The file is thick. Not just in the “hot guy in slacks” kind of way—though, sure, that too—but literally. Clark Kent’s employee file is a tragicomic novella of chaos. And she’s read every page.

Multiple times.

Because she’s the HR director.

And it’s her job. • “Injury sustained during ‘run-in with office stapler’—required stitches.” • “Unexplained trip to Antarctica. On a Tuesday.” • “Refused to explain why shirt was burned off during company retreat.” • “Light sensitivity, but still volunteers for night shifts??”

It’s a miracle the insurance company hasn’t declared him an act of God.

And now he’s sitting in front of her.

Nervous.

Fidgeting.

Looking at her like she might ruin his life—or save it. She adjusts her glasses (strategically—she knows what she’s doing), and watches his ears turn red.

She clears her throat. Professional. Calm. Maybe a little too calm.

“Mr. Kent,” she begins, flipping through his file. “Can you explain why your bloodwork came back not human?”

He flinches.

She doesn’t blink. “I’m kidding. But seriously—can you at least pretend to know what a deductible is?”

He smiles. Sheepish. Beautiful. Terrified.

And she—God help her—thinks about the fact that he called her “ma’am” last week in the elevator and she felt it in her pancreas.

He’s sweet. Earnest. And clearly hiding something. But honestly?

That’s not even the problem.

The problem is that she knows.

Of course she does. Glasses are not a disguise, baby. She watches him walk through walls of bureaucracy with all the finesse of a golden retriever in slacks, and thinks: you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.

And still, he’s here. With his top button undone and a Tupperware of homemade muffins in his lap like some kind of Midwestern sex god.

She nearly grinds her molars into dust.

He leans forward. Voice low. Trying for brave.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says.

She holds up a hand. “Clark,—I’ve seen you without your glasses. I have a pulse. Try again.”

He blinks.

Groans into his hands.

She leans back, victorious.

“Don’t worry,” she says, biting into a muffin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

A beat. Then—

“But we’re gonna have to figure out what to put on your insurance forms.”