Archive of Our Own

Tim moved through the room like he was outrunning gravity.

Not in the way people said it about speedsters, flashy and bright and obvious. More like a law of physics that had decided it couldn’t be bothered with anyone else’s schedule. He slipped between clusters of heroes and staff and monitors, a red streak at the edge of everyone’s vision, making sharp turns with a file tucked under one arm and a comm half-murmured against his jaw.

He was fast.

He was tired.

He was brilliant in that dangerous, flint-strike way, like if you hit him wrong he’d spark and burn down a whole plan just to keep the mission from failing.

I tried not to stare.

I failed immediately.

The Watchtower briefing room was too bright and too cold at the same time, the kind of lighting that made everyone’s skin look a little paler than it should. The windows beyond the table showed the curve of Earth, all blues and whites, like the planet was holding its breath. Up here, sound carried weird. Every chair scrape felt too loud. Every voice echoed just a little longer than it should.

Tim didn’t echo.

He cut through.

He listened with his whole body, posture angled toward the speaker like he was about to pounce. He made notes without looking down, the stylus dancing over his tablet like it was a second language. Every once in a while his gaze flicked up, sharp as a blade, and the room shifted around it. People didn’t like admitting it, but they watched him the way they watched Batman. The way you watched something that made plans inside plans.

And when his eyes landed on me, even for a heartbeat, my solar-charged blood went hot like someone had cranked my internal sun up a notch.

He didn’t smile. Not really. Tim didn’t do big expressions in rooms like this.

But his mouth did that tiny thing, the almost-smirk that meant he’d noticed I was there and had decided, deliberately, that I belonged.

My chest tightened anyway.

“Superboy,” someone said, and I forced my attention back to the table. I made myself sit still. I made myself look like I wasn’t tracking Tim’s every move like a compass needle.

We were in mixed company. League-adjacent, Titans-adjacent, everyone with a reason to be here and a dozen reasons not to let their guard down. Tim was in his suit, red and black, cape draped like it had never been in the way in his life. When he spoke, it was clipped, efficient, the voice of someone who refused to waste oxygen.

“Debrief summary is already uploaded,” he said. “I flagged three inconsistencies in the satellite telemetry. If we compare it to the ground footage, we can narrow the window of error to six seconds.”

Six seconds. Like it was nothing.

Like he hadn’t been awake for two days and was still turning chaos into clean lines.

Someone asked a question about the inconsistencies. Tim answered without blinking. He didn’t even pause to think. He just had the thought already lined up, already sharpened, already waiting for the moment it could be useful.

He should have been proud.

He should have been safe.

Instead, he looked like a candle that refused to go out even as the wax ran low. The kind of stubborn light that made you want to cup your hands around it and keep it from flickering.

My hands twitched under the table.

They always wanted to steady him.

That was the problem. Not the only one, but the one I couldn’t ignore anymore. Because wanting was easy. Wanting could live in the background of my life like sunlight on a window. Warm. Constant. Something I didn’t have to name.

But lately wanting had started to feel like pressure. Like a door that wouldn’t stay shut. Like if I didn’t do something, anything, I was going to crack straight down the middle.

Tim looked down at his tablet for half a second. His lashes cast shadows under his eyes. Bruises of exhaustion, the kind he’d pretend were just lighting if anyone pointed them out.

He smelled like ink and coffee when he passed close enough. Paper and late nights. A little ozone from his gear. The scent hit me like a punch of familiarity. Like home, except I didn’t have a word for it that didn’t scare me.

Briefing ended. Chairs scraped. People stood and talked in small clusters.

Tim vanished into motion again, already heading toward the exit.

I didn’t follow him.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

But this was the part where I did something smarter than my instincts. This was the part where I did it right.

Because I wasn’t new to liking him.

I was new to accepting what that meant for me.

On Krypton, love wasn’t a thing you stumbled into and then shrugged off when it got complicated. Love was not casual. Love was not a temporary arrangement. Love wasn’t even, if I was being honest, entirely a choice.

It was a vow the body made as much as the mind.

And my body had been making it for months.

I left the Watchtower with my jaw clenched and my hands in fists, like I could physically hold myself together. The corridor lights were harsh. The air smelled like antiseptic and metal. I floated for a moment in the empty hallway just to get my head above it all, and even that didn’t help.

Tim’s voice was still in my ears.

Six seconds.

Six seconds of error mattered to him. Six seconds could change everything.

Maybe that was why I couldn’t pretend this didn’t matter.

Back on Earth, the sun was lower. Late afternoon light spilled across Metropolis like honey. It hit my skin and sank in, familiar and steady, like it was trying to remind me I wasn’t alone in my own head.

It didn’t work.

I landed on the roof of the apartment building Clark used when he had to be in the city for too long. It wasn’t the Fortress. It wasn’t the farm. It was something in-between, a place that smelled like laundry detergent and old newspapers and the faint bite of alien tech hidden behind human walls.

Clark opened the balcony door before I even knocked.

He always did that. Like he could feel me coming, like my heartbeat was a signal he’d learned to recognize.

“Hey,” he said, soft.

I tried to keep my voice casual. “You busy?”

He studied my face. His eyes didn’t miss anything. “Not too busy for you.”

That was another thing about Clark. He could be Superman to the whole world and still make room in his day like it was nothing. Like you were the important thing. Like you weren’t an interruption.

He stepped back and let me in. The apartment was warm, sunlit. Plants on the windowsill, because of course. A half-finished mug of tea on the counter. A stack of papers that looked like he’d tried to do regular-person chores and gotten distracted by saving someone.

Kara was already there, sitting on the couch like she owned it, boots kicked off, hair piled high, eyes on her phone. She glanced up when I came in, and her expression sharpened into a grin.

“Well, well,” she said. “Look who finally decided to stop orbiting and land.”

I groaned. “Can you not.”

She patted the seat beside her like she was calling a dog. “Sit. You’re vibrating.”

“I’m not vibrating,” I lied, and sat anyway because my legs suddenly felt like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Clark leaned against the counter, arms folded. He looked relaxed, but there was a carefulness to him, like he’d learned to read storms before they hit.

Kara tossed her phone onto the cushion and turned fully toward me. “Okay. Spill. You don’t come to us with that face unless you’re about to do something reckless or romantic.”

“Or both,” Clark added, like it was a gentle joke.

My throat tightened. “I’m not— It’s not reckless.”

Kara’s brows shot up. “That’s how I know it’s serious.”

I stared at the patch of sunlight on the carpet. It was brighter than the rest of the room, a perfect square of warmth. I could have walked into it and let it soak into my skin until my head cleared.

Instead I sat there, hands clasped together, and admitted the thing I’d been circling for months.

“I want to court him.”

Kara made a sound that was half laugh, half victory. “Finally.”

Clark didn’t smile right away. His eyes softened, and something behind them shifted. A shadow. Quick, subtle, almost gone before I could name it.

He pushed off the counter and came closer, slow. “Are you sure?”

The question wasn’t doubt. It wasn’t dismissal.

It was care.

It hit me harder than any punch.

“I’ve been sure,” I said, voice rough. “I just… haven’t been ready.”

Kara rolled her eyes like she was allergic to hesitation. “You’re ready now.”

I nodded once. “I’m ready now.”

Clark sat across from me, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He didn’t look like Superman in moments like this. He looked like my dad. My actual dad, in the way that mattered. The one who had shown up. The one who stayed.

“When you say court,” he began, “you mean Kryptonian courting.”

“I mean Kryptonian courting,” I repeated, because the words felt like stepping onto solid ground.

Kara leaned forward, all energy and intent. “Good. If you’re going to do it, do it correctly.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I said. “Because I don’t want to mess it up.”

Kara’s smile softened into something almost fond. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s not adorable,” I muttered, but it probably was, because Kara’s grin widened like she’d just confirmed a theory.

Clark’s gaze held mine. “You know what it means.”

I swallowed.

Of course I knew.

Every Kryptonian kid knew. It was in the stories, in the old recordings, in the way adults spoke about love like it was a force of nature. There were words in Kryptonian for it that didn’t translate cleanly. Concepts that didn’t exist in English without turning into poetry.

But hearing Clark say it out loud made it heavier.

“Kryptonians only fall in love once,” he said quietly.

The room went still around the sentence.

Kara didn’t flinch. She never did. She’d grown up with the weight and carried it like armor.

I felt it settle in my ribs anyway, like a second heart.

“Once,” I echoed, voice small for someone who could lift a car with one hand.

Clark nodded. “It’s biology and culture. The bond, the imprint. It’s… not exactly destiny. But it’s not casual either.”

Kara tilted her head. “It’s not tragic, if you don’t treat it like a tragedy.”

Clark glanced at her, something pained and affectionate in the look. “No. It doesn’t have to be.”

There was that sadness again, just a flicker, like a cloud passing over the sun. It wasn’t about me. Not entirely. It was about a story I didn’t ask him to tell. A shadow that lived in the edges of the family we were, the things we didn’t say because saying them would make them real in a way they weren’t ready for.

I didn’t poke at it.

Not today.

Today was about me, and about Tim, and about not breaking something precious because I didn’t understand my own hands.

Kara reached out and tapped my knee, sharp enough to pull me back. “So. You’re serious. That means you follow the steps.”

I let out a breath. “That’s the part I need help with.”

Clark’s mouth curved, small. “We can help.”

Kara’s grin went feral. “We will help. Clark will do the gentle ‘remember your heart’ thing, and I will make sure you don’t embarrass the entire House of El.”

“I’m not House of El,” I protested automatically.

Kara pointed at me like a prosecutor. “You are when you’re courting. Kryptonian tradition doesn’t care about your personal brand.”

Clark’s laugh was soft, but it warmed the room. “She’s not wrong.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Okay. Fine. Just… start at the beginning.”

Clark’s expression shifted into teacher mode, the way it did when he was trying to make something complicated feel safe. “The first step is the offering.”

Kara chimed in, “Small. Meaningful. Something you made, or something sun-charged, or something color-coded if you’re feeling dramatic.”

I shot her a look. “I am not color-coding my feelings.”

Kara smiled like she’d already won. “You say that now.”

Clark held up a hand, gentle peacekeeper. “The offering is how you say, ‘I see you. I choose you.’ It’s not a proposal. It’s an invitation.”

My pulse thudded.

I could picture it too easily. Tim’s hand taking something from mine without hesitation. Tim’s voice, dry and matter-of-fact: Thanks, Kon. Like it was normal.

Like it didn’t matter.

Except it would matter. To me. To Krypton. To the part of my body that spoke in old languages.

Kara’s eyes narrowed, suddenly sharp. “And you only offer if you’re prepared to keep going.”

“I am,” I said, immediate. No pause. No doubt.

Clark’s gaze softened again. He looked proud, and something else. Something that ached around the edges.

“Then you build,” Clark said. “You create space. You give a name. You let people witness, because hiding it suggests shame. You exchange a token when you’re ready. You speak promises with intention.”

Kara added, “You touch when you mean it. Forehead. Pulse. Heart. You don’t do those casually.”

My throat went dry.

Because I already touched Tim casually.

Not the formal stuff, not in the Kryptonian way. But I’d steadied him by the elbow when he swayed from exhaustion. I’d guided him out of a hallway when he was too focused on his screen to look up. I’d put my hand between his shoulder blades like I could keep his spine from snapping under the weight he carried.

My hands always wanted to steady him.

Was that instinct, or was that my bond already trying to form itself around him like a promise?

Kara leaned closer, voice dropping into something more serious. “And the final step, when you’re ready, is the sun oath. Shared sunlight. Stillness. The moment you say it out loud in a way your body understands.”

Clark’s eyes lowered for a second. When he looked back up, his expression was careful, like he was handling glass. “Kon… once you begin, you don’t have to rush. But you do have to be honest. Kryptonian courting is public, yes, but it’s also respectful. It’s built on consent, even when humans don’t know the words for it.”

I nodded hard. “He’ll tell me if he doesn’t want it.”

Kara arched a brow. “Will he?”

Tim was many things. Loud wasn’t usually one of them when it came to himself.

But Tim was also blunt in a way that could cut. Tim didn’t spare people’s feelings when truth mattered.

If he didn’t want me near him, he’d say it.

Wouldn’t he?

“He would,” I said, because I needed it to be true.

Clark’s voice was quiet. “Then you watch. You listen. You offer, and you let him accept or refuse.”

I stared at the sunlight on the carpet again. It looked softer now, like late afternoon was starting to lean into evening.

“I don’t want to scare him,” I admitted, the words scraping on the way out.

Kara’s expression gentled, just a little. “Then don’t. He’s not fragile, Kon. He’s just… tired. And human. Be patient.”

Clark nodded. “And remember, courting doesn’t have to look like a grand gesture. It can look like care.”

Care.

I could do care. I had been doing care without even realizing it. Bringing extra snacks because Tim forgot to eat. Hovering closer during missions because his body was breakable in a way mine wasn’t. Tracking the way his shoulders loosened when he finally sat down somewhere safe.

I could build a world around him with small, steady things.

The idea made my chest ache in a way that felt like sunlight.

Kara clapped her hands once, brisk. “Okay. Logistics. You start with the offering. What’s your idea?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Because my brain had been full of Tim for so long that the answer was immediate and overwhelming.

Something warm.

Something useful.

Something he would take without thinking, because it solved a problem, and Tim loved solutions.

“Maybe a jacket?” I said before I could overthink it. “He always runs cold on the Watchtower. He pretends he doesn’t. But he does. Or—or I could think of something else.”

Clark smiled, soft and fond. “That’s a good offering.”

Kara nodded, approval quick. “Sun-warm it. Make it yours. Put a symbol inside where only he sees it.”

“A symbol,” I repeated, pulse jumping. Kryptonian glyphs tucked into seams. Meaning hidden like a secret.

Clark’s voice went gentler. “And when he accepts it, you don’t panic.”

I laughed once, strained. “No promises.”

Kara grinned. “You’ll panic. It’s fine. We’ll manage you.”

I looked between them. Clark, steady as a lighthouse. Kara, bright as a blade of light. Family in a way I hadn’t known I could have until I had them.

“You really think I can do this,” I said quietly.

Clark’s answer didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Kara’s didn’t either. “Obviously.”

The certainty hit me like a shove, like they were pushing me out of the nest and trusting my wings.

I took a deep breath. I let the sunlight on my skin fill my lungs like courage.

Tim was worth doing it right.

Tim was worth the careful steps and the old words and the rituals that meant something in the bones of my people.

Tim was worth forever, even if forever scared me.

I stood, already feeling restless, like the decision had snapped something into alignment inside me.

Kara pointed at me as I headed for the balcony. “Text us after.”

Clark added, “And Kon? Slow is okay.”

I paused at the door and looked back at them. “I know.”

I stepped outside.

Metropolis spread below, glittering and loud. The sun hovered just above the skyline, painting the glass buildings gold. I lifted my face into it and let it soak into my skin until my heartbeat steadied.

Somewhere in that sprawling city, Tim was moving again, fast and sharp and unstoppable.

Soon, if I didn’t mess this up, he’d be wearing something I gave him.

Soon, if the universe was kinder than I deserved, he’d accept.

I let myself imagine it for one breath.

Tim’s hand closing around the fabric. His fingers brushing mine by accident. His voice, casual as always: “Thanks, Kon. This is perfect.”

Perfect.

On Krypton, that word would have meant something else entirely.

On Earth, it was just a friend talking.

Either way, it made my chest go warm.

I launched into the air, flying straight into the last stretch of sunlight like it could carry me all the way to him.

I didn’t sleep.

I tried. I floated outside my apartment window with the city spread beneath me like a circuit board, watched the late traffic pulse and dim, watched the last neon signs flicker out. I even went inside, lay on my bed, stared at the ceiling and told myself I could be normal for eight hours.

My body did that thing it always did when I was anxious. It kept charging anyway. Sunlight had soaked into my cells all afternoon. Metropolis had given me a full meal of warmth, and my blood still felt bright. Like there was no such thing as off.

Like there was no such thing as calm.

Tim’s hands kept replaying in my head. Not the dramatic stuff. Not a fight. Not him bleeding or shouting, not me catching him midair.

Just… his hands.

Long fingers. Quick. Ink-stained sometimes, even through gloves. Restless with a stylus or a line of code. The way they always looked like they were building something invisible.

My hands wanted to give him something. My hands wanted to do what Krypton taught, and what my body was already doing without permission.

Offering. Invitation. I see you.

I choose you.

I got up before dawn and flew to Kansas.

The Kent farm always made my chest loosen, like my ribcage remembered how to breathe. The air smelled like dirt and grass and something sweet in the wind. It was cold enough that it should have made me shiver, but it didn’t. Not really.

The porch light was off. The sky was still gray.

Clark was already awake. He was in the kitchen when I came in through the back door, moving quietly like the house was a living thing he didn’t want to startle. He had a mug in his hand and his hair was messier than usual, which meant he’d either been up too long or had woken up too fast.

He looked at me and didn’t ask if I was okay.

He just said, “You’re here early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted.

He nodded like that explained everything. Like it was the most normal thing in the world for me to show up at the farm before sunrise with a storm in my eyes.

Kara was there too, sprawled at the table with her boots kicked off, a blanket around her shoulders like she’d stolen it out of spite. She looked up when I entered, eyes sharp, and her mouth curved.

“Oh,” she said. “He’s doing it today.”

“I’m not—” I stopped. Because lying to Kara was pointless. “I’m doing it today.”

Clark’s gaze softened in that careful way, like he was trying not to make it heavier. “What did you decide?”

I held up the jacket.

It was mine. It had been mine for years, which was ridiculous because I didn’t wear jackets the way humans did. I didn’t need them for warmth. I’d kept it because it felt like something I could belong to, a piece of Earth that had decided I was allowed to hold it. A dark hoodie-jacket hybrid, thick enough to actually matter, with a worn softness at the cuffs from my hands.

Kara made a pleased sound. “Good. Practical.”

Clark stepped closer, fingertips brushing the fabric. “This will be good for him on the Watchtower.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said, too quickly. Like I hadn’t thought about anything else. Like I hadn’t imagined Tim wearing it and the fabric taking on his shape. Like I hadn’t imagined the scent of him caught in it. Ink and coffee, and whatever soap he used that always smelled like clean paper.

Kara leaned over the table. “Did you do the inside?”

“I haven’t yet.”

“Then sit,” she ordered, already standing. “We’re not doing this halfway.”

Clark’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Kara…”

“He asked for help,” she said, and pointed at me again. “You can do the gentle dad encouragement. I will do the part where he doesn’t accidentally propose with a laundry tag.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

Kara lifted an eyebrow.

I shut up and sat.

She dug through a drawer like she’d lived here forever, found a small sewing kit that definitely belonged to Martha, and plopped it in front of me with the kind of confidence only Kara had. She tossed a spool of thread onto the table.

It was red.

I stared at it.

“Don’t,” I warned.

Kara grinned. “It’s not color-coding your feelings. It’s just efficient. Red is his.”

Clark cleared his throat like he might be laughing. “Kara.”

“What?” She looked innocent in a way she never was. “Kryptonian tradition uses color. Humans use color. I’m bridging cultures.”

I looked at Clark for help. Clark looked like he’d rather fight Doomsday than referee this conversation.

“Kara,” I said, “I am not stitching his name into my jacket.”

“No,” she said, offended. “That would be obvious. We’re doing a glyph. Small. Hidden. Meaningful.”

My throat went dry. “Which one.”

Kara’s grin softened, the teasing fading into something sharper, more serious. She tapped the table once. “The one for choice. The one that means, ‘I see you and I step toward you.’”

Clark’s eyes lowered for a heartbeat, and when he looked up again the warmth was still there, but there was a weight behind it.

“Are you sure you want that one?” he asked quietly.

I swallowed. “That’s the point.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Kara flipped open a scrap of paper and, with quick strokes, drew a small symbol. It wasn’t a giant crest. It wasn’t the House of El. It wasn’t anything that screamed alien to the naked eye. It could pass for a stylized star, a neat geometric design a human might mistake for a brand logo.

But my bones recognized it.

Choice. Invitation. Beginning.

Kara slid the paper toward me. “Inside the seam. Left side. Where his hand would brush when he pulls it closed.”

My fingers curled into the fabric. “He’s going to notice.”

“He’s going to notice,” Kara agreed, and her eyes glittered. “That’s the entire concept.”

Clark moved around the table and set his mug down. His voice was gentle. “If he asks what it means, you can tell him it’s Kryptonian. You don’t have to explain everything at once.”

I stared at the symbol. My pulse thudded loud enough that I could hear it in my ears.

“I’m not going to scare him,” I said again, like it was a vow I could keep myself by.

Kara snorted. “You’re giving him a jacket. Not a blood oath.”

I flinched anyway.

Kara softened, just a little. “He won’t be scared, Kon. He’s tougher than anyone gives him credit for. He’s just tired. Give him warmth. Let him take it.”

Let him take it.

The words landed like a command and a prayer.

Clark touched my shoulder, brief and steady. “Sun-warm it first.”

So I did.

We took the jacket outside and laid it across the porch railing, right where the first edge of sunrise spilled across the wood. The sky shifted from gray to pale gold, and the light caught the fabric like it was blessing it. My cells drank it in. The jacket did too, in its small human way, warming up until it held heat like a secret.

I stitched the glyph with hands that could bend steel, and still my fingers trembled.

Kara watched like a hawk, correcting my angle, making me redo one stitch because it was crooked. Clark hovered just behind me, not interfering, but there. A presence. A steadying gravity.

When it was done, the glyph was small and clean, hidden in the seam where only someone looking would find it, but present enough that a hand would feel the raised thread.

Kara leaned in and examined it. “Acceptable.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I muttered.

She flicked my forehead. “Don’t get sentimental. Save it for him.”

Clark picked the jacket up carefully, like it was fragile. Like it mattered.

“It matters,” he said, reading my face without even trying. “Not because it’s a jacket. Because you’re choosing to start.”

I nodded once. My throat felt tight.

Kara grabbed her boots. “Okay. Let’s go. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it in the right setting. Public enough that it counts.”

Clark gave her a look. “Kara.”

“What?” She shrugged. “It’s step one. You don’t hide offerings. You don’t act ashamed.”

Clark sighed, but he didn’t argue.

My stomach twisted as we left the farm, and not because I was afraid of rejection.

Because I was afraid of acceptance.

Because Krypton had taught me what it meant when someone took what you offered and didn’t refuse.

Because, in my head, it wasn’t just a jacket.

It was an opening door.

By the time we reached the Watchtower, the place was already buzzing.

The air up there always felt too clean. No dust. No pollen. No real smell. Everything filtered and controlled, like the building itself refused to admit it existed in a universe that could be messy.

The only thing that made it feel real were the people in it.

I found Tim in the briefing room again, of course. He was leaning over the main table, cape pushed back, hands moving as he flicked through holograms. Red Robin, suited, sharp, a living blade with a tired edge.

He looked even more exhausted than he had yesterday.

That should have been impossible.

“Red Robin,” someone called, asking a question, and he answered without lifting his head.

Cassie was there. Bart too, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’d been built to ignore gravity. A few Titans were scattered around the edges. Some League members in the back, quiet, watching. Kara leaned against the wall with her arms folded, looking smug enough to be illegal. Clark stood near the doorway, half in shadow like he was trying to be unobtrusive and failing.

I stayed near the back at first, jacket folded over my arm like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Tim’s voice cut clean through the room. “We don’t have enough data from the first pass. We need a second sweep at a lower orbit. I can reroute the satellite feed through—”

He stopped for half a beat, not because he lost his place, but because he swayed.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But I saw it.

My hands tightened around the jacket.

Bart’s eyes widened. Cassie’s mouth thinned. Clark shifted his weight like he was ready to intervene.

Tim straightened anyway, like the sway had never happened. Like his body didn’t get to vote.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, and no one had even spoken.

Kara muttered, “He’s going to fall over.”

