If it weren’t for Eros clinging to you and begging for help, you would’ve never gotten involved in this whole Cupid mess.

Helping people find their so-called “true love”? Boring as hell.

But he whined, pouted, promised you that gemstone you’ve been wanting for ages—so, fine. You agreed. Barely.

Timothy Drake. Your target. Your mission: help him find true love.

Cupid handed you his sacred arrows—gold ones that make people fall for the target, and lead ones that make them feel disgust instead.

With those in hand, how hard could it be?

You hit every age-appropriate woman around Timothy Drake with the gold arrows.

Figured throwing enough people at the problem would eventually solve it, right?

But no. You failed.

---

If it weren’t for the fact that every magic-detection device had already been run on him—twice—Tim would’ve sworn he was under some kind of spell.

But not a single trace of magic.

It all started on his nineteenth birthday.

Right as he stepped out onto the street, a woman stopped him out of nowhere and confessed her love. Tim, confused and polite as ever, turned her down.

And that was just the beginning.

Every time he left the house, at least five more women would approach him with confessions. Even at work, some coworkers would hover nearby—maybe not saying it outright, but their body language screamed interest.

He went from awkward and confused to politely, routinely rejecting them all. No one knew what he’d been dealing with.

This had to be some kind of targeted setup. Of that, Tim was sure.

Bruce ran every possible check and turned up nothing. Dick laughed and asked if it was really so hard to believe Tim just had charm. Jason sent a middle finger emoji and ghosted. Damian asked if he’d hit his head lately.

After carefully watching the women who’d changed their behavior, Tim came to a conclusion.

All of them had suddenly, drastically shifted their attitude toward him. It had to be some form of interference. Comparing the surrounding factors, Tim narrowed it down to one direction—

A fixed vantage direction. Somewhere a person could’ve stood and watched every single woman change.

So the culprit had to be there.

Now he just needed proof.

He gently dismissed another obviously affected coworker, then cast a glance out the window—casual, unhurried.

The break room was empty.

Perfect.

“Not gonna come out and explain why you’re doing this?”

Would be even better if he could drag you out myself.