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.