Cassie shot her a look that said, We know.

Tim kept going. “As I was saying. If we reroute—”

His shoulders lifted slightly.

He was cold.

The Watchtower had climate control tuned for people who didn’t run on caffeine and stubbornness. Tim always acted like he didn’t notice. Like his body’s limits were irrelevant.

But his hands were paler than usual. The skin around his knuckles looked tight.

I took one step forward.

Then another.

Every instinct in me screamed to be careful. To not make it obvious. To not turn this into a spectacle that would embarrass him.

And then Krypton whispered back: Do not hide what you offer. Do not make love into a thing you are ashamed of.

I stopped at the edge of the table, close enough that my warmth could reach him if he let it.

Tim glanced up, eyes sharp, and for a second the whole room narrowed to that look.

“You okay?” he asked me, like he could hear my heartbeat over the hum of the station.

That was Tim.

He could be exhausted to the point of collapse, and he’d still check on you first.

“I’m fine,” I said, and then, because I couldn’t help myself, “You’re not.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s not a question.”

“It’s an observation,” I said, and my voice came out softer than I meant it to.

Tim’s gaze flicked down to the jacket on my arm. “What’s that?”

My pulse jumped like it had been kicked.

I held it out.

Just… held it out. No flourish. No dramatic speech. No Kryptonian words that would give me away.

“Here,” I said. “Wear this.”

Tim blinked once.

That was all.

One blink. No hesitation. No suspicion. No looking around like he was worried about what people would think.

He reached out and took it.

His gloved fingers brushed mine, and electricity shot up my arm like the sun itself had found a nerve.

He didn’t even blink at the contact.

He just pulled the jacket open, shrugged it on with quick practiced movements, and zipped it up like he’d done it a hundred times. Like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to wear something that had been against my skin.

When he tugged the zipper up, his hand brushed the inside seam.

I watched his fingers pause for the smallest fraction of a second.

My lungs stopped working.

Then he kept going, smoothing the fabric down, rolling his shoulders like he was settling into it.

Warmth bled into the room around him. Not from the Watchtower. From me, from the sun I’d fed into the jacket, from the fact that I’d chosen a piece of my own comfort and wrapped it around him.

Tim exhaled.

It was quiet. Almost inaudible.

Relief.

He looked up at me, eyes less sharp now, the edge dulled by something close to gratitude.

“This is perfect,” he said, voice matter-of-fact like he was commenting on a tool. “You’re a lifesaver.”

My brain went white.

Perfect.

Lifesaver.

On Krypton, words like that weren’t casual. They were the kind of phrase you said with your hand over your heart, with your family watching, with the sun witnessing.

In my head, the translation hit like a vow: I accept. Continue.

I tried to respond like a normal person.

I failed.

My mouth opened, and for half a second I thought I might actually say the Kryptonian phrase Kara had drilled into me, the one that belonged to the offering, the one that meant, Thank you for receiving what I give. Thank you for letting me begin.

Instead I managed, “Yeah. Sure.”

Tim stared at me like that wasn’t an answer, but he didn’t push. He went right back to the holograms like the jacket had always belonged to him.

The room, however, did not move on.

Bart made a strangled sound like he’d swallowed air wrong.

Cassie’s eyes softened in a way that made my chest ache. She didn’t look amused. She looked… happy. Like she was witnessing something gentle in a place that didn’t always allow it.

Kara’s smugness upgraded into full satisfaction. She leaned against the wall like a cat who’d tipped over a vase and felt no remorse.

Clark looked down at the floor and pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile too wide.

One of the Titans, I wasn’t sure which, whispered, “Aww,” under their breath.

Tim didn’t hear it, or pretended not to.

He pointed at the holo. “Back to the data. We need a lower orbit sweep. Superboy, can you cover the west arc?”

He said my name like it was normal. Like my heart wasn’t doing gymnastics inside my chest.

“Yeah,” I said, and my voice didn’t crack, which felt like a miracle. “I can.”

Tim nodded once, satisfied, and turned his attention back to the map.

The jacket’s hood sat against his neck. The sleeves covered his wrists. The fabric looked right on him in a way that made my stomach drop.

Mine. On him.

That was the thing about offerings. They weren’t just objects. They were proof.

On Krypton, you didn’t give warmth away unless you meant it.

Tim had taken it.

He hadn’t even blinked.

We finished the debrief like professionals. Tim spoke, people listened, plans formed. I contributed when asked, kept my tone even, kept my face neutral.

Inside, I was a disaster.

Every time Tim shifted, the jacket moved with him. Every time he leaned over the table, the fabric creased at his waist. Once, when he reached too far and his cape slipped, he tugged the jacket hem down automatically, a small unconscious motion that told me his body had already accepted it as part of his space.

My lungs kept forgetting how to work.

After the meeting, people scattered. Bart zipped off like a bolt of lightning, but not before he flashed Cassie a look that was practically a headline.

Cassie approached Tim with a careful smile. “You should take a break.”

Tim didn’t look up from his tablet. “After I finish recalculating the sweep parameters.”

Cassie’s smile turned into something fond and slightly exasperated. “That’s not a break.”

Tim finally glanced up, and for a second his eyes looked too young for the suit, too tired for the responsibility. Then his expression reset into Red Robin’s sharp calm.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Cassie’s gaze flicked to the jacket. Then to me.

Then she smiled wider, like she couldn’t help it.

“Sure,” she said, tone mild in a way that meant she didn’t believe him at all. “You will.”

Tim blinked at her like he wasn’t sure what she meant. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cassie patted his arm. Very deliberately. Like she was patting a newly adopted animal and trying not to scare it.

“It means,” she said, “you have people. Let them help.”

Tim’s mouth opened like he had a dozen arguments ready.

Then his shoulders dropped a fraction, and he just said, “Fine.”

Cassie walked away before he could change his mind.

Tim turned toward me, tablet still in his hand. The jacket looked even warmer against the red and black of his suit.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time, and it hit harder because it didn’t sound like a joke. “It’s colder up here than it should be.”

My heart squeezed.

“That’s what it’s for,” I managed.

Tim’s gaze flicked down to the zipper, to the seam, and my blood went hot again. His gloved thumb rubbed the inside edge once, like he’d felt the stitch and was thinking about it.

“What’s the little pattern?” he asked, casual, like he was asking about a brand tag.

My mouth went dry.

Tell him it’s Kryptonian.

Tell him it’s nothing.

Tell him it’s everything.

“It’s… Kryptonian,” I said carefully. “Just a design. I thought it looked cool.”

Tim hummed, accepting the answer without digging. That was Tim too. He didn’t pry unless he thought you were lying.

He didn’t think I was lying.

He trusted me.

“Cool,” he said, and then, because he was Tim, he added, “Functionally, it’s also a tactile marker. Helpful when you’re working and you don’t want to look down.”

My brain short-circuited for a different reason. Of course he turned my hidden meaning into a practical tool.

“Yeah,” I said, voice stupid. “Exactly.”

Tim’s mouth twitched like he was amused by my tone. “Are you okay?”

I forced myself to breathe. “I’m fine.”

He studied me for a beat, sharp eyes scanning like he was looking for cracks.

Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer.

Not close enough to be obvious to anyone passing by. Close enough that his warmth met mine, jacket and all.

“Thanks,” he said again, softer. Like it mattered.

Then he turned on his heel and walked away, already absorbed into whatever mission prep was running through his head.

He didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t reject it.

He didn’t shrug the jacket off the second he was alone.

He wore it like it belonged on him.

I stood there for a second too long, frozen, staring after him like a total idiot.

Kara appeared beside me without warning, because of course she did.

“You’re making a face,” she said.

“I’m not,” I lied.

Kara leaned closer, voice low. “He took it.”

I swallowed. “He took it.”

“And he’s wearing it,” she added, like she was savoring the words.

“He’s wearing it,” I echoed, and my chest felt like it might split open.

Kara’s grin was sharp and victorious. “Congratulations, cousin. You have begun.”

I stared down the corridor where Tim had vanished, my heart still pounding too hard.

Begun.

That was the thing. It wasn’t a moment anymore. It wasn’t a daydream.

It was a step.

And on Krypton, steps like that were doors you didn’t close again.

Later, I found a quiet corner of the Watchtower and pulled my phone out like it was a lifeline. My fingers hovered over the screen for a second before I typed, checking at least a million times it was the right group chat, because I didn’t trust myself not to accidentally confess my entire soul in a text message.

Kon: He took it.
Kon: He didn’t even hesitate.

Kara’s reply came almost immediately.

Kara: It was amazing to watch in live time.
Kara: Now breathe before you pass out and embarrass us.

Clark sent his own message a moment later.

Clark: I’m proud of you.
Clark: Slow is okay. Keep watching him. Keep listening.

I stared at the words until my vision blurred around the edges.

Proud.

Slow.

Watch. Listen.

Like I could do any of those things when Tim was out there wearing my warmth like it was nothing.

I forced myself to move. I did the sweep. I followed the plan. I pretended my insides weren’t vibrating.

When the mission wrap finally came and people filtered off to rest, Tim stayed behind, of course. He sat at a console with his shoulders hunched, jacket still on, fingers flying across a keyboard like the keys were part of his anatomy.

He looked smaller sitting down. Less like a blade, more like a boy who refused to stop holding the sky up.

I approached quietly.

“Red Robin,” I said, because we weren’t alone, because there were cameras, because the Watchtower had ears.

He didn’t look up. “You finished the sweep?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Data’s uploaded.”

“Good,” he murmured. “I’ll cross-reference it with—”

His voice hitched.

It was tiny. A slip. A crack in the machine.

I stepped closer, and my shadow fell over him. He finally looked up, and the exhaustion in his eyes was brutal.

“You should sleep,” I said.

He blinked slowly. “Eventually.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a timeline,” he corrected automatically, then paused, like he realized he’d said it out loud. His mouth twitched. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like you’re going to pick me up and carry me somewhere.”

My hands twitched.

His eyes narrowed, immediately catching it. “Don’t.”

I froze. “I wasn’t going to.”

He stared at me for a long beat, and then his expression softened in a way that made my chest ache again.

“You can sit,” he said, nodding at the empty space beside the console. “If you want.”

That was Tim, too. He didn’t ask for help directly. He offered space next to him like a compromise.

I sat.

The jacket brushed my arm when I moved close. Warm. Familiar. Mine, and not mine.

Tim kept typing. The glow from the screen lit the lower half of his face. The rest of the room was dim, the kind of quiet that existed only in space stations and late-night labs.

“You’re still cold?” I asked, because I didn’t know what else to do with the fact that I wanted to tuck him into the sun itself.

Tim glanced down at the jacket like he’d forgotten he was wearing it. “No.”

A pause.

Then, more quietly, “It helps.”

It helps.

On Krypton, the offering was the start of everything. A way to say, I will bring you warmth. I will share what keeps me alive.

And Tim, human and stubborn and brilliant, had accepted it without a second thought.

He didn’t know what it meant.

But his body had still done the right thing. His hands had reached. His shoulders had settled into it. His voice had softened on the second thank you.

I stared at him, trying to keep my face neutral, trying to keep my heart from crawling out of my chest.

This was still step one.

Just step one.

A jacket. A hidden glyph. A little warmth.

Friend behavior, if you squinted.

Except it wasn’t.

Not to me.

Not to Krypton.

Not to the part of me that was already counting the next steps like prayer beads.

Tim yawned, sudden and involuntary, and tried to cover it with a hand like he was embarrassed.

I didn’t laugh. I didn’t tease.

I just said, “You’re running on fumes.”

He blinked at me like he might argue.

Then he surprised me by leaning back in his chair, head tipping against the headrest. The jacket’s hood bunched at his neck. His eyes fluttered for half a second like his body was trying to take what it needed.

“I’m fine,” he said again, but it sounded weaker this time.

My chest tightened.

I didn’t touch him. I didn’t do anything that would make him bolt.

I just sat there, warm and steady, like a wall he could lean against if he chose.

After a minute, his shoulders eased.

Not much. Just a fraction.

But it felt like a gift.

Tim’s voice came quieter, softer, the way it did when he forgot to armor it. “You’re… weirdly thoughtful sometimes.”

Sometimes.

Like he hadn’t known me long enough to realize it wasn’t sometimes.

It was always, when it came to him.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I said, and my attempt at humor came out rough.

Tim’s mouth curved. “Your secret’s safe.”

He glanced down at the seam again, thumb rubbing the raised stitch once more.

“It really is cool,” he added, casual. “The design.”

My pulse kicked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Cool.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he knew I was hiding something, but not in a way that made him suspicious. More like he knew I had a feeling I didn’t know how to say.

He didn’t push.

He just went back to typing.

I sat beside him, listening to the quiet clicks of keys, feeling the warmth of the jacket on the air between us, and tried not to drown in the simple fact of it.

He took it.

He didn’t blink.

And in my chest, somewhere deep and old, Krypton whispered back:

Continue.

Kryptonian courting does not do half-measures.

That was the thing nobody warned you about in the comics, or the recordings, or even Kara’s practical bullet list of “don’t embarrass the entire House of El.” Once you begin, your body treats it like a path you are already walking. Your instincts line up. Your senses sharpen. Your thoughts start stacking like stones, all pointing the same direction.

Continue.

I tried to act normal about it.

I told myself I could. I told myself I was good at normal. I had spent years learning how to be a person instead of a headline, how to stand in a room without breaking a chair, how to laugh at jokes that weren’t funny and not take it personally when humans flinched.

But there was a difference between normal and pretending nothing had changed.

Tim wore my jacket for three days straight.

He wore it over his suit in the Watchtower’s too-clean halls, sleeves pushed up to his elbows when he worked. He wore it on the observation deck when he was pretending to take a break while he scrolled through mission reports. He wore it in the gym once, which was ridiculous, because he never worked out in full gear, but he kept it on anyway while he stretched with the kind of grim determination that said he was negotiating with his own muscles.

I watched him like a starving man watching a fire.

Not because he looked good in it, although he did. He looked infuriatingly right in it, like the fabric had been waiting for him. But because every time he chose it again, every time he zipped it up without thinking, every time his thumb rubbed that small hidden stitch like it was a familiar habit, my chest did something strange.

It tightened.

It warmed.

It steadied.

On Krypton, an offering wasn’t just accepted once. It was accepted every time you used it. Every time you kept it close. Every time you chose not to discard it.

Tim wasn’t just accepting. He was… keeping.

Which meant it was time for step two.

The Space.

I knew the theory. Clark and Kara had said it like it was obvious. You create a place where your intended can rest, safe and unguarded, where they can exist without the world taking pieces of them. You build it the way your people built nests, the way you would build a bower, the way you would quietly prove you could be a shelter and not a storm.

Kara had said, very casually, “It’s like making room for them in your life.”

Clark had said, even softer, “It’s like telling them you’re thinking ahead.”

My brain had immediately responded by trying to picture what “thinking ahead” looked like for Tim Drake.

The answer was terrifying.

Tim did not stop moving long enough to need a place.

Tim did not rest long enough to be held.

Tim lived like the world was always five seconds from ending, and he was the only one who could catch it.

But that was exactly why he needed it.

I just had to find a way to offer space that didn’t feel like a trap.

I couldn’t be obvious. I couldn’t push. I couldn’t build something so intentional that it made him stiffen and bolt.

I had to make it look like practical friend behavior.

And, apparently, the universe wanted to help.

It happened late on the fourth day.

We were in one of the Watchtower’s quieter rooms, one of those “temporary” workspaces they gave teams that didn’t want to set up in the main hub. There was a long table, a wall monitor, a few chairs, and a window that looked out into the dark curve of space.

Tim had claimed the chair closest to the monitor, of course. His cape was draped over the back like it belonged there. The jacket was zipped up, hood bunched at his neck, sleeves pushed up. His tablet was propped against a data drive, and he had papers scattered around him like he’d exploded a file cabinet.

Cassie was perched on the edge of the table, swinging one leg, trying to look casual and failing. Bart was upside down on the couch, feet hooked over the backrest, scrolling through something on his phone and making occasional distressed noises.

I was standing near the window, pretending I wasn’t watching Tim’s fingers move.

Tim’s fingers were always the giveaway.

He could look calm. He could sound calm. He could be the sharp, controlled voice of strategy and competence. But his hands never stopped. They moved like they were trying to outrun his own exhaustion, like if they slowed down his body would remember it was human.

Cassie said, “You’re going to burn out.”

Tim didn’t look up. “Not in the next forty-eight hours.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Bart said, voice muffled by the couch.

Tim made a small sound that could have been amusement, if you squinted. “It’s accurate.”

Cassie leaned forward, nudged one of his papers. “You’ve been awake for, what, three days?”

Tim finally glanced up, eyes sharp. “Four.”

Bart made a choking noise. “That’s worse!”

“It’s fine,” Tim said automatically, then paused, like he heard himself. His gaze flicked to me, then away. “It’s manageable.”

Cassie’s expression did that thing where it softened into worry. “Tim.”

Tim’s jaw tightened, defensive by reflex. “I’m working.”

I didn’t like the edge in his voice. Not because he was wrong. He was working. He was always working. But because that edge meant someone had gotten too close to the truth, and the truth was that he was exhausted to the bone.

I could feel it like a static charge.

So I did what I always did when I didn’t know how to fix something. I asked him a question that wasn’t about the thing he was guarding.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

Tim blinked. It was the smallest pause, the moment his mind switched tracks.

“My reading?” he echoed, like he hadn’t expected that.

“The papers,” I clarified, nodding at the chaos. “They’re not mission reports.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed briefly, suspicious of kindness the way he always was, and then he shrugged in that clipped, practical way.

“Class,” he said. “Psych elective.”

Bart rolled over, eyes wide. “You’re doing homework right now?”

Tim looked offended. “I have deadlines.”

Cassie stared at him like she wanted to shake him. “Tim, you have nearly died twice this week.”

“That’s not a deadline,” Tim said, and the fact that he said it so seriously made Bart groan and Cassie pinch the bridge of her nose.

I tried not to smile. It didn’t work.

Tim caught it instantly. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, innocent.

“You did the face,” he accused.

Bart sat up, delighted. “Oh, he’s doing the face again? The face means he likes you.”

Cassie made a warning noise. “Bart.”

“What?” Bart demanded. “It’s true!”

Tim’s ears went faintly pink. He flipped his stylus at Bart without looking. Bart caught it with two fingers and beamed like he’d won a prize.

I leaned my shoulder against the window frame, letting the cold glass press into my back. “What’s the class about?”

Tim exhaled through his nose like he couldn’t believe he was being asked to talk about this, and then, because he was tired and I had made the mistake of showing interest, he started.

“Animal behavior,” he said. “Display patterns, mate selection, cognition, resource signaling.”

Bart stared. “That’s… a lot of words.”

Tim’s mouth twitched. “Yes. That’s what makes it fun.”

Cassie’s eyes flicked to me with a look that was half exasperated and half affectionate, like she knew exactly what was happening. Tim got into a topic, and suddenly the exhaustion didn’t matter because his brain had found something to bite into.

“Okay,” I said, soft, like I was handling something precious. “Tell me.”

Tim did.

He launched into it like it was a mission briefing. Like he was explaining a tactical situation instead of a psych elective. He talked about how animals communicated health and strength through display, how some species used construction as proof of skill, how environment mattered, how safety and comfort were part of selection even when humans pretended they weren’t.

Then he said, almost as an afterthought, “Bowerbirds are the worst.”

Bart lit up. “Birds!”

Cassie’s lips twitched. “Of course.”

I blinked. “Bowerbirds?”

Tim’s eyes sharpened, pleased that he’d landed on something with a hook. “Yeah. They build these structures. Bowers. Not nests, technically. It’s like… an elaborate display site. They decorate it with objects, usually color-coded. They curate. They clean. They arrange the environment to signal, ‘Hey, look at me, I’m competent and I won’t let you get eaten.’”

My heart stuttered.

Not because of the words themselves.

Because my brain translated them into Kryptonian without asking permission.

Space.

Safe place.

Bower.

Kara’s voice in my head: You create a place where your intended can rest.

Tim kept going, oblivious. “Some species even steal from each other. Sabotage. They’ll mess up a rival’s display. There’s a whole thing about cognition and preference. Also, interestingly, it overlaps with environmental psychology in humans. The way space impacts stress response.”

Cassie’s gaze snapped to Tim, then to me, like she could see the same invisible line I could.

Bart’s grin was enormous. “Tim, buddy, you’re describing dating.”

Tim looked at him like Bart had said the dumbest thing on Earth. “I’m describing bowerbirds.”

Bart pointed at me with both hands. “And he is literally making you a bower.”

Cassie made a choking sound that might have been a laugh.

Tim froze.

The room went very still.

For one heartbeat, Tim looked like someone had shoved a spotlight in his face. Then the armor snapped back into place.

“I’m not—” I started, because my lungs had stopped working and I couldn’t let this detonate.

Tim cut in, too fast. “Kon can’t build a bower. He doesn’t have the attention span.”

Bart gasped like he’d been stabbed. “Rude!”

I stared at Tim.

He was staring at his papers like if he looked up he might combust. His ears were still pink. The jacket hood bunched against his neck like it was protecting him from the concept of being perceived.

Cassie recovered first. She hopped off the table, clapped her hands once. “Okay. New rule. Bart, you’re banned from interpreting bird facts.”

Bart pouted. “That’s censorship.”

“It’s survival,” Cassie corrected.

Tim exhaled, the tension easing slightly. He shuffled his papers, eyes still down. “Anyway. There’s a concept called ‘restorative environments.’ Spaces that reduce cognitive load. Familiar, low-threat, predictable.”

My chest tightened.

Predictable.

Safe.

I forced myself to keep my voice casual. “Like… a quiet corner.”

Tim finally looked up, eyes sharp again, and for a second I thought he might realize what he’d just handed me.

Then he shrugged. “Yeah. Exactly. Humans need it. We just ignore it because we’re stupid.”

Bart snickered. “Speak for yourself.”

Tim flicked his stylus at him again. Bart caught it again. Cassie looked like she was one more sentence away from physically throwing Bart out an airlock.

Tim turned his attention back to his tablet, like the conversation was over. Like he hadn’t just dropped a Kryptonian courting concept into my lap and called it psychology.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Wait.

Humans have a version of this?

Not in the poetic “we all want love” way. In the literal “we build spaces to signal safety” way.

My brain latched onto it like it was destiny.

I waited until Tim was fully absorbed again, then slipped out of the room under the excuse of “checking the comms.”

The hallway outside was quiet. The Watchtower’s lights hummed softly. The air smelled like nothing.

I pulled my phone out and opened the group chat before I could talk myself out of it.

Kon: He just told me about bowerbirds.
Kon: Like. The literal concept.
Kon: He called it restorative environments.

Kara replied immediately, like she’d been waiting.

Kara: Of course he did.
Kara: Your human is basically a walking omen.

Clark’s message came a moment later.

Clark: That’s a good sign.
Clark: It means he understands the concept even if he doesn’t know the tradition.

My fingers hovered over the screen.

Kon: What if I mess it up.

Kara: You can’t mess up “make him comfortable.”
Kara: Unless you build a throne out of your own anxiety, which you absolutely will if I don’t stop you.
Kara: Keep it simple. Make it practical. Make it him-friendly.

Clark: Start small.
Clark: Space doesn’t have to be a room. It can be a corner. It can be a kit.
Clark: It’s about consistency. Somewhere he can exhale.

Somewhere he can exhale.

That phrase hit me harder than it should have.

Because I had heard Tim exhale in my jacket. I had heard the relief in it. I had felt the way his shoulders eased beside me at the console, the way his voice softened when he said it helps.

I knew what he looked like when he could breathe.

I wanted to give him more of that.

I tucked my phone away and stood there for a second, staring at the blank wall like it held answers.

Then I did what Kara told me to do.

I kept it simple.

I started small.

I built a kit.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t anything a human movie would show as a grand gesture.

