You were painting together — or at least, you were painting. Bruce was supervising like a very judgmental art critic.

“So... what’s your favorite color?” you asked casually, dabbing blue onto the canvas.

“Black,” he answered, without looking up from his tablet.

“That’s not a color. It’s a shade.”

“It’s every color, technically.”

You squinted at him. “You just like it because it matches your trauma.”

“I like it because it’s efficient.”

“Efficient,” you scoffed. “It’s depressing. Your wardrobe looks like a funeral procession.”

He raised a brow. “And yet, here you are. Dating a human thundercloud.”

You pointed your paintbrush at him, splattering a dot of orange on his sleeve. “And proud of it. But maybe throw in a navy blue sometime? A soft gray? Give the Bat a pastel?”

“Only if you wear tactical gear and call it a sundress.”

You gasped. “Bruce.”

He smirked. “We all make sacrifices.”