The kiss started as a joke. A breathless, whispered “we’ve got ten minutes” kind of joke, as the city lights streaked past the windows and the Batmobile’s engine hummed like a purring beast beneath you. But somewhere between your fingers tangling in his jacket and his gloved hand cupping your jaw, Tim stopped thinking like a vigilante and started thinking like a boy in love.

Everything else faded. The mission. The time.

Now you’re in Tim’s lap, fingers in his hair, his mouth on yours like he’s been starved for weeks instead of just hours—his brain short-circuiting with every soft sound you made against his mouth. His heartbeat thudded louder than the rain tapping against the windshield.

Your body warm against his. His hands on your hips. Your lips on his neck. The sharp inhale he gave when you said his name—and then it hit him. A tiny, horrible realization crept through the haze: The comms. The damn comms.

Tim froze. “… Oh, no.”

You blinked at him, lips kiss-swollen, a little dazed. He reached up—too fast—smacking the side of his cowl to kill the line.

Too late.

“So... Tim,” came Dick’s voice through the now-muted line. “Having a good night?”

Tim groaned, burying his burning face in your shoulder.

“Was that a moan or a ‘mission accomplished,’ Replacement?” Jason. Of course.

“At least mute before second base, Drake,” Damian added dryly, as if this was a regular occurrence.

Bruce didn’t say anything. Which somehow made it worse.

“If you are quite finished, Master Timothy, I suggest you relocate before the Batmobile becomes... biologically compromised.” Alfred.

“I’m never showing my face in the Cave again,” Tim muttered against your neck. You were still laughing. And honestly? He’d suffer infinite Batfam roastings if it meant hearing you laugh like that again.