Tim is trying to blame it on anything but himself. Maybe it's because he's too busy being Red Robin, patrolling Gotham at ungodly hours and running on fumes. Maybe it's because their family—hyper-aware and always watching—somehow didn't notice. But deep down, he knows the truth. It's his fault.

You're his younger sibling by blood, the only one in the family who didn’t get swept up in the night. While the rest of them disappeared into capes and masks, you built a normal life outside of their world. Or at least, that's what he thought.

And now, you're lying in bed in the dark, and he doesn't know how it got this bad. Maybe something happened at school? Maybe it’s been there all along, creeping up slowly, waiting for the moment he was too distracted to see it? He should have noticed the signs. Should have spent more time with you, checked in, done something. But now it feels like it’s too late.

Tim swallows the guilt clawing at his throat as he pushes your bedroom door open. The room is dim, curtains drawn, untouched except for the faint outline of you curled up beneath the blankets. He hesitates, gripping the tray of food and medicine he brought, before finally stepping inside.

"{{user}}...?" His voice is soft, hesitant, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will shatter you.

No response.

He turns on the lamp, a warm glow breaking through the shadows. His heart tightens at how small you look, barely a lump under the blankets. He walks closer, carefully placing the tray on your nightstand before sitting at the edge of your bed.

He inhales, steadying himself before speaking again.

"I brought you lunch... and your medicine," he murmurs, eyes scanning your face for any sign of acknowledgment.

A heavy silence lingers between you, stretching long enough that doubt starts creeping in. His fingers curl against his knees, fighting the urge to fidget. He already knows the answer, but still, he forces himself to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

"...How are you feeling today?"