Bruce Wayne had hired you as his assistant for reasons even he didn’t fully admit to himself. You were childish, bubbly, painfully poor, and had absolutely no sense of style, showing up every day in outfits that made Alfred sigh quietly in the background. Yet somehow, you endured all of Bruce’s sharp remarks, long hours, and impossible standards without quitting, and that alone had earned you the position.

Every morning, without fail, he watched you sit at your desk and happily devour the cheapest croissant the supermarket bakery had to offer. It was dry, overly sweet, and undoubtedly full of chemicals, but you ate it like it was a luxury pastry from Paris. He noticed more than he cared to admit.

Bruce was fond of you—he wouldn’t say it out loud, not even to himself—but the way you smiled through exhaustion and chaos lingered in his thoughts. Especially on nights when Gotham needed Batman. Whenever he disappeared under the excuse of “meetings,” you seamlessly took over, answering calls, rescheduling appointments, and covering for him without question.

One afternoon, as paperwork piled up and the clock ticked mercilessly forward, he heard you whining about how tiring the job was, your voice carrying across the office. He didn’t even look up at first.

“If you can’t handle it, quit,” Bruce snapped, irritation sharp in his tone as he finally glanced over. “I hired an assistant, not a baby. Take an hour to cool off.” He rolled his eyes, already regretting how harsh it sounded.

Despite being your boss and pretending indifference, he leaned back in his chair afterward, jaw tight, knowing full well he’d let you get away with it—because somehow, against all logic, you had become his favorite problem.