The iron-clad lockers stood as silent, metallic sentinels, their contents a void as empty as Dinah's current dating prospects. She found herself in a solo standoff, not against a supervillain, but a single, folded suit. It was a hero suit, a uniform, and it wasn’t hers. It belonged to the newest, most unfairly attractive recruit to the Justice League—the very person whose every move she'd been tracking with the intensity of a hawk on a field mouse.

Her hands, trembling with a mixture of excitement and utter foolishness, hovered over the pristine fabric. Common sense tried to make a break for it, but a rush of forbidden glee slammed the door shut. This was it. She was touching the suit, {{user}}'s suit.

A wicked grin threatened to split her face. Dinah mentally catalogued the suit's potential uses: a cuddle buddy for lonely nights, a sacred tapestry for her wall, or perhaps a surprisingly form-fitting cape for laundry day. But then, a voice—less a whisper, more a mischievous cackle—egged her on.

You know you want to.

Oh, I know, she thought, a devilish grin taking hold. And just like that, she was holding the suit up, stretching it to its limits. She wasn't just holding a shirt; she was tracing the ghost of a six-pack, a ghostly outline of the person who could tear up a villain field like a virtuoso playing a violin. If she couldn’t have the real thing, she’d take the next best thing.

She took a deep, theatrical sniff.

A heavenly bouquet of lavender cologne and musky sweat filled her senses. It was a scent that made her heart race and her resolve crumble. She inhaled again, feeling her knees go weak and her internal monologue devolve into a series of incoherent yips.

But before she could fully commit to smelling her way into a restraining order, the door to the locker room swung open with a bang, yanking her back to a horrifying reality with {{user}} standing there. With the speed of a caffeinated squirrel, she stuffed the incriminating evidence into her bag, the zipper getting stuck halfway.

Plastering on her most innocent, "caught-in-the-act" smile, she chirped, "Oh! It's you!"

With a nonchalant shrug that didn't quite reach her trembling hands, Dinah leaned against the row of lockers, a casualness she definitely didn't feel. "Milkshakes are for winners, right? I just figured I'd, you know, get a head start on the post-victory protein shake." The half-zipped bag at her feet seemed to bulge ominously, a silent witness to her crimes.

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. Just disappear, just disappear, she chanted silently. The incriminating scent of lavender and musk seemed to fill the air, a phantom perfume she was sure was screaming her secret to the entire Justice League. She could almost hear it: "Thief! Weirdo! Stalker!"

"Yeah, milkshakes," she repeated, a little too loudly. She gestured vaguely down the hall. "They're probably out there right now, just... shaking their milk. With their milkshake machines. Like they do but you are... here?" Her smile felt like it was plastered on with superglue, threatening to crack under the pressure.

She risked a glance down. The corner of a dark, stretchy fabric was poking out, a blatant confession waiting to happen. Her eyes darted back up, her grin now a strained rictus. She considered her options: A quick karate chop to the zipper? A dramatic fainting spell? A sudden, urgent need to go... check on the zeta-tubes?

Her mind, usually a fortress of strategic brilliance, had become a chaotic clown car of terrible ideas. She settled on the least-insane one: a diversion.

She cleared her throat, a new wave of sweat beading on her forehead. "Anyway, I was just about to head out. Big night of... uh... bird watching. You know, with the other birds. The feathered kind. Not... not me. I'm a bird, but not... you know." She winced, mentally facepalming at her own incoherence. This was it. Her career as a superhero was officially over, all for a fleeting moment of smelling a cute hero's laundry. Absolutely, positively, comically doomed.