It was… Tim.

I took my duffel bag back to my apartment in Metropolis and dumped everything out onto my kitchen table. The bag was big enough to hold spare uniforms, a med kit, backup comms, a few basic Kryptonian tools I didn’t want to leave lying around. It smelled faintly like leather and ozone and sunlight, because everything I owned eventually smelled like sunlight.

I stared at it like it was a battlefield.

Space.

A kit was portable space. A promise I could carry.

I started listing things in my head the way Tim would.

Charger. More than one. Cables that matched every device he ever used, because Tim had a talent for pulling out a new gadget like a magician and then acting surprised when no one else had the right cord. A spare comm battery. A portable power bank. A small multi-tool. A pack of protein bars that didn’t taste like cardboard. Electrolyte packets. A bottle of water.

Then I paused.

Then I added things Tim would never pack for himself, because he didn’t believe he deserved them.

A small, soft blanket, the kind you could fold up tight. Not too flashy. Not too fluffy. Just enough to be warm. A travel pillow, low-profile, dark fabric. A pair of cheap foam earplugs. A tiny bottle of hand sanitizer, because Tim liked clean hands when he typed. A packet of tissues, because humans were fragile and bleeding noses happened.

I stared at the pile on my table and felt my face heat up.

This looked like I was preparing to kidnap him.

I texted them a photo.

Kon: Is this too much.

Kara replied with a single word.

Kara: No.

Then, a moment later:

Claek: Add snacks. He never eats.

I added snacks.

I also added a small notebook and a pen, because sometimes Tim wrote by hand when his brain was too overloaded to type, and because I had seen him pat his pockets like he was searching for a pen he’d forgotten.

I packed it all carefully, methodical, like if I arranged it right it would mean something. Like if I built it like a bower, the universe would understand.

When it was done, the bag felt heavier, not because of the weight, but because of the meaning.

A portable corner of safety.

A way to say, I’m thinking of you even when you’re not here.

I set it by my door and tried not to stare at it like it might bite.

Then I built the other kind of space.

The one that stayed.

My apartment wasn’t huge. It was functional. A couch, a table, a few shelves. A window that caught sunlight in the afternoon. A balcony that looked out over Metropolis, where the city’s noise turned into a distant hum.

It was, objectively, a bachelor superhero apartment.

It did not scream “nest.”

Which was probably good, because if it did, I’d have died of embarrassment.

I walked into the living room and tried to look at it through Tim’s eyes.

Where would he sit?

Where would he feel least exposed?

Not with his back to a window. Tim liked sight lines. Tim liked knowing where exits were. Tim liked corners, not because he was scared, but because he was always ready.

So I rearranged the furniture.

I moved the couch slightly, angled it so the corner seat had a view of the room and the door. I pulled a small side table closer. I put a lamp there, softer light. I set a coaster down, because Tim always set his mug down like it mattered, like he didn’t want to damage anything that wasn’t his.

Then I hesitated over the blanket.

The blanket felt like too much. Like an invitation that was too intimate.

But Clark had said consistency. Somewhere he can exhale.

I folded the blanket neatly and placed it over the back of the couch like it belonged there. Casual. Normal.

I added a throw pillow, dark fabric, nothing decorative. Just… support.

Then I stood back and stared at it.

It looked like a place someone could sit.

It looked like a place someone could rest.

It looked like a place that was waiting.

My heart tried to crawl out of my chest.

I told myself, again, that this was not a trap. This was not a demand. This was not me trying to force Tim into something.

This was me making room.

And if he didn’t want it, he wouldn’t use it.

That was the rule.

That was the consent.

That was the part I had to trust.

The opportunity came faster than I expected.

Two days later, a mission went sideways in the most annoying way. Not dangerous, not catastrophic. Just… messy. A tech theft in Metropolis with too many moving parts and not enough time. By the end of it, everyone was covered in dust and adrenaline and annoyance.

Tim was covered in blood.

Not his. Thank God.

Still, the sight of it made my stomach flip.

We regrouped in a debrief room off the main hub. Tim immediately started pulling up footage, fingers flying, voice crisp.

“We need to catalog the tech,” he said. “Cross-reference it with known buyers. There was a gap in the security feed that suggests an inside assist. If we—”

Cassie cut in. “Tim. Sit down.”

Tim didn’t look up. “I am sitting.”

Cassie planted her hands on the table. “You’re sitting on the edge of a chair like you’re about to launch yourself into a wall. That’s not sitting.”

Bart, still vibrating from post-mission energy, leaned toward me and whispered loudly, “He’s nesting him, right? This is where he does the nest thing.”

“Bart,” Cassie warned.

Tim blinked, eyes narrowing. “What did he say.”

“Nothing,” Bart said immediately, too innocent.

Tim’s gaze flicked to me.

I tried to look normal.

I failed.

Tim’s eyes narrowed further. “Kon.”

My throat went dry. “It was… nothing.”

Cassie made a noise that sounded like she was trying not to laugh. Kara, who had been leaning against the wall like a smug statue, looked like she was about to explode with satisfaction.

Tim stared at all of us for one long beat.

Then he sighed, sharp and tired, and turned back to his tablet. “I hate all of you.”

Bart beamed. “Aw, he said the love word.”

“Bart,” Cassie snapped again.

I decided to save everyone by moving the conversation back to logistics.

“You need to do the cross-reference,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But you don’t have to do it here.”

Tim blinked. “Why not.”

“Because this room is loud,” I said. Which it was, in a Watchtower way, with people passing outside and comms buzzing and the hum of systems. “And the lights are harsh. And you’re going to end up staying here all night.”

Tim’s mouth twitched. “I was going to stay here all night.”

“I know,” I said, softer, because I did know. I always knew.

Tim’s eyes sharpened. “What are you suggesting.”

The answer was simple. Practical. Efficient.

Exactly the kind of thing Tim couldn’t argue with.

“My place,” I said. “It’s closer to the incident site anyway. Quieter. You can work there. I’ve got better sunlight too, if you need to… recharge me.”

Tim stared at me like he was deciding whether that was a joke.

It wasn’t, exactly. Not to me.

But Tim’s mouth twitched again, and he said, dry, “I’m not recharging you. You’re not a phone.”

“You treat me like one,” I muttered.

Cassie made a strangled sound, like laughter had punched her in the throat. Kara’s grin turned lethal.

Tim’s ears went faintly pink again. He cleared his throat and looked down at his tablet like it had offended him.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll use your place. It’s efficient.”

Efficient.

Sure.

That was the word Tim used for “I am accepting this but I refuse to admit it’s because I’m tired.”

We left the Watchtower together.

Not alone. Cassie tagged along at first, claiming she needed to drop something off in Metropolis, and Bart tried to come too until Cassie physically pushed him toward the Zeta platform and told him to go harass literally anyone else.

The world seemed to watched us go with the expression of someone watching a very slow train arrive at the correct station.

Tim rode in silence for most of the trip, head angled toward his tablet, fingers moving. The jacket hood brushed his jaw. Every time he shifted, the fabric creased at his shoulders.

He looked like he belonged in it.

Cassie bumped his shoulder gently when we reached the Zeta point in Metropolis. “Text me when you’re done. And when I say done, I mean asleep.”

Tim didn’t look up. “Noted.”

Cassie gave me a look. It wasn’t teasing. It was something warmer and sharper.

Don’t let him destroy himself.

Like she thought I could do that.

Like she trusted me with it.

She left before Tim could argue.

Then it was just me and him and the city.

Metropolis at night smelled like rain on concrete, exhaust, street food, and electricity. The air was damp, cool. Tim didn’t shiver, but his shoulders tucked in slightly as we walked.

My apartment building’s lobby was quiet. Tim moved through it like he’d been there before, which he had. Once, months ago, after a mission, when he’d needed a safe place to crash for an hour and had pretended it was purely strategic.

He didn’t comment on the doorman. He didn’t comment on the security. He just scanned, filed everything away, and followed me upstairs.

When I opened the door, warm air spilled out. My apartment always held heat, because I kept the curtains open during the day and because my body made everything around me a little warmer.

Tim stepped in and paused.

Just for a second.

His gaze swept the room, quick and sharp, cataloging exits, angles, shadows. Then his eyes landed on the couch.

On the corner seat.

On the folded blanket.

On the pillow.

His expression didn’t change much. Tim didn’t do big tells. But his mouth softened, barely, and his shoulders eased half a fraction.

He didn’t say anything.

He just kicked his boots off with efficient movements, unhooked his cape, and draped it over the back of a chair like it belonged there. The jacket stayed on.

I tried not to stare.

I failed.

“You have coffee?” he asked, voice clipped.

“Yeah,” I said, and immediately regretted it, because the correct answer was actually, Please drink water and then sleep for twelve hours.

Tim would not have accepted that.

Coffee was a compromise.

I made it while Tim set up at my table, spreading out devices like he was establishing a command center. He worked fast, eyes narrowed, muttering under his breath as he cross-referenced data.

I brought him a mug and set it down carefully.

He took it without looking up. “Thanks.”

His fingers brushed mine again.

My heartbeat spiked like it always did.

I forced myself to breathe and stepped back.

“Charger?” I asked casually, like I wasn’t vibrating.

Tim made a small frustrated sound. “Of course I forgot—”

“Got it,” I said, and reached into my duffel.

The kit.

My hands shook slightly as I pulled out the cable and set it next to his tablet.

Tim froze.

He stared at it.

Then he looked at me, eyes sharp.

“Why do you have that,” he said.

My stomach dropped.

I scrambled for an answer that didn’t sound like I had built a portable nest for him because Krypton demanded it.

“You always forget,” I said, which was true. “And it’s annoying when you complain about it.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed further. “You bought a cable because it annoys you when I complain.”

“Yes,” I said, dead serious, because if I acted embarrassed he would sniff out the truth. “It’s self-preservation.”

Tim stared at me for a long beat.

Then, to my absolute shock, his mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile.

“You’re weird,” he said, and there was no bite in it.

“I’ve been told,” I muttered.

He plugged the cable in.

Acceptance.

My chest went hot.

I tried to act normal about it.

I failed again.

Because once he knew the cable existed, he started finding the rest of the kit like a raccoon finding treasure.

The power bank. The earplugs. The protein bars.

Tim’s eyes widened slightly when he saw the electrolyte packets.

“Are these… lemon-lime,” he asked, like he couldn’t believe I’d committed a crime.

“I had a feeling,” I admitted before I could stop myself.

Tim stared at me. “You just guessed what flavor of electrolyte I would tolerate.”

I shrugged, trying to look casual. “I felt you’d complain less about lemon-lime.”

Tim blinked. “That’s… accurate.”

He picked up one of the protein bars, turned it over, read the label, and then, quietly, said, “You even got the ones without coconut.”

I froze.

Because I hadn’t known that was a thing.

I hadn’t known Tim hated coconut.

But apparently I had picked the right ones by sheer luck.

“How do you know it doesn’t have coconut,” I asked, carefully.

Tim didn’t look up from the label. “It doesn’t smell like betrayal.”

I stared at him.

Then I laughed. It came out startled and warm.

Tim’s eyes flicked up, and for a second he looked pleased, like he’d landed a joke on purpose and it mattered.

Then he looked back down and said, brisk, “Don’t encourage me.”

“You’re the one making coconut sound like an enemy,” I said.

“It is an enemy,” Tim replied without hesitation.

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t.

Instead, I watched him eat half the protein bar in three bites, like his body had been waiting for food and his brain had refused to notice.

He kept working.

I kept hovering.

I hated hovering.

I tried to sit on the couch instead, because if I stayed standing near him my hands were going to do something stupid like touch his shoulder.

I sat in the corner seat, the one I’d arranged, and tried not to stare at the space like it was sacred.

Tim worked for another hour. Maybe two. Time got weird, the way it always did when he was in that mode. The city outside turned quieter. Rain started tapping against my window, soft and steady.

At some point, Tim’s typing slowed.

Not much. Just enough that I noticed.

His shoulders drooped. His head dipped closer to the screen. The jacket sleeves were pushed up, exposing his wrists. The skin there looked pale, tired.

He blinked longer than usual.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, then kept going like he could muscle through biology.

I watched him fight his own exhaustion like it was a villain.

Then I did the only thing I could do without pushing.

I nudged the blanket on the couch with my foot, like I was adjusting it casually. Like it wasn’t placed there for him.

Tim’s eyes flicked to the couch.

Then back to his screen.

Then back to the couch.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stood up abruptly, as if he’d decided it was a tactical reposition.

“Moving,” he announced, like he needed to justify it.

I nodded like it was normal. “Okay.”

Tim grabbed his tablet, the cable, and his mug, and crossed the room with efficient steps. He sat on the couch in the corner seat without hesitation, curled slightly like his body had recognized the shape of the space.

He set the tablet on his knees, the mug on the side table, and pulled the blanket over his lap in one smooth motion.

Like he’d been doing it for years.

My lungs stopped working.

Tim adjusted the pillow behind his back, shifted until he had a view of the room and the door, and then exhaled.

It was quiet.

But it was real.

Restorative environment.

His shoulders dropped a fraction.

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t comment on the fact that the space fit him. He just kept reading, stylus moving slower now, notes shorter.

I stared at him from across the room, heart hammering.

He used it.

He used the space.

He didn’t reject it.

He didn’t make a joke.

He just… accepted.

Bart’s words echoed in my head, unwanted.

He is literally making you a bower.

This wasn’t a bower. It was a couch.

It was a blanket.

It was a corner.

It was practical.

It was also, in Kryptonian terms, me placing a piece of my life down and saying, There is room here for you.

Tim sipped his coffee, grimaced, and said, “You make it too strong.”

“I’m Kryptonian,” I said, deadpan. “My taste buds are solar powered.”

Tim’s mouth twitched. “That’s not how taste buds work.”

“You don’t know that,” I argued.

Tim made a small huff that might have been laughter. He leaned his head back against the couch for a second, eyes closing briefly.

Then, quieter, he said, “This is… nice.”

My chest tightened.

“Yeah?” I managed.

Tim opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling for a beat, then turned his head slightly toward me. His gaze was sharp even when he was tired.

“You always have everything,” he said.

I swallowed. “It’s just… stuff.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not just stuff.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, because he was right, and because if I admitted it out loud I would start confessing things I wasn’t ready to confess.

So I did what I always did.

I tried to make it a joke.

“Maybe I’m secretly a bowerbird,” I said.

Tim stared.

Then his ears turned pink again, and he said, very flatly, “Do not bring up bowerbirds.”

I blinked, innocent. “Why not.”

“Because Bart will appear,” Tim said, like it was a scientific certainty. “And I will throw him into space.”

“Harsh,” I said.

“Accurate,” Tim replied.

He shifted under the blanket, pulling it higher over his lap. His tablet slid slightly, and he adjusted it with a small sigh.

Then he said, like he was stating a fact, “I could fall asleep here.”

My heart stopped.

I stared at him.

Tim did not seem to notice the way my entire body went rigid. He was looking at his tablet like he was evaluating a threat.

“It’s quiet,” he continued. “It’s warm. The couch is positioned so I can see the door. There aren’t… a lot of distractions.”

His gaze flicked to me for a second, and my pulse jumped.

Then he looked away again.

“And you,” he added, like an afterthought, “are not annoying right now.”

I choked. “Wow. High praise.”

Tim’s mouth twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

I tried to breathe. I tried to make my heart calm down. I tried to remember how human conversations worked.

I sat in my chair and watched him work for another twenty minutes.

Then his stylus slowed again.

His blinking got heavier.

His head tipped slightly to the side, like gravity was finally winning.

Tim fought it for exactly as long as it took for him to finish a sentence he was reading.

Then his eyes closed.

His head drifted forward.

The tablet slid on his knees.

His hand twitched once, like he was trying to catch it in his sleep.

I moved before I could think.

I crossed the room silently, caught the tablet before it hit the floor, and set it gently on the side table.

Tim didn’t wake.

He breathed out, slow and deep, like someone had finally loosened a tight band around his chest. His face softened in sleep in a way that made him look younger, less sharp, less armored.

The jacket hood was still bunched at his neck. The blanket covered his legs. One hand rested on the couch cushion, fingers curled slightly.

He looked safe.

My chest ached.

On Krypton, this would have been a holy thing. The intended asleep in the space you built, unguarded, trusting. A sign your presence didn’t raise their defenses. A sign they accepted you as shelter.

I stood there for a moment, hovering, hands clenched at my sides so I wouldn’t touch him. My hands always wanted to steady him. My hands wanted to tuck the blanket higher, brush hair out of his face, press my palm to his forehead to feel his temperature.

I didn’t.

Touch was later.

Space was now.

I backed away slowly, like I didn’t want to startle the moment, and sat in the chair across from him. I turned the lamp down. I kept the room quiet.

I stayed.

Tim slept for forty minutes.

Then an hour.

Then, at some point, his eyes fluttered open, unfocused. He blinked slowly, like he couldn’t remember where he was.

His gaze landed on me.

I tried to look normal.

I probably looked like a statue.

Tim cleared his throat, voice rough with sleep. “Did I…”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “You did.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, embarrassed. “How long.”

“Not long,” I lied.

Tim sat up slightly, blanket sliding. He looked at the side table, saw his tablet, then looked back at me.

“You didn’t wake me,” he said, tone flat like an accusation.

I held his gaze. “You needed it.”

Tim’s jaw tightened like he wanted to argue.

Then he paused, eyes flicking to the blanket, the pillow, the cable, the mug, the quiet corner of my apartment like he was seeing it for the first time.

He swallowed.

His voice came softer, almost reluctant. “Thanks.”

My chest tightened again.

“You’re welcome,” I managed.

Tim stared at me for a beat longer than usual.

Then he said, very quietly, “We should do this more often.”

My heart went into freefall.

“Yeah?” I squeaked, which was humiliating.

Tim’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Your place is… good. Quiet.”

He rubbed his eyes, then reached for his tablet like he was trying to re-armor himself with work. “We have to finish the cross-reference.”

“We will,” I promised.

Tim nodded once, satisfied, and pulled the blanket back up over his lap without hesitation.

Acceptance.

Again.

He stayed in the space.

He didn’t bolt.

He didn’t pretend he hadn’t slept.

He just… used it.

We worked for another hour, slower and steadier now. Tim ate another protein bar without comment. He drank water when I handed it to him, scowling like hydration was an insult. He plugged in his tablet without being asked.

When he finally stood to leave, it was close to dawn. Metropolis outside my window was pale and damp, the sky turning lighter at the edges.

Tim pulled his boots on, adjusted his cape, and paused at the door.

He looked at me, eyes sharp but softer around the edges.

“You’re… weirdly thoughtful,” he said again, like he was confirming a hypothesis.

I swallowed. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Tim’s mouth curved. “Your secret’s safe.”

Then he left, moving like he always did, fast and sharp and unstoppable, except his shoulders were a little less tight than they’d been when he arrived.

The door clicked shut.

The apartment felt too quiet.

I stood there for a second, staring at the couch.

The blanket was slightly rumpled.

The pillow was indented.

Proof.

My hands shook as I pulled my phone out.

I typed before I could overthink it.

Kon: He used it.
Kon: He stayed.

Kara replied instantly.

Kara: Obviously.
Kara: Congratulations. You have built space.

Clark’s message followed, gentle.

Clark: I’m proud of you.
Clark: Keep it steady. Keep it safe.

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred.

Proud.

Steady.

Safe.

I looked back at the couch, at the small corner I’d made room for him, at the way it had held him without asking anything in return.

My chest ached with something warm and terrifying.

Because on Krypton, space wasn’t just furniture.

It was a promise.

And Tim had curled up inside it like it was normal.

Like it was his.

But my mind was planning for more. A name.

You don’t name something you plan to lose.

I tried not to think about that sentence.

It didn’t work.

After Tim left at dawn, my apartment stayed warm for hours like it was still holding him. The couch corner kept its shape. The blanket stayed rumpled. The pillow kept that small indentation that made my chest do the stupid, bright thing again.

Proof.

Space, Kara had said. You have built space.

I had, apparently, built enough space that Tim had fallen asleep in it without fighting.

That should have been enough to make me calm down.

It did not make me calm down.

I stood in my kitchen for a full minute staring at my phone after I’d texted Kara and Clark. I read Kara’s “Obviously” three times. I read Clark’s “Keep it steady. Keep it safe.” until the words stopped looking like letters and started looking like a promise I didn’t know if I deserved to make.

Then I did what I always did when my body got too full of sunlight and my brain got too full of Tim.

I paced.

Then I cleaned.

Then I checked my duffel bag for the kit like it might have vanished out of spite.

Protein bars. Extra charger. Earplugs. One of those stupid little electrolyte packets Clark had shoved into my hand like he was trying to save me from myself. A water bottle. A spare comm. A folded sweatshirt that was mine but not as warm as the jacket, because the jacket was already Tim’s, even if neither of us said it out loud.

The blanket on the couch corner was still mine.

For now.

I swallowed hard and stared at it until my eyes stung.

This was what Kryptonian courting did to you. It took ordinary objects and made them heavy. It took mundane choices and turned them into rituals. It took your heartbeat and made it feel like an oath.

I had told myself I was going to be normal.

I had lied.

My phone buzzed again, and I flinched like a rookie.

Kara: Step two complete.
Kara: Try not to combust.
Kara: Also. Names soon. Start thinking.

Names.

My stomach dropped.

On Earth, people threw nicknames around like candy. “Dude.” “Bro.” “Genius.” “Shortstack.” Bart once called me “Big Sun” for a week and thought he was hilarious.

On Krypton, names were not candy.

Names were structure.

Names were identity.

Names were a way to say: I see you. I know you. I am making room for you inside my life, and I am marking that space so I can find it again even in the dark.

A private epithet, Kara had said in her practical list.

It sounded so casual on paper.

It was not casual in my bones.

I stared at the message until another one came through, this time from Clark.

Clark: Only when it feels right.
Clark: And remember, a name can be gentle.

Gentle.

I could do gentle.

I could do gentle for Tim.

The problem was that every gentle instinct I had toward Tim felt like it could tip into something huge if I let it.

I shoved the phone into my pocket like it was too bright to look at and finally did what I should have done hours ago.

I went outside.

Metropolis was waking up. The sky was pale, the buildings still holding onto night. The sun was just starting to creep over the skyline, and my cells drank it in greedily like they were trying to anchor me to something simple.

Sunlight was simple.

Tim Drake was not.

By the time I hit the Watchtower, I had convinced myself I was not going to panic about names. Not today. Names were later. Names were a step I could plan. A step I could consult Kara about. A step I could ease into like dipping a toe into water.

Then the Zeta spat me out into the clean, sterile brightness of the main hub, and I saw Red Robin in the distance.

And my entire body forgot how to be casual.

He was moving fast, cape snapping behind him as he cut down the corridor. His hood was up, like it always was in public, like he was trying to be smaller and sharper all at once. My jacket was on him again. The sleeves were pushed up. The seam at his side was creased where his hand kept brushing it when he walked.

He looked like he belonged inside the warmth I’d given him.

He didn’t look at me. Not right away.

He didn’t have to.

I felt him register me anyway. It was like watching a compass needle twitch and settle.

He turned a corner and vanished into the briefing room.

I followed, slower than my instincts wanted, because Clark had told me slow was okay, and because Tim ran on speed the way I ran on sunlight.

The briefing room was already half full. Cassie was perched on the back of a chair like she was defying physics out of spite. Bart was upside down in his seat, feet hooked over the backrest, scrolling through something on his phone with the intensity of someone searching for the meaning of life.

Kara was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, expression bored, which meant she was paying attention to everything.

Clark was there too, standing near the console with that steady calm that always made me feel like my world had edges again.

The moment I walked in, Kara’s eyes flicked to me.

Then to Tim.

Then back to me.

Her mouth twitched.

I wanted to throw myself into space.

Tim didn’t look up from the tablet in his hand. He was already reading, already working, already acting like the universe had never included sleep.

