitying smile that made his chest ache a little. You leaned closer, whispering, “tell me after?”
Tim nodded, just once, trying not to smile too hard as he turned back toward the front. “Yeah,” he murmured.
“After.”
The lecture dragged on in a blur of slides and half-heard explanations, Tim’s focus slipping every time his mind circled back to you.
He replayed the moment over and over, the way you’d leaned in, the quiet promise in your voice. Tell me after.
He told himself he wouldn’t forget.
That he’d wait, that he’d bring it up when the second class ended.
Except class ended too fast.
People stood, bags zipped, chairs scraped against the floor. Someone asked him a question about notes and someone pointed out his skateboard asking where’d he got it from. And by the time Tim looked up again, you were already halfway out the door, glancing back once with a small wave before disappearing into the hallway.
He lifted his hand too late.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Hours later, he was sitting at the bar with Miro and Steph at a circular booth table, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched much, wearing that red scarf you mentioned, to fight the cold outside but a reminder he served himself of his failure today.
The place was loud enough to blur the edges of the day, music humming low, glasses clinking around them.
“I literally had the perfect opening,” Tim was saying, frustration leaking into his voice despite how casually he tried to sound. “She told me to tell her after. After. And then I just— didn’t.”
Steph stared at him, unimpressed, twirling around a lock of her blonde hair. “You didn’t… what? Ask her to ride with you?”
For half a second, a wildly inappropriate image flashed through Tim’s mind.
He immediately shut it down.
“No,” he groaned, dropping his head back against the booth. “I forgot. It just completely flew over my head. By the time I realized, she was gone.”
Miro blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Tim,” he said slowly, “you’re telling me you fumbled a clean invite because you got distracted and didn’t even ask for her socials?”
“Yes,” Tim snapped, then sighed, rubbing his face. “Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.”
Steph shook her head, already laughing. “That’s actually tragic.”
“I’m actually mad at myself,” Tim muttered, staring into his glass like it had personally betrayed him. “I had a plan…”
Miro snorted, not even trying to hide it.
“Congrats, dimwit.”
Tim shot him a look, but the bite wasn’t there. He exhaled instead, shoulders slumping as the frustration finally settled in. “Next time,” he wished quietly, more to himself than to them.
Steph raised her glass, eyebrow arching as she clinked it lightly against the table.
“You say that every time.”
Tim winced, glaring at her at the comment, but before he could utter a word in his own defense, someone finally joined them.
“Heyy!”
Zinnia slid into the booth next to Steph, grinning like she hadn’t just shown up late. “Sorry, it took me a bit of time to get here— I just saw Ezra and his girl outside talkin’ bout something. They should be coming in any moment now.”
Miro waved a hand dismissively over the thrum of the music. “Nah, you’re good!” he called back, already shifting to make room.
Tim leaned back against the booth, the tension easing just a bit as the table filled out again, though his thoughts stubbornly lingered on everything he hadn’t said earlier that day.
Yeah, he won’t mess up next time.
“Yo!”
A familiar male voice grabbed Tim’s attention, pulling his focus toward the entrance. His head turned automatically— only for his eyes to widen, just briefly, at the figure standing beside Ezra.
“Sorry we were late,” Ezra started, a hand lifting in apology. “My girl was fixing her— ow!”
You nudged his side hard, sharp enough to shut him up. Your lips dipped into a brief frown before a smile slid into place, easy and practiced, like nothing had happened at all.
“Sorry, sorry, I was joking! There was traffic.”
Tim’s brain short circuited.
You.
Here.
With Ezra.
The room felt a little louder all of a sudden, the music pressing in as he stared a second too long before catching himself.
His grip tightened around his glass, disappointment settling heavy in his chest, quiet and unwelcome, as the realization hit him all at once.
Fucking hell.
“Yeah, traffic has been bad, but I’m glad to meet Ezra’s friends!” You smiled before introducing yourself easily, shaking Miro’s hand when he offered it, your smile warm and polite. Then you slid into the circular booth, settling in beside Zinnia like you belonged there, like this was natural, adjusting your blue scarf.
Wait, blue scarf?
“I like your nails, they’re cute!” You complimented Zinnia, seeing the cute charms on them as she flashes them to you for a closer look.
“Thank you! I got them done at—”
You nodded along, laughing at something funny with Zinnia when Steph mentioned something.
And then your gaze lifted.
It locked onto Tim.
For half a second, everything stalled.
The disappointment didn’t disappear, but it shifted, tangled with something sharper— surprise, maybe, or hope he didn’t want to name. Your expression softened when you recognized him, brows lifting just slightly, a smile tugging at your lips like you were pleasantly caught off guard.
Tim swallowed, forcing himself to straighten, to look normal, to look unfazed. His mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, even as his thoughts scrambled.
Of all places.
And of all people.
You had to date fucking Ezra.
“Tim, I didn’t know you’re friends with Ezra!” You exclaimed, eyes bright with genuine surprise as you glanced between him and Ezra.
Ezra hummed thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he glanced between you and Tim. “You know Tim?” he asked you, watching you nod your head, explaining you have a class with him.
“Ezra and I have been friends for a while,” Tim replied to your unanswered question. “Miro was the one who introduced us.”
Miro grinned, clearly proud to have brought them together.
“Yeah, small world, isn’t it?”
Tim thinned his lips, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “A small world.”
Steph leaned in, curiosity bright in her eyes. “So how long have y’all been together? We didn’t even know Ezra was talkin’ to someone,” she said lightly, like it was just friendly banter.
Tim took a slow sip of his drink, gaze dropping to the glass. He wondered, distantly, if you’d take that to heart, if it stung even a little to realize his friends hadn’t known about you.
“Oh, we just recently made things official,” you answered easily. “Two weeks ago, maybe? We’ve been dating for like a month and a half, but we’ve known each other for a while as friends.”
“That’s cool,” Miro comments, leaning back. “Congrats on the new development.”
“Yeah,” Steph added, smiling at you. “Happy for you guys.”
Tim forced himself to follow suit, lips curving into something polite. “Yeah. That’s— nice.” His voice came out quieter than he meant, so he cleared his throat and took another sip, mostly to give himself something to do.
Ezra draped an arm along the back of the booth behind you, casual, like it was second nature.
Tim noticed the way you didn’t lean into it immediately, just a half second pause before settling.
He hated that he noticed.
Hated more that it gave him hope.
“So,” you dragged the ‘o’, turning slightly, eyes landing on Tim again. “You come here often?”
The question caught him off guard.
He blinked once, then nodded. “Uh. Yeah. With them,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the table. “It’s kind of our usual spot.”
You smiled, warm and familiar, the same one from earlier that day, like nothing had changed.
Tim’s chest tightened.
He told himself to get it together.
You were taken.
Ezra was his friend.
This was a dangerous territory.
Still, as the conversation carried on and the night settled in, Tim couldn’t shake the quiet, persistent thought that kept circling back.
A mischievous, devious glint sparked in his heart.
He was late.
But not too late.
Don’t get him wrong— Tim wasn’t about to earn the label homewrecker, and he wasn’t about to turn you into a cheater or make Ezra one either.
He wasn’t like that.
He wouldn’t let Ezra cross that line, wouldn’t let things unravel in a way that hurt people for the sake of his own feelings.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be patient.
He would keep things clean.
Honest.
If anything were to happen, it would be because feelings shifted on their own, because choices were made freely, not because he forced them into the wrong shape. He’d wait, pick apart a relationship piece by piece.
Be there in the spaces where Ezra wasn’t paying attention.
If the door ever opened, even just a crack, Tim would step through only when it was right.
Until then, he’d play the long game.
“Hey,” he called, saying your name just loudly enough to catch your attention.
You turned toward him, brows lifting in question.
“You don’t mind tutoring me, do you?” he asked, tone easy, almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know the current subject— you’re better at it than I am. Would you be okay with that?”
It was harmless on the surface. Academics, it was reasonable. He wasn’t asking for anything that crossed a line, wasn’t pushing for something personal.
He only requested help.
Even though his grade was perfectly fine and he understood the subject well.
You nodded.
“Sure! I don’t mind. We can probably do it over the weekend, does tomorrow work?”
