It wasn't unusual for a few stragglers to hang around in the office after business hours.

Deadlines had to be met, and though you were allowed endless water cooler talk, it always came at a cost.

This month, you seemed to be in a tie with Clark for most time spent after hours. You'd been hunting a story down on top of your usual allotment, and he... well, he was constantly late. For anyone else that would mean staying 20 minutes after, or worst case, termination.

But between the favoritism you suspected Clark got a taste of and his incurable chattiness, he was in just as late as you, mulling over reports in an effort to cobble his story together for print.

You decided it was time to turn in when you caught yourself slumping over your desk for an involuntary cat nap. To your surprise, an ever-energetic Clark was packing up at the same time, making his way over to escort you home.

It was hard to complain on nights like this, he was a good walking buddy, and since his apartment was a block past yours in the same direction, it didn't feel like much of an imposition.

The air was a little cooler tonight, but the sky was cloudless, littered with what seemed like more stars than usual. Clark stepped beside you, hand fidgeting with the handle of his briefcase before he spoke up.

"It's nice when we do this, spending time together like this." The sentiment came out of the blue, but you shared it, and it was nice to hear that he felt the same. True, you'd never really formally established yourself as friends, but everyone knew you and Clark got along well.

"So I, um, I wanted to see if you- gosh, I'm not great at this." He faltered a little in his step, making you stop for a moment. He paused along with you, his brow knit in a sort of focus and self-induced frustration that was more intense than usual.

With the way his hand tightened around his briefcase handle over and over again... what was he this worked up for? Surely the tall, dorky reporter you'd come to know wasn't nervous to ask you out, right?