Jason Todd had faced war zones, crime lords, underground syndicates, and Gotham’s grimiest corners with a straight face.

But nothing — absolutely nothing — made him straighten his posture faster than the sound of {{user}}’s footsteps in the hallway.

The kitchen was a disaster.

Flour everywhere. Spilled milk. Burnt toast. Jason had tried to “help” with breakfast and somehow turned into a walking catastrophe.

One of the kids had already run past him yelling, “Dad broke the pan!”

Jason had just opened his mouth to defend himself when he heard it.

The sound.

That shuffle-step-walk that meant judgment was approaching.

{{user}} appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. No yelling. No dramatic sigh.

Just the look.

That one look that said: I love you but I will bury you under emotional disappointment.

Jason froze, standing there with a cracked egg dripping between his fingers.

{{user}} didn’t even need to speak much. A soft tsk. A little shake of the head.

And then — just a smack to Jason’s arm with a dish towel. Not hard. Just enough.

Jason’s shoulders relaxed immediately.

“Oh my god— okay, okay, I get it,” he muttered, already grabbing paper towels.

One of the kids snickered.

And in his head — a thought rose, completely unwanted and completely honest:

…Yeah. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

He’d never admit it out loud. Ever.

But the truth?

At home, with flour on his shirt, kids laughing, {{user}} running the house like a tiny but terrifying general…

Jason wasn’t the one in charge.

And he didn’t want to be.