Tim hummed in response, already running through his schedule in his head. Tomorrow he had things to take care of— leads Dick had asked him to follow up on, work that mattered, work that usually came first.
Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate.
This time, he did.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat, decision made. “The weekend works.”
Dick would understand, he always did.
“You’re not getting turnt?” Miro asked you, tilting his head with a grin, clearly assuming your plans lined up with the rest of the group.
Tim stayed quiet, lifting his glass, listening a little too closely to your answer. It was honestly a good thing he’d never mentioned your name around Steph or Miro— not yet, anyway. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught on.
You can’t really hide anything from the bats’.
“I’ll still drink!” You laughed, shaking your head with a smile. “Not too much, though, since I do know—” you nudged your head gently against Ezra’s side, “this guy’s going to get blackout drunk, and someone has to drive us home.”
Ezra laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me. Someone’s gotta keep me in check.”
Tim watched the exchange quietly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
Zinnia frowned playfully. “Girl, don’t even worry— I rarely drink, so if you need a ride, I’ve got you. Same with Tim.” She points at him. “He’s not lightweight, so he can handle his shit.”
Tim glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he nodded slightly.
It wasn’t just about handling his drink; he’d be there to make sure you got home safe, no matter what.
“Yeah, I know Ezra can be a handful,” Tim smirks, voice steady but quiet. “So I don’t mind taking you home— if he doesn’t mind, of course.”
Tim looked over at Ezra, eyes steady as he waited for his response.
Ezra just shrugged, flashing that easygoing grin.
“Whatever works. As long as you don’t make me miss out on all the fun.” Ezra begins to lift himself out of the booth, ready to hit the bar.
Tim smirked slightly, already knowing this was his way of giving a reluctant okay.
You caught Tim’s glance and smiled softly, a subtle acknowledgment passing between you both.
Steph nudged him sharply on the elbow, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Come on, Tim, pool’s waiting,” she teased, tugging him toward the center of the bar.
Tim sighed, rolling his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips said otherwise— he wasn’t really complaining.
The night blurred after that.
Tim didn’t remember much.
Actually, that was a lie.
He remembered a lot.
Every laugh, every glance, and every quiet moment tucked between the noise.
He watched you from the edge of the group, eyes quietly tracking as you went head-to-head against Ezra, Miro, Steph, and Zinnia at the pool table. You had the confidence, cockiness, and a tongue that had sharpness when you landed another ball within the hole effortlessly.
Your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the little stick of your too many cocktails, a subtle sign of nerves or excitement— Tim couldn’t tell which.
When Zinnia fired off a sharp remark at Ezra that made you laugh, you bit down on your bottom lip, and Tim caught the small, almost shy gesture.
Then, after a few more drinks, it was clear you’d taken Zinnia’s offer to heart, leaning a little too heavily on the idea that either she or Tim would be willing to give you a ride home.
You got along with everyone easily.
“She’s cute— hic— isn’t she?” Ezra slurred slightly, clearly well into his drinks, following Tim’s gaze toward you with Zinnia. He watches you nudge Zinnia’s arm playfully, teasing you with a wide, mischievous grin.
“Yeah, she’s getting pretty close to Zinnia easily, and everyone else.” Tim plainly comments, still looking at them without a glance to Ezra, his voice calm and steady. There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his tone— just quiet admiration, watching you from the circular booth, fully aware that Ezra was the one lucky enough to be in a relationship with you.
A sharp thud echoed against the table, but Tim barely flinched. It was most likely just Ezra slapping another drink down with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Make sure you treat her—“ Tim started, his words trailing off into a loud snore that cut through the noise.
He furrowed his brow and finally looked over, only to see Ezra face-planting straight onto the table, completely out cold.
“You’re kidding,” Tim muttered under his breath.
It was to be expected.
And that usually meant it was time to wrap things up.
The night finally caught up to everyone all at once.
Zinnia was the first to react, leaning forward to check on Ezra, pressing two fingers to his neck like she was taking a pulse.
“He’s alive,” she announced. “Barely.”
Steph laughed, grabbing her purse. “Alright, that’s our cue. Someone grab his keys before he wakes up and tries to prove he’s invincible.”
Miro slid Ezra’s drink out of reach to make sure it doesn’t spill and shook his head.
“Told him to pace himself, which he never listens to.”
Tim stood, slipping his jacket on as his eyes searched for you without thinking. You were still by the pool table, gathering all of the numbered balls and organizing things back to its place.
He approached calmly, not making it a big deal. “Hey,” he said gently, catching your attention. “Looks like your boyfriend’s officially done for the night.”
You blinked, glancing past him to where Ezra was being carefully propped upright by Miro and Steph, his head tilted down. “Oh… wow,” you laughed softly, a little dazed.
“Yeah, that tracks.”
Tim smiled, easy and reassuring. “Zinnia said she could give you a ride, or—” he paused, just enough to make it sound casual, “—I can, if you want. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”
No pressure.
“Hm, it just depends which way you guys are going,” Tim nodded, offering a simple explanation without overthinking it. “Well, if it helps— I’m heading toward the school. My apartment’s pretty close to it, so I’m willing to give you a ride over there.”
You straightened a bit, visibly perking up. “Sweet, my apartment is around the school too!”
Tim internally screams.
“Oh—nice,” he replies. “That works out then.”
Zinnia shot him a look, one that spoke of an understanding, before turning her attention back to Ezra, who was already half-asleep again. “Alright, that settles it,” she declared. “You’re with Tim.”
Steph hummed approvingly.
“Responsibility buddy system. Love to see it.”
Tim shrugged like it was nothing, beginning to walk towards the exit with you.
“I’ll make sure she gets back safe.”
“Alright, bye Tim! And it was nice meeting you—” Zinnia called out, already half-turned as she wrangled Ezra on her shoulder with Miro that also offered their farewells.
“Yes, I hope to see you guys soon!” You chuckled.
“Text us when you’re home!” Steph added, waving.
Tim lifted a hand in a brief wave, an easy smile in place.
“Night.”
It was just the two of you now.
“You good?” he asked gently. “Not too dizzy?”
Outside, the cool air hit sharper, the night quieter than the bar had been. You walked side by side toward the lot, steps a little unsteady but determined. Tim matched your pace without comment, subtly positioning himself closer to the curb, like it was instinct.
“Yeah, I’m good,” you said with a small laugh. “I didn’t drink too much, but definitely don’t put me behind the wheel.”
Tim huffed softly, amused. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”
He unlocked his car and held the door open for you without making a big show of it, waiting until you were settled before closing it gently. Once he slid into the driver’s seat, he adjusted the mirrors out of habit, movements easy and familiar.
“Seatbelt,” he reminded lightly, already pulling out of the lot once you were ready. “I would hate taking my midterms just to get taken out by bad decisions.”
You chuckled, shaking your head before buckling in and taking his phone when he offered it to you, the screen still warm in your hands as you typed in your address. Tim glanced over just long enough to confirm the route, nodding once before his attention returned to the road.
“Alright,” he said easily. “Got it.”
The car filled with a comfortable quiet, the city lights slipping past the windows. Tim kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, occasionally tapping along to the low music playing through the speakers.
Every so often, he’d glance over, just to make sure you were alright, that you hadn’t drifted off.
“I couldn’t help but notice you’re wearing a blue scarf instead of red,” Tim remarked, eyes flicking to the fabric with a curious tilt.
You blinked, a small ‘oh’ slipping out as your expression shifted. “Yeah, they were sold out of red,” you admitted with a slight frown. “There were only a few colors left, so I went with blue— it’s a safe, neutral choice.”
Tim glanced over at you, then at the scarf, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“Blue works,” he said easily. “Looks good on you. Kinda brings everything together.”
He paused, eyes flicking back to the road before adding, a little quieter, “But honestly? Red would definitely look better.”
He lifted a hand briefly, tugging at the edge of his own scarf. “So if you want,” he offered, tone casual like it wasn’t a big deal at all, “I’m willing to trade with you.”
You glanced at him, a small, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Trade scarves?” you asked, amusement shining in your eyes.
“It’s the same brand and everything?”
