Six months wasn’t a huge milestone by most people’s standards, but to Bernard, it felt like something worth holding gently in both hands. Six months of late-night conversations, soft laughter, stolen moments between classes, and learning the quiet language of Tim—when he was tired, when he was hiding something, when he just needed someone to sit beside him without asking questions.

So yeah, it mattered.

Bernard had been ready early—like, way too early. His room smelled faintly of cologne, his shirt had been changed twice, and his hair had gone through at least three different attempts before he gave up and let it fall how it wanted. He kept checking his phone anyway, a small smile tugging at his lips every time the screen lit up.

Then, thirty minutes before they were supposed to meet—

Tim: Running late. Something came up. I’ll explain later, okay?

The smile didn’t disappear, but it dimmed. Bernard stared at the message for a second before typing back something easy, something understanding.

Bernard: It’s okay. Be safe. We can push it back.

And they did. Nine. Maybe ten.

That was fine.

…Until it wasn’t.

The second message came later, shorter this time. He could almost feel the weight behind it.

Tim: I’m really sorry. I have to cancel tonight. It’s serious.

Bernard read it twice.

Then a third time.

His chest tightened—not in anger, not really. Just… disappointment. Quiet and heavy. But even that came with understanding, because Tim didn’t cancel. Not like this. Not without trying.

So whatever it was… it had to matter.

Bernard: Okay. We’ll reschedule. Just—be careful, alright?

No reply.

That was normal too, unfortunately.

By the time Bernard got ready for bed, the excitement from earlier had faded into something softer, more muted. He climbed under the covers, pulling the blanket up to his chin, the silence in his room feeling louder than usual.

He grabbed the remote, flipping on the TV more out of habit than interest.

The news was already mid-broadcast.

“…developing situation downtown involving multiple vigilantes and emergency response teams—”

Bernard frowned slightly, adjusting himself against the pillows.

The screen cut to chaos.

Police lights flashing. Sirens wailing. Smoke curling into the night sky from what looked like the remains of a building that used to stand tall. Officers swarmed the area, SWAT teams moving in tight formation, and—there, unmistakable even in the flickering light—

Red. Black. Yellow.

His breath caught.

The Batfamily.

All of them.

His fingers tightened around the blanket as the reporter continued, voice tense, urgent.

“…hostage situation reportedly orchestrated by the Joker—”

Bernard’s stomach dropped.

No.

No, no—

The footage shifted again, and suddenly Tim was there.

Standing beside the reporter, still in his Red Robin suit. His posture was straight, controlled, but Bernard could see it—the exhaustion in the slight dip of his shoulders, the tension in the way he held himself too still.

He looked… wrecked.

“…we did everything we could,” Tim was saying, his voice steady in that practiced way Bernard had come to recognize. “But the situation escalated faster than anticipated. The Joker used explosives—”

Bernard swallowed hard.

“…and the hostages…”

There was the smallest pause.

So small most people wouldn’t notice.

Bernard did.

“…we weren’t able to save them.”

The words hit like a punch.

“…identities are still being confirmed. Our thoughts are with the victims and their families.”

Tim finished, thanked the reporter, and stepped away, already turning back toward the chaos like he didn’t have the luxury to stop moving.

The screen kept talking.

Bernard didn’t hear any of it.

His hands were already shaking as he grabbed his phone, dialing without thinking, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs.

It rang once.

Twice—

Then clicked.

A faint rush of wind. Background noise. Distant voices.