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Tim Drake had prepared contingency plans for alien invasions, citywide power failures, biological attacks, hostile takeovers of Wayne Enterprises, and three scenarios in which his brothers were replaced by convincing shapeshifters. He had not prepared for you to lean across the café table and ask, “Do you think Red Robin is single?”
Tim inhaled at precisely the wrong moment, sending coffee into his lungs. He doubled over, coughing into the crook of his elbow while several people turned toward him. One of the baristas took a concerned step in his direction, phone already in hand, presumably preparing to alert emergency services that one of Gotham’s wealthiest citizens was being assassinated by an iced latte.
“Tim?” You reached toward him without quite knowing where to put your hand. When he raised one finger to indicate that he remained alive, you relaxed enough to add, “You’re supposed to drink it, not inhale it.”
By the time Tim managed a complete breath, his eyes were watering, and his chest hurt for reasons that had very little to do with the coffee. He had loved you for eleven months, three weeks, and somewhere in the vicinity of four days. The exact starting point was difficult to establish because his feelings had accumulated gradually through late-night study sessions, shared meals, and the increasingly frequent realization that every interesting thing that happened to him became something he wanted to tell you. Tim had survived nearly a year of being secretly in love with you, but he was no longer confident that he would survive this conversation.
“Red Robin,” he repeated hoarsely. “The vigilante.”
You glanced around before lowering your voice. “There are several vigilantes in Gotham, Tim. I wanted to make sure we were discussing the same person.”
“There’s only one Red Robin.”
“As far as the public knows. This is Gotham. There could be six of them.”
“There aren’t.”
“That was a very confident answer.”
“I read the news.”
“You read classified police reports for fun.”
“They aren’t classified if you know where to look.”
“That sentence is exactly why I’m asking you.”
Tim placed his coffee carefully on the table before another unexpected statement caused him to drown in it. “Why would I know whether Red Robin is single?”
“Because you notice things. You noticed that the woman behind us has been pretending to type while listening to her boyfriend’s phone call, and you knew our waiter last week was planning to propose because he kept checking his jacket pocket.”
The typing behind Tim abruptly stopped. He resisted the urge to turn around. “She isn’t subtle, and the outline of the ring box was visible.”
“To you. That’s my point.”
Tim did notice things, especially when it came to you. He knew how you arranged your books according to a system you insisted was not a system, which drinks you ordered when you were tired, which songs you skipped despite claiming to like the entire album, and how long you would tolerate uncomfortable shoes before removing them beneath a restaurant table. He also knew that you touched the side of your glass when you were nervous and tucked your chin down whenever you were trying to hide a smile. You were doing both now, and something cold and unpleasant settled in his stomach.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“Your face temperature has noticeably increased.”
“Normal people don’t say things like that.”
“Normal people apparently ask their friends about a vigilante’s relationship status.”
“I was curious.”
“Why?”
You glanced toward the window, but Tim waited until your resistance collapsed beneath the weight of his attention. You lasted seven seconds before admitting, “He saved me last week.”
Tim already knew that. He had replayed the encounter several times, mostly while attempting to determine how three armed men had concluded that robbing the corner pharmacy while you were inside would be a sustainable career decision. Red Robin had entered through the rear delivery door, disabled the first gunman, and disarmed the second before either man understood what was happening. The third had grabbed you and tried to use you as leverage.
Tim’s recollection of the next fourteen seconds remained unusually fragmented. He remembered the gun against your ribs, the sharp sound of your breath catching, and the immediate certainty that he would tear the building apart before allowing the man to hurt you. He remembered throwing a birdarang, crossing the room, and catching the gun before it struck the floor. More clearly than any of that, he remembered the way you had looked directly at him afterward instead of through him the way frightened civilians sometimes looked through masked vigilantes.
“You didn’t mention that.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m worrying now.”
“It was a week ago.”
“That doesn’t make it less dangerous. You could have been hurt, and you still should’ve called me.”
“During the robbery?”
“Or afterward.”
“I was being held at gunpoint, Tim. I’m sorry I failed to observe proper hostage etiquette.”
Tim pressed his lips together, but your expression softened. “I’m okay. Red Robin handled it.”
“I know.”
His answer emerged more sharply than intended. When you asked whether he was angry at Red Robin, Tim insisted he was angry that you had been in danger, not at the person who had helped you. You pointed out that the danger had not lasted very long and then smiled into your drink as you described Red Robin as competent, polite, and unexpectedly considerate.
“He gave me his cape while we waited for the police.”
“You were shaking.”
The words escaped before Tim realized what he had said. Your eyebrows rose, and he scrambled backward. “The article said the witnesses were shaken.”
“I don’t think the article mentioned his cape.”
“It was probably implied.”
“The existence of a cape was implied?”
“Most people know he wears one.”
You watched him for another moment before explaining that Red Robin had stayed until the police arrived and asked whether someone could come get you. When Tim learned that you had refused to call anyone because he was supposedly in a board meeting, he informed you that he would have left.
“You can’t abandon every meeting because something happens to me.”
“I can abandon most of them.”
“And then Lucius will eventually murder me.”
“He would understand.”
“Because I was held hostage?”
“Because most of those meetings could be emails.”
You laughed, easing some of the panic beneath Tim’s ribs. He had spoken to you later that night after confirming through several hacked police systems that the robbers were in custody. You had claimed that your day had been uneventful, and he had believed you because he had not realized you considered an armed robbery unworthy of mention once Red Robin intervened.
“He was funny too,” you added.
“No, he wasn’t.”
“One of the robbers asked who he thought he was, and he said, ‘Statistically, the worst possible person you could have encountered tonight.’”
Tim remembered saying it. The statement had not been intended as a joke. “That isn’t particularly funny.”
“It was the way he said it, like he was disappointed the man had forced him to explain.”
Tim could not dispute that without revealing more than he wanted. You smiled again, and the expression contained a softness that made him feel as though he were watching you look at someone else across the room. Except the someone else was him. This should have been good news, but it did not feel like good news.
“You’re developing a crush because he gave you his cape and threatened a criminal with probability.”
“I didn’t say I had a crush.”
“You asked whether he was single. Those things are directly connected.”
“Maybe I wanted to know for someone else.”
“Who?”
When you hesitated, Tim gestured toward you as though that proved his entire case. You finally conceded that you might have a tiny crush, although your smile suggested it was not nearly as minuscule as you claimed.
“You nearly died when I said his name,” you reminded him.
“That was the coffee.”
“Which entered your lungs because I said his name.”
Tim looked down at the table. “He isn’t available.”
