𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑫𝑰𝑫 𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻?!
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𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔: 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒅𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒖𝒑. 𝑹𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆.
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Bruce wasn’t in the big kitchen. Not the main one where Alfred reigned like a culinary general.
No, you found him in the other kitchen—the one tucked in the East wing like a forgotten secret, mostly unused unless Alfred was off or the kids were in one of their snack-hunting moods. The moment you padded barefoot into the space, wrapped in one of Bruce’s oversized button-ups, your nose twitched.
Something was burning.
You stopped in the doorway.
There he was.
Tall and broad, his back to you, shirtless beneath his burgundy silk robe that hung open just enough to be dangerous. A pair of dark slacks clung to his hips, low and effortless. His shoulders rippled as he struggled to flip something in the pan with a spatula that definitely wasn’t the right tool.
The poor pancake he’d been manhandling hit the counter with a splap.
“Damn it,” Bruce muttered under his breath.
You couldn’t help the little giggle that escaped your lips.
He turned slightly, caught. “You’re laughing at me,” he said, completely deadpan.
“Nooo,” you lied, stepping inside. “I’m admiring your effort. That poor pancake didn’t stand a chance.”
Bruce gave you a flat look as you tiptoed beside him and peeked into the pan. It wasn’t entirely ruined, but it was certainly uneven and leaning on the extra crispy side. He set the spatula down with a sigh. “Alfred makes this look easy.”
“That’s because Alfred is a wizard,” you said gently, reaching for the mixing bowl. “Here—let me.”
Bruce stepped back, but not far. His chest brushed your shoulder as you reached for the ladle.
“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice low.
“I followed the smell of smoke and testosterone,” you teased.
Bruce huffed a soft laugh. “Guilty on both counts.”
You started ladling a fresh scoop of batter into the pan and guided it gently in a circle. As the pancake started to sizzle, Bruce’s arms slid around your soft waist from behind, something solid sliding in between his shirt and your bottom.
“Bruce…”
“Hm?” he hummed innocently, his mouth just above your ear, stubble brushing your neck.
“We are not doing this over an open flame,” you whispered, face flushed.
“I’m just holding you.” His voice was too smooth. “Admiring my pretty wife. My shy little girl.”
You inhaled sharply, fingers tightening on the spatula.
“I mean it,” he said quietly. “You don’t even realize how adorable you are in my shirt, trying to save breakfast. I want to take a bite out of you.”
“Bruce,” you warned again, heart thudding.
He slid his hands a little lower, fingertips brushing over your hips. “Relax. The kids aren’t up yet.”
“Yet,” you whispered, shivering as his hands found the hem of the shirt and slid just barely beneath it. His fingers were rough and warm against your thighs.
“I missed you the second you left the bed,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “I kept thinking about how you felt last night. How soft you got for me.”
Your breath hitched.
You wanted to protest, to scold him for turning you into goo before 9 AM—but the truth was, the second he touched you, all your nerves melted. All your doubt, all the little voices that said you weren’t allowed to be soft—they vanished when Bruce held you like this.
Still, you managed a weak, “You’re impossible.”
“You’re irresistible,” he countered, nuzzling the back of your neck.
The pancake in the pan started to bubble.
“Bruce,” you squeaked, elbowing him lightly. “We’re gonna burn breakfast again.”
He chuckled and stepped back, hands raised in surrender, though the look in his eyes was nothing short of predatory.
“Fine. You win. This round.”
You flipped the pancake neatly and turned to face him—his robe still parted, his chest bare, his hair slightly tousled like some kind of dangerously sexy dad-model.
Your eyes flicked down, then quickly up again.
Bruce noticed.
His smirk was slow. “You’re staring.”
“Am not.”
“You are.”
“Your chest is right there, Bruce.”
“I could close the robe,” he offered dryly. “But you do seem to enjoy the view.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, a flush crept over your face.
Bruce stepped in close again, his hands returning to your waist, gentler this time, less teasing. “You really are my favorite thing in this whole manor,” he said softly, the humor giving way to something far more tender. “Even when you’re nervous. Especially when you’re nervous.”
Your throat tightened. “You make it hard to stay guarded.”
“Good,” he whispered, brushing his lips against your cheek. “Because I don’t want your walls. I want you. All of you. Even the flustered bits. Especially the ones that still think they need to hide.”
You melted again, helpless against the way he always seemed to know what part of you needed holding most.
The moment was warm, sacred, and silent… until a little voice echoed from down the hall:
“WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE SOMETHING DIED IN HERE?”
You both froze.
Bruce groaned. “And that would be Jason.”
You stifled a laugh, quickly flipping the pancake onto a plate and sliding the skillet off the burner. “Think we’ve got five minutes before they start raiding the fridge.”
“Then I’ll make them count,” Bruce said, leaning in and stealing a deep, lazy kiss that made your toes curl.
