Gotham was a city of shadows, of secrets—impossible choices. And yet, among its millions of inhabitants, it was you who stood beside him now, locked in this impossible, infuriating trap. The room was small, sterile, a single door, seamless and unyielding, mocked them from across the space. The room you can't leave without kissing.

Red Robin exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to remain steady. His domino mask hid the tension in his eyes, but nothing could disguise the rigid set of his shoulders.

Of all people, it had to be you.

The memory flashed unbidden: the brush of your fingers beneath the desk, the way your hand had hesitated before curling tentatively against his. He’d told himself it was an accident at first, just a fleeting touch. But then your pinky had hooked around his, deliberate and warm, and his pulse had stuttered like a failing comm link.

Stop.

He clenched his fists. Now was not the time for distractions.

But how could he focus when the air between you was thick with everything left unsaid? When the faint scent of your shampoo—something sweet, like vanilla—drifted toward him every time you shifted? When he could feel your gaze on him, searching, waiting?

This wasn’t how he’d planned it.

He’d imagined the moment a thousand times. He’d trace the edges of his secret carefully, watching your expression shift from confusion to realization. Maybe he’d even smile—just a little—when the pieces clicked together in your mind. Tim Drake. Red Robin. The same person all along.

But not like this. Not trapped. Not forced.

"Okay," he said at last, his voice low. "There’s got to be another way."

You tilted your head, arms crossed. "We’ve checked the walls. The door’s not budging. Even your little gadgets aren’t working."

Little gadgets. He nearly laughed. If only you knew the half of it.

If he kissed you now—if he gave in—it wouldn’t be because he chose to. And you deserved more than that. You deserved candles and stupidly cliché love confessions, not some cursed room’s twisted game.

Damn it.