The studio feels colder today. Tim Drake notices it the second he steps onto his mark, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s bracing for impact. He tells himself it’s just another day, another scene, another job. He’s good at lying to himself.

“Yeah,” he says lightly, rehearsed smile in place as he looks toward the set dressing that’s supposed to be home. “I’m ready.”

He isn’t.

The blocking puts him off to the side. Always off to the side. Tim watches the lights warm Dick’s profile, the way Dick turns instinctively toward {{user}} like gravity’s involved. Tim’s jaw tightens before he can stop it. He exhales through his nose, slow, controlled.

“It’s funny,” he murmurs, more to the air than anyone else. “We used to stand like that too.”

In his head, memories blur—lines spoken years ago, scenes that felt easy because they were familiar. His character had history. Roots. Shared pavement and scraped knees and love that burned too fast to last. Tim leaned into that because it wasn’t hard. He understands devotion. He understands wanting something so badly it aches.

The director calls for the emotional beat. Tim lifts his gaze. He lets his face fall into the right expression—hurt, resignation, quiet acceptance. He barely has to act.

“I get it,” he says, voice steady even as his fingers curl tight at his side. “You don’t choose who you love.”

God. That line guts him every time.

He doesn’t look away when the choice happens. He forces himself to watch. The closeness. The way Dick’s hand hovers like he’s afraid to take too much. The way {{user}} leans in without thinking. Tim swallows hard, a faint smile pulling at his mouth because the camera wants grace, not bitterness.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he adds softly, taking a step back when the scene calls for distance.

Cut.

The moment lingers anyway. Tim stays where he is, heart thudding, eyes tracking them as crew moves in. It’s not jealousy exactly—it’s worse. It’s hope with nowhere to go.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a quiet breathy laugh. “Man,” he mutters, barely audible. “If this wasn’t pretending…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to. His eyes say the rest, fixed on the space between Dick and {{user}}, wondering how much of it is written—and how much of it is real.