Tim knew better.

Stakeouts were about silence, vigilance, timing. A thousand hours of surveillance had taught him that. He was supposed to be on comms, supposed to be feeding Bruce updates from the alley across the street — the one where their mark would show in the next half hour.

Instead, the windows of the unmarked car were fogged, his breath catching against yours as your lips met his again and again. The Kevlar plating under his suit felt too warm, his cape bunched against the seat. His usually sharp, careful hair stuck out in unruly tufts where your fingers had tugged through it, his domino mask barely hanging on.

Tim’s mind was always a machine: facts, strategies, contingencies. But right now? His brain was static, short-circuited by the taste of your mouth, the press of your body. Every time he thought he’d pull away — force himself to return to the mission — your hands dragged him back under.

The car rocked slightly on its shocks, every fogged breath making the interior smaller, hotter, more dangerous. His communicator buzzed at his collar, but he ignored it, too lost in the daze, the dizzying bliss of being nineteen and alive and in love.

Then Bruce’s voice cut sharp through the comm like a blade.

“Robin. Report.”

Tim froze. His lips hovered against yours, chest heaving, guilt crashing in like cold water. He scrambled for control, hand fumbling toward the comm switch.

“...Uh—standby, Batman—” he began, but you silenced him with a sudden, hungry kiss, dragging him right back into the haze. His words to Bruce dissolved against your mouth, coming out muffled and shaky, nothing like the disciplined partner Batman had trained.