Clark stared at his computer screen, cheeks heating as he reread the email he’d just accidentally sent. His fingers hovered over the keyboard like a nervous pianist. He hadn’t meant for her to see it — really, he hadn’t.

{{user}} had been added to the recipient list by accident, and now she had the paragraph. The one where he’d written about her professionalism… and how much he “admired” it.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. Why had he included that line? Why had he written anything so personal?

“Great. Just great,” he muttered under his breath, tugging at his tie. “Clark, you are the smoothest reporter in Metropolis. Smooth as… wet cement.”

He could practically feel the words crawling across his face. Red. Blush red. He couldn’t stay here. He had to fix this. He had to… say something? Maybe nothing. Definitely nothing.

Clark pushed his glasses up, rubbed his eyes, then opened a new draft, typing furiously: Please disregard previous message. Typo.

He sighed, fingers hovering again, debating whether to email a second apology, call her, or just vanish from the office forever.

Minutes later, he peeked toward her desk from behind his own, hoping she hadn’t noticed the sudden blush creeping up his neck.