You stare at it longer than necessary.

There are a dozen things it doesn’t say. Midnight. The balcony. The way his hand had settled at your waist like it belonged there. The fact that neither of you pulled away because you had to.

You type back something equally empty.

📱You: I did. Busy morning. Talk later.

It’s perfect. Polite. Contained.

It says nothing at all.

You sent it anyway.

By the time you see him in person, the city has slipped back into routine. The office hums. Elevators chime. People pass without looking twice.

Tim is already there when you arrive — standing near the windows, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to look unguarded without actually being so. He turns at the sound of your footsteps.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Morning.”

That’s it.

The space between you feels newly crowded, like something invisible has been set there overnight. Conversation stays clean. Professional. Tim asks about a document you’re finalizing. You answer. You ask about a meeting later in the week. He nods.

At one point, he reaches for a folder at the same time you do.

Your fingers hover inches apart.

The moment stretches — not interrupted, not broken — just paused. Your hand shifts instinctively, closing the distance before you stop yourself.

Tim pulls his hand back first.

“Sorry,” he says automatically, even though there’s nothing to apologize for.

“No, it’s fine,” you reply, just as reflexively.

You both step away.

It would have been easier if someone had walked in. If a phone had rung. If anything external had forced the distance.

Instead, you chose it.

That’s worse.

As the day goes on, you notice the pattern.

Tim is careful. More careful than before.

He keeps meetings shorter. Keeps space between you in hallways. His tone is neutral to the point of restraint, like he’s afraid that any warmth might be read as something else — something he no longer trusts himself to define.

You recognize the move.

Containment.

The problem is, you hadn’t realized how much ease there had been until it was gone.

Later, Wayne Manor is quieter than usual.

Bruce is waiting in the study, posture relaxed in a way that suggests this isn’t accidental. Tim pauses when he sees him.

“Long night,” Bruce says mildly.

“Yes,” Tim replies.

Bruce studies him for a moment — not searching, just observing. The way he always does, as if patterns speak louder than words.

“You seem settled,” Bruce says.

Tim’s jaw tightens, just slightly. “Things are… stable.”

“That carries weight,” Bruce replies. He crosses the room, straightening a book that doesn’t need it. “Especially right now.”

Tim nods. He already knows what’s coming.

“January fifteenth is approaching,” Bruce continues. “Perception will matter more as we get closer.”

“I’m aware.”

Bruce turns then, finally meeting his eyes. There’s no accusation there. No approval either.

“Be sure this is intentional,” he says.

“It is,” Tim answers.

The response comes too quickly.

Bruce accepts that. Or appears to. He gives a small nod and lets the conversation end there.

But as Tim leaves the room, the certainty he spoke with doesn’t follow him.

That evening, you sit alone on your couch, laptop open but untouched.

You replay the day — the almost-touch, the way Tim stepped back, the careful distance he hadn’t needed before. You understand why he’s doing it. You even agree with the logic.

That doesn’t make it easier.

Before midnight, everything had been complicated but manageable. After, pretending nothing changed requires effort. Attention. Restraint.

Avoidance, you realize, isn’t neutral.

It costs something.

You pick up your phone, then set it back down.

January fifteenth looms quietly on the calendar — no longer an end point, but a question waiting to be answered.

And for the first time, you’re not sure silence is the safer choice.

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