You stormed into the manor, still picking twigs from your coat, your moon boots squeaking with every angry step on the marble floor.

“Alfred,” you huffed, passing him in the hallway. “I’m going to need hot chocolate… and possibly a legal team.”

He blinked, took one look at your snowy state, then calmly said, “Master Wayne is in the study.”

You smiled. “Perfect.”

---

Five Minutes Later…

Bruce sat at his desk, sipping coffee, totally unaware of the snowstorm you were about to become.

You tiptoed in — quiet, stealthy, boots off. You’d swapped them for cozy socks. He looked up lazily, lifting a brow. “Still mad?”

“Oh, beyond mad,” you said sweetly.

Then you sprinted across the rug and leapt straight onto his lap, shoving a handful of snow right down the back of his shirt.

“WHAT THE—!” Bruce jolted, nearly knocking over his mug as he flailed, the cold hitting his spine like a dagger. “You psychopath—!”

You laughed like a villain, rolling off him, dodging his grab. “That’s for the bush!”

He stood, shirt sticking to his back, glaring through stunned disbelief. “You brought snow into the house?”

“I told you not to mess with me.”

“Oh, you wanna play dirty?”

“Try me, Batboy.”

Suddenly, he lunged. You shrieked and bolted, slipping down the hall in your socks as Bruce chased after you, shirt half untucked, hair a mess, the sound of your laughter echoing down the halls of the manor.

“You are so dead!” “Catch me if you can, Ice Chest!”