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YOU WERE A DREAM.

no, really, you were. everything about you carried that impossible sheen, the kind that only appears in sleep or wishful thinking. you were the partner tim drake never believed he’d get to have, someone who didn’t just understand him, but fit him, like you’d been created for him. when he spiraled, you steadied him without asking questions. when he forgot how to breathe between responsibilities, you somehow created space around him, coaxing the air back into his lungs without ever making him feel needy.

tim could never fathom how he’d gotten this lucky to have met you. sometimes he’d just watch you with this overwhelmed, disbelieving softness, like he was waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him this wasn’t actually happening. you were too warm, too patient, too willing to stay.

he curated his entire world around you without hesitation, adjusting his routines, his patrol schedules, even his coffee order, because loving you came so naturally it felt like breathing. nothing about his loyalty to you ever felt like effort. it was simply the gravity of his existence tipping in your direction, again and again, until it felt impossible to imagine any version of himself that didn’t orbit you.

everything between you moved with that same strange ease, effortless, fluid, like the two of you had been matched long before you ever met. you balanced him in ways he didn’t even know he needed. where he was all angles and overthinking, you were warmth and instinct. where he ran himself ragged chasing answers, you reminded him to pause, to rest, to live. you didn’t push him; you guided him. gently, consistently, with this certainty that made the world feel safer just by existing within arm’s reach.

tim had always been the one who overcompensated, who tried too hard, who poured his entire soul into people who didn’t know what to do with that kind of devotion, but with you, there was no strain, no stretching himself thin. he didn’t have to perform to keep you. he didn’t have to be brilliant or prepared or perfect. it was so perfect—how well you understood him, how easily you loved him, how flawlessly you existed with him—that tim sometimes wondered how he’d ever lived before you.

and tim held onto you , because when something feels this easy, this aligned, this impossibly perfect, you don’t question it. you just let yourself fall.

he was falling still when saturday arrived, because saturdays meant you. they always had. ever since you’d once offhandedly mentioned that you liked routines he’d carved your preferences into his weekly schedule.

so now it was saturday, late afternoon, that honey-warm hour where shadows stretched long and the city softened, and tim was already making his way across the narrow stone bridge that led into the botanical conservatory you loved. you told your friend it “smelled like real oxygen,” which made him laugh the first time he’d heard it, but secretly he agreed. it was peaceful here, filled with curated greenery that never fought back, never ambushed him, never demanded more than observation.

tim knew, without needing a reminder, without ever having to ask, that you’d be inside, sitting on the same worn wooden bench tucked behind the orchids. your bench. the one you’d picked during your second saturday visit. the one where sunlight always hit your face in that soft, almost glowing way. you liked patterns. he liked you. he’d learned all your habits with a kind of devotion that would have embarrassed him if he ever slowed down long enough to question it.

you always got there before him. not because you were early, though you usually were, but because he lingered on purpose, watching from afar. he told himself it was to make sure you were safe. or that he was giving you a breath of solitude before he arrived. or that he was just… appreciating you. what he never admitted, even to himself, was that he liked the way you looked when you didn’t know he was there.

so he stayed where the pathway curved, half-hidden behind a column of broad-leafed palms, cap pulled low over his eyes, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket like he had something to hide. he didn’t think he looked suspicious—well, maybe a little—but this was a botanical garden, not a crime scene. people lurked. that was normal. probably.

besides, he wasn’t lurking. he was… observing. protecting. gathering a moment of quiet before stepping into the warmth of your orbit.

you had one earbud in—left side, always the left—and he wondered what you were listening to today. a playlist? a podcast? something soft and warm and fitting? he leaned closer, hood shadowing his eyes. totally normal. totally not weird. he could’ve approached already—should’ve approached—but there was something addictive about watching you exist.

