It was late. The kind of late where even Gotham seemed to quiet down for a moment.

Dick was sprawled across the couch, blanket tangled around his legs, half-watching whatever rerun was playing on the muted TV. Bruce stood by the kitchen counter, pouring himself a cup of black coffee with the kind of precision that said he was more focused than he looked.

The manor was calm.

Until the front door creaked open.

Both heads turned. Dick tilted his head. Bruce froze mid-pour.

In stepped Tim.

Tim, who had said—insisted, even—four hours ago that he was calling it an early night. Exhausted from patrol, barely keeping his eyes open, claiming he was just going to crash. Dick had smiled at the time, proud of him for finally putting his health first.

But this Tim? This was not “I just slept four hours straight” Tim.

His hair was a tousled mess, not the usual post-nap fluffy kind, but the “fingers were in it” kind. His cheeks were flushed, and it didn’t look like it was just the cold that did it. And the hoodie? Way too big in the shoulders, slightly unfamiliar navy blue, and definitely not Tim’s.

Then there was the smell.

Bruce picked up on it first. He narrowed his eyes. Subtle notes of deodorant—fresh, clean, not Wayne-brand, and not used by anyone in the manor.

Tim paused, halfway through the foyer, clearly realizing too late he was being watched. His smile was sheepish. “Hey… I, uh, went for a walk.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, expression slowly morphing into something far too amused.

“At one-thirty a.m.?” he asked.

Tim nodded, already starting for the stairs. “Yeah. Cleared my head.”

Bruce crossed his arms, watching him pass, calm but far too quiet.

“You smell like someone else,” Bruce said flatly.

Tim stumbled just a little, adjusting the hoodie like it would save him. “I passed by someone with strong cologne?”

Dick snorted. “Right. And they accidentally dropped a hoodie on you?”

“Totally plausible,” Tim muttered, cheeks now fully red.

Bruce just sipped his coffee. “Do I need to check the cameras?”

Tim turned, walking backwards now. “Only if you’re that bored.”

“Group chat’s gonna love this,” Dick said, already reaching for his phone.

“Goodnight,” Tim called quickly, vanishing up the stairs like the hallway owed him protection.

Dick was grinning ear to ear now. “You think it’s Bernard?”

Bruce didn’t answer. But the twitch at the corner of his mouth was probably the closest thing to a yes you’d ever get out of him.