The lie left his mouth before he fully considered it. Your smile faded, and a brief, vicious satisfaction moved through him before guilt replaced it. He quickly amended the statement to an assumption that the vigilante lifestyle was not conducive to relationships.
“Nightwing dates,” you said.
“Nightwing is a statistical anomaly.”
“Batwoman dates.”
“Occasionally.”
“Superman is married.”
“Different city.”
You studied him. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“I haven’t. You provided the examples.”
“And you countered them immediately.”
Tim folded his arms. “You don’t know anything about Red Robin.”
“I know he’s brave and kind. He made sure the pharmacy clerk received medical attention before checking his own injuries.”
“He wasn’t badly hurt.”
Your eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”
“The article.”
“The article that didn’t mention the cape?”
Tim silently cursed Gotham’s declining standards of journalism. He argued that Red Robin would not have stayed if he were seriously hurt, while you pointed out that vigilantes were notoriously bad at taking care of themselves.
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve met you.”
“I’m not a vigilante.”
“No, but you attended a presentation with a fever of one hundred and three and fainted on Lucius.”
“I sat down abruptly.”
“He caught you.”
“The distinction is irrelevant.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“You’re attempting to date someone whose face you haven’t seen.”
“I’m not attempting anything.” You paused before adding, “Although I did tell him where I work.”
Tim’s brain stopped. “You what?”
“He asked whether the pharmacy was part of my normal route home, so I told him I usually leave the library around nine.”
“You gave a masked stranger your schedule?”
“He saved my life.”
“That doesn’t mean you give him your place of employment.”
“You just admitted he was brave and kind.”
“You said that. I said he probably possesses adequate qualities.”
“Adequate qualities?”
“He’s tolerable.”
Your mouth twitched. “Are you jealous?”
“I am not jealous of Red Robin.”
“Then why are you reviewing him like a disappointing job applicant?”
“Because you’re basing an infatuation on one stressful encounter.”
“It’s been more than one encounter.”
Tim went still. You reluctantly admitted that Red Robin had checked on you two nights after the robbery and then stayed with you on the library roof the previous evening while your rideshare circled the wrong block. Tim remembered both encounters, including the several minutes he had spent deciding whether the more heavily armored suit would seem unfriendly and the eleven minutes of conversation he had enjoyed far too much.
“That sounds like he’s monitoring the area,” Tim said.
“He spoke to me.”
“He’s monitoring you.”
“That sounds much more romantic.”
“It wasn’t intended to.”
“You really don’t like him.”
“I’m assessing the situation objectively.”
“Objectively, you think he’s tolerable and possesses adequate qualities.”
“That seems fair.”
You leaned back with the expression Tim knew usually preceded trouble. “I’m going to ask him out.”
“No.”
The answer emerged much too quickly. Tim tried to recover by explaining that dating a vigilante could be dangerous because he might have enemies, but you pointed out that Tim also had enemies, even if most of them sat on the Wayne Enterprises board.
“You don’t even know when you’ll see him again.”
“I work late tomorrow.”
Tim knew that, just as he knew he had planned to patrol the library district. He could change routes and avoid the building until your crush faded, but you would be disappointed. That should not have mattered. It mattered immediately.
“What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to offer him coffee, Tim, not my hand in marriage.”
“You don’t know what he drinks.”
“I’ll bring options.”
“He doesn’t need coffee.”
“Everyone needs coffee.”
“He might not like it.”
“You’re being weird.”
Tim was losing an argument against himself, and somehow both sides were making him miserable. He gathered his laptop and jacket before the situation could deteriorate further. “I have to go.”
You checked your phone. “Your routine budget review isn’t for another forty minutes, and you said you could conduct it while unconscious.”
“I’ve revised my opinion.”
“You’re definitely jealous.”
“I’m definitely late.”
“You aren’t.”
“I could become late.”
“That isn’t how time works.”
Tim stood and looked down at you. “Please call me the next time you’re involved in an armed robbery, and don’t wait alone on the roof.”
“It has cameras.”
“Three of them have blind spots.”
You frowned. “How do you know that?”
“The library’s security plans are publicly available.”
“They absolutely are not.”
Tim froze with one arm still in his jacket. You stared at him, and he stared back while every plausible explanation abandoned him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said before fleeing the café.
Stephanie was already in the cave when Tim returned, sitting in his chair, eating crackers over his keyboard, and smiling with every visible tooth. He knew immediately that she had heard.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re going to.”
“I might not.”
“You’re smiling, and you’re eating over the computer.”
“I’m generally cheerful, and I’m establishing dominance.”
Tim removed the crackers from her hands and set them on a nearby worktable. “Who told you?”
“Dick. You told Barbara that your civilian friend had developed an attachment to Red Robin, Barbara told Dick, and Dick told me because he understood that this was the funniest thing to happen in the family since Damian accidentally joined a school theater production.”
“Damian was conducting surveillance.”
“He played a tree.”
“It provided an unobstructed view of the stage.”
“He had three lines as a tree.”
Tim sat at the computer and opened his patrol reports. He had no intention of discussing you, his feelings, or the humiliating reality that he had spent the afternoon resenting a man who shared his fingerprints.
Stephanie rolled her chair closer. “You’re losing the girl to yourself.”
“I’m not losing anyone, and she isn’t a prize.”
“Fine. The woman you love is choosing to romantically pursue another version of you.”
“She isn’t pursuing anyone.”
“Dick said she’s bringing Red Robin coffee. Oat milk?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always take oat milk.”
“I’m aware.”
“Maybe she’ll bring regular milk and end the relationship before it begins.”
“There is no relationship.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Tim returned his attention to a report concerning stolen electronic components. He should have been interested in whether they indicated an organized operation or an ambitious engineering student with flexible morals. Instead, he wondered whether you would bring sugar.
“You could tell her,” Stephanie said.
“No. Revealing my identity solely to improve my romantic prospects would be irresponsible.”
“You could tell her you like her without revealing it.”
“I’ve tried.”
Stephanie stared at him. “When?”
“I invited her to dinner. At a restaurant. I wore a suit, made a reservation, and told her she looked beautiful.”
“You eat in restaurants, you wear suits for work, and you once described a motherboard as beautiful. Did you call her beautiful while actually looking at her?”
Tim looked away.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I was going to tell her today.”
“Before or after she asked whether you were available?”
“Red Robin.”
“I’m sorry. Are we pretending you aren’t the same person?”
“That distinction is central to the current problem.”
“You don’t have a problem. You have a solution wearing a domino mask.”
Tim rubbed both hands over his face. “She doesn’t like me that way.”
