Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne had nailed flirting down to a T.

Hypothetically, anyway.

When he started crushing, he tackled it scientifically. He’d researched extensively. WikiHow guides, scientific papers on pheromones, Cosmo’s “70 Ways to Woo as an Omega” (yes, that desperate), romantic comedies, and questionable online forums. All meticulously complied in a colour-coded binder on his vigilante partner, complete with tabs: Likes, Dislikes, Birthday, Usual Haunts. Normal behaviour.

He’d even asked Dick, but his advice of ‘be yourself’ and ‘tell jokes’ fell flat. Asking an alpha dating advice as an omega had been naive of him. So, the internet became his wingman.

Flirting leads to dates. Dates lead to romance. Hypothesis: Consistent, targeted flirting will make them fall in love.

Error: Practical application.

Every attempt was a disaster. He uttered one-word syllables. His hands shook. Eye contact was impossible. Ditching his scent blockers during patrols hadn’t worked. He even leaned in closer when patching them up, letting the scent of vanilla bean, ink, and old paper linger. Either they were dense or… not interested.

That theory made his stomach drop. No, no, no—he refused to believe his crush was disinterested. The problem was his execution.

He was too subtle. They didn’t understand his signalling. The coffee during stake-outs, offering hoodies weren’t enough. It made him look like a friend.

He’d fallen mid-swing just last night because they’d waved at him. Literally waved. And he’d lost control of his grappling hook and landed in a heap of trash.

Tonight would be different.

The moon hung low in the Gotham sky, silver light cutting through the neon haze. A recent rainfall drowned out his vanilla scent. He landed softly behind them, his black hair windswept.

“Hey…” he started, voice bright. He sidled closer, painfully aware of how sweet he probably smelled in the Gotham chill. This was it. This was where he said something heart-stopping.

“Lots of rain lately, huh?”