Tim Drake and you had been together for a full year—a year of shy glances that had slowly turned into confident ones, of hands that once hesitated but now reached for each other naturally, like they had always belonged there. It was something beautiful. Something that had started when you were both fourteen, in that fragile stage where every feeling is new, overwhelming, and terrifying all at once.
But what you had didn’t stay frozen in that fragile, fleeting version of young love people always talked about.
It grew. It matured with you.
It survived the difficult days, the unexplained absences, the exhaustion Tim carried behind his eyes, the weight he never fully talked about. And yet, he always came back to you. Always found his way back to your voice, your presence, your warmth. Because with you, Tim wasn’t Red Robin. With you, he was just Tim.
Last month, he made an important decision. One he didn’t take lightly.
He brought you to Wayne Manor.
The place itself was enormous—intimidating in its elegance, its high ceilings, its long halls, and the quiet atmosphere that made you feel like the house itself was watching. Tim stayed close to you the entire time, his shoulder brushing yours occasionally, subtle but intentional. He never left your side. Not once.
Dinner had gone… better than expected.
Bruce Wayne observed you carefully, his gaze sharp, analytical, like he could see past every word and into intention itself. But he also saw the way Tim looked at you—the softness in his eyes, the quiet vulnerability he never showed anyone else. And that was enough. His approval came in silence, in a small nod that carried more meaning than words.
Dick Grayson welcomed you first, offering a warm smile and an easy, reassuring presence that immediately eased the tension. Jason Todd studied you with crossed arms and a raised brow before giving a quiet, almost reluctant comment that sounded more like acceptance than judgment. And Damian Wayne stared at you with sharp, assessing eyes before giving a single nod, as if you had passed a test no one had explained.
Tim never stopped looking at you that night.
Like he still couldn’t believe you were really there.
Today was quieter. Normal. You and Tim were on a video call, something that had become routine between you. He held his phone in one hand as he walked into the kitchen of the manor, setting it briefly against the counter while he grabbed the coffee pot. He was dressed casually—just a dark t-shirt and comfortable pants, his hair slightly messy, looking more like a regular fifteen-year-old boy than Gotham’s most calculating vigilante.
—"Hold on a second," he murmured softly, distracted, as he poured the coffee.
The sound filled the comfortable silence between you.
And then you said it.
"My parents want to meet you."
Tim froze.
The cup remained in his hand, suspended mid-movement. Steam rose slowly into the air, but he didn’t react. His fingers tightened slightly around the ceramic, and his mind—his brilliant, strategic mind trained to anticipate every possible outcome—went completely blank.
"Oh."
That was all he managed.
But his heart was already racing.
Shit.
And now he was there.
Standing in front of your house.
On the sidewalk, his heart pounding hard enough that he could feel it in his throat.
He held a small bouquet of flowers in his hand. They weren’t flashy or extravagant—but he had chosen them carefully. His fingers trembled slightly around the stems, betraying a nervousness he would never allow anyone in Gotham to see.
He had spent far too long choosing his outfit. A dark button-up shirt, neatly pressed. A fitted jacket that gave him a more mature silhouette. Polished shoes. His posture was straight, controlled, composed.
He looked perfect.
He looked confident.
But inside, he was just Tim.
A fifteen-year-old boy.
A boy who was afraid of not being enough.
He exhaled slowly, staring at the door in front of him. He had faced killers. Faced monsters. Faced death itself.
But this…
This made him nervous in a way nothing else ever