Dawn skimmed the Gotham Marina in soft silver, the water shifting like a half-awake giant stretching its shoulders. Tim’s boathouse sat in the stillness—a little crooked, a little charming, like it had been caught mid-wink.

Bernard nudged the door open with a quiet click, the baguette tucked under his arm like a diplomatic offering. A paper bag of groceries rested against his hip, onions and herbs rustling with every careful step. The floorboards greeted him with their usual sleepy groans, as if reminding him he was intruding on sacred morning quiet.

He cut quite a picture himself—white shirt, black sleeves; black athletic shorts that made his legs look like they were carved for mischief; thigh-high socks with crisp black lines; and worn-in Adidas that knew every creak of this place. He looked like the sunrise had dressed him.

Tim was still sprawled on the bed—barely tangled in sheets, breathing slow, hair falling over his face like it was shy about waking him. Bernard’s lips curled into a private smile. He leaned in, brushed a finger through one soft strand, coaxing it into a gentle curl. Tim murmured something, all sleep-drunk and adorable, and Bernard felt his heart melt into syrup.

Then he spotted it.

Tim’s Robin belt, abandoned in the middle of the floor like a dropped secret, the buckle glinting with way too much truth for before sunrise. Bernard’s eyebrows lifted.

“Really, babe?” he whispered to no one but the morning light.

With a casual kick—expertly delivered—he swept the belt into the shadow under a storage bench. Where it could sit and think about its life choices.

A glint on the nearby dresser caught his attention next. Tim’s mask. The one he pretended Bernard didn’t know about. Bernard picked it up, let it spin around his fingers like a coin deciding fate. It felt strange, holding something the whole city feared while knowing the soft, dorky boy who wore it.

He set it down gently, almost fondly, then padded into the kitchen.

The exhaust fan roared to life with a button press, dragging last night’s quiet into motion. The boathouse lights flickered on, and Bernard laid out his ingredients with the care of a boy preparing a small love ritual—eggs, herbs, butter, the baguette that smelled like a Paris morning pretending Gotham wasn’t a thing.