Chocking on a mouth full of sugar

The Daily Planet was a cacophony of clicking keys, ringing telephones, and the distant, rhythmic roar of the printing presses in the basement. It was a place where noise was a currency, yet Clark Kent found himself tuned into a frequency that was entirely silent.

He sat at his desk, staring intensely at his monitor, though if anyone looked closely, they would see he hadn't typed a single word in fifteen minutes. His super-hearing, usually a tool for saving the world, was currently being used for the most mundane and devastatingly intimate purpose: listening to the soft, rhythmic scratching of a charcoal pencil against a sketchbook three cubicles away.

Cariño Anderson was hunched over their desk, hidden behind a fortress of manila folders and half-finished spreadsheets. To the rest of the staff, Cariño was the quiet, fumbling office assistant who seemed perpetually overwhelmed by the bureaucratic demands of Perry White. To Clark, they were the center of the universe’s gravity.

Every time Cariño tucked a loose strand of hair behind their ear, Clark felt a surge of adrenaline that rivaled a face-off with Darkseid. His heart, a muscle capable of surviving the vacuum of space, hammered against his ribs with such violence that he was genuinely worried Perry might hear it and demand he go see the company doctor.

*God, they’re incredible,* Clark thought, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

He watched as Cariño paused their drawing to squint at a stack of filing. The look of pure, unadulterated disdain on their face for the paperwork was something Clark found endlessly endearing. Cariño was a creature of the sun and the soil; they belonged in a meadow with a canvas, not trapped in a beige cubicle under flickering fluorescent lights. Yet, they worked harder than anyone. Clark knew for a fact that Cariño had stayed until 9:00 PM last night fixing the logistical errors in the sports department’s budget—errors they weren't even responsible for. They were the glue holding the office together, even if they believed their own contributions were as invisible as air.

Cariño suddenly stood up, clutching a stack of papers. They looked like they were preparing to go over the top of a trench in a world war. Their knuckles were white, and they took a deep, shaky breath.

Clark panicked. They were coming his way.

"Oh no," Clark whispered to himself, his brain immediately melting into a puddle of useless Kryptonian slush. "Act natural. Be a person. A normal, human person who does not have X-ray vision or feelings."

He grabbed a stapler and began stapling a blank sheet of paper to another blank sheet of paper with terrifying intensity.

Cariño approached, their footsteps soft and hesitant. They stopped a few feet away, hovering in that awkward limbo of wanting to speak but being terrified of the air required to do so. Clark could hear their heart fluttering like a trapped bird. It was the sweetest, most agonizing sound he had ever heard.

"Um... C-Clark?"

Clark jumped, the stapler flying out of his hand and skittering across the floor. He scrambled to catch it, nearly toppling his chair in the process. He looked up, face flushed a deep, vibrant red.

"Cariño! Hi! Hello. Greetings," Clark stammered, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "I was just... stapling. For the news. News needs staples."

Cariño bit their lip, a small, shy smile tugging at the corners of their mouth. The sight of it made Clark feel like he was being injected with pure sunlight.

"I have the... the research notes you asked for," Cariño said, their voice barely above a whisper. They held out the papers, their hand trembling slightly. "I’m sorry they took so long. I know they’re probably not very good. I tried to cross-reference the city planning records, but I might have missed some things. It’s a bit of a mess."

Clark took the papers as if they were made of ancient, brittle parchment. He knew, without even looking, that the research would be flawless. Cariño’s "mediocre" work was better than most professional investigators’ best efforts.

"I’m sure they’re perfect," Clark said, his voice softening. He forgot, for a moment, to be the bumbling reporter. He just looked at them, taking in the way their eyes searched his for any sign of judgment. "You always do a great job, Cariño. Really. The office would probably collapse into a sinkhole without you."

Cariño’s face turned a dusty rose color. They looked down at their shoes, shuffling their feet. "I just... I don't like leaving things unfinished. Even if it’s just boring filing. I’d rather be outside, honestly. The air in here feels... recycled."

"I know exactly what you mean," Clark said, leaning forward. "Sometimes I feel like if I stay under these lights too long, I’ll turn into a piece of office equipment myself."

Cariño laughed—a short, breathless sound that made Clark’s knees go weak. "You’d be a very tall, very clumsy printer, Clark."

