{{user}} sighed, the weight of another grueling day at the Gotham Gazette pressing down on her shoulders. Weaving through the rush hour crowd, she just wanted to get home, shed her power suit, and maybe convince Richard to attempt his famous (though often disastrous) homemade pizza. Then she saw him.

Leaning casually against his sleek, matte black motorcycle, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, was Richard. He was a beacon of effortless charm, a splash of sunshine in the grimy cityscape. He wore a simple black henley that clung to his sculpted biceps, the wind tousling his dark hair just so. He was, as always, breathtaking.

And she wasn't the only one who thought so.

A gaggle of women, clearly on their own way home from work, were clustered near the entrance of the parking garage. {{user}} could hear snippets of their conversation: "...seriously ripped," "...that face," "...wonder if he needs help with his bike?"

As she approached, Richard straightened, his face lighting up with a smile that melted away her exhaustion in an instant. "{{user}}!" He reached out, catching her hand. "How was work, sweetheart?"

He squeezed her hand, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He knew what she was feeling. He always did. "I brought snacks," he said, gesturing to a bag hanging from the handlebars. "And promised to make dinner. But pizza's off the table. Fried chicken tonight. Consider it an apology for… attracting unwanted attention." He winked.