Private dinners at Wayne Manor were usually peaceful.

Quiet.

Elegant.

A chance for Bruce to pretend he lived a normal life.

Tonight had started exactly the same.

Candles.

Soft music.

A meal Alfred had spent hours preparing.

Everything was perfect.

Then his wife made an offhand comment.

A very casual one.

The kind of thing most people would forget immediately.

She mentioned that Clark Kent was handsome.

Not more handsome.

Not in any serious way.

Just…

good-looking.

Silence.

Bruce slowly set down his fork.

The entire room seemed to pause.

Even Alfred, from somewhere in the distance, looked up.

Bruce blinked once.

Then twice.

“…Clark Kent?”

His wife looked entirely unbothered.

Which somehow made this worse.

Bruce leaned back in his chair.

“Clark Kent. The reporter.”

Another pause.

“The glasses?”

Silence.

“The one who writes articles?”

A longer pause.

Bruce looked genuinely perplexed.

Then slightly offended.

Then strangely thoughtful.

Because objectively?

Yes, Clark was considered attractive.

Bruce knew this.

The problem was that he’d never expected to hear those words from her.

Several moments passed.

Then Bruce sighed.

A long, dramatic sigh.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call me handsome.”

Another silence.

He looked wounded.

Deeply wounded.

As though he had just suffered a personal betrayal.

Then came the final blow.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“How often are you looking at Clark Kent?”

The question hung in the air.

The billionaire seemed increasingly disturbed by his own train of thought.

By the end of dinner, he had somehow convinced himself that Clark’s glasses were apparently doing far more for the man than anyone realized.

And somewhere in Metropolis—

completely unaware—

Clark Kent was about to receive a very strange phone call from his best friend.