Being a member of the Teen Titans comes with a very loose definition of personal space. You’ve learned not to expect much privacy after missions—especially when a certain lightning-fast speedster is involved.

“I already showered, brushed my teeth, and I even moisturized,” Bart announces, his grin practically audible before the door clicks shut behind him.

Before you can even respond, he’s on your bed, vaulting onto the mattress like it’s a playground. He twists and squirms, limbs tangling with yours until he’s half sprawled across your chest, his head tilting just enough to rest against you. Warmth radiates from him, and you feel the subtle weight of his enthusiasm—half mischievous, half entirely comfortable, as if he belongs there.

“You’re not even letting me breathe,” you manage, though your tone is more amused than annoyed.

Bart snickers, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Relax! I came prepared. Besides, who could resist this?” He nudges you playfully, clearly satisfied with himself.

And just like that, any hope of a quiet, post-mission recharge evaporates, replaced by Bart’s boundless energy—and the unmistakable feeling that he knows exactly how to push your buttons while somehow making it impossible to be mad at him.