The Fine Print
Pairing: Tim Drake/F!Reader
Word Count: 12k
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: PA reader, workplace romance, boss/employee relationship, power imbalance, canon-typical violence, blood/injury, she falls first but he falls harder, secret identity, idiots in love, mutual pining, oral sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex
Summary:
Fresh out of college and desperate for a life that belongs only to you, you move from Boston to Gotham and somehow become Timothy Drake-Wayne’s personal assistant.
The job comes with a terrifyingly high salary, a boss who forgets to sleep, and a city with rules you have to learn before Gotham teaches them the hard way.
Author’s Note: as evidenced by this fic and my Dick fic, i love writing both characters as professional yearners lmao
The first thing you learned about Gotham was that nobody reacted to sirens.
In Boston, sirens still changed the shape of a street. People looked over their shoulders, irritated, curious, or concerned, and cars performed the usual awkward choreography of trying to get out of the way. Gotham did not bother. Gotham heard sirens the way other cities heard rain. It registered them, adjusted for them, and kept moving.
You stood on the sidewalk outside your new apartment building with one suitcase by your knee, a duffel cutting into your shoulder, and your phone clutched in one hand while three police cars screamed past the intersection without slowing.
Nobody around you looked up.
The broker had called the neighborhood “up-and-coming.” Your mother had called it “a cry for help.” Your aunt had sent you four articles about Gotham crime statistics and then followed up with a voice memo that began, “I know you think we’re overreacting, but—”
You had deleted the voice memo at South Station.
That was not fair, maybe. Your family loved you. They loved you so much it had become advice, warnings, opinions, emergency plans, blind dates, shared locations, and a constant chorus of questions about whether you had really thought this through. By the end of college, home had become less a place than a committee meeting about your future.
Gotham had been a decision made from exhaustion, stubbornness, and the frightening clarity of being twenty-two years old with a degree, a checking account that made you anxious, and no desire to move back into your childhood bedroom.
The Wayne Enterprises listing had appeared between two administrative assistant jobs and a communications coordinator position at a nonprofit that required 3 years of experience for entry-level pay. You had laughed when you opened it.
Personal Assistant to the Chief Executive Officer.
Wayne Enterprises.
Competitive salary.
Discretion required.
Ability to manage complex scheduling needs, executive communications, high-pressure situations, confidential materials, and rapidly shifting priorities.
You had assumed the listing was either fake or meant for someone whose résumé included phrases like “family office” and “international liaison.” Still, you had applied because it was one in the morning and your standards had been damaged by panic. You had written a cover letter that was honest enough to embarrass you in daylight, attached your résumé, and hit submit before you could talk yourself out of it.
Two weeks later, you were in Gotham.
Three interviews after that, you were standing in the lobby of Wayne Tower in your best blazer, trying not to look as if the polished black floors and vaulted ceiling had personally insulted your tax bracket.
The receptionist smiled at you with the serene calm of someone who had seen billionaires bleed on marble and still knew where the spare visitor badges were kept. “You can go up now. Mr. Drake-Wayne is expecting you.”
Your stomach performed an athletic maneuver.
“Great,” you said, in the tone of someone for whom nothing had ever been great.
A woman in a cream blouse met you near the elevators. “You must be here for the PA interview.”
“Yes,” you said. “That’s me.”
“I’m Tam Fox.” She shook your hand firmly. “I work in executive operations. Tim is running two minutes late, which is actually early for him.”
You smiled because she smiled, and because “Tim” seemed too casual for the name Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, who had spent the last week existing in your mind as a LinkedIn profile with cheekbones, a terrifying job title, and a net worth you tried very hard not to think about.
“Fair warning,” Tam said as you approached a corner office. “He reads fast, talks faster when he’s tired, and forgets that most people cannot follow three conversations at once.”
“That’s weirdly comforting.”
“That was the goal.”
Inside, Timothy Drake-Wayne stood behind his desk with one hand braced on a stack of folders and the other wrapped around a coffee cup. He was younger than he looked in official photographs, or maybe he looked exactly twenty-three, and the rest of the world had decided CEOs were not supposed to. His tie was slightly loose, his sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and he looked tired enough that the alertness in his eyes felt almost unfair.
“Hi,” he said, setting the coffee down as if remembering he needed a free hand. “Sorry. That was a terrible start. Tim Drake-Wayne.”
You shook his hand. “I know.”
His mouth twitched. “That would be the building with my family’s name on it.”
“One of your names,” you said before you could stop yourself.
For half a second, you were certain you had ruined your life.
Then he laughed.
After that, the interview became less terrifying and more impossible to read. Tim asked about scheduling, confidentiality, difficult personalities, crisis logistics, and the conference you had once helped salvage after it lost its venue forty-eight hours before opening. When he asked who had handled the vendors, transportation, catering, and revised schedule, you admitted, “Mostly me.”
Tim leaned back in his chair. “Why wasn’t your supervisor doing any of this?”
Because she had cried in the bathroom and told you she trusted you, which was the sort of thing people said when they wanted you to accept responsibility without being given authority.
You chose the diplomatic version. “She delegated.”
Tim looked at you for a moment. Then he wrote something in the margin of your résumé.
Three hours later, Tam called to offer you the position.
The salary was high enough that you asked her to repeat it, then accepted before anyone at Wayne Enterprises could realize they had made a clerical error. By the next week, you were officially Tim Drake-Wayne’s personal assistant, and your new life in Gotham had become less theoretical and much more terrifying.
You had no idea that, ever since your interview, Tim Drake-Wayne had not quite managed to stop thinking about you.
The first two weeks were a trial by calendar.
“You have a nine with Lucius Fox, a nine-thirty with legal, a ten with Applied Sciences, a ten-fifteen with the mayor’s office, and a ten-thirty with the children’s hospital board,” you said on your fourth day, standing in his office with a tablet in one hand and a file tucked under your arm.
Tim looked up from his laptop. “That can’t be right.”
“It is.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
He rubbed both hands over his face. “The ten-fifteen was supposed to be next week.”
“The mayor’s office says you confirmed yesterday.”
“I was, for all practical purposes, concussed yesterday.”
You stared at him.
Tim went still.
The office went quiet around the sentence.
Then he said, very carefully, “That was a figure of speech.”
You lowered the tablet. “Do you often confirm meetings while metaphorically concussed?”
“Only when I’m operating on two hours of sleep and a questionable amount of caffeine.”
“That is not better.”
His mouth twitched. “Can you move the mayor’s office?”
“I already did.”
“You did?”
“They’re now Friday at two. Legal is sending someone to sit in on Applied Sciences, and the hospital board is getting a written statement from you by end of day. You still need to call Lucius, because apparently he can tell when you’re avoiding him.”
“Everyone can tell when I’m avoiding Lucius.”
“Then maybe stop making it obvious.”
Tim looked at you for a long moment, and you wondered if you had gone too far.
Finally, he said, “You’re very good at this.”
Your heart did something stupid.
That was when you should have known you were in trouble.
Your feelings for Tim did not appear suddenly or dramatically. They accumulated.
It was in the way Tim listened to you even when his mind had clearly moved three steps ahead. It was in the way he never made you feel stupid for asking questions, only concerned when you did not ask them soon enough.
