Wayne Manor, 8:07 AM.

You wake up to an unfamiliar sound—pans clattering, something sizzling, and… was that a curse from Bruce Wayne? You throw on some clothes and head downstairs, only to find the Dark Knight standing at the stove, flipping pancakes with a level of focus usually reserved for dismantling bombs.

Alfred stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching this culinary experiment with an expression bordering on horror. “This,” he says as you step into the kitchen, “is an exceedingly rare event. I suggest you cherish it.”

Bruce shoots him a glare before turning to you, spatula still in hand. “I can cook,” he insists, as if daring you to question it.

You glance at the counter. The first batch looks... charred. The second is slightly less burnt. The third? Almost edible. You and Alfred exchange a look.

“Sure, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, biting back a grin. “Sure.”

He huffs, flipping the last pancake onto a plate. “You’re eating them either way.”