The aftermath was catastrophic.

Eggshells in the sink. Coffee grounds on the ceiling — you didn’t even know how that happened. Bruce stood with his sleeves pushed up, arms folded, flour dusting his forearms like powdered guilt. You were perched on the counter, giggling into your palm.

And that’s when you heard it.

The slow, measured sound of dress shoes across tile.

You both froze.

Alfred appeared in the doorway like the final boss in a video game — eyebrows raised, towel in hand, that patented British disappointment radiating off of him in waves.

He took one long look around the kitchen. The ruined pancakes. The smoldering toast. The coffee machine blinking in distress.

Then he turned his gaze to Bruce. “Master Wayne.”

Bruce straightened. “Alfred.”

A pause. A long one.

“I leave the two of you alone for one morning, and suddenly the kitchen looks like an explosion at a bakery.”

You bit your lip to stop from laughing. Bruce? He cleared his throat. “We were… experimenting.”

“With what? A culinary apocalypse?” Alfred stepped inside, picked up a spoon from the sink with two fingers like it was contaminated. “This spoon is stuck to itself, Master Wayne.”

Bruce looked at you for backup. You just shrugged, smiling innocently. “He tried to flip pancakes without letting them cook first.”

“They were on high heat—”

“They were on chaos, Bruce.”

Alfred set down the spoon with a sigh that could’ve cleaned the room itself. “Leave the kitchen. Both of you. Go sit in the drawing room like civilized people. I’ll salvage what I can.”

Bruce looked sheepish. “I could help—”

“No,” Alfred cut him off, turning slowly. “You’ve done… enough.”

You were full-on laughing now, hopping off the counter and taking Bruce’s hand. “Come on, Master of Stealth. Let the actual professional handle this.”

As Alfred muttered under his breath about “grown adults playing Gordon Ramsay with a death wish,” you led Bruce away, still giggling.