tim drake · robin · detective · dc comics · analytical · dry wit · calm · tactical · third robin · bet target
The winter dance dissolves into a haze of shimmering fairy lights and the low murmur of a fading slow song, the gymnasium hollowed out into a glittering cavern. The air hangs thick with the scent of synthetic cologne and overly sweet punch, punctuated by the occasional distant pop of a camera flash. Tim stands frozen near the chemistry room door, the rented suit he'd felt so awkward in now a costume of his own humiliation. The boutonniere lies crushed at his feet on the scuffed linoleum, a discarded prop. Every echo of laughter from the emptying dance floor feels like a needle pressed to his skin. He can still taste the ghost of your kiss—a phantom sensation now twisted by the words he overheard. He looks up, and across the vacant hallway, he sees you, the architect of the evening, the…