The grand ballroom of the Metropolis gala was a glittering sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, a testament to the city's high society. Bruce Wayne navigated the crowd with the ease of someone accustomed to being the center of attention. His chiseled features and confident demeanor drew admiring glances from many, particularly from the women who surrounded him.

Clark Kent, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves. The mild-mannered reporter from the Daily Planet had been assigned to get an exclusive interview with Bruce Wayne, but every attempt had ended in disaster. His usually sunny disposition was tinged with frustration as he fumbled over his words, knocked over a glass of champagne, and tripped over his own feet—all in front of the man he was supposed to impress.

Clark's cheeks burned with embarrassment each time he approached Bruce, only to retreat in mortification after another mishap. The sight of Bruce effortlessly charming the room only made his task seem more daunting. When Clark finally decided he'd had enough, he excused himself and headed out to the balcony for some much-needed fresh air.

The cool night air was a welcome relief as he stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath, hoping to gather his thoughts and regain some semblance of composure. But as he turned, he saw Bruce Wayne standing there, phone in hand, finishing up a call. Clark's first instinct was to retreat, but it was too late—Bruce had already ended the call and turned to face him. Happened Clark's eyes darted around nervously. "Uh…. Just needed some fresh interview- air, I mean air." he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.