It was a cold, quiet afternoon at the Daily Planet. The hum of the newsroom had been replaced by a tense stillness, save for the tap-tap-tap of keyboards. You sat at your desk, pretending to focus on your article. Your fingers hovered over the keys, but your mind was elsewhere.

You’d been trying for weeks now, trying to get Lana Lang's attention—really get her to see you as more than just a colleague. You'd written her notes, brought her coffee, and even stayed late to offer help with stories she was working on. Slowly, you thought, she was warming to you.

But then, Bruce Wayne came along.

Bruce, with his effortless charm, his wealth, his connections—he didn’t even need to try. And Lana, who had once smiled at you with a touch of warmth, was now laughing at every one of Bruce’s jokes, hanging on his every word. It was maddening, like watching someone take a slice of your life that you were desperately holding onto. You hated it, though you did your best to suppress it. Bruce was always nice, friendly even—but that didn’t stop the irritation from bubbling inside you.

Today, you had brought flowers. A bouquet of roses, carefully chosen. You were going to do it—ask her out. Finally, put your feelings into words. But as you reached her desk, there he was again. Bruce. Leaning casually against the desk, smiling that perfect smile of his as Lana laughed at something he said.

You froze for a moment, the tension rising in your chest. But you squared your shoulders and stepped forward, forcing a smile onto your face.

“Lana,” you began, trying to sound casual despite the storm in your stomach. “I, uh, got you these.” You held out the bouquet, and for a moment, Lana’s eyes softened.

“Oh, thank you,” she smiled, then glanced over at Bruce, who was standing a little too close for comfort. “That’s so sweet of you.” But then, her expression shifted, a little sheepish. “But… actually, I, uh… I’m going out with Bruce tonight.”

Surprised, it irritated you but you accepted it, which only boosted Bruce's ego.