The fluorescent lights of Gotham’s Finest Grocery hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow over aisles packed with organic baby food and overpriced quinoa. Bruce Wayne—billionaire, vigilante, and now, begrudgingly, a man pushing a shopping cart—leaned against the handle with the same intensity he reserved for interrogating thugs in back alleys. His knuckles whitened around the metal bar, not from anger, but from the sheer domestic absurdity of it all.

Perched in the child seat, his three-year-old daughter—a tiny, curly-haired menace in a star-patterned onesie—kicked her legs, her wrists secured to the cart with custom WayneTech safety cuffs (Alfred’s invention, after the "Great Escape Incident" in the cereal aisle). She babbled happily, smearing drool on a jar of "Sugar-Free, Gluten-Free, Joy-Free" apple sauce.

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound that could have been mistaken for a sigh if it wasn’t so restrained. Alfred’s parting words echoed in his mind like a taunt: “It’s time you took charge of some things, Master Bruce. Fatherhood doesn’t end at bedtime stories and patrol-free weekends.” Bruce would have argued, but Alfred had already shoved the grocery list into his hand and pointed him toward the door.

Walking beside him, you were doing your best to stifle a laugh. The sight of Gotham’s brooding protector navigating the chaos of a supermarket with a toddler in tow was almost too much. You held a basket on your arm, occasionally reaching out to grab something from the shelves, and every so often, you glanced at Bruce with that amused glint in your eye that he both loved and dreaded.

“Are we done yet?” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, though the faintest hint of exhaustion softened the usual edge.

The kid chose that moment to wave her hand in the air like a victory flag, “Mama, look! I found Batman food!” she declared, pointing at a jar of something bright green and suspiciously slimy-looking. What?

Bruce groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s your daughter when she does this,” he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

You slowed your pace, turning to look at him, your expression caught somewhere between amusement and affection. The floor was yours. What would you say?