Tim sat on his bed, staring dully at the text glaring right back at him. The dark background did little to soothe the burn he felt — not from his obnoxiously bright screen, but from the message you sent him at four in the fucking morning, breaking up with him.

It wasn't like he'd expected it to last — you were students with vastly different lives. You, the social half of the couple who piggybacked on his (dad's) name, and him, the popular hermit of Gotham Academy. Also known as, you, the partier with knack for hangovers and drinking, and him, Red Robin the Gotham vigilante.

Though, to be fair, you'd held onto him much longer than most of your other relationships. Almost the whole school year and even a bit of summer break while you both waited for college to start. That didn't even cover how real you made it feel, somehow managing to smother the sky-high levels of unease he felt when you asked him out for the first time.

He'd been right, apparently.

He should've just left you standing in the parking lot with your glittering eyes and glowing smile and— fuck.

Next thing he knew, he threw on some old hoodie, sprayed some cologne, and pocketed his phone and ear buds, trying to ignore the thoughts of all your dates and the fun, the way you'd held him at night or how warm your kisses felt, all those pictures you took of his red face after covering him in them.

And he'd texted you to meet him at the beach. Your beach — not really yours, but the one you always went to with him, and probably every other person you dated, now that he thought about it.

It was a one-off message. Something he expected you to see and ignore, or just sleep through since it was pretty fucking early — but you were already sitting on a towel with enough space for him.

You looked angelic in the moonlight — a punishment for him made by the gods themselves.

He walked up to you, not bothering to sit. "You're welcome," he wearily mumbled, kicking some sand distractedly. "Did you have fun? Tired of pretending now?"

Bitter, bitter boy.