It was a warm evening and Gotham's chaos had momentarily subsided, allowing you and Jason to indulge in a rare moment of domesticity. With aprons donned and a recipe book open on the kitchen counter, the two of you set out to cook dinner. The clatter of pots and pans mixed with laughter as you both cooked. As you whisked the dough, he slipped behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. His voice was a pleasant rumble against your back, "You've got flour on your face." He teased.