Cassie saw me and smiled in that way that was not teasing exactly, but close. Like she was watching a movie and she already knew the plot twist.

Bart’s head snapped toward me.

His grin stretched into something dangerous.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

He grinned wider.

Tim finally looked up, and the exhaustion in his eyes hit me like a physical force.

He looked fine if you didn’t know him. Masked. Controlled. Functional.

But I knew him.

I knew the small tells. The way his blinking lagged half a beat. The way his shoulders were tight like he was holding his body together through willpower alone. The faint shadows under his eyes that his domino mask couldn’t hide.

He looked at me for one second, and my blood went hot like the sun had moved closer.

“Superboy,” Tim said, clipped and efficient, because we were in mixed company.

“Red Robin,” I answered automatically, because the Watchtower had ears and cameras and people who didn’t need to know what his name tasted like in my mouth.

Tim’s gaze held mine for a beat longer than necessary.

Then his mouth did that tiny almost smirk again.

And then he looked away like it hadn’t mattered.

My chest did the stupid bright thing.

“Okay,” Kara said, brisk, clapping her hands once like she was starting a class. “Mission. Quick and clean. LexCorp is moving something they shouldn’t be moving.”

Bart made a dramatic gasp. “LexCorp doing something shady? No way. I am shocked.”

Cassie leaned forward, elbows on the chair back. “What is it.”

Kara’s eyes flicked to Tim’s tablet. “Ask him.”

Tim didn’t look pleased about being volunteered, but he also didn’t correct her, which meant he had already decided he was going to do it anyway.

He cleared his throat once, like he was shaking his voice into place.

“Shipment left Dock Twelve at 0300,” he said. “Unregistered cargo. Weight readings don’t match the manifest. And they have a metahuman suppression field active around the transport.”

Bart righted himself instantly, grin gone. Cassie’s expression sharpened.

Clark’s jaw tightened, just a fraction.

Tim continued like he hadn’t noticed the shift in the room. Like this was just data.

“Field is old tech,” he added. “Not as strong as the Watchtower’s dampeners, but enough to be annoying. It’s also unstable.”

Kara’s eyes glittered. “Annoying how.”

“Explosive,” Tim said flatly.

My hands twitched under the table.

I pictured Tim inside an unstable suppression field and my brain tried to go feral.

I forced myself to breathe.

“Plan,” Cassie said, because Cassie always cut straight to action.

Tim tapped his screen. A schematic of the docks appeared on the console.

“We intercept before it hits the warehouse,” he said. “Disable the field from the outside. Do not touch the crate unless you want to lose your hair.”

Bart made a face. “I like my hair.”

“You like your hair because you’ve never had to earn it back,” Tim muttered, and it would have been funny if he didn’t sound like he hadn’t slept since last week.

Kara looked delighted.

Clark looked like he was trying not to smile.

Cassie leaned toward Tim. “You okay.”

Tim didn’t look at her. “Yes.”

Cassie made a sound that said she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push. She looked at me instead.

That look again.

Don’t let him destroy himself.

Like she thought I could do that.

Like she trusted me with it.

My throat went tight.

I nodded once, because I didn’t know how to say yes without it sounding like a vow.

We left ten minutes later.

The Zeta drop at Metropolis docks was damp and gray. The air smelled like salt and diesel and wet concrete. The sun was hidden behind clouds, and my skin felt restless without it. Not weak, not really, but like my body was missing a familiar hum.

Tim stepped out of the Zeta first, already scanning. He moved like a knife through the fog, cape trailing behind him like a shadow.

My jacket was still on him.

The hood was down now, because he needed to hear, because he needed peripheral vision, because Tim always stripped away comfort when he thought it might slow him.

Except he hadn’t stripped the jacket away.

That mattered.

I tucked the thought away like it was fragile.

Cassie hovered close on his left, keeping pace without crowding. Bart was vibrating with contained speed on his right, expression serious for once.

Kara floated above us, lazy and watchful like a hawk.

I stayed behind Tim by a half step, because he liked space and because I liked breathing.

The convoy was easy to spot. Black trucks, no markings, LexCorp drones overhead. The suppression field flickered like heat haze around the largest crate.

Tim’s voice came through the comms, calm and clipped. “Field generator is under the third truck. It’s shielded. Bart, distraction. Cassie, cover. Superboy, you’re on me.”

On me.

The words hit my chest like warmth.

“Copy,” I said, and tried to sound like I wasn’t already ready to fight the sun itself for him.

Bart vanished in a blur, reappearing on top of a shipping container and yelling something loud and stupid about LexCorp’s fashion sense. Drones swiveled toward him.

Cassie moved like a strike of gold, deflecting the first wave of fire with her bracers.

Tim dropped into motion.

He was a red flash against gray concrete. He slid under a truck, planted something small and humming, rolled out and came up on one knee like it was choreography.

I stayed close, blocking angles instinctively, listening for the small changes in the air that meant danger.

The suppression field crackled.

My skin prickled.

Tim’s shoulders tightened.

He hissed once, breath sharp.

It wasn’t pain exactly. It was that awful sensation of something pushing against my cells, trying to tell my body it didn’t belong to itself.

I hated it.

Tim glanced up at me like he was checking I was still functional.

Even in the middle of an unstable explosion field, Tim Drake still checked on other people.

My chest ached.

“Still good,” I said.

Tim’s mouth twitched, like he had a joke and no time to let it out. “Try not to take a nap.”

“I don’t nap,” I protested, which was a lie, because I had absolutely napped, but mostly only when Clark made me.

Tim’s eyes flicked to my face for half a second.

Then away.

Then back to the generator.

He pulled a device from his belt and jammed it into the shield housing.

“Thirty seconds,” he said.

“Thirty seconds until what,” Bart’s voice crackled through comms.

“Until it decides it hates us,” Tim replied.

Kara laughed, delighted. “Accurate.”

Cassie grunted as she took a hit. “Tim.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, tone sharpening. “Hold.”

The generator whined.

The suppression field flickered harder.

My muscles tensed like they were preparing for impact.

Tim’s fingers flew over his device. Fast. Sharp. Precise.

His hand shook once.

So small no one else would have seen it.

I saw it.

My body wanted to steady him.

My hands twitched again.

“Almost,” Tim muttered.

The generator made a sound that was not almost.

It made a sound like a warning.

“Tim,” I said, and my voice did something rough.

He didn’t look up. “I know.”

The field surged.

The air snapped.

A wave of force slammed outward like a fist.

Cassie shouted. Bart swore. Kara swore louder.

I moved before thought.

I wrapped myself around Tim like a shield.

The suppression wave hit my back and tried to tear the sunlight out of my cells.

It burned.

Tim’s body jerked in my arms.

Then the wave passed, and the generator screamed, and sparks rained onto the concrete.

Tim sucked in a sharp breath.

“Are you hit,” I demanded, because my brain had gone straight to worst case and refused to come back down.

Tim blinked at me like he’d forgotten I was capable of panic. Then he glanced down at himself, slow and assessing.

There was a smear of blood on his jaw where something had nicked him. A bruise blooming dark on his cheekbone already. A rip in the sleeve of my jacket where shrapnel had torn through.

My jacket.

On him.

My stomach flipped.

“I’m fine,” Tim said, automatically.

“You are bleeding,” I said.

“It’s a scratch.”

“That is still blood.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed in that way that meant he was about to argue. He shifted like he was going to step away.

My arms tightened without permission.

Tim froze.

For a second, we were still.

The docks noise dimmed around us. The fog felt thicker. My heartbeat was loud enough that I could hear it in my ears.

Tim’s gaze lifted to my face.

Something in it softened.

“Kon,” he said, quiet.

Just my name.

Not Superboy.

Not a call sign.

Not clipped.

Just Kon.

My ribs squeezed around my lungs.

“Don’t,” Tim added, like he knew what my body wanted to do before I did.

I forced my hands to loosen.

Tim stepped back, carefully, like he was de-escalating a situation. Like he was handling a bomb.

Which, to be fair, he had been doing that all day.

Cassie jogged over, eyes sharp. “You okay.”

Tim nodded once. “Fine.”

Cassie’s eyes flicked to the blood. To the bruise. To the rip in the jacket.

She didn’t say anything.

She just looked at me again.

That look.

Don’t let him destroy himself.

I swallowed.

Kara dropped down beside us, expression smug. “Field is down.”

Tim’s shoulders sagged a fraction at the confirmation, like the tension had been holding him upright and now it didn’t have to.

He wobbled.

It was tiny. A slip.

My body moved.

I caught his elbow.

Tim made a sound of irritation that didn’t have any real heat. “I’m not going to fall.”

“You were going to fall,” I said.

“I was going to recalibrate.”

“That is not a verb for what your legs just did.”

Bart skidded to a stop beside us, hair wild, eyes bright with adrenaline. He took one look at Tim’s face and hissed. “Dude.”

Tim’s gaze cut to him. “Don’t.”

Bart’s mouth snapped shut.

Cassie’s expression went flat. “Med bay.”

Tim opened his mouth.

Cassie held up a hand. “Med. Bay.”

Tim looked like he might fight.

Then Kara leaned in, smiling too bright. “If you don’t go, I will carry you.”

Tim’s eyes widened a fraction.

Kara’s grin sharpened. “And I will not be gentle.”

Tim exhaled slowly, like he was negotiating with the universe. “Fine.”

Sure.

That word again. The one that meant I am accepting this but I refuse to admit it’s because I’m tired.

We Zeta’d back.

The Watchtower med bay smelled like antiseptic and clean plastic and those weird neutral wipes they used on equipment. It was bright enough to make my eyes ache.

Tim sat on the edge of a bed like he was perched for escape, legs tense, hands already reaching for his tablet like it was armor.

The jacket was still on him.

Even now.

Cassie stood in front of him, hands on hips, unimpressed.

Bart paced.

Kara leaned against the wall again like she was judging the furniture.

Clark stepped into the doorway, not wearing his cape, just that quiet gravity that always made the room feel steadier.

Tim’s head lifted slightly at the presence.

“Superman,” Tim said, automatic.

Clark’s eyes flicked to the bruise on Tim’s face, then away like he was respecting something. “Red Robin,” he replied, gentle.

Tim’s shoulders eased a fraction anyway.

Clark’s gaze moved to me.

It wasn’t a look of warning.

It was a look that said: steady. safe.

My throat tightened.

A med drone floated toward Tim, chirping.

Tim looked at it like it was an insult.

“I’m fine,” he said again.

The drone beeped louder.

Kara snorted. “The drone disagrees.”

Tim’s jaw clenched.

Cassie reached out and, without asking, tilted Tim’s chin gently to get a better look at the cut on his jaw.

Tim went still, letting her.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t argue.

He let her.

Because Cassie was Cassie.

Because the Young Justice kids had this language of care that looked like stubbornness and sarcasm.

Because Tim trusted them.

And somehow, lately, he had started trusting me too.

The thought made my stomach flip.

Cassie’s thumb brushed the blood away. “It needs cleaning.”

Tim sighed like he was being sentenced. “Whatever.”

The drone offered a medical wipe.

Tim did not take it.

He stared at it like it might bite him.

My body moved before my brain finished deciding.

I took the wipe and stepped closer.

Tim’s eyes flicked up.

We were close enough that I could smell him through the antiseptic. Ink, coffee, and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline. Something sharp that was uniquely him. Like paper cuts and intelligence.

My pulse jumped.

I lifted the wipe toward his jaw.

Tim’s gaze held mine.

He didn’t move away.

He didn’t flinch.

He just let me.

Care, Clark had said.

It can look like care.

My hand shook slightly.

I hated that my body betrayed me so easily around him.

I pressed the wipe gently to his skin.

Tim hissed, quiet.

“Sorry,” I said, automatically.

“It’s fine,” Tim muttered, which was a lie, because it clearly stung.

I leaned closer without thinking, like I could block the sting with my body.

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Kon.”

I froze. “What.”

“You’re doing the thing,” he said.

“What thing.”

“The hovering,” Tim replied, tone flat.

I stared at him, helpless. “You’re hurt.”

“I have a bruise,” Tim said, like bruises were nothing, like he hadn’t taken worse and kept going until his body gave up.

He was wrong.

Bruises mattered.

Bruises meant his body was breakable.

Bruises meant I could lose him.

The thought stabbed deep and sudden.

My hand tightened on the wipe.

Tim’s gaze sharpened instantly, noticing the change.

“Hey,” he said, quieter. “I’m fine.”

He was not fine.

He was tired.

He was human.

He was stubborn enough to fight sleep like it was a villain.

My chest ached.

And something old and Kryptonian rose up in me, like my instincts had been waiting for a moment like this.

A moment where he was vulnerable enough that my care mattered.

A moment where the room was full of witnesses who would understand.

A moment where my body could speak the language it had been holding back.

I swallowed hard.

The wipe hovered in my hand.

Tim’s eyes stayed on mine.

His breath was steady.

My heart was not.

“Little bird,” I said.

The words left my mouth before my brain could catch them.

The room went still.

Tim blinked.

Cassie’s eyes widened a fraction, then her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.

Bart made a strangled noise that might have been a cough.

Kara’s eyes lit up like someone had just handed her front row tickets.

Clark’s face did something complicated for half a second, like pride and pain had collided, then smoothed back into calm.

Tim stared at me like he was recalculating reality.

I felt my own blood go hot.

I had not meant to say it out loud.

Not like that.

Not in front of everyone.

Not in a room with cameras.

Not when Tim could reject it.

Not when rejection would feel like Krypton cracking under my feet again.

Tim’s mouth opened.

My entire body tensed.

Then he closed it again.

His gaze flicked to Cassie, like he was checking if she was going to make a comment.

Cassie did not comment.

She just looked pleased.

Tim looked back at me.

His ears turned pink.

Oh.

Oh no.

I had not expected the ears.

Tim’s voice came flat, like he was trying to pretend his body wasn’t doing that. “Do not call me that.”

My stomach dropped.

The world tilted.

Rejection.

It was happening.

I had been so stupid.

Kara’s head snapped up, sharp, like she was about to intervene.

Clark’s eyes softened, steady, like he was about to say something gentle.

Bart looked like he was going to throw up from secondhand stress.

Cassie’s eyebrows shot up, then she leaned forward slightly, attention laser focused.

Tim’s gaze stayed on mine.

The pink in his ears deepened.

Then he added, quieter, like he hated that his voice had softened: “Not in public.”

My lungs remembered how to work again.

Not in public.

Not never.

Not stop.

Just… not in public.

Acceptance.

My heartbeat slammed hard enough to rattle my ribs.

“You’re saying,” I managed, voice stupid, “I can call you that in private.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, instantly annoyed at himself for giving me an opening. “I’m saying you’re going to get me killed if you say something weird in the middle of a fight.”

Bart wheezed.

Cassie made a small sound that was definitely a laugh.

Kara’s grin turned feral.

I stared at Tim, dazzled.

He hadn’t rejected it.

He had set a boundary.

On Krypton, boundaries were part of it too. They were the shape of consent. The structure of trust.

Tim had given it shape.

My chest ached with something warm and terrifying.

“Okay,” I said, quickly, because if I tried to be clever I would combust.

Tim’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smirk again. “Okay.”

I cleaned the cut on his jaw with hands that wanted to steady him forever.

Tim let me.

He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t flinch.

He held still, eyes on mine, like he was letting me do something he didn’t let most people do.

My throat went tight.

When I finished, I leaned back, wipe gone, hands empty, like I didn’t know what to do with them if I wasn’t taking care of him.

Tim reached up and touched his jaw, testing.

He winced. “Ow.”

“Yeah,” Cassie said, deadpan. “That’s what happens when you get hit.”

Tim shot her a look. “Helpful.”

Cassie shrugged. “I’m a delight.”

Bart stopped pacing long enough to stare at Tim and me with the intensity of someone watching the final scene of a romance movie. “Little bird,” he repeated under his breath, like he was tasting it. “Oh my God.”

Tim’s head snapped toward him. “Do not.”

Bart held up his hands in surrender, eyes glittering. “I’m not saying anything. I’m not saying anything.”

He was absolutely going to say everything the second he had an audience.

Tim looked like he knew it.

Kara pushed off the wall and walked closer, expression bright with satisfaction. “That’s a good one,” she said casually, like she wasn’t actively making my soul leave my body. “Accurate too.”

Tim stared at her. “Why are you encouraging this.”

Kara blinked innocently. “Encouraging what.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You know what.”

Kara’s smile went sharp. “I know lots of things.”

Tim’s gaze flicked to Clark for help.

Clark, traitor that he was, looked at the ceiling and pretended he had never heard language in his life.

Cassie’s smile got softer.

Bart made another choking sound.

Tim turned back to me, expression flat, like he was trying to regain control of the room by sheer force. “You’re done.”

I blinked. “What.”

“With the med wipe,” Tim said. “You’re staring.”

I was staring.

I snapped my mouth shut.

Tim’s eyes narrowed slightly, then softened around the edges again, and that softness felt like it belonged to the word little bird in a way that made my chest hurt.

He exhaled slowly.

Then he looked down at the tear in the sleeve of my jacket.

His fingers brushed the fabric, careful.

He frowned.

“You should fix that,” he said, like it mattered.

My stomach flipped.

“It’s fine,” I said quickly.

Tim’s gaze snapped up, sharp. “It’s your jacket.”

“It was,” I corrected without thinking.

Tim’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.

Oh.

I had said that out loud.

Cassie’s eyes widened again, then she leaned back like she’d just witnessed history.

Bart made a noise that was definitely going to haunt my dreams.

Kara’s grin turned smug.

Clark’s expression went soft in that way that always made me feel like a kid again.

Tim stared at me for a long beat.

Then, like he was choosing the safest interpretation because he was tired and because he was Tim, he said, dry, “Right. You’re lending it to me because I’m cold.”

“Yes,” I said, too fast.

Tim’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”

Sure.

There it was again.

Acceptance.

My chest went bright.

Tim swung his legs off the bed like he was done with this entire conversation. The med drone beeped at him angrily.

Tim ignored it.

Cassie stepped in front of him immediately. “Sit.”

Tim paused, eyes narrowing. “Cassie.”

Cassie held his gaze without blinking. “Sit.”

Tim stared.

Then, unbelievably, he sat back down.

Bart’s eyes went wide. “She’s powerful.”

Tim shot him a look. “Stop narrating my life.”

Bart made a zipping motion across his mouth.

Cassie’s gaze flicked to me. “He needs ice.”

Tim opened his mouth.

Cassie didn’t look at him. “He needs ice.”

Tim exhaled, sharp, like he’d lost a battle. “Fine.”

I moved toward the storage cabinet without thinking, grabbed an ice pack, and turned back.

Tim looked up at me, expression annoyed but not rejecting. He held his hand out.

I hesitated.

Touch was later. Touch was a step. Touch meant things.

This was not that.

This was just an ice pack.

I put it in his hand.

His fingers brushed mine.

My heartbeat spiked.

Tim’s gaze flicked to my face, sharp even through exhaustion.

“You’re doing the hovering thing again,” he said.

“I’m not,” I lied.

Tim’s mouth twitched.

Then he surprised me by tapping the ice pack against his bruise once, wincing, and murmuring, “Thanks.”

Soft.

Unarmored.

My throat went tight.

“You’re welcome,” I managed.

Tim’s gaze held mine for a beat.

Then, like he was trying to regain control of his own emotional atmosphere by force, he said, dry, “You’re… weirdly intense today.”

Today.

Like it wasn’t always.

I choked out a laugh that sounded like a squeak.

Tim’s mouth curved slightly.

Then, almost under his breath, like it slipped out before he could stop it, he added, “Sunshine.”

I froze.

The room froze with me.

Bart’s head snapped up like a dog hearing a whistle.

Cassie’s eyes went wide.

Kara’s grin turned feral again.

Clark’s eyes softened.

Tim’s gaze flicked up, like he’d realized what he’d said the second it left his mouth.

He looked vaguely horrified.

“What,” he said quickly, tone flat. “You’re… you’re solar. It’s accurate. Don’t make it weird.”

Don’t make it weird.

He had named me.

It didn’t matter that he thought it was a joke.

It didn’t matter that he thought it was casual.

It didn’t matter that he thought it was friend banter.

On Krypton, giving a name back was reciprocity.

On Krypton, it was a matching gesture.

On Krypton, it meant: I see you too.

My vision went bright around the edges.

My heart did something that was not medically safe.

“Okay,” I said, voice wrecked.

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making it weird.”

“I’m not,” I lied again.

Bart made a strangled noise that was definitely laughter and definitely also a sob.

Cassie’s smile turned soft in a way that made my chest ache.

Kara looked like she was about to explode from satisfaction.

Clark’s gaze flicked away for half a second, like he needed a moment, then back.

Tim stared at all of them, then at me, then at the ice pack, like he was trying to triangulate what he’d missed.

He was missing everything.

And he was still doing it right.

Tim huffed, annoyed. “Whatever. Are we done here.”

Kara straightened. “We’re done.”

Cassie stepped aside. “For now.”

Tim slid off the bed again, careful this time. He adjusted his cape, tugged the jacket sleeve down over the tear like he was trying to protect it from further damage.

He looked at me once, quick.

“Sunshine,” he said, quieter, like he was resetting the room back into something safe. “Good job.”

Good job.

Like I’d done something useful. Like I’d helped. Like I’d made the mission easier.

Like I’d made him safer.

My chest went warm.

“Yeah,” I managed. “You too, Little Bird.”

Tim’s mouth twitched again.

Then he moved toward the exit, fast and sharp and unstoppable, except he hesitated at the door.

He looked back at me.

And this time his gaze held mine for a full heartbeat.

“Don’t call me that,” he said again, voice clipped.

My stomach dropped.

Then he added, quieter, like he hated that his voice was soft: “Not where Bart can hear it.”

Bart gasped dramatically. “I can hear everything.”

Tim pointed at him without looking. “Especially you.”

Bart clutched his chest. “My heart. It breaks.”

Tim rolled his eyes.

Then he left.

The door slid shut.

The med bay felt too bright.

My hands shook.

Kara walked up beside me and bumped my shoulder like it was casual.

“You survived,” she said.

I stared at her. “He called me Sunshine.”

Kara’s grin was sharp and satisfied. “He did.”

“That means,” I whispered, because my throat was tight, because the words felt too big to fit in the room, “he gave me a name back.”

Clark’s voice came from behind us, gentle. “It does.”

Cassie cleared her throat, like she was trying to pretend she hadn’t understood any of this. “I’m going to go make sure he actually rests.”

Bart pointed two thumbs at himself. “I’m going to go tell everyone I witnessed true love.”

Cassie’s expression went flat. “Bart.”

Bart zipped his mouth again and vanished in a blur.

Kara’s eyes glittered. “Step three is going to ruin you.”

I swallowed hard.

I looked at the door Tim had gone through.

At the place he’d been.

At the air still holding the faint scent of ink and coffee and adrenaline.

At my jacket sleeve torn and still on his body.

At the echo of Sunshine in my ears.

Tim had let me name him.

He had named me back.

Kryptonian courting is not meant to be hidden.

That was the part Clark had said gently, like he was offering me a rope, and Kara had said bluntly, like she was tossing me into a lake and calling it swimming lessons.

You let people witness, because hiding it suggests shame.

I didn’t feel ashamed.

I felt like I was holding a sun in my hands and if I squeezed too hard, I’d burn it out.

The med bay doors slid shut behind Tim, and for a second I just stood there, staring at the seam where he’d vanished like the universe had edited him out.

My jacket was still on him.

The sleeve was still torn.

His voice was still in my ears, quiet and sharp and somehow gentle when he’d said it.

Sunshine.

My heart was still doing something that felt like a medical complaint.

Kara bumped my shoulder again, casual. Like we weren’t standing on the edge of a Kryptonian ritual with a room full of witnesses waiting to happen.

“You’re smiling,” she said.

