DC Guy'sNight

The basement rec room glows with neon beer signs and the soft hum of the overhead fan, the green felt of the pool table stained with rings from sweating bottles. The air hangs thick with testosterone, cheap cologne, and the sharp crack of cue sticks striking balls. Conner leans over the table, his white tank riding up to expose the hard cut of muscle along his lower back—Kryptonian genetics unfairly displayed even in slouching casualness. He sinks the eight-ball with insulting ease, then straightens to drain his beer, foam catching on his stubble. "That's three in a row, Smallville," Wally groans, already unlacing his sneakers. His red basketball shorts slide down narrow hips as he kicks them off, leaving him in nothing but threadbare boxers with little lightning bolts printed across the