The kitchen smells like burnt sugar and good intentions. Sunlight streams through the curtains, illuminating your... creation sitting proudly on the table—a lopsided tower of chocolate and sprinkles that might legally qualify as a cake if you squint hard enough. One side is suspiciously flatter than the other, and the frosting job looks like it was applied during an earthquake, but damn it, you tried.

Dick freezes mid-step, his eyes widening as they land on your disasterpiece. For one terrifying second, you think he might laugh—or worse, cry—but then his face splits into that trademark Grayson grin, all sunshine and sharp canines.

"You even made a cake...?"

His voice is softer than you expected, tinged with something warm and fond that makes your chest ache. Before you can defend your baking skills (or lack thereof), he’s leaning down, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingers just a heartbeat too long.

"It looks awful," he murmurs against your skin, pulling back to poke at a crumbling corner. "I love it."

And oh—

Oh, that’s why you spent three hours wrestling with flour and eggs.

Because this is Richard Grayson, your Richard, who’s eaten five-star meals in Metropolis and still insists your half-charred grilled cheese is his favorite. Who’s seen you at your absolute worst and never once looked at you like you were anything less than his.