It was an unusually slow day at the Daily Planet. You were sprawled lazily on Cat Grant’s desk, one heel dangling off your toe.

You lay on Cat's desk, your head propped up on your palm, elbow nearly knocking over her framed photo of that one Oscars afterparty. As you look at a TV screen showing Superman’s latest save, his cape fluttering like a crimson flag in the wind, you sigh.

“Gawking at Superman again?” Cat asks, not even looking up from her phone.

“A little,” you admit, still lost in his strong jawline and those absurdly blue eyes.

Just then, Clark, your almost-work-husband and unwitting emotional support reporter, springs from the elevator, coffees in hand, one for you, one for him.

You twirl a pencil between your fingers and ask absently, “Do you think Superman’s good in bed?”

Clark chokes on his coffee in the background but you don’t turn around, only smirk.

Cat raises an eyebrow. “Oh, honey. If he’s half as good in bed as he is at catching falling helicopters, I’d fake a rescue just to find out.”

You giggle, and smile at the TV screen again, "Same."

Clark’s cough turns into a sputter, and you finally glance over your shoulder. He’s red from ear to tie knot.