After that, wanting him became harder to pretend away. You told yourself it was normal to admire someone you worked closely with. Tim was brilliant, and brilliance was attractive when it came with kindness instead of cruelty. He was also your boss, which made the whole thing inconvenient, inappropriate, and something you intended to manage quietly until it died of starvation.
It did not die.
It adapted.
Learning Gotham itself became another part of your job. What you did not learn, at least not quickly enough for Tim’s blood pressure, was how to live in Gotham like someone who understood that survival was not supposed to be optional.
It came to his attention on a Tuesday evening in your third week, when you left Wayne Tower late and decided to walk home in the rain.
You made it four blocks before your phone rang.
Tim’s name appeared on the screen.
You frowned, shifted your tote higher on your shoulder, and answered. “Is something wrong?”
“Where are you?”
“Walking home.”
There was a beat of silence. “You’re what?”
“Walking home.”
“From the office?”
“Yes.”
“In the rain?”
“It’s water, Tim.”
“What route are you taking?”
You glanced at the street signs. “I don’t know, the normal one?”
“The normal one,” he repeated.
“The one my phone suggested.”
Another silence. This one was worse.
“Are you wearing headphones?”
You touched one earbud. “Only one.”
“Take it out.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re walking home alone after dark in Gotham and outsourcing situational awareness to Google Maps.”
You stopped under the awning of a closed tailor shop. Rain dripped from the edge in a steady line. “That feels a little dramatic.”
“Tell me what street you’re on.”
You did, and Tim made a sound that could only be described as a restrained scream.
“Okay,” he said, in the tone of someone trying very hard not to scare a civilian. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn around, walk back to the intersection, and go into the diner on the corner. It should still be open.”
“Tim, I’m six blocks from my apartment.”
“You are two blocks from a corridor that empties after six-thirty because the streetlights have been out for a month and GCPD response time there is abysmal.”
You looked toward the next block. It was quieter than you had realized. Not empty, but thin in a way that made the street’s damp shine suddenly look less cinematic and more like a warning.
A car rolled slowly past. You watched it until it turned the corner.
“I’m going to the diner,” you said.
“Good. Stay on the phone.”
“You’re being a little intense.”
“I’m aware.”
“And bossy.”
“I’m also aware of that.”
The diner was exactly where he said it would be. You sat in a booth near the window, ordered fries because you felt bad taking up space, and tried not to feel like a child who had been caught doing something reckless.
“Are you at the diner?” Tim asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m sending a car.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Tim.”
“You can be angry at me from the car.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You sound angry.”
“I’m embarrassed.”
His voice softened. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”
You watched rain bead on the window and realized how much you had not noticed before.
“I didn’t know,” you said.
“I know.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know that too.”
The simple certainty of it made your throat tighten, which was deeply inconvenient because you were in a diner with fries on the way and your boss in your ear.
Tim exhaled over the line. “Gotham has rules. They’re not fair, and they don’t always make sense until something happens. People who grew up here learn them early. You didn’t, so I’m going to have to teach you.”
“You personally?”
“I’m very qualified.”
“You’re the CEO of a Fortune whatever company.”
“Which means I’ve survived a lot of board meetings in Gotham.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” he agreed. “The board meetings are worse.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
When he spoke again, his voice had shifted, quieter around the edges. “The car’s two minutes out. The driver’s name is Marcus. He’ll have your name.”
“Okay.”
“And tomorrow we’re talking about your commute.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
The car arrived exactly when he said it would.
When you reached your building, Tim said, “Text me when you’re inside your apartment.”
“You’re still being bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll text you,” you said.
“Thank you.”
Upstairs, after locking both locks, you texted him.
Inside.
His response came almost immediately. Good. Sleep well. And don’t use the alley door. Ever.
You looked toward the kitchen window, which faced the narrow black cut between buildings.
How did you know about the alley entrance?
Tim answered, It’s Gotham.
That was not an answer.
It was, however, the first time you wondered whether there was more to Tim Drake-Wayne than bad sleep habits and executive stress.
After that, Gotham lessons became part of your routine. Tim taught you not to stand too close to the curb, not to trust empty streets, not to ignore changes in sound, and not to ask questions if a shopkeeper started lowering the gate in the middle of business hours.
“I’ll make you a list,” Tim said.
He did.
It was three pages long, with the heading Basic Urban Safety Considerations.
You wrote under the heading: Gotham for People From Cities That Have Normal Problems.
Tim laughed so hard he had to set his coffee down before he spilled it across three quarterly reports.
You liked his laugh. That became a problem. Then you liked making him laugh, which became a much worse problem.
The phone appeared on a Thursday.
Your own phone was perfectly fine. It was a previous-generation smartphone you had bought refurbished during senior year, with a battery that had developed opinions of its own.
Tim noticed it, because of course he did.
When it buzzed against his desk one morning and immediately dimmed, Tim looked at it.
“What?” you asked.
“Your phone battery is at twelve percent.”
“It has character.”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“I charged it last night.”
“That’s worse.”
“It works.”
“It works badly.”
“It works economically.”
“It dies before lunch, and you live in Gotham.”
That was unfair because it was reasonable.
“It’s fine,” you said.
He smiled, but it faded faster than usual. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” You softened because he did look serious, and because his concern had a way of getting under your defenses before you could lock them properly. “But I can’t just buy a new phone because my boss has Gotham anxiety.”
“I’m not asking you to buy one.”
“Tim.”
He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a matte black box with no branding.
“What is that?”
“A phone.”
“I gathered.”
“WayneTech prototype. Technically.” His expression was careful in a way that made you immediately suspicious. “Better battery life, satellite fallback, emergency routing, panic button. Three presses sends your location and live audio to a secure response line.”
“What secure response line?”
“A private one.”
“Private like Wayne Enterprises security?”
“Private like people who can get to you faster than standard emergency services in certain parts of Gotham.”
You stared at him.
Tim’s face did something very small and very guilty.
“Timoth Drake-Wayne, I know that you did not just offer me a phone with secret features that connects to a private line used by, what, Bruce Wayne? Robin? Red Robin? Batman? Some terrifying combination of all of the above?”
“It can also call standard emergency services,” he said quickly.
“Tim.”
“And you can disable anything you don’t want. Location only sends if you trigger the alert. Same with live audio. I’m not trying to track you.”
“You understand why this is weird.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m just hoping it’s redundant and you never have to use it.”
“You’re my boss.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t give me secret billionaire technology because my battery sucks.”
“I can if it’s issued as an employee safety device.”
“Is it?”
“It can be.”
You stared at him.
He winced. “It isn’t yet.”
“I’m not saying no forever,” you said. “I’m saying do it properly.”
Tim took the box, his fingers brushing the edge where yours had been a moment before. “Okay.”
The box went back into his drawer, but the weight of it stayed between you.
The employee device policy appeared three business days later.
It was, annoyingly, excellent. Wayne Enterprises issued upgraded phones to several employee groups, with privacy protections, emergency-only location sharing, access logs, and an option to decline without penalty.
Tam stopped by your desk and set a matte-black box down. “Before you ask, yes, I made Legal explain the access logs twice.”
Tam studied you for a moment. Then she tapped the box with one finger. “Set it up before you leave tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You set it up at your desk after most of the floor had emptied. The process walked you through privacy terms, emergency contacts, medical information, and the secure response option.
