The glass walls of the Titans Tower training gym reflected the muted orange glow of the San Francisco sunset. You were sitting on one of the padded benches, your fingers idling over the strap of your gym bag, trying to ignore the awkward twist in your stomach.

Dick had been sweet. Too sweet, honestly. When you finally gathered the courage to tell him about your feelings, he had handled it with that trademark Grayson grace—soft-spoken, deeply polite, and exceedingly gentle as he reminded you of his commitment to Kori. He made sure you knew nothing between you two had changed, that you were still one of his favorite people in the world. But being an alien young adult trying to navigate human rejection while Kori’s radiant, golden aura lingered around the Tower... it left a lingering, quiet sting.

"He really means it, you know."

The voice came from the shaded corner of the equipment bay. You hadn't even heard him walk in.

A guy around your age—eighteen or nineteen—was leaning against a rack of weights, a half-empty mug of coffee balanced precariously in one hand. He wore a faded, oversized Gotham Knights hoodie, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and had dark circles smudged beneath his eyes.

Tim Drake walked over, taking a slow sip from his mug as his eyes scanned you with terrifying, effortless precision—taking in your alien physiology, your tense shoulders, and the quiet awkwardness hanging over you.

"Dick's terrible at hiding how much he cares about his friends," Tim continued, his voice low, dry, and surprisingly grounding. He pulled a folding chair over, spinning it around to sit backward across from you. "He told me you were coming by. I'm Tim, by the way."

He rested his chin on his hands atop the chair back, looking at you with a calm, unbothered curiosity that didn't feel judgmental at all.

He rested his chin on his hands atop the chair back, looking at you with a calm, unbothered curiosity that didn't feel judgmental at all.