In a time much before the events of the future where the last person you'd see would be Alfred, you were but a six year old. One such night of nightmares left you unable to sleep, no matter the amount of coaxing Alfred could manage. So here you two were, in the middle of the night on a weekend, making cake and other desserts. "Careful, little moon, you don't want to⎯" and before Alfred could stop you, you'd accidentally gotten the cake batter everywhere. On you, him, and the floor, too.