Ever since you and Tim had helped each other escape his gala, it was safe to say you'd kept in touch. You looked up to him and got more time on the field, and he learned to take a few more breaks while he hung around you — a mutually beneficial relationship, hardly. More of a mentorship, actually.

Well, it was supposed to be.

Tim wasn't sure when he caught feelings. Maybe it was when he absolutely swept the floor with you during training the first time. You laughed, jokingly complaining about how sore you'd be when he finally molded you into on-field material. 'I've still only fought a single-digit amount of times, genius— don't laugh at me!'

Or maybe it was when he learned you were a bit of a stoner, too, and he invited you over to the manor one night for a smoke, only to have to convince you Bruce wouldn't find out. 'Don't kush and tell, Kord — simple.'

Or maybe, it was all those late nights in the bat-cave, your face on the screen as you guys video-called, going over some cases as you showed him your area of expertise — even if he was on par with you as far as online work went. He was a bat after all. 'There, bottom-left— no, Kord, left. Left. Left— fuck, that's the right. It's... it's late, dude.'

Or maybe, just maybe, it was right now. He hopped down with much more grace than you did, using his grapple to catch himself easily as he landed on a fancy building ledge. His eyes met yours. Staring. He tried so hard not to break, but—

"Really, Kord?" he practically giggled. You were tangled in your own net. "How'd you get caught up in your own grappling cord? Get it? Because your last name's Kord, and your stuck in the cord—" yeah, he was stuck in your Kord, too, as much as he hated to admit it.

"Just get me out of here," you whined, arms flailing uselessly.

Without much thought, Tim sliced the grapple — only for your top half to sail upside down. At least, before he caught your head with a 'fuck!' He stared at you with a swallow. "... Sorry," he finally mumbled. He could kiss you.