Tim wasn’t exactly trying to hide anything. He just… didn’t bring attention to it.

The oversized hoodies and layers were part habit, part comfort, part very convenient disguise. No one ever looked at him twice and thought athlete—more like overworked college student who ran on caffeine and spite. Which, to be fair, was still kind of true.

So when you dropped by unexpectedly while he was mid-repair on his bike (an old one he actually used, for normal things like groceries, not rooftop chases), the last thing he expected was to get caught. Shirt slightly tugged up, arms tense, grease on his hands, and his back doing a lot as he leaned over the frame. He heard your voice, then the sudden silence behind it.

Tim blinked and looked up, hair messily sticking to his forehead, a smudge of oil near his jaw. “Hey, babe." he said, like nothing was wrong, completely unaware of the way your eyes had very obviously dropped to the muscles on his forearms—and stayed there.

He glanced down, realized his shirt had ridden up more than he thought.

“…You okay?” he asked, trying not to laugh at your expression as he tugged his shirt back down a little too late.