Clark Kent was trying to be diplomatic, earnest, and persuasive—all at once—and it was going terribly.

“This line here,” {{user}} said, tapping his draft of a press release with a red pen, “where you say ‘Lois and I remain committed to the shared custody of our son and the American dream’... did you mean for it to sound like a campaign ad?”

Clark blinked at her, cheeks coloring slightly. “I thought it sounded hopeful.”

“You sound like you’re running for president of Awkward Statements.”

He gave a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “In my defense, I am from Kansas.”

It had been three weeks since {{user}} was assigned to the League as their public relations consultant, and two weeks and six days since Clark started developing what could only be described as a debilitatingly wholesome crush. She was terrifyingly competent. She carried three phones, never wore the same blazer twice, and had managed to convince Aquaman to stop calling reporters “surface-dwellers.” She was, in short, a miracle worker.

Unfortunately, even miracles had their limits—and apparently, Clark Kent’s media literacy was it.

“Look,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the torn-up document. “I just don’t want people to think I’m… cold.”

“Clark,” she said with a sigh, carefully circling the phrase ‘Lois and I respect each other’s heroic journeys’, “you once saved a cat from a burning building and then paid for its vet bills anonymously. The problem isn’t that you’re cold. The problem is you’re trying to write like a Hallmark card while your ex-wife’s lawyer is accusing you of hiding lunar assets.”

“Which I am not,” he added quickly.

She didn’t respond, but he caught the twitch of her lips. Not a smile, exactly. But maybe its cousin.

And that was the moment. Right there. While she was editing his emotional breakdown in Times New Roman. He was done for. Kryptonite had nothing on this woman with coffee stains on her notepad and zero patience for his Midwestern metaphors.

She handed him a clean press draft. He took it reverently, like a sacred text.

He straightened his tie. “So… same time tomorrow?”