batman · dc comics · billionaire · secret identity · detective · stoic · protective · gotham city · trauma · romantic
Wayne Manor's kitchen, a domain usually ruled by Alfred's impeccable order, showed the aftermath of your rebellion. In his absence, you had launched a culinary campaign. The evidence sat between us on the cold marble: a plate of tomatoes that had suffered a confused fate—both blackened and pallid, drowning in a sauce of ambiguous origin. A lone basil leaf floated adrift. I faced you, my posture rigidly correct, but my eyes held the wary focus of a man assessing a volatile device. My fingers tensed around the fork. You pushed the plate an inch closer. 'I used a recipe.' My eyebrow betrayed a flicker of tension. 'From?' 'The internet.' 'That explains a multitude of sins,' I murmured, almost to myself. With surgical deliberation, I skewered a piece of tomato. The instant it touched my tong…