You stood at the doorway of the walk-in closet like you were surveying a battlefield.

“Bruce,” you said, eyes narrowing, “your side of the closet looks like a funeral home and a SWAT team had a baby.”

He didn’t look up from fastening his cufflinks. “It’s organized. Efficient.”

“It’s terrifying,” you corrected, wandering in and running your fingers across a row of nearly identical black suits. “There’s no joy here. Just shadows and repressed emotions.”

“It’s a closet, not a therapy session.”

You scoffed, turning toward your side—an explosion of colors, textures, chaotic beauty. “You chose to date a human mood ring and still think we can coexist in this shared space?”

Bruce finally glanced at you through the mirror. “Balance,” he said simply. “Yin and yang.”

“Okay Yin, but your ‘yang’ has exactly four inches of closet space left before your monochrome empire invades my territory.”

He smirked. “Maybe if you didn’t own twelve variations of the same sweater in different pastel shades…”

You gasped dramatically. “Those are emotional support sweaters.”

“Mine support stealth missions,” he replied, straight-faced.

You grabbed a neon pink hoodie from your side and draped it over one of his suits. “Boom. Emotional support stealth.”

He blinked, horrified. “You’re weaponizing color.”

You leaned against the wall with a satisfied grin. “Welcome to my side of the war, Batboy.”