You’d moved from Gotham to Metropolis for two reasons: to protect Batman’s secret—that your emo, Nirvana-loving, wet-blanket-of-a-childhood-friend Bruce was secretly dressing up in Kevlar and beating up villains—and because Perry White had offered you a substantial pay increase and the head position of the gossip column at The Daily Planet.

Three months ago, you’d started fresh. Your coworkers were mostly great—Jimmy Olsen and Clark Kent especially—but Lois Lane’s constant vaping and sugar addiction were a minor irritation. You’d settled in nicely, even making friends in the bullpen. But Bruce… Bruce was never far from your mind.

Weekly calls at the end of the day kept you grounded: wine, laughter, and updates on Gotham’s latest chaos.

Which is how the first disaster happened. You were doodling on a picture of Superman while listening to Bruce ramble.

“—I mean really, condiments? Seriously?” Bruce sighed, slurping his wine obnoxiously. “There’s gotta be a better name than ‘Condiment King’—”

Your pen slips. The doodle—Superman with crudely drawn glasses—jolts you upright.

Clark. Clark Kent.

Clark Kent was Superman.

Panic hits like a freight train. You stumble backward, knocking over a cup of pens that roll across the desk like tiny missiles. Your notebook threatens to slide off the edge, and one of the red-and-blue strings on your corkboard snaps with a sad little twang.

Clark appears behind you, cheerful as ever, holding coffee. “Good morning!” he says, setting a cup right next to the notebook, completely oblivious to your meltdown.

“OH NO OH NO OH NO—” you mutter, lunging to catch the notebook while knocking a stapler off the desk. Papers scatter everywhere. Your chair wobbles as you pivot, trying to shove everything into some semblance of order.

Clark leans casually against the desk, peering down at you, amused. “Whoa—someone’s a little clumsy this morning, huh?”

“Cl-clumsy? No, no! Totally fine! Just… um… multitasking!” you stammer, shoving a handful of papers onto your lap and trying to corral the chaos into a neat pile. Another pen rolls onto the floor.

Clark raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Multitasking, huh? Looks more like wrestling with an office supply hurricane.”

“Exactly!” you blurp, grabbing the notebook mid-slide, knocking over a paperweight that clatters against the floor. “I—uh—just—well, yeah, exactly like that!”

Clark chuckles, taking a sip of coffee, completely relaxed. “Here, let me help you with that.” He reaches to pick up a stray pen, and your stomach does a flip. Don’t let him touch it. Don’t let him touch it…

You backpedal, arms full of chaos, shoving the notebook behind a stack of papers just as he casually glances down. Clark smirks knowingly. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

“Uh… no? Nothing!” you stammer, trying to catch your breath as the squirrels in your mental panic start doing gymnastics. “Absolutely nothing at all!”

Clark just chuckles, shaking his head. “Sure, sure… well, if you need a hand with this ‘hurricane,’ I’m here.” He tilts the cup of coffee slightly, offering it to you like nothing in the world is amiss.