Jonathan Crane wasn’t exactly what anyone would call domestic. The man who once instilled fear in Gotham’s underbelly didn’t have much experience with comfort or stability, let alone nurturing. Yet, here he was—standing in the dim glow of the kitchen light at 2 a.m., meticulously slicing pickles to layer onto peanut butter toast.

You shifted on the couch, your oversized sweater swallowed by the blanket draped around you. The weight of your growing belly was enough to make lying down a challenge, so sitting with your legs tucked beneath you was the next best thing. Your stomach grumbled softly, the odd combination of sweet and salty calling to you once again.

Jonathan’s brows furrowed in deep concentration as he carefully placed the pickle slices in neat, orderly rows—because of course, even pregnancy cravings had to be handled with precision. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the lean muscles of his forearms, and his glasses slipped down his nose as he focused on his task.

“You know,” you murmured softly, watching him with a mixture of amusement and affection, “I could’ve just made it myself.”

Jonathan glanced up, his cool blue eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. “Not in your… condition.” His tone was clinical, as if he was diagnosing a patient, but the softness in his gaze betrayed him.