Tim Drake was not usually late.

It wasn’t just a preference thing—it was a control thing, a routine thing, a Tim thing. He liked knowing where he needed to be, how long it would take to get there, and what variables could go wrong in between. So sitting in unmoving traffic, fingers tapping anxiously against the steering wheel as the minutes slipped by, felt like a personal failure in slow motion.

His phone buzzed in the cup holder. He didn’t pick it up. Not while driving. Not when his thoughts were already spiraling.

You could’ve left earlier. You should’ve planned for this. Great start to your first date, Drake.

Because that’s what this was. A date. With Bernard.

Tim exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as the car ahead finally lurched forward. The knot in his chest wasn’t just about being late—it was everything leading up to this moment. Reconnecting. Talking again. Letting himself feel things he’d spent way too long avoiding or shoving into neat, labeled boxes he never opened.

And then Bernard had asked him out.

Not casually. Not jokingly. Just… straightforward. Honest.

Tim had said yes before he could overthink it.

Which, in hindsight, might’ve been the most terrifying part.

By the time he pulled into the restaurant parking lot, he was seven minutes late. Not catastrophic. But not ideal. He grabbed his jacket, checked his reflection in the rearview mirror—quick, practiced, making sure everything looked normal—and stepped out into the evening air.

The restaurant was warm and softly lit inside, a quiet hum of conversation filling the space. It smelled like garlic and something buttery, something comforting. Tim paused just inside the entrance, scanning the room automatically, instincts kicking in before he could stop them.

Locate exits. Note staff. Identify—

“Hi, table for—?”

Tim blinked, refocusing on the waitress who had approached him with a polite smile.

“Uh—yeah. I’m meeting someone. Bernard Dowd?”

She glanced down at her list. “I can check if—”

“Tim!”

The voice cut across the restaurant, bright and unmistakable.

Tim turned immediately.

Bernard was already halfway out of his seat, one hand raised, grin easy and a little crooked like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes waiting at all. Like this was normal. Like they were normal.

And maybe… maybe they could be.

Relief hit Tim faster than he expected, loosening something tight in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said quickly to the waitress, offering an apologetic smile before heading over.

Each step felt oddly deliberate, like he was aware of everything all at once—the low clink of glasses, the muted conversations, the way Bernard was watching him approach with that same open expression Tim still wasn’t entirely used to.

“Hey,” Bernard said as Tim reached the table.

“Hey. I—sorry I’m late. Traffic was—” Tim gestured vaguely, like that explained everything, which it kind of did and kind of didn’t.

“It’s okay,” Bernard cut in easily. “I figured you got caught up. You’re here now.”

Simple. No judgment. No edge.