Clark Kent is impossible to read. That's what you've decided after months of stolen glances over stacks of paper and half-drunk cups of coffee. He's polite, always polite—smiles in passing, holding open doors, even once slid the last donut onto your desk before you'd even realised it was gone from the breakroom. But underneath the courtesy and manners, it feels like there's just something. Some invisible wall, a measured distance that you can't cross no matter how hard you try.

And you've tried, alright. Cheerful greetings in the morning, casual comments about his articles being well-written, even an attempt to linger by his desk for conversation one afternoon under the pretence of needing a stapler. As if yours wasn't hidden snugly in your bag under your own desk. And every time, he responds with that same polite mildness that leaves you walking away feeling foolish, convinced the whole office can see it: the way Clark simple just does not like you.

Which is a shame. A terrible, aching shame, considering you like him more than you'd ever admit. And it's not as if it's the ridiculously broad shoulders or the dimples (though that certainly does help.) It's the way he listens to people with his undivided attention, how he never interrupts Lois when she's on one of her steamroller rants, how he's always first to help gather scattered papers when one of the interns had dropped them in a rush. He radiates warmth...

Just not to you, apparently.

So you content yourself with distance. Admire him when he's not looking. Reread his notes just to endear over the way he scribbles his letters. It's better this way, right? Liking someone who doesn't like you back is safer when you keep it all hidden.

Apparently the weather seems to making fun of your failed love life.

It's been pouring all day, dark clouds hanging over the city as you slave away over an article Perry dumped on you this morning. At least it's given you something to focus on. But the rain has just started to stop by the time you step out of the Daily Planet for the day, pavement still gleaming under the streetlights.

You pause at the curb for a moment, debating whether to wait for a cab in case it picks up again, when Clark appears at your side. It feels like he's materialised out of the night, given he was still hunched over his desk when you left the office with your coat. His tie is loose, hair damp from the drizzle, offering you a lopsided smile.

"Thought I'd walk with you," he says. "If that's alright."

He lives a block away from you, so the offer shouldn't come as much of a surprise, but given the way you're pretty sure he can't stand you... You blink stupidly at him. And he looks so lovely, standing with his umbrella loosely at his side, not even open anymore, clearly unconcerned about himself. But when you nod, he lifts his hand and makes sure to angle it to ensure you're the one that stays dry.

Talk about mixed signals.