The cave was silent except for the drip-drip of condensation from the stalactites and the furious clicking of Bruce’s keyboard. You stood across the Batcomputer, arms crossed, your glare sharp enough to cut through Kevlar.

"You promised," you hissed. "No patrols until your ribs healed."

Bruce didn’t look up. "I recalibrated the armor."

"Recalibrated—? Bruce, you got stabbed yesterday!"

"Grazed."

"STABBED."

The argument spiraled—mission parameters, trust issues, the fact he’d literally used bat-shaped bandaids like a child. Until—

"Pineapple."

You froze. Bruce’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

"...You didn’t just say that."

He swallowed. "Protocol."

"Our protocol," you muttered, rubbing your temples. "God, I hate that we picked pineapple."

Because after the last fight, you’d both agreed: the next ridiculous word uttered mid-fight meant ceasefire. And of course Bruce had chosen something absurd—strategic, he claimed, to "disrupt emotional escalation."