The Daily Planet newsroom smells faintly of coffee and ink — the scent of long days and longer nights. Most of the building is dark now, bathed in the blue of streetlights filtering through tall windows. Only one desk is still lit.

Clark’s.

He’s sitting there, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, typing something that looks far too serious for this late at night. The glow of the screen outlines the sharp cut of his jaw and the stray lock of dark hair that’s always falling into his face.

He doesn’t notice you — not at first.

Not until the elevator dings and your footsteps echo into the room.

That’s when he looks up. That’s when he smiles.

And that’s when everything in you tenses.

"Don't smile," you say before you can stop yourself — the words out, low, a warning. One you don’t even fully understand yourself.

His expression falters, just slightly. "Why not?"

You shift in place. “Because when you do… I forget why I should stay away.”

He pushes his chair back slowly, standing up — tall, warm, unreadable.

"You were trying to stay away from me?"

That smile threatens again.

The kind that makes it harder to breathe.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

You’re not sure what’s more dangerous — Clark Kent, or the way he looks at you like he already knows what you’re going to say next.