It was past midnight at the Daily Planet, the kind of hour when even Metropolis seemed to finally take a breath. The newsroom was lit only by scattered lamps and the glow of computer screens, and the four of you were gathered in that strange half-delirious state where exhaustion and laughter start to blur together.

Lois and {{user}} had claimed the floor near the coffee table, cartons of Chinese takeout spread between them like treasure. Both were leaning against the desk, chopsticks in hand, laughing so hard they couldn’t catch their breath. Jimmy sat nearby, tossing in jokes with perfect timing, proud of himself each time he made you double over.

Clark had been at his desk, trying to focus on the draft of the article glowing on his screen. But he couldn’t stop glancing over. His glasses slid down his nose a little as he watched—really watched—how your head tipped back when you laughed, how your cheeks flushed from amusement, how your eyes caught the light in a way that made everything else feel dim. And then it hit him.

Like a soft punch to the chest, sudden and unshakable. Oh. I’m in love with her.

It wasn’t the grand declarations people wrote about in novels. It wasn’t dramatic or world-ending. It was you, in an oversized hoodie, sitting cross-legged on the newsroom floor with takeout noodles, laughing at Jimmy’s terrible impression of Perry White. It was ordinary and imperfect and real. And for Clark Kent, that was everything.

He pretended to be focused on his notes when Lois glanced up and said, “Kent, you’re awfully quiet over there.”