The after-school rush hadn’t even hit yet, but Tim Drake’s mind was already wandering. He sat in the corner of the library, supposedly reviewing case notes for a mini robotics project, but really replaying the same memory on loop—the one where Bernard Dowd had smiled at him last week during chem lab and Tim had forgotten how to speak for a full two seconds.

They were friends. Kind of. Not close, not distant. Bernard sat behind him in AP History, they’d worked together on a group project once, they texted every now and then about assignments… but nothing more. At least not officially.

Tim wasn’t clueless. He knew Bernard was gay—everyone did. Bernard didn’t hide it, and his friend group adored him for it. But Tim? Tim was still sorting out the maze of “what exactly am I feeling” inside his chest. Bisexual, probably. That much he’d accepted. But feelings? Real ones? Toward Bernard? That was the part he wasn’t ready to look at straight on.

Until today.

He’d been passing the lockers when he heard voices around the corner—Bernard and his friend Luca, chatting loudly.

“Dude, my shift at Chipotle tonight is going to destroy me,” Bernard groaned. “We’re short-staffed again.”

“Yeah, but you make burritos like an artist,” Luca teased. “People will survive the wait.”

Bernard laughed, and Tim felt a warm jolt crackle through him like a short circuit. Chipotle. Bernard worked there. He’d never known that.

And suddenly it felt like fate had nudged him with a very heavy elbow.

Two hours later, Tim pushed open the glass door of the Chipotle on Fifth Street, the bell jingling as he stepped inside. The smell of warm rice, grilled chicken, and fresh cilantro hit him all at once—but not as hard as the sight of Bernard behind the counter.

Hair pulled back, gloves on, sleeves rolled just enough to show the faint tan line on his forearm. He was focused, polite, smiling as he asked the customer in front of him, “White or brown rice? And what kind of beans?”

The moment Bernard turned slightly, Tim’s heart flipped like someone had hit it with a batarang.

This was it. A perfect opening. A moment he could either take or run from. And Tim Drake did not run from things—at least, not usually.

He swallowed, adjusted the strap of his backpack, and stepped forward in the line, pulse quickening with every inch he got closer to the boy who made him flustered without even trying.

Bernard glanced up, mid-scoop of chicken. His eyes widened in recognition, surprise blooming into something warmer.

“Tim?” he said, voice brightening just enough to make Tim’s stomach twist. “You—uh—hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Tim tried to act casual. Failed completely.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… was craving a bowl.”