It had started out innocently enough—late nights at the Daily Planet turned into shared coffee runs, into trading edits over each other’s articles, into lingering glances you shouldn’t have let last. And then one night, with the newsroom empty, Clark kissed you.

Now it’s become something reckless, a game threaded through every hour of your day.

Tonight, the bullpen hums with the usual chaos: ringing phones, the clatter of keyboards, Perry barking from his office. You’re sitting at your desk, half-focused on your notes when you feel it—Clark’s gaze. He doesn’t look away when you glance back; he tilts his head slightly, that small, unreadable smile tugging at his mouth.

Your stomach flips. You know what it means.

A few minutes later, you slip into the archive room under the pretense of pulling an old file. The door shuts, heavy and final, and before you can even turn, Clark’s there—tie loosened, glasses fogged, his hand braced against the shelf beside your head.

“Normal coworkers don’t disappear together this often,” you murmur, heart racing.

He leans in, his voice low, rough. “Normal coworkers don’t look at me the way you do.”

Then his mouth is on yours, and it’s fire—hungry, deep, stealing the air from your lungs. You clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer. His hands slip under your blazer, his thumb brushing bare skin, and you shiver. He breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, breathless.

“How was your day?” he teases softly, lips brushing your jaw.

You laugh, shaky. “We’re doing this and you’re asking about my day?”

“Multitasking,” he whispers, kissing down your neck, slow enough to make your knees weak.

Every sound in the building feels magnified—the squeak of a chair, a distant printer. At any second, someone could walk in. That’s half the thrill.

You gasp when his lips find that spot under your ear, and his hand squeezes your waist like he can’t help himself. He smirks against your skin. “You’ll give us away if you’re not careful.”

“You’re the one—” you start, but his kiss silences you, harder this time, as if daring you to try to stay quiet.

It’s dangerous, reckless, everything you swore you wouldn’t let happen at work. But when he finally pulls back, eyes dark behind those glasses, you know you’re already too far gone.

And judging by the way his hand lingers at the small of your back as you leave the archive room—trying to look casual as reporters bustle past—you know he feels exactly the same.