“Yep,” Tim popped the ‘p’ with a playful grin, clearly enjoying the way you practically lit up in your seat.
“Well, if it’s the same brand, I guess that makes it official,” you grinned, reaching out to tug lightly at the end of your blue scarf.
Tim chuckled, the sound easy and warm.
“Guess it does.”
Then, you unfold the blue scarf, leaving it on your lap while Tim lends you the red scarf, his gaze still forward.
“I just realized— I don’t have your number, or your socials. And since we’re supposed to study together…”
You smiled, holding out your phone expectantly.
Tim’s eyes flicked up, a small spark of surprise and something else, shining through.
He quickly pulled out his own phone, unlocking it as he met your gaze before focusing it back on the road, conveniently the light turning red.
“Guess I’m going to have to fix that.”
You grinned, tapping your screen as you handed Tim your phone.
Tim took it, fingers moving swiftly but deliberately, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression.
Once he was done, he handed it back with a small smile.
“There. Now you’ve got me on speed dial.”
You laughed softly, slipping your phone back into your pocket.
“If you already follow Ezra on Instagram, you’ll find me pretty easily,” Tim added with a sly grin, his voice casual but carrying a hint of something more.
You raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Is that your way of making sure I can’t avoid you?”
He shrugged, still smiling.
“Maybe, or I’m making it easier for us to actually hang out.”
You chuckled, shaking your head but clearly entertained.
“Clever move, I’ll hold you to that.”
When Tim finally reached your apartment, (10 minutes away from his own) he waited until you were safely within before pulling away, but the night lingered in the air— a promise of what could come next.
Especially when he’s finally lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look, his fingers tracing the soft fabric of the blue scarf you’d exchanged.
His phone buzzes suddenly, breaking the quiet.
He glances down to see a new notification—
You have a new follower!
Tim’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile as he unlocked his phone, the familiar username lighting up the screen.
Months.
It took months to get to where Tim was now.
Tim had grown bolder— maybe even too bold.
What had started as small gestures and subtle attentions had slowly shifted into something more confident, more intentional.
His friends began to notice.
The way he lingered a little longer in conversations with you, how his smiles held a different kind of warmth, how his presence seemed to quietly claim space beside you.
Ezra, distracted and careless, unwittingly gave too many openings, moments where his attention drifted, words left unfinished, or promises forgotten, leaving cracks wide enough for Tim to slip through with ease.
He started painting himself in a better light— not because he wanted to manipulate, but because he genuinely believed you deserved someone better.
Tim wasn’t one for games or deception; he was honest, sometimes brutally so.
He just couldn’t stand the idea of you falling for Ezra’s careless promises and half-truths.
“Strange, you say he’s doing homework? We were playing a game for a couple of hours with Miro,” Tim remarked one afternoon, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice.
When you were in the library together, you often found yourself venting to him— about Ezra being late, canceling plans, or how you had to keep asking to meet his other friends, always feeling a little on the outside quite disappointed after being friends for a long time.
Tim listened quietly, letting you speak without interruption, his expression softening.
“You’re really patient, I don’t know how you put up with that,” Tim commented, leaning casually against his chair.
Inside, he was quietly cheering for every one of Ezra’s slip-ups, each missed call, every forgotten promise, because it made this whole thing disgustingly easy.
An unspoken opening formed, clearing the path for a clean break.
Tim’s voice softened, almost careful.
“You deserve better than that, you know.”
Him.
Give him a chance.
You are on his spam account, a secret corner of Instagram where he quietly follows you and posts things meant just for you to notice. He shares Instagram stories that catch your eye, knowing you’ll like them. Each post is carefully chosen, like a subtle message only you can understand.
He often checks your Instagram Notes, the little snippets where you share song lyrics. When he sees a song from a particular artist you like, he posts a track from the same artist onto his notes as well. It’s his way of connecting without saying a word, hoping you’ll see it and send that tiny heart reaction that means everything to him.
When he uploads videos of himself skating, you don’t hesitate to comment or message him, teasing him to do a kick-flip. After a few tries, he finally nails it and sends you a video just to show off. It feels like a private celebration, something between the two of you.
Every time you spend time together, no matter how casual the hangout, he posts a photo or a story of the both of you, or how you always show up in his spam posts.
Steph caught on pretty quickly to how much time Tim had been spending with you.
Her brow raised the moment she noticed his hand brushing against yours and how you didn’t pull away.
Later, during patrol, she didn’t hold back.
“Hey, Tim,” her voice crackled through the comms, sharp and teasing. “You’ve been awfully cozy with someone lately. What’s going on?”
Tim hesitated for a moment, then grinned.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, though the tone didn’t quite convince.
Steph’s laughter came through, warm and knowing.
“You’re lying, isn’t she still with Ezra?”
Tim shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
“It’s not like she’s married, Spoiler.”
Spoiler gasps.
“Red Robin, you dirty dog! You better not cause any drama in the friend group, or become a homewrecker!”
“Oh trust, I won’t.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to make it sting, before Tim snickers softly into the comm. “But she wouldn’t say no to seeing her favorite band, would she?”
Another sharp, scandalized gasp crackles through the line.
“Tim!”
He can practically hear the glare through the static. He grins anyway, fingers tapping idly against the console as if he hasn’t already crossed several invisible lines.
“What,” he says, faux-innocent. “It’s just a concert, friends do nice things for each other.”
If Tim were your boyfriend, he would never let you go— always keeping you close, his arm draped around yours like you belonged there.
He’d notice when you’re cold, slipping his jacket over your shoulders without a word, making sure you stayed warm.
He’d never leave you alone in a crowd, always by your side, a quiet but constant presence.
And sometimes, he’d act like he already was, like the time he absentmindedly picked lint off your sweater, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that felt surprisingly intimate and the look you gave him absolutely melted him.
The way you looked at him, the softness in your eyes, it was enough to make him forget everything he told himself about waiting.
He nearly wanted to break his own morals, screw the friendship he had with Ezra, to kiss you right then and there.
But he held back, swallowing the urge, knowing some lines shouldn’t be crossed— at least not yet.
After a few months, Miro finally caught on.
They were sitting across from each other in a quiet café, just the two of them, talking about life and whatever else came up. The conversation drifted, as it often did, until Miro brought up something he’d been meaning to ask.
“So,” Miro said, smirking as he nudged Tim’s shoulder lightly, “you’re not trying to steal Ezra’s girl, are you?”
Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking away quickly, avoiding Miro’s gaze.
He didn’t answer right away.
The silence between them spoke volumes.
“You’re kidding.”
And eventually, it leads to Tim explaining himself. Not all at once, not cleanly, but enough for Miro to understand what’s really been going on.
Miro goes quiet as it sinks in.
Too quiet and blocking everything out.
He pushes his chair back, standing abruptly, muttering that he needs to go before he says something he can’t take back.
Tim barely has time to react before Miro is already heading for the door. The last thing Tim catches is a sharp glare thrown over his shoulder, disbelief written plainly across his face.
It wasn’t until two days later, they were on call together.
“You’re respecting her boundaries though, right? She doesn’t know you like her?” Miro asked through FaceTime, sprawled across his bed, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he watched Tim demolish his food after the debrief once he’s fully explained the entirety with Miro opening his ears once again.
Tim didn’t look up right away.
He chewed, swallowed, then shrugged like it was obvious.
“Of course I am.”
He finally glanced at the screen, expression calm in a way that felt rehearsed. “She doesn’t know. I’m not… crossing anything.”
A beat. Then, quieter, more certain, “I’m just being there.”
He took another bite, unfazed, like he hadn’t just admitted to hovering in the margins of your life, waiting for the moment you’d realize he fit better than the person you were already with.
“Yo, that’s genuinely the most insane thing you’ve ever done, Timothy Jackson Drake.”
Miro snorts, laughter bubbling out of him as Tim rolls his eyes, completely unbothered.
“It’s not insane,” Tim says, tone flat, defensive in the way only he can be. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Miro lifts a brow behind his glasses. “You are actively emotionally investing in your best friend’s girlfriend, if that doesn’t say anything wrong then I don’t know what does and you’re lucky you explained yourself before I would’ve had Ezra blasted you.”
