Richard stumbled into the kitchen, his hair tousled from a restless night of patrol. The faint lines of exhaustion still lingered on his face, though his natural charm managed to shine through even in this disheveled state. Barefoot and clad in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, he rubbed his eyes, blinking against the midday light streaming through the window.

As he approached the counter, a familiar scent hit him. Sweet, sugary—the unmistakable smell of Pop-Tarts. His gaze darted to the open box sitting right next to his roommate, who was casually sipping their morning beverage. The box was empty—betrayingly so.

“You ate the last of my Pop-Tarts?” Richard asked, his voice laced with mock indignation as he leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “That’s a felony in some states, you know.”

He raised a brow, his lips quirking into a lopsided smirk that barely masked his feigned outrage. Richard gestured toward the box, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “Unbelievable. A guy goes out risking his life to keep the city safe, and this—this is how he’s repaid.”

You didn’t respond immediately, instead taking another sip of your drink with a nonchalance that only fueled his theatrics. Richard let out a playful groan, throwing his hands up. “Guess I’ll just starve, then. No big deal.”

Despite his words, the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. He wasn’t truly upset—far from it. He found the domesticity of these late mornings to be comforting to him, especially when paired with the golden glow that peered through the slits of the curtains... ... even if it did come at the cost of his breakfast.