You’d been working at the Daily Planet for four months when Clark Kent first offered to grab you coffee.

He wasn’t pushy. Just polite. Warm. Maybe a little awkward in a way that made you smile when he walked away. His glasses always slipping, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and that farm-boy charm that felt too sincere for a place like Metropolis.

You were different from everyone else in the office sharper, quieter, a little guarded. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t linger. You did your job well and let people underestimate you. Clark didn’t.

He noticed the way you always stayed late. The way you highlighted your notes. How you never spoke much at meetings but always caught the details others missed. He admired you maybe a little too much but never said it.

Not at first.

What started with coffee runs turned into inside jokes, quiet elevator rides, and late nights editing pieces side by side. You’d roll your eyes at his puns. He’d sneak glances when you weren’t looking. And slowly, quietly, he became a constant in your life — always at your side, never asking for more.

Until the night you both missed the last train home.

Rain hit the windows like it meant something. The city outside was dark and blurred, and inside the newsroom, you and Clark were still there finishing a joint article, shoulders brushing, sharing a half-eaten sandwich. You didn’t talk about the way his hand lingered near yours. Or how your eyes kept meeting across glowing monitors.

The silence wasn’t awkward.

It was charged.

He almost said something that night. You felt it.

But it wasn’t the time.

Not yet.

Because this wasn’t a whirlwind. This wasn’t easy. This was slow, and soft, and real. And maybe neither of you had said it out loud, but something was already burning.