“She already likes Tim Drake enough to spend half her life with him, and now she has a crush on Red Robin. This is an accidental controlled experiment. She was presented with two versions of the same emotionally constipated detective and found both appealing.”
“She has never said she finds me appealing.”
Stephanie’s expression softened. “Have you ever given her a reason to think you find her appealing?”
“I spend time with her.”
“You spend time with Bruce. You also bought her a first edition of her favorite book and flew to Chicago because she mentioned she was nervous about giving a presentation.”
“It was her birthday, and I had business in Chicago.”
“You created the business. You scheduled a meeting twenty-four hours earlier and made Lucius attend it.”
“There were potential expansion opportunities.”
“He called me afterward because he wanted to know whether you were having a breakdown.”
Tim frowned. “Why did he call you?”
“He said I’m the most emotionally perceptive member of the family.”
“He must have called everyone else first.”
“Keep talking like that, and I’ll help her marry Red Robin.”
“She doesn’t want to marry him.”
“Not yet.”
“There is no yet.”
Stephanie laughed and rolled out of reach when Tim tried to take the chair from her. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Patrol.”
“Near the library, while your beloved waits on the roof with coffee?”
“Possibly. She should not wait on rooftops.”
“You could tell her that.”
“I have.”
“As Red Robin?”
“As Tim.”
“And did she listen?”
Tim said nothing.
Stephanie nodded with exaggerated satisfaction. “You’re definitely her type.”
The following night, Tim altered his patrol route. He told himself the changes were strategic because the library district had experienced an increase in robberies, and your encounter at the pharmacy suggested the area required greater attention. The fact that he reached the library roof at exactly nine eighteen, three minutes after your shift ended, was entirely coincidental.
You were sitting on the western wall with a cardboard drink carrier in your lap. Tim landed behind an air-conditioning unit and remained concealed while he assessed the roof. Two cameras covered the entrance, a third faced the neighboring building, and the position beside the west wall remained outside all three fields of view. You had chosen that exact position.
He needed to address your increasing willingness to compromise reasonable safety precautions, but his irritation weakened when he noticed the coffee. He stepped into view, and your face brightened in a way that made his chest ache.
“Hi.”
The voice modulator built into his collar concealed the slight catch in his response. “You shouldn’t be sitting there.”
“Hello to you too.”
“The cameras can’t see this section of the roof.”
“I know. I thought vigilantes preferred avoiding cameras.”
“I’m not worried about being recorded.”
“You’re worried about me?”
Tim should have lied. Instead, he said, “Yes.”
You looked pleased, which was dangerous too. “I brought coffee. There are three options because I didn’t know what you liked: regular, black, and oat milk.”
Tim stared at the carrier. The oat milk cup had a small red bird drawn beneath the name Red Robin.
“The barista asked for names,” you explained.
“And you said Red Robin?”
“I panicked.”
“What did you put on the others?”
“Robin and Red. I had people waiting behind me.”
“You perform poorly under pressure.”
“I am offering coffee to a masked vigilante on a roof. I’m performing magnificently under pressure.”
Tim approached the wall. “You shouldn’t make a habit of waiting here.”
“You’ve appeared every time.”
“That doesn’t make it safe. I wasn’t here when you arrived.”
“You were probably watching from behind something.”
Tim glanced involuntarily toward the air-conditioning unit. You followed the movement and smiled.
“That thing?”
“I was assessing the roof. There are limited concealed positions available.”
Your laughter followed him as he removed his grappling line from his belt. He should leave. Accepting the coffee would encourage you, and the conversation was already drifting away from appropriate vigilante-civilian interaction. He had also been awake for thirty-one hours.
“Which one is the oat milk?”
You handed him the cup with the bird. Tim sat beside you while maintaining what he considered a respectable distance, took a drink, and discovered that it was exactly how he liked it.
“How did you choose this?”
“Lucky guess.”
“You bought three options.”
“And you selected the correct one.”
“You could have brought tea.”
“Coffee felt more appropriate because you look tired.”
“My posture is fine.”
“You’re sitting like your spine is negotiating a surrender.”
“That’s unusually specific.”
“I know someone else who does it.”
Tim looked back toward the street. “Your friend.”
“You remember Tim?”
“You mentioned him.”
“I talk about him a lot.”
His heart changed rhythm, but he kept his altered voice neutral. “Do you?”
“Probably too much. He usually looks like he’s mentally reorganizing a spreadsheet whenever I talk.”
“He might be listening.”
“You don’t know Tim.”
“No.”
“Have you met him? He knows several vigilantes.”
Tim nearly dropped the coffee. You leaned toward him immediately.
“I knew it.”
“You made a strange statement.”
“It isn’t strange. Tim grew up around the Waynes; he’s always disappearing when something dangerous happens, and Nightwing once called him by name.”
Tim remembered the incident. Dick had been concussed, bleeding, and significantly less cautious than usual. Tim had convinced himself that you were too distracted to notice. Apparently, he had been wrong.
“He also identified the model of a grappling hook from a blurry photograph,” you continued. “He knows an alarming amount about vigilante equipment.”
“That information is available online.”
“That’s what he said. You sound like him.”
The modulator should have made that impossible. Tim stared at the street and tried to determine how quickly he could escape without appearing suspicious.
You rested both hands around your cup. “I think he’s worried about me.”
“He is.”
The answer emerged before Tim could stop it. You turned toward him. “How do you know?”
“You said he was upset about the robbery.”
“I didn’t tell you that.”
Tim’s mind moved through several explanations and rejected them all. “You said he knows about vigilantes.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“He seems observant.”
“You’ve never met him.”
“I’ve read interviews. He’s a public figure.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“You ask too many questions.”
“You dress like a bird and spend your nights jumping between buildings. You should expect curiosity.”
Tim took another drink to delay his response, but you continued watching him. “Tim doesn’t like you. He thinks you’re tolerable and that you possess adequate qualities.”
“That seems harsh.”
“He was being weirdly judgmental. I think he was jealous.”
The word settled between you. Tim’s fingers tightened around the cup, but his voice sounded almost neutral when he asked, “Why would he be jealous?”
You looked down at your coffee. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want him to be?”
Your silence answered before you did. “It would be nice.”
The traffic below, distant sirens, and the soft mechanical hum of the ventilation system receded until Tim could only feel the narrow space between your shoulder and his.
“You like him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You want him to be jealous.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“You told him those things weren’t necessarily connected.”
You blinked. “How do you know what I told him?”
Tim’s body went cold. He stood before you could examine his reaction too closely. “I should patrol.”
“You were listening at the café.”
“No.”
“Were you sitting nearby?”
“I patrol that area.”
“In daylight?”
“Crime does not observe a schedule.”
