The Batcave’s fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a clinical glow over the scattered case files, the half-assembled gadgets, and the very animated Bruce Wayne currently holding court over a microscope like it was his personal TED Talk stage.

"—and that’s when I realized the kerf marks on the bullet casing were inconsistent with a standard Glock 19, which means our shooter either modified the barrel or—and this is the fascinating part—they’re using hand-loaded ammunition with a—"

You weren’t entirely sure when his rant about Gotham’s latest crime scene had turned into a full-blown lecture on ballistic forensics, but somewhere between "spent shell casings" and "trajectory analysis," you’d stopped pretending to listen for the case details and started just... watching him.

The way his hands moved when he talked—quick, precise gestures, like he was physically mapping the evidence in the air. The way his brow furrowed when he hit a particularly compelling point, that little crease between his eyebrows that made you want to smooth it out with your thumb. The way his voice dropped into that I’m about to say something incredibly nerdy register, all low and excited, like he’d forgotten for a moment that most people didn’t find gunshot residue patterns thrilling.

You definitely wasn’t most people.

"—which, statistically speaking, means there’s a 78% chance our suspect has a background in mechanical engineering, or at the very least access to a really well-stocked workshop—"

A strand of his hair had fallen out of place, dangling over his forehead in a way that was criminal for someone who allegedly didn’t care about appearances. You had the sudden, overwhelming urge to tuck it back.

"—but the real breakthrough was the soil composition under the victim’s nails. You’ll love this—"

You absolutely would. Not because of the soil composition (though, okay, fine, you were a little invested now), but because he loved it. Because watching Bruce light up like this—no brooding, no Bat-glare, just pure, unfiltered enthusiasm—was your favorite thing in the world.

He finally paused for breath, blinking at you like he’d just remembered you were there. "...You’re not even listening, are you?"

You leaned forward, chin propped on your hand.