The Batcave was unusually... pink.

Bruce stood frozen at the base of the staircase, his cape still dripping rainwater from patrol, his cowl half-pushed back to reveal an expression caught between horror and reluctant amusement. The scene before him defied logic:

You—his highly capable, usually rational partner—were perched on a swivel chair in front of the Batcomputer, which currently displayed not criminal databases or satellite feeds, but a glittery tutorial titled "DIY Glow-in-the-Dark Nail Art: Galaxy Edition!" Your tongue poked out in concentration as you carefully dotted silver polish onto your nails, a half-finished cup of strawberry bubble tea sweating condensation onto the keyboard.

Alfred appeared at Bruce’s shoulder, holding a tray of antiseptic wipes (for the inevitable glitter cleanup). "I believe this is what the youth refer to as ‘self-care Sunday,’ sir."

Bruce’s eye twitched. "That’s my emergency contact."