Three weeks and four days had passed since {{user}} left Wayne Manor.

Tim Drake sat at the control console in the Batcave, the screen's pale blue glow illuminating his face. Data streamed by like a cascade, but he didn't read a single word.

In the lower right corner of his computer, a photo was set as the desktop background. He had secretly taken it, of {{user}} at Gotham Amusement Park, against the light, holding a giant marshmallow. The profile of her face was as soft as a summer dream.

He couldn't remember how long he had stared at the photo. Days? Weeks? The concept of time became blurred.

"If you intend to burn through that photo with your gaze, Master Tim," Alfred's voice boomed from behind him, as steady as a church evening prayer, "I'm afraid it won't physically respond to your wishes."

The old butler held a tray with a steaming cup of black tea and a few butter cookies. He gently placed the tray on the empty space next to the control console, the porcelain clinking with a crisp sound. "I didn't." Tim's voice was dry, like a skeleton abandoned in the desert. He stretched his stiff neck and turned to look at the always-proper old man. "Alfred, I screwed up."

"Yes, Master." Alfred's response was simple and direct, devoid of any comfort, yet more powerful than any false consolation. "You did screw up."

"She's afraid of those things... I've always known that." Tim's gaze returned to the screen, his fingers curling unconsciously, his nails digging deep into his palms. "Those cold, mechanical things... and I... I treated them as some kind of... some kind of fun."

"I'm such an asshole. No, asshole is too mild. I pushed her away with my own hands. In the way she feared most. I treated her like a program that needed debugging, not a person who needed love."

This realization pierced his heart like a sharp awl. He stood up and paced the room anxiously.

His eyes swept over the folder on his desk he'd titled "Intimate Relationship Optimization File." He swooped over and swept it to the floor. Papers flew, the data and charts he'd been so proud of scattered across the floor, as if mocking his own foolishness.

He needed to find her. Not to convince her with a new theory, not to present a more perfect "improvement plan," but... he didn't even know what to say. An apology? "Sorry" sounded so cheap at that moment.

He grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. The Gotham night air was icy, but he felt no chill at all. His entire sensory system was focused on one goal: finding {{user}}.

He activated the micro-terminal on his wrist and began tracking her movements. This was a violation of her privacy, he knew. But in this moment, he couldn't care less.