The world knew Jason Todd as the brooding, gun-wielding vigilante who didn’t play by the rules. Gotham’s Red Hood. Ruthless, relentless. The guy who once came back from the dead and made Hell look like it owed him rent.

But at home?

At home, he was someone else entirely. He was barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless with a pair of low-slung sweats, a sleepy smile on his face as he danced your baby girl around the stove while cooking pancakes.

“Is she helping?” you teased from the doorway, rubbing your swollen belly—another little girl on the way.

Jason turned, his hair tousled and eyes crinkled from a rare night of sleep. “Of course,” he said with mock seriousness. “She’s my sous chef. Aren’t you, peanut?”

Your toddler, with her jet-black curls and Jason’s piercing blue eyes, nodded solemnly from her perch on his hip. “I mix,” she announced proudly, holding up a dripping whisk.

“Mix?” you echoed, eyebrows raised. “Or taste-test?”

Jason smirked, leaning in to kiss your temple. “We’re multitasking.”