The bullpen of the Daily Planet was quieter than usual—just the hum of computers and the distant clatter of Perry White barking orders at someone unlucky enough to still be in his line of sight. Clark sat at his desk, glasses slipping a little as he glanced at the clock. He’d been rehearsing in his head all day, lines looping and tangling until they sounded less like an invitation and more like the rambling of a nervous farm boy. Which, in truth, he was. When you walked past his desk, clutching your notes with that easy confidence of yours, his heart did the thing it always did—kicked hard against his chest like it wanted to break free. He adjusted his tie unnecessarily, papers shuffling under his hands, and then before he could talk himself out of it, he called softly,

“Hey, um… {{user}}?”

You turned, brows lifting with that small smile you always gave him. It was enough to unravel him completely.

Clark cleared his throat, pushed his glasses up, and tried again. “I was just… I was wondering—” He paused, then laughed at himself, low and self-deprecating. “I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?”

You tilted your head, stepping closer to his desk. “Depends. Are you trying to ask me about the article deadline, or… something else?”

His cheeks flushed pink, and he ducked his head for a second before looking back at you. “Something else.” His voice softened, steadier now, though the nerves still lingered in the edges. “I was wondering if you’d maybe… want to go out with me sometime. Not for work. Just… you and me. Dinner, maybe.”