It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.

You came by early—thought it’d be a nice surprise. The kids always appreciated a home-cooked meal that didn’t come out of a vacuum-sealed WayneTech container. Alfred was out. Bruce was supposed to be finishing up meetings. You figured you’d beat him home and start dinner.

But you never even made it to the front door.

Out on the balcony—just visible from the long hallway windows—you saw him. Bruce. And her.

Selina Kyle.

Draped in black like she owned the shadows. Laughing. Leaning in. Her hand casually resting on Bruce’s shoulder, like it had always belonged there. And Bruce? Standing there. Still. Not smiling. Not laughing. But not stopping her either.

You didn’t watch the whole thing. You didn’t need to.

Now you’re in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to your elbows, chopping vegetables like they personally offended you. Every drawer opens and slams shut. The oil pops aggressively in the pan. The spoon scrapes the bottom of the pot like a warning.

Jason stepped in once. Took one look. Backed out.
Damian blinked twice and left without a word.
Tim saw the storm brewing in your shoulders and dragged Dick with him—“Nope. Don’t get involved. She’s got the knife.”

Only Bruce walks in like nothing’s changed.

He loosens his tie. He glances at the flickering stove. At the tomato getting obliterated on the cutting board. At the anger you’re not hiding.

“Is now a bad time?” he tries.

You don’t turn around.

“Depends,” you say, voice calm but cutting. “Is she staying for dinner too? Or do I need to poison two plates instead of one?” Bruce doesn’t answer right away.

You hear the soft exhale through his nose. Then the sound of his jacket being folded over the back of a chair—like he’s trying to ground himself in something normal. Controlled. But this isn’t a mission. This is you.

And you’re furious.

“I didn’t invite her,” he says finally.

“Didn’t look like you asked her to leave, either.”

Silence.

Then: “It wasn’t like that.”