There was a field labeled Preferred Wayne Security Contact.
Below it, already listed, was Timothy Drake-Wayne.
You stared at the screen.
Then you deleted his name and selected the general Wayne Security line instead.
Five seconds later, your desk phone rang.
You looked toward Tim’s office. His door was open. He was standing behind his desk, phone to his ear, looking through the glass wall at you with the blank expression of someone who had been personally wounded.
You answered. “Yes?”
“You removed me.”
“I selected the appropriate professional contact.”
“I am an appropriate professional contact.”
“You are the CEO.”
“I’m also the person most likely to answer when you need help.”
“That is not as comforting as you think it is.”
“It should be.”
“You are the least available person I’ve ever met.”
“I would answer for you.”
The words arrived quietly.
Your hand tightened around the phone.
He looked as if he regretted saying it aloud, or as if he had not meant to say it with that much truth in it. Through the glass, across the dim office floor, he seemed younger and more tired than the city believed him to be. He also seemed impossibly far away.
“That’s the problem,” you said.
Tim was silent.
“I need this job,” you continued, keeping your voice even because the alternative was worse. “I like this job. I like working for you. I also need you to know where the lines are.”
His face changed. Not dramatically. Tim was too controlled for that. But something in him went still and careful, as if he had finally heard the thing underneath everything you had not been saying.
“You’re right,” he said.
You let out a breath.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
“You don’t have to be sorry for caring.”
“I do if I make it complicated for you.”
You looked at him through the glass and said, “Thank you.”
He nodded once.
The call ended.
You kept Wayne Security as your preferred contact.
Tim did not bring it up again.
That was the first time you thought he might feel something too.
After that, Tim became almost painfully careful. He still looked after you, but through policy, security protocols, and practical adjustments that applied to more people than you. He stopped calling after hours unless it was work-related.
You hated how much you missed it.
Then came the gala.
The Wayne Foundation’s annual winter benefit took over a museum three weeks later, turning it into a glittering maze of flowers, security checkpoints, and donors whose clothing probably cost more than your first car.
You were working, which made it easier: tablet in hand, earpiece in place, comfortable shoes hidden under a formal black dress.
Tim, unfortunately, looked like a problem.
He wore a black tuxedo with the resigned elegance of someone who had been put in formalwear since childhood and had never forgiven anyone for it. His hair was neater than usual, his smile was more practiced, and every time he slipped into charming-rich-boy mode, you felt a private grief for all the tired, sharp, funny parts of him the room did not get to see.
He looked composed. He also looked exhausted.
At nine-thirty, you intercepted him near the staff corridor with a glass of water and two minutes of unscheduled silence.
“Drink,” you said.
His eyes flicked down to the glass. “Is that an order?”
“A professional recommendation.”
“Those are scarier.”
He took the glass and drank half of it. The polished mask slipped a little as soon as he was out of the donors’ sight.
You smiled, and his gaze caught on it in a way that made the noise of the gala seem to recede.
“You look nice,” he said.
Your brain emptied itself like a drawer dumped onto the floor.
Tim seemed to realize the same thing one second too late.
“I mean,” he said, “you look very—” He stopped, as if every available adjective had become a legal hazard. “Appropriate for the event.”
“Appropriate for the event,” you repeated.
He closed his eyes briefly. “That was worse.”
“It was.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You can tell an employee she looks nice at a formal event without HR rappelling through the ceiling.”
His eyes opened. “HR doesn’t rappel.”
“This is Gotham. Don’t be too surprised.”
That got him. His laugh was quiet, but it loosened something in his shoulders.
Then he looked at you again, and the humor softened into something that was harder to pretend away.
“You do,” he said. “Look nice.”
Your pulse moved to your throat.
“Thank you,” you said, because that was safe, and because you wanted too many unsafe things.
A crash sounded from the main hall.
You and Tim both turned at once.
It was not a small crash. It stopped music, conversation, and every heartbeat in the room.
Tim’s expression changed so fast it frightened you.
The exhausted CEO vanished. Something colder and sharper took his place.
“Stay here,” he said.
“Tim—”
“Staff corridor. Door locks from the inside. Stay away from the main hall.”
He was already moving.
You grabbed his sleeve before you could think better of it. “Where are you going?”
His gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted to your face.
For one impossible second, he looked torn.
Then the lights went out.
Emergency lighting washed the corridor red. The museum alarm began to shriek. Tim caught your wrist, not hard, but with immediate certainty, and pulled you through the staff door as people began running in the main hall.
“Move,” he said.
You moved.
The staff corridor was narrow, red-lit, and loud with the muffled chaos of the main hall. Tim guided you into a service alcove near the freight elevator, already typing one-handed on the black phone you had only seen once.
Then laughter crackled over the museum’s PA system.
Not the Joker. You knew that much, and it was horrifying that you knew enough about Gotham to be relieved by the wrong kind of laughter.
“Wonderful,” Tim muttered. “Pantomime.”
“Who?”
“Low-tier thief with high-tier commitment to theme.”
“Should I be comforted?”
“No.”
He pulled something from inside his jacket and pressed it into your hand.
A phone.
Not the one Tam had given you earlier. That one was in your pocket.
This one was matte black, unbranded, and horribly familiar.
“Tim,” you said slowly.
“I designed it for you.”
The words landed too carefully to be casual.
You looked down at the smooth black screen, then back up at him. “This is the one you offered me the first time.”
His hand stayed near yours for half a second before he drew it back. “Yes.”
“Tam already gave me one.”
“I know. This one is different.”
“Different how?”
“Extra emergency routing. Nothing invasive,” he said quickly. “Your privacy terms are built in.”
“You designed a custom phone for me and just carry it around in your jacket?”
His expression barely changed, which meant he was probably embarrassed. “I was waiting for a reasonable time.”
“And this is the reasonable time?”
“No,” he said. “But it is the available one.”
“Tim—”
“Listen to me.” His voice was low and urgent, and every word landed with terrifying precision. “Stay here. Keep low. This hallway leads to the east loading dock if you need to run. Wayne security will eventually come to this corridor. If anyone comes through that door who is not security or me, you go straight down the hall to the last door on the left. Do not wait. Do not let anyone redirect you.”
“And you?”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” Tim said. “It’s an instruction.”
Your fingers closed around his phone. “You’re scaring me.”
His expression flickered.
“I know,” he said, and the apology inside it hurt worse than the fear.
Another sound came from the hall. Metal striking marble. Someone sobbed. Security shouted. The PA system squealed with feedback.
Tim touched your shoulder, brief and steady. “I need you safe.”
Then he was gone.
You crouched in the red-lit service alcove with the phone in your hand and the horrible certainty that Tim had just run toward a crime scene with the focus of someone who knew exactly what to do.
Minutes changed shape during a crisis.
You learned that quickly.
You stayed where he had put you for what felt like an hour but was probably less than five minutes. Voices moved through the corridor twice. Once, two catering staff hurried past, whispering frantically. Once, a security guard ran by with his radio pressed to his mouth. You tried to follow the instructions in your head. Stay down. Watch the door. East loading dock if you need to run.
Then someone slammed into the staff door at the end of the corridor.
You flinched so hard your shoulder hit the wall.
The door rattled. A voice cursed on the other side. Another voice said something you could not make out. The lock held.
The phone Tim had pressed into your hand buzzed.
