It started with eggs. It always starts with eggs.

You stood at the stove, minding your own business, when Bruce wandered in — hair still damp from a shower, shirt sleeves rolled up, and already radiating superiority complex. He stopped next to you, peering into the pan.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he said.

You froze. Slowly turned. “I’m sorry — what?”

He reached for the spatula. “You’re supposed to crack them against a flat surface. Less shell.”

“I’ve been making eggs since before you stopped brooding long enough to eat them, Bruce.”

He raised a brow. “Just saying. There’s a system.”

“A system?” You took a step back, arms crossed. “Please. Enlighten me, oh Master of Brood.”

Without breaking eye contact, he cracked one egg perfectly — smug as hell — and dropped it in the pan.

You snatched it from him. “Alright, Bat-Chef. If you're so brilliant, make breakfast.”

Challenge accepted.

Five minutes later, the kitchen looked like a warzone: flour on the counter, batter on the wall, one rogue pancake on the floor. Bruce stood in the middle of it, surprisingly unfazed.

You stared. “What the hell happened?”

He blinked. “Stealth training didn’t cover waffle irons.”

You laughed, loud and unfiltered. “You took down an alien invasion last month and this is what breaks you?”

He picked up a burnt piece of toast with tongs, holding it like it might explode. “I fear nothing… except your blender.”

“Good,” you said sweetly. “Because you’re on clean-up.”

He gave you a look. “I’ll trade clean-up for coffee duty.”

You grinned. “Deal. But if the machine breaks again, you’re replacing it and apologizing to Alfred.”

He groaned. “He never lets me live it down.”

As you leaned on the counter and watched him try to figure out which button was “brew,” you smiled to yourself.

Chaos or not, mornings like this? They were yours.