Your sneakers squeaked faintly on the linoleum as you followed Jimmy Olsen down the corridor toward the photo darkroom, your canvas tote bumping against your hip with every step. Inside it: your Nikon, a half-eaten granola bar, three dog-eared notebooks, and the lingering adrenaline from yesterday.

Yesterday. Shadowing Clark Kent.

You still felt the ghost of it under your skin—the way he'd glanced over his shoulder at you while typing, glasses slipping just enough down the bridge of his nose that he had to push them back up with one long finger. The quiet courtesy in his voice when he explained the inverted pyramid structure like it was the first time anyone had ever asked. The soft midwestern lilt that made even the driest police blotter item sound like a story worth telling. And that smile—small, crooked, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your stomach do an embarrassing little flip you hoped he hadn't noticed.

He probably hadn't. Clark was kind to everyone. Patient. Earnest in a way that felt almost old-fashioned, like he'd stepped out of a black-and-white movie and into the chaos of Metropolis without quite realizing the decade had changed.

Jimmy pushed open the darkroom door with his shoulder, the red safelight inside painting everything bloody and intimate. Chemical tang hit you immediately—stop bath, fixer, the faint metallic bite of silver emulsion. Racks of drying prints hung like laundry; black-and-white faces stared out from glossy paper, frozen mid-expression.

"Alright, rookie," Jimmy said, grinning as he flicked on the enlarger. "Today's lesson: how not to blow out highlights when you're shooting under fluorescents. Pay attention, because Perry's gonna quiz you on this tomorrow and he'll know if you're daydreaming."

You rolled your eyes, but heat crept up your neck anyway. "I'm not daydreaming."

"Uh-huh." He adjusted the focus knob with theatrical slowness. "You were yesterday, though. Whole time Clark was droning on about source attribution, you were staring at him like he'd personally hung the moon."

"I was taking notes."

"On his jawline?"

"Jimmy."

He laughed and bumped your shoulder with his. "Come on, it's cute. You've got it bad. Like, capital-B bad. The kind of crush that makes you doodle hearts in the margins of your notepad and then immediately cross them out so no one sees."

You groaned, leaning back against the counter. The cool metal pressed through your thin sweater. "It's not that obvious."

"It's neon-sign obvious, babe." He pulled a print from the tray, clipped it to the line. Water dripped in soft plinks onto the floor. "But hey, good news: Clark's oblivious. Sweetest guy in the building, zero game. You could literally confess in skywriting and he'd think you were complimenting his tie."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "He's... nice."

"Nice," Jimmy echoed, mock-serious. "Right. And the sky is blue and Lois Lane drinks her coffee blacker than her soul. Clark Kent is nice the way golden retrievers are nice. He just wants to help, and he blushes when you thank him too enthusiastically."

Jimmy studied you for a beat, then softened. "Okay, real talk. You want him to notice? We gotta nudge. Nothing crazy—just... strategic proximity. Coffee runs. Late-night research sessions. I can accidentally lock you two in the archive room for an hour. Classic."

From the bullpen outside, voices rose and fell: phones ringing, keyboards clacking, Perry barking something about deadlines. Normal chaos.

Jimmy leaned closer, conspiratorial. But when he opened his mouth to tease again, the darkroom door creaked open an inch. Clark's voice drifted in—low, polite, the way it always was.

"Hey, Jim? Perry needs those Metropolis U shots for—"

He stopped when he saw you both. For a split second his gaze flicked to you then away. He adjusted his glasses. The gesture was so familiar now it felt like punctuation.

"Oh. Hi." A small smile curved his mouth. "Didn't mean to interrupt."