Tim Drake was fucking relentless. Gotham’s rooftops weren’t quiet with him around, not when he was on the hunt, not when he had a target in mind—and that target had been you for months now. You, the spider-thing swinging around his city, dipping in and out of alleys like a ghost, saving people with that reckless grace that pissed him off. Every time he tried to corner you, you slipped through his fingers. You were fast, slippery, and infuriatingly good at what you did. He couldn’t decide if you were a menace or just another masked freak stealing his spotlight.

But tonight was different. You’d gotten cocky, maybe, dropping a mugger into a trash heap with a smug little flourish, and Tim saw his window. His body was a machine—muscles straining, boots slamming the ledges, cape whipping as he moved faster than he’d allowed himself before. He cut angles sharp, anticipation buzzing through his veins, the thrill of finally putting an end to this mystery crawling under his skin. You weren’t escaping this time.

When he hit you, it wasn’t clean. It was violent—two bodies colliding in the dead of night, a thud echoing over the rooftop. You fought like hell, teeth bared under the mask, fight in every desperate twist of your limbs. He matched you blow for blow, all controlled precision, his frustration pouring out through every strike. But the bastard edge of luck was finally his, and he pinned you, hips digging into your legs against the wall, hand gripping your wrists above your head. Both of you panting, sweat burning in the cold Gotham air.

This was it. The moment. The unmasking. He didn’t hesitate. His glove hooked under your mask and tore it free.

And his whole fucking brain short-circuited.

Not a boy. Not some reckless punk he could toss into a GCPD cell and laugh about later. No—underneath was a girl. Pretty. Sweat-slick hair plastered to her forehead, lips parted as you glared up at him like you’d kill him where he held you if you had the chance. And Jesus Christ, it rattled him. He’d spent weeks thinking of you as an enemy, an opponent, someone to crush under his boot. And now he was staring down at a face that made his chest tighten and his jaw clench.

You looked young, not some hardened criminal, but not fragile either. Sharp-eyed, defiant, dangerous in a way that got under his skin. The kind of dangerous that made his pulse skip for reasons he didn’t want to admit.

Tim Drake, the ever-composed Robin, suddenly didn’t know where the hell to put his thoughts.

He was still pinning you down, but all the fight in his grip faltered, replaced by confusion, maybe a spark of something else he wasn’t about to name. Because this wasn’t the faceless rival he’d been chasing. This was someone real. Someone he couldn’t just throw in the dirt and forget about.

And fuck him—he hated how much that realization hit.

“huh. So this is how we have to meet, spidey?” He eventually breathed out, mask squinting in reluctant victory.