his heartbeat steadied just watching you adjust the strap of your bag, or tilt your head toward the flowers he knew were your favorite, or swipe your thumb across your phone like you were reading a text from him. he knew your posture cues by now, your micro-expressions, the tiny tells that said you were comfortable, restless, amused. what was wrong with that? couples noticed things. couples paid attention. couples memorized each other without even trying. he wasn’t doing anything strange. he wasn’t crossing any lines. he was just waiting. watching. loving you from a few steps back.

his fingers itched. he glanced around once, no one close enough to pay attention. no one angled toward him. no cameras in this corner—he’d checked months ago. slowly, he slipped his phone out of his pocket. couples took pictures of each other all the time. candid ones, even. he’d seen it—people saving small moments, collecting pieces of their partner like treasures. that was normal. that was affectionate. that was love.

so when he lifted the phone, angled it just right, and captured a picture of you in the garden light… it wasn’t strange. it wasn’t crossing anything. it was preservation. a way to remember the softness of this moment later, when he couldn’t sleep and needed something to look at. a way to hold onto you.

he took another—your fingers brushing a petal, your profile haloed by sunlight filtering through the glass dome. another—your lips parting slightly as you exhaled. another—your shoulders relaxing. he lowered the phone, breathing out slowly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. he studied you for another long beat, letting the air settle, letting the moment imprint itself on him.

you shifted again, glancing toward the entrance, and his chest tightened with something warm and electric. anticipation. belonging. inevitability. he straightened, brushed invisible dust off his jacket, adjusted the brim of his cap. he didn’t want to keep you waiting. you hated waiting. he knew that. he remembered everything. besides, he’d watched long enough. savored enough. collected enough to get him through the rest of the day. time to step into the scene.

he crosses the distance with the certainty of someone who believes he belongs there. every step feels inevitable, like he’s walking a path the two of you paved together. the nervous buzzing under his skin doesn’t make sense, but he tells himself it’s good. it means he cares. it means this matters.

you’re crouched, focused on a tiny insect resting on the rim of a planter, the kind of small, fleeting detail you’ve always stopped for. he’s watched you do this a hundred times. he steps up beside you, close enough that it should be normal. it is normal, he insists to himself.

“careful with that one,” he says, like he’s picking up a thread of conversation you two set down only minutes ago. “it’s a syrphid fly. most people think they’re bees, but they’re harmless. really good for gardens, actually. they eat aphids.”

it comes out soft, the way he always talks to you when you’re focused on something small. he tells himself you like that, his facts, his random knowledge, the way he can take whatever has your attention and make it feel connected to him. he doesn’t think about how he knows that. he just does. he doesn’t consider the possibility that maybe it’s projection. longing.

you look up at him with polite interest. “really?” you ask, fascination coloring your voice.

he nods, a little too quickly. “yeah. they can’t sting. they hover because they’re assessing movement patterns.” he hears the softness in his own voice and doesn’t question it. doesn’t wonder why he’s so exposed. of course he is. he’s talking to you. you’ve always been the exception to the locked-down, tightly controlled version of himself he shows everyone else.

your smile grows a little. “that’s interesting.”

he shifts, hands sliding into his pockets. why is he nervous? he’s never nervous with you. he made sure of that. he’s curated every part of his world around your comfort, adjusted patrol shifts so he’d be awake when you were, picked coffee shops you prefer, memorized the way you walk so he can match your pace without thinking. this is supposed to be effortless.

“so… what are you doing here?” you ask, casual, friendly, easy. the tone is harmless. it should be harmless. something about it hits him strangely, the question lands too lightly, like you don’t realize that of course you know what he’s doing here. of course you know. saturdays are yours. this block is yours. everything predictable about you is something he’s memorized. still, the question makes his brain stutter.

his mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. he’s suddenly aware of how warm it is beneath his cap, how fast his pulse is tapping against the inside of his wrist. why are you asking? is this a joke? a bit? some playful test between the two of you? you do that sometimes. you pretend you don’t know something just to see how he’ll respond. you like teasing him. you always have.

he realizes he still hasn’t answered. your expression has shifted, just slightly. “i mean, are you here with someone?” you ask next.

