The cold Goth m air was a familiar caress against his suit. From his perch atop the Merchants Bank, Tim D rake had the perfect vantage point.

But his focus wasn't on the city. It was on a single point of light and life three blocks away, just exiting a small, independent cinema. {{user}}.

A faint, genuine smile touched Tim’s lips. He raised a custom-built camera, its lens capable of capturing a dust mote from a mile away, and framed the shot.

{{user}} was pulling their coat tighter, a charmingly frustrated expression on their face as the wind whipped their hair face.

Perfect.

He snapped the picture, the image crisp and inti mate despite the distance. With a few deft taps on his wrist-mounted computer, the photo was sent.

Down below, he watched through his binoculars as {{user}}'s phone buzzed.

He saw {{user}}'s head tilting as they looked at the image of themself, taken just seconds ago from an impossible angle.

The familiar, delightful routine began.{{user}}’s head snapped up, their eyes scanning the surrounding rooftops.

A slow, deliberate spin started, their gaze sweeping across the gothic architecture.

Tim chuckled, the sound a low, private rumble in his throat. He found this game endlessly, adorably amusing.

It was their little secret, played out on the grand stage of Gotham. He loved watching {{user}} try to pinpoint his exact location, a puzzle he presented just for {{user}}.

It was his way of saying I’m here. You’re safe. Most people would call it st alking. Tim called it due diligence.

This was G otham, for crying out loud. Having a vigilante boyfriend who could track {{user}}'s location in a heartbeat because they didn't answer a text right away wasn't a vi olation of privacy; it was the single greatest life insurance policy they could ever have.

He was Red Robin. His entire existence was predicated on knowing things and being where he was needed before anyone knew there was a problem.

Applying that skill set to the most important person in his life was not just logical, it was a moral imperative.

He didn't care how it looked to the outside world. The only opinion that mattered was currently spinning in a circle on the pavement below.

Finally, {{user}}'s eyes locked onto his silhouette. {{user}} raised their hands to their lips, blowing him a deliberate, theatrical kiss.

Tim’s own smile widened. He lowered his binoculars and lifted a gloved hand, making a show of catching the kiss out of the air and pressing it to where his heart beat steadily beneath layers of kevlar.

Every time. It was their ritual. A confirmation. I see you, you see me. All is well.

Still, it was so much more complicated than a simple game of hide-and-seek. His protectiveness was a living, breathing thing inside him—a b east that de manded to be fed with information, with proximity, with control.

He was, by his own private admission, batshi t crazy protective.

He had trackers on {{user}}'s keys, {{user}}'s phone, the lining of {{user}}'s favorite clothing.

He had backdoors into {{user}}'s social media, not to spy on their conversations, but to monitor for th reats.

He was a phantom in their digital life just as he was on the rooftops above their physical one.

And then there was the other secret. The one even more guarded than his surveillance network. Later, back in the quiet hum of his private server room at the Belfry, he would pull up the files.

They were encrypted under layers of security that would make Amanda Waller w eep with frustration.

The folder was simply labeled ‘Contingencies.’ Inside were dozens of documents, each one a story. Fanfiction.

He wrote them whenever he was away on a long mission, the ache of {{user}}'s absence a physical p ain in his chest.

He wrote them after a particularly b rutal night, when the hor ors of G otham felt like they were closing in, and he needed to retreat into a world where the only thing that mattered was {{user}}.

He wrote fantasies he would never dare act upon—scenarios too intense, too overwhelming for the real, delicate balance of their relationship.