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At Gotham University, Tim Drake-Wayne isn’t just another name on the dean’s list—he’s a legend.
Not the kind of legend who throws parties in penthouses or walks into lectures five minutes late with sunglasses on and a hangover. No, Tim is the other kind—the rare kind. The kind of legend who never shows up late, who glides through every room with quiet precision, and whose reputation spreads through whispers and well-earned awe rather than spectacle.
He’s composed, impossibly sharp, and just a little terrifying.
Professors sing his praises in staff meetings—“brilliant,” “hyper-efficient,” “a natural leader.” Students call him the Ice Prince , Wayne Jr. , CEO of Not Giving a Damn . He never raises his voice, never fumbles for words. He answers questions with exactly the amount of effort needed to demonstrate he’s thought six steps ahead, and then goes quiet again, as if he’s already mentally moved on to the next task. Rumor has it he submitted his thesis proposal before the semester even began.
Everyone knows who he is. Tim Drake-Wayne , heir to the old Drake fortune and now adopted son of Bruce Wayne —which makes him Gotham’s most elusive brand of royalty. Money. Legacy. Power. The whole package. But it’s not just that. It’s the way he moves —shoulders back, gaze steady, voice low but razor-sharp. Like someone who sees the whole chessboard and is just indulging everyone else by playing along.
He’s polite, unfailingly so. But not warm. There’s always distance in his interactions—like everyone is being kept at arm’s length, no matter how friendly he seems. The wall is always there, cool and quiet and impenetrable. He doesn’t do parties, doesn’t date publicly, doesn’t slip . Not socially. Not academically. Not emotionally.
Which is why when he starts acting off , people notice.
It’s not dramatic. Not the kind of thing you can point at. Just… small, off-pattern things.
Like the watch—a black leather band, rugged and clearly worn-in, not the sleek, clean pieces Tim usually favors. Or how he starts checking his phone more during the day—just brief glances, fast replies, his thumb moving like muscle memory. It’s subtle. But Tim Drake doesn’t text during lunch . He doesn’t smile softly at his screen. He doesn’t space out during his TA sessions or take calls on the quad and return looking faintly flushed.
And then there’s the neck blush —a tiny thing, really, just a bit of color at the base of his throat that starts showing up way too often . The girls in his comparative politics seminar keep track of it like meteorologists. “Forecast says there is a 30% chance of pink at 10:45. Higher odds if he’s already on his phone.”
Speculation spirals out of control.
Some say it’s a trust fund kid from Ivy Town. Others are sure it’s someone from Metropolis—an older guy, maybe, judging by the way Tim’s smile changes in those rare moments it actually appears. There's a spreadsheet circulating in the senior girls’ group chat labeled “Drake Dating Watch: Q4 Theories”. It includes surveillance photos, known associates, class schedules, and a dangerously unhinged suspect list that includes everyone from high society to one of the assistant fencing coaches.
Still—no proof. Not a single photo. No tagged Instagram posts, no hand-holding in hallways. He doesn’t even look at anyone on campus the way you’d expect from someone crushing hard.
Until Friday.
It’s an uncharacteristically warm afternoon for late April, the kind of spring day that Gotham rarely sees. The sun hangs high in a bright blue sky, casting a soft glow over the courtyard of Gotham University. A lazy breeze shifts through the trees, rustling the leaves as students sprawl out across the lawn, basking in the unusually pleasant weather. Groups of friends lounge on the stone steps of the building, the laughter and chatter of end-of-week conversations filling the air.
Seniors, especially, are on edge—restless, as the finish line draws closer. They talk about what’s next —about jobs lined up in sleek Manhattan offices or moving back home after four years of barely-contained chaos. They discuss prom, graduation, and what they’ll do with their lives once they leave the gilded cage that is Gotham University.
But even amidst this buzz of future plans and post-college nerves, there’s one person who stands apart—Tim Drake-Wayne.
Tim’s standing just outside the gate, a subtle, almost imperceptible figure as he scrolls through his phone, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. He’s the picture of effortless control. His uniform is pristine, crisp—a tailored jacket, a buttoned-down shirt with the top button left undone. His sleeves are rolled just enough to give the impression of a man who has better things to do than fiddle with unnecessary details. His hair catches the sunlight at the right angle, almost making him seem like a vision in the golden glow of the afternoon.
