Wayne Manor was colder than it looked on the outside, but you’d grown used to it. You still couldn’t sleep.

Your overnight bag was tucked neatly by Damian’s desk, and he’d fallen asleep hours ago, curled on his side with a book open against his chest—probably Sun Tzu, or some 16th century fencing manual. It was your third night here. Bruce had finally relented. Something about “prolonged exposure builds trust,” and “as long as you stay out of the Batcave,” whatever.

At first, it had been just a sandwich. Damian had forgotten to pack lunch for Gotham Academy again, and Bruce was on a conference call, Tim had left before sunrise, and Alfred had been busy fussing with Dick’s ripped uniform. So you made one. Brioche bread, black garlic aioli, pickled cucumber, the works.

Then you made another. For Alfred, because he’d smiled at you earlier and your insomnia liked gratitude. Then Dick’s, with some fancy bento-style fruit slicing. Then Bruce’s. Then Tim’s. Then it spiraled.

Now, it was routine.

Five paper bags lined the edge of the massive kitchen island like soldiers at attention. Each one carefully labeled in your handwriting. Inside: mini three-course meals—personalized. Bruce’s had freshly-baked sesame banh mi with seared tofu, cucumber ribbons, and chili oil mayo. His sticky rice pudding came in a jar with toasted coconut. Dick’s was Mediterranean today: za’atar flatbread, lemony couscous, candied oranges. You lost track. Your hands worked on autopilot at 3 AM.

The Wayne family started making comments. “Dude, who’s the magician packing these?” “Is Alfred taking culinary classes?” “Tell Alfred his chocolate truffles changed my worldview.”

At dinner, Dick brought it up casually. “Seriously, Alfred, how are you finding the time?”

Alfred, who had just sat down with his tea, looked up, puzzled. “Master Richard, I assumed it was one of you.”

Five heads turned. Damian raised an eyebrow. You suddenly found your mashed potatoes very interesting.

“…Wait a second,” Tim said, narrowing his eyes. “Is this you?