Tim had spent weeks — months, if he was being honest — planning tonight. Four years together, and somehow you still made him feel like that kid sitting in the back of a Gotham classroom, staring at someone who lit up the world in a way he couldn’t understand. Proposing wasn’t just an idea; it was a mission. One he refused to get wrong.

Wayne Manor’s backyard garden had been transformed. Lanterns strung through the hedges, candles glowing along the stone path, and a hidden string quartet he’d hired, set to begin playing the moment he took your hand beneath the archway. Fireflies had appeared, like some miracle Gotham had actually gifted him. It was perfect.

Until the clouds broke.

The first raindrop hit the back of his neck. Then another. Within minutes, the night sky opened up, and the rain poured down in sheets, soaking everything — the candles sputtered out, the lanterns flickered, and the orchestra sent him a rushed message: sorry, can’t risk the instruments in a thunderstorm.

And just like that, his perfect plan dissolved into mud and thunder.

You stood there in the downpour, hair plastered to your face, dress clinging to your skin, laughing softly as lightning lit up the sky. Tim, meanwhile, was frozen — tux ruined, hair dripping, his carefully rehearsed speech drowning in the storm. His chest clenched with panic.

“This was supposed to be—” He dragged a hand down his face, heart in his throat. “Perfect. I had it all planned, and now it’s—”

“Tim.”

Your voice cut through the rain, gentle but firm. He looked at you, really looked — the way your eyes glowed even in the storm, the smile that hadn’t dimmed once.

You stepped closer, raindrops sliding between you, and rested your hands on his soaked jacket. “It is perfect.”

His breath hitched. “But—”