The wooden floors of the manor creak slightly as Tim leans against the window frame, arms crossed, eyes sharp behind his mask. The sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows over the courtyard, where you stand—tall, broad, and seething. Your jaw is tight, those dark eyes burning with something lethal as you glare down at the poor bastard who just made the mistake of running his mouth.

Dick lets out a low whistle from beside Tim, arms crossed over his chest. “Oof. That’s gonna hurt in the morning.”

Damian, unimpressed but interested nonetheless, tilts his head. “Tt. He deserves it. He spoke out of turn.”

Tim says nothing. He’s too busy watching you move—your stance, the way your shoulders flex under the weight of your anger, the way your hair shift when you step forward, casting a long, intimidating shadow over the idiot who picked the wrong fight.

“And there he goes,” Dick mutters just as you strike.

The fight is quick and brutal. You don’t just win—you dominate. Fists land heavy, movements precise. Your opponent—Beast Boy who thought he could get away with an offhand comment about your relationship—tries to recover, but it’s clear from the first hit that he’s outmatched. You don’t stop until it’s clear the point has been made.

Tim sighs, shaking his head. “I should probably go stop that,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move right away.

Instead, he watches as you stand over the now thoroughly wrecked Titan, rolling your shoulders like you’re shaking off the last bit of irritation. Then, as if sensing his gaze, you look up at the window—directly at him.

Tim feels his heart stutter just a little.

Yeah. He’s definitely got a type.