The next morning, Bruce rolls into the kitchen like the overconfident war general he is—fresh from patrol, expecting his usual dark roast to be brewed and waiting.

And it is.

Except… you made it.

And instead of coffee grounds, you used crushed black beans, hot water, and a dash of soy sauce for color.

He sips it mid-grumble about the Batmobile, and freezes.

His eyes narrow. Tongue confused. “...What the hell is this?”

“Oh? Is there something wrong with your precious coffee, darling?” you ask, so sweet it’s suspicious.

“Did you poison me?”

You gasp. “Would I do that? On a Tuesday?”

Bruce stares into the mug, then slowly sets it down like it personally betrayed him. “You're escalating.”

“Oh, we’re past escalation. This is war.”