The glow of the Batcomputer bathed Tim Drake in a sea of cobalt light, his eyes darting across a dozen screens as code spilled like rivers down glass. His focus was razor-sharp—meticulous, surgical. Nothing broke his rhythm.

Until your fingers brushed his arm.

Just a light touch. Barely there. A simple gesture to get his attention.

But for Tim, it was a full system crash.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then froze.

The scroll of data continued its quiet descent behind him, but his brain? Gone. Blank. Wiped clean like someone had kicked the plug from the wall.

“Uh—uh…” he managed, voice cracking slightly as he turned his head toward you, eyes wide with the unmistakable look of a man who had just seen his own emotional hard drive detonate.

Your hand dropped, innocent and unaware. “Hey, I was just asking if you—”

“Y-Yeah. Yes. No—wait, what?”

His words collided like mismatched code, cheeks rapidly tinting with the pale pink of a crash log warning. He looked away too fast, running a hand through his hair as if that could fix whatever error just surged through his nervous system.

He was still buffering.

But even through the short-circuit spiral, he didn’t move away from where your hand had touched him.