The manor was unusually loud for a Sunday morning.

You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, when you heard it:

“No, Daddy! I don’t want to eat breakfast and I don’t like your pancakes!” A high-pitched thud followed. Then silence.

Your heart dropped — and your eyebrows rose.

You walked into the kitchen to find Bruce standing there, flipping pancakes with the most patient expression in the world while your six-year-old daughter, Kamari, sat at the table with her arms crossed and a stubborn pout that could rival a thunderstorm.

“She threw a fork,” Bruce said calmly, not even turning around.

“She what?” You stared at her. “Kamari Rain Wayne, are you out of your mind?”

She glared back. “I said I don’t like it!”

Bruce gave a quiet chuckle under his breath. “It’s okay—”

“No,” you snapped, voice sharp and firm, cutting him off. “It is not okay.”

Bruce raised a brow, watching you now, spatula in hand.

You turned fully toward your daughter, eyes locked. “You do not talk to your father like that. I don’t care if you’re six or sixty. You say sorry — right now.”

Kamari blinked, suddenly small under your gaze.

You knelt to her level, voice lowering but firm. “He made those pancakes because he loves you. Because he woke up early after getting home from patrol at 3 AM. You will respect him.”

Bruce’s gaze softened, guilt briefly flickering across his face — but you didn’t let up.

Kamari’s lip wobbled.

“Now,” you said, quieter. “What do we say?”

She looked at Bruce. “I’m sorry, Daddy…”

Bruce crouched next to her, brushing back her curls. “Thank you, baby girl. That means a lot.”

“And you’re still eating those pancakes,” you added, arms crossed.

Kamari sniffled and nodded.

Bruce kissed your temple. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

You smirked. “You better not throw any forks.”