You weren’t anyone special at the Daily Planet.

Your name wasn’t on front-page headlines. You weren’t breaking scandalous exposés or chasing stories on rooftops. You worked quietly—fact-checking, proofreading, occasionally filling in an article if someone else missed a deadline. You got people’s coffee when they were too swamped to get their own, nodded politely in meetings, and kept your headphones in most days.

You figured that was fine.

You liked the background. It was safe there. No one expected too much.

Well—almost no one.

Clark Kent always said hello.

It started off simple. A polite “good morning” and a warm smile. Then it turned into small things. He’d hold the elevator if he saw you coming. Wait for you at the coffee machine. Ask how your weekend was, even if he only caught a one-sentence reply before someone pulled him into something else.

He was sweet in a way that felt… vintage. Like he’d been pulled from a different decade and placed here by mistake. Always buttoned-up in those too-big dress shirts, tie slightly crooked, hair never quite obeying him. He bumped into corners. Knocked over his own coffee. Once, he actually apologized to the printer.

You should’ve known it was a crush when you started watching the clock to see when he’d show up.

But it was also easy not to act on it. Because you weren’t Lois Lane. You weren’t bold or magnetic. You didn’t get called into Perry White’s office every other hour or yell across the bullpen like you owned the place. And Lois and Clark had that something—whatever it was. That constant banter, the long looks. Everyone just kind of assumed. You did, too.

So you figured your crush was a harmless, one-sided thing. Something to carry with you quietly. Like a little secret in your pocket.

Until one Tuesday morning changed everything.

You were alone by the vending machines when Clark stumbled in, looking like he’d barely slept. His tie was missing. His shirt had a smear of something dark near the collar. And, of course, there was a bruise forming on his jaw.

“Rough morning?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

He looked up, startled like he hadn’t realized you were there. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. You know. The subway was late… again.” He gave that sheepish grin you were far too familiar with. “And I may have walked into a filing cabinet.”

Your brow raised. “With your face?”

He laughed—quiet, a little nervous. “It’s a talent.”

You paused, debating whether or not to say the thing that had been building in you for months. But your mouth had other plans.

“You know, for a guy who’s always tripping over his own feet, you somehow manage to be… kind of charming.”

His eyes widened.

You panicked. “Forget I said that.”

But instead of brushing it off, Clark tilted his head slightly. “Wait. What do you mean by charming?”

You looked at him—really looked. At the soft eyes behind the glasses. The way he stood like he wasn’t quite sure how to take up space. The part of his shirt that was still unevenly tucked. And maybe it was reckless, or maybe you were tired of standing in your own shadow, but you answered:

“I mean… you make the background feel worth standing in.”

For a second, the world got quiet. The usual Planet noise—typing, shouting, printers jamming—faded.

Clark blinked, like he couldn’t believe he was hearing you right. Then—slowly—his lips curved into the warmest smile you’d ever seen.

“You’ve always been in the foreground to me.”

And suddenly, your heart had no idea what to do.