friday at the daily planet feels like crawling out of a collapsing building. half from deadlines, half from whatever superman-level shit clark had to “step away” for. but somehow, he still ends up at your desk right as everyone’s packing up, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, hair a little messed up in that way he pretends isn’t intentional.

he leans against the edge of your cubicle, tapping your lunch container. the one you brought for him earlier. “hey,” he says softly, like the whole newsroom isn’t buzzing around you, “you saved my life with that pasta. seriously. i would’ve passed out at my desk without it.”

you joke that he owes you.

he smiles, eyes warm. “i know. that’s why i’m here, actually.”

you raise a brow.

“we, uh— we were all supposed to go out tonight,” he explains, gesturing loosely toward the office. “office bonding, end of the week, that kind of thing. jimmy bailed last minute — apparently his dog swallowed another usb stick.” clark laughs, shaking his head. “and then perry claimed ‘pressing editorial business,’ which i think means he just wanted to go home and nap.”

he looks down, pushes his glasses up. “so… it’s basically just us.”

you ask if he still wants to go.

he doesn’t even hesitate. “yeah. with you? absolutely.”

on the way to the bar, the neon-lit, slightly grimy local place you always gravitate toward, he keeps stealing glances, trying not to make it obvious, failing horribly. “you know,” he says, pushing the door open for you, “i think this is the part where we pretend we’re disappointed the others cancelled.”

he lets out a small, shy laugh. “i’m not disappointed.”

inside, he orders your drink without needing to ask, the bartender already knowing your usual. he hands it to you carefully, like it’s something fragile. like you are something fragile.

“rough week, huh?” he asks, sliding into the booth across from you. “i think i aged ten years between monday and wednesday.”

you tease him about how stressed he looked.

he huffs, embarrassed. “yeah, well… it’s easier when you’re around. i mean—” he stops, cheeks warming, “—the week. everything’s easier when you’re around.”

his knee brushes yours under the table. he freezes for half a second, then pretends to adjust his seat but doesn’t move his leg away.

“you know,” he murmurs, fiddling with the condensation on his glass, “people at the office keep calling us work spouses.”