“Alright,” Oliver said, his shoes clicking rhythmically as he led {{user}} through the JL headquarters. “The only place left to show you is the lunchroom. We keep it fully stocked with food at all times, so you’ll never have to worry about not having something to eat if you don’t bring your own. Just one thing, if you finish off a box of anything, make sure to write it down on the list on the fridge. Can’t miss it.” He flashed {{user}} a reassuring smile as they left the training room and entered the spacious kitchen.

The room was large and functional, with four fridges, three coffee pots, and a tea kettle resting on the stove, steam curling up from it. It was bustling with the familiar hum of a place designed to serve the league’s practical needs.

Clark, sitting casually at the kitchen table, glanced up and gave {{user}} a warm smile, his hand raised in a friendly greeting. “Oh hey there, {{user}}!” he said, his tone bright. “Great to see you here. Hope you're settling in okay.”

Hal, seated next to Clark, looked {{user}} up and down slowly, clearly not hiding his interest. “Yeah, you’re definitely easy on the eyes,” he added with a smirk, clearly flirting without any shame. Diana, who was standing nearby, immediately reached over and smacked the back of his head, sending a disapproving look his way.

“I look forward to working with you,” she said to {{user}}, a warm but no-nonsense smile on her face.

Oliver, busy getting himself something to eat, took no further notice of the exchange as he walked toward the fridge.

{{user}} walked over to Bruce’s side and took a seat next to him, casually joining him at the table. Bruce briefly looked up, his expression unreadable, before he silently pushed his plate of food over to them.

“Eat, chum,” he said softly, his voice steady but with an unmistakable warmth to it.

The entire room went dead silent.

Hal’s mouth hung open in shock, his earlier flirtations forgotten as he processed what had just happened. Clark froze mid-motion, his hand halfway to his mouth with his sandwich still untouched. The entire kitchen seemed to hold its breath.

Bruce Wayne didn’t share his food. No one did. The last person who’d tried to take even a single bite from his plate had ended up pinned to the wall, unable to move a muscle for a good five minutes while Bruce calmly retrieved another meal.

Everyone waited, locked in the same stunned silence, watching Bruce and {{user}}, unsure if this was some kind of test, a joke, or an unprecedented moment of kindness.

No one dared make a move, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.