Tim scoffs, reaching for his drink. “I’m being supportive.”
Another laugh from Miro, sharper this time. “You’re being strategic.”
Tim doesn’t correct him.
“Fuck’s sake, bro, how long have you been plottin’ on her?” Miro exclaims, shifting to sit straighter on the bed.
Tim huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not plotting.”
Miro just stares at him through the screen, unimpressed.
“…Okay,” Tim concedes after a second, quieter. “I don’t know. Longer than I should have.”
He picks at the edge of his bowl, jaw tightening. “Long enough to know she deserves better. Long enough to know I could be that, if I was given the chance.” Tim huffs, stabbing his fork through his food. “Ezra has the most unbelievable girlfriend in the world and he doesn’t even know it.”
“That’s not an answer, Tim.”
Tim looks away.
“Since the bar.”
A beat.
“THE FUCKIN’ BAR?”
Miro yells, nearly dropping his phone as he jolts upright.
Tim winces.
“Lower your voice.”
“You met her at a bar,” Miro hisses, eyes wide, “and instead of doing the normal thing, like moving on or being a decent human being, you decided to emotionally annex your best friend’s girlfriend?”
Tim’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know she’d end up with him.”
“That makes it worse!”
Tim finally looks back at the screen, expression serious, almost stubborn.
“To be fair, I knew her before the bar,” Tim says, pointing at the screen with his fork. “She was the girl I told you about, from my class. The one I wanted to ask out.” He picks his food and eats it.
Miro just stares, disbelief spilling out in half-formed sounds. “I— I genuinely— what— how could you— is that why you stopped talking about ‘pretty girl’?” His eyes widened, everything clicking to him.
“That was her!?”
Tim doesn’t answer right away.
He drops his gaze to his plate, letting go of his fork into his bowl.
“Well,” he mutters, almost to himself, folding his arm to lean closer to his propped up phone. “She’s going to be mine eventually...”
Miro goes dead silent.
“…Tim,” he says carefully, “you sound clinically insane.”
Miro exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to reset reality, carefully not breaking his glasses. “You cannot say shit like that and then act normal,” he mutters. “That’s not confidence, that’s a manifesto.”
Tim shrugs, too casual for someone who just admitted to mentally claiming his best friend’s girlfriend. “I’m not acting on it, not directly.”
“Timothy.”
“I’m waiting,” Tim corrects, voice steady. “There’s a difference.”
Miro lets out a sharp laugh once more. “You’re waiting for what? Him to screw up?”
Ideally, yes. It would make things quicker, but no.
It was more of you making comparisons, how you should be treated versus asking how you should be treated.
“For her to realize,” Tim says finally. “I’m not forcing anything.”
Miro watches him for a long second, expression shifting from disbelief to something more serious. “And if she doesn’t.”
Tim looks back at the screen, eyes calm, unsettlingly sure.
“She will.”
Then Miro’s eyes flick to the top of his screen, his brow knitting together as confusion twists into disbelief, watching him immediately shoot up from his bed and readjusting his glasses.
“…No FUCKING way,” he murmurs.
Tim frowns.
“What.”
Miro doesn’t answer right away.
He just stares, scrolling once, then twice, like he’s hoping the information will change if he looks again.
“Zinnia just texted me that Ezra broke up with—”
“YES! FUCK YES!”
The shout explodes out of Tim before Miro can even finish the sentence. Tim’s chair screeches back as he shoots to his feet, fist clenched, grin sharp and unguarded in a way Miro has never seen before.
Tim drags a hand through his hair, pacing now, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. “I mean—” He stops himself, forces a breath, tries to reel it back in.
“I mean, that sucks, for him. Send my condolences.”
Miro blinks at the screen. “I’ve never seen you happier than that time when Taco Bell put the Quesarito back on the menu.”
Tim scoffs, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face.
“That was a big deal.”
“This is bigger,” Miro says flatly.
Tim exhales, finally sinking back into his chair, fingers drumming against the table like he’s trying to ground himself. “I shouldn’t be happy,” he admits, quieter now. “I know that.”
Miro tilts his head.
“But you are.”
Tim doesn’t deny it.
“I am.” He grins, sharp and a little reckless, like he’s daring the universe to stop him now.
“Wait, you gotta ask Zinnia why they broke up,” Tim points out, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Or, like, why Ezra broke up with her instead of the other way around?”
He ran a hand through his hair, frowning slightly. Tim had always assumed his plan would play out the other way that eventually you’d be the one to walk away.
So hearing that Ezra was the one to end it caught him off guard more than he expected.
Miro shook his head, amusement flickering across his face. “You make it sound like you’re some kind of relationship expert or something.”
Tim smirked, leaning back in his chair.
“Well, I’ve been watching this mess long enough to know where it’s headed.” He glanced at his phone, eyes sharp. “But still— gotta know if he knew, or if he just gave up.”
Miro sighed, shaking his head again.
“Man, you’re way too invested.”
Tim’s grin didn’t falter. “Maybe. But when you know what you want, you don’t just wait around forever.”
Tim could see Miro’s face up close, the way his fingers jabbed at his phone with a mix of urgency and hesitation. He was most likely texting Zinnia right now, trying to get the details Tim needed.
“Said ‘they were better off as friends,’ ended it mutually, but I think that reason is bullshit.”
Tim glanced up as his phone buzzed, a familiar caller ID.
“Steph’s calling— I’m gonna add her to the call.”
Miro didn’t look away from his screen.
“Fine by me,” he muttered, fingers still flying over his phone’s keyboard.
Within seconds, Steph’s face popped up on the screen, her eyes sharp and curious.
“Alright, spill. Zinnia is texting me that Ezra broke up with his… ex girlfriend now! Congratulations to Tim, condolences to Ezra. What’s happening?”
Miro filled Steph in, catching her up on the last bit of the conversation.
“Zinnia’s saying Ezra broke up with her to stay ‘friends.’ Do you buy that?”
Steph made a disgusted face, pressing her phone against the mirror as she swiped through her makeup wipes.
“That’s absolute bullshit.”
Miro paused.
“Do you know the actual reason, Steph?”
Tim watched as Steph hesitated, her brow furrowing in thought.
“No, I’m not really sure,” Steph replied thoughtfully. “Usually when people say that, it means one of three things:
1. They’ve lost feelings but don’t want to hurt the other person,
2. They’re scared of commitment, or
3. They’re interested in someone else.” She raises each of her fingers, going through the reasons.
“Are you asking Zinnia right now?” Tim asked, eyes fixed on Miro’s screen.
Miro nodded, then his screen froze for a moment, the lag dragging out the tension.
“When I pressed her, she said it’s ‘nunya’ business,” he explained after the lag had passed, “but honestly, she admitted she doesn’t really know.”
Tim let out a slow breath, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“Hm’ okay.”
The next time Tim sees you, he’d ask about what happened between the both of you.
Which was a few days later, when he finally found a quiet moment to ask. You were in his apartment, sprawled at opposite ends of the couch, a new season of a rom-com playing on the screen. You had mentioned wanting to watch it weeks ago but never had the time until now.
How did that happen?
Well.
Tim: Hey, is it alright if we study at my place?
Tim: the library’s is too noisy
Girlfriend (soon): ???
Girlfriend (soon): it’s a library?? How can it be noisy??
Girlfriend (soon): aren’t we on spring break right now??
Tim: cmon
Tim: don’t make me say it
Tim: fuck, could you pretty please come over to my apartment?
Tim: and hangout?
Tim: I miss our weekly study sessions
Tim: I’ll even beg on my knees?
Girlfriend (soon): alright alright
Girlfriend (soon): I’ll come over, no need to beg on your knees
You were already five episodes in, curled into the corner of his couch, while Tim sat at the other end with his laptop balanced on his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, a case file pulled up and neatly organized, which he excused as getting ahead on work for his criminal justice class.
He looked focused, intent, the soft glow of the laptop lighting his face.
Too focused, maybe.
Every now and then his fingers paused over the keyboard, attention drifting back to the sound of your laughter or the way you shifted closer without realizing it.
The episode’s credits rolled and automatically skipped to the next one.
