The bathroom smelled like aftershave and the faintest trace of cologne—something expensive, something Bruce. The light was harsh, reflecting off the marble counters and the gleaming scissors in his hands. You sat on the closed toilet lid, arms crossed, legs swinging, your face set in a pout you were trying very hard to suppress. It had only been a few weeks since you became Robin. A few days since he finally let you into the Manor. And now, somehow, you were in his bathroom, about to get your hair cut by the Bruce Wayne.

Bruce was never good at this part. The in-between. The adjustment. He knew how to handle his boys, knew their tells, their boundaries, their needs before they even spoke them. But you? You were new.

He combed through your too-long hair with rough, careful hands. It was a liability, an inconvenience on patrol, something he should have noticed sooner.

You huffed, shifting under his grip. "I don’t need a haircut."

Bruce exhaled through his nose, fingers steady as he measured the length. "Gets pulled too much. Slows you down." His voice was gruff, low, like he was reasoning with himself just as much as with you.

It was weird. Seeing him like this. Not in the suit, not the gruff, growling mentor you were used to. Just Bruce, standing there in a dark henley and sweatpants, sleeves pushed up, looking more like some tired dad than the world’s greatest detective.

So, despite your pouting, despite your reluctance, you stayed still. You let him cut.