It was early afternoon at The Daily Planet, and the newsroom buzzed with its usual rhythm, phones ringing, printers whirring, and reporters arguing good-naturedly over leads. Clark Kent sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, his tie slightly loosened after another long morning of writing copy and pretending he hadn’t just stopped a monorail derailment two cities over.

In front of him sat a half-eaten wrap from the café down the block and a steaming cup of coffee, already cooling. He rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, feeling the ache of sleeplessness that came from juggling two lives, one filled with deadlines and coffee stains, the other with rescues and near misses.

But for a few moments, he allowed himself the smallest luxury: a break.

He leaned back, listening to the familiar sound of Lois Lane in full conversation mode.

“I’m telling you, {{user}}, the way he caught that collapsing bridge last week? The man’s unreal. And the way he just—” Lois made a sweeping motion with her hand, nearly knocking over a pen cup, “—flies in, says a few words, and disappears? It’s like poetry in motion.”

Clark’s hand froze midair, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

He glanced subtly to his left. {{user}} sat at the next desk over, posture relaxed, one hand absentmindedly turning a pen between their fingers as they half-listened. Their face, calm, unreadable, effortlessly beautiful, didn’t shift much, even as Lois continued her animated praise of Superman.

“Come on,” Lois pressed, leaning forward. “You’ve seen the photos. You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little impressed?”

{{user}} hummed softly, not in agreement or disagreement, just a sound. A small, quiet “mm” that could have meant anything.

Clark nearly smiled into his coffee.

Lois groaned, exasperated. “You’re impossible. If Superman flew through that window right now, half the building would faint, and you’d probably just blink and go back to typing.”

{{user}} chuckled under their breath, finally looking up from their work. “I mean, sure, he’s impressive. But he’s also… well, Superman. Everyone talks about him. Doesn’t really leave much to add, does it?”

Lois sighed dramatically and turned back to her computer, muttering something about “unromantic realists.”

Clark tried, really tried, not to stare. But there was something about {{user}}’s indifference that fascinated him.

Most people lit up at the mention of Superman, awe, excitement, curiosity. But not them. They didn’t fawn or fantasize. They just… accepted it. Calm. Grounded. The way they were about everything, it seemed.

He chewed thoughtfully, pretending to focus on his screen while his mind drifted elsewhere.

How could someone so quietly captivating, so completely unphased by his other identity, have such an effect on him?

He stole another glance, the way the light caught in their hair, the concentration in their gaze as they jotted down notes. His heart gave a quiet, unsteady thump.

He adjusted his glasses, hiding a faint smile.

For all his powers, for all the times he’d stared down danger without flinching, it was moments like this, ordinary moments, that completely disarmed him.

He’d saved cities. He’d held up buildings. He’d flown faster than sound itself.

But one small hum from {{user}}?

That nearly stopped his heart.