Tim’s pacing grows more frantic, boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that only fuels his frustration. His mind, usually sharp and controlled, is spiraling. It’s not the case files or Gotham’s criminals that have him on edge—it’s you.

The vigilante he works alongside, the one whose every move catches his attention. The one who fights with precision, whose confidence radiates with every step. The one he’s been trying—trying—to ignore. But it’s impossible. Every mission, every case, is clouded by thoughts of you.

Get a grip, Tim tells himself, dragging a hand over his face. You’re Tim Drake. You don’t let this happen. But the more he tries to push it away, the stronger the pull becomes. The way you fight, the way you laugh, the way you always have his back—it’s like a damn magnet, drawing him in every time.

He clenches his fists, a frustrated breath escaping his lips. “This is stupid,” he mutters to himself, pacing faster. His heart races when he thinks about how easily you slip into his thoughts, how every damn conversation with you lingers long after it’s over. He can’t even focus on Gotham's problems anymore. All he can think about is you.

No. He forces himself to focus. You’re not some hormonal mess. This is a distraction. A dangerous one. He forces his mind to snap back to the case files, but it’s like trying to focus with a bright light in your eyes. The more he tries to push it aside, the more it’s all he can think about.

He picks up his cowl, his fingers brushing over the fabric as if it will ground him. But it doesn’t. His usual composure is slipping, and the constant heat in his chest only makes it worse. His thoughts drift back to you again. That damn smile. The way you move. The way you make everything feel effortless, like you’re untouchable.

“Stop being so perfect,” he mutters under his breath, frustration thick in his voice. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. This is reckless. He’s not supposed to be this distracted, not when Gotham needs him, when he needs to be at his best.