You looked down.
A notification had appeared on the previously black screen.
EMERGENCY MODE ACTIVE.SAFE ROUTE: EAST LOADING DOCK.
A simple map blinked to life, leading you toward the east loading dock.
In the corner was the name of the active safety profile.
DRAKE PROTOCOL.
You stared at it for half a second too long.
Your thumb hovered over the words longer than it should have.
The door rattled again. This time, the lock cracked.
You did not think. You moved.
Tim had told you to go to the east loading dock, so you went east. You kept low, one hand against the wall, Tam’s phone heavy in your pocket and Tim’s clutched so tightly in your other hand that your fingers hurt. Behind you, the door gave way. People entered the corridor laughing and arguing about whether the “rich idiots” had gone through there. You slipped through the next door before they saw you and found yourself in a storage room full of folded tables and museum display equipment.
There was another door on the far side. You crossed to it, eased it open, and nearly collided with Red Robin.
You stopped so abruptly that your shoulder clipped the frame.
You knew him from news footage, blurry photos, and distant rooftop sightings. Gotham’s vigilantes occupied a strange space in public consciousness, half emergency service and half urban myth. You knew Batman, obviously. Everyone knew Batman. You knew Nightwing because the internet had feelings about Nightwing. You knew Red Robin as the one with the staff, the cape, and the reputation for being frighteningly smart.
He stood in the doorway in red and black armor, domino mask cutting sharp lines across his face, cape settling around him like a shadow. He was taller up close than he looked in news footage, all dark armor and sharp angles in the dim service hallway.
For half a second, you were relieved.
Then he said your name.
Not “ma’am.” Not “miss.” Your name.
Your grip tightened around the phone.
Red Robin went still.
The silence was tiny. Maybe less than a second. Maybe nothing to anyone else.
To you, it was everything.
“Oh,” you said.
Red Robin’s mouth pressed into a line.
You knew that mouth.
You knew that stillness.
You knew the way his shoulders carried responsibility like it had been fitted there by hand.
The storage room door behind you opened.
Red Robin moved before you had time to turn. His staff snapped out with a metallic hiss, striking the first intruder in the chest and sending him backward into the second. He caught your arm, pulled you behind him, and the fight became motion. Efficient, brutal, almost silent compared to the chaos outside. Two men went down before either could shout. A third reached for something at his belt, and Red Robin’s cape cut across your view as he disarmed him with a precision that made your stomach drop.
It was over in seconds.
Red Robin stood over three unconscious men and did not look at you.
You stared at him.
The museum alarm kept screaming.
Finally, he said, “Are you hurt?”
Tim’s voice, altered slightly by the mask or the suit or his own effort, but not enough.
You swallowed. “Are you kidding me?”
He turned then. Even with the mask, you saw the wince.
“Now is not the best time.”
“You’re Red Robin.”
“Now is really not the best time.”
“You’re Red Robin.”
“I heard you.”
“You gave me a panic-button phone.”
His mouth tightened. “Yes.”
“That goes to you.”
“Yes.”
“Not Wayne Security. Not some private corporate response line. You.”
A fractional pause.
“As Red Robin,” you said.
His silence was answer enough.
“And if you don’t answer?”
“It routes to me first,” he said. “If I don’t respond, it escalates.”
“To who?”
Another pause. His mouth tightened.
You stared at him. “Oh my god.”
The comm at his ear crackled. He tilted his head slightly. “I have her. East storage, three down. Moving to loading dock.”
A pause.
“Yes, I know.”
Another pause.
His jaw tightened. “Nightwing can stop laughing anytime.”
You made a sound that was not quite hysteria but had ambitions.
Red Robin held out a gloved hand. “We need to move.”
You looked at his hand, then at the unconscious men, then at the door behind him.
There would be time later. There had to be, because if you let yourself process this now—really process it—you were going to stop moving, and Tim had been very clear that stopping was not an option.
You took his hand.
He led you out.
At the loading dock, Red Robin guided you straight into Tam’s waiting arms.
Tam hugged you once, hard. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” you said honestly.
Red Robin said, “Stay with her.”
Tam nodded once. “Go.”
He looked at you one more time, then vanished into the rain.
You stood there with the phone in your hand and your entire understanding of your employment contract rearranging itself into something insane.
By midnight, the official story was that Tim Drake-Wayne had been evacuated with several major donors and spent the rest of the incident coordinating with security from a safe location.
You heard it while sitting in a Wayne Tower conference room, wrapped in a shock blanket you did not remember accepting.
Tim appeared forty minutes after Red Robin disappeared.
He came in through the main conference room doors wearing his tuxedo again, tie missing, hair damp, a shallow cut at his jaw, and the expression of someone who knew he was walking into consequences.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Tam and Bruce left with suspiciously convenient excuses.
Tim stayed near the door.
You sat at the conference table with the shock blanket around your shoulders and the phone on the polished wood in front of you.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then you said, “You’re Red Robin.”
Tim closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
There it was.
No denial. No corporate language. No careful sidestep into things you were not cleared to know. Just yes.
Your eyes stung suddenly, which made you angry because fear had passed, danger had passed, and apparently now your body had decided to be dramatic in a conference room.
“You said my name,” you said.
“I know.”
“You could have pretended.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Tim’s face softened with something that looked painfully like regret. “Because you were scared, and I needed you to listen.”
That was the worst answer because it was good.
You looked down at the phone. “How many people know?”
“Family. A few allies. Lucius. Alfred.”
“Of course the butler knows.”
Tim winced. “Technically.”
You pressed a hand over your eyes. “I’m angry.”
“I know.”
“I’m also relieved you’re alive.”
His expression shifted.
“And confused. But mostly angry.”
Tim came closer slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal or a bomb. Maybe both. He stopped on the other side of the conference table, leaving distance between you that you hated and appreciated in equal measure.
“You can resign,” he said. “With full severance, references, whatever you need. If you want another job somewhere else, I’ll help arrange it without interfering. If you want to stay at Wayne Enterprises but not work for me, that can happen. You don’t have to decide tonight.”
Something twisted in your chest.
“You already thought through my exit options.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re prepared.”
“Because I care what happens to you.”
The room went very quiet.
Tim looked down, jaw tight. “That was inappropriate.”
“Was it untrue?”
“No.”
“I don’t want to resign,” you said after a long pause.
Tim looked up.
“I don’t know what I want long-term,” you continued. “But I don’t want to leave because something complicated happened.”
“Complicated,” he repeated.
“You’re Red Robin, my boss, and possibly the most sleep-deprived man in America. That’s complicated.”
“Fair.”
“I do think I shouldn’t be your PA forever.”
Pain flickered across his face before he controlled it.
You hated that too.
“I don’t mean because of tonight,” you said. “I mean because I’m good at this, and I don’t want to become someone whose whole career is being useful to one man, even if that man is—”
You stopped.
Tim’s attention sharpened.
“Even if that man is what?” he asked softly.
Dangerous ground. Worse than alleys, scaffolding, and laundromats that were not laundromats. This was the kind of danger you had walked toward willingly for weeks.
You chose honesty, because apparently near-death experiences made you stupid.
“You.”
Tim went still.
The conference room felt too bright, too corporate, too full of glass walls and secrets.