“yeah,” he says quietly, almost conspiratorial. “i’m meeting someone.”

your brows lift just enough to play along. just enough curiosity, just enough amusement. “oh?” you ask. “do i know them?”

he huffs a soft laugh, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. “i would hope so.”

you laugh, light, warm, like the sound was crafted specifically for him, and something in his chest melts. the tension dissolves completely. this is how it always is with you. easy. you take a step closer. “and let me guess,” you say, teasing, “they’re chronically late and terrible at communication?”

he shakes his head, lips curving. “no. they’re perfect. i was the one running behind.”

you roll your eyes affectionately, nudging his shoulder with yours. “i was waiting for you, tim.”

the words hit him like sunlight. you were waiting for him. of course you were. of course. his hand finds your waist like it’s already been there a thousand times. yours slip up to his chest. everything fits, clicks, aligns—the way it’s supposed to.

you’re smiling up at him, and he can’t help it. he leans in. you lean in too. the kiss is gentle at first, the kind you give each other when you’ve been apart for even a few hours. your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. the world narrows to the press of your mouth, the way your breath catches softly, the way your lips curve into a barely-there smile against his.

he pulls back just slightly, just enough to see you breathe, to watch your lashes lift, to watch the softness settle on your face like morning light. “missed you,” he murmurs. it’s simple. it’s soft. it’s exactly what he would say after any week, any day, any hour without you.

“i missed you too.”

he threads his fingers through yours, the gesture effortless, instinctive, practiced. your hands fit together easily and he begins walking with you through the greenhouse path. the air is thick with humidity, soft floral sweetness brushing your skin. the sound of your steps, your breaths, the rustle of leaves—everything folds into a rhythm he knows too well. one he’s convinced is yours together.

you glance at a cluster of pale lilac orchids, brushing your thumb gently along the edge of a petal. “these bloomed early this year,” you say.

“you noticed that?” he asks, delighted.

you turn and grin. “i always notice.”

he squeezes your hand, heart swelling with something so warm and fierce it feels like devotion layered over devotion. “that’s why i love you,” he says before he even thinks to soften it.

you don’t flinch. you never do in his world. you just lean your shoulder into his. “you love everything.”

“only when it’s you.”

you laugh, tilting your head to study another plant, some trailing vine with tiny white blossoms. he watches your expression like it’s a private meteor shower, the way your fingers hover above the leaves, the way your mouth pulls into a thoughtful little shape, the way you hum under your breath when something fascinates you. every detail is a dream.

“hey,” he tugs you softly, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand. “come with me. i want to show you something.”

you look up at him, curious, a bit amused. “another plant?”

“better,” he says, with that small, dry half-smile he only ever aims at you. “unless you count gotham as a plant. which i don’t recommend. it’s dying in several places.”

you giggle, and he feels the sound like a warm spark in his ribs. you let him lead you out of the greenhouse, your fingers laced with his, your shoulder brushing his with each step. the air outside is cooler, touched by the late afternoon breeze. sunlight slants low between buildings as he guides you down the path, weaving through the quiet corner of the botanical gardens toward the hill that overlooks the park. you glance around, recognition warming your voice. “oh—this way. you really like this spot.”

“i really like being here with you.” he corrects.

you bump his shoulder with yours. “smooth.”

“i’ve had practice.”

“mm. you still overthink it.”

“only when you’re looking at me,” he says, which is true.

you laugh again and he swears the sound rearranges every molecule of his body into something better. when you reach the top of the hill, the city stretches out below you: rooftops glowing, traffic softened by distance, the shimmer of the river catching the last sunlight. tiny, scattered figures dot the pathways belo, families, couples, dog-walkers, all part of a life he only ever feels connected to when you’re beside him. you exhale, slow and content. “i forget how pretty this view is.”

“you said that the first time i brought you here,” he points out, stepping behind you, his hands finding your waist with natural precision.

you lean back into him without hesitation. “did i?”

“yeah. you said it looked like the city was finally taking a breath.”

“that sounds like something i’d say.”

