You were sitting on the couch, flipping through a report, when you heard the sound of the door creaking open. Tim walked in, pulling off his mask and letting out a deep breath. His movements were slow, a little more exhausted than usual.

You glanced up, noticing the slight wince on his face as he began to peel off his Robin uniform. You hadn’t seen him like this in a while—no mask, no bravado. Just Tim.

He started unbuckling his utility belt, clearly too tired to care much about his usual routine. As the last of his armor came off, your eyes couldn’t help but catch the dark bruises and faint scars decorating his skin. His chest was covered in faded marks from old fights, his arms showing the remnants of scrapes and cuts. Some were new, still angry and purple, others healed but no less telling of the battles he’d fought.

“Tim…” you said softly, standing up and walking over to him. You reached out, your fingers brushing over the bruises on his side. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Comes with the job,” he said, his voice rough from exhaustion. “I can handle it.”

You shook your head, gently lifting his chin so he’d meet your eyes. “You don’t have to handle everything on your own,” you whispered, the concern in your voice unmistakable.

Tim’s expression softened, his usual defenses slipping just a bit. “I know,” he murmured, his eyes flicking to the floor. “But it’s part of who I am.”

You leaned in, brushing a kiss against his forehead. “Let me help, Tim. Let me take care of you, too.”

He stood still for a moment, then gave you a small, tired smile. “Thanks,” he said quietly, finally letting himself relax in your presence.