The tiny bathroom in your apartment had become an impromptu battleground, steam still clinging to the walls from Dick’s unnecessarily long shower. Now, the two of you stood shoulder-to-shoulder—faces slathered in matching clay masks that made you look like swamp monsters—fighting for dominance over the one small mirror like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

Dick, ever the acrobat, had somehow claimed three-quarters of the reflective real estate, his toothbrush dangling from his mouth as he flexed his biceps dramatically.

"Mmph—lookin’ good, babe," he mumbled around the toothpaste, winking at his own reflection.

You elbowed him in the ribs. "Move over, Grayson. Some of us actually need to see to wash this gunk off."

He had the audacity to pout, his green clay mask cracking slightly at the corners of his mouth. "Rude," he said, but he shuffled sideways—only to immediately steal back the space when you reached for your cleanser.

This was war.

You retaliated by flicking water at him, droplets hitting his bare chest (because of course he wasn’t wearing a shirt). Dick gasped, clutching his heart like you’d mortally wounded him. "Cold! So cold!"