“it is,” he promises. “i remember.”

you tilt your head, resting it against his shoulder. “you always remember.”

“of course i do.” he presses a slow kiss into your hair. “you matter to me more than anything.”

you go quiet for a moment, just breathing, letting the wind brush past you both. he feels your weight against him, your warmth, your presence, and it settles him in a way nothing else can. “tim?” you say finally.

“yeah?”

“thank you for bringing me here.”

he lets out a soft breath of relief. “i’d bring you anywhere.”

you turn in his arms then, looping your arms around his neck, pulling him close without needing to ask. he fits against you perfectly, like your silhouette was drawn to match his. the shy curve of your smile makes his chest tighten, like something unbearably good is unfolding inside him. “you’re being cheesy,” you tease lightly.

“i’m allowed,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “i’m in love.”

you roll your eyes, pretending to fight a smile, but he sees the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his jacket, the way you lean closer. “i know.”

“you’re supposed to say it back,” he adds dryly.

“you say it too much.”

“isn’t that the goal?”

you huff a laugh, and then you kiss him, your hands sliding into his hair, the wind brushing past the two of you like it knows this moment belongs only to you. he kisses you back like breath, like instinct, like truth—because to him, it is truth.

when you pull away, you whisper, “i love you too.”

he closes his eyes.

everything is perfect.

everything is perfect.

you’re the one who suggests leaving, some half-muttered joke about how weird the two of you must look just standing there. he laughs and agrees before you even finish speaking. the walk to the park feels unreal in its softness. the streets are quiet, the lights dimmed. he keeps catching himself looking at you, looking too long, looking like he can’t believe you’re real.

the park is completely empty. the swings squeak when the wind touches them like they’ve been waiting. you sit first, and he sits second, and the chains rattle under your hands. he pushes off the ground, just enough to sway, and you laugh at how stiff he is. he laughs too, because you’re laughing, because you make it easy to feel like he’s allowed to be this gentle.

he watches you pump your legs just to rise a little higher, hair brushing your face, shoes cutting small crescents into the dirt. you tell him he should go higher too, that he looks like he’s scared the swing might break. he looks at you and something greedy in him stirs, something that whispers that he was right, he’s always been right, that this is what it’s supposed to be. this closeness. you bring something out of him that the rest of the world never touches, something he’s buried, something he thought he had to kill off to survive, but you breathe life back into it without noticing, without trying.

then you jump. just—suddenly, your feet leave the swing and you’re airborne for a split second, landing in the mulch with a soft thud and a breathless laugh. he startles, because the empty swing keeps moving without you, swaying back and forth as if you’re still sitting in it. he watches it for a beat too long. it keeps swinging, but he forces himself to tear his eyes away because you’re calling his name, telling him to come on, to follow you.

he jumps too. his landing is clumsy, graceless, but you smile at him like he did something impressive. he feels his chest warm at that. you take off across the playground, weaving between the slide and the low climbing wall, laughing under your breath like the two of you are kids again. he follows, always a step behind.

the playground is mostly dark, the lamplight broken into patches—circles of gold, then strips of shadow, then light again. he thinks, again, again, stay with me, stay close, don’t disappear. you climb the ladder to the small platform above the slide, and he climbs right after you. he shouldn’t be this breathless, but he is. you sit at the top, legs dangling over the edge. he sits beside you, knees touching.

you nudge him with your shoulder and tell him you feel like you’re too old for this, that the whole playground feels… strange in the dark. that it looks different than it should. he agrees. he says it feels different, yes. like the two of you are the only real things here. he says it lightly, like a joke, and you laugh because you think he’s joking. he laughs too, because you’re laughing.

you decide to go down the slide, scooting forward. he watches you descend, the metal squeaking under you. you reach the bottom and look up at him, calling for him to follow. telling him to hurry. telling him he’s too slow.