“You quoted our conversation.”
“I made a reasonable inference.”
“You used almost the exact words Tim used.”
“Coincidence.”
You stood too, leaving the empty cups on the wall. “Do you know him? Are you following him? Is Tim secretly involved in vigilante activity?”
“No.”
That answer, at least, was mostly true. Tim was publicly involved in several Wayne Foundation initiatives supporting emergency-response teams. His private involvement was another matter.
You stepped closer, and Tim retreated automatically. “Why are you backing away?”
“To establish appropriate boundaries.”
“You sat beside me for twenty minutes.”
“Circumstances have changed.”
“Because I asked about Tim?”
“Because I have work to do.”
“You’re behaving like a cornered animal.”
“I’m standing on the edge of a roof.”
“A cornered bird, then.”
Tim prepared to fire his grappling line, but your quiet request for him to wait stopped him. Your suspicion softened into something more vulnerable.
“For the record, I’m not asking Tim to compete with you. He’s my friend, probably my best friend. He’s kind and brilliant, and he cares about everyone more than he admits, but he doesn’t look at me like that.”
Tim had looked at you like that constantly. Apparently, he had done so with the extreme subtlety of a concealed surveillance operation.
“So the crush on you is easier,” you continued. “You aren’t going to reject me and then have to meet me for lunch every Thursday.”
“I could reject you.”
Your smile was faint and nervous. “Would you?”
Tim had faced men with guns, assassins with swords, and villains capable of leveling entire city blocks. None of them had frightened him as much as that question. He wanted to tell you, but the confession tangled with every secret he had protected and every possible consequence of bringing you closer to his life. He could tell you that Tim Drake loved you without admitting what he wore at night, but he would still be standing in front of you as Red Robin while speaking for someone you believed was elsewhere. It would be unfair, and it would be unbelievably stupid.
“I don’t date civilians.”
Your smile disappeared, and Tim immediately hated himself. “Right. Of course.”
“That isn’t because—”
“You don’t have to explain. I offered coffee to a masked man on a roof. I understood rejection was possible.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I brought three cups. That was an implied question, and you gave me an explicit answer.”
You picked up the carrier. Tim reached toward you but stopped before touching your arm. “You should still call your friend.”
You laughed quietly, though there was little humor in it. “You don’t know Tim.”
“He would want you to.”
“Maybe.”
“He does.”
You looked at him for a long moment, and Tim wondered whether the domino still concealed enough.
“Good night, Red Robin.”
He watched you leave and briefly considered throwing himself from the building without using the grappling line.
When Tim met you for lunch the following day, you were quiet. You were not openly angry, although anger would have been easier. You smiled when he arrived, asked about his morning, and listened while he described a disagreement with the board’s transportation committee. You responded in the right places and laughed at a remark that was not funny enough to warrant it.
Tim knew you too well to miss the careful distance beneath your normal behavior, just as he knew exactly who had put it there. “You’re upset.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re cutting your sandwich into smaller pieces instead of eating it.”
You looked down at the plate. “Maybe I’ve developed new culinary preferences.”
“You’ve been rearranging the same tomato for three minutes.”
“It knows what it did.”
“Did something happen?”
Tim tried to appear concerned without looking guilty, a skill he had successfully employed during police questioning and had apparently forgotten in your presence.
“I made an idiot of myself last night.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“I know you.”
“That is disgustingly sincere. When you try to reassure people, you sound like a greeting card written by an algorithm.”
Tim frowned. “That’s inaccurate.”
“Last year, when I was worried about changing jobs, you told me that my capabilities exceeded my current professional environment and that any organization would experience a measurable improvement from my presence.”
“That was true.”
“It was also the least natural reassurance anyone has ever given me.”
“You accepted the job.”
“Because you made a color-coded spreadsheet.”
“The spreadsheet demonstrated the benefits, and you prefer visual organization.”
Your expression finally softened, and Tim felt a small flare of hope. “What happened last night?”
You stabbed the tomato with your fork. “Red Robin turned me down.”
Tim pretended this information was new. “You asked him out?”
“Not in those words. I brought coffee, and he said he doesn’t date civilians.”
Tim had spent most of the night reviewing that sentence and concluded that it was possibly the worst collection of words he had ever assembled. “That doesn’t mean he isn’t interested.”
You gave him a strange look. “Yesterday, you thought he was barely tolerable.”
“I’ve reassessed.”
“Based on what?”
“New information.”
When Tim reached for his water, you groaned. “You’re doing the thing where you drink because you don’t want to answer. You’ve consumed eight glasses of water during conversations about relationships.”
Tim slowly lowered the glass. “You counted?”
“I notice things too.”
That statement carried an alarming implication, and Tim decided not to explore it. Instead, he suggested that Red Robin might have been trying to protect you from the dangers of his life.
“Do you think he has a secret family somewhere?”
“No.”
“You answered very quickly.”
“It’s statistically unlikely, and he probably doesn’t have time for a relationship.”
“Neither do you, but you once maintained an eighteen-day argument with a man in Singapore because you thought his encryption method was insulting.”
“It was insulting, and the argument eventually improved an industry standard.”
“You slept four hours that week. My point is that people find time for the things they want.”
Tim looked down at his plate. You set aside your fork and sighed. “I’m not heartbroken. I barely know him.”
“But you’re disappointed.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
Because he had hurt you. Because he had been too afraid to admit the truth and too jealous to step aside. Because you had offered him something as small and uncomplicated as coffee, and he had responded by making you feel foolish. Tim could not say any of that.
“You deserve someone who’s available.”
You watched him carefully. “Do you know anyone?”
His pulse jumped. “I might.”
“Is he a vigilante?”
“No.”
“Does he sleep?”
“Occasionally.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down in Gotham.”
“He’s intelligent.”
“You think most people are idiots.”
“That isn’t true.”
“You refused to speak to my former landlord because he used ‘reply all’ incorrectly.”
“He used it seven times.”
“Who is this hypothetical person?”
Tim could have said it. He had rehearsed several versions of the confession while pacing the cave between four and six that morning. Some were direct, while others were careful. One included a detailed explanation of the statistical likelihood that your friendship could survive a romantic relationship, which Stephanie had taken from him and deleted. He looked at you, and every prepared sentence disappeared.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Your expression closed. “Of course.”
Before Tim could correct himself, his phone vibrated with a silent alert from the security system. Armed intruders had breached a Wayne Enterprises research facility six blocks away.
“I have to go.”
You laughed once, without amusement. “Naturally.”
“It’s an emergency.”
“You always have an emergency.”
“I’ll call you.”
“You always say that too.”