Finally, he said, “I can talk to Tam about a promotion track. Executive operations, maybe special projects. You’d report to her, not me. It would be real, not a favor.”
“You don’t have to solve it tonight.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing it anyway.”
“I’m trying not to do anything else.”
The words landed between you with devastating precision.
Oh.
You stared at him, and Tim held your gaze like he had already decided to accept whatever damage the truth caused.
“You feel it too,” you said.
His breath changed. Barely, but you heard it.
“Yes,” he said.
The answer was quiet. It still wrecked you.
You pulled the shock blanket tighter around yourself because otherwise you might reach for him, and that seemed like a bad idea while you were still shaking and he was still bleeding from his jaw.
“We can’t do anything about that right now,” you said.
“I know.”
“And you need stitches.”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You are still lying about injuries to the person who knows your calendar, your caffeine intake, and your fake workout blocks.”
His mouth twitched.
You picked up the phone from the table.
“I’ll keep this,” you said.
Tim’s gaze flicked to the phone, then back to your face. “Okay.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m done being angry.”
“I know.”
“Or confused.”
“I know that too.”
You slipped the phone carefully into your bag, as if the wrong movement might shatter something already fragile and cracked.
“Medical first,” you said.
“Okay.”
“Then we discuss my job.”
“Okay.”
“And then, eventually, when there is no active crime scene, no head wound, and no direct-reporting relationship, we can discuss the other thing.”
Tim’s eyes lifted to yours.
There was something in them now that you had never seen so openly in his office. Want, yes, but also restraint. Hope under discipline. A man with too many masks allowing one of them to slip because you had asked him for honesty and he had given it.
“The other thing,” he said.
“Don’t make me say it in a conference room.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You absolutely would.”
His smile came back, small and real.
Your heart, traitorous and exhausted, leaned toward it.
Two weeks later, you were promoted.
It was not because you knew Tim’s secret. You made absolutely sure of that.
Tam brought you into her office with an offer letter, a revised title, and a salary increase that made you stare at the page for a full ten seconds without breathing.
Executive Operations Coordinator, Special Projects.
You would report to Tam, not Tim. It was a real job with real responsibilities, and Tam made sure you understood that before you could ask.
“You earned it,” she said. “And before you start thinking Tim pushed this through because he is emotionally compromised, he recommended you for advancement two weeks before the gala.”
She turned a printed memo toward you. You caught only a few phrases before looking away.
Exceptional crisis judgment.
Operational instincts exceed current role.
Should be placed where she can build institutional authority.
You looked away before your face could do something embarrassing.
“Tim has many flaws,” Tam said. “Undervaluing competence is not usually one of them.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes if you want the job.”
You looked at the offer again. You thought of Boston, your packed boxes, your family’s concern pressing against every decision you made until Gotham had seemed less like a city than an escape hatch. You thought of your first day in Wayne Tower, your panic in the elevator, Tim laughing when you said one of his names was on the building.
Then you thought of the storage room, Red Robin saying your name, and Tim across a conference table telling you he cared about what happened to you.
You signed the offer.
You found Tim on the roof of Wayne Tower at sunset, which was not where CEOs were supposed to be but was exactly where vigilantes apparently spent their emotional processing time. He was in shirtsleeves, jacket abandoned on the low wall beside him, tie loose, wind tugging at his hair. The grotesques along the roofline loomed dark against the bruised evening sky.
“Do all Waynes brood on rooftops,” you asked, “or is this a you thing?”
Tim turned. His expression changed when he saw the envelope in your hand.
“You signed.”
“I did.”
The tension in his shoulders eased so visibly that it hurt your chest.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You earned it.”
“That seems to be the company line.”
“It’s the truth.”
You walked to the wall beside him, leaving enough space between you for sense and not enough for comfort.
You looked at him. “I think I’m staying.”
Tim’s gaze held yours. “In Gotham?”
“At Wayne Enterprises. In Gotham. In the life I apparently live now, where my former boss is Red Robin and my new phone has emergency settings designed by a vigilante with a corporate email address.”
He huffed a laugh. “Former boss.”
“That’s the part you heard?”
“It’s an important part.”
“It is.”
The wind moved between you, cold enough that you folded your arms.
Tim noticed. Of course he noticed. “Do you want my jacket?”
“No.”
“You’re cold.”
“I am establishing independence.”
“You can be independent and warm.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not.”
He held out the jacket.
You stared at it, then at him.
“Tim.”
“It’s a jacket, not a marriage proposal.”
You laughed despite yourself and took it. It was warm from his body and too expensive to just drop on the roof, and putting it on felt like accepting something you had been refusing in pieces for weeks.
Tim watched you, careful and quiet.
“I report to Tam now, but you’re still the CEO.”
“Yes.”
“And Red Robin.”
“Also yes.”
“So this is still complicated.”
“I know.”
His patience should have made this easier. It did not. It made you want to step closer.
So you did.
Tim’s attention dropped briefly to the movement, then returned to your face.
“I don’t remember what it’s like to not love you,” you said.
He went completely still.
You could not believe you had said it. Once the words were out, though, you refused to take them back. You had spent too long managing feelings privately, folding them into professional smiles and calendar updates, pretending every kindness did not land somewhere tender.
“I tried not to,” you continued. “You were my boss. You’re rich in a way that makes me want to audit reality. You have a family name that opens doors by existing. And I’m…not. I’m new to Gotham, new to this job, and trying very hard not to confuse the first person who made me feel steady with someone I was allowed to want.”
Tim’s voice was low. “Did you?”
“No.”
His expression softened.
“That was the problem,” you said. “I knew exactly what it was.”
For a moment, the city seemed to fall away beneath the sound of the wind.
Then Tim said, “I don’t know when it became love. I only know that it did.”
Your breath caught.
He looked almost embarrassed by the confession, which made it worse and better and impossible.
“I didn’t understand what was happening at first,” he said. “I thought I was relieved to have someone competent. Then I thought I was worried because you were new to Gotham. Then I thought about you walking home in the rain so much that Nightwing threatened to block my number after I texted him at three in the morning for the third night in a row.”
A laugh slipped out of you, unsteady.
Tim stepped closer. “I tried to keep it professional.”
“You did.”
“Not because I didn’t want you.”
The words hit with enough force to make you forget the cold.
He seemed to hear it after he said it. His mouth parted slightly like he might apologize, but you shook your head.
“Don’t you dare take it back.”
“I won’t.”
The space between you had become very small.
Your hand moved first. Not far. Just enough to touch the front of his shirt, your fingers resting over the place where his tie had been loosened. Tim looked down at your hand as if it were more dangerous than anything he faced in a mask.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
You had imagined Tim asking like that. Careful, direct, almost formal with the effort of giving you a choice.
You had not imagined how much it would undo you.
“Yes,” you said.
He kissed you as if caution were the last thing standing between him and disaster.
For one breath, it was almost unbearably gentle. His mouth touched yours, then paused there, asking without words. The city moved around you in sirens and wind and distant traffic, but Tim stayed still, giving you room to choose.
So you chose.
You rose onto your toes and kissed him back.
Something in him changed then—not snapped, not broke, but gave way. His hand found the lapel of the jacket he had put around your shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric as if it were the only safe place to hold on. You felt his breath catch before he kissed you again, deeper this time, less like a question and more like an answer he had been trying not to write down for months.