You stretched, shifting on the couch, eyes still on the screen.
“I’m kind of surprised,” you spoke casually, breaking the comfortable quiet. “You haven’t asked me why we broke up.”
Tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.
For a split second, his gaze stayed on the laptop, jaw tightening just enough to give him away.
Then he looked over at you, expression carefully neutral.
“I didn’t want to pry,” he slowly dragged, making it sound reasonable, which it honestly did— he didn’t want to pry it out of you.
But his laptop screen had long stopped updating, the case file forgotten as his full attention settled on you now, waiting to hear what you’d say next.
“Do you want to know?” You asked, raising a brow towards him.
Tim shrugged.
“Only if you’re okay with sharing it.”
Please do.
“He broke up with me because he couldn’t give me what I deserved.”
Oh.
“He realized he was unintentionally hurting me,” you explained, voice drifting as you stared up at the ceiling. “Missing things, forgetting dates, always prioritizing other parts of his life. He’s overwhelmed right now, so he decided to break it off and just be friends. Instead of trying to work through it.”
You let out a dramatic sigh, sinking further into the couch, the weight of it settling in now that you’d said it out loud.
“Really…?” Tim murmurs, brow furrowing.
He doesn’t quite connect the dots yet, doesn’t realize just how hectic Ezra’s life must be right now.
Geez.
“And,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “he also lost feelings for me. Apparently he’s been falling for one of my guy volleyball friends.”
What.
“Excuse me—” Tim chokes, coughing as he straightens up on the couch, suddenly very alert.
You laugh, gazing at Tim with a glint in your eyes.
“Yeah,” you said with a small shrug. “I actually set them up on a date two weeks from now. We’re happily just friends since the dating scene with each other wasn’t working. We only tried dating because he had this big, obvious crush on my friend, and I guess it turns out he never really got over it.”
You glanced back at the screen like it was no big deal, but Tim stayed frozen beside you, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. The breakup had not been about distance or effort or timing.
It had been about someone else.
He did not need to calculate, wait, or maneuver at all.
Are you fucking serious.
You kept talking, unaware, filling the space with idle rambling about schedules and volleyball practice and how awkward it all felt in hindsight.
Tim barely heard you.
He shifted the laptop onto the coffee table before he could stop himself, and the couch dipped under his weight as he moved closer.
Too close.
You cut off mid-sentence when his presence suddenly crowded yours. Your eyes widened as Tim leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of your head, caging you in without quite touching. You pressed back instinctively against the cushions, heat rushing to your face, heart kicking hard against your ribs.
Tim froze too, just as startled by the proximity as you were, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours.
You were frozen there, Tim hovering above you, caught between your legs, his arms braced on either side of your head as if he’d accidentally cornered himself. The air felt thick, charged with the kind of tension neither of you dared to acknowledge out loud.
Then you broke it.
You grinned up at him, slow and mischievous.
“Did you get a haircut?” You hummed, lifting a shy hand to gently brush a lock of his hair back behind his ear, but it didn’t last long because of his position.
“Your face-framing pieces are shorter than the last time I saw you.” Your fingers lingered for just a second too long.
Tim forgot how to breathe.
His hands stayed planted on the couch, but every muscle in his body went rigid, pulse thundering loud enough he was sure you could hear it. Of all the things he had planned for, all the conversations he’d rehearsed, this was not one of them.
He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes, completely undone by how easily you’d closed the distance.
Tim was a wimp though, and slowly pulled away from you, sliding back to sit upright.
He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushing hotter by the second.
“Yeah, I got a haircut… yesterday,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
He could practically feel the heat pooling at the back of his neck, spreading in a way that made him painfully aware of every second that had just passed.
You grinned, swinging yourself upright and sliding your knees to sit right in front of him with a playful bounce on the cushion, you gave his shoulder a gentle shove.
“Aww, are you flustered?” you teased, voice light and full of mischief.
Tim’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, a mix of surprise and something softer lurking beneath the surface. He rubbed his shoulder where you’d nudged him, trying to play it cool but clearly caught off guard.
“Maybe a little,” he admitted, voice low and a bit shaky.
You leaned in just enough to close the space between you, your smile widening.
“I knew it.”
Tim swallows, his breath hitching in a way he definitely does not mean for you to notice. His gaze drops for half a second, then lifts again, steadier this time, like he’s forcing himself to stay present.
“You’re enjoying this,” he says, not accusing, just stating it softly.
You hum in response, eyes flicking between his, unbothered by how close you are now. The rom-com keeps playing in the background, the laugh track distant and ironic, like it belongs to another room entirely.
“Maybe,” you reply, just as quietly. “Though, I just like looking at your shirt ‘Big Dick Back in Town’? Really?” Tim grins, shrugging with a slight raise of a brow.
”What’s wrong with that?”
You could only shake your head.
His shoulders relax a fraction, his hands easing against the couch instead of gripping it so tightly.
“You aren’t sad about the breakup?” he asks, studying your face.
“Nope.” You pop the p, grinning wide.
“We’re grown adults. We had a whole four-hour conversation about everything. About what it meant, what issues were there, about our friendship. So we’re fine and it was three and a half months anyway,” you shrug, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Three and a half months was way too long by Tim’s definition.
“Well, three and a half months is a pretty long time.” Tim commented, watching you nod, understanding where Tim is coming from. “That’s true, but I don’t regret being with Ezra. There were good moments in that short-lived relationship, and honestly, half the time it just felt like we were friends more than anything romantic. So it doesn’t really feel like a waste, you know?” Tim hummed, quietly understanding with a so-so motion with his hand.
“Then, it must’ve been… not a serious relationship?”
You snapped your fingers, then a grim expression took over your face. “Yeah! Or… well, I think so. It definitely hurt when he didn’t show up for a lot of things a boyfriend should’ve— but honestly, he wasn’t as invested in it as I was.”
You sighed softly, shaking your head a little as if trying to shake off the lingering disappointment.
Tim hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, debating whether he should say what was on his mind.
Fuck it.
“Does that mean… you’re officially available?”
You raised an eyebrow at the question, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, making Tim suddenly self-conscious.
“You’re making me sound like I’m some kind of product you can pre-order.” You snort, waving your hand. “Go ahead— someone can preorder me, I’m the only item on the shelf, limited availability, guaranteed to arrive before Valentine’s Day.” You shake your head in disbelief.
Tim chuckles, a little breathless.
And he doesn’t know what came over for him to say this—
“Well, lucky me, then. I guess I’d better place my order before someone else beats me to it.”
He winks, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly as his smile widens.
You grin, nudging him lightly.
“Oh, sure, you’re joking… right?”
Tim raises an eyebrow.
“You wanna kiss me and find out?”
He watches as the room falls into a heavy silence.
He can almost feel the air holding its breath between them besides the Netflix series.
Time seems to stretch endlessly as he waits, watching your mouth open slightly but no words come out.
Your face completely blue-screens, and Tim can’t help but smile at how utterly caught you are.
Tim burst into laughter, clearly amused by the shock on your face.
He noticed the telltale signs of your flustered reaction: how you suddenly went quiet, how both your hands flew up to hide half of your face, even if he could see it in your eyes of your uncontrollable smile that you’re trying to get it under control, and the clear way that you’ve scoot back.
He reached over to nudge your shoulder too but you slap it away playfully, hearing him laugh harder.
“Don’t get any closer to me!”
“Relax, I’m just messing with you.”
But the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes told him you weren’t entirely sure if he was joking or not and that made the moment even better.
He watched you struggle to keep your composure, the way you would try to hide your facial reaction from him every time he nudged you or threw out a cheeky comment.
The quick, sharp shove to his shoulder made him laugh quietly, but he could see the way your eyes sparkled with a mix of irritation and something softer— something that told him you secretly enjoyed the attention just as much as he did.
In fact, there’s an entire day where the two of you just “hung out.” And though it started off as just the two of you, you eventually ended up meeting the rest of the group later that night, a couple of weeks after the breakup, like it was the most natural progression in the world.
Though, obviously, Tim had already labeled it as a date in his head.
I mean, you two had unintentionally matched outfits, he picked you up from your apartment, and even stopped by that one café to grab your favorite drink along with the menu item you always order without fail.