Tim paused, and regret crossed your face almost immediately. “I’m sorry. Go.”
“I’m going to explain.”
“Later.”
“Tonight.”
“Fine.”
Tim wanted to stay. He wanted to sit back down, silence the alert, and tell you everything despite every rule he had established to protect his identity. Then another notification appeared: multiple armed intruders, employees still inside.
He hated the decision even as he made it. “Tonight.”
Then he left you sitting alone at the table.
By the time Tim reached the lower laboratories, one prototype energy cell had already been removed from its cooling unit. Red Robin entered through the ventilation system, disabled two intruders, and locked the remaining four inside a secure testing chamber. The confrontation lasted less than eight minutes, but security footage revealed that a seventh accomplice had escaped with the cell shortly before he arrived.
The consequences occupied the rest of his afternoon. Tim spoke with the police, secured the remaining prototypes, reviewed the footage, and called Lucius to explain why one laboratory now contained a Red Robin-shaped impression in the wall. He also texted you twice.
The first message received no response. Nearly an hour later, you replied to the second: Can we talk tomorrow? I’m going to the Wayne Foundation gala with Mia tonight.
Tim had forgotten about the gala, despite being expected to attend. You knew he was expected because you had helped him choose a tie two weeks earlier while insisting that all his formalwear looked identical.
Tim typed three possible responses and deleted them before settling on something simple.
Okay. I’ll see you there.
Your answer arrived a minute later.
Don’t leave a board meeting for me.
Tim stared at the message until the words blurred.
The gala began at seven, but Tim arrived at seven forty-three after changing in the back of a car, signing two electronic reports, and listening to Dick explain over the phone that disappearing every time you became emotionally vulnerable was unlikely to improve your relationship.
“I don’t do it intentionally,” Tim said as he entered the hotel through a private corridor.
“That probably makes it worse.”
“There are actual emergencies.”
“Sure, but she doesn’t know that.”
“I’m aware.”
“You could tell her.”
“I’m also aware of that.”
“Steph says you rejected her as Red Robin.”
“Why does Stephanie know everything?”
“She called Barbara.”
“Barbara needs stronger confidentiality standards.”
“Barbara thinks you’re being an idiot.”
Tim adjusted his cuff. “Is everyone discussing this?”
“Damian requested that we stop because the situation is, and I quote, ‘an embarrassing indictment of Drake’s already limited courtship abilities.’”
“He’s thirteen.”
“And yet he has identified the problem.”
Tim entered the ballroom beneath crystal chandeliers and Wayne Foundation banners. Hundreds of guests moved around the room while a string quartet performed beside the stage. Security personnel stood at every entrance, supplemented by several plainclothes officers Tim recognized from Gotham’s major crimes unit.
You stood on the far side of the room, and Tim forgot Dick was speaking.
You wore an outfit he had never seen before, though that seemed impossible given how frequently he saw you. The fabric followed the movement of your body as you turned toward Mia, and the light caught along the jewelry at your throat.
Tim walked directly into a waiter. The tray tilted, but he caught it before several glasses of champagne could fall.
The waiter stared at him. “Sorry,” Tim said.
Dick laughed through the phone. “Did you just walk into something?”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I have to go.”
“Tell her.”
Tim ended the call and crossed the room. You noticed him before he reached you, your gaze moving over his suit and lingering briefly on the tie you had selected. Something warm entered your expression before caution replaced it.
“Hi,” Tim said.
“Hi.”
“You look beautiful.”
The words came naturally this time, and your eyes widened slightly.
“Thank you.” You glanced at his tie. “You followed my advice.”
“I usually do.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s frequently true.”
“You ignored every restaurant I suggested for your last business dinner.”
“They had inadequate security.”
“They were restaurants.”
“One had an unsecured service entrance.”
“You were having dinner with accountants.”
“Accountants can have enemies.”
You laughed despite yourself, and the pressure in Tim’s chest loosened slightly.
Mia appeared beside you and looked between the two of you with open interest. “I’m getting another drink.”
Her glass was still full. You stared at her, but she ignored you and walked away. Tim resisted the urge to thank her.
“I’m sorry about lunch,” he said.
“You had to work.”
“I still shouldn’t have left like that.”
“It wasn’t the first time.”
The statement contained no accusation, which made it worse.
“No,” Tim said. “It wasn’t.”
You touched the edge of your glass. “What did you want to tell me?”
Tim looked around the ballroom. This was not the setting he had imagined, but every carefully selected opportunity had failed, usually because he had allowed it to. Perhaps he did not need perfect circumstances. Perhaps he only needed to speak before another building was attacked.
“There’s someone I think you should consider.”
Your mouth tightened. “Tim.”
“It isn’t—”
“I don’t need you to arrange a date because you feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“You spent lunch explaining why Red Robin might secretly be interested in me.”
“He probably is.”
“That doesn’t matter if he’s unavailable.”
“He might become available.”
“I don’t want to discuss him.”
Tim blinked. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“But you like him.”
“I barely know him.”
“You were asking about his relationship status at the café.”
“At the time, I thought my best friend disliked him because he was jealous.” Before Tim could respond, you added, “Then my best friend started defending him, tried to convince me he might secretly be interested, and offered to introduce me to someone else.”
“I didn’t offer to introduce you.”
“You implied it.”
“I was trying to tell you—”
A sharp crack interrupted him as the ballroom windows exploded inward.
Tim moved before the glass reached the floor. He pulled you against him and turned, shielding your body while shards struck the back of his suit jacket. Guests screamed as the chandeliers flickered, went dark, and returned beneath the red glow of emergency lighting.
Four figures entered through the shattered windows on mechanical lines. Each wore tactical armor and carried a compact energy weapon.
Tim recognized the technology immediately. Modified Wayne Enterprises prototypes. Of course.
One attacker fired into the ceiling and ordered everyone down. Guests dropped behind tables while security personnel reached for their weapons. A second blast destroyed the nearest security station.
Tim lowered you behind a marble column. “Stay here.”
“Mia?” you asked, searching the ballroom.
Tim spotted her moving with the evacuating guests near the south exit. “She’s with security. Stay down.”
Your hand closed around his wrist. “Where are you going?”
“To help.”
“With what? You aren’t security.”
“I know the building. I need to reach the control room.”
“Tim—”
Another blast struck the far wall. Tim could see the fear beneath your determination, but you were not frozen. You were already assessing the nearest exit and checking the positions of the attackers.
He wanted to kiss you. It was an inconvenient time for the realization.
“Trust me,” he said.
Your grip loosened. “I do.”
Tim ran.