By the time you pulled back, your knees were weak and your cheeks were pink, but the smile on your face was wide and true.
You weren’t hiding anymore.
You didn’t need to.
Not with him.
Not in this kitchen, not in this moment, not ever again.
Because Daddy knew every bit of you—
And he wanted all of it.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
By the time the rest of the house stirred awake, you and Bruce had barely managed to finish plating the pancakes. He’d insisted on flipping the last one, and somehow it came out less symmetrical than his first attempt—but you let him have his moment. Mostly because he was looking at you like you’d personally invented mornings and sunshine and maple syrup.
You were still recovering from that kiss—the one he gave you before Jason’s voice interrupted. The one that made you weak in the knees and a little dazed while you stirred the batter like a woman possessed.
Now, the kids were awake. And there was no hiding.
The sound of socked feet skidding across tile warned you before Jason actually appeared.
He burst through the kitchen door with his usual dramatic flair, shirt half-tucked and hair wild. “WHO let Bruce near the stove?”
You tried to suppress your grin as Jason opened the fridge like he was searching for treasure.
“Jason,” Bruce said, arching a brow, “good morning.”
“Morning? No. No. I just walked into a war crime. Is that a pancake or a charcoal frisbee?” Jason picked one up with a fork and shook his head. “Alfred is gonna cry when he sees this.”
“Eat it,” Bruce said calmly.
“Or what?” Jason challenged, grinning. “You’ll ground me?”
Bruce gave him the look.
Jason immediately sat down and began eating. “...Delicious. Best pancake I’ve ever had. So fluffy.”
You snorted and tried to hide your smile behind your coffee mug.
Unfortunately, Tim walked in next, followed by Dick and Damian not long after—and they were even less subtle.
Tim blinked. “Wait… why are you both in the east kitchen? Something’s off…”
Dick narrowed his eyes like a bloodhound. “Is that Bruce’s robe? And your shirt? Wait. Did you cook?”
You tensed.
Bruce just raised his coffee to his lips.
“OH MY GOD,” Dick yelled, pointing between the two of you. “You two totally did the thing. This is the ‘I just cooked breakfast because we got handsy in the pantry’ walk of shame!”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
“Richard!” you sputtered.
“I mean—look at you!” he said, grinning and scandalized. “She’s in your shirt, Bruce, and you’re smiling. Smiling!”
“I smile,” Bruce said, not smiling at all.
“No, no, that’s your ‘I’m about to kill a man’ face. This—” he gestured broadly at Bruce’s face, “—is a smugly satisfied married man face. And I don’t want to know what happened in this kitchen, but I do want to know if it’s safe to eat these pancakes.”
“They’re not that bad,” you mumbled, now fully red in the face.
Tim bit into one and made a face. “I love you both, but we need Alfred.”
Damian walked in last, eyeing the entire room with judgment. He glanced at the pancakes, then at you and Bruce, then—most damning—at Bruce’s hand still resting a little too low on your waist.
“I’m never eating again,” he muttered and turned on his heel. “You’re both disgusting.”
“I told you we should’ve locked the door,” you whispered to Bruce.
“I told you we had five minutes,” he countered, completely unfazed.
You tried to busy yourself by wiping the counter, your cheeks burning as the kids argued and bickered around you. But you felt Bruce’s hand brush yours beneath the edge of the counter, his pinky hooking around yours.
You peeked up at him.
He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room.
“Still mine,” he murmured quietly, low enough that only you could hear.
You swallowed. “Still yours.”
He leaned in and kissed your temple. “Good girl.”
You visibly melted.
Jason looked up from his plate and froze. “Oh God. You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” you asked, too fast.
“That thing where Bruce calls you something gross and you look like you’re gonna melt into a puddle. I’m gonna hurl.”
Bruce sipped his coffee calmly. “You’re grounded.”
“For what?!”
“Talking.”
You snorted and nudged Bruce with your hip, biting your lip to hide your grin.
The teasing didn’t stop. Dick started humming a “just got lucky” song. Tim tried to steal the last pancake. Damian refused to eat in protest. Jason was halfway through a monologue about how the two of you were the reason he needs therapy when Bruce stood up, pulled you into his chest in front of everyone, and kissed you right on the mouth.
Soft.
Deep.
Slow.
You gasped.
The kitchen exploded.
“NO—”
“UNCALLED FOR—”
“I’M LEAVING THE COUNTRY—”
You giggled breathlessly, eyes wide as Bruce pulled back just slightly, smirking like the devil.
“You were still blushing,” he whispered. “Had to remind them you’re mine.”
You hit his chest lightly, flustered beyond belief.
But you didn’t pull away.
Because in this chaotic, messy kitchen—half pancakes, half protest—you felt completely wrapped in love.
In Bruce.
In your Daddy.
And for once, even surrounded by chaos, you didn’t feel like hiding.
You felt home.
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THE CHAOS LOL
