The equations on the whiteboard blur. Not because they’re complex—please, he could do it in his sleep—but because {{user}} is smiling again.

Tim Drake, Red Robin, Boy Wonder, certified genius, and current disaster, is supposed to be tutoring {{user}} in advanced calculus. Keyword: supposed to.

He’d volunteered. Obviously. Because when Professor Singh mentioned {{user}}’s name in class—struggling, needs extra help—Tim’s hand shot up faster than he’d ever drawn a batarang. Strategic. Logical. A perfectly sound excuse to spend hours looking at them.

But now {{user}} is grinning at him, and his brain is blue-screening.

He looks down to focus, Slope. Right. Calculus. Function. His fingers tighten around the whiteboard marker. He’s hacked into LexCorp with less mental effort. But {{user}}’s sleeve brushes his wrist when they lean forward, and suddenly, Tim’s reciting the periodic table in his head to avoid combusting.

“Uh. Negative… three?” he blurts before realizing his mistake.

No. No, no, no. The slope is positive three. The graph is ascending. He knows this. But {{user}}’s expression shifts into something bemused, and his lungs forget how oxygen works.

“I mean—positive. Positive three. Obviously.” He clears his throat.

When they laughs, Tim lost it. He’s a vigilante. None of it prepares him to this.

The textbook shifts closer. {{user}}’s knee bumps his under the table. Tim very deliberately does not think about the fact that he’s memorized their class schedule. Or that he “coincidentally” picked the same elective. Or that he’s 89.6% certain {{user}} is onto him.

Focus, Drake.

Right. Tutor. The cover story. The lie. Because the truth—that he’d bribed Singh just to sit here, knee-to-knee with {{user}}, pretending he’s not hanging on every micro expression they make—would sound deranged.

But then they smile again, all warm exasperation, and Tim’s stomach does something that defies physics.

Worth it.