He reached the service corridor and triggered an emergency release concealed in his cuff link. A locked maintenance cabinet opened near the kitchen, revealing the compact suit he had stored there in case the gala attracted exactly this sort of attention.
He changed in forty-two seconds.
By the time Red Robin entered the ballroom from an upper balcony, the attackers had gathered several Wayne executives near the stage. Their apparent leader held the missing energy cell.
Tim’s evening was becoming repetitive.
He dropped behind the nearest attacker and drove an elbow into the vulnerable joint beneath the man’s shoulder armor. The weapon fell, but Tim caught it, removed the power source, and kicked the man into a table.
The other attackers turned. When their leader said his name, Tim threw the disabled weapon at his face.
The fight moved quickly. One attacker attempted to use the guests as cover, but Tim forced him toward the stage, swept his legs, and bound his wrists with a restraint cable. Another attacker fired repeatedly from behind a pillar until Tim redirected the hotel’s motorized curtains through his wrist computer, wrapping her in several hundred pounds of velvet. She tore free before the fabric could tighten completely, anticipated his first strike, and caught him across the jaw with one armored fist. Tim twisted beneath her next swing and drove both feet into her chest. She struck the floor, but he landed badly on his left wrist, sending pain along his arm.
He ignored it because the leader was moving toward the ballroom exit with the energy cell.
You were no longer behind the column.
Tim’s heart stopped.
He found you near a fallen member of the hotel staff, helping her crawl toward cover. The leader spotted you at the same moment and seized your arm, hauling you toward him while lifting the energy cell in his other hand.
You drove your heel down onto his foot and struck his throat with the side of your hand. Tim experienced a brief, inappropriate burst of pride.
Then the man swung the energy cell toward your head.
Tim caught his wrist. The unstable device emitted a rising mechanical whine.
“Let go.”
The man smiled and released it.
Tim grabbed the energy cell as it fell, warning lights flashing across the casing. He threw it toward the shattered windows and launched a specialized birdarang after it. The projectile struck the cell in midair, activating a magnetic containment field moments before the device detonated above the street.
The explosion sent a shockwave through the ballroom. Tim turned toward you just as a metal support tore loose from the damaged window frame.
He pushed you down and covered you. The beam struck his shoulder hard enough to drive him against the marble. His domino mask shifted beneath the impact, and an error flashed across his lenses as the voice modulator built into his collar shorted out.
For several seconds, neither of you moved. Tim heard the leader groan nearby while police flooded the ballroom. Guests shouted over one another and emergency alarms continued to sound, but the immediate threat had passed.
You were beneath him, breathing quickly.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
The damaged modulator stuttered halfway through the question, allowing Red Robin’s distorted voice to give way to Tim’s.
Your entire body went still.
When Tim lifted his head, your gaze fixed on the portion of his face exposed by the displaced domino before moving to his dark hair and the familiar shape of his mouth.
“Tim?”
His heart stopped.
A police officer shouted from across the ballroom, and Tim immediately shifted between you and the room while pressing the domino securely back into place. Several guests had already begun raising their phones.
“We need to move,” he said, keeping his natural voice low.
You stared at him. “You’re—”
“Not here.”
He caught your hand and led you through the nearest service door before anyone could reach you. The corridor beyond was empty, shielded from the ballroom and its cameras by two heavy fire doors.
Tim checked both ends of the hall before disabling the damaged voice modulator in his collar. When he turned back, you had not moved.
“Take it off,” you said.
Tim hesitated.
“You knew what I said to Tim at the café. You knew he was worried even though I never told you, and now you sound exactly like him.” Your voice tightened. “Take off the mask.”
There was no explanation left that you would believe. Tim reached up and removed the domino.
Recognition happened all at once. There was no confusion or careful assembly of evidence. You saw his face, and your expression emptied with the speed of a door slamming shut.
“You’re Red Robin.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Your mouth opened and closed. Tim examined you quickly for blood or visible injuries, though the rapid movement of your chest and the tremor in your hands concerned him almost as much.
“Did anything hit you?”
“You rejected me.”
“That conversation needs more context.”
“You rejected me and then sat across from me at lunch defending yourself.”
“I was attempting to correct the situation.”
“You were jealous of yourself.”
Voices sounded beyond the fire doors. The police were securing the ballroom, and Tim had only a few minutes before someone came looking for Red Robin.
He glanced toward the door. “I need to make sure the attackers are contained.”
“You’re leaving again.”
“I’m coming back.”
“You always say that.”
“I know.” Tim stepped closer and lowered his voice. “But this time you know why I have to go.”
You folded your arms as anger overtook some of the shock. “You have six minutes.”
“Ten.”
“Five.”
“Eight.”
“Six.”
“Agreed.”
Tim replaced the domino mask and pressed it securely into place. The voice modulator remained disabled, but he could keep his natural voice low until he was clear of the ballroom.
He opened the service door a fraction and checked the room beyond. “The medical team is near the south exit. I’m taking you there first.”
“I can walk by myself.”
“I know.”
“That sounded patronizing.”
“It wasn’t intended to.”
“Most things with you aren’t.”
Tim accepted that he deserved the remark.
He kept himself between you and the ballroom as he guided you along the edge of the room, avoiding the guests, officers, and phones clustered around the shattered windows. Once you were safely beside the waiting ambulances, he stopped.
“Six minutes,” you reminded him.
“I’ll be back in five.”
Tim returned in five, still wearing the Red Robin suit. His domino was securely back in place, though the damaged voice modulator in his collar remained disabled.
You were seated on the rear step of an ambulance, wrapped in a silver emergency blanket and arguing with a paramedic who wanted to examine your pupils.
“My pupils are fine.”
“You were near an explosion,” the paramedic replied.
“I’ve been near several. It’s becoming a pattern.”
Tim stopped beside the ambulance and kept his natural voice low. “Let him check.”
You glared up at the domino. “You don’t get to be authoritative right now.”
The paramedic looked between you and Red Robin, evidently decided that whatever was happening had moved beyond his professional responsibilities, and stepped away to retrieve another ice pack.
“The paramedic abandoned me,” you said once he was out of earshot.
“He’s obtaining medical equipment.”
“He sensed danger.”
“He’s working beside a hotel that was just attacked with experimental energy weapons.”
“Less dangerous than this conversation.”
Tim could not disagree.
You pulled the blanket more tightly around your shoulders. “Let me see you.”
“We’re outside.”
“There are no cameras facing this section. Don’t act surprised. You complain about blind spots constantly.”
Several officers moved near the street entrance, but none were looking toward the ambulance. Tim sat beside you within the shelter of the open rear doors and pulled one partly closed before removing the domino.