The rest of the day melted into wandering downtown, poking around trinket shops you always insisted on visiting before any hangout. You had mentioned it back at his place while you were on Episode 10, and he had gone along without hesitation.
At some point, you kept bumping into him, drifting a little too close to the curb every time you laughed or got distracted by a shop window.
Tim caught it after the third time, lips twitching as he reached out to steady you.
“Do you always walk like this,” he teased, lightly tugging you back toward the sidewalk, “or is this a special performance just for me?”
You scoffed, swatting at his arm. “I walk perfectly fine. You’re just standing in my way.”
“Uh-huh,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.
The next time you veered off course, he didn’t even bother commenting. He simply draped his arm around your shoulders, easy and natural, guiding you away from the curb like it was instinct.
His hand rested warm and secure against your upper arm, like it had always belonged there.
You glanced up at him, putting on your most innocent look. “Wow, so now you’re supervising how I walk?”
“Someone has to,” Tim said easily, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “You keep drifting like you’re aiming for traffic, starting to think you planned this just to get my arm around you.”
That wiped the smug look right off your face.
You went quiet, lips parting like you had a comeback ready, only for nothing to come out at all.
Tim noticed, of course, and his grin widened just a touch as he kept you tucked safely at his side.
You were still very much in control of where you wanted to go, which was not surprising at all. Somehow, that freedom led you straight into another store and Tim barely had time to read the sign before realizing where you were.
PopMart.
He slowed to a stop, glancing around at the walls lined with blind boxes and glossy displays. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “I should’ve known.” You were very much who you’re expected to be, one to feed capitalism and spend money on these lil’ guys.
You, meanwhile, had already zeroed in on a display, eyes lighting up as you leaned closer as if you’ve been waiting for this day.
Tiny figurines were lined up behind the glass, all sharp details and dramatic poses.
The Gotham City Series.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, pointing. “Look at them.”
Tim stepped closer, folding his arms as he followed your gaze. Vigilantes in miniature, capes frozen mid-swoop, masks carved with ridiculous precision, in a display box with all twelve figures.
Then he saw it.
Red Robin.
You stared a second longer, squinting thoughtfully.
“This one’s kinda cute.”
Tim coughed.
“Kinda?”
You glanced back at him, grin turning mischievous.
“What? You seem defensive.”
“I’m not,” he said too quickly, shifting his weight. “Just saying. If you’re ranking them, that one’s objectively… fine.”
You hummed, clearly unconvinced, eyes drifting back to the figure.
“Wait, Red Hood might be cuter.”
Oh hell no.
“Absolutely not.”
You blinked at him, amused.
“What do you mean absolutely not?”
“He’s wearing a helmet,” Tim shot back, gesturing vaguely at the tiny figure. “You can’t even see his face. That’s not cute, that’s… just anonymous and ugly.” You laughed, clearly enjoying this.
“Mysterious can be cute and you don’t even know he’s ugly!”
Tim scoffed.
“Well, he for sure doesn’t look like Prince Charming, that’s a traffic cone with trauma.”
You burst out laughing, and Tim tried very hard not to look too pleased with himself as he watched you reach for a blind box, silently hoping you’d pick the right one.
Not even a minute later, you were already drifting toward another section of the store.
This one was… different.
Rows of small figurines stared back at you, each one wearing the same expression of pure misery. Angry little side-eyes and sad, hollow looks.
Not a single smile among them.
Tim slowed beside you, taking them in. “…Why do all of these look like they’re judging me?” You crouched slightly to get a better look, eyes lighting up.
“Oh my god, Tim! They’re all so cute!”
He glanced at you, then back at the figures.
“They all look the same.”
You read a little note they have on the figures, glued to the glass and the artist of them. “They’re called Hironos, they’re supposed to look like that. And look at that one!”
Tim leaned in despite himself, following where you pointed. In the back of the display box sat one figure giving a particularly nasty side-eye, a tiny castle perched on its black hair. It was crouched low, bound in rope, dressed in a black-and-white uniform that was unmistakably prison-striped and bandages on its knee.
“Really?” Tim asked flatly.
You nodded without hesitation.
“He looks like you.”
Tim stared at it.
Then at you.
“He’s literally wearing a prison outfit.”
“Yeah,” you said easily. “Exactly, you belong in prison with the way you’ve been treating me.”
Tim snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, without missing a beat, he swung his arm back around your shoulders, pulling you close until your noses were almost touching. The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin as he leaned in just slightly, voice low and amused.
“Unbelievable,” he murmured. “I took you out this morning, with your favorite drink in hand and your food too, and now I’m already getting sentenced?”
You smirked, feeling the subtle heat of the moment settle between you, both of you caught somewhere between playful and something much more electric.
Without hesitation, you slipped under his arm, catching him off guard as you picked up a box, turned toward the register with the two boxes in hand.
Tim blinked in surprise, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face as he watched your smooth escape.
“Will that be all for today?” the cashier asked, glancing between you and Tim, pulling up the total and placing them in a bag.
Tim mouthed ‘don’t let her pay,’ making the cashier smile knowingly.
“Yes, that’ll be all,” you replied with a smile, already reaching for your card— only to see Tim’s phone beat you to the card reader, the screen glowing as he swiftly completed the payment and your head snapped back towards him, eyes wide with shock.
He just grinned, completely unfazed.
“Tim, what the—!”
He, of course, wasn’t about to let you pay.
The cashier chuckled, handing over the bag, while you were too busy scolding Tim to reach for it yourself. Tim just laughed and grabbed the bag, dodging your playful slap on his shoulder.
“You guys are cute, have a nice day!” The cashier called after you, still smiling.
You completely ignored the cashier’s playful comment, but Tim caught it and that knowing smile didn’t escape him.
It was clear someone had already picked up on the way you two fit together, especially with the subtle, unplanned ways you matched, whether it was your similar jacket colors or the way you moved in sync like a practiced duo.
“You absolutely didn’t need to do that!” You exclaimed, narrowing your eyes and pointing at him with mock exasperation.
Your brow furrowed as you crossed your arms, the frustration genuine but softened by the teasing edge in your voice.
“I have my own money, you know. I don’t need you to pay for me every time.”
Tim just shrugged, that familiar, cocky grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the moment and you.
“I know, I know. Just return the favor later tonight, or when we grab something to eat,” he mentions with a teasing glint in his eyes.
He handed you the branded bag, watching as you rolled your eyes in exasperation at his good deed.
“So,” he added, voice playful, “are you going to open up those blind boxes, or are you just going to stare at the bag all day?” You huffed, nodding reluctantly. “I’ll open them, but maybe we should find somewhere to eat first. It’s way more fun to do it with food.”
Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the suggestion, and didn’t hesitate to drag you toward a nearby restaurant he’d heard good things about. As you walked, you could already feel the excitement building, blind boxes, a good meal, and friends later on— the perfect combo for a day like this.
After about twenty minutes of scanning the menu and deciding on your orders, you caught the waiter’s attention and placed them with a few quick questions about the specials. Drinks arrived shortly after, glasses clinking softly as you both settled into the cozy booth, the warm buzz of the restaurant wrapping around you like a comfortable blanket.
The conversation flowed easily— small laughs, shared stories, and that quiet, familiar rhythm you both fell into when no words were wasted.
Finally, when the plates were still moments away, you reached into the bag and pulled out the first box: the Gotham City Series. The crisp packaging caught the low light, hinting at the tiny surprise waiting inside. Tim’s eyes flicked up to yours, curiosity and anticipation mirrored in his expression.
With a quick breath, you tore open the box and reached inside, your fingers brushing over the tiny figure waiting to be revealed. You pulled it out slowly, turning it over to admire the fine details: the sharp mask, the cape, the laptop, and carefully sculpted utility belt.
“He’s so cute!”
Tim’s grin widened as he watched you, feeling a sense of warmth and a tad-but of jealousy from that compliment, clearly impressed. “Nice one,” he compliments, voice low. “Red Robin suits you.”
You shot him a playful glance, pretending to mull it over seriously before setting the figure down on the table. “Please, you wish you were Red Robin.”
He is Red Robin.
