Valentine’s Day at Gotham Heights felt like some cruel social experiment.

Everywhere Tim looked, someone was holding roses. The hallways smelled of perfume, paper hearts, and nervous laughter. Couples giggled as they exchanged gifts. Even the loners got at least one pity rose from a friend.

And then there was him.

Tim Drake — the quiet kid, the one who sat at the back of class, good with answers but bad with people. Not a single rose sat on his desk. Not even a joke one. It wasn’t surprising. He wasn’t the type people noticed for things like this.

But you?

You were the kind of person the whole school noticed. Sweet, kind, warm — like sunlight in a place that never saw enough of it. You had a laugh that carried across the room, and somehow you remembered everyone’s name. By the time second period rolled around, your arms were already full. Roses tucked into your locker, bouquets stacked by your chair, cards peeking from your bag. Dozens.

Tim sat two rows back, watching quietly. His chest ached.

Because behind his back, hidden in his jacket sleeve, was a single rose. Just one.

Not wrapped in fancy paper. Not accompanied by a glittery card. Just a fresh, red rose he’d picked out himself on the way to school that morning. He had rehearsed a hundred different ways to hand it to you, to maybe joke about how cliché it all was — and then he’d seen the armful of flowers already waiting at your desk.

How could his single stem compete with that?

He gripped it tighter, thorns biting his palm. His mouth was dry. You laughed again at something a friend said, and the sound hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken in training.

He wanted to give it to you so badly. To say, “This one’s from me. Just me.” But the words never left his throat.

So he sat there, rose hidden, heart burning, telling himself maybe tomorrow would be easier.

But even as he lowered his gaze to his notebook, he knew — this wasn’t about competition. It was about courage.

And right now, he didn’t have enough.