he slides down after you, feet hitting the ground just as you’re backing away, daring him to chase you again. and he does—of course he does—he chases you around the empty playground until his lungs burn and his legs ache and he feels like he’s shedding every hard, armored part of himself just by being near you. you bring out a version of him he barely recognizes. he should be terrified of that, but he isn’t. or maybe he is, somewhere deep down. maybe that’s why the night keeps holding its breath around you. but it doesn’t matter. you laugh and he laughs. you run and he runs. you look back and he looks only at you.

he keeps chasing you, even when he knows he should’ve given up two laps ago. your laughter rings out again, he doesn’t realize he’s smiling until you glance back and catch it, and then you grin wider, teasing him for being slow, for being predictable, for always letting you win.

he mutters something under his breath, something about how you shouldn’t get cocky, how he’s holding back, but he’s already slowing down when you disappear behind the jungle gym and climb up the metal ladder with quick, sure steps. he follows you again—of course he does—but you’re already scrambling up into the branches of the tree behind the slide.

he stops at the base of it, staring up at you, hands on his hips, trying not to look like he’s already winded. “you know i’m not doing that,” he says, deadpan. offended, even.

you hang from a branch by one hand and raise an eyebrow at him. “why not?”

“i’m not grayson.” he says it like it should be obvious, like you should’ve remembered. “i don’t just… bound into trees like a circus animal.”

“come on,” you coax, shifting so your foot dangles. “it’s not even tall.”

“that’s what grayson said before spraining his wrist in a fig tree in thailand.”

“a fig tree?”

“a fig tree,” he repeats, perfectly straight-faced.

you keep laughing. the branches around you sway lightly though the air is perfectly still. he watches the movement a little too long. something twists in his chest, some flicker of recognition that doesn’t quite reach the surface. something that says this isn’t—

but then you look down at him and smile again, and everything smooths out.

you hop down from the first branch, straight into his space. he catches you without thinking, hands settling on your waist as your feet find the ground. it fits too easily. he holds you a second longer than he needs to, and you don’t pull away. you poke his chest. “you’re no fun.”

“i chase you around like an idiot for twenty minutes and that’s not fun?”

“barely,” you tease.

he rolls his eyes, but he’s still holding you. your hands slide up into his collar, fingers curling there like they always belong. something inside him stutters, something in him wants to close the distance without giving himself time to think. so he does. you rise onto your toes to meet him and he tilts his head just slightly, just enough for your lips to fit perfectly, like you’d practiced this a hundred times, like this moment already existed before either of you reached it. the swings creak even though neither of you touched them. he doesn’t notice. he doesn’t care. he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes half-lidded.

“tag,” you whisper.

and you tap his chest lightly before darting away again, laughing as you run. he stands there for a moment, dizzy with you, drunk on you, ready to follow you wherever you go.

“hey—” he calls out, breathless and grinning, “you can’t just tag and run—”

he curves around the back of the jungle gym, expecting you to be perched on top of it or crouched behind it or leaning against a post with that smug little smile —- but you’re not there. you’re not anywhere.

he stops so abruptly the world seems to keep moving without him. the mulch shifts under his shoes, his breath catches, and the air around him… changes. he turns in a slow circle, scanning the empty playground. “okay,” he murmurs, voice strangely thin. “very funny. where’d you go?”

nothing answers.

nothing

answ rs

n thing answ s.

no th ng an wers

everything is

perfect

your laugh

the swings

your hand gripping his

the heat of your mouth against his

the world bending around you

you you you you

“excuse me?”

his eyes snap open. the greenhouse snaps back into focus, bright, humid, alive with color. the flowers are still. the lights steady. the path clear. you’re standing in front of him, hands clasped around the strap of your bag.

“are you… okay?” you ask carefully, like he might topple if you raise your voice even a little.

“sorry,” he says—because that’s all he can manage, that’s all he has. “i… spaced out.”

you nod slowly, still studying him. “yeah. i noticed. i was just asking if you came here with anyone.”

he swallows hard and forces a smile, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. because everything is fine.

“no, i’m not here with anyone.”

PUBLISHED 11/20/2025.

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