Bruce had the wealth. Clark had the strength. But the woman walking down the staircase in heels sharp enough to kill? She had them.

It wasn’t just the way she moved—though even Bruce admitted she could make a gala hall go silent. It wasn’t just the way she smiled—though Clark had once stopped mid-flight remembering it.

It was that she could hold power like silk between her fingers.

Bruce watched her from across the ballroom, bourbon untouched in his hand, jaw set with restrained want. Clark leaned against the wall, tie loosened, gaze soft but smoldering. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

She reached them slowly, deliberately, like she knew exactly what kind of fire she’d lit in both of them.

And when she slipped between the two most dangerous men in the room with a look that said behave, all they could do was obey.

Because at the end of the day, Gotham’s dark knight and Metropolis’s golden son had one undeniable truth between them:

She was theirs.

And they were very lucky men.