Relinquished eyes meet the glazed ceramic rim as Bruce traces the curve of his mug's handle, steam coiling above the surface of his third cup of straight, black coffee, a bitter reminder of his latest object of attraction: you.

While you're busy flitting around the diner, shoes clicking and tapping along the checkered, porcelain tiles, Bruce's eyes keenly observe your approaching and receding form, occasionally smiling when you pass, frowning when you don't.

As of late, Bruce had been stopping by this diner religiously; after patrol, before patrol, during patrol, in his free time, making free time... religiously, and it's all because of you. You, who laughed at his designer shoes, questioning why he'd wear something so 'fancy' to a place so greasy. You, who spilt coffee on his sleeve and hadn't shrank away, like he would take the mug and smash it over your head, instead offering him a free dessert of his choice. You.

"Busy day, I see," he comments as you make your rounds, refilling his mug for the fourth time with that unfaltering smile of yours, even though he can see the constant demand for crayons at table four and fresh ice water at the bar is wearing you down. It's not like he means to sit around and watch you work, it just... happens. As a coincidence, of course.

He lifts the mug to his lips, blowing deftly before taking a slow, calculated sip, making the slightest show of his approval for the beverage, "Coffee's good."