Your eyes moved across his face with an intensity that made him feel more exposed than the lack of a mask should have allowed. “You’re really him.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Since I was thirteen.”
You stared at him. “You were a child. You were five feet tall.”
“I was highly trained, and height wasn’t a central qualification.”
“I cannot process that right now.”
“That’s understandable.”
“You knew I had a crush on you.”
“I found out at the café.”
“And instead of telling me the truth, you insulted yourself.”
Tim looked down at his gloves. “In retrospect, that was ineffective.”
“You said Red Robin was tolerable.”
“I was jealous.”
“Of yourself.”
“I hadn’t separated the issue logically.”
“You separate everything logically.”
“I was experiencing an unusual amount of emotional interference.”
“Because I liked you.”
“Because you liked him.”
“He is you.”
“I’m aware of that now.”
“You weren’t aware yesterday?”
“Intellectually, yes. Emotionally, it felt more complicated.”
You stared at him until laughter escaped you. Covering your face with both hands, you shook beneath the emergency blanket.
“I’m glad this is amusing.”
“You competed with yourself. You interrogated me about how much I liked Red Robin, told me he probably didn’t have time for relationships, and tried to ruin my crush.”
“I was attempting to manage expectations.”
“You called yourself tolerable.”
“I was trying not to appear biased.”
You lowered your hands. “Tim, you are the most ridiculous person I have ever met.”
“I live with several strong competitors.”
“And then you accepted the oat milk coffee.”
“It was the correct option.”
“You could have taken the black one.”
“I don’t like black coffee.”
“You would rather risk exposing your identity than drink the wrong coffee.”
“I didn’t expose my identity because of the coffee.”
“You quoted our conversation, told me Tim wanted me to call him, insisted Tim was worried about me, and said Tim would want me to know that Red Robin might be interested.”
Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “The pronouns became difficult to manage.”
You laughed again, and the tension in his chest loosened enough for him to breathe. Then your laughter faded.
“You lied to me.”
The words were quiet, and Tim’s relief vanished. “Yes.”
“You’ve been lying for years. Every time you disappeared, you told me you were working.”
“I often was.”
“You came to my apartment with a knife wound and said you caught yourself on a filing cabinet.”
“It was a sharp filing cabinet.”
“Tim.”
“It wasn’t.”
You looked away. Tim wanted to reach for you but kept his hands on his knees. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.”
“When?”
“Several times. Before you developed a crush on Red Robin. I’ve wanted to tell you a lot of things, and the identity was only one of them.”
Your expression became cautious. “What else?”
This was not the setting Tim had imagined. Emergency vehicles filled the street, his shoulder ached where the beam had struck him, and his left wrist was beginning to swell beneath the gauntlet. Several members of his family were almost certainly listening through the comm unit he had forgotten to disable.
Tim switched it off and looked at you. “I’m in love with you.”
You did not move. Tim had anticipated several possible responses, including silence, though he had imagined it would contain more visible horror.
“How long?”
“Eleven months and approximately three weeks.”
“You counted.”
“I remember when I realized.”
“When?”
“You fell asleep in my office.”
“That made you fall in love with me?”
“No. I think I already loved you. That was when I understood what it was.”
You watched him, waiting, and Tim explained that it was the night you had stayed late to help him review a community outreach proposal because you knew he would otherwise have worked all night. You had fallen asleep on the couch, and when he finished, he realized he did not want to wake you because then you would leave.
“I sat there for almost an hour without doing anything,” he admitted. “I just wanted you to stay.”
Your expression softened. “You could have told me.”
“I intended to.”
“For eleven months?”
“I encountered obstacles.”
“Criminal syndicates?”
“Some.”
“Alien invasions?”
“One.”
“An inability to communicate like a normal human being?”
“Predominantly.”
You shook your head, and Tim hurried to defend himself. “I tried to ask you to dinner. I wore a suit, made a reservation, and told you that you looked beautiful.”
“We have dinner constantly, you always wear suits, and you make reservations for lunch. You also spent twenty minutes explaining the restaurant’s fire-suppression system.”
“It was unusually advanced.”
“I thought you were nervous about the building.”
“I was nervous about you.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“I’m not good at this,” Tim admitted.
“You’re good at everything. You defeated four armed people ten minutes ago.”
“They were considerably easier than telling you I like you.”
Your mouth curved, though the smile quickly faded. “Why didn’t you say anything when I told Red Robin I wanted Tim to be jealous?”
“I almost did, but I didn’t want to reveal my identity because it would make dating me easier.”
“That sounds almost noble.”
“It was mostly fear.”
“Less noble.”
“I know.”
“Were you actually going to introduce me to someone else?”
“No.”
“Then who was the mysterious intelligent, emotionally unavailable man you wanted me to consider?”
Tim raised one hand.
You stared at him. “You were recommending yourself.”
“I was attempting to.”
“As Tim or Red Robin?”
“Tim.”
“Why didn’t you simply say that?”
“I lost momentum.”
“You control multinational business negotiations.”
“They involve agendas.”
“I’ll prepare an agenda the next time you need to confess something.”
“That would help.”
You laughed softly, then studied him again. Tim waited because he had offered you the truth, or at least the part of it that mattered most. There was nothing left to calculate.
“I liked you first,” you said.
Tim blinked. “Before Red Robin?”
“About eight months ago.”
He searched backward through his memory, naming the museum and a fundraising dinner before reaching the weekend in Chicago.
You smiled. “It was after you flew to Chicago because I was nervous.”
“I had a meeting.”
“You invented a meeting.”
Tim hesitated. “Lucius told you.”
“He mentioned it when I thanked him for rearranging his schedule.”
“I need to review what Lucius considers confidential.”
“You scheduled a meeting, crossed three states, sat through my entire presentation, and bought me dinner afterward because I looked tired. I thought it meant something.”
“It did.”
“But you never said anything. You spent the rest of the evening discussing quarterly projections, so I decided I had imagined it.”
“You didn’t.”
“So when Red Robin appeared, he felt easier.”
“Because you didn’t know him.”
“Because he reminded me of you.”
Tim stopped breathing.
“He was awkward and kind,” you continued. “He pretended everything he did was logical even when he was obviously worried. He noticed that I was shaking but acted like giving me his cape was a standard procedural decision.”
“It prevented heat loss.”
“Exactly.”
Tim looked at you. “You liked Red Robin because he reminded you of me.”
“Apparently, I have an extremely specific type.”
“That seems statistically unlikely.”
“You are never using that word during a romantic conversation again.”
“I can try.”
“And I didn’t fall in love with Red Robin. I had a crush on him. I was already in love with you.”
