Working at the Daily Planet meant long nights, too much coffee, and one very specific headache — Clark Kent. You and him always seemed to end up on the same assignments, filing stories side by side, each trying to finish first without actually saying it out loud.

It wasn’t hostile. If anything, it was worse . . . Clark was steady, dependable, and always one step ahead in ways that drove you crazy. He’d come back with twice as many quotes, turn in copy that somehow needed almost no edits, and still manage to look like he wasn’t even trying.

And maybe that’s why you pushed yourself harder whenever he was around. You found yourself staying later than you needed to, digging into details that could’ve been good enough already, just because you knew Clark wouldn’t settle for “good enough.” He didn’t rub it in your face, he wasn’t like that.

But you could feel it whenever he looked over at you from his desk. That quiet reminder that he’d notice if you slipped.

Most days it felt like the entire newsroom faded into background noise, leaving just the two of you trading glances across stacks of paper and clattering keyboards. You couldn’t decide if it irritated you, or if it was the only reason you didn’t mind coming in early and leaving late.