Bruce learned quickly that loving her meant loving excess.

Not recklessness—precision. Fabric swatches spread across the manor table. Reference images pulled up on monitors usually reserved for city infrastructure and threat analysis. Measurements taken twice, adjusted once more, because accuracy mattered to her in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of himself.

She didn’t cosplay to be seen. She did it to become—to step into worlds that demanded craftsmanship, commitment, and imagination. Bruce recognized that devotion instantly. It was the same quiet obsession that drove him into caves and night skies.

So he funded it.

Custom armor plates forged lighter than steel but stronger than they looked. Hand-stitched leather dyed to the exact shade of a character’s canon design. LEDs calibrated to glow just right under convention lighting. He sourced rare materials like he was prepping for a mission, because to him, this was one.

He never questioned the price tag. Money was the simplest part of this. What mattered was the way her face lit up when a piece arrived finished. The way she turned in front of the mirror, fingers tracing seams, already half gone into another universe.

Bruce watched from the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable—but his chest felt strangely full.

He bought her costumes not to spoil her, not to control her.

He did it because he understood what it meant to build yourself into something extraordinary

And because, in a world where he wore his own armor every night, he admired anyone brave enough to choose theirs in daylight.