“I’m not,” I lied automatically.

Cassie made a sound that might have been a laugh if she hadn’t been trying so hard to pretend she was normal about this. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not,” I repeated, because apparently lying was my coping mechanism now.

Bart appeared beside us like a thought made physical, vibrating with glee. “Okay, so, just to be clear, we are all in agreement that I have witnessed the greatest romance of our generation.”

“Bart,” Cassie said, warning.

Bart put a hand over his heart. “I’m being respectful. I’m being so respectful right now. I’m being a pillar of discretion.”

Kara’s eyes glittered. “You’re going to tell everyone.”

Bart opened his mouth.

Cassie’s stare sharpened.

Bart zipped his lips with exaggerated care and mimed tossing the key away.

Then he pointed at me and whispered loudly anyway, “Sunshine.”

My stomach flipped like it had learned a new hobby.

“He called you that,” Bart continued, eyes huge. “That’s like, a thing, right. That’s a thing.”

“It’s a thing,” Kara said, sweetly, like she was about to ruin my life for fun.

Clark’s voice came from behind us, soft. “It’s a thing.”

I turned and there he was, calm and steady, looking like Superman only on the outside. Up close he looked like my dad. Like the person who had taught me how to breathe through panic.

His eyes met mine and softened.

I didn’t deserve that softness. I didn’t deserve any of this.

“Kara,” I said, because my throat was tight and I needed an anchor, “what’s next.”

Kara’s grin went sharp. “Step four.”

My pulse jumped. “The witnesses.”

“The witnesses,” she confirmed, pleased.

Cassie shifted her weight, like she’d suddenly remembered she was standing in the middle of an alien courtship lesson and that her day had taken a turn. “I thought that was… you know. A metaphor.”

“It’s not a metaphor,” Kara said.

On Krypton, it had been a courtyard full of sun and family. It had been elders with kind eyes and friends who leaned close and whispered, You two are adorable, and it had meant something. It had meant: we see it. We acknowledge it. We will remember.

Here, it was going to be the Watchtower conference room and a debrief and a dozen heroes who could all hear a heartbeat across the table.

I swallowed.

Tim had told me not to call him that.

Not where Bart could hear it.

That wasn’t the same as not wanting it at all. It wasn’t rejection.

It was a boundary. A reasonable one, honestly, because Bart was a menace.

But step four didn’t care about my carefulness. Step four was public. Step four was everyone watching.

Step four was the part where it stopped being something I held in my chest and started being something the world could see.

My hands curled and uncurled at my sides.

Clark touched my shoulder, brief and grounding. “Hey.”

I looked at him.

His expression was gentle, but there was something careful under it. Like he knew what it meant to want something so badly it scared you.

“You don’t have to force anything,” he said quietly. “You just… don’t hide.”

Kara snorted. “Also, you don’t flinch when someone congratulates you.”

I blinked. “Someone is going to congratulate me.”

Kara’s smile widened. “Oh, absolutely.”

Cassie’s eyes flicked down the hallway Tim had disappeared into. “He’s going to pretend none of this is happening.”

“That’s fine,” Kara said, cheerful. “He doesn’t have to understand for it to count.”

My chest tightened.

He doesn’t have to understand for it to count.

Bart suddenly leaned in like he was about to share a state secret. “So, I am not telling everyone.”

Cassie’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “Thank you.”

Bart’s grin turned feral. “I am telling select people.”

Cassie’s shoulders went right back up. “Bart.”

“I’m curating,” Bart insisted. “It’s tasteful. It’s art. It’s like… a wedding invite list.”

Kara’s laugh was bright and dangerous. “You’re going to get punched.”

Bart beamed. “Worth it.”

Clark sighed, long-suffering in a way that said he’d raised me and also dealt with Kara for years and was tired in his soul. “We have a debrief in fifteen minutes.”

Cassie’s eyes widened. “Already.”

“Tim’s leading it,” Clark added.

My stomach dropped.

Of course he was.

Of course the universe would schedule step four right after step three, like it was trying to see if my heart could survive.

I started moving before I’d consciously decided to. Down the hallway, toward the conference wing, toward the place Tim would be because Tim always went where he was needed even if it cost him pieces of himself.

I found him exactly where I expected.

Standing at a wall panel outside the conference room, cape half-hitched, gloved fingers moving too fast as he uploaded data. He had an ice pack tucked under one arm like he’d forgotten it was there. The bruise on his cheekbone had darkened. The cut on his jaw was clean, but it still looked like it hurt.

My jacket sat on his shoulders like it belonged.

He didn’t look up when I approached. He just said, flat, “If you try to make me go back to the med bay, I will bite you.”

My mouth did something helpless that might have been a smile. “I wasn’t going to.”

Tim finally glanced up, eyes sharp, exhaustion riding under them like a second layer of armor. “You were thinking about it.”

“I was thinking about you not bleeding in a meeting,” I said.

“I’m not bleeding,” he said automatically.

“You’re bruised.”

“That’s not blood.”

“That is still damage,” I said, because Kryptonian instincts were not built for watching someone you cared about accumulate injuries like they were badges.

Tim stared at me for a beat.

Then his gaze flicked past me.

“Kara,” he said, without raising his voice, like he could summon her by irritation alone, “tell your cousin to stop hovering.”

Kara’s voice came from behind me, smug. “He’s not hovering. He’s courting.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “He’s doing what.”

I froze so hard I could have been a statue.

Cassie’s breath caught.

Bart made a sound that was half laughter and half the noise of someone witnessing history and choking on it.

Clark cleared his throat in a way that was absolutely, definitely a cover for a smile.

Tim blinked once.

Then he looked at me again, expression flat. “Are you courting me.”

I opened my mouth.

No sound came out.

The truth was a sun. Too bright. Too big. Too dangerous.

So I did what I always did when I was terrified.

I tried to play it cool.

“I’m,” I started, and immediately failed. “I’m just… taking care of you.”

Tim’s stare sharpened like a blade. “That is not an answer.”

Kara laughed. “He’s adorable.”

Tim’s gaze snapped to her. “Stop it.”

Kara lifted her hands. “Fine. I’ll be quiet.”

She did not look like someone who would be quiet.

Tim looked back at me.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

I didn’t think he could hear it.

I knew he could. Humans couldn’t hear the way Kryptonians could, but Tim was Tim. Tim noticed everything.

His eyes dropped to my jacket on his shoulders.

Then to the torn sleeve.

Then back to my face.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Not soft, exactly. Something else. Something like reluctant acknowledgment.

“I told you,” he said, voice clipped, “I’m cold.”

“I know,” I said, too fast.

Tim’s mouth twitched.

It was so small it could have been nothing.

It felt like everything.

He turned back to the panel and hit the final upload button with too much force. “We’re going in.”

Cassie moved first, because Cassie always moved first when Tim tried to bulldoze himself into responsibility. She stepped into his path like a wall.

“Sit,” Cassie said.

Tim’s head snapped up. “No.”

Cassie’s eyebrows lifted. “Tim.”

Tim’s jaw tightened.

He looked like he was about to argue anyway, because of course he was.

Then his gaze flicked to me.

He paused.

Just a fraction.

Like he was recalibrating his battle plan based on the fact that I was here.

“Fine,” he said finally, annoyed. “For thirty seconds.”

Cassie pointed at a chair near the door.

Tim dropped into it like he was fighting gravity and losing.

His shoulders sagged the instant he sat, like his body had been waiting for permission.

My chest ached.

I crouched in front of him before I could stop myself. Not close enough to trap him. Just close enough to be there.

Tim’s eyes flicked down to my face. “Kon.”

Just my name again.

My ribs squeezed.

“You’re shaking,” I said quietly.

“I’m not,” he said.

His hand flexed on the armrest.

It was shaking.

I reached out without thinking, fingers hovering near his wrist.

Touch was step seven. Not now. Not in front of everyone. Not casually.

Kara’s warning echoed in my head. You don’t do those casually.

So I stopped.

I curled my hand into a fist and rested it on my own knee instead, like that would fix the fact that my body wanted to steady him with every instinct I had.

Tim noticed anyway.

His gaze dropped to my hand.

Then back up.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re being weird.”

I swallowed.

“I’m being attentive,” I said, because if I said careful or devoted I would combust.

Tim huffed a laugh like he didn’t want to. “Same thing.”

Cassie’s smile went soft around the edges.

Kara looked like she wanted to cheer.

Bart mouthed the word same thing and clutched his chest again.

Clark’s gaze flicked away like he was giving us privacy in a hallway full of people.

Tim rolled his eyes at all of them. “Stop making faces.”

“We’re not making faces,” Cassie lied.

“You are,” Tim said, deadpan. “You’re making the exact face people make when they think something is cute and they don’t want to admit it.”

Bart pointed at Tim like he’d just won a game. “He knows.”

Tim’s eyes snapped to him. “I know what.”

Bart’s grin got so wide it was practically a public safety hazard. “Nothing.”

Tim stared at him.

Bart kept grinning.

Tim looked back at me like I was the only sane person in the room.

That was a problem.

I was not sane.

“Debrief,” Tim said finally, voice sharp. “Now.”

He stood.

His legs wobbled, tiny. Just enough.

My body moved.

I caught his elbow, gentle.

Tim froze.

Then he sighed like he was annoyed at physics. “I’m not going to fall.”

“You were going to recalibrate,” I said, because apparently I couldn’t stop myself.

Tim’s mouth twitched again, unwilling. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” Cassie said.

Tim shot her a look.

Cassie smiled, innocent.

He let me keep my hand on his elbow anyway.

That was the part that mattered.

We walked into the conference room together.

The Watchtower conference room was too bright.

Not sunlight bright, because the Watchtower’s lighting was designed to be neutral and noninvasive, but bright in the way a place felt when important people were in it. Like the air itself was paying attention.

The holographic table was active, rotating a map of the docks, the energy field markers Tim had flagged, the generator signature Kara had translated, and a neat list of bullet points that looked like they’d been typed by a machine.

They hadn’t.

They’d been typed by a human who was running on fumes and stubbornness and spite.

Tim moved like he always did in rooms like this.

Fast. Sharp. Like he was a meteor and the rest of us were lucky he chose not to hit.

He took the seat closest to the hologram and immediately started talking, voice clipped, efficient, like he was trying to outrun his own exhaustion.

I sat beside him without thinking.

Not across. Not behind. Beside.

On Krypton, that mattered.

It was not possessive. It was not claiming.

It was alignment. It was: I am with you.

Tim didn’t object.

He didn’t even pause.

He just kept talking, hands moving as he pointed at the hologram, explaining the energy field, the way the generator had been rigged, the likely origin of the tech.

Across the table, heroes listened.

Wonder Woman sat with her hands folded, posture calm, eyes warm. She watched Tim the way she watched everyone, like she saw the core of a person beneath the mask.

Martian Manhunter’s gaze was gentle, thoughtful. He didn’t stare. He didn’t pry. He just listened with a softness that made my chest tighten.

Green Lantern leaned back in his chair, expression serious.

Black Canary’s eyes flicked between the hologram and Tim’s face like she was cataloging the points and also the signs of strain.

The Flash was tapping a finger against his knee, restless energy contained but present.

Batman sat in the corner, shadow and stillness, like the room had grown around him. His gaze was unreadable behind the cowl.

Tim didn’t look at him.

He didn’t need to.

He just spoke, like he’d already accounted for every person in the room.

I could hear Tim’s heartbeat, quick and steady, a little too fast.

I could hear my own, louder.

Kara sat two seats away from us, smug enough to be a crime.

Clark sat across the table from me, expression careful. His eyes met mine once.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

This is step four, his look said.

Be steady.

Be proud.

Tim’s voice continued, unbroken. “If they’d gotten another thirty seconds, the field would’ve collapsed and the generator would’ve overloaded. The blast radius would’ve covered the entire dockyard.”

The hologram shifted, displaying the projected range.

Black Canary’s mouth tightened. “Casualties.”

“High,” Tim confirmed. “If you want a number, I can give you a range.”

“No,” Wonder Woman said gently. “I believe you.”

Tim’s gaze flicked to her, brief.

He nodded once, like acknowledgment was all he could afford.

Then his shoulders twitched, tiny.

He swallowed.

His hand drifted toward his jaw without thinking, fingers brushing the cut I’d cleaned earlier.

It was such a small motion.

It hit me like a punch.

My hand rose before my brain caught up.

Not to touch his face. Not to break rules. Not to do something that would make the room go quiet.

Just to adjust the collar of my jacket where it sat bunched at the back of his neck. The hood had shifted, riding too high against his cape. The fabric was pressing into the bruise on his cheek when he turned his head.

I fixed it with two fingers.

Quick. Casual. Like I’d done it a thousand times.

Tim didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept talking.

My fingertips brushed the edge of his cape as I withdrew.

Across the table, the room went subtly still in that way it did when people noticed something and tried to pretend they hadn’t.

Wonder Woman’s eyes softened.

Martian Manhunter’s mouth curved, faint.

The Flash’s eyebrows shot up like he’d just witnessed a magic trick.

Green Lantern glanced at Black Canary, then back at us with the expression of someone watching a soap opera they pretended not to enjoy.

Kara’s grin turned downright wicked.

Tim, oblivious, continued his report. “We recovered two of the devices. They’re in containment. I’ve already started reverse engineering the frequency pattern, but I need access to the Watchtower’s full computational array.”

Batman’s voice cut in, low. “Approved.”

Tim’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.

It was so small. It made my chest ache.

He hadn’t even asked. He’d assumed he’d have to argue.

Batman had just said yes.

Bruce is a good dad, Kara had told me once, like it was a fact she’d verified and decided mattered.

I believed it.

Tim’s gaze flicked toward the corner, brief acknowledgment, then back to the hologram.

He kept talking.

He didn’t notice that the room was watching the way I held myself beside him. He didn’t notice that my knee angled toward him, that my shoulder stayed close, that my body was a wall between him and the rest of the room without being a cage.

He didn’t notice, because to him it was normal.

Kon is being Kon, he probably thought.

Except on Krypton it wasn’t just being me.

It was a statement.

The debrief stretched on.

Tim’s voice stayed steady. His hands kept moving. His eyes stayed sharp.

His body, though, was betraying him in little ways.

A slight sway when he leaned forward.

A pause before he answered a question, like he had to drag the words up from deep water.

A tightening around his eyes that meant he was fighting a yawn.

I watched every sign like it was a flare in the dark.

At one point, the hologram glitched.

Tim’s fingers stuttered on the controls, and the projection flickered, then went blank.

Tim’s jaw clenched. “Great.”

Before he could stand and lean over the table, I reached out and hit the reset sequence, the one I’d seen him use a hundred times. My fingers moved without thought, following the pattern he’d taught me with offhand comments and sighs of impatience.

The hologram blinked back to life.

Tim stared at my hand for a beat.

Then he looked at me, eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been watching,” he said.

I shrugged, trying for casual.

“I like learning,” I said.

The Flash made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like, aww.

Black Canary’s lips twitched.

Kara looked like she’d achieved enlightenment.

Tim turned his head slowly toward the other side of the table. “Why did he make that noise.”

“No reason,” the Flash said too quickly.

Wonder Woman’s smile widened. “It is good to see you supported, Red Robin.”

Tim blinked.

Then his expression turned blank again, like he’d hit a switch. “I’m supported. I’m fine.”

Cassie coughed.

Bart made a sound like a dying star.

Martian Manhunter inclined his head, solemn. “Of course.”

Tim stared at all of them like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

I could almost see the gears turning.

Then he shook his head once, as if discarding the entire mystery, and continued the debrief because the debrief was easier than whatever was happening socially.

I adored him so much it hurt.

When the last question was answered and the last action item assigned, the room shifted into that loose post-meeting energy. Chairs scraped. People stood. Conversations broke into smaller clusters.

Tim gathered his data pad, already moving toward the exit like he could outrun exhaustion if he was fast enough.

My body rose with him.

Kara moved too, because Kara was a predator when she sensed drama and she was not going to miss this.

Clark stayed seated for a moment longer, watching.

Wonder Woman approached Tim first, graceful.

“Red Robin,” she said warmly, “your work is invaluable.”

Tim blinked, then dipped his head. “Thank you.”

Her eyes flicked to me.

Not sharp. Not intrusive. Just knowing.

“And you,” she said, soft and amused, “take good care of him.”

Heat crawled up my neck.

Tim’s head snapped toward her. “I take care of myself.”

Wonder Woman’s smile turned gentle. “I did not say you did not.”

Tim stared at her, then seemed to realize he’d walked into a conversational trap and didn’t know how to get out.

He did what he always did.

He defaulted to honesty.

“I’m tired,” he admitted, like it was a confession and a complaint at the same time.

Wonder Woman’s gaze softened further. “Then rest.”

Tim’s shoulders tensed. “After I finish the frequency analysis.”

“Tim,” Cassie said, warning.

Tim’s mouth tightened.

Wonder Woman placed a hand over her heart, respectful, and inclined her head to him. Then she looked at me again.

Her eyes held mine for half a second.

A witness.

She stepped away.

Martian Manhunter approached next. “Red Robin,” he said, voice calm, “I am glad you are safe.”

Tim’s expression flickered, something softer under the blankness. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Martian Manhunter’s gaze shifted to me. His eyes, for a second, felt like they went deeper than sight. Not invasive. Just aware.

“My congratulations,” he said gently.

I froze.

Congratulations.

Kara had said someone would.

My brain stuttered like the hologram.

Tim blinked. “For what.”

Martian Manhunter’s mouth curved faintly. “For your joy.”

Tim stared at him.

Then Tim’s gaze snapped to me, sharp. “Are you telling people something.”

“I’m not telling people anything,” I said quickly, because the truth was a sun and I was not ready to hold it out in my palms.

Martian Manhunter’s expression remained kind. “Then I will simply say what I observe.”

Tim looked like he was about to argue.

Bart chose that moment to bounce into the conversation with the energy of a gremlin on caffeine. “Oh my God, J’onn, right. Congratulations. Yes. Congratulations.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Bart.”

Bart held up his hands. “What. It’s a normal word. People say it. It’s human.”

Kara stepped in, smug. “It’s also Kryptonian.”

Tim’s head snapped toward her again. “Why do you keep saying that.”

Kara’s grin turned sharp. “Because it’s true.”

Tim looked between them.

Then he looked at me again.

I could see it, the way he tried to make sense of a social situation the way he made sense of crime scenes. Catalog the evidence. Find the pattern. Solve it.

The problem was that the pattern was built on rules he didn’t know existed.

So he landed on the only explanation that fit his world.

Everyone was being weird.

“That’s fine,” Tim said finally, tone flat, like he was filing the entire thing into a mental drawer labeled deal with later. “We’re leaving.”

He turned toward the exit again.

He moved two steps.

Then his shoulders dipped.

A stumble, small and sudden.

I caught him fully this time, hand firm at his side, the other bracing his back.

For a second, he was pressed against me.

Warm and tense and alive.

I could feel his heartbeat through the armor.

I could smell ink and coffee and adrenaline and the faint clean scent of antiseptic on his jaw.

Tim’s breath hitched.

My breath hitched in response.

The room went quiet in the way it did when witnesses leaned in.

Tim straightened fast, embarrassed irritation flashing. “I’m fine.”

Cassie’s voice cut in, immediate. “You’re not.”

Tim glared at her. “Traitor.”

Cassie shrugged. “I’m a delight.”

The Flash, who had been watching this entire interaction like it was better than any TV show, leaned in with a grin. “Seriously though. Congrats, you two.”

Tim stared at him.

Then, very slowly, Tim said, “For what.”

The Flash’s grin widened. “You know.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “I do not.”

The Flash looked delighted. “Aw. He’s being shy.”

Tim looked like he was going to combust.

Kara made a pleased hum.

Bart whispered loudly, “He’s being shy.”

Tim pointed at him without looking. “Especially you.”

Bart clutched his chest. “He remembered.”

I stood there, trying not to vibrate out of my skin.

Congratulations.

Witnesses.

Public acknowledgment.

The room had seen me catch him.

Had seen him let me.

Had seen him straighten and not shove me away.

On Krypton, that would have been enough. That would have been the moment people nodded and said, It is recognized.

Here, it felt like stepping onto a bridge made of sunlight.

Tim grabbed my wrist, not rough, just firm, and tugged me toward the exit like he was removing me from a crime scene.

His grip was warm through the glove.

He didn’t let go until we were in the hallway.

Then he released me and immediately started walking again, fast. “Why,” he demanded, “did multiple people just congratulate us.”

I jogged to keep up easily, but my brain was not keeping up at all.

“I think,” I said carefully, “they’re happy we stopped the generator.”

Tim’s eyes cut to me, sharp. “That is not what they meant.”

My throat went tight.

I could have lied.

I should have lied.

Instead I said the only truth I could hold without setting the whole universe on fire.

“I think they like us,” I offered.

Tim stared at me like I’d spoken a foreign language.

Then his shoulders sagged, and he scrubbed a hand over his face like he was trying to physically wipe the conversation away. “Great. Love that.”

He kept walking.

Then, quieter, like he couldn’t stop himself from being honest even when he wanted to be, he added, “You didn’t have to catch me like that.”

My chest tightened.

“I wasn’t going to let you fall,” I said.

Tim huffed. “I wasn’t going to fall.”

“You were absolutely going to recalibrate,” I said, because I was incapable of learning.

Tim shot me an annoyed look.

Then his mouth twitched.

There it was again.

That tiny crack in the armor.

“You’re insufferable,” he said.

My heart did something that felt illegal. “You’re welcome.”

Tim sighed, like he was tired in his bones. “You’re a lifesaver.”

The words hit me like a vow.

Not because of Krypton, though Krypton would have translated it into something old and binding.

Because of the simple human truth underneath it.

He meant it.

He meant I made his life easier. He meant I made him safer. He meant I mattered.

Tim kept walking, already pulling up a file on his wrist comm as if he could restart his whole body with sheer force of will.

I watched him for a second, and the urge to grab him and carry him into a bed and lock the door behind him rose in my chest like a tide.

I didn’t.

Consent, Clark had said. Respect.

So instead, I moved closer, not touching, just there.

A shadow at his side. A wall if he needed it.

A witness to his stubbornness.

A witness to his existence.

We reached the corridor that led to the Zeta platform.

Tim’s pace finally slowed.

He exhaled slowly.

Then, without looking at me, he said, “Stop staring.”

“I’m not staring,” I lied again.

Tim’s gaze flicked to me, sharp. “You are. You’ve been staring since the med bay.”

I swallowed.

He was right.

I had.

Because every time I looked at him, my brain offered me the same thought, over and over, like it was trying to carve it into bone.

Mine.

Not in a possessive way.

In a chosen way.

In a Kryptonian way.

Tim’s eyes narrowed like he could sense the direction of my thoughts even if he couldn’t hear the language.

Then his gaze dropped to the sleeve of my jacket, where the tear sat near his wrist.

His fingers brushed it, careful.

He frowned.

“You should really fix that,” he said, like it mattered. Like it was his to worry about too.

My throat went tight.

“I will,” I promised.

Tim’s expression softened by a fraction, then snapped back to neutral like he’d caught himself feeling something.

“Good,” he said. Then, like he couldn’t help it, he added, quieter, “It helps.”

It helps.

The words echoed in my chest.

He stepped onto the Zeta platform.

I stepped with him.

As the light built around us, Kara’s voice drifted down the hall behind us, amused and satisfied.

“You’re welcome,” she called.

Tim’s head snapped back. “For what.”

Kara’s laugh followed us into the Zeta.

“For letting them see,” she said, like it was obvious.

The platform flared.

And in that burst of light, with Tim beside me and the echoes of congratulations still ringing in my ears, I felt it.

The shift.

The way step four settled into place like a stone in the foundation.

Witnessed.

Acknowledged.

Real.

When we rematerialized, Tim was already moving again, heading for the lab corridor, because of course he was.

