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The ceiling of the Titans safehouse was cracked.
Tim had never noticed before. He'd slept in this room dozens of times—passed out after patrol, collapsed after planning sessions, staring at the ceiling while Bruce's voicemail played on a loop. He'd never seen the hairline fracture spiderwebbing from the light fixture to the corner.
Funny, the things you notice when you're trying not to think.
Connor's hand was on his stomach.
Not moving. Just resting there, palm flat, fingers spread, a grounding weight that rose and fell with Tim's breathing. Connor's other arm was tucked under his own head, and he was staring at the same ceiling, his expression unreadable in the dim glow of the city beyond the blinds.
They hadn't said anything yet.
Tim didn't know what to say. Sorry felt wrong. Thank you felt worse. What the hell just happened was accurate but also the kind of question that required answers Tim didn't have.
Three weeks ago, he'd been with Bernard. Three weeks ago, he'd thought—well, it didn't matter what he'd thought. Bernard had ended it gently, which somehow made it worse. You're not here, Tim. You're never here. And I can't keep waiting for someone who's already gone.
Tim had understood. He'd even agreed.
But understanding and healing were different continents.
"Your heartbeat's speeding up," Connor said quietly. No accusation. Just observation.
Tim exhaled. "Sorry."
"For what?"
"For—" Tim gestured vaguely at the room, the bed, the tangled sheets, the fact that Connor's hand was still on his stomach and Tim hadn't moved it. "This. All of it."
Connor turned his head. His eyes were dark in the low light, but there was something soft there. Something Tim wasn't used to seeing directed at him.
"You don't have to apologize," Connor said. "I was there too. In case you forgot."
"I didn't forget." Tim's voice came out thinner than he wanted. "I just—I wasn't expecting—"
"Yeah." Connor's thumb moved, a slow stroke across Tim's ribs. "Me neither."
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But unfamiliar. Tim had spent years compartmentalizing, pushing emotions into boxes labeled LATER or NEVER. This moment didn't fit in any box. This moment was Connor's hand and the cracked ceiling and the way his own body still felt loose, open, different.
He'd bottomed before. Not often. Usually with partners who treated it like a transaction—mutual pleasure, clinical efficiency, goodnight. But Connor had been patient. Connor had watched Tim's face like he was reading a manual, adjusting pressure, asking wordless questions with his hands.
And Tim had let him.
Had wanted him to.
That was the part Tim didn't know what to do with.
"Hey." Connor shifted onto his side, facing Tim fully. His hand didn't leave Tim's stomach. "Where are you right now?"
Tim blinked. "What?"
"Not physically. Mentally." Connor's other hand came up to brush a stray strand of hair from Tim's forehead. "You've got that look. The one where you're building a strategy instead of being here."
Tim's throat tightened. "I don't—"
"You do." Connor's voice was gentle but firm. No judgment. Just fact. "You've been doing it since I met you. It's fine. But I'm asking you to try something different. Just for a minute."
"What?"
"Stay."
Tim stared at him.
Connor didn't look away. His hand settled on Tim's cheek, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. Touch that was tender in a way Tim hadn't experienced since—since ever, maybe. Bernard had been kind, but Bernard had also kept a certain distance. A safe distance.
Connor had never learned safe distance.
"I'm not Bernard," Connor said, as if reading his mind. "I'm not going to be mad if you're quiet. I'm not going to leave because you don't have the right words. I just—" He paused, searching for something. "I just want to know if you're okay. Not the mission report. The real answer."
Tim's chest ached.
He wasn't okay. He hadn't been okay in months. Years, maybe. He was good at pretending, at performing functionality while his insides ran in circles. But Connor was looking at him with those stupid earnest eyes, and Tim was too tired to lie.
"I don't know," Tim admitted. "I don't know what I am right now."
Connor nodded slowly. "That's okay."
"It's not."
"It's a start." Connor's hand slid from Tim's cheek to his shoulder, pulling him gently, and Tim went—because he was tired, because Connor was warm, because the cracked ceiling was suddenly less interesting than the solid weight of another body against his own.
They lay like that for a while. Connor's chin rested on top of Tim's head. Tim's face was pressed to Connor's collarbone, breathing in the faint scent of ozone and laundry detergent. Connor's heartbeat was slow. Steady. So different from Tim's own rabbit-fast pulse.
"This is weird," Tim mumbled into Connor's chest.
"Which part?"
"All of it. Us. The—" He hesitated. "The bottom thing."
Connor huffed a quiet laugh. "You mean having sex?"
"I mean me." Tim pulled back just enough to look up. "I'm not—I don't usually just let go like that. I plan. I prepare. I have contingency plans for contingency plans. But tonight, I just—" He swallowed. "I didn't plan anything. And you were there. And it was good. And I don't know what to do with that."
Connor's expression softened. "You don't have to do anything with it. You can just let it be good."
"That's not how my brain works."
"I know." Connor pressed a kiss to Tim's forehead, quick and warm. "But maybe we can teach it."
Tim felt something crack open in his chest. Not painfully. More like a window being unsealed after years of being painted shut. Fresh air, even if it stung.
"You're being weird," Tim said, because he didn't know how else to respond.
"I'm being honest." Connor's thumb traced idle patterns on Tim's back. "The sex was good. You're good. And I'm not going anywhere just because Bernard made a different choice."
Tim flinched slightly at the name, but Connor didn't push. Just kept touching, kept breathing, kept being there.
"It's different with you," Tim said finally, quietly. "Bottoming, I mean. It's not just—I thought I knew what it felt like. But you." He stopped. Started again. "You made me feel safe. And that's not something I'm used to."
Connor was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than before. "Tim."
"Yeah?"
"You're allowed to feel safe. You're allowed to be held. You're allowed to not have a plan." Connor pulled him closer, and Tim let himself be pulled. "I've got you. That's not a contingency. That's just a fact."
Tim closed his eyes.
Connor's hand was still on his back. The cracked ceiling was still above them. The city hummed its distant, endless song.
And Tim Drake, for the first time in longer than he could remember, stopped planning.
"Connor?"
"Mm?"
"Stay."
Connor's arms tightened around him. "Wasn't going anywhere."
Tim believed him.