You were used to static.

The kind that clung to your fingertips after brushing too close to something electric. The kind that buzzed in the silence between you and Clark Kent whenever your eyes met and neither of you knew what to say next.

Or maybe—you knew.

It was him who seemed to forget how to speak when things got too close.

You met Clark through work. The Daily Planet was chaotic, loud, full of too many people trying to scream the truth into type. But Clark… he had a quiet kind of gravity. People leaned toward him, and you weren’t immune. You learned quickly to read his tells—the little smile when he thought no one was looking, the nervous push of his glasses when he was lying, the way his voice softened when he was around you.

There were late nights. Shared coffee. Inside jokes. Lingering glances.

And then… nothing.

Not nothing in the literal sense. He was still there. Still Clark. Still kind, still thoughtful, still making your tea exactly the way you liked it and leaving notes on your desk when you missed lunch. But any time the moment almost shifted—when your knees touched under the conference table or your laugh made him freeze mid-sentence—he would pull back.

He always pulled back.

Until he didn’t.

You were walking home together one night—half-drunk on laughter and the sharp bite of autumn air. The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that made you bold.

“You know,” you said, “you’re impossible to read.”

Clark’s brow furrowed behind his glasses. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said carefully, “sometimes it feels like you’re just… waiting for the right moment. And then the second it gets close, you act like I’m not even there.”

He stopped walking. The streetlight painted gold against his dark coat. There was something in his face then—something unguarded, rare.

“I notice you,” he said softly.

Your heart hiccuped.

“Clark…”

“I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise,” he said. “I just… it’s hard. There are parts of me I don’t know how to share.”

You knew what he meant. Maybe not everything—but enough. The late-night disappearances. The subtle bruises that vanished by morning. The times he looked like he carried the whole world in his chest but said nothing about it.

“I’m not asking for all of it,” you said. “Just… a little honesty.”

He looked at you, and something shifted again.

He stepped forward. Close. Close enough that the space between you buzzed, charged like a storm that didn’t know whether it wanted to strike or pass.

“I want to,” he whispered. “I want to be close to you. But I’m afraid I’ll ruin it. That I’ll ruin you.”

“You won’t,” you breathed.

He reached up, fingers brushing your cheek like a question he didn’t know how to ask. And then, just as your breath caught—

He stepped back.

Like he’d never been close at all.

“Goodnight,” he said gently, pulling his coat tighter.

And then he walked away.

You were left standing there—buzzing, breathless, and aching from the confusion.

He noticed you. He wanted you. So why did it feel like he kept choosing not to?