I stood there for half a second longer, letting the hum of the Watchtower sink into my bones.

Not hiding.

Not ashamed.

Not alone in it.

I looked up, down the corridor, at Tim’s back as he walked, cape swaying, my jacket still on his shoulders like a promise he didn’t know he’d accepted.

My chest felt too full.

Too bright.

Too alive.

I followed him, because that was what I did.

Because that was what I would keep doing.

Kryptonian courting marks the chosen with something they can carry.

Tim didn’t slow down after the Zeta.

He never did.

The light faded, the Watchtower hummed around us, and he was already moving, cape swaying, my jacket still sitting on his shoulders like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. He turned a corner into the lab corridor without looking back, as if the universe and I were both expected to keep up.

I did.

Because that was what I did.

Because that was what I would keep doing.

The corridor lights were cooler than the briefing room. White and clean, with the faint antiseptic tang that clung to anything near the med bay. The air tasted like ozone and recycled breath and machinery. Somewhere deeper in the station, something clicked and whirred, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat made of metal.

Tim’s boots barely made sound. His movements were too efficient for footsteps to be loud.

He kept one hand on his tablet, still reading, still tapping, still scrolling like he could outrun exhaustion with information. The other hand kept brushing the edge of my jacket, tugging it closer whenever he passed an air vent that blew too cold.

He didn’t look at me again until we reached one of the smaller labs, the kind no one used unless they already knew exactly where everything was.

He keyed the door open without breaking stride.

The lights flicked on. The room smelled like solder and old coffee and whatever chemical tang came from the kind of adhesive you used to patch suits in a hurry. A workbench ran along one wall, cluttered with tools and spare components. On the opposite side, a chair sat in front of a terminal, and the chair looked like it had been built for someone who could not stop moving long enough to notice their spine existed.

Tim dropped into it anyway.

Not because he wanted to.

Because gravity eventually got a vote.

He set the tablet down, rubbed a hand over his face once, and then immediately started pulling open drawers like the act of searching was the only thing keeping him awake.

I hovered by the door, trying to look casual. Trying to look like I wasn’t about to detonate from the inside out.

Step five.

Kara had said it like a threat.

Clark had said it like a prayer.

Step five was the point where everyone stopped pretending it was ambiguous. The point where Kryptonians stopped pretending it could still be taken back.

A token.

Wearable. Visible. Carried close.

On Krypton, it was not a “gift.”

It was a claim made with consent.

It was a mark that said: chosen, and choosing.

It was supposed to be exchanged, eventually, once both people were ready. But it started with one. It started with the person who had begun the courting offering the first token, and the other accepting it, wearing it, letting it stay.

Tim wasn’t Kryptonian.

Tim was human and brilliant and stubborn and sleep-deprived enough to treat a potential vow like it was a tech upgrade.

Which was the whole problem.

Which was also, somehow, the whole miracle.

He leaned forward, elbows on the bench, and for a second the jacket shifted. The tear on my sleeve flashed into view near his wrist, the seam still split from the suppression field and the explosion and the way my body had absorbed impact like it always did.

Tim’s fingers paused over a drawer handle.

His gaze dropped.

He stared at the tear like it had personally offended him.

“You still haven’t fixed that,” he said.

No accusation. Just fact. The way he said everything, as if the universe was a list of tasks and he was irritated when one of them remained incomplete.

My throat went tight anyway.

“I’m working on it,” I said.

Tim huffed like that was unacceptable.

“It’s going to snag,” he muttered, and his hand lifted like he was about to touch it again, like he was about to check the damage with those careful fingers.

He stopped himself at the last second.

He pulled his hand back like he’d caught it doing something it wasn’t supposed to.

Then he went back to the drawer, yanked it open, and started rummaging through suit parts like nothing had happened.

I stood there, trying not to smile.

Trying not to melt.

Trying not to think about how he cared about my jacket like it was important, like it mattered that it was torn, like it mattered that I promised to fix it.

Promises were dangerous things in Kryptonian culture.

Human promises were… chaotic.

Tim’s were usually precise.

Which meant when he said something offhand, it hit harder.

He found what he was looking for and slammed the drawer shut.

A cape clasp.

Not broken, exactly, but scuffed. Bent at a corner. The fastening mechanism looked like it had been stressed too many times.

Tim held it up, squinted, and made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat.

“This is why capes are impractical,” he said, like he hadn’t chosen to wear one anyway.

I stepped closer before I could stop myself.

“You love your cape,” I said.

“I love the intimidation factor,” Tim corrected without looking up. “The cape is… acceptable collateral.”

He sounded dry. Almost amused.

My chest did that stupid bright thing again.

He turned the clasp over in his hands, quick, sharp movements. Efficient. He was trying to fix it the way he fixed everything, with raw stubbornness and competence and an alarming lack of concern for whether his body was currently operating on thirty percent.

He reached for a tool.

His hand hovered for half a second, and I saw it. The tremor, small and involuntary.

He didn’t seem to notice.

I did.

My hands clenched at my sides.

Step two had taught me something important.

Tim would not choose rest for himself.

He would accept it if it was offered in a way that didn’t feel like surrender.

He would accept it if it was framed as efficiency.

And Kryptonian courting, for all its poetry, was built on a simple truth.

You don’t force.

You offer.

You make space.

You let them step into it.

Step five was the same.

I swallowed once.

The token was in my pocket.

It felt heavier than it should have. A small thing, deceptively light in my palm, but it carried the weight of Krypton, and my father’s gentle warning, and Kara’s sharp grin, and the way Clark’s eyes had looked too old when he told me, softly, that Kryptonians don’t do half-measures.

I had made it the night after the mission.

I hadn’t slept. I didn’t really need to. Not the way Tim did.

But I had sat on the roof of the Kent farmhouse anyway, letting sunlight soak into my skin until my veins felt like molten gold. The sky had been clear and wide, and the air had smelled like grass and earth and morning.

Clark had found me there.

Not looming. Not interrupting. Just stepping out quietly with two mugs, like he’d learned the art of gentle presence from someone who had once needed it.

He’d handed me one mug. It had been warm. It had smelled like cocoa.

“You’re thinking loud,” he’d said.

“I’m thinking terrified,” I’d corrected.

Clark had smiled, small and tired, and sat beside me.

I’d pulled the token materials out of my pocket, because hiding it had felt like shame, and shame had no place in this.

A thin strip of Kryptonian alloy, dark and glossy, edged with a faint shimmer when sunlight hit it. Kara had given it to me with the casual cruelty of someone who loved you enough to shove you off a ledge and trust you to fly.

“It’s from the Fortress,” she’d said, leaning in my doorway like she owned the world. “Old stock. Not important.”

It had been important.

Everything from Krypton was important.

I’d held the alloy between my fingers and felt it hum, faint, like it remembered home.

Clark had watched my hands with an expression I couldn’t read.

“Step five,” I’d said, like the words were a confession.

Clark had nodded once. Slow.

“Have you decided what kind of token?” he’d asked.

“A clasp,” I’d said immediately.

Because it was practical. Because Tim would wear it. Because Tim hated jewelry but loved functional gear. Because a cape clasp was something he would accept without hesitation if it made his suit work better.

Clark had made a quiet sound of approval.

“Kara will love that,” he’d said.

“She already does,” I’d muttered.

And then, because I couldn’t help myself, because the fear was a living thing in my throat, I’d asked, “What if he thinks it’s too much.”

Clark had looked out at the sunrise, the light catching in his eyes like something soft and aching.

“He won’t,” he’d said.

Not because he knew Tim’s feelings.

Because he knew Tim.

Because he knew what it looked like when a person who never stopped finally let themselves accept warmth.

“Make it something he’ll keep close,” Clark had added, voice gentle. “Something that says you see him.”

I’d laughed, short and humorless.

“I’ve been seeing him,” I’d said. “That’s the problem.”

Clark had bumped my shoulder once, the same way Kara did, but softer.

“It’s not a problem,” he’d said. “It’s love.”

Love.

Once.

Forever.

My stomach had turned over.

Clark hadn’t said anything else. He’d just sat with me while I worked, letting the sun rise higher, letting me shape the alloy with careful heat and pressure, using Kryptonian techniques Kara had taught me when she was in a mood to be helpful.

I’d carved a glyph into the underside.

Not obvious.

Not something anyone could identify unless they already knew.

A symbol that meant chosen.

A symbol that meant mine, with consent.

Then I’d layered it with human materials, because Tim lived in both worlds whether he wanted to or not. A thin magnetic fastening system. A reinforced hinge. A secondary lock that would keep it from snapping open in a fight.

A cape clasp that would hold.

A token that would stay.

Now it was in my pocket, and Tim was in front of me, and he was trying to fix his own broken clasp with hands that were shaking.

My heart was doing something that felt illegal.

I stepped closer.

“Let me,” I said.

Tim didn’t look up. “No.”

I kept my voice steady. “It’ll take you longer.”

“That’s not a reason,” he said, still rummaging.

“It is if you’re about to break the tool,” I replied.

Tim paused.

His eyes flicked to the wrench in his hand.

Then, slowly, like he was making a reluctant concession to physics, he set it down.

He held the damaged clasp out toward me without looking.

Fine.

I took it.

Our fingers brushed.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

His skin was cool from the Watchtower air. Mine was warm with stored sunlight. The contrast sparked up my arm like electricity.

Tim’s shoulders eased a fraction when he didn’t have to hold the clasp anymore.

He hated needing help.

He loved getting things done.

I could work with that.

I turned the clasp over, examined it, and made an annoyed noise of my own.

Tim glanced up at that, sharp.

“What,” he asked, suspicious.

“It’s stressed,” I said. “The hinge is worn.”

Tim’s mouth flattened. “I can fix it.”

“I know,” I said, and I meant it. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

Tim stared at me for a second like he was trying to decide if that was an argument.

Then he looked away.

He went back to his tablet.

Because that was how he accepted care. By pretending it was not care. By letting it happen while he focused on something else.

I set the damaged clasp down on the bench.

Then I reached into my pocket.

My fingers closed around the token.

It was warm, even through the fabric.

Like it had been waiting.

I pulled it out.

It didn’t look like much at first glance. Just a sleek clasp, dark metal with a red enamel edge that matched the accents on Tim’s suit. Clean lines. Simple. Functional.

If you didn’t know, you’d think it was a piece of gear.

If you did know, your heart would probably fall out of your chest.

Mine tried.

Tim noticed the movement in my hands anyway.

His gaze snapped up, locked onto the clasp.

For a second, his expression went blank in the way it did when he was calculating.

Then his brows drew together slightly.

“Where did you get that,” he asked.

My mouth went dry.

I could not say, I made it as a vow.

I could not say, this is a token of choice.

So I said the only thing that was true and safe and still somehow sounded like a confession.

“I made it,” I said.

Tim’s eyes widened just a fraction.

Not surprise exactly. More like he hadn’t expected that answer.

“You made a cape clasp,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” I said, like that was normal. Like I hadn’t spent hours shaping Kryptonian alloy with trembling hands while sunrise climbed the sky. “Your other one is going to fail eventually. This one won’t.”

Tim’s gaze dropped to it again.

His fingers flexed once, like he was deciding whether to take it.

Step one had been easy for him. A jacket. Warmth. Practical.

Step five was… louder.

Even if it looked like gear.

Even if it was disguised as normal.

Even if no one else in this room could read the glyph under the hinge.

Tim’s hand lifted.

He took it.

Just like that.

No hesitation.

No suspicion.

No refusal.

His fingers wrapped around the metal like it belonged there.

My vision went sharp at the edges.

On Krypton, that would have been consent.

That would have been acceptance.

That would have been the moment the room shifted.

Tim turned it over in his hands, inspecting it the way he inspected everything. His thumb brushed the edge, the hinge, the lock. He clicked it open, then shut again.

He did it again.

Then he looked up at me, eyes narrowed.

“This is… actually good,” he said, like it pained him to admit praise.

My chest went hot.

“Yeah,” I managed. “I know.”

Tim made a noise that might have been a laugh if he let himself have those.

He stood, finally, jacket shifting on his shoulders, and swung his cape forward to unfasten it from his current clasp.

The motion made my stomach flip.

He was about to put it on.

He was about to wear it.

He was about to take step five and make it real in a way no one could unsee.

Tim’s hands moved quickly, practiced. The old clasp came off. The cape sagged for a second, heavy fabric pooling against his suit.

He slid my clasp into place.

His fingers paused for a heartbeat as he adjusted it, aligning it perfectly, because of course he did. Then he snapped it shut.

The clasp locked with a soft click.

A sound so small it shouldn’t have mattered.

It felt like a bell in my bones.

Tim tugged at the cape once, testing it.

It didn’t shift.

He tugged again, harder.

Still held.

Tim’s mouth did that tiny almost-smirk.

“This actually holds my cape better,” he said.

He sounded faintly impressed. Like he’d found a tool that met his standards.

Like he’d found a thing worth keeping.

My lungs forgot what they were doing.

“Good,” I said, voice rough.

Tim glanced up at me.

His gaze flicked over my face like he was checking something. Like he was making sure I was okay.

Like he cared.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t do comfort questions.

He did action.

So he reached out and, with the same blunt efficiency he used to fix mission parameters, he tugged my collar straight.

A small adjustment.

A mirrored gesture.

His gloved fingers brushed the base of my throat through the suit.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

“Stop looking like you’re about to pass out,” Tim said, dry.

I forced a breath.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Tim hummed skeptically.

Then his gaze dropped to the jacket on his shoulders again, and his fingers brushed the torn sleeve near his wrist like his brain had looped back to the earlier problem.

“You seriously need to fix this,” he said again, softer.

I swallowed.

“I will,” I promised.

Tim’s eyes held mine for a heartbeat.

Then he looked away like he’d given me too much.

He turned back to the terminal.

He sat down again.

The new clasp gleamed faintly against the red and black of his suit, subtle but visible. A dark curve of metal that caught the lab lights, edged in red like it belonged to him.

Like I had made it for him.

Like he had accepted it.

I stood there, staring, trying not to vibrate out of existence.

Step five.

Token.

Worn.

Accepted.

There was a sound at the door.

Fast.

Too fast.

Bart appeared in the doorway like he’d teleported, which was rude, because he couldn’t. He just moved like the universe owed him shortcuts.

His eyes went straight to Tim.

Then to the clasp.

Then to me.

Then back to the clasp.

His mouth dropped open.

“No,” Bart whispered.

Cassie appeared behind him, slower, but still quick enough that she had clearly been following him to stop whatever chaos he was about to unleash.

“What,” she asked, already tired.

Bart lifted a shaking finger and pointed at Tim’s cape clasp like he’d just seen a sacred artifact.

“He did it,” Bart said, voice rising.

Cassie’s gaze followed his finger.

She saw the clasp.

Her expression shifted.

Not shock.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

Like she had been expecting this and still wasn’t prepared for it.

“Oh my god,” Cassie said, very quietly.

Tim didn’t look up.

“What,” he asked, flat, like he was already regretting being in the same room as a speedster.

Bart stepped forward, hands pressed together in front of his chest like he was about to pray.

“Red Robin,” Bart said solemnly, and that was never a good sign. “Is that a token.”

Tim finally looked up.

He stared at Bart like Bart had started speaking a language Tim didn’t have time for.

“A what,” Tim asked.

Bart’s eyes went huge.

He looked at Cassie like this was an emergency.

Cassie pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Bart,” she warned.

“I’m being respectful,” Bart said immediately, then added, louder, “I am being so respectful right now. I am witnessing. I am honoring. I am a model of discretion.”

Tim’s gaze flicked to Cassie.

Cassie’s expression was the exact face of someone trying very hard not to laugh and failing.

Tim’s eyes narrowed.

“Why are you looking at my cape,” Tim said.

Bart made a strangled sound.

Cassie coughed, like she was trying to turn it into something normal.

“It looks… nice,” she said.

Tim stared at her.

“It’s a clasp,” he said.

“Yes,” Cassie agreed, and her voice did something strange on the word. “A clasp.”

Bart looked like he was going to explode.

I stood there, heart hammering, trying to keep my face neutral.

Trying to keep my body from betraying me.

Because if Tim noticed how much it mattered, he might get uncomfortable.

He might get suspicious.

He might take it off.

And Krypton whispered in the back of my skull, ancient and insistent.

If he didn’t want it, he would refuse.

If he didn’t choose you, he would not wear it.

Tim was wearing it.

Tim was sitting at the terminal with my jacket on his shoulders and my token on his cape and a faint line of irritation between his brows because his friends were being weird.

He looked… normal.

Like this was just another day.

Like he hadn’t just accepted a piece of my culture and made it real.

Kara appeared in the corridor like she’d been summoned by the sheer density of my panic.

She leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glittering.

She took one look at the clasp.

Then she smiled.

It was not a kind smile.

It was the smile of someone watching a fireworks show.

“Well,” Kara said, bright. “That was fast.”

Tim’s head snapped toward her.

“For what,” he demanded, because apparently that was his only response to being congratulated now.

Kara’s eyes flicked to him, smug.

“For wearing it,” she said, like it was obvious. Like everyone knew what was happening except the person it was happening to.

Tim stared at her.

“I’m wearing a clasp,” he said slowly.

Kara’s grin widened.

“Yes,” she agreed, voice sweet. “You are.”

Cassie made a sound that might have been a laugh.

Bart put both hands over his mouth like he was trying not to scream.

Tim’s gaze flicked to me again, sharp.

“Did you tell them something,” he asked.

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Because the truth was complicated.

Because the truth was Krypton.

Because the truth was I had made something and he had accepted it and everyone could see it except him.

“I didn’t,” I said finally.

Tim narrowed his eyes, like he didn’t believe me.

Then, because Tim’s brain always did this, because he always chose the simplest explanation that fit the data, he decided we were all being stupid for no reason.

“Whatever,” he said.

He went back to typing.

The moment he did, the room exhaled.

Not literally.

But I felt it anyway.

Cassie’s shoulders eased.

Bart’s eyes went even brighter with barely contained glee.

Kara looked like she’d won something.

I stood there like my bones had turned to light.

Tim’s fingers flew across the keyboard, the screen reflecting in his eyes. The jacket slipped a little on his shoulders. The clasp held the cape perfectly in place.

A token.

Visible.

Carried.

My chest hurt.

In a good way.

In a terrifying way.

Bart leaned toward Cassie and whispered loudly, “This is better than the time Nightwing tried to teach Superman how to do karaoke.”

Cassie hissed, “Bart.”

Tim didn’t look up.

“Do you have something useful,” he asked, flat.

Bart straightened instantly, snapping into seriousness because Tim’s voice did that to people.

“I do,” Bart said. “Actually. I found the pattern in the LexCorp schedule you asked for.”

Tim’s head lifted, focus sharpening immediately.

“Send it,” he said.

Bart did, fingers moving fast.

Cassie moved closer, leaning over the back of Tim’s chair with the ease of someone who had spent years doing missions with him. She glanced at the screen, then at Tim’s face.

“Have you slept,” she asked, casual.

Tim’s jaw tightened.

“Yes,” he lied.

Cassie didn’t argue. She just reached into her pocket and dropped a protein bar onto the desk next to his hand.

Tim stared at it.

Then, after a beat, he picked it up and opened it with the resigned air of someone accepting that food was sometimes necessary.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he ate it.

He accepted it.

He did the right thing, even when he didn’t know he was doing it.

My chest twisted.

Kara’s gaze met mine for a second, sharp and knowing.

She didn’t say anything out loud.

But her eyes did.

He wore it.

I swallowed.

Tim took a bite of the protein bar, grimaced, and then kept chewing anyway.

He glanced at me again, and this time his gaze lingered on my face like he was checking if I was still there.

“Are you just going to stand there,” he asked.

The words were clipped.

But there was something under them.

An invitation.

A space.

Step two, again, even when we weren’t on step two anymore.

I moved before I could overthink it.

I pulled a chair closer to the bench and sat down beside him.

The jacket brushed my arm as I leaned in, warm and familiar. Mine, and not mine.

Tim kept typing.

He didn’t flinch at my proximity.

He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t make a joke to deflect.

He just let me sit there, close enough that I could feel the faint heat of him through his suit, close enough that the air between us smelled like ink and coffee and the clean metal scent of his gear.

Close enough that I could see the new clasp on his cape when he shifted, the way it caught the lab light and flashed red at the edge.

He wore it like it was nothing.

Like it had always been his.

My heart did something that felt like worship.

Bart hovered in the doorway like he wanted to stay and also knew Cassie would kill him if he ruined this.

Cassie gave me a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated.

Then she turned to Tim.

“We’re going to leave you,” she said, and her tone implied a threat if he didn’t behave.

Tim didn’t look up. “You’re going to go do your jobs,” he corrected.

Cassie smiled.

“Sure,” she said. “That.”

Bart leaned in, stage whispering, “I will tell no one.”

Cassie stared at him.

Bart corrected quickly, “I will tell Kara only.”

Kara’s grin sharpened.

Tim finally looked up, eyes narrowing again.

“Tell Kara what,” he demanded.

Kara stepped back into the corridor, still smiling like a predator who’d found a new hobby.

“That you’re cute,” she said.

Tim stared at her.

“I’m not,” he said immediately.

Cassie made a choked noise.

Bart looked like he might implode from joy.

Kara’s laugh followed her down the hall as she walked away.

“You’re adorable,” she called back, like she was speaking to the whole Watchtower. “Both of you.”

Tim’s ears went faintly pink under the domino mask.

He glared at the door like it had betrayed him.

Then he went back to typing.

I sat there, silent, letting the hum of the station sink into my bones.

Not hiding.

Not ashamed.

Not alone in it.

I watched Tim work, watched the way his shoulders still held tension like armor, watched the way he kept pushing even when his body begged him to stop.

I wanted to wrap him in sunlight.

I wanted to pull him somewhere quiet and make him sleep and make him safe.

I wanted too many things.

So I did the one thing I could do without scaring him.

I stayed.

A minute passed.

Then two.

Tim’s typing slowed just a fraction.

His shoulders eased, barely.

He took another bite of the protein bar like it was an act of pure willpower.

Then, without looking up, he said, “This clasp is good.”

My throat tightened.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

Tim made an annoyed sound.

“I’m acknowledging it,” he said, like he hated that he had to clarify. “Don’t get weird.”

I almost laughed.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I just leaned in a little closer, careful, slow, and kept my voice light.

“Too late,” I said.

Tim huffed.

Then, after a beat, he said, quieter, like he couldn’t help it, “Thanks.”

It was one word.

It landed like a meteor.

My chest went too full.

“You’re welcome,” I managed.

Tim’s fingers paused on the keys.

He didn’t look at me.

But his voice came softer anyway.

“Sunshine,” he said, not clipped this time. Not suited-name careful. Just… him. “If you fix that tear, I’m not giving the jacket back.”

My brain stopped.

My heart stopped.

Then everything inside me tried to become light.

I swallowed hard.

“You’re keeping it,” I said, because apparently I had lost the ability to speak normal words.

Tim hummed like it was obvious.

“It helps,” he said, and there it was again, that phrase that made my lungs forget they were supposed to work.

It helps.

On Krypton, a token was proof you could be relied on. Proof you would bring what kept you alive and share it.

Sunlight.

Warmth.

Safety.

And Tim, human and stubborn and brilliant, had accepted my warmth in pieces.

A jacket.

A space.

A name.

A witness.

Now a token.

He didn’t know what it meant.

But his body kept doing the right thing.

His hands kept reaching.

His shoulders kept settling.

His voice kept softening when he forgot to armor it.

I stared at him, trying to keep my face neutral, trying to keep my heart from crawling out of my chest and into his hands.

Step five.

Just step five.

A clasp. A hidden glyph. A piece of Krypton tucked against his cape.

Friend behavior, if you squinted.

Except it wasn’t.

Not to me.

Not to Krypton.

Not to the part of me that was already counting the next steps like prayer beads.

