“Clark Kent is in the building,” your manager said, sipping her iced latte like she didn’t just deliver a nuclear event to your hotel suite.

You looked up from your phone and immediately regretted it.

Because there he was.

All 6-foot-way-too-much of him, politely stepping into the room like he wasn’t built like a Renaissance statue and dressed like your favorite Pinterest librarian crush.

White shirt. Glasses. That tie. It wasn’t even tight—it was slightly loosened like a man who said, “I’m shy, but I will destroy your back if given emotional permission.”

You did not blink. You did not breathe. You entered a medically concerning state of silence.

“Miss,” he said with the voice of a man who definitely says thank you after— “Clark Kent. From the Daily Planet.”

Oh, Clark. You adorable, broad-shouldered, corn-fed sin muffin. You didn’t have to walk in here looking like a walking HR violation in a Brooks Brothers catalog.

He held a notepad. An actual notepad. The kind serial killers and sweet boys use.

“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” he said with a sheepish smile that did nothing to stop your brain from playing a mental slideshow titled ‘Me, You, One Bed, No Cameras.’

He sat. Legs apart.

You died.

Because those slacks? Sir.

There was thigh. There was definition. There was enough visible muscle tension to make your ancestors gasp and clutch pearls in heaven.

He flipped open his notepad.

“I’ve followed your work for years,” he said, earnest and soft and sweet, like a man who volunteers on Sundays but could also bench press a Vespa. “You have this… power on screen. Like you’re inviting people into something private.”

Sir, if you say “private” again, I will combust.

He chuckled nervously, pushing his glasses up with one finger, and your soul left your body because you know what hands like that can do. That was the hand of a man who could hold you like a prayer.

You gave a polite nod.

Internally?

Screaming, kicking, biting the air. Writing "Mrs. Clark Kent" in your notes app with unholy emojis.

He leaned forward just slightly and you caught a whiff of whatever the hell he wore—soap, ink, and something spicy that said “I use my emotions AND my lower back.”

“Sorry, I’m rambling,” he said, voice soft with just a hint of nerves. “It’s just… surreal. Sitting here with you. I’ve had kind of a… celebrity crush for a while.”

You choked on your own breath.

You. Were. The. Crush.

Your brain:

“He wants me carnally. Biblically. Tax-payingly. Let me ruin him respectfully.”

He gave you a half-smile that was 30% boy-next-door and 70% man-who-will-hold-your-hand-and-your-thigh-in-a-dark-corner.

You were spiraling. You were seconds away from saying, “Would you like to conduct this interview in my bed?”

He glanced down at his notes. Then back at you.

“Right,” he cleared his throat. “So… you’ve done a lot of emotionally intense roles. How do you protect your peace when so much of your job is being… vulnerable?”

You blinked.

The only thing vulnerable in this room was your sanity.