Tim felt the world tilt. “You’re in love with me? Present tense?”
“Unfortunately.”
He stared until uncertainty crept into your smile.
“You’re allowed to react.”
“I’m processing.”
“Should I give you a minute?”
“No.”
Tim kissed you. The movement lacked his usual precision: his glove caught in the emergency blanket, his injured wrist protested when he reached for your face, and he nearly collided with your nose because he misjudged the angle. None of it mattered once your hand curled around the front of his suit.
You kissed him back with enough certainty to silence every possibility Tim had spent eleven months calculating. He had imagined slow kisses, careful kisses, and the kind that followed elaborate confessions in perfectly chosen locations. He had never imagined kissing you behind an ambulance while wearing the Red Robin suit and possibly nursing a hairline fracture in his wrist. This was better.
Your fingers slid into his hair, and Tim leaned closer until a horn sounded directly behind the ambulance.
You jumped apart. Nightwing had maneuvered his motorcycle into the narrow space beside the rear doors, where the ambulance shielded him from the officers and guests gathered along the street. He grinned openly while Spoiler, seated behind him, formed a heart with both hands.
Tim considered several crimes.
“They know?” you asked.
“They know everything.”
“Did they know I had a crush on Red Robin?”
“Unfortunately.”
Spoiler raised both thumbs, and you covered your face. Tim gently lowered your hands.
“They’ll stop eventually.”
“No, they won’t.”
“No,” he admitted. “They won’t.”
“You let me tell your entire family that I wanted to ask you out.”
“I did not tell them. Barbara heard part of a conversation.”
“Barbara?”
“Oracle.”
Your eyes widened. “I’ve met Oracle?”
“Yes.”
“Dick is Nightwing?”
“I thought you knew that one.”
“I did. And Stephanie?”
Tim glanced toward the motorcycle as Stephanie waved enthusiastically. “That’s another conversation.”
“How many conversations are we going to need?”
“Several.”
“Do I get a spreadsheet?”
“I can make one.”
“I was joking.”
“I think it would provide useful structure.”
You looked at him for a moment before smiling. “I really am in love with you.”
“I’m choosing to interpret that positively.”
“You should.”
Tim touched your cheek, and your gaze lowered to the emblem across his chest. “I can’t believe you were jealous of yourself.”
“I’d prefer that not become a recurring topic.”
“It’s going to become my favorite topic.”
“I saved your life tonight.”
“You also rejected me last night.”
“I’ve reconsidered the policy.”
“So you date civilians now?”
“One.”
“Very selective.”
“She has unusually strong qualifications.”
“Such as?”
“She’s intelligent, observant, and willing to bring me properly prepared coffee.”
“You nearly had a breakdown when I gave it to you.”
“That was unrelated to the coffee.”
“She’s also apparently attractive to both Tim Drake and Red Robin.”
“They have identical taste.”
Tim leaned forward and kissed you before you could continue. You smiled against his mouth.
His wrist still hurt, his shoulder would require treatment, and the police would expect a complete statement about the stolen technology. Bruce would request a security review, Lucius would ask why another prototype had exploded, and Dick and Stephanie would tell everyone about the ambulance. For once, none of it felt urgent.
You rested your forehead against his. “Does this mean I get to date both of you?”
“There is only one of me.”
“I’ve noticed significant personality differences. Red Robin is more dramatic, and Tim Drake is more jealous.”
“They are contextual adaptations, and your conclusion is based on limited evidence.”
“Tim spent an entire lunch trying to sabotage Red Robin.”
“Red Robin rejected you.”
“Because Tim was jealous.”
Tim kissed you again. It was the most effective method he had found for ending the argument.
Three weeks later, you waited on the library roof with two thermoses of coffee.
Red Robin landed beside you. “You shouldn’t sit in the camera blind spot.”
“You redesigned the security system.”
“It still has limitations.”
“You installed six additional cameras.”
“There are seven.”
“Of course there are.”
Tim removed his domino as he approached. He had learned that you preferred to see his face whenever the roof was secure, though you had also told him the mask was unfairly attractive.
He was still processing that information.
You held out one of the thermoses. “Oat milk.”
“I assumed.”
Tim took it, then noticed the strip of pink tape wrapped around the side. JEALOUS BOYFRIEND had been written across it in Stephanie’s unmistakable handwriting, accompanied by a badly drawn red bird.
He looked at you.
You smiled innocently. “Steph labeled them.”
“You allowed her to.”
“I tried to stop her.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I didn’t.”
“I told you that topic should not recur.”
“I rejected the request.”
“I rejected the characterization.”
“You sulked for two days because I said Nightwing had nice hair.”
“I did not sulk.”
“You created a list of practical disadvantages associated with long hair during combat.”
“It presents a legitimate vulnerability.”
“You sent me diagrams.”
“The diagrams illustrated the point.”
“You were jealous.”
“Nightwing is my brother.”
“That made it funnier.”
Tim sat beside you, and your shoulder settled against his, warm and familiar. The city moved below, full of emergencies that would eventually demand his attention. For the moment, the streets surrounding the library were quiet, his comm remained silent, and no one was calling for help.
You took a drink and looked at him thoughtfully.
“What?”
“I’m trying to decide which version of you I like better.”
Tim gave you a flat look. “There are not multiple versions.”
“Tim buys me dinner.”
“Red Robin prevents armed robberies.”
“Tim owns several buildings.”
“Red Robin has a motorcycle.”
“Tim lets me choose his ties.”
You took another sip and pretended to consider the matter carefully. “Red Robin wears leather.”
“It’s reinforced polymer,” Tim corrected automatically.
“And Red Robin has thighs.”
Tim stared at you. “Tim has the same thighs.”
You smiled into your coffee, and heat rose along his face.
“You’re doing this deliberately.”
“I am.”
“You know I can leave.”
“You won’t.”
“I have patrol.”
“You changed your route to stop here.”
“This area requires attention.”
“You redesigned the library’s security system, arrested every active criminal within six blocks, and convinced the city to replace the streetlights.”
“The previous lighting was inadequate.”
“You’re here because you love me.”
Tim looked out over Gotham before turning back to you. “Yes, I am.”
You kissed his cheek, and his irritation disappeared immediately.
“You’re my favorite,” you said.
“Between Tim and Red Robin?”
“Between everyone.”
Tim turned fully toward you. “You should have led with that.”
“I thought you preferred accurate comparative analysis.”
“I do.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to know you won by a significant margin.”
“Against myself?”
You smiled. “Apparently you finally defeated the competition.”
Tim kissed you before you could laugh. This time, when you smiled against his mouth, he did too.