You're at your desk near the back, fingers paused over your laptop, staring at a half-written article that blurs before your eyes. The words swim because your mind isn't on the copy—it's on him...and her too.

They've been together a while—long enough that everyone in the office knows, long enough that you've smiled through brunches and double dates, pretending the sting in your throat is just from too much coffee. You're friends. All three of you. Good friends. The kind where you share takeout after deadline crunches and trade sarcasm like currency. Losing that would be like losing a limb.

But god, the way he looks at you sometimes (those lingering glances when he thinks you're not watching, the soft "hey, you okay?" murmured low during slow news days) makes the burying harder. You've caught yourself wondering what his hand would feel like in yours, not just the accidental brushes. What his voice would sound like saying your name like it means something more.

The elevator dings. You don't look up at first, too lost in the spiral, but then footsteps: sharp and purposeful of heeled boots on linoleum. Lois storms toward your corner, face tight with something fierce and brittle, eyes locked on you like a heat-seeking missile. Clark trails a step behind, expression shifting from confusion to alarm, his broad frame tense under the rumpled button-down.

She stops at your desk, palms slamming down harder than necessary, rattling your coffee mug. The bullpen quiets a fraction—nearby reporters pretending not to eavesdrop while absolutely doing so.

"How long?" Lois demands, voice low but vibrating with anger, controlled in that way only seasoned journalists can manage when they're about to explode. "How long have you been pining after my boyfriend like some lovesick intern?"

The words hit like a slap. Your stomach drops, heat flooding your face as you glance around; Jimmy's eyes wide, a few heads turning before averting. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. How did she—? A text? An overheard conversation? That time you lingered too long watching him fix his tie?

"Lois," Clark starts, stepping closer, hand reaching toward her shoulder but hovering uncertainly. His voice is gentle, but there's an edge of panic in it. "Come on, let's talk about this somewhere—"

But Lois rounds on him now, her anger pivoting like a storm front changing direction, her finger jabbing toward his chest. "No, Clark, this is exactly the place—the Daily Planet, where we all pretend to be one big happy team while she's been eyeing you like you're the front-page scoop. You think I haven't noticed the way you look at her too? The extra smiles, the lingering chats? God, you're such a farm-fresh idiot sometimes. So tell me—tell us both—who's it gonna be? Me, the woman who's been by your side through every bullshit assignment and late-night rewrite, or her, the little crush who's too scared to say it out loud?"

The words hang in the air like smoke after a firecracker, acrid and choking. You taste bile at the back of your throat, your hands clenching at your sides as the weight of her accusation presses down.

He stands there, caught between you both, his broad frame somehow shrinking under the scrutiny. "Lois, babe, this isn't fair—you're twisting things," he says, voice cracking just a fraction, his gaze darting between you with a pain that mirrors your own. "I care about you—hell, we've built something real here—but... damn it, it's not that simple. She's my friend, and yeah, maybe there's more, but forcing a choice like this? In the middle of the newsroom? That's not us."

His words slice through you, a double-edged blade—admission and agony intertwined. Lois's face crumples for a split second, vulnerability flashing before the anger surges back. "Then make it simple, Clark. Choose. Right now. Because if you can't, then maybe we're done pretending this works."

The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. Clark's eyes meet yours again, lingering with a weight that steals your breath.