The Daily Planet smelled like printer toner and deadline sweat. Elevators that sighed like old men. Phones that rang in a constant offbeat rhythm, like jazz. You had only been there three weeks, and already the pulse of the place had slipped under your skin—every creak of the newsroom floorboards, every flick of Lois Lane’s sharp-eyed glance as she slid past your desk with two lattes and no time for nonsense.

You were the new photographer. Not that anyone remembered your name yet—they called you “Camera Girl” or “Lens.” But Clark Kent always remembered. Always said your name like he meant it. Like it mattered. And it did something to you, that small kindness, in a building full of people talking too loud and listening too little.

He’d lean over your desk sometimes to ask about photo permissions, smelling like cedar soap and yesterday’s rain. Always polite. Always soft-spoken. Glasses slightly askew. Shirt forever wrinkled from whatever quick change he’d done in the alley. You knew, of course. Everyone thought they knew. But no one said anything—because Metropolis needed its myths, and Clark needed his quiet.

You weren’t supposed to fall for him. That would be cliché, wouldn't it? The shy photographer and the world’s most decent man. But the first time he smiled at you—really smiled—you felt your stomach do something traitorous and poetic.

It was a Thursday when Lois caught you watching him.

He was at the copier, of all places, frowning at the flashing red error light like it had personally betrayed him. You stood by the water cooler with your camera strap digging into your collarbone, chewing a piece of ice that had long since melted, and just…watched him.

Not in a thirsty way. Not in a damsel way. Just curious. He was strange, wasn’t he? So gentle it almost seemed like a performance. So kind it almost hurt.

Lois sidled up beside you, took one sip from her coffee, and didn’t look at you when she said: “He’ll never get it unless you spell it out. In crayon. Maybe on fire.”

You choked on the ice chip, laughing nervously. “What?”

“Clark,” she said, blunt as a headline. “You like him. It’s obvious.”

You flushed. “I’m pretty sure he’s, you know… unavailable.”

Lois finally looked at you. Smirked like a cat that knew the secret ending to every story.

“He’s not taken. He’s just terrible at noticing when someone’s into him. I once wore lipstick the color of murder and he asked if I was feeling sick.”

You blinked. “Are you—?”

“God, no,” she cut in. “We tried the will-they-won’t-they. We won’t. He’s like a brother to me. A very tall, possibly alien brother who needs to get laid and hasn’t figured out flirting is allowed.”

You laughed, more embarrassed than before. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Mm,” she said, sipping her coffee. “Sure.”

That night, you stayed late editing photos in the darkroom, the only light coming from your laptop and the red glow overhead. Outside, Metropolis buzzed under sodium streetlights. The sky crackled in the distance—heat lightning, maybe. Or something else.

Clark found you there around 9:00 p.m., knocking gently before entering, like a man afraid of interrupting his own thoughts.

“Hey,” he said, eyes warm behind the fog of his glasses. “Didn’t want you walking home alone. There was a fire downtown. Lots of smoke.”‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