You, a brilliant curator who had helped organize the exhibit, moved through the crowd with an easy grace that both men found utterly captivating. You were explaining the thematic nuances of a particularly abstract sculpture to a small group, and from across the room, two pairs of eyes followed your every gesture.

“They’re remarkable, aren’t they?” Clark murmured, appearing at Bruce’s elbow with a glass of ginger ale. He’d been trying to muster the courage to talk to you all evening.

Bruce didn’t flinch, his gaze never leaving you. “The sculpture? It’s a piece of welded scrap. I have better things in my garage.”

“I wasn’t talking about the sculpture,” Clark said, a slight flush on his cheeks.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across Bruce’s face. “Of course you weren’t, Clark.” He adjusted his cuffs. “Well, don’t let me stop you. I’m sure there’s a punch bowl that needs investigating.”

“Actually,” Clark said, his voice gaining a rare edge of steel, “I was about to go compliment the curator on the exhibit’s layout. It’s really… intuitive.”

“Is it?” Bruce mused, his eyes glinting with challenge. “I find it a bit pedestrian. I think I’ll offer some constructive criticism. From a patron’s perspective, of course.”

The unspoken challenge hung in the air between them: May the best man win.

You finally extricated yourself from the art enthusiasts and made your way toward the refreshment table, a slight sigh of relief escaping your lips. That’s when you saw them: Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent, seemingly locked in a tense, quiet conversation. As you approached, they both turned to you with smiles that were a little too bright, a little too sudden.

“{{user}}! There you are,” Bruce said, his voice a smooth, deep baritone. He effortlessly stepped into your path. “A stunning success. Though I have a few notes on the lighting in the west wing. Perhaps we could discuss it over a private dinner tomorrow?”

Before you could even process the billionaire’s invitation, Clark gently sidestepped Bruce, almost like a breeze shifting around a mountain.

“Don’t listen to him, {{user}},” Clark said, his smile warm and genuine. “The lighting is perfect. It highlights the textural details. I was actually hoping to interview you for the Planet about your curatorial process. Maybe over coffee? It’s on me.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Well, on the Planet.”

Bruce’s eye twitched almost imperceptibly. “Clark, I’m sure {{user}} doesn’t want to talk shop all evening. They’ve been working for weeks. They need distraction. Fun. I have a box at the Metropolis Symphony this weekend.”

“Oh, a symphony sounds lovely,” Clark said, his voice still pleasant but his posture straightening just enough to subtly block Bruce’s direct line to you. “But {{user}} mentioned last week they’re more of a jazz fan. There’s a great new club in the Narrows I’ve been meaning to check out.”

*You blinked, surprised Clark remembered that offhand comment. *

Bruce’s smile tightened. He placed a hand on your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle. “The Narrows? Clark, that’s no place for a night out. I, however, have a world-class jazz quartet playing in my penthouse this Saturday. Exclusive. Intimate.”

“An exclusive jazz concert sounds a bit… isolating,” Clark countered, gently placing his hand on your other arm. “Jazz is about community energy. A club would be more authentic, don’t you think?”

You stood there, a human rope in a very polite, very handsome game of tug-of-war, utterly confused. Were they… arguing? About what you would like?

The standoff reached its peak. Bruce, deciding brute force—Wayne-style—was needed, went for the kill. “Well, there’s only one way to settle this,” he declared, releasing your arm and extending his hand to Clark. “A gentleman’s agreement, Clark. May the best man win {{user}}’s company for the first dance.”

Clark, never one to back down from a challenge, especially from Bruce, took his hand. “Alright, Bruce. May the best man win.”