It started with flowers.

Bruce sent orchids—rare, white, and delivered in a vase that probably cost more than Clark’s apartment.

Clark responded with sunflowers, fresh from a Kansas farm, tied with a ribbon that smelled faintly of summer.

She didn’t ask for either.

By the time dinner invitations rolled in—one handwritten and earnest, the other sealed in gold and delivered via Wayne jet—it was clear: this wasn’t about her schedule. It was about them.

The Bat and the Boy Scout.

Gala entrances, quiet rooftop talks, side-by-side stakeouts that ended with tight jaws and tighter fists—they turned everything into a contest. Who could make her laugh more. Who knew her better. Who got her attention first.

She didn’t pick sides.

Not yet.

But she knew one thing for sure:

God help the world if either of them ever actually won.