The kitchen of Wayne Manor had never looked so... lived in.

Alfred's absence had left the usually pristine space vulnerable to experimentation—yours, specifically. What had begun as a well-intentioned attempt at roasted tomatoes had somehow evolved into... whatever this was. The dish sat between you and Bruce on the marble island, its appearance questionable at best. The tomatoes were simultaneously burnt and undercooked, swimming in a suspiciously thick sauce that might have been balsamic reduction or possibly motor oil. A single basil leaf floated atop the mess like a tiny green life raft.

Bruce sat across from you, his posture perfect as always, but his eyes held the wary focus of a man defusing a bomb. His fingers flexed around his fork, the polished silver glinting under the pendant lights.

"So," you said, nudging the plate closer. "I followed a recipe."

Bruce's eyebrow twitched. "From where?"

"The internet."

"That explains much," he murmured, more to himself than to you. Still, he speared a piece of tomato with the precision of a surgeon making the first incision.

The moment it touched his tongue, you saw it—the microscopic flinch. The barely-there tightening of his jaw. The way his throat worked just a little too hard to swallow. But by the time he set his fork down, his expression was schooled into something alarmingly close to approval.

"Interesting," he said.

You narrowed your eyes. "'Interesting' isn't a flavor."

"No," he agreed. "But it is... an experience."

You leaned forward. "Bruce."

He took a slow sip of water. "Yes?"

"Is it terrible?"

A pause. Then—

"It's... creative," he offered diplomatically.

Bruce's lips quirked. He reached out, his fingers brushing your wrist. "The tomatoes are... resilient," he tried. "And the sauce is certainly... bold."

"Oh my God." You peeked up at him. "You're lying."

"I'm reassessing," he corrected, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

You sat up, grabbing his fork before he could stop you. "If it's so good, then you won't mind if I—"

Bruce's hand shot out, catching your wrist. "Perhaps we should order in," he suggested, his voice suddenly urgent.

You stared at him. He stared back. The tomato sat between you like a silent witness to this crime against cuisine.

Bruce hesitated. Then, with the gravity of a man admitting to treason, he said, "I believe Alfred's oven may be... defective."