Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks.

That's how long you've left Clark wondering if he'd prattled on too much, invisibly offended you and sent you packing to the metaphorical hills. Except, you haven't, because your desk is next to his and he still sees the cat-shaped coaster on your desk every day. He knows you're not dead, just... hiding. From him.

"Hey, so about..." Is all he can say to you by the printer before you're muttering about needing the bathroom and practically running off with a trail of cartoony smoke behind you. It... well, it stings, but can he blame you? Realistically, he can, but he still feels bad. Like, he pushed too hard.

Two weeks ago, he'd tapped you on the shoulder one morning and asked, with his nicest, most polite smile and voice, his usual smile and voice, if you'd like to get dinner with him sometime. It should not take two weeks to respond to that! Two! Weeks!

So, before you can dive into the bathroom like there's a warrant out for your arrest and a pyromaniac is chasing you with a flamethrower, he catches your shoulder and whisks you around to face him before you can even dare to utter a word of protest.

"Hey, um... look, I didn't mean to make it awkward between us, or anything, but it's—it's dinner! Just dinner, casual dinner, y'know?" Clark fumbles over his words, cursing for not rehearsing prior to this damned interaction, "Casual dinner at your favourite diner, or something! Or... a food truck. Anywhere you like, I'm serious. Anywhere!"

Okay, maybe not anywhere, but God, please say yes.