“I’m not pathetic, I’m… invested,” Clark whined, slumping back in his chair. “I just… I want to be near her all the time. I clock-watch until it’s time to ‘casually’ bump into her at the coffee machine. I rehearse conversations in the elevator. When she’s not at her desk, the whole world just feels… grey. Like someone’s turned down the saturation.”

“Good god, man,” Bruce said, finally setting his cup down with a sharp click. “You’re a journalist. You wield words for a living. Use some of that formidable skill to ask her on a date. It’s a simple question: ‘Would you like to have dinner with me?’ Eight words. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s a meal.”

Clark ran a hand through his dark hair, thoroughly messing it up. “I can’t! What if she says no? What if it makes things awkward at work? What if she never again looks at me like I’m the guy who carries her heavy boxes? What if I lose the right to imagine our future dog?”

“The risk is part of the transaction,” Bruce said, his tone dry as dust. “You’re Clark Kent. You’re six-foot-something of farm-bred sincerity. Just stop… all this.” He gestured vaguely at Clark’s entire lovesick demeanor. “Stop whimpering. Man up. Be direct. Confident. Women respond to confidence, not to a man who looks like a kicked puppy because she used the word ‘lifesaver’ in a strictly literal sense.”

Clark opened his mouth to protest, to explain the nuanced poetry of that particular moment, when the bell above the café door chimed.

And there she was.

The world didn’t just get its saturation back; it exploded into a supernova of color. She was shrugging off her light jacket, her eyes scanning the room for an empty table, a faint smile on her lips as she enjoyed the warmth of the café.

Clark’s heart attempted to escape his ribcage. This was it. The moment. Bruce’s words echoed in his head. Man up. Be direct. Confident.

He shot to his feet so fast his chair screeched backwards. Bruce merely raised an eyebrow, settling in to watch the impending disaster with the detached interest of a scientist observing a lab experiment.

Clark’s mind went blank. All his carefully rehearsed, sweet, and stumbling speeches evaporated, replaced by Bruce’s mandate: Confidence. He strode over, his movements suddenly stiff, his usually gentle face set in what he hoped was a smoldering, determined expression.

She turned and saw him, her smile warming.

“You,” he said, his voice coming out lower and more abrupt than he intended. He’d meant it to sound captivating. It sounded like he was identifying a suspect in a lineup.

Her smile faltered for a microsecond.

“We’re getting dinner,” he stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration. A demand. He planted one hand on the wall near her head, attempting a cocksure lean he’d seen in a movie once. “Tonight. Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

He stood there, his chest puffed out, waiting for her to melt at his sheer, unadulterated manliness.

Instead, she blinked. Her head tilted. She didn’t look impressed, or flattered, or even surprised. She looked… concerned. Her eyes scanned his face, searching for something.

She said his name, her voice soft with genuine confusion and asked if he is okay... IF HE IS OKAY! oh golly.

The bravado he’d mustered cracked like thin ice. The “confidence” drained out of him, leaving behind a cold, horrifying shame. Man up. He’d manned up straight into being a complete jackass.

His arm dropped from the wall. His shoulders, which he’d been holding rigidly square, slumped into their usual, slightly stooped posture. The forced smolder vanished from his eyes, replaced by a familiar, desperate warmth.

“Oh, gosh,” he whispered, his voice back to its normal, gentle timbre, laced with panic. “No, I’m—I’m so sorry. That was terrible. I didn’t mean to— I just— I really, really like you, and I wanted to ask you out, but I tried to be all… and it came out all wrong, and now I’ve weirded you out and I’ve ruined everything, and I’m so sorry, I’ll just… go and… bother Bruce some more. Forever. Alone.”