The room smelled faintly of cedar and starch. Tim was adjusting the cuffs of his shirt for the third time, squinting at his reflection like he couldn’t quite convince himself he looked presentable.

You sat on the edge of his bed, arms crossed loosely, pretending not to watch him. But the truth sat thick in your throat.

He caught your eye in the mirror. You looked away.

This was supposed to be casual. A favor. Just help him get ready, you told yourself. Like a good brother. Like a good liar.

He fiddled with the hem of his blazer and turned slightly toward you.

“Do you think Bernard will like the way I’m dressed?”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, forcing yourself to smile — because that’s what people do when they’re supportive.

“He’d be stupid not to,” you said. Your voice came out steady. Too steady.

Tim gave a soft, almost bashful chuckle. Not like him. You knew him too well — knew the walls he kept, the logic he wrapped himself in. But tonight he let you see the nerves. Let you see the hope.

And it killed something in you.

Because it wasn’t Bernard he looked this open with. It was you.

He moved toward the dresser, grabbed his watch, paused.

“You don’t think it’s too formal?” he asked, holding it up. “I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard.”

You stood up, walked over slowly, took the watch from his hand. Clipped it onto his wrist for him, avoiding his gaze the whole time.

“Trying hard isn’t a bad thing,” you said. “Especially if it’s for someone you care about.”

He tilted his head at you, brow furrowed like he was searching for something behind your words.

You didn’t let him find it.

You smoothed the collar of his shirt. Your knuckles brushed his throat — too soft, too brief — and you swallowed the impulse to linger.

He looked good. Of course he did. Everything about him was composed, clean, effortless.

And you hated how easily your heart curled itself around that.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “You’ve been weird all night. What’s up?”

You forced a grin. Classic Bat-kid deflection.

“Just jealous I don’t have a date,” you muttered. “Someone’s gotta make fun of you later if it goes badly.”

He rolled his eyes and bumped your shoulder lightly. “It won’t.”

You knew he was right.

You stepped back, out of reach. Safe again.

He didn’t notice the way your hands clenched when he picked up his phone to text Bernard. Didn’t see the way your jaw twitched when he smiled at the reply.

This wasn’t a heartbreak with fanfare or fireworks.

Just a quiet ache.

The kind that sits behind your ribs and waits to be forgotten.

“You’ll tell me if I look dumb, right?” he asked, almost teasing.