“Better than Red Hood,” Tim shot back with a smirk.
You laughed, shaking your head, then reached into the bag for the next box— the Mime Hirono series.
“Which one do you want?”
You hummed, pointing at a few figures you found adorable, “but I would be fine with any of them.” You smiled, peeling the tab.
The anticipation between you only grew as you peeled back the packaging and the plastic, ready to see what surprise awaited inside.
You gasped softly as you pulled out the next figure, a tiny Hirono with a delicate feather perched on his head, wearing a makeshift newspaper kite strapped like a backpack. A thin rope was tied to his leg, the other end secured to a small bolt embedded in the ground beneath him.
The little guy looked calm and relaxed.
“I changed my mind, this one looks like you.”
Tim watched as you flipped the tiny figure toward him, slowly turning it a full 360 degrees to show off every detail.
“Is it because I have black hair and pale skin?” Tim teased, raising an eyebrow.
You shrugged casually, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, and blue eyes too,” you added, pointing to the Hirono’s faintly dark blue eyes, contrasting with Tim’s lighter shade.
“Wait, he has a lil’ card and it says Patience!” You cooed, taking a picture of your new ‘baby’, talking about your collection of them on your shelves, making this one your 17th Hirono.
Or your 17th ‘child.’
Tim will never admit this, but he honestly found your love for blind boxes, specifically Hironos’ or the trinkets, veryenduring.
Later that evening, once the sun had dipped below the horizon and the city lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves back at the bar with the usual group.
The familiar buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, but surprisingly, there was no awkwardness between you and Tim.
There was no awkwardness with Ezra either— in fact, when you saw him, you greeted him with a warm, genuine hug that felt natural and unforced.
Still, Ezra wasn’t blind to what was unfolding around him.
His eyes caught the subtle details, the way Tim’s arm casually settled around your shoulders, the slight protective tilt as if claiming his space beside you. He noticed how you leaned in without hesitation, your body relaxing against Tim as though it had always belonged there.
Ezra caught the quick, knowing looks shared between you two: the brief smiles exchanged over inside jokes, the gentle teasing that seemed to flow effortlessly, and how you would slap Tim’s shoulder playfully.
Even Zinnia noticed, her raised eyebrow and subtle side glance betraying her surprise at this sudden shift.
Then, when it was just Ezra and Tim left at the table, the tension thickened— both of them knowing what was coming next. Ezra let out a low, bitter sigh, raising his glass to take a shot. This time, it was noticeably less than last time, his movements sharper, more controlled.
“It doesn’t matter to me anymore,” he begins, voice rough but steady, “since we’re no longer together. But don’t lie to me.”
His eyes locked onto Tim’s, piercing and unyielding, searching for any trace of dishonesty beneath the surface.
Tim felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure, the room shrinking around them. The air buzzed with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment, the calm before the storm.
“You’re going to have to be honest, Tim,” Ezra continued, voice low but edged with anger. “Because if you think I’m just going to let this slide, you’re wrong.”
Tim’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he met Ezra’s intense gaze without flinching. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but he wasn’t about to back down or give in to the silent demands.
“Honest?” Tim’s voice was steady, edged with a controlled fire. “I’m not here to stir things up or hurt anyone, but yeah, I like her. I have for a while.”
Ezra’s eyes darkened, hurt and anger flashing through them like lightning. “You decided to not tell me anything about it whatsoever? What the fuck, Tim? Don’t tell me—“
His gaze was sharp, filled with a mix of hurt and a desperate need for honesty. It wasn’t just about the breakup anymore.
This was about trust, respect, and everything tangled in between.
Tim swallowed, feeling the weight of Ezra’s stare like a physical force. “I will tell you,” he replies, voice quieter than usual but unwavering. “I like her, I have for a while before you two got together. But this wasn’t some calculated move to take advantage of what was between you two.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t break us apart?”
Tim shook his head firmly, his words deliberate and honest. “No. Absolutely not. You did that yourself,” he gestures toward Ezra with a pointed look. “I cared about both of you too much to ever create some stupid cheating situation. That’s not who I am, and I never wanted to be the reason you two ended.”
Ezra’s voice tightened, the anger barely held in check. “So you were just… there for her? The fuck, waiting for your chance?”
Tim met the accusation head-on, his jaw clenched but his eyes sincere. “Yes and no, I didn’t plan for this to happen. I hated watching her hurt, hated seeing you both drift apart. I tried to stay out of it because I respected you, but eventually, it became clear things weren’t going to work due to your own personal reasons, but yeah.”
Ezra’s jaw tightened as he studied Tim, the tension thickening the air between them. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice quieter but still edged with frustration. “I messed up our relationship. I got overwhelmed and missed things I shouldn’t have not only in a relationship, but as friends. I had leftover feelings for… and new feelings.” He hesitated, letting the words hang, making Tim furrow his brow. “But this… waiting in the shadows— it doesn’t make it any easier to accept, even if it wasn’t a serious type of relationship.”
Tim nodded slowly, his expression softening just a bit. “I get that, which you’re valid to feel that way. I’m not trying to make this easier or pretend I’m some hero, but I was there because I care about her and about both of you. I never wanted to be the cause of your breakup.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything settling between them.
“Just to clarify, we never did things romantically while you were both together. We hung out a lot, yes, I will admit. There’s some things I’ve done that could be interpreted as a move, but I knew to be patient and respect your relationship.”
Ezra finally let out a slow breath and shook his head, a reluctant acceptance in his eyes.
“Well, I’m just glad you explained yourself,” Ezra speaks, his voice rough but sincere, “and that you’re giving her what I couldn’t. I wasn’t the person she needed, and maybe I never really was.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes searching Tim’s. “And yeah, we were truly better off as friends.”
Tim softened, nodding slowly.
“I’m glad. You two already talked about it, right?” Tim asked, though he already knew the answer— it was more about hearing it from Ezra.
Ezra gave a slow, firm nod.
Ezra smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes as he raised his glass. “Yeah, treat her better than I did, you two already look good together.” He downed the shot in one smooth motion. “You’re matching with her, but not dating her yet? You gotta get on that, Timothy.”
Tim rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “I will,” he promised, taking the shot Ezra poured for him without hesitation.
“I already thought you had plotted for this moment.”
Tim snorts, “man, I didn’t plot shit.” Yeah, he absolutely did.
As the night wore on, the crowd inside the bar began to thin.
Zinnia and Steph were the ones supporting Ezra this time.
The guy really knew how to relax once the drinks kicked in, but he was definitely a lightweight. He leaned heavily on them, laughing more loudly than usual, his steps unsteady as they guided him through the cool night air.
Tim and Miro watched them, snorting before they see each other off.
“Well, it was nice seeing the both of you,” Miro warmly told, glancing between you and Tim with a relaxed smile.
You agreed, nodding your head with excitement on your grin.
Tim also nodded, but instead he extended his hand.
Miro laughed, understanding immediately. His muscle memory kicked in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat while you watched.
Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.
“Alright, see ya’ man, drive safe.”
“Will do,” Miro replied with a wave as he turned and walked away.
You both started walking toward Tim’s car, the night air cool around you.
“That was cool,” you commented, glancing over at him. “I never realized you only do that handshake with Miro, not the others.” Tim smiled, eyes on the path ahead. “Yeah, it’s kind of our thing. Something that just stuck between us.”
You hummed in affirmation.
“Why? You want us to have our own handshake?”
You immediately shook your head. “No, no, I’m okay. I was just thinking it was cool, that’s all.” Tim glanced over with a playful smirk. “Come on, don’t act like you don’t want one. We can have our own handshake— something small, nothing crazy.”
You hesitated, pretending to consider it but clearly curious.
“Just a little one,” Tim added with a grin. “Nothing complicated. What do you say?”
After a moment, you finally smiled and nodded.
“Alright, fine. But just a small one.”
Tim’s grin widened.
“Deal.”
You both paused right in front of his car, determined to get this handshake just right. Even though it was a small, simple one, the timing and coordination still mattered.
You stumbled a bit, struggling to remember the steps, and Tim couldn’t help but laugh softly at your concentration.
“It’s okay,” he said, patient. “We’ll get it down eventually.”
