You were sitting on the edge of the workbench, swinging your legs, wearing one of Bruce’s hoodies that practically swallowed you whole. It hung off your frame like it was made for someone twice your size — because it was. The sleeves bunched at your hands, the hem nearly to your knees.

Bruce stood a few feet away, running diagnostics on the Batcomputer, but you could feel his eyes drifting back to you more than once.

“Something wrong with your tech?” you asked, raising a brow.

He turned slightly, leaned against the desk beside you with that smug, quiet smirk that always meant trouble. “Not the tech.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What, then?”

He reached out, tugging playfully on the hoodie’s sleeve that completely engulfed your hand. “Just wondering how someone so small keeps stealing my clothes like they belong to you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t blame me for having good taste.”

“It’s not blame,” he murmured, stepping closer. “It’s fascination. You’re half my size, and yet somehow manage to take over every space you walk into.”

Your breath caught slightly at that.

“You know I could fold you in half and put you in a drawer, right?” he added, voice low, teasing.

You shoved his chest lightly. “You would say something like that.”

He caught your wrist, smiling now. “I would. Because it’s true.”

“Keep talking, Wayne,” you said, faux-threatening, “and I’m climbing onto that bat symbol and declaring you my personal tree.”

“I’m already yours,” he said simply, eyes dark with affection.

Your face flushed.

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. “And for the record? This hoodie looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

You didn’t say anything — just melted into him as he wrapped his arms around you, completely enveloping you in warmth and shadow and him.

Even if you were half his size, you fit perfectly.