By the time you pulled apart, his forehead was almost touching yours, and neither of you seemed willing to be the first to remember the rest of the world.
His gaze dropped to the jacket around your shoulders, then back to your face.
“I should not be thinking about how good that looks on you right now,” he said.
Your breath caught.
“That’s your takeaway?”
“I’m trying to be normal.”
“You are failing.”
“I know.”
You smiled, and he kissed you again just because he could, because some impossible permission had been granted and neither of you knew how to be sensible with it yet.
Eventually, you made it back inside. Sensibility returned somewhere between the rooftop door and the executive elevator, mostly because the building had cameras and you both remembered at the same time.
Tim walked you to your office because it was late, because he was still Tim, and because you let him. The new space was smaller than his but bigger than your old desk, with a door, a window, and your name already printed on a temporary placard.
He stopped outside.
You stood in the doorway, still wearing his jacket.
“This is where I say goodnight,” he said.
“Is it?”
“It should be.”
You looked at him for a long moment. The professional part of you admired the restraint. The rest of you resented it.
“What do you want?” you asked.
Tim’s eyes darkened.
The hallway was empty. The office floor beyond it was dim, most of the staff gone for the night. Somewhere far away, the cleaning crew moved down another corridor.
“That’s a dangerous question,” he said.
“I know.”
“I want to kiss you again.”
“That seems manageable.”
“I want to do more than kiss you.”
Your pulse jumped.
Tim did not move closer. That was the thing about him. Desire was there, clear and intense, but so was the discipline. He would stand in a hallway and let honesty burn through him before he would use it to corner you.
You loved that.
The realization arrived without ceremony and with terrible timing.
You did not say it. Not yet. There were some truths too large for office hallways.
Instead, you stepped into your office, turned on the light, and looked back at him.
“Come in, then.”
Tim’s composure cracked.
Only slightly. Only enough.
He entered and closed the door behind him.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved.
Tim’s gaze stayed on you.
“You’re very careful,” you said.
“With you? Yes.”
Heat curled low in your stomach.
You crossed the office and stopped in front of him. “You can touch me.”
Tim’s hand came to your waist first, over your dress, warm and steady. Then the other settled at your back. He drew you in slowly, and when you lifted your face, he kissed you with all the care he had promised and all the hunger he had not.
The office disappeared by degrees.
There was his mouth, his hands, the press of your back against the door when he guided you into position with a soft sound and swallowed your gasp. There was the slide of your fingers into his hair, the way he shuddered and made a noise deep in his throat when you tugged, the sudden knowledge that Timothy Drake-Wayne, brilliant and controlled and impossible, could come undone if you touched him just right.
He kissed along your jaw, then stopped.
“Still okay?”
“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Tim, please.”
His eyes closed for a second, as if the word did something to him. Then his mouth found your throat, careful at first, then less so when your hand tightened on his shoulder.
Your hands found the buttons of his shirt. He went still beneath your fingers.
“Is this okay?” you asked.
A laugh broke out of him, low and strained. “Yes.”
“You’re allowed to answer faster.”
“I’m trying not to embarrass myself.”
“That might be my favorite thing you’ve ever said.”
He kissed you again, and the buttons became less cooperative under pressure. When his shirt opened beneath your hands, you found warm skin, hard muscle, and the faint raised evidence of a life you were only beginning to understand. You touched one scar lightly before you could stop yourself.
Tim’s breath caught.
You looked up. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
There was a story under your fingertips. Many stories, probably. Too many for one night. You kissed the place instead, gentle enough that his hand flexed against the door beside your head.
He said your name like a warning.
You smiled against his skin. “What?”
“If you do that again, my plan to be responsible is going to suffer.”
“Your plan sounds boring.”
“My plan is respectful.”
“I respect it.”
“You are actively undermining it.”
“Yes.”
Tim looked down at you, and the heat in his face made your knees feel unreliable.
Then he picked you up and turned, placing you onto the edge of your desk.
The movement startled a laugh out of you, but it dissolved when he stepped between your knees. His hands slid along your thighs, still over fabric, still giving you time. You pulled him closer by his open shirt and kissed him until the careful rhythm broke into something messier.
His phone buzzed.
Both of you froze.
Tim dropped his forehead to your shoulder. “I’m going to kill him.”
You were breathing hard. “Who?”
“Statistically, Dick.”
The phone buzzed again.
You started laughing and could not stop.
Tim groaned, but there was laughter in it too, helpless and frustrated and young in a way you rarely got to see. He pulled back enough to check the screen, then made a face.
“Emergency?” you asked.
“No. He sent a bat emoji.”
You laughed harder.
Tim typed something one-handed.
“What did you say?”
“That I’m resigning from the family.”
“He’ll believe that?”
“No.”
The interruption should have killed the moment. It did not. It softened it, turned the sharp edge of want into something warmer, more sustainable, less likely to burn through every careful choice you had made.
Tim put the phone facedown on your desk and looked at you. “Can I take you to dinner?”
“Now?”
“Not now. Now I should walk you home and behave like someone who remembers that tonight was a lot for you.”
Your expression softened despite yourself. “Do you always have to be reasonable?”
“No,” he said. “I’m making a deliberate effort.”
You touched his open collar. “Dinner sounds good.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I have plans tomorrow.”
His eyebrows rose. “Do you?”
“I do have a life outside this building.”
“I know. I’m proud and devastated.”
“Saturday.”
“Saturday,” he agreed.
You slid off the desk, and he steadied you with both hands. For a second, you stayed close, neither of you willing to end the contact completely.
You buttoned his shirt because someone had to, and because the intimacy of doing it made him quiet in a way kissing had not. When you reached the last button, his hand covered yours.
“I’m glad you came here,” he said.
You had no clever response, so you kissed him once more, soft and lingering, then stepped back before one of you forgot where you were.
Tim walked you home.
At your building, the flickering light above the door had been fixed. The bulb burned steady and warm over the entrance, catching on the old brick and the damp railing.
You stopped on the first step and looked up at it.
“Tim.”
“Yes?”
“Did you fix my building light?”
“I did not personally.”
You turned to look at him. “That is not a denial.”
“No,” he admitted.
“You know, most people flirt with flowers.”
“I can do flowers.”
“You fixed exterior lighting.”
“You said the hallway was dark.”
“I said that once.”
“I listen.”
That one got under your skin.
For a moment, you only looked at him. He stood one step below you, which made you almost level. His tie was loose, his hair still slightly mussed from your hands, and his jacket was back on by then, though he had only put it on after making sure you were not cold on the walk over. He looked nothing like the polished CEO from the gala two weeks ago. He looked tired, careful, and very real.
You reached for the door.
Tim did not move to follow.
Of course he didn’t.
He stood on the sidewalk with his hands still at his sides, waiting. The restraint should have annoyed you by now. Instead, it made the desire sharper, because every step closer to him had to be yours if you wanted it to be. He would not take a single inch you did not hand him.
“Tim.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Come upstairs.”
The words landed quietly between you, but they felt heavier than anything you had said in your office. There was no company logo behind you now. No executive floor. No desk with your new title waiting outside the door. Just your building, your key, your choice.
Tim’s gaze searched your face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You can change your mind at any point.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.” You opened the door and held it. “Come upstairs.”
This time, he did.