Tim noticed the way your hand slightly shook when he reached out to hold your hand during one of the handshake steps. Your hand felt soft and smooth in his grasp— delicate in a way that made him instinctively careful.
His own hands were rougher, marked with calluses from everything he’d been through, but he wrapped his fingers around yours gently, mindful of the contrast.
His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, and when his eyes met yours, there was a quiet spark between you— an unspoken connection that caught him by surprise.
Even as you stumbled over the handshake, fumbling to remember the steps, Tim realized it wasn’t about the routine anymore. It was about the moment, the warmth of your hand in his and the closeness you shared.
He knew the handshake would take practice, but he didn’t mind at all.
After about fifteen minutes, you finally got it down.
The first couple of tries came with one or two small mistakes, but you were confident enough to try again.
“Okay, okay, one more time and then we go home,” you laughed, a determined smile lighting up your face.
“Alright, one more,” Tim agreed easily, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes you didn’t notice.
You focused intently on the handshake, your fingers carefully following his as you moved through the steps again.
The rhythm was growing familiar, the motions less awkward.
Just as you reached the moment where your hands were supposed to part, Tim’s grip shifted without warning.
Both of his hands slid from your fingers down to your waist, wrapping around you with a steady, firm hold.
Before you could react, he pulled you closer in one smooth, deliberate motion.
You stumbled slightly, your breath catching as your body pressed against his.
The sudden closeness sent a warm rush flooding through you, your heart quickening in surprise.
You could feel the solid strength of his arms holding you, his fingertips gently pressing against your back, grounding you. Your skin tingled where he touched you, and the soft scent of his cologne filled your senses.
Tim’s eyes locked onto yours, the usual teasing glint replaced by something softer but still filled with that playful spark.
His grin widened into that little shit smirk he wore when he knew exactly the effect he was having— when he knew he had you a little off balance in more ways than one.
For a moment, the handshake was forgotten.
The world around you blurred as you both stood there, caught in the electric tension and unexpected intimacy. You felt the steady beat of his heart against yours, the subtle rise and fall of his chest so close to yours.
Tim watched you freeze, your eyes wide as you stared up at him— disbelief, surprise, and a flicker of irritation crossing your face as you tried to process how he had completely messed up the handshake by pulling you in so suddenly.
You stumbled against him, caught off guard, and he couldn’t help but notice the way you struggled to hold back a mix of shock and mild frustration.
But then his mischievous grin grew wider, that confident smirk that he knew always managed to catch you off guard in the best way. You found your gaze flickering from confusion to something softer, as if despite yourself, you were charmed by him.
He held you close for just a moment longer, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against his, the electric charge in the air thickening.
Tim knew exactly what he was doing, pushing your buttons, teasing you, and drawing you in closer, and he loved every second of watching you fall, even if just a little bit, under his spell.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, almost too quiet to hear but impossible to ignore.
“I like the way you’re looking at me right now.”
You lean in slightly, your voice soft but teasing, though your eyes betray you completely.
“Oh yeah? And how exactly am I looking at you?”
Tim’s grin deepens, amused by how effortlessly you fell into his trap and the way he falls for your doe eyes, hypnotizing him.
“Like you’re waiting to find out what it’s like to kiss me.”
You freeze for a moment, the weight of his words settling between you like a spark ready to ignite.
Your breath catches, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You try to steady yourself, but your heart is pounding loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it.
With a half-smile, half-challenge, you meet his gaze again and whisper—
“Maybe I am… but you’re the one who has to make the first move.”
Tim’s eyes gleam with that mischievous light, and without breaking eye contact, he inches just a little closer, the space between you shrinking.
The playful tension hangs thick as the moment stretches, charged and electric.
“I guess… I will have to make the first move.”
Without a word, he closes the space between you.
His lips meet yours with a softness that takes your breath away, like the gentlest brush of a feather. The kiss deepens, warming and steady, spreading a quiet fire through your chest.
His hand left from your waist to lift to cup your jaw while you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers light but sure, tilting your face just enough to hold you still in this suspended moment. You feel the subtle press of his body, the heat from him seeping into your skin, blending with the rapid beat of your heart.
Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of you. That kiss speaks volumes— unspoken feelings, careful restraint, and raw, tender promise all wrapped in the softness and intensity of this perfect, unforgettable moment.
He does not pull away.
If anything, he leans in closer, like the space between you is unbearable now that he knows what it feels like to close it.
The kiss deepens with a quiet urgency, not rushed but full of need and patience. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers curling there as if he is afraid you might disappear if he lets go. There is a faint hitch in his breath against your lips, something almost desperate slipping through the careful control he usually keeps wrapped tight around himself.
He kisses you again, slower but heavier, like he is trying to tell you everything he has been holding back for months. Every near moment and every time he stopped himself. You can feel it in the way he lingers, the way his thumb presses softly at your skin, grounding himself while still wanting more.
For a second, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his eyes closed like he is steadying himself. Then he goes back in, softer now but no less intense, like he is savoring this instead of rushing it. Like he knows this is something precious and he refuses to waste it.
There is yearning in every movement, his pupils that are enlarged, a heat that consumes his own being, a quiet desperation that says he has waited, that he has earned this, and that now that he finally has you here, he is not letting the moment go.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs quietly, like admitting a secret he has been carrying far too long. “For longer than I should’ve.”
His thumb brushes along your jaw again, pausing for just a beat, like he is silently checking that you are still here with him. When you do not pull away, his voice drops, softer and more intimate than before.
“Tim’s girlfriend,” he murmurs, the words careful, almost reverent. “It kind of has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
You hum thoughtfully, lips curving as if you are genuinely considering it, a teasing lightness in your voice even though your eyes give you away.
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” His voice is steady, sincere, even as he leans closer again, like the distance between you is already too much. “You should give me a chance, you’re all I need.” His breath brushes your lips as he adds, quieter, more certain, “I’d never let you go from me.”
Your lips graze his as you speak, the words barely a whisper.
“Are you begging me?”
Tim’s eyes lock onto yours instantly, something intense and unguarded flashing through them. Your hand comes up to his cheek, warm and sure, pulling him back in before he can answer.
If anything, he leans into your touch, like your hand on his cheek is permission he has been waiting for. His breath stutters, warm against your lips, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, honest, completely stripped of teasing.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”
His forehead rests against yours, eyes still locked on you, searching your face like he is afraid this moment might slip through his fingers. His hand comes up to cover yours where it cups his cheek, holding it there, grounding himself.
“I don’t care how it sounds,” he admits, voice rough with feeling. “I want you, I’ve wanted you, and I’m asking now.”
He leans in just enough that your noses brush, his words spilling softly against your lips.
“Let me be completely yours, please.”
Your breath catches, heart pounding as you meet his intense gaze.
Then, you answered him without words, pulling him closer and capturing his lips once more.
Your fingers tangled in the strands at the nape of his neck, gently tugging him forward as he melted into the pull, falling deeper into the irresistible pull of your own magnetic kiss.
Beneath the shadowed skyline of Gotham, a shooting star streaked across the night, briefly igniting the darkness with its fleeting, brilliant light.
And Timothy Jackson Drake is completely yours.
a/n: HEHEHEHEEHE. now how we like thattttt, I lwk wished…. I had the balls to make Tim messier in this fic, but my boy is just a D-1 plotter and just nudging like “oh, how could you be so patient with him…” “you deserve better…” “that was all on you, not me.” (To Ezra) type of thing, which he wasn’t lying!! It was literally the matter of time before they cut that relationship off!! AND I made him such a lil’ shit truly. I hope you guys caught that Hirono moment!!! I decided to use ‘Patience’ because it truly fitted Tim, a man that yearns is a man that EARNS.
THIS TOOK FOREEVERRRR to finish, please interact with this fic since that would mean a lot to me!! Happy holidays everyone!!
DIARIES starting your spring semester, you were not expecting another new anonymous school confession page, or the boy that came with it ⋆˚࿔
⤷ LEE HEESEUNG ── ⌗ childhood bestfriend!heeseung x fem!reader ˎˊ˗ where a dm about your childhood best friend is the catalyst for a confession long overdue.
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