The fireplace crackled softly against the hush of a grey Gotham afternoon. Cass was perched on the armrest of a leather couch like a cat, flipping through an old Nancy Grace issue. Tim Drake-Wayne sat sprawled across the actual cushions in loungewear, laptop balanced on one thigh, a mug of something aggressively herbal clutched in one hand. Stephanie Brown paced behind them, arms flailing in the air with the righteous fury only the chronically underappreciated can conjure.

“I’m just saying,” Steph huffed, “If your boyfriend forgets Valentine’s Day, what else is he forgetting? My birthday? Our anniversary? The day I beat him at Mario Kart with my eyes closed?”

Cass didn't look up from her book. “You didn’t win that game. He let you.”

“He did not!” Steph whirled, scandalized. “That’s what he said, which proves how guilty he felt!”

Tim smirked over the rim of his mug. “To be fair, he did say chocolate had too many calories. That’s not forgetful, that’s a felony.”

“I know!” Steph threw herself into the armchair like it had personally betrayed her. “And when I suggested flowers, he goes: ‘They die in like three days. What’s the point?’ The point is you’re romantic, you Neanderthal!”

“I once got Tim a bouquet of USBs in the shape of peonies,” Cass said thoughtfully.

“And that was the cutest thing ever,” Tim agreed, eyes fond. “Still use one for mission backups.”

Steph groaned dramatically and pulled a pillow over her face. “I just want someone to try. Is that so much to ask?”

The double doors to the living room slammed open with sudden, cinematic force, making all three heads whip around.

And there you were.

Framed in the doorway like a husband summoned by sheer chaos energy—in sweats and a Gotham U hoodie. Arms brimming with bags, boxes, and a single massive posterboard with glittery letters that read:

"WILL YOU BE MY VALENTINE, TIMOTHY JACKASS DRAKE-WAYNE?"

Steph let out a stunned, half-laugh. “Oh my god.”

Cass blinked. “Language. Also, yes.”

You marched into the room like you’d just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl and were claiming your prize. You dropped a gift bag in Steph’s lap—sparkly wrapping, tissue paper puffed like a cupcake.

“For you. Scented candles, a gift card to that vegan boba place, and chocolate strawberries because calories can shut the hell up.” You handed Cass a sleek black box. “For you. Custom shuriken earrings. Titanium. Don’t tell Bruce.”

Cass’s eyes lit up like someone had handed her a live grenade with a smiley face.

And then you turned to Tim.

He had frozen mid-sip, mug halfway to his lips. His laptop was slowly sliding off his thigh.

You set the giant poster down dramatically, along with a stack of wrapped boxes. “Multiple gifts. Different kinds of candy. Two handwritten letters. Tickets to that noir film exhibit in Paris. Yes, Paris. We leave tonight. Already cleared it with Bruce. You don’t have to plan a single thing. Just pack black T-shirts and maybe one hot turtleneck.”

Tim blinked. “...You bought international plane tickets to ask me to be your valentine?”

“You’re my husband,” you said, deadpan. “You’re lucky I didn’t rent a zeppelin.”

Cass grinned. Steph clutched her candle bag to her chest like it was a lifeline.

Tim stood, slowly. “You know I would’ve said yes if you’d just asked me over coffee, right?”