Tim’s blinking lagged half a beat.

His head dipped slightly, then lifted again like he had caught himself slipping.

He kept typing anyway.

He always did.

I wanted to tell him to stop.

I wanted to tell him to rest.

I wanted to tell him I could carry him, I could hold him, I could put him somewhere warm and quiet and make the world stop asking things from him.

But Kryptonian courting did not demand.

It offered.

So I reached into my bag, quiet, careful, and slid something onto the bench near his elbow.

A bottle of water.

A packet of electrolyte gel.

A spare phone charger.

Tim’s gaze flicked to it.

He didn’t comment.

He just shifted his elbow slightly to make room for it, like it belonged there.

Like I belonged there.

My chest hurt in the best way.

Tim’s fingers slowed again.

Then, without looking up, he said, “If Kara tries to throw a party, I’m blaming you.”

I choked on a laugh.

“I didn’t ask her to,” I said.

Tim’s mouth twitched, the almost-smirk again.

“Sure,” he said, like he didn’t believe me.

I leaned back in my chair and watched him for another minute, letting myself memorize the simple fact of it.

His cape. My clasp. My jacket. His focus. His exhaustion. The way he let me sit close without flinching.

Token worn.

Step five settled into place in my chest like a stone in the foundation.

Marked.

Accepted.

Real.

Tim finished whatever he was doing and pushed back from the terminal with the stiff movement of someone who had forgotten their body existed.

He stood.

The cape swung behind him, held perfectly in place by the clasp.

He adjusted it once out of habit, a quick tug, then paused like he realized it didn’t need fixing anymore.

His hand dropped.

He looked at me for a beat.

Then he said, brisk again, resetting the room back into something safe, “Come on. We have work.”

We.

My heart stuttered.

“Yeah,” I said, standing quickly, because I would always follow him into work. Into missions. Into chaos. Into whatever came next.

Tim headed for the door.

I followed.

And as we stepped back into the corridor, the Watchtower humming around us like a living thing, I looked at the clasp on his cape one more time.

The token.

My claim.

His acceptance.

My whole chest felt too bright.

Too alive.

Too real.

When Tim turned the corner without looking back, trusting I was behind him, I pulled my phone out with a hand that shook and sent one message, fast.

Kon: He wore it. Right away.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Kara: Of course he did.

Then, a second message, slower, like she had forced herself to be careful.

Kara: Don’t panic. Breathe. Step five is supposed to feel like falling.

I stared at the screen.

Falling.

I looked up again, at Tim’s back, at the way his cape moved with him, at the way the token held.

I followed him.

Because that was what I did.

Because now, apparently, that was what we did.

I did not plan to be at Wayne Manor at three in the morning.

Patrol in Metropolis had run long. The city had been restless, buzzing with the kind of low-level static that usually meant a storm was rolling in off the harbor. By the time I finished my sweep, the sky was a bruised purple and my body was humming with leftover adrenaline.

I should have gone back to my apartment. I should have slept. I should have stayed away from Gotham, because Gotham was dark and heavy and completely lacked the sunlight I usually relied on.

Instead, I flew to Bristol.

I told myself I was just dropping off a secondary report for the Watchtower files. I told myself it was faster to hand-deliver the data drive to the Batcave servers.

I was lying. I just wanted to see if Tim was still wearing the clasp.

The Cave was quiet when I drifted down through the hidden silo entrance. The air smelled like damp stone, copper, and engine oil. The massive screens of the Batcomputer cast a pale blue glow over the main platform.

Bruce was sitting at the primary console. He was still in the suit, the cowl pushed back to reveal a face carved out of exhaustion and discipline.

Tim was sitting at the secondary station beside him.

Tim was not awake.

He was completely dead to the world. His arms were folded over a thick stack of Wayne Enterprises legal files, and his face was pressed firmly into the paper. His breathing was slow and even. The jacket I gave him was still wrapped around his shoulders, the torn sleeve visible against the dark metal of the desk. The red-edged clasp gleamed faintly at his collar.

+1

My heart did something ridiculous and fond. I landed on the upper gantry without making a sound, crouching in the shadows. I did not want to wake him.

Bruce, however, had other plans.

Bruce turned his chair slightly to face his son. He cleared his throat. It was a low, rumbling sound that usually commanded immediate attention from anyone in the tri-state area.

Tim did not move. He let out a soft sigh and turned his head so his cheek was resting against a manila folder.

"Tim," Bruce said. His voice was incredibly serious.

Tim mumbled something that sounded like a threat directed at a spreadsheet.

"Tim, we need to have a conversation," Bruce continued, undeterred by the fact that the person he was speaking to was barely conscious. "It is my responsibility as your father to ensure you are fully informed about the cultural implications of your current situation."

Kara had told me once that Bruce was a good dad. I believed her. But his timing was genuinely terrible.

Bruce steepled his fingers, staring at the back of Tim’s sleeping form with intense gravity. "Kryptonian courting is not a casual endeavor. It is a structured, biological, and cultural imperative. They bond for life. They do not do half-measures."

I stopped breathing.

I pressed my back against the cold stone of the gantry. My pulse hammered so loudly I was terrified Bruce would hear it. Bruce was telling him. Bruce had noticed the jacket, the space, the name, the clasp. Bruce was laying all the cards on the table.

"There are stages," Bruce stated softly to the dark Cave. "Offerings. Safe spaces. Tokens of claim. I have observed you wearing Superboy's jacket. I have noted the new fastening on your cape. If you are accepting these items, you are accepting his intent."

“B, I know.” Tim then let out a tiny, soft snore.

Bruce paused. He looked at Tim for a long moment. The harsh lines of Bruce's face softened into something deeply tired and achingly fond.

"I just want you to be safe," Bruce whispered. "And I want you to be certain. Because once a Kryptonian gives you their heart, they do not take it back."

Bruce reached out. He gently adjusted the blanket that had slipped off Tim’s lap. Then he turned back to his monitors, apparently satisfied that he had handled the emotional heavy lifting for the decade.

He had not woken Tim up. He just assumed Tim had absorbed the information through sheer proximity, because Tim was a genius and Bruce was emotionally repressed. Or maybe Tim was listening, he had responded.

Ten minutes later, Bruce stood, grabbed a datapad, and walked toward the medical bay to run an analysis. The main platform was empty except for Tim.

Before I could float down, the elevator doors at the edge of the Cave slid open with a soft chime.

Dick and Jason walked out.

Dick was in civilian clothes, holding two mugs of coffee. Jason was in his armor, helmet tucked under one arm, looking like he was ready to fight a building.

"Hey, replacement," Jason called out, his voice echoing off the stalactites. "Wake up. You have been hoarding the good coffee filters."

Tim flinched. He groaned, peeling his face off the legal files. A red crease from the edge of the folder was stamped directly across his cheekbone, right next to the fading bruise. He blinked blearily at the bright screens.

"I hate you," Tim mumbled.

Dick set a mug down near Tim’s elbow. "Drink this. We need to talk."

Tim eyed the mug suspiciously, then wrapped both hands around it like it was a heat source. "If this is about the WE quarterly reports, I already fixed them."

"It is not about the reports," Dick said. He leaned against the console, crossing his arms. His expression was a mix of intense big-brother protectiveness and barely contained anxiety. "Did B talk to you? About the whole... situation?"

Tim took a sip of the coffee. His eyes were still half-closed. His brain was clearly struggling to boot up.

"I already told him that I know," Tim repeated slowly.

"The courting," Jason clarified bluntly. He dropped his helmet onto a chair with a loud thud. "The alien courting. The permanent, till-death-do-us-part, intense alien mating rituals."

Tim froze.

From my spot in the rafters, my stomach completely dropped. This was it. The secret was out. The misunderstanding was over. Tim was going to realize what I had been doing. He was going to take the clasp off. He was going to hand the jacket back.

Tim blinked heavily. His foggy, sleep-deprived brain seemed to search for a file and pull up the most recent data related to the word 'courting'.

"Oh," Tim said. "The display behaviors."

Dick exchanged a wide-eyed look with Jason. "You know about it?"

"Of course I know about it," Tim said, sounding annoyed. He took another sip of coffee. "I have been researching it for three days. It is fascinating. The resource signaling, the spatial arrangements. The deliberate curation of a safe environment."

I slapped a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound of my own shock.

Jason stared at Tim. "You researched his culture? You actually looked up the rituals?"

"You think I’m an idiot like you guys?" Tim said dryly. "I have a deadline. The whole thing is incredibly meticulous. The construction of the spaces requires specific color-coding and environmental control to reduce cognitive load for the intended partner."

"Wow," Dick breathed out. He looked genuinely moved. "Timmy. That is beautiful."

Tim frowned, looking at Dick like he was losing his mind. "It is just biology, Dick. Some species use construction as proof of skill. It communicates health and strength. I don't see why everyone makes such a massive deal out of it."

"Not a massive deal?" Jason choked out. He leaned over the desk, invading Tim’s space. "Replacement, do you understand the permanent part? The 'only once' part?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "Yes, Jason. Some species are strictly monogamous. It is a known biological imperative. It requires a lot of energy expenditure, so they only choose one mate."

Dick put a hand over his heart. "He knows," Dick whispered. "He actually knows."

"And you are okay with it?" Jason demanded, pointing a finger at Tim’s chest. "You are okay with the intensity? The forever part? You are not just stringing him along?"

Tim scowled. He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. My jacket.

"I am not stringing anyone along," Tim snapped. "I told you, I understand the commitment involved in the display. It makes logical sense. Now, are you going to let me finish my notes, or are you going to keep asking me about it?"

Jason froze. "We just—" Dick quickly elbowed Jason in the ribs.

Dick smiled brightly at Tim. "We will leave you alone, Tim. We just wanted to make sure you understood what you were accepting."

Tim sighed, rubbing his temples. "I understand perfectly. Thank you for your concern. Please leave."

Dick grabbed Jason by the arm and practically dragged him toward the elevator.

"He is so on board," Dick whispered loudly to Jason as the doors opened. "He is literally doing research. He wore the token. This is happening."

"I still think it is too much pressure for a kid," Jason grumbled, though he sounded relieved. "But if he knows what he is doing, fine."

The elevator doors slid shut.

The Cave was quiet again.

Tim let out a long, exhausted breath. He stared at the empty space where his brothers had just been standing. He shook his head slowly.

"Absolute lunatics," Tim muttered to himself.

He took one last drink of his coffee. Then he shifted in his chair, pulled my jacket up a little higher, and reached up to trace the edge of the clasp on his cape with his thumb. His touch was careful. Deliberate.

He smiled. A tiny, private, sleepy smile.

Then he put his head back down on the legal files and went instantly back to sleep.

Up in the shadows, I let my head drop back against the steel beams. I felt like I was flying without leaving the ground. My heart was a drum in my chest, beating out a single, triumphant rhythm.

He knew.

Dick and Jason had asked him directly. Bruce had briefed him. Tim had confirmed he was researching it. He understood the permanence. He understood the biological imperative. He knew exactly what the jacket and the space and the token meant, and he was keeping all of it.

I had been so terrified he was just accepting my care because he was tired. I had been terrified I was tricking him.

But he knew.

I pushed off the gantry, floating silently up toward the exit silo. The Gotham night outside was still cold and dark, but I did not care. I felt like a walking sun.

I pulled out my phone the second I cleared the manor grounds.

Kon: He knows.

Kon: Bruce told him. Dick and Jason asked him. He said he understands the permanence.

Kara replied immediately.

Kara: See? I told you to stop panicking.

Kara: Step six is next. Prepare yourself.

I locked my phone and flew straight up into the clouds. The air rushing past my face felt like a promise. Tim knew. Tim chose me back.

I knew Dick and Jason were intense. They were Bats. Intensity was written into their DNA right next to the brooding and the tactical paranoia.

But lately, their focus on me felt less like brotherly teasing and more like a tactical operation.

We were sitting in one of Jason’s safehouses in the Bowery. The air smelled like gun oil, stale coffee, and the old paper of the books stacked in the corner. Rain lashed against the reinforced glass of the window. The heavy, gray Gotham weather usually sapped my energy, but today my blood was still humming.

Tim knew.

He knew, and he was keeping my token.

I was vibrating with the need to start the next steps, but Kara had strictly ordered me to wait. Let the token settle, she had commanded. Give him a minute to breathe.

So I was stuck pacing Jason’s living room while he and Dick cleaned their gear.

"You are wearing a hole in the floor," Jason noted. He did not look up from the disassembled grapple gun on his lap.

"I am full of solar energy," I said defensively. "It requires movement."

Dick chuckled softly from the kitchen counter. He tossed a polishing cloth onto the table. "You are just eager. It is okay to be eager, Kon. You earned it."

I stopped pacing. I looked at both of them. Dick had a soft, almost painful smile on his face. Jason’s jaw was tight, his hands working the metal parts with entirely too much force.

"Okay," I said, crossing my arms. "I have to ask."

Jason paused. "Ask what."

"Why are you two so invested in this?" I looked between them, genuinely bewildered. "Do not get me wrong. I appreciate the support. But you guys have been hovering like this is your own courtship. You cornered Tim. You are checking my progress. Why do you care so much?"

The room went entirely still.

The easy, teasing atmosphere evaporated. It did not fade; it vanished instantly, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.

Jason slowly set down a spring. He looked at Dick.

Dick looked back at him. The communication passing between them was silent and heavy with a decade of shared trauma.

Finally, Dick exhaled. He leaned against the counter and looked at me. His blue eyes were completely stripped of their usual warmth.

"Because we have seen what happens when Kryptonians love wrong," Dick said quietly.

My chest tightened. The words felt like a drop in cabin pressure. "What do you mean?"

Jason stood up. He walked over to the window and stared out at the rain, his back to us. His shoulders were rigid.

"He means Bruce and Clark," Jason said.

My heart stuttered. I stared at them, trying to process the names. Clark and Bruce. Superman and Batman. They were best friends. They were the pillars of the League.

"I do not understand," I said. My voice sounded too small in the quiet room.

Dick gestured to the couch. "Sit down, Kon. Please."

I sat. My body felt suddenly cold. The stored sunlight dimmed under the weight of the shadow creeping into the room.

"This happened a long time ago," Dick started, his voice barely above a whisper. "Before you. Before Jon. Lois was pregnant at the time. Gotham was worse than usual. Scarecrow had developed a new strain of fear toxin. It bypassed the filters in the cowl. Bruce took a direct hit."

I closed my eyes. I could imagine it perfectly. The dark alleys. The terrifying hallucinations. The way fear gas did not just scare you; it tore your mind apart and forced you to look at the wreckage.

"Jason and I were there," Dick continued. "We managed to get him back to the Cave. But he was spiraling. The antitoxin was not working fast enough. He was thrashing, screaming, completely lost in the hallucination. We had to physically pin him down to keep him from hurting himself."

Jason’s voice floated back from the window, raw and thick. "He kept apologizing. Over and over. Begging for forgiveness."

"Who was he apologizing to?" I asked, though my stomach already knew the answer.

"Clark," Dick said softly.

I swallowed hard. "Why?"

Dick looked down at his hands. "Because he knew the truth. Bruce, in the middle of a fear toxin nightmare, broke down and confessed everything. He told us that Kryptonians only love once. He knew the biology. He knew the permanence."

My breath hitched.

"Clark never told him," Jason said, turning around. His eyes were bright with unshed anger. "The big, stupid Boy Scout fell in love and never said a single word. He just swallowed it. And Bruce figured it out. He is the World's Greatest Detective. Of course he noticed. He noticed the heartbeats, the lingering looks, the way Clark oriented himself around Bruce in every room."

"But Bruce never said anything either," Dick whispered. A tear slipped down his cheek, catching the dim light. "Because Lois was pregnant. Clark was building a family. Bruce looked at us, bleeding and terrified on the Cave floor, and he cried. I had never seen Bruce cry like that. He said he could not tear a family apart. He said Clark deserved better."

I felt physically sick.

My mind flashed back to the Kent porch. To the look in Clark’s eyes when I told him I was doing this. The shadow. The ache.

He knows what it means, Clark had said about the rituals.

Clark had known exactly what it meant. And he had lived for years with the quiet, devastating grief of a singular bond that could never be fulfilled.

"He said he could never give Clark a family," Jason added, his voice cracking. "Which was the stupidest thing he could have said. Because we were right there."

Dick let out a wet, broken laugh. He wiped his face. "When Jason and I were younger, we thought they were married."

I stared at him. "You did?"

"Yeah," Jason muttered, looking back out the window. "We were kids. They were always together. Clark was always at the Manor. He brought us gifts. He checked on us. He looked at Bruce like he hung the stars. We thought they were our dads."

"We did not understand the politics of it," Dick said. "We just saw two people who belonged to each other. But Bruce chose silence. He built a wall out of his own heart to protect Clark's happiness. He acts like he does not know. To this day, he acts like he does not know. And Clark acts like he does not feel it."

The tragedy of it settled over me like a suffocating blanket.

Two men, both holding the same devastating secret, both suffering in silence to protect the other. The ultimate sacrifice played out in the quiet spaces between missions and League meetings.

I thought about Bruce briefing Tim at the Batcomputer.

Once a Kryptonian gives you their heart, they do not take it back.

Bruce had not been reading from a textbook. He had been speaking from experience. He had been looking at Tim and trying to save his son from the exact same tragedy he had inflicted on himself.

"We swore a vow," Dick said. His voice hardened, the sadness hardening into steel. "Jason and I swore we would never tell Clark. We would never tell anyone. It would destroy everything."

Jason walked back over and stood in front of me. He looked down, his expression fiercely protective.

"That is why we care, Kon," Jason said. "Because we watched our father break his own heart. We watched Clark Kent fold his soul into a box and pretend to be fine."

Dick moved closer, resting a hand on my shoulder. His grip was grounding.

"You are not ending up like them," Dick said. The conviction in his voice was absolute. "We will not let that happen. You deserve your love, Kon. You are doing this right. You are being honest. And Tim knows."

My hands clenched into fists. The token in my pocket suddenly felt incredibly heavy.

I thought about the torn jacket. The corner of my couch. The way Tim's eyes looked when he called me Sunshine.

Kryptonians only fell in love once.

If Tim did not want me, I would spend the rest of my life like Clark. I would be smiling on the outside, carrying a phantom limb in my chest.

But Tim did know. Dick and Jason had confirmed it. Bruce had told him. Tim had researched it. He had kept the clasp.

He was choosing me back.

"I will not end up like them," I said. My voice was rough, trembling with the sheer force of my promise. "I promise you. Tim and I are going to be okay."

They had watched Bruce break his own heart; they weren't going to look too closely at a miracle

Jason let out a long breath. The tension bled out of his frame. He reached over and ruffled my hair, a rare gesture of pure affection.

"Damn right you are," Jason said. "Because if you mess this up, I will shoot you with a kryptonite bullet."

"He means we love you," Dick translated smoothly, though his eyes were still red.

I managed a weak smile. My entire worldview had just been cracked open and rearranged. The tragedy between our fathers was a ghost haunting the edges of my own joy.

But as I sat there, soaking in the quiet support of my family, the ghost did not make me want to run.

It made me want to hold on tighter.

Tim was my one.

I was going to make sure he never had a single doubt about it.

Gotham was cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there. We were perched on a gargoyle overlooking the Diamond District. The rain had stopped, but the dampness made the air heavy.

Tim was sitting between my knees. He had not asked to sit there. He had just backed up until his shoulder blades hit my chest, seeking the solar warmth radiating from my skin.

He was wearing my jacket. The dark metal clasp on his cape caught the dim city light.

I wrapped my arms loosely around him to block the wind. He did not pull away. He just sank deeper into the hold, his breathing slowing as the heat soaked into his suit.

"Gotham is miserable," I pointed out quietly.

"Gotham is efficient," Tim corrected, his voice raspy. He tapped at the holographic display projecting from his wrist gauntlet. "It keeps the weak criminals inside."

He was reviewing case files. I rested my chin near his shoulder, watching the scrolling text.

"What are you looking at now?" I asked.

Tim sighed. "A civilian anomaly. I was tracking a potential kidnapping ring in Japan, but it turned out to be a massive misunderstanding. Just extremely localized eccentricity."

"You spent three hours tracking this?"

"I was being thorough," Tim said defensively. He closed the file and let his arms drop. His head fell back against my collarbone.

I stayed perfectly still. My heart was thumping a rapid, heavy rhythm against his spine.

Tim closed his eyes. "I am so tired I could pass out on this gargoyle."

"We can go back," I offered. "My couch is still exactly where you left it."

Tim smiled a tiny, exhausted smile. "I would marry you right now for a full night of sleep."

The world stopped spinning.

The ambient noise of Gotham faded into absolute silence.

Marry you. On Earth, people threw that phrase around as a joke. I knew this. I watched television. I understood human hyperbole.

But in Kryptonian courtship, there were no jokes about joining. There were only promises. You did not speak the words of forever unless you were prepared to anchor your soul to the person hearing them.

My blood rushed in my ears. I looked down at his face, pale and relaxed in the shadows. He had said it so easily.

He had offered a vow.

"You do not have to marry me for sleep," I said. My voice trembled slightly. "I will give it to you anyway."

Tim hummed softly, a sound of deep contentment. "Good to know."

A few days later, the domesticity escalated. I could not stop it even if I wanted to.

We were in the Watchtower cafeteria. The room was mostly empty, save for Cassie, Bart, and a very intense Dick Grayson who had dropped by under the guise of delivering files.

Tim was spread out over a table, buried in schematics. He had skipped breakfast and lunch. I knew this because I had been listening to his heartbeat all day, noting the slight irregularities that meant he was running on empty.

I placed a tray of hot food directly over his blueprints.

Tim glared at the plate. "I am working."

"You are starving," I corrected. I pulled up a chair and sat beside him.

Cassie watched us from the next table, her chin resting in her hands. Bart was practically vibrating next to her.

Dick was leaning against the wall, sipping a coffee and watching my every move with the sharp, protective focus of an older brother who knew exactly what was at stake.

Tim picked up a fork with a heavy sigh. "You are completely relentless."

"I am attentive," I reminded him.

Tim took a bite. He closed his eyes for a brief second, his shoulders dropping as the hot food hit his stomach. He looked incredibly soft when his defenses slipped.

"You always do this," Tim murmured around his next bite. "You just appear with exactly what I need before I know I need it."

"It is my job," I said gently.

Tim shook his head. He looked at me, his eyes tired but impossibly fond. "Why don't you just live with me forever? It would save me so much time."

A glass shattered.

I snapped my head around. Dick had dropped his coffee mug. It lay in pieces on the floor, brown liquid pooling on the pristine white tiles.

Dick was not looking at the mess. He was staring at Tim with wide, shining eyes. He pressed a hand to his mouth, looking like he was about to weep from sheer joy.

Cassie slowly lowered her face onto the table and let out a long, muffled scream of excitement.

Bart stood up, pointed at Tim, and yelled, "He proposed! I heard it! You all heard it!"

Tim froze, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He looked at Bart, then at Cassie, and finally at Dick, who was currently giving me a double thumbs-up while aggressively nodding.

Tim looked back at me, entirely bewildered. "Why are they acting like I just announced a pregnancy."

My chest felt like a supernova. Live with me forever. The Promise Words. He was speaking them out loud, in public, in front of witnesses. He was cementing the bond in the exact way Kara had described.

I smiled at him. I could not hide the absolute devotion in my expression. "They are just happy you are eating, Little Bird."

Tim narrowed his eyes. "You said that name again."

"Bart is too busy screaming to hear it," I pointed out.

Tim considered this, then took another bite. "Fair point."

He did not take back the forever. He just kept eating my food, wearing my token, completely unaware that he had just tied his life to mine in the eyes of everyone in the room.

The final piece of the promise phase happened after a joint Titans and Bat-family patrol.

We were in the damp tunnels under Gotham. The fight had been brutal, but successful. Everyone was battered, bruised, and thoroughly exhausted.

