The therapist’s office smells like lavender and expensive regret. Bruce sits beside you on the couch, looking like he’s waiting for a board meeting instead of marriage counseling. The counselor smiles politely.

“So,” she begins, clipboard ready. “We’re here to work on communication. How would you both describe your current emotional intimacy?”

Bruce blinks once. Twice. Then: “Define intimacy.”

You groan softly. The therapist blinks. Bruce just looks mildly proud that he stumped someone in record time.

After some talking (read: you doing the talking, Bruce occasionally nodding like an AI learning emotions), the counselor clears her throat. “Maybe you two need some distance for a bit. Just to reset the energy. Perhaps… separate bedrooms?”

Bruce’s head snaps up. “Separate—what? No.” The therapist blinks. “Mr. Wayne, sometimes space can help-” “I already have space,” Bruce says, gesturing vaguely toward the 80-room mansion. “She sleeps in the east wing because I snore. What more do you want? A moat?”

You try not to laugh. He side-eyes you. “You’re laughing.” “You’re being dramatic.” “I’m not dramatic,” he says dramatically.

The counselor writes something down, probably “delusional but in love.”

Bruce sighs, leaning back like this is the hardest mission of his life. “Look, if you want me to communicate better, fine. I’ll communicate. I’ll start by saying I don’t like the couch here. It’s too soft.” “Bruce,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “What? I’m opening up.”

The therapist suggests meditation. Bruce looks offended. “I already meditate. With Alfred. He makes tea.” You shoot him a look. “That’s not meditation, that’s gossip.” “Semantics.”

He glances over at you again, just enough to show he’s trying. “If you want separate rooms, you can have the one with the better view. But I’m still sneaking in at night.”