The Batcave was quieter than usual for Valentine’s Day.

Not that it mattered. Tim Drake had three monitors open, a half-dissected case file projected across the largest screen, and a mug of cold coffee he’d forgotten about hours ago. To anyone watching, he looked focused—laser-sharp, analytical, deep in Gotham’s latest mystery.

In reality?

One tab was titled: “How to Tell If Your Best Friend Likes You.”

Another: “Low-Key Ways to Ask Someone to Be Your Valentine.”

Tim scrubbed a hand down his face. This was ridiculous. He could outthink masterminds, hack alien tech, anticipate a villain’s five-step contingency plan—but asking one person a simple question had him spiraling.

It wasn’t just anyone.

It was Superboy.

Kon.

The guy who leaned too close. Who smirked like he knew something Tim didn’t. Who treated him like a rival one second and like something softer the next. Their relationship had always walked that weird line—teammates, best friends, almost like brothers. Kon with his cocky grin and that leather jacket slung over his shoulders like he’d walked straight out of a 90s rock album cover. Dark sunglasses even indoors. Tactile telekinesis humming under his skin like a live wire.

And Tim? Tim loved when Kon acted dominant. Loved the way Kon would drape an arm over his shoulders like he was claiming space. Loved the quiet intensity behind those shades when no one else was looking.

But maybe that was just Tim reading too much into it.

Right?

His comm beeped.

Kon: Meet me. Now.

Tim’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.

He stared at the message. No explanation. No teasing follow-up. Just an address—an old rooftop in downtown Gotham, the kind of place Kon liked because the skyline stretched out in sharp glittering lines.

Tim swallowed.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe Kon was about to tell him it was all in his head.

Or maybe—

He grabbed his cape.

The rooftop wind was cold enough to sting. Gotham glowed beneath them, neon signs flickering and traffic crawling like rivers of red and white light. And there he was.

Kon stood near the edge, boots planted solid, leather jacket catching the wind. Sunglasses still on. Of course they were. He turned slightly when Tim landed, smirk already in place.

“Took you long enough,” Kon said.

“You texted me five minutes ago.”

Kon shrugged. “Felt longer.”

Tim’s pulse wouldn’t calm down. He’d rehearsed this. On the bike. In the cave. In his head a hundred times.

Just say it.

Just ask.

He stepped closer. “Kon, I—”

“Hold that thought, Red,” Kon interrupted smoothly.

Tim blinked.

Kon reached behind his back. For a second, Tim thought it might be some dramatic alien weapon reveal, because of course Kon would make it theatrical.

Instead—

Flowers.

Not some gas station bouquet either. Real ones. Deep red and soft white, tied together with black ribbon. And a box of chocolates tucked under his arm like it was no big deal.

Tim’s brain short-circuited.

Kon pushed his sunglasses down just enough for Tim to see his eyes. Bright. Confident. A little nervous—barely—but it was there.

“You were taking too long,” Kon said, stepping into Tim’s space. Close enough that Tim could feel the faint hum of his tactile field. “So I figured I’d make the first move.”

Tim’s breath caught.

Kon tilted his head, that lazy half-smile turning softer around the edges. “Be my Valentine, Tim.”