For a moment, everything in Tim’s head just…stops. The hum of the music, the laughter spilling from the ballroom, the clinking of glasses—all of it dissolves into a static buzz as he stands there, staring at you. His pulse spikes like he’s been caught in a spotlight, though you have no idea how true that feeling really is. Five minutes. That’s all he has before the operation kicks off. Before sirens split the night open and everything he’s built between you shatters.

You’re smiling—nervous, genuine, unaware. And that hurts more than any bullet he’s ever taken.

He swallows hard, tugging slightly at the cuff of his sleeve, eyes darting past your shoulder to the windows where he knows the team is already in position. The reflection of the chandeliers flickers across the glass like starlight—cold, sharp. His throat feels tight. He wants to say it back. God, he does. But every word he’s ever said to you, even the real ones, feel poisoned now.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer than he means to. His voice almost cracks. “You shouldn’t say things like that when you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

His mouth pulls into something that’s supposed to look like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s trained for lies. For cover stories. For building trust and tearing it down before it can destroy him. But this time—he doesn’t think he can stomach watching it break.

You take a step closer. He takes a half-step back. Subtle, practiced. Distance saves lives. He glances to the side again, catching the faintest shimmer of red and blue light hidden behind the parked cars. The signal. Four minutes.

He forces his breath steady, slipping a hand into his pocket where the small wire transmitter sits against his phone. His thumb hovers over the earpiece control. He could call it off—say the target’s not here, delay the bust, give you and your family one more night of peace. But it wouldn’t matter. Gotham PD doesn’t wait for love confessions.

Tim’s eyes soften despite everything. “You’re not a bad person,” he says quietly, though it’s meant more for himself than you. “You just… got caught in the wrong orbit.”

You look confused, maybe even hurt, but before you can speak, he steps closer, brushing his hand against your arm—brief contact, grounding, dangerous. “Go upstairs. Stay there. Whatever happens next… just don’t come outside.”

His pulse pounds in his ears. He can already hear it—the faint chatter in his earpiece, the code phrases, the countdown. He feels the words tearing at him before they even leave his mouth. “Please,” he adds, voice low, urgent. “Trust me this once.”

And then the world fractures.

The crash of glass, the roar of shouting officers, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding his tongue. People screaming. The crowd surges. You whirl around, and Tim doesn’t move—doesn’t breathe—as your father’s voice rises from the chaos, barking orders before he’s slammed to the ground.

Your gaze finds Tim’s across the storm of flashing lights. There’s betrayal there—pure, raw, shattering. He deserves it. He forces himself not to flinch, not to reach for you, because the badge burning under his jacket already did enough damage.

When you finally turn away, he lets out the breath he’s been holding and feels something in his chest cave in. The noise fades again, leaving only the echo of your voice from five minutes ago—those three words looping endlessly through the static of his mind.

And for the first time in a long time, Tim Drake wishes he hadn’t been right.