The stairwell smelled faintly of old paint, rain-damp coats, and someone’s dinner from two floors down. It was not glamorous. The third-floor landing had a cracked tile near the railing. The radiator pipes clanked behind the walls. Your neighbor’s dog barked once as you passed, then apparently decided you were not worth the effort.
The key shook once in your hand before you got it into the lock. You hoped he did not notice. He almost definitely noticed. He was kind enough not to say anything.
Inside, your apartment was warm in the uneven way old buildings were warm. Tim entered behind you, closed and locked the door, then looked around with the same attentive curiosity he brought to everything.
“It feels like you,” he said.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Messy?”
His laugh was quiet and warm.
“Alive.”
You reached up and loosened his tie the rest of the way.
“I’m still sure,” you said.
The last of his restraint shifted.
He stepped closer, slowly enough that you could have moved away, and lifted one hand to your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, light and reverent. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
“I want you to.”
He kissed you.
The first touch of his mouth was soft, almost controlled, but the gentleness did not last. You knew now what it felt like when Tim gave himself permission. You felt it in the way his hand slid to the back of your neck, in the way he drew you closer, in the quiet sound he made when you opened for him.
You gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him closer until there was no polite distance left between you, only the warmth coming from his body.
His free hand found your waist, firm enough to make your breath hitch when he drew you in. Tim caught the sound against your mouth and went still for half a second, as if he had to survive it.
Then he did it again.
Your head tipped back, his hand warm at the nape of your neck. “Tim.”
“I know,” he said, though his voice had gone rough.
“You don’t, actually.”
His mouth moved to your jaw. “Then tell me.”
You threaded your fingers into his hair, and his breath caught. “Touch me.”
His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, then lower to your hip. He paused there, fingers flexing once through the fabric of your skirt.
You kissed him again because you wanted to, because you could, because this was your apartment and your choice and you were tired of wanting carefully.
Tim’s hand slipped beneath the hem of your skirt.
The first touch of his fingers against your bare thigh made your whole body respond. He felt it. You knew he did because his mouth faltered against yours, and for one breath, all the careful intelligence in him seemed to short out.
“You’re very distracting,” he murmured.
“You’re one to talk.”
His smile brushed your cheek, then disappeared against your throat. He kissed his way down slowly, learning your responses with every press of his mouth. When his teeth grazed the sensitive place beneath your ear, you gasped and tugged at his hair hard enough to make him groan.
The sound undid the thing that told you to be careful.
You pushed his jacket off his shoulders. It hit the floor somewhere near your shoes. His shirt followed badly, buttons undone between kisses, your hands impatient and his no better. When you finally got the fabric open, you slid your palms over his chest and felt the hard shiver that moved through him.
He was beautiful like this. Warm, scarred, and breathing unevenly under your hands.
Your fingers found one of the pale marks near his ribs. You touched it softly, and Tim’s hand closed around your wrist.
For one second, you thought you had hurt him.
Then he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your palm.
The tenderness of it almost ruined you.
“Bedroom?” he asked.
Your pulse jumped.
You nodded.
You grabbed his hand, and this time, when you got to your bedroom, you were the one who walked him backward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of your bed. He sat, looking up at you with his shirt open, hair mussed, mouth flushed from kissing, and you had the sudden, dizzying realization that Timothy Drake-Wayne was in your room because you had invited him there.
Desire moved through you with startling clarity.
You reached for the buttons of your blouse.
Tim’s gaze dropped to your hands, then lifted back to your face immediately, as if he were trying very hard to be respectful and suffering for it.
“You can look,” you said.
His laugh came out strained. “Thank you.”
You undid the buttons slowly, then let the blouse slip from your shoulders. Tim stopped breathing for a second.
Tim stopped breathing for a second.
That was worth everything.
You stood in front of him in your bra and skirt and watched the last of his practiced composure fall away.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
You touched his hair. “You’re overdressed.”
That got you a smile, quick and devastating.
“Fix it, then.”
So you did.
You pushed his shirt down his arms, and he let it fall somewhere beside the bed. His undershirt followed. You took your time because you wanted to, because he was letting you look, because every scar and line of muscle told a story you would not ask for tonight but wanted to learn someday. When your hands reached his belt, he caught your fingers gently.
“Still sure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Because we can slow down.”
“I don’t want to slow down.”
His eyes darkened.
“I want you,” you said.
That did it.
Tim pulled you into his lap.
You gasped, arms going around his shoulders as his mouth found yours again. Sitting perched on his thighs made everything feel closer, hotter, harder to control. His hands moved over your back, then down to your hips, guiding you against him until the hard line of him pressed between your legs through too many layers of fabric. The friction was blunt and maddening, enough to make your hips move again before you could think better of it.
The pressure made you moan into his mouth.
He broke away with a sharp breath. “I need you to keep making that sound.”
You smiled, breathless. “Bossy.”
“Former boss.”
“Still bossy.”
He kissed you again, and his hand slid between your bodies.
When his fingers touched you through your underwear, your hips jerked. Tim watched your face as he did it again, slower, firmer, learning you with that devastating focus you had seen in boardrooms and crisis calls and rooftop confessions. Your head fell forward against his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he said softly.
The praise made your body tighten.
His fingers moved with patient precision, stroking you through the thin fabric until you were clinging to him, breath coming unevenly against his neck. It would have been embarrassing how quickly he figured you out if he hadn’t looked so undone by it, too.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmured. “God, you’re—”
He stopped himself.
You lifted your head enough to look at him. “So what?”
His fingers pressed more firmly, and the question dissolved into a gasp.
“So much better than anything I let myself think about,” he said.
You kissed him because if he kept talking, you were going to come before he had even taken your underwear off.
Tim seemed to like that. His free hand slid up your back, unclasping your bra with a competence that would have annoyed you if you had not been so distracted by his mouth. He drew the straps down your arms, slow enough to make your skin prickle, and when he looked at you, the hunger in his face was edged with something almost tender.
“Can I?” he asked, his hand hovering.
You nodded.
“Say it.”
Your breath caught. “Yes.”
His mouth closed over your breast, and the first wet heat of it made you arch against him. Tim’s hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady as his tongue moved over your nipple, then his teeth grazed carefully enough to make you gasp without hurting. You could feel him smile against your skin before he did it again.
“You’re smug,” you said, though it came out weaker than you intended.
He lifted his head. “I’m observant.”
“You are very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m pleased with you.”
That was unfair enough that you kissed him to shut him up.
The next few minutes became a blur of hands and heat, his mouth moving over every place he could reach while your underwear stayed frustratingly in the way. Tim laid you back carefully, as if your bed were something sacred and not a mattress you had ordered online with free shipping. He kissed down your body with devastating patience, over your throat, between your breasts, along your stomach, until your fingers twisted in the sheets and your breath turned uneven.
When he hooked his fingers into your skirt and underwear, he looked up at you.
You nodded before he could ask.
He still asked. “Can I take these off?”
“Yes.”
He drew them down your legs slowly, kissing your thigh once as he did. By the time he settled between your knees, his eyes had darkened, and you were trembling with anticipation and the unbearable tenderness of being desired by someone who kept asking because your answer mattered.
Tim kissed the inside of your thigh.
Then higher.
The first touch of his mouth against your clit made your whole body jolt.
He paused immediately, one hand spreading over your hip. “Okay?”
