Wayne Manor boasted seven palatial bathrooms—each larger than most Gotham apartments, outfitted with heated floors, rainfall showers, and mirrors so pristine you could see your reflection from every angle. And yet, every morning without fail, you and Bruce found yourselves squeezed into the same one, engaged in what could only be described as a synchronized grooming ballet.

This morning was no exception.

Bruce stood at the marble sink, his broad shoulders taking up far more than his fair share of mirror space as he dragged a razor through the shaving foam on his jaw. You, meanwhile, had one leg propped up on the counter beside him, stealing swipes of his sandalwood-scented foam for your own use.

"You," you said, pointing your razor at him accusingly, "are hogging the hot water and the mirror."

Bruce didn't even pause, his eyes meeting yours in the glass as he rinsed his blade. "And you," he countered, "are using my shaving cream to deforest your legs."

You gasped in mock offense, nearly losing your balance—which only made Bruce's free arm shoot out to steady you, his palm warm against your hip.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep.

You grinned, swiping another dollop of foam from his cheek. "Worried about me, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "Worried about my good towels when you inevitably topple over."

The steam from the shower curled around you both, fogging the mirrors, blurring the edges until it was just the two of you in your own little world—sharing foam, space, and the quiet, domestic joy of being perfectly in each other's way.