Tim had pushed himself too far. He was limping slightly, his breathing shallow.

Jason was walking a few paces ahead of us, his helmet tucked under his arm. He kept throwing discreet, worried glances over his shoulder at Tim.

"I can walk," Tim snapped after Jason looked back for the fourth time.

"You look like a stiff breeze would snap you in half, replacement," Jason grunted.

Before Tim could formulate a biting response, his knee buckled.

He did not hit the ground. I caught him instantly, sliding one arm under his knees and the other around his back. I lifted him smoothly against my chest.

Tim stiffened. "Put me down."

"No," I said simply.

Jason stopped walking. He turned around and watched us.

"I am too heavy," Tim argued, though he was already failing to struggle.

"You weigh less than a cloud," I told him, adjusting my grip. "Stop fighting it."

Tim glared up at me. Then, with a dramatic huff of defeat, he let his head drop onto my shoulder. He wrapped one arm loosely around my neck to steady himself.

His face was tucked perfectly into the crook of my neck. I could feel his pulse beating against my collarbone.

Jason’s rigid posture melted. He watched us with a look of profound, quiet relief. The ghost of Bruce and Clark’s tragedy had haunted him, but seeing Tim willingly rest in my arms seemed to chase that ghost away completely.

Jason nodded once at me, a silent confirmation, before turning around to lead the way out.

Tim shifted closer to my warmth. His voice was a sleepy murmur against my skin.

"You are a very comfortable mode of transportation," Tim mumbled.

"I aim to please," I whispered.

Tim sighed. His eyes slipped shut. "If you ever leave, I am haunting you."

My breath caught.

The third promise.

I tightened my hold on him, securing his weight against my chest. The damp walls of the Gotham sewer faded away. The cold vanished. There was only the steady rhythm of his heart matching mine, and the absolute certainty in my soul.

He had offered the space, worn the token, and spoken the promises.

He was choosing me back.

I pressed my cheek against the top of his head, resting it gently against his dark hair.

"I am never leaving," I vowed softly into the darkness. "You will not have to haunt me."

Tim hummed, already half-asleep. "Good."

I carried him the rest of the way, feeling like I was holding the entire universe in my arms.

Kara cornered me in the Watchtower hydroponics bay. The air smelled of damp earth and engineered oxygen, a strange approximation of the planet spinning far below us.

"Step seven," Kara announced. She leaned against a metal tank and crossed her arms. Her usual smugness was entirely gone, replaced by a fierce, quiet intensity.

"Touch," I said. My voice felt too loud in the quiet room.

"Intentional touch," she corrected. "Not a pat on the back. Not catching him when he trips. Stillness. Sunlight. A physical anchor."

I swallowed hard. "How."

"Forehead to forehead," Kara said gently. "Or hand over the heart. It is the precursor to the sun oath. It tells him you are offering your life, not just your space."

I had invited Tim to the Kent farm the very next day.

I did not ask him on a date. I framed it as a tactical requirement. I told him my solar reserves were fluctuating after the LexCorp explosion, and I needed to sit in direct, unfiltered sunlight in a low-stress environment.

Tim, being Tim, immediately cleared his afternoon schedule.

"Fluctuating reserves are a liability," Tim had said, not looking up from his terminal. "I will monitor you. The farm is an optimal environment for recovery."

He did not realize he was walking into a ritual. He thought he was running a diagnostic.

Sunday afternoon in Smallville was a masterpiece of golden light. The sky was wide and painfully blue. The wheat fields swayed in a gentle rhythm, and the air smelled like warm dirt and sweet grass.

We were sitting on the edge of the back porch. The wood was thoroughly warmed by the sun.

Tim was sitting right beside me. Our shoulders were pressed together. He was wearing my jacket, the dark fabric absorbing the heat. The clasp I had made him gleamed at his collar, catching the sunlight every time he moved.

Inside the house, I could hear the murmur of voices. Bruce had flown in to drop off League administrative files, a perfect excuse for the Bats and the Supers to overlap. Clark had made coffee. They were standing in the kitchen, their heartbeats a steady, familiar background noise.

Tim shifted his weight, leaning a little heavier against my side. He held a small datapad in his lap, but he had not tapped the screen in over ten minutes.

His breathing had slowed. The deep, heavy quiet of the farm was doing what it always did. It was dismantling his armor, piece by piece.

"Your heart rate is steady," Tim murmured, eyes half-closed against the bright sun. "Are your reserves filling?"

"Yes," I said quietly.

My heart rate was actually skyrocketing, but I had learned how to physically suppress the sound of it so his monitors would not panic.

I looked at him. The sunlight caught the dark sweep of his eyelashes and painted a warm, golden cast over his pale skin. The bruise on his cheekbone was fading into a dull yellow. He looked incredibly soft, unguarded, and trusting.

Step seven.

Proving you can be anchored.

I turned my body slightly toward him. I let my breathing sync with the rustle of the wind through the fields. I found the stillness Kara had demanded.

I reached out.

My hand moved slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away.

I placed my palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his heart.

Tim froze.

His eyes opened, wide and sharp, snapping out of his half-sleep. He looked down at my hand resting against the red and black armor of his suit. Then he looked up at my face.

The air between us went perfectly silent.

"What are you doing," Tim asked. His voice was a whisper.

"Checking," I said. My voice trembled just a fraction. "Making sure you are actually resting."

I could feel the heavy, rapid thud of his heart against my palm. He was alive. He was here. He was letting me touch him in the most vulnerable place a person could be touched.

Tim stared at me. His bright blue eyes searched my face, calculating, analyzing, trying to understand the sudden gravity in the air.

Then, because he was a genius who always found the most logical explanation for everything, he decided I was struggling. He decided my "fluctuating reserves" were making me anxious, and I was seeking a physical tether.

Tim lifted his own hand.

He did not push me away. He mirrored me.

He pressed his gloved palm flat against the center of my chest, right over the House of El crest. Right over my heart.

"Your heart rate just spiked," Tim murmured, his tone shifting into something impossibly gentle. "You are running too hot, Sunshine."

He leaned forward.

He closed the distance between us and rested his forehead firmly against mine.

The world narrowed to the exact point where we touched. The warmth of his skin. The steady pressure of his hand against my chest. The scent of ink, coffee, and sunlight wrapped around us like a blanket.

"Breathe, Kon," Tim whispered, his breath ghosting over my lips. "I am right here. You are fine."

He was grounding me.

To him, it was a medical intervention. A comfort gesture for a friend whose biology was acting up. He was doing what he always did. He was offering solutions.

To me, it was the deepest vow a Kryptonian could make before the final oath.

I closed my eyes. I let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch, letting his solid presence anchor me to the earth. My hand flexed against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his life force.

He had reciprocated perfectly.

I opened my eyes just a fraction.

Through the reflection in the porch window, I could see the kitchen.

Clark was standing by the sink. He had stopped talking. He was watching us through the glass. His expression was incredibly soft, glowing with a profound, overwhelming pride. But beneath the pride, there was a shadow. A deep, quiet ache for the exact thing he was watching me claim.

Bruce was standing next to him.

Bruce took one look out the window. He saw us sitting on the edge of the porch, enveloped in sunlight, our foreheads pressed together and our hands resting over each other's hearts in the flawless mirror of a Kryptonian bond.

Bruce turned away.

He turned his back to the window entirely. He gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, his knuckles turning white. He squeezed his eyes shut like he was suffocating.

The tragedy of their silence hung heavy in the kitchen, a ghost haunting the edges of my own blinding joy.

I squeezed my eyes shut again, blocking out the window, blocking out the past. I focused entirely on the boy in my arms.

Tim sighed against my skin, his thumb rubbing a small, absentminded circle over my crest.

"Better?" Tim asked softly.

"Yeah," I breathed out. I let my hand drop from his chest, though I kept my forehead resting against his for one second longer. "Perfect."

Tim finally pulled back. His ears were tipped bright pink, though he tried very hard to arrange his face into an expression of clinical satisfaction.

He picked up his datapad again, clearing his throat.

"Good," Tim said briskly. "Your solar intake seems to have stabilized. We can conclude the environmental therapy."

"Thank you, Doctor Drake," I teased, my voice thick with emotion.

Tim shot me a mild glare, but the tiny, private smile was back on his lips. He adjusted his cape, the dark metal clasp catching the light once more.

I sat back against the porch railing and looked out at the fields.

Step seven was complete.

I felt like I was standing on the absolute edge of everything I had ever wanted. The only thing left was the sun oath. The final joining.

I just had to say the words.

I stood up from the porch railing. The Kansas sun was a brilliant, heavy gold, pouring over the fields in a way that made the air look like syrup.

I stepped down onto the grass. The dirt was warm under my boots.

Tim watched me. He was still sitting on the porch, my jacket zipped to his collar, the dark metal of the token catching the light.

"Come here," I said quietly.

Tim raised an eyebrow. "I am already here."

"Stand in the sun with me," I asked.

He let out a long sigh, putting his datapad down. He pushed himself off the wood and stepped down into the grass beside me. He stood close. The heat of the day was sinking into the earth, but the brightest light was hitting us directly.

Step eight. The Sun Oath.

A shared moment under the light of a yellow star. A vow spoken out loud.

I turned to face him fully.

My heart was beating so hard I was certain the entire house could hear it. I let the sunlight fill my lungs. I let the warmth anchor me.

Tim tilted his head. His bright blue eyes scanned my face. He looked relaxed. The lines of tension around his mouth were entirely gone.

"You are being intense again," Tim noted.

"I am being serious," I corrected.

Tim held my gaze. He did not pull away.

In my head, the Kryptonian words formed perfectly. A sequence of syllables that translated to a singular, unbreakable truth. I choose you for my only love.

I could not say that in English. It would scare him.

But I could say the core of it. I could give him the promise.

"Tim," I said softly. I kept my hands at my sides so I would not reach out and overwhelm him. "I am choosing you."

Tim blinked.

"I am choosing you," I repeated, my voice steadying. "For my person. For everything. I am not going anywhere."

It was a vow. The sunlight absorbed the words and sealed them into the air between us.

Tim stared at me. His ears turned faintly pink. He looked slightly bewildered, the way he always did when confronted with raw emotion, but he also looked incredibly fond.

He thought I was making a promise of partnership. A promise of best friendship. He thought I was cementing our dynamic in a dramatic, alien way.

He smiled. It was a small, genuine thing that made my chest ache.

"Okay," Tim said. His voice was completely sincere. "I am yours. I mean, obviously. How would I manage without you?"

The world stopped spinning.

The sky seemed to turn a brighter shade of blue.

He had said the matching gesture. He had given the exact reciprocity the ritual demanded. By total coincidence, by sheer blunt human honesty, he had completed the sequence perfectly.

"You wouldn't," I choked out, a laugh catching in my throat.

"Exactly," Tim said comfortably. He bumped his shoulder against mine. "So stop being dramatic in the middle of a field. We have work to do."

He turned and started walking back toward the porch steps.

I stood there for three seconds, letting the reality wash over me.

Courting complete.

Bonded.

My soul felt completely still, anchored permanently to the boy walking away from me.

I hurried to catch up. We walked through the screen door into the kitchen together.

The atmosphere inside shifted the absolute second we crossed the threshold.

Clark was still by the sink. Kara was leaning against the counter. Dick and Jason had apparently arrived through the barn Zeta tubes while we were outside, because they were standing near the kitchen island. Bruce was near the hallway.

Every single one of them stopped talking.

Kara looked at me. Her eyes dropped to Tim, then back to my face.

She saw the glow. She saw the absolute, devastating joy I could not hide.

Kara let out a breath that sounded like a cheer.

"Well," Kara announced, clapping her hands together. "It is done."

Dick nearly dropped the apple he was holding. He stared at Tim, then at me. His eyes went glassy with immediate tears.

"Oh my god," Dick whispered.

Jason let out a bark of laughter, a sound of pure relief. He slammed a hand down on the island. "Finally. I thought I was going to die of old age."

Tim paused in the middle of the kitchen. He looked at all of them, his brow furrowing.

"What is done," Tim asked cautiously.

"The worst part," Jason said, pointing at me. "The pining. The stress."

"We need to plan a dinner," Kara declared loudly, ignoring Tim's confusion entirely. "A celebration. A massive one."

Tim looked at her like she had lost her mind. "A celebration for what. We just stopped a LexCorp shipment. It was standard. We do not throw parties for standard operations."

"It is not for the shipment, Little Bird," Dick said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He walked over and pulled Tim into a tight, suffocating hug.

Tim stiffened, patting Dick's back awkwardly. "Dick. You are crushing my ribs."

"I am just so happy for you," Dick sniffled. "You both deserve this."

Tim extracted himself, looking thoroughly alarmed. He shot me a desperate look.

I smiled at him helplessly. I was too happy to intervene.

Clark stepped forward. His expression was a tapestry of profound pride and deep, quiet love. He did not hug me, but he reached out and gripped my shoulder. The pressure was incredibly grounding.

"I am very proud of you, Kon," Clark said softly.

"Thanks," I whispered.

Bruce had not moved from the hallway. His face was unreadable, but the harsh lines around his mouth had smoothed out. He looked at Tim, who was currently trying to fend off Jason aggressively ruffling his hair.

Then Bruce looked at me.

He gave a single, slow nod.

It was acceptance. It was a blessing from the darkest corner of Gotham.

"Okay, seriously," Tim demanded, swatting Jason's hand away. "What is wrong with everyone. Why are we having a dinner."

"Because it is important," Kara said smoothly. "Because we are celebrating team cohesion. And loyalty. And permanent partnerships."

Tim narrowed his eyes at her. He hated when people used words he could not immediately quantify.

But then he sighed, exhaustion and fondness warring in his expression. He tugged at the edge of my jacket again.

"Fine," Tim relented. "If Alfred is making the food, I will be there."

"It will be at the Manor," Dick decided instantly. "A family dinner. Next week. We will invite everyone who matters."

"That sounds loud," Tim complained.

"You will survive," Jason said cheerfully.

The kitchen erupted into chaotic planning. Kara and Dick started arguing about the guest list. Jason began listing foods he wanted to demand from Alfred. Clark watched them all with a soft smile, occasionally offering a gentle correction when the plans got too extravagant.

I stood near the counter, bathing in the noise.

Tim retreated from the center of the room and stepped into the space beside me. It was an automatic movement. He sought my gravity without thinking about it.

He leaned his shoulder against the cabinets, crossing his arms. The token on his cape flashed in the kitchen light.

"They are all completely insane," Tim murmured to me.

"They are," I agreed happily.

Tim looked up at me. His bright blue eyes were curious, studying the massive smile I could not wipe off my face.

"You are glowing," Tim observed. "Literally. Your skin is emitting a low-level bioluminescence."

"I told you," I said, my voice dropping to a soft murmur. "I am full of sunlight."

Tim hummed. He uncrossed his arms and let his hand drop to his side. His knuckles brushed against mine.

He did not pull away.

I let my hand rest there, soaking in the quiet contact.

The universe had finally given me something good.

I had followed the rules. I had offered the jacket, built the space, shared the name, stood before the witnesses, and exchanged the token. I had spoken the vows under the yellow sun.

Tim had reciprocated every single step.

He was mine, and I was his. The courtship was complete. We were officially bonded. The family knew, and they were preparing to celebrate our future together.

I closed my eyes for a brief second, listening to the steady, perfect rhythm of his heartbeat right next to mine.

I was almost afraid to breathe too hard.

I felt like if I moved, I might shatter the absolute perfection of the moment.

Wayne Manor was loud.

The dining room was practically glowing with warmth. The grand chandelier cast a heavy, golden light over the long mahogany table, catching the polished silverware and the edges of the crystal glasses. Alfred moved seamlessly around the room, setting down platters of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spiced vegetables with a faint, pleased smile.

Everyone was smiling too hard.

Dick was practically vibrating in his seat. He kept bouncing his knee under the table, shooting me wide, beaming looks every time Tim glanced away. Jason was leaning back in his chair, looking smug and relaxed in a way I had rarely ever seen. Barbara sat beside Dick, her hands resting on the wheels of her chair, eyes sparkling with anticipation. Steph was poorly concealing her phone behind a water pitcher, clearly trying to record the moment.

Across the table, Duke was grinning at his plate, while Cass watched the room with quiet, vibrating excitement. Even Damian was sitting somewhat peacefully, offering only mild complaints about the seating arrangements instead of his usual sharp remarks. Kara kept kicking my ankle under the table and winking. Clark radiated a quiet, profound pride that seemed to settle over the entire room like a warm blanket.

Even Bruce looked softer. The harsh lines of his face were smoothed out, his gaze resting on his family with something that looked like absolute peace.

I was so happy my chest physically ached.

I sat next to Tim. My jacket was draped over the back of his chair. He had worn it all the way from the city. The dark metal clasp was fastened securely to his civilian coat in the hall.

The courtship was complete. The family was gathered. We were just waiting for the words.

Tim picked up his water glass, took a sip, and set it down. He looked tired, as always, but the deep, frantic exhaustion was gone. He looked grounded. He looked safe.

He cleared his throat.

The room went instantly, completely silent.

Dick froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. Jason sat up straight. Steph hit record on her phone. Cass leaned in. Kara leaned forward, her eyes bright with anticipation. Clark smiled gently.

Tim looked around the table. His ears turned faintly pink. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous, entirely human gesture that made my heart swell with so much affection I thought my ribs would crack.

"I know this dinner is supposed to be about team cohesion," Tim started. His voice was calm, sincere, and perfectly steady. "But since everyone is here, I wanted to share something."

He looked down at his hands, then back up. He was smiling. It was a small, shy, beautiful smile.

"I am dating someone," Tim said.

Dick let out a breathless sound of joy. Duke pumped a fist silently. Kara’s hands twitched like she was about to start clapping.

Tim took a breath.

"His name is Bernard."

The oxygen vanished from the room.

A heavy, suffocating silence slammed down over the table.

Dick’s fork slipped from his fingers. It hit the porcelain plate with a sharp, piercing clatter that echoed off the high walls.

Kara went entirely rigid. Her bright smile shattered, leaving behind a look of pure, unadulterated horror.

Jason stopped breathing.

Steph’s phone slipped from her grip, hitting the tablecloth with a soft thud.

Cass’s expression shifted instantly into tragic, devastating comprehension.

Barbara’s hands gripped her wheels so hard her knuckles turned white.

Duke looked like he had been punched in the stomach.

Damian went completely still, his eyes wide and fixed on the table.

By the doorway, Alfred paused, his posture sinking as sorrow overtook his usually composed features.

Clark closed his eyes.

Bruce’s face went completely blank, the peace instantly replaced by the hollow, devastated expression of a man watching a nightmare repeat itself in real time.

I did not move.

I did not breathe.

I sat perfectly still while the universe unraveled inside my chest.

His name is Bernard.

My mind stalled. It tried to process the data, tried to find the Kryptonian translation, tried to understand the error. But there was no error. There was only the blunt, devastating truth of human coincidence.

Tim had not accepted an offering. He had just been cold.

Tim had not accepted a space. He had just been tired.

Tim had not given me a name. He had just made a joke.

Tim had not exchanged a token. He had just needed a clasp.

He had not known. He had never known. He had walked through the sacred, binding rituals of my soul, completely blind, reciprocating by pure, impossible accident.

Kryptonians only fall in love once.

And my love loved another.

The bond was real to me. My body had made the vow. My soul had anchored itself to the boy sitting next to me, and it was never, ever going to unspool. I was going to carry this love in my chest until the sun burned out, and it was never going to belong anywhere.

Tim looked around the frozen table. His smile faltered. Confusion crept into his bright blue eyes.

"Guys?" Tim asked cautiously.

Someone had to speak. If the silence stretched one second longer, Tim’s brilliant, calculating mind would start putting the pieces together. He would realize what we thought. He would realize what I had done.

He would feel guilty.

I swallowed the blood in my throat. I forced my muscles to unlock.

I looked at him. I smiled. It was the hardest physical feat I had ever accomplished in my life.

"Congratulations, Tim," I said. My voice was perfectly steady. "That is really great."

Tim exhaled, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. His smile returned, relieved and bright.

"Thanks, Sunshine," Tim said softly.

He looked at me with absolute trust. With the pure, uncomplicated affection of a best friend.

It felt like a knife slipping between my ribs.

My words broke the spell. The rest of the table scrambled to cover the wreckage. Dick choked out a wet, strained laugh and offered his congratulations. Barbara quickly asked a polite question about how they met to fill the silence. Steph forced a loud, overly enthusiastic cheer that sounded brittle. Jason muttered something supportive, his voice thick and rough. Clark offered a warm, painfully forced smile.

Kara said nothing, her eyes fixed on her plate, her hands trembling. Cass just stared at me from across the table, her dark eyes shining with heartbreaking sympathy.

The rest of the dinner was a blur. I existed outside my own body. I ate. I nodded. I listened to Tim talk about how they met, how long it had been going on, how he had kept it quiet to ensure it was serious before telling the family.

He had kept it quiet.

No suspicious texts. No evasiveness. He had just been Tim.

Hours later, the adrenaline crash hit him. The sheer relief of sharing his secret finally allowed his body to shut down. He fell asleep on the large sofa in the parlor, a blanket pulled over his chest, his breathing slow and even.

I stood in the center of the parlor, watching him sleep.

The rest of the family stood near the hallway arch. None of them had left.

Dick was weeping silently, tears tracking down his face, his hand clamped over his mouth to keep the sound in. Jason stood beside him, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white, looking at the floor with a murderous grief. Kara was leaning against the wall, her face buried in her hands.

Duke looked sick with guilt on Tim's behalf. Steph leaned against Barbara's chair, both of them watching me with shattered expressions. Damian stood remarkably quiet near Alfred, the butler’s head bowed in solemn grief. Cass took one step toward me, lifting a hand to offer comfort, but she stopped, sensing the absolute fragility of my composure.

Clark stepped forward. His expression was shattered. He reached a hand out toward me, a desperate offer of comfort.

I took a step back.

Clark’s hand fell.

I looked at all of them. I made sure they were listening.

"Do not tell him," I whispered.

The command was absolute.

Dick let out a choked sob. Jason squeezed his eyes shut.

"You do not tell him," I repeated, my voice hard and hollow. "None of you. You do not explain the jacket. You do not explain the space. You never, ever tell him what the token means."

Clark’s voice broke. "Kon. You cannot carry this alone."

"I have to," I said.

I looked at the boy sleeping on the couch. I loved him. I loved him so much it felt like I was suffocating.

"If you tell him," I said quietly, "he will feel guilty for something he did not know. He will look at me with pity. Or he will pull away because the weight of it is too heavy. I will not let his face become that memory."

I turned my back on the sleeping boy. I faced the family.

"Promise me," I demanded.

One by one, they nodded. Kara wiped her face and nodded. Jason swallowed hard and nodded. Dick gave a jerky, devastated nod. Barbara and Steph nodded together, tears shining in their eyes. Duke and Damian inclined their heads. Cass placed her hand over her heart in a silent, sorrowful vow. Alfred closed his eyes in a heavy nod. Clark bowed his head in surrender.

I stepped into the hallway.

Dick and Jason stood together near the doorway. As I passed them, they looked at me.

They did not say anything. They did not have to. They exchanged one long, heavy look.

It was the exact same look they shared when speaking of Bruce and Clark. The look that held a decade of silent suffering. The look that said: This is what we tried to prevent.

The cycle had repeated itself perfectly.

I walked out the front doors of Wayne Manor. The dawn was breaking over Gotham. Pale, cold sunlight spilled across the stone steps, washing over my boots and climbing up my legs.

I reached beneath the cuff of my sleeve. My fingers found the thin band of dark Kryptonian alloy I had forged to match the clasp on his cape. The joining piece. The vow.

I traced the metal with my thumb. It was cold.

I stood in the direct light of a yellow star, completely full of power, and I could not feel the warmth anymore.