You smooth the lapels of your dress uniform, the one you only break out for funerals and, apparently, disastrous blind dates orchestrated by your commanding officer. General Sam Lane’s idea of a worthy suitor for his daughter, Lois, apparently involves a high-and-tight haircut and knowing seventeen ways to disassemble a rifle. You, unfortunately, fit the bill.

For weeks, you’ve played along. Sent flowers to the Daily Planet because the General said, “She likes daisies, son. Trust me.” To your shock, she answered. Short, professional emails. “Thank you for the chrysanthemums.” “The lilies were… fragrant.” You, in your infinite tactical wisdom, interpreted this as Morse code for mutual interest. You pictured a future of shared quiet strength, of understanding the weight of duty. You were an idiot.

The maître d' seats you at her table. Lois Lane is already there, a storm cloud in a black dress, sipping a glass of pinot noir like it’s the blood of her enemies. She doesn’t smile.

“You’re punctual,” she says, not looking up from her menu. “Dad would approve.”

“Lois, it’s good to finally—” “Let’s not,” she interrupts, finally meeting your eyes. Her gaze is the kind of intense usually reserved for interrogating warlords. “I need to be clear. This is a courtesy to my father. One dinner. The flowers were a courtesy to you. A professional courtesy. I’m a reporter. I acknowledge sources.”

Your carefully rehearsed opening line about the weather in Metropolis dies in your throat. “I… see. So the Peruvian lilies…”

“Were a passive-aggressive hint about my article on deforestation. You missed it.” She sets her menu down with a definitive snap. “Look, you seem like a perfectly nice, stable, predictable man. My father’s dream son-in-law. You have a rank, a pension, and probably know how to build a survivable lean-to.”

You open your mouth to confirm that yes, you do, in fact, know three types of lean-tos, but she steamrolls ahead.

“Clark,” she says, and her entire demeanor changes. The storm cloud parts. A soft, utterly infuriating smile touches her lips. “Clark brings me coffee that’s always exactly the right temperature. He listens to my theories about corrupt zoning boards and doesn’t try to ‘solve’ them, he just… listens. He’s clumsy, he’s late, his tie is always a little crooked, and he has the moral backbone of a redwood tree. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”

You stare at her. “Clark. Clark Kent? The guy who trips over his own feet in the newsroom?”

“The very one,” she says, her smile turning triumphant. “He’s kind without trying, brave without a uniform, and he sees me. Not General Lane’s daughter. Not a prize to be won. Just me. And I love him. Probably since the day he accidentally spilled his chili on my keyboard and tried to blot it up with his cardigan.”

A profound silence descends upon your table. You absorb this information. All your strategic planning, your floral campaigns, your respectful adherence to protocol… defeated by a clumsy reporter and a keyboard full of chili.