Then— the car pulls up.
At first, it’s just a murmur through the crowd—something distant, like the hum of an engine. Then, louder, the growl of a car pulling up to the gates, followed by the unmistakable, smooth hum of an engine that seems to pulse with power. The sound is so low, so rich , it sends a ripple through the students like a physical shockwave.
They look up, almost instinctively, without knowing exactly why.
The car is a sight to behold: a deep navy-blue Aston Martin Vantage, gleaming under the sun like a perfect machine. It’s the kind of car that belongs in movies—sleek, expensive, impossibly cool . The kind of car you don’t just own —you show off .
The engine purrs one last time, settling into an idling hum as the car pulls to a perfect stop. The tires kiss the curb like it’s second nature.
And then, he steps out.
The courtyard goes silent. Kon-El—tall, impossibly broad, wearing a black leather jacket that looks like it was made just for him—takes a leisurely step out of the car. His hair is wild, thick and dark, tousled by the wind, and he’s got a pair of sunglasses pushed back up on his head.
He’s wearing tight black jeans, a silver chain hanging casually around his neck, and an expression that could only be described as confident . There’s a casualness to his movements, like he’s used to attention, like he doesn’t have to try to look cool —because he already is .
Kon’s eyes search the courtyard before lighting up like the sun.
The courtyard holds its breath.
Someone drops a drink. A junior chokes on their gum. Someone mutters a stunned “Holy shit,” so loud it’s heard over the sudden hush that falls over the entire crowd.
“Is he a model?”
“Who is that?”
“Oh my god—he’s walking this way.”
And as if on cue, Kon starts walking toward the center of the courtyard, boots thudding confidently against the stone walkway, every step perfectly timed. Every eye follows him.
But Kon isn’t looking at everyone . He’s looking at one person.
Tim.
Tim, who looks up at the sound of footsteps, face unreadable at first—until it isn’t. Until it softens.
And he smiles.
It’s small. Barely there. But it’s a smile. An affectionate, genuine one. A smile that has never been seen on campus—especially not by the students who are currently staring in shock.
“Hey,” Kon says, his voice low, warm, and perfectly casual like they’ve been friends for years, like this isn’t the first time any of them have seen him.
“You’re late,” Tim replies with a casual glance, his tone light—but there’s something different in it. The way he says it, the way he moves closer , just a few steps, his hand reaching up to brush against Kon’s arm—almost instinctively.
Kon shrugs, not bothered by the crowd or anything else. “There was traffic.” He leans down slightly and presses a soft, affectionate kiss to Tim’s cheek.
Tim doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. Instead, his cheeks pinken .
The courtyard erupts .
Students freeze, some of them staring with wide eyes, others breaking out into screams. Someone actually faints . The juniors nearby scream in high-pitched disbelief. Several students start furiously texting, their thumbs moving so fast the screen might catch fire.
One senior mutters, “Damn it.” as they pull out a wad of cash from their pocket and start passing it around in stunned silence.
Tim, unfazed by the frenzy, simply walks toward the car like this is all part of his day. He slips into the passenger seat, smooth and casual, like he’s done this a thousand times before.
Kon slides into the driver’s seat, the engine roars to life, and the car pulls off with a soft purr that echoes in the now-empty courtyard.
As the car turns the corner and disappears from sight, someone yells, almost frantic:
“WHO WAS THAT?”
“WAIT, WAS THAT TIM’S BOYFRIEND ??”
“HE’S SO HOT I THINK I’M GAY NOW.”
The second the car is out of sight, the frenzy begins. Twitter is set ablaze. A thread called “TIM DRAKE-WAYNE: A STUDY IN ROMANTIC EXCELLENCE” goes viral within minutes. Students start combing through every single detail they can get their hands on—the license plate, the make of the car, where he came from, who he is.
But Tim? Tim just walks into school on Monday, exactly the same as he always does. Shirt tucked in. Phone in hand. Expression as neutral as ever—impossible to read.
Except this time, he’s wearing a silver chain.
And when a student, trying to sound casual, asks, “So... who was that on Friday?” Tim just looks at them with that faint, knowing smile. His gaze flickers with something like mischief before he shrugs and says, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
And keeps walking.