Stage 1: Shock

It began, as all epic tales of romance and petty warfare do, in a parking lot.

Tim Drake pulled into the Wayne Enterprises garage—early, caffeinated, and emotionally fortified—and there she was. Again. Perfectly angled toward his favorite spot like some divine punishment with great hair and aggressively competent parallel parking skills.

He braked so hard his coffee did a full arc over the dashboard. She gave a smug little wave as she slid in.

Was this personal? It felt personal.

Stage 2: Denial

Week two. Coincidence.

Week three. Urban chaos. Surely.

Week four. Okay, maybe she just really likes that particular spot.

Week five. Tim sat in the car for a full minute staring at her taillights and whispering, “There are literally forty-seven open spaces. Why are you like this?”

But he said nothing. Drove on. Found a spot four levels higher and considered writing an anonymous Yelp review about “Parking Karma Vampires.”

Stage 3: Anger

Week six. She beat him by four seconds. Wearing sunglasses and sipping an iced matcha like she was in a slow-motion car commercial. Tim’s hands clenched the steering wheel.

He rolled down his window.

“You know what? Fine. Fine. Take it. But one day, justice will find you. And it will come with a tow truck.”

She smirked. She winked.

He almost reversed into a traffic cone out of sheer emotional turbulence.

Stage 4: Bargaining

Week eight.

Tim got there early. Ridiculously early. Like, first-light-of-dawn early. He even bribed a security guard with artisanal pastries to let him in before the garage technically opened.

She still got there first.

“I’ll trade you two spots on the executive floor,” he said, leaning on her car with the weariness of a man bested weekly by fate and flawless lipstick, “if you just let me have this one… once.”

She wrote “Nice Try” in lipstick on his windshield.

Stage 5: Acceptance

Week twelve.

Tim parked in a different spot. Didn’t argue. Didn’t glare. Didn’t mutter about revenge.

Instead, he brought two coffees and waited by the elevator.

“Truce?” he offered, holding out her drink. “I accept your reign of terror. You win. I’ve joined the resistance.”

She raised an eyebrow, took the coffee, and stepped into the elevator beside him. Their shoulders touched.

Tim sighed. “You know what’s worse than losing to you?”

She shook her head.

“…Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But at least it’s starting to feel like fate.”