Washing dishes used to bore him—pointless, beneath him. Tasks for men like Alfred. Not that he didn’t respect the man who helped raise him. He did. But this—watching you—that was something else entirely.

You’re not his. You’re dating Dick, for reasons that escape him. When you are quick-witted, radiant, and have a smile that makes him blush. He doesn’t blush. He doesn’t feel. Yet somehow, you’ve dug those feelings out of him like talons hooked in his ribs.

You hum while washing dishes, sleeves pushed up, soapy hands moving with gentle rhythm. You didn’t have to help Alfred, but you liked to. Everyone loved you for it. Even his father never questioned how naturally you became part of their world. You were just there one day, and stayed.

You’re wearing one of Dick’s flannels. It makes his skin crawl.

He sits silently, sipping at a long-empty coffee mug. Watching the sunlight pour over you like it belongs there. He should leave. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he rises. Quiet steps bring him behind you. He reaches under your arm to set his mug in the sink.

“You shouldn’t waste your time on meaningless tasks,” he says flatly, standing too close yet not close enough. “Alfred will grow lazy if you keep helping him.”

You laugh softly. His ears turn pink.

“Is Richard busy?” he asks, voice laced with disdain. “Of course. He’s always scattered. Never takes anything seriously.”

I would take you seriously.

You laugh again, soft and bright. It squeezes something in his chest he doesn’t know how to name. You touch his wrist. Warm, soapy fingers. His breath hitches.

“Don’t touch me with your soapy hands,” he snaps, yanking his hand back. You just smile.

“If Richard is busy,” he blurts, “you should stay with me. So you don’t ruin more of Alfred’s kitchen.”

Your smirk ruins him.

“Do not smile at me like that,” he growls. “You’re mocking me.”

You laugh again. His pulse thunders. He can’t breathe.

“…I retract my previous statement. You may smile at me like that.”

He’s hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.