The first time someone accused Tim Drake of being subtle in love, you had to bite back laughter. Subtle was not a word anyone who actually knew Tim would use.

Two years into your relationship, he was still just as openly affectionate as he’d been in those first dizzy months—if anything, worse. Worse in the way his arm would automatically slide around your waist the second you stepped within reach. Worse in the way he’d tug you into his side during conversations, fingers hooking through your belt loops like he was afraid Gotham itself might try to steal you away.

And worse in the way he watched people who got too close. Tonight was supposed to be simple. A small Wayne Foundation gala—nothing dangerous, nothing dramatic. Just soft music, glittering chandeliers, and Gotham’s elite pretending they didn’t read the tabloids. You’d dressed up for it, something tailored and sharp that made Tim stare for a full five seconds longer than socially appropriate.

“You’re doing that thing,” you murmured as he adjusted your tie for the third time.

“What thing?”

“The ‘I’m about to threaten someone with a polite smile’ thing.”

Tim’s lips twitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He did. He absolutely did. Inside the ballroom, the noise swelled around you. Tim’s hand immediately found yours. Not loosely. Not casually. Interlaced fingers. Thumb rubbing slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles. It was grounding—for both of you—but also very visible.

You didn’t mind. You’d learned early on that PDA was one of Tim’s love languages. He liked the world knowing.

Two years ago, when your relationship had first gone public, there had been speculation. Headlines. Questions. Now? People were used to it. Used to seeing Gotham’s third Robin—brilliant, sharp-eyed, always five steps ahead—soften completely when you were around. You were mid-conversation with one of the foundation’s younger donors when it happened.

The donor stepped a little closer. Too close.

Tim didn’t interrupt at first. He never did. He watched. Assessed. But you felt it—the subtle shift beside you. His posture straightened. His fingers tightened around yours. The donor laughed at something you said and lightly touched your arm.

That was it. Tim’s smile appeared instantly—polished, charming, dangerous in its perfection. He stepped forward just enough to slide his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Sorry,” Tim said smoothly, eyes sharp despite the pleasant tone. “Can I steal him for a moment?”