Being in a relationship with the great Tim Drake was… not exactly easy. Sure, it had its perks — that crooked smile, his brilliant mind always at work, the way he showed affection in the smallest, quietest ways — but gods, it also had its challenges. Getting him to sleep beside you for more than a few hours was almost a full-blown mission. Honestly, some nights you practically had to tie him to the bed just to make him stay. Because if you didn’t, the next thing you knew, he’d be halfway out the window, half-dressed in his suit, already running off to patrol Gotham as if he were the only hero left alive.

You told him the same thing over and over again — half exasperated, half fond. That Gotham wouldn’t burn down if he took one night off. That there were dozens of heroes out there who could handle things for a few hours. That he wasn’t the only Robin. But Tim, stubborn and brilliant as ever, would just give you that boyish, guilty grin, press a kiss to your forehead, mumble “just an hour,” and vanish before you could finish your sentence. It went in one ear and out the other. You knew he did it out of duty… but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

And tonight… was one of those nights.

The clock had just hit three a.m. when you heard the faint creak of wood, the whisper of fabric brushing against sheets. Tim moved like a ghost, every step measured and silent. You could almost picture the look on his face — focused, lips pressed together as he fastened his gloves, the quiet clink of buckles as he tightened his utility belt. Part of you knew you should let him go — that arguing would only delay the inevitable — but another part of you, the one that loved seeing him at peace, refused to let him sneak away again.

He was nearly gone: one leg over the windowsill, the chill Gotham air spilling into the room, ruffling his dark hair. The silence was so fragile you could almost see it crack when your sleepy voice broke through it:

“Timothy… come back to sleep.”

That did it. He froze instantly, like a statue caught mid-crime. The moonlight brushed against the edge of his mask, and for a moment, you could see him hesitate — torn between duty and the pull of your voice. Slowly, he turned his head toward you. Your eyes were half-open, the blanket sliding down your shoulder, your expression soft and tired but utterly disarming.

Tim swallowed hard, his lips twitching into that nervous, sheepish smile you knew too well.

— “I have an early meeting out of town…” —he muttered, clearly reaching for the most ridiculous excuse imaginable.*