"Hey! I’m a very reliable printer," he joked, feeling a bit of his confidence return, only to have it shattered when Cariño looked up and met his eyes.

There was a vulnerability in Cariño that Clark recognized deep in his soul. As Superman, he was a symbol, a god, a shield. As Clark, he was a disguise. But with Cariño, he felt a strange, terrifying urge to be neither. He wanted to be the man who took them to the park and watched them draw for hours. He wanted to be the person who made sure they never felt like they had to hide behind a stack of folders again.

"Are you... um," Cariño started, picking at a loose thread on their sweater. "Are you going to the press club mixer tonight? Perry said everyone has to go."

Clark’s heart did a backflip. "I was thinking about it. Are you?"

Cariño looked horrified at the very prospect. "I’d rather walk into the ocean. But... I think I have to. Socializing is... it’s a lot."

"It is a lot," Clark agreed. "It’s a lot of standing around and trying not to spill punch on people you’re trying to impress."

"I usually just find a corner and hope I become part of the wallpaper," Cariño admitted, their voice small.

Clark felt a surge of protectiveness. "If you go, I’ll find a corner with you. We can be wallpaper together. I’m very good at being inconspicuous."

Cariño looked at him, their eyes wide. "You’d do that? But you’re... you’re Clark Kent. Everyone likes you. You’re supposed to be in the middle of the room telling stories."

"I’d much rather be in the corner with you," Clark said, the honesty of the statement hitting him like a physical blow.

The air between them seemed to thicken, the noise of the newsroom fading into a dull hum. For a second, Clark wondered if they could hear his heart. It was loud enough to be a percussion section. He saw Cariño’s gaze flicker down to his mouth and then back up to his eyes, and he felt a dizzying sensation of weightlessness.

"Okay," Cariño whispered. "Maybe... maybe the mixer won't be so bad."

"Clark! Anderson!"

The booming voice of Perry White shattered the moment like a brick through a window. Both of them jumped, Cariño nearly leaping out of their skin.

"Kent, I need those leads on the docks! Anderson, stop flirting with my lead reporter and get those expense reports to Lois!"

Cariño’s face went from rose to a fiery, agonizing crimson. They let out a panicked squeak, turned on their heel, and practically bolted back toward their cubicle, nearly tripping over a trash can on the way.

"I’ll see you later!" Clark called out, waving a hand uselessly.

He sank back into his chair, his head hitting the desk with a soft *thud*. He felt like a total idiot. A lovesick, bumbling, super-powered idiot.

"You’ve got it bad, Smallville."

Clark groaned as Lois Lane leaned against his desk, a smirk playing on her lips. She had been watching the whole exchange, no doubt enjoying every second of his suffering.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Clark muffled into his sleeves.

"Right. And I’m a trapeze artist," Lois said, grabbing the stapled blank pages from his desk. "Nice work on the 'News Staples' report, by the way. Pulitzer-worthy."

Clark lifted his head, adjusting his glasses. "They’re just... they’re so special, Lois. And I’m just... me. I don't know how to talk to them without feeling like I’m going to accidentally fly through the ceiling."

Lois’s expression softened, just a fraction. She reached out and patted his shoulder. "They like you, Clark. Even with the clumsiness and the bad puns. Maybe especially because of them. Just... try not to break the floor when you ask them out for real."

Across the room, Clark could see Cariño. They were back behind their folders, but they weren't working. They were staring at a small sketch in the corner of their notebook. Clark focused his vision, zooming in on the page.

It was a drawing of him. Not Superman, but Clark. Slouching in his chair, tie slightly crooked, with a soft, goofy smile on his face. Underneath it, in tiny, elegant script, were the words: *The Man of Tomorrow (and hopefully my Saturday).*

Clark felt a heat spread through his chest that had nothing to do with yellow sun radiation. It was sweet, heavy, and utterly overwhelming. He sat back, a genuine, dorky grin spreading across his face.

He had a world to save, a city to protect, and a mountain of paperwork to finish. But for the first time in his life, the most important thing on his To-Do list was finding the perfect corner to stand in with a shy artist who thought their work was mediocre.

He picked up his pen, his heart finally settling into a steady, happy rhythm. He had a mixer to prepare for. And maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't even need to fly to feel like he was in the clouds.