“Yes,” you said, almost laughing because your nerves had nowhere else to go. “Very okay.”
His smile turned wicked for one brief, breathtaking second. “Good.”
Then he stopped being careful in all the ways that mattered least.
He lowered his mouth again. Pleasure built slowly at first, then faster as he found the rhythm that made your thighs tense around his shoulders. One of his hands slid up to lace with yours against the sheets. His other arm hooked across your hips, firm enough to hold you in place when you started to move against his mouth. You said his name once, then again, and the second time, he groaned like hearing it hurt him.
That was what pushed you over.
You came with your fingers locked around his, your free hand buried in his hair, your body tightening as he worked you through it with slow, careful strokes of his tongue. When it was too much, you tugged weakly at his hair, and he lifted his head at once, kissing your inner thigh with a gentleness that made the aftershocks worse.
For a while, you only breathed.
“You are dangerously good at that,” you said eventually.
His laugh was low and a little wrecked. “I’m taking that as positive feedback.”
He climbed back up your body, kissing you on the way, and when his mouth met yours again, you could taste yourself on him. The intimacy of it made you shiver. Tim felt it and kissed you deeper, his body settling over yours with careful weight.
You reached for his belt.
This time, he let you.
His breathing changed as you opened it, then his briefs, your fingers brushing over his cock through the fabric. He was hard enough that the first touch made his hips shift despite the control he was clearly trying to maintain.
His mouth found your neck as you pushed his slacks and briefs down far enough to wrap your hand around him. He groaned into your skin, low and rough, and the sound made heat gather in your core again even though you were still sensitive from his mouth.
You stroked him slowly, learning the weight and heat of him, the way his breath caught when your thumb passed over the head, the way his hand fisted in the sheet beside your shoulder. Tim was beautiful like this too, undone in pieces, control unraveling under your touch.
“If you keep doing that,” he said, voice rough, “this is going to end very quickly.”
You smiled. “Is that a threat?”
“It is a warning.”
“Very civic-minded of you.”
His laugh broke into a groan when your hand moved again.
Then he kissed you, and the humor burned away.
“Condom?” he asked against your mouth.
“In the nightstand,” you said, then hesitated.
Tim went still immediately. “What?”
You looked up at him, suddenly aware of how close he was, how warm, how careful. “I’m on birth control. I was tested after my last relationship. There hasn’t been anyone since.”
His breath changed, but he did not move. “I’m clean too.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeated, voice rougher.
You touched his cheek. “I don’t want anything between us.”
For one second, the restraint on his face looked almost painful.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He kissed you then, deep and unsteady, and when he settled between your thighs again, your legs opened for him almost instinctively.
Then he guided himself to you. The first press of him made you both go still.
You had expected him to be careful. He was. But careful did not mean unaffected. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath shaking as he eased inside you, slow enough to make you feel every inch. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body stretching around him, pleasure and pressure tangling until your eyes closed.
“Okay?” he asked, voice strained.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Just give me a second.”
He did. Of course he did. He held still with impossible control, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. It was almost worse than movement, the tenderness of it, the way he seemed determined to make room for every part of you. Desire. Nerves. Trust. The frightening softness underneath it all.
When you shifted your hips experimentally, Tim groaned.
“You can move,” you whispered.
His eyes opened, and the look on his face stole the rest of your teasing.
He moved.
Slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, each thrust deep and careful enough to make your breath catch. Your fingers slid into his hair. His mouth found yours, and the kiss turned messy as the rhythm built between you.
You hooked one leg higher around his hip, and the angle changed.
Pleasure struck with such sharp intensity that you gasped.
Tim froze for half a breath. “There?”
“Again.”
He obeyed, and your back arched off the bed.
The careful rhythm fractured after that. His control held, but barely, worn thin by the way you clung to him and the sounds you could no longer fully hide. One of his hands slid beneath your thigh, holding you open for him, and his mouth dropped to your shoulder as he thrust deeper.
“You feel so good,” he said, his voice rough enough to scrape. “I thought about this too much. About you too much.”
Your nails dug into his back. “Tim.”
“I know.” His mouth brushed your jaw. “I know, sweetheart.”
The endearment should not have hit as hard as it did. It did anyway. You clenched around him, and Tim’s rhythm faltered for the first time, a harsh breath breaking from him as he fought not to lose himself too soon.
“Say that again,” you whispered.
His eyes found yours. “Sweetheart?”
You nodded, breathless.
Something in his face went devastatingly soft.
He kissed you, then slid a hand between your bodies, fingers finding the place his mouth had left sensitive and aching. “Come for me again, sweetheart.”
You did not stand a chance.
The pleasure built faster this time, driven by his fingers, his voice, the deep, steady movement of him inside you. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, then clawed at his back, then the sheets as the tension wound tighter and tighter. Tim watched you as long as he could, his own composure breaking apart with every sound you made.
When you came, your orgasm hit you hard.
Your body tightened around him, your cry muffled against his shoulder as pleasure rolled through you. Tim groaned, losing rhythm for one breath, then another, his hips stuttering as he followed you over. He buried his face against your neck, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding you close as he came with a broken sound that made your chest ache.
Afterward, the room went quiet except for your breathing and the clank of the radiator.
Tim stayed over you for a moment, careful not to crush you, his face tucked against your throat. You could feel his heartbeat where his chest pressed to yours, too fast and very human.
Eventually, he lifted his head.
His hair was a disaster. His mouth was swollen. His expression was so open that you wanted to look away and could not.
“Okay?” he asked softly.
You laughed, exhausted and warm. “You can’t ask me that like you didn’t just rearrange my insides.”
A smile broke across his face, tired and real and a little dazed. “Positive feedback?”
“Glowing review.”
He kissed you once, smiling against your mouth, then carefully withdrew. You missed him immediately, which was embarrassing, but Tim did not go far.
He came back with a warm washcloth and cleaned you up with the same quiet focus he brought to everything else, gentle enough that your throat tightened. Then he disappeared once more, returned with a glass of water, and waited until you had drunk half of it before he seemed satisfied.
Only then did he look toward the window. A sliver of Gotham showed through the gap in the curtains, dark and wet and flickering with distant light.
“I should probably go,” he said, sounding like he hated every word.
You looked up at him. “Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
His hand stilled where it rested on the edge of the mattress.
“My heating is terrible,” you said. “And my bed is small. But you can stay if you want.”
Tim looked back at you with that same carefulness, though it was softer now. “Are you sure?”
You touched his cheek. “Yes.”
He turned his face and kissed your palm. “Then I want to stay.”
“Good.”
He climbed back into bed, drew the blanket over both of you, and tucked you carefully against him like he had every right to be there and still could not quite believe he was allowed.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Outside, Gotham kept moving. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, low and familiar now, threading through the night with the hum of traffic and the occasional groan of old pipes. You had once thought the sound meant you had made a mistake. That you had come too far, too fast, chasing independence into a city that did not know how to be gentle with anyone.
Now Tim’s arm was around you, your door was locked, the phone he had given you was charging on the nightstand, and the city beyond your window felt dangerous and strange and yours.
For the first time since moving to Gotham, the sirens outside did not make you wonder whether you should have gone home.
They sounded like the city continuing around you